The district attorney looked pained. “You know the state crime lab hasn’t examined that rope yet.”
“Tough,” Quillan said unfeelingly. “I guess you’ll have to go into court without all your evidence.” He turned to Betty. “Wait here. I’m going upstairs and have the city judge issue a writ.”
“Now wait a minute, Hank,” the D.A. said. “Let’s not have a hassle about this. For cripe’s sake, you think I like prosecuting Betty? I’ve known her all her life. Let’s be reasonable.”
“What do you suggest?” Quillan asked.
“I don’t think she’ll run away. I’m willing to hold off placing any charge at all until we get the lab report on that rope. Providing, that is, if you’ll be responsible for her appearance at a preliminary hearing when and if one is set.”
“I’ll go along with that,” Quillan agreed. “I accept the responsibility.”
Ross looked relieved. “Then you’re free for the moment,” he said to Betty. “You won’t be able to leave the county without permission from my office, but otherwise you can go where you please.” He turned to the chief of police. “Just list the case as still under investigation, Barney, and you’ll be covered.”
Marshall began to feel that Betty was in good hands. He knew Henry Quillan hadn’t had much criminal practice and that most of his business was in estates and contracts. But so far the man had performed as adroitly as any TV lawyer. It was something of a feat to get a murder suspect released from jail without even posting bond, even if it was only a temporary arrangement.
He said to Betty, “I guess that’s that. I’ll drive you back home.”
“I’d rather do that, if you don’t mind,” Quillan said. “I want to talk to her some more.”
Marshall looked at Betty.
“I guess I’d better do as my lawyer tells me,” she said. “Thanks for standing by, Kirk.”
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll phone you later.”
“I’ll be at the funeral parlor all afternoon and evening.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said. “I forgot that. Maybe I’ll stop by there this evening to pay my respects.”
That should be pleasant for her, he thought. By this evening it would be all over town that Betty was suspected of shooting her husband deliberately. Yet she would have to stand there, accepting the condolences of those who visited the funeral parlor, knowing that most of them were wondering if they were commiserating with a bereaved widow or a murderess.
When Betty and Quillan had left, Marshall said to the district attorney, “Any statement for the press, Arn?”
The plump attorney examined him contemplatively for a moment before saying, “I don’t know if I should discuss the case with a material witness, Kirk.”
“Material witness?”
“Uh-huh. You may be our motive for the shooting.”
Marshall looked at him blankly. “What the devil are you talking about?”
“The old love triangle. Haven’t you and Betty been getting kind of friendly again lately?”
Marshall felt his face begin to redden. “If you’re trying to be obnoxious, you’re succeeding, Arn.”
“Why’s everyone want to give me a hard time today?” Ross asked plaintively. “First Hank gets nasty, now you. You asked me a question and I answered it.”
“I didn’t like the answer.”
“Look, Kirk,” the D.A. said with an air of patience, “everybody in town knows of the run-in between you and Bruce Case at the country club only a few hours before he was shot. Did you think the town gossips would lose any time getting a thing like that on the telephone wires? He accused the two of you of carrying on behind his back; she flounced out and you threatened to knock Bruce off his stool. I get all the gossip.”
“Then did you also hear that he apologized for making an ass of himself?” Marshall inquired heatedly. “He blew off because Betty and I played a few holes of golf together. Before Sunday afternoon I’d hardly spoken to her in ten years.”
“Yeah, I know. At least in public. But all of a sudden you’re by her side like a knight defending a damsel in distress. I hear you stuck around her place half the night after she shot Bruce, trying to cheer her up, and moved your mother in to stay with her the next day. Seems to show kind of a personal interest if she’s just a casual acquaintance.”
Marshall was so angry he was speechless.
“Look at it from my point of view,” Ross went on. “A man publicly accuses his wife of catting around, she takes off in a huff and that night she accidentally shoots him. Makes you wonder how accidental it was, even without all the evidence we have.”
“You’re a blithering idiot,” Marshall said, and stalked out of headquarters.
Without even discussing it with his father, Marshall decided to sit on the story of Betty’s arrest. Since there had as yet been no formal charge placed, he felt it wasn’t exactly suppressing news. Nevertheless his newspaper sense made him feel a little guilty, for he suspected he would have written the story if anyone but Betty had been involved.
The hell with it, he decided. She was going to have a bad enough time getting through the funeral in the face of the rumors he was sure would begin to circulate. He wasn’t going to aggravate the situation by verifying the rumors in print. That hoary old adage about a newspaper’s responsibility to keep the public fully informed had as often been used as an excuse for sensationalism as it had in the public interest.
The Runyon City News deadline was one thirty p.m. At three he was called into his father’s office.
“I just talked to Barney Meister on the phone,” Jonas said. “He tells me that Betty was arrested at ten o’clock this morning. I didn’t see any story on it.”
“No formal charges were placed. She was released pending further investigation.”
“I know all the details from Barney. Including the fact that you observed the entire performance. You sat on the story.”
“I suppose you could say that. Or that I decided it wasn’t newsworthy.”
Up to now Jonas had spoken rather quietly. Now he inquired in a bellow which shook the room, “You’ve decided to take over the editorial duties of this newspaper, have you?”
Marshall’s face reddened. “She’s over at the funeral parlor right now, accepting condolences. She’ll be there again tonight and at the funeral tomorrow. Did you want me to crucify her in front of the whole town?”
Jonas slapped a palm on the desk. “That isn’t the point! I happen to be fond of the girl, too. The point is that I edit this paper and you’re just a reporter — a minor reporter at that. I decide which stories are printed and which aren’t. Not you.”
Marshall leaned both hands on the desk. His face was now beet red. “Shall we put out a special edition, or will tomorrow’s run be soon enough? We can run the story of the funeral right next to it.”
“Now you want to take over the duties of the make-up department, too,” Jonas growled.
Marshall straightened up. “The story will be on your desk at nine in the morning.”
“Never mind,” his father said in a suddenly calm voice. “We’ll hold it until there’s a formal charge.”
Marshall stared at his father for a long time. Finally he asked coldly, “Is that all you wanted?”
“Uh-huh.”
As the reporter reached the door, Jonas said in an entirely pleasant tone, “By the way, your mother says we’re out of vermouth. Better pick up a bottle on the way home.”
“Okay,” Marshall said with equal pleasantness.
At five p.m. he went down the stairs just as Lydia came from behind her counter. She fell into step with him and they walked out together. They stood alongside his car.