Wanda Gail Burton Plummet happened to be sweeping off her front porch when the postman arrived. He handed her the stack of mail and she thanked him. She sorted through it as she made her way back into the house. As usual, all the mail was addressed to her husband. It was mostly bills and church-related correspondence.
One envelope, however, was different from the others. It was made of high-quality beige paper. There was an embossed return address on it, but it had been exed out on a typewriter, making it illegible. Their address had been typed on it, too.
Curiosity won out over her husband’s strict instructions that he was to open their mail. Wanda tore open the envelope. It contained only a blank piece of paper, folded around five one-hundred-dollar bills.
Wanda stared at the money as though it was a message from an alien planet. Five hundred dollars was more than the offering plate contained after a well-attended revival service. Fergus only took out a pittance to support his family. Almost everything collected went to the church and its “causes.”
No doubt this money had been sent by a donor who wanted to remain anonymous. For the last several days, Fergus had been calling up folks on the telephone, asking for volunteers to picket at the gates of the Minton ranch. He solicited money. He wanted to place full-page antigambling ads in the newspaper. Well-publicized crusades were expensive.
Most people hung up on him. Some had called him ugly names before slamming down their receivers. A few had listened and given halfhearted pledges to send a supportive offering.
But, five hundred dollars.
He’d also spent time on the phone in secretive, whispered conversations. Wanda didn’t know what these covert calls were about, but she suspected they had something to do with that business at the Minton ranch. One of the hardest things she’d ever had to do was lie to her old friend, Reede. He had known she was lying, but he’d been gentlemanly enough not to accuse her of it.
Afterward, when she had expressed concern to Fergus about her sin of lying, he had told her that it had been justified. God didn’t expect his servants to go to jail, where they would be ineffectual.
She timidly pointed out that Paul had spent a lot of time in prison, and had done some of the most inspired writing in the New Testament while behind bars. Fergus hadn’t appreciated the comparison and had told her that she should keep her mouth shut about matters that were too complicated for her to comprehend.
“Wanda?”
She jumped at the sound of his voice and reflexively clutched the money to her sagging breasts. “What, Fergus?”
“Was that the postman at the door?”
“Uh, yes.” She glanced down at the envelope. The money was surely related to those furtive telephone calls. Fergus wouldn’t want to talk about them. “I was just bringing you the mail.”
She went into the kitchen. He was seated at the Formica dining table that served as his desk between meals. She laid the stack of mail on the table. When she returned to the sink to finish washing dishes, the fancy envelope and its contents were in her apron pocket.
She would give it to Fergus later, Wanda promised herself, as a surprise. In the meantime, she would fantasize about all it could buy for her three kids.
Alex had had thirty-six hours to think about it. While nursing her debilitating headache, she’d lain in bed, reviewing everything she knew and filling in what she didn’t know with educated guesses.
She couldn’t continue to run around in circles indefinitely. She was probably as close to the truth as she was ever going to get, short of taking desperate measures. The deadline Greg had set was imminent. It was time to force someone’s hand, to get aggressive, even if she had to bluff.
Days ago, she had reached the heartbreaking conclusion that she had been the catalyst for Celina’s murder, but she didn’t plan to bear the burden of that guilt alone for the rest of her life. Whoever had done the actual deed must suffer for it also.
That morning when she woke up, she still had a headache, but it was one she could live with. She spent the morning reviewing her notes and doing some research, and was waiting in Judge Wallace’s anteroom when he returned from lunch. He didn’t look pleased to see her.
“I told Ms. Gaither that you had a full
schedule today,” Mrs. Lipscomb said defensively when he turned a baleful glance on her. “She insisted on waiting for you.”
“She’s right, Judge Wallace, I did,” Alex said. “Can you spare me a few minutes?”
He consulted his wristwatch. “A very few.”
She followed him into his office. He took off his overcoat and hung it on a brass coat tree. Not until he was situated behind his desk, trying to look intimidating, did he say, “What is it this time?”
“What did Angus Minton use to entice you?”
His face became instantly mottled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. You confined an innocent man to a state mental hospital, Judge Wallace. You knew he was innocent, or at least strongly suspected that he was. You did that at Angus Minton’s request, didn’t you? And in exchange, you demanded that Junior marry your daughter Stacey.”
“This is incredible!” He banged his fists on his desktop.
“It’s extremely credible. On the morning after Celina Graham Gaither was found murdered in a stable on the Minton ranch, you received a phone call or a visit from Angus. Bud Hicks had been arrested nearby, covered in blood and in possession of a scalpel presumed to be the murder weapon. That was never ascertained because the scalpel wasn’t thoroughly analyzed. The autopsy report specified that she died of repeated stab wounds, but a forensic expert didn’t have access to the body before it was cremated, so she could have been stabbed by anything.”