“And it’s a security nightmare,” she answers. “Every time.”

Judge Long looks out at Louisa and then back at me. After a moment, he shakes his head at Geraldine. “I don’t get the impression Mrs. Rawlings is a flight risk,” he says. “And I certainly don’t think she’s a danger to anyone.”

“We don’t have the staff, Judge,” Geraldine says.

“That, Ms. Schilling, is a matter you’ll have to take up with the legislature.”

“I can’t believe you’re discussing this.” Anastasia’s baritone is much louder than the judge’s. “That woman,” she says, pointing like a veteran prosecutor, “murdered my father. She’s not welcome at his memorial service.”

Judge Long is silent for a moment. His gaze rests on Louisa and then shifts to Anastasia. “That woman,” he says quietly, taking his glasses off, “is innocent as she sits here today. And she will remain innocent unless a jury of her peers decides otherwise.”

Anastasia folds her arms beneath her heaving bosom and bristles. She’s ready to fight to the finish. “She is not innocent. She killed him and everyone knows it.”

The press is loving this a little too much. The judge pounds his gavel, glares at them until they settle down, and then turns his attention back to Anastasia. “Miss Rawlings,” he says, pointing the gavel at Louisa, “this woman has been convicted of nothing. She’s been tried for nothing. Now, I can’t order you to welcome her, or anyone else for that matter, to your father’s service. But I can tell her she’s free to go.” He looks down at the bench and scribbles again. “And I just did.”

He passes the signed order down to me and I return to our table with it. Louisa takes my arm as soon as I sit. “Thank you,” she says. “It would have been terribly wrong for me to miss Herb’s service. And I confess I won’t mind a little fresh air on the way, either.”

I nod at her. “What the hell did Steven Collier want from you? He’s lucky he didn’t get himself tossed into a cell.”

She smiles, apparently amused by the thought. “Steven was just the carrier pigeon,” she says. “The message was from Anastasia.”

Anastasia’s still standing in front of the bench, as if the judge might change his mind if she hangs around long enough. I point at her. “The fragile one?”

Louisa lets out a small laugh. “One and the same,” she says. “The dear girl wants me to spring for tomorrow’s luncheon. Says she’s broke.”

“Broke?”

Louisa laughs again. “She doesn’t know the meaning of the word. But no matter. I’m happy to pay for it. It’s my responsibility in the first place.”

She’s right, of course. It is. Still, something about the request rankles me. Maybe it’s the timing.

“Your Honor.” Geraldine had gone back to her table when I came back to mine, but now she’s at the bench again, her copy of the signed order in hand. “Will you at least make the court’s permission contingent upon the availability of prison personnel?”

The judge sets his gavel on the bench and smiles. For a moment, he says nothing. His eyes move from Geraldine to Anastasia and back again. “The county coffers might have to cough up a little overtime,” he says at last, “because the answer is no, Attorney Schilling. I won’t.”

CHAPTER 28

Thursday, October 19

A steady stream of expensive cars winds down Fox Hill Road. Most sport Connecticut plates and every one of them turns left into the driveway that leads uphill to the imposing Eastward Edge Clubhouse. Herb Rawlings’s memorial service is scheduled to begin at eleven. The mourners seem to have decided en masse to show up ten minutes beforehand. And somehow, though we’re almost never early for anything, Harry, the Kydd, and I arrive in the midst of them.

Behind us is a dark blue Mercedes-Benz, its polished three-pointed star glinting on the hood in the morning sunshine. Ahead, a Bentley follows a BMW—an X5, the Kydd tells us authoritatively from the backseat. The BMW follows a Jaguar—an XK8, according to our resident auto enthusiast. All three cars come to a stop in the circular driveway and we idle behind them in Harry’s Jeep.

A uniformed valet attends to each of the vehicles ahead of us, opening and closing doors for the occupants and then whisking the car away. There seems to be a small army of young men in double-breasted maroon suit coats sporting the colorful Eastward Edge logo. They wear visored hats, leather gloves, and somber expressions befitting the occasion.

“Hot damn,” the Kydd says as he takes in our surroundings. “I need a raise.”

Harry laughs, but I don’t. I twist in the passenger seat and stare, silently reminding the Kydd of his recent ethical transgressions. Many a lawyer’s license has been suspended for less. He’s in a precarious professional position at the moment, not one that gives him a lot of bargaining power. “Surely you jest,” I tell him.

“Just kidding,” he mumbles through clenched teeth.

“You’d better be.”

Harry laughs again. He has no idea.

A valet is at the driver’s-side door. He’s older than the others and he seems to be the guy in charge. He bends down and leans in when Harry opens the window. “Sir,” he says, tipping his hat, “we ask pickup trucks and, uh”—his eyes travel the length of Harry’s worn-out Jeep—“recreational vehicles to park in the lower lot.” He clears his throat, then stands up straight and points downhill, as if the matter is settled.

Harry opens his door abruptly and the man in uniform jumps back. “Nope,” Harry says as he leaves the Jeep. The Kydd and I get out too. We’ve seen this routine—in different settings—before.

“But, sir,” the valet tries.

“You asked,” Harry interrupts. “I answered.”

“But, sir,” the valet repeats. This time, though, he holds one hand out, palm open, as he tries to explain. Harry drops the key in it. “Take good care of her,” he says with a wink. “She’s an heir-loom.”

Chief Car Parker looks like he intends to argue, but he falters, momentarily distracted by something in the line behind us. Louisa Rawlings and her prison escorts have arrived. They’re in a gray van, branded Barnstable County Sheriff’s Department in bold black letters on both sides. It’s sandwiched between a shiny red Maserati and a gleaming black Lincoln Continental.

Harry shakes his head in disapproval when the bewildered valet turns back to us. “You’d better lock it,” Harry says, walking away from him. “You know, this used to be a decent neighborhood.”

We’re almost inside when the Kydd stops in his tracks on the top step. “You go ahead,” he says to Harry and me. “I’m going to wait. Louisa shouldn’t have to walk in there with no one but prison staff around her.”

Harry punches the Kydd in the arm. “That’s thoughtful of you, Kydd, damned thoughtful. You’re a decent son of a gun.”

I give the Kydd a pointed glare, the extent of his thoughtfulness for Louisa Rawlings unspoken between us.

Draping an arm around the Kydd’s shoulder, Harry turns to me and dabs at the corner of his eye, as if brushing a tear away. “We raised him right,” he says.

The Kydd gives me a grave nod, confirming Harry’s sentiment.

I’d like to bang their heads together.

The van’s side door opens and a prison matron steps out to the cobblestone walkway. Louisa emerges next, in the same beige trench coat and wide-brimmed hat she wore on Monday’s trip from her house to lockup. No doubt her butter yellow coat dress is beneath. It’s unlikely that the prison-guard van driver swung by Easy Street to let her select a mourning ensemble. It’s even more unlikely that Anastasia would have let her in the door if he had.

I’m relieved to see that Louisa isn’t cuffed. In situations like this one, prison escorts have broad discretion regarding the use of restraints. The decision to forgo them here doesn’t involve much in the way of risk; both matrons have bulging holsters strapped around their hips, after all. Still, it was decent of them. A little scrap of Louisa Rawlings’s dignity can attend the service with her.