“That’s not true,” she denied evenly.
“That’s how I read it. What does Pat Chastain have to say about this?”
“The D.A. is unavailable. It seems he’s spontaneously taken a few days’ vacation and gone hunting.”
The judge harrumphed. “Sounds like a damn good idea to me.”
It sounded cowardly to Alex, and she’d been ready to chew nails when the aloof Mrs. Chastain had informed her of it. “Will you permit me to look for evidence, Judge?”
“There is no evidence,” he stressed.
“My mother’s remains might provide some.”
“She was
autopsied when she was killed. That was twenty-five years ago, for crissake.”
“With all due respect to the coroner at that time, he might not have been looking for clues when the cause of death was so readily apparent. I know an excellent forensic specialist in Dallas. We use him frequently. If there is anything to be found, he’ll find it.”
“I can guarantee you that he won’t.”
“It’s worth a try, isn’t it?”
He gnawed at the corner of his lip. “I’ll take your request under advisement.”
Alex recognized a brush-off when she saw one. “I’d appreciate an answer tonight.”
“Sorry, Miss Gaither. The best I can do is think about it overnight and give you an answer in the morning. Between now and then, I hope you’ll change your mind and withdraw the request.”
“I won’t.”
He stood up. “I’m tired, hungry, and damned perturbed that you’ve put me in this awkward position.” He aimed an accusatory index finger at her. “I don’t like messes.”
“Neither do I. I wish this weren’t necessary.”
“It isn’t.”
“I believe it is,” she countered stubbornly.
“In the long run, you’ll be sorry you ever asked me for this. Now, you’ve taken up enough of my time. Stacey will be worried. Good night.”
He marched from the room. A few seconds later, Mrs. Lipscomb appeared in the doorway. Her eyelids were fluttering with indignation. “Imogene told me you’d mean trouble around here.”
Alex swept past her and returned to her temporary office, only long enough to retrieve her belongings. The drive out to the Westerner took longer than usual because she got caught up in Purcell’s rush hour. To further complicate the snarled traffic, it began to sleet.
Knowing she wouldn’t want to go out again, she picked up a box of carryout fried chicken. By the time she spread the meal on the round table near the windows of her room, the food was cold and tasted like cardboard. She promised herself that she would buy some fruit and healthy snack food to supplement her unbalanced diet, and maybe a bouquet of fresh flowers to brighten the dismal room. She debated taking down the lurid painting of the bullfighter that dominated one wall. The swirling red cape and slavering bull were real eyesores.
Loath to review her notes again, she decided to switch on the TV. The HBO movie she watched was a comedy she didn’t have to think about. She was feeling better by the time it was over, and decided to take a shower.
She had just dried off and wrapped her wet hair in a towel when someone knocked on her door. Pulling on her long, white terry-cloth robe and knotting the tie at her waist, she peered through the peephole.
She opened the door as far as the chain lock would allow. “What are you, the Welcome Wagon?”
“Open the door,” Sheriff Lambert said.
“What for?”
“I need to talk to you.”