“We can prove he’s not guilty,” Rose immediately said. “Do I need to remind either one of you about how unreliable the testimony of eyewitnesses can be?” She had strong opinions on the subject. And a list of references on her phone that backed them up.
Charlotte shook her head. “No, you don’t. It’s just that I remember the fire that killed Gina Pearson and I remember Mike Pearson being charged.” She exhaled slowly. “The witness who saw Mike is Neill Halloran. Judge Neill Halloran. Do you really think we can discredit him?”
Halloran was a distinguished name in North Harbor. The town had been settled in the late 1760s by Alexander Swift. The Hallorans had been in North Harbor almost as long as the Swifts. Charlotte was right. The police had an unimpeachable witness in Judge Halloran.
Liz rejoined us then. I couldn’t get a sense of what she was thinking. The teasing glint in her eyes that she’d had when she and Rose had been arguing was gone. There was no indication anymore that she was close to giving a bemused snort of exasperation at something Rose said.
“Is everything all right?” I asked.
“That call was from Michael Pearson’s lawyer,” she said. “He had a message from his client.”
Rose and I exchanged a look. She seemed as confused as I was.
“He knows what Mallory is trying to do,” Charlotte said.
Liz tucked the phone back in her bag. “I don’t think there’s any doubt about that. The message was that he deserves to be in prison and he’s specifically asking us not to take the case.”
“I know it was a long time ago,” I said. “But what do you remember about him from that summer he worked for the foundation?”
Liz straightened one sleeve of her sweater, a way to buy a little time, I was guessing, as she thought about my question. “It was a long time ago,” she said. “Michael actually worked mostly on camp business.”
The Emmerson Foundation ran a summer camp for kids who wouldn’t otherwise get to go. The Sunshine Camp had been one of the foundation’s first projects and I knew Liz was very proud of it.
“Not with Michelle’s father?” Growing up, Michelle Andrews—who was now a detective with the North Harbor police department—had been my summertime best friend. Each June we’d just resumed our friendship where we’d left off at the end of the previous summer like all the months between hadn’t happened.
When we were fifteen, Michelle’s father, Rob Andrews, had been arrested for embezzling funds from the Sunshine Camp and my thoughtless, childish comments about him had destroyed our relationship. We’d only recently reconnected in the last year.
“As a matter of fact, yes,” Liz said in answer to my question. “Michael wasn’t a counselor. He worked here in town, in the office.”
Liz shrugged. “Mostly what I remember is a young man who worked hard. Everyone liked him. Elspeth could tell you a lot more than I can. They got to be friends that summer.”
Elspeth was Liz’s niece. She ran Phantasy, a very successful salon and spa here in town.
“Just friends?” I asked.
“As far as I know,” she said, “but Elspeth has always been very closemouthed about that kind of thing, so who knows. One thing I can tell you is that she’s always refused to believe that Michael left his wife to die in that fire.”
“This just proves we have to take the case,” Rose said. She focused all her attention on Liz. “You know that Mallory’s father sending you this message doesn’t make sense. If he’s really guilty, what does he have to worry about? We won’t be able to get him released from prison. And if he isn’t guilty, why doesn’t he want our help, anyone’s help?”
Liz looked thoughtful, lines pulling at the corners of her mouth.
“What if that child is right?” Rose continued. “What if Mike Pearson pled guilty because he feels guilty over not being able to stop his wife from drinking, over not being able to save her?” She held up both hands. “It’s so obvious.” She looked at all three of us and then she stretched out her arm in front of her, palm down.
“I’m not doing this,” Liz said. “This is not the Patriots’ locker room.” I knew that stubborn set to her shoulders.
I also knew the equally stubborn stance Rose had taken up. She continued to look at Liz, but she didn’t say anything more.
The silence stretched between them, probably not nearly as long as it seemed. Then Liz made an exasperated motion with her hand like she was shooing away a bug. “Oh for heaven’s sake,” she muttered. She reached out and put her hand on top of Rose’s hand.
Rose smiled and then looked at Charlotte.
“I don’t want to get Mallory’s hopes up over nothing,” Charlotte said. She sighed softly and added her hand to the pile.
I knew what was coming.
“We can’t do this without you, dear,” Rose nudged.
I glanced across at the cash desk and imagined Mac leaning against it smiling at me. He would have told me to have faith in the Angels’ rather unorthodox way of doing things. Then he would have laughed when I insisted I wouldn’t get sucked into this case.
I extended my arm and put my hand on top of the others. “I’m not going to jump up and yell ‘go team,’” I warned. “We’re not the Patriots’ offensive line.”
“Well, of course we’re not,” Rose said as though even the thought was ridiculous. “Although that Rob Gronkowski is a lovely, exuberant boy.” She smiled. “We’re not a football team. We’re the Angels.”
Heaven help us, I thought.
Chapter 3
“The first thing I need to do is bring Alfred up to date,” Rose said.
“Where is Mr. P.?” I asked. He could usually be found out in the Angels’ sunporch office working on his laptop.
“He’s at the library,” Rose said, patting her pocket in search of her phone. “He’s doing a workshop on online security for seniors.”
I knew she meant teaching the workshop, not taking it. Alfred Peterson was a little bald man with wire-framed glasses and pants that were generally hiked up to his armpits. He also possessed a keen mind and the computer skills of someone typically a fraction of his age. It was his computer skills and his rather eclectic resume of volunteer activities that had helped him meet all the requirements to be licensed as a private investigator by the state of Maine. For the past several months he’d been mentoring Rose as she worked toward getting her license.
Rose checked her watch. “Alfred should be here in a little more than an hour. Once he gets up to speed we’ll see what we can find out about the fire and about Gina Pearson’s death. Right now, I think we could all use a nice cup of tea.” She smiled at me. “And I’ll get you a fresh cup of coffee,” she said, taking my mug of coffee, which had gone cold. She headed for the stairs.
Charlotte touched my arm. “Speaking of tea, I’m going to go start unpacking it all. And I’ll call Mallory and let her know we’re going to look into her father’s case.” She started for the workroom.
I turned to face Liz. Folding my arms over my midsection, I smiled. “And what are you going to do?” I asked.
She smiled back at me. “I’m going to do what I do best.” She held out one hand in a gesture I’d seen before, and studied her manicured nails, painted a pale lavender. “I really need to get my nails done.”
Her nails looked perfect. They always looked perfect. That wasn’t the point. Not only would Liz be able to pick her niece Elspeth’s brain at Phantasy, she’d also be able to glean whatever gossip was still floating around town about Mike Pearson and his late wife. The salon was better than Google for information gathering.