Verdict Suspended Read online

  “Sensitive,” Tilde said. “He concentrates on his work. If it doesn’t turn put the way he thinks it should, he tears up everything and drives off alone—sometimes for days. But that isn’t violence.”

  “What about the trouble with his sister?”

  Tilde answered quickly. “There was no trouble. Sheilah worried him. Sometimes he drank too much and always he drove too fast.”

  “Mrs. Shepherd,” Steve asked, “your husband testified that he didn’t see Jaime Dodson drive away from the scene of the murder. Did you see him?”

  “No.”

  “But knowing Jaime as you did, his habits and patterns, how do you think he would have reacted if he came to his sister’s house for dinner and found her dead?”

  Ryan was on his feet immediately; but before his objection could be voiced, Tilde Shepherd answered in a clear, firm voice no ruling from the bench could erase from the minds of a jury.

  “Jaime would have run away,” she said. “He would have panicked and run away.”

  When Ryan called Greta Muldoon to the stand an expectant hush came over the spectators and jury. It was as if everyone present in the staid old courtroom was waiting for the emotional break that seemed inevitable. Greta Muldoon walked quietly to the witness box, her outer poise intact, but for an instant, when she found Jaime’s eyes, hesitated, elevated her chin in a gesture of overconfidence, and walked on. Her voice, taking the oath, was firm. She traced her relationship with Jaime briefly. Greta had come to Cypress Point the previous spring to open a small and very expensive gift shop. Some months later Jaime Dodson came into the store.

  “He wanted to buy a gift for his sister’s birthday. ‘I want something for a woman who has everything and wants more,’” he said. Guiltily she added, “He was joking, of course. Jaime has a wonderful sense of humor. That was one of the things that attracted me to him.”

  Ryan pulled her back to the story. “Did Mr. Dodson purchase a gift for his sister?”

  “Yes. A set of highball glasses—Swedish crystal. I had only a sample in stock. I had to order.”

  “And when did this take place, Miss Muldoon?”

  “Three months ago. I promised delivery within six weeks but there were difficulties. The first set came through without monograms. Jaime didn’t want them. He said Sheilah liked to have her name on everything.” She paused, suddenly aware of volunteering more information than necessary. The pause was like italics. She continued quickly. “I reordered immediately. The shipment arrived on the day Sheilah died.”

  Ryan calculated quickly. “Did you inform Mr. Dodson of this fact?”

  “No. I went to the post office to check the shipment. When I saw the glasses were as ordered, I called the parcel delivery service and sent them directly to Sheilah’s house. Later I called the house to make sure the houseman was there and told him the order was on its way.”

  As Greta testified, Steve Quentin made quick, cryptic notes. His pencil poised, he frowned reflectively.

  “But you didn’t communicate directly with Mr. Dodson all that day?”

  “No,” Greta said. “But I tried. From the post office, I returned to the shop. I called Jaime at his office but he wasn’t in. I talked to Sheilah.”

  The District Attorney pounced on the admission as if uncovering a vital secret.

  “You talked to the deceased,” he repeated. “What was her manner?”

  Greta appeared puzzled. “Sheilah Dodson was a busy woman,” she explained. “She was usually brusque on the telephone. She made some light remark about the glasses. ‘About time, I’m getting thirsty.’ Something like that. She said Jaime had gone out on the job and asked if I wanted him to call back. I said he could if he wanted because I would be in the shop all afternoon, and then, almost as an afterthought, she told me to come for dinner at eight.”

  “She told you,” Ryan repeated. “She didn’t invite you?”

  Greta’s smile was a bright warmth in a tense room. “Sheilah told me,” she said firmly. “That was her way. All of us who knew her were aware of that.”

  “But did she usually give such short notice?”

  “I don’t know,” Greta admitted slowly. “It was only three months since I had met Jaime.”

  The admission pleased Ryan. “Only three months,” he repeated, “but in that time you became friendly enough with Jaime Dodson to become—as has been testified in this court—his fiancée.”

  A quick flash of anger spoiled Greta’s smile. “It doesn’t take time to fall in love,” she said.

  “No, it doesn’t,” Ryan admitted. He turned and studied Jaime, who now sat upright and belligerent. “Particularly not when the man involved is young, good-looking, and has a highly successful sister.”

  Steve had to force Jaime back into his seat. His own objection was lost as Ryan followed the comment with a quick question.

  “Were you aware that Sheilah Dodson objected to your relationship with her brother, Miss Muldoon?”

  She was a carefully controlled woman. Her hands remained folded in her lap. She met Ryan’s gaze with level eyes, but there was a tautness in her voice as she rationed each word. “No, not directly,” she said. “I heard rumors.”

  “From whom?”

  “Well, perhaps not rumors. I think it was something I sensed.”

  “You sensed that Sheilah Dodson didn’t like you?”

  Greta’s voice rose slightly. “No. I don’t think what she felt had anything to do with me—as a person. But she had been a mother to Jaime since he was a child. There was a strong feeling of possession. She naturally resented any woman who would change the status quo.” Quickly, Greta added: “It was perfectly normal. No woman enters a man’s family circle without meeting some sense of suspicion or hostility. It passes.”

  “Then you weren’t disturbed about the dinner invitation? You didn’t fear a showdown with Sheilah Dodson?”

  Greta hesitated. “No,” she said.

  “You seem unsure.”

  “But I’m not! It was just an invitation. I told you that!”

  Ryan listened with an obvious air of skepticism. “What did you think,” he asked, “when you arrived at the home of the deceased and saw Jaime run from the house, leap into his car, and drive away?”

  “I thought …” Greta paused, trying to recapture the feeling of a moment past. “I don’t know,” she said quickly. “I didn’t have time to think.”

  “Did you call out to Mr. Dodson?”

  “Yes. He didn’t hear me.”

  “Because he was too upset.”

  “I suppose so. He was in a hurry.”

  “As if he were running away from something unpleasant.”

  Greta was on guard instantly. “As if he were running for help,” she said.

  “Running for help?” Ryan hung the words teasingly before the jury. “Miss Muldoon, a few moments ago you testified that you telephoned Miss Dodson’s houseman and informed him the long-awaited highball glasses were on the way. Was there any reason why Mr. Dodson, had he wanted to call for help, could not have used that same telephone?”

  It was a direct question and a proper one. There was no way Greta could escape its implication. She grasped at an answer.

  “He must have been in a state of shock,” she said. “People do strange things in shock.”

  “Do you think Mr. Dodson is a coward?”

  “No!”

  “And yet he ran from the house where—moments later—you found the dead body of his sister.”

  “I don’t know why he ran!” Greta protested.

  “But he did run. He got into his car and drove off at a high rate of speed. He was found later, his car wrecked, at Hanson’s Pier twenty miles down coast. Does that suggest that Mr. Dodson went for help, Miss Muldoon?”

  “I—I don’t know,” Greta admitted.

  “When,” Ryan added triumphantly, “the business district of Cypress Point, the hospital, the police department, the fire department, had he wanted it, was less
than two miles away in the opposite direction. Does that suggest that Mr. Dodson went for help, Miss Muldoon?”

  The spectators got what they were waiting for. Greta Muldoon looked pleadingly toward Jaime, frantically back to Ryan.

  “I don’t know!” she sobbed. “I don’t know!”

  Steve Quentin’s questioning was brief. “Miss Muldoon,” he said quietly, when Greta’s emotions were under control again, “are you in love with Mr. Dodson?”

  This time Greta’s voice was firm. “Yes, I am.”

  “Would you marry him if he were free at this moment?”

  Every woman in the courtroom, and there were five on the coroner’s jury, leaned forward to catch Greta Muldoon’s answer.

  “Oh yes!” she said.

  Chapter 3

  It was the testimony of Albert Trench that brought the inquest into the death of Sheilah Dodson to its conclusion.

  Trench was a slightly built, prim, even prudish man of fifty, soberly attired in a black three-button suit, a narrow gray tie that emerged shyly from the protecting armor of an overstarched collar, and carrying in his hands a new black homburg purchased for the occasion of the funeral of his beloved and generous employer. He took the oath and settled himself in the witness box, carefully placing his hat on his knees. He spoke with deep sincerity and an undertone of smoldering outrage, as if Sheilah Dodson’s death were more a personal affront than a tragic murder.

  “I hadn’t been informed of the dinner party until afternoon,” he related. “Miss Dodson called from the office. I told her of the arrival of the crystal glasses that person had sent.”

  District Attorney Ryan continued to direct the inquiry.

  “That person?” he repeated.

  “Miss Muldoon,” Trench explained.

  “Did you know Miss Muldoon prior to her call?”

  Trench’s mouth twisted in a tight, sour smile. “Oh yes. Mr. Dodson brought her to the house on several occasions. I understood the situation.”

  “What do you mean—situation?”

  “The relationship,” Trench said. “At first I assumed she was just one of Mr. Dodson’s adventures. He had many. But then I learned that he was serious. He meant to marry the girl.”

  Ryan was surprised. “Did he tell you that?”

  “Oh no. Not me. It was Miss Dodson that he told.”

  “When?”

  “On the day of her death.”

  Steve kept close watch on Jaime while Trench testified. If the dark place in his mind was going to open, it would open now. Jaime listened intently.

  “Did you hear Mr. Dodson inform his sister of his intention to marry Miss Muldoon?” Ryan asked.

  Trench paused to brush a bit of dust from the homburg. “Yes,” he said slowly, “later.”

  “What do you mean—later?”

  “I mean after I heard it from Miss Dodson. I told her the glasses had arrived and she said, ‘Wash them and put them out for cocktails this evening. We’ll have to use them whatever they’re like. Jaime’s got the idea he wants to marry the girl.’ Then she told me to prepare dinner and cocktails for six: Miss Muldoon, Mr. Dodson, Mr. and Mrs. Shepherd, Mr. Quentin, and herself.” A note of retroactive exasperation crept into Trench’s voice. “It was two-thirty in the afternoon. I had five and one half hours to shop and prepare dinner, mix and serve cocktails and remember everyone’s gastronomical idiosyncrasies.” Trench held up one hand and began to enumerate on his fingers: “Mr. Shepherd is on a salt-free diet; his wife never eats fowl—”

  “Mr. Trench,” Ryan cut in sharply, “I’m sure you had a busy afternoon, but let’s get back to your story. You said that you heard Mr. Dodson tell his sister that he intended to marry Miss Muldoon. When was that?”

  Trench stared coldly at his interrogator. “Later,” he repeated firmly, “after I had done all the other things. All except the ice. You see, in the rush I forgot to put extra trays in the refrigerator. I discovered it when I mixed martinis for Miss Dodson and her brother.”

  “At what time was that?” Ryan asked.

  “At seven—just a few minutes past seven. Mr. Dodson came early. I was in the kitchen when Miss Dodson rang for me. I came to the living room. Mr. Dodson stood before the mantel, Miss Dodson was seated on the divan. ‘Trench,’ she said—she always addressed me by my surname—’Trench, for God’s sake mix up a dosage of your special-for-Jaime martinis. The boy needs to relax.’”

  “And did he need to relax?” Ryan demanded. “Did he seem tense or agitated?”

  Albert Trench looked past the District Attorney and fixed Jaime Dodson with coldly appraising eyes. “He seemed on the point of exploding,” Trench said. “I didn’t want to get involved in family troubles, so I returned to the kitchen. I had just enough ice for one shaker of martinis. I have a special way of mixing them that takes a few minutes longer. I couldn’t avoid hearing what was taking place in the living room.”

  “And what was that?”

  “A quarrel. A bitter quarrel. Mr. Dodson informed his sister that he was determined to marry Miss Muldoon and had no intention of letting her—Miss Dodson, that is—get away with anything.”

  “What did he mean by that?”

  “I don’t know. Something about the business, I think, because then I heard Miss Dodson say that she didn’t care who he married because she was tired of bailing him out of trouble. He was of age now, and he could make his own way.”

  “What did Mr. Dodson say to that?”

  Albert Trench was beginning to enjoy himself. Under his careful professional manner throbbed the heart of a natural gossip. “I didn’t hear his answer,” he replied. “That was when I returned to the living room with the martinis. I had already set out the glasses on the bar. While pouring, Miss Dodson said: ‘It’s all taken care of, Jaime. I’m not just threatening any more. You’re on your own. See how your beloved likes a Dodson without a bankroll.’” Trench paused dramatically.

  “What was the response?” Ryan asked.

  Trench smiled tightly. “It seemed a good moment to serve,” he said. “I handed Mr. Dodson his glass. I expected him to drink—but he didn’t. He just stared at his sister with his face a kind of eerie gray, as if all the blood had drained out of it. An eerie gray—”

  Jaime Dodson’s hands were laced before him on the table. The fingers tightened until the knuckles turned white.

  “I went back to the kitchen,” Trench continued, “and started to work on the salad. But I knew I’d have to go out for the ice. There’s a door leading directly from the kitchen to the garage. I got my hat and the keys to the station wagon—and then I heard Miss Dodson cry out—”

  Arthur Swenson leaned forward across the table from which he presided, his face taut with listening. There was no other movement in the courtroom.

  “Miss Dodson cried out,” Ryan repeated. “Was it a cry of pain? Of fear? Did she speak recognizable words?”

  “She cried out,” Trench answered, “in a very clear voice: ‘Jaime, don’t be a fool!’ Then I heard a crashing sound.”

  “What do you mean—a crashing sound?”

  Trench was irritated. “A crashing sound,” he repeated. “Something smashed and broke—glass, I think—and then a heavy sound as if someone fell.”

  “What did you do?”

  Trench looked miserable. “Nothing,” he said. “I heard no more sounds, so I left to get the ice. If I’d known—” He broke off, guiltily.

  “Known what, Mr. Trench?”

  Trench had lowered his head. He raised it slowly, and his eyes were bitter with anger. “If I’d known what was to happen, I might have saved Miss Dodson’s life.”

  “Then you must believe that Jaime Dodson was her murderer.”

  Steve Quentin was on his feet instantly, but nothing could silence Albert Trench’s outraged accusation.

  “He was alone with her when I left the house. Alone with her. That’s what I know.”

  Steve Quentin approached his first hostile witness. It was
now obvious that Albert Trench carried the weight of the case against Jaime. The history of the relationship between Sheilah and Jaime could be slanted to fit any viewpoint desired; but Albert Trench was definite. He had actually heard the quarrel. During his testimony, Steve had watched Jaime carefully. Because of his recent release from the hospital, Ryan had spared Jaime the ordeal of questioning. His deposition, given to the police after the accident, had been read and verified. The findings of the state psychiatrists were read. Jaime himself was called upon to deliver only a brief “yes” to questions put to him about these statements. But while Trench testified, he listened, concentrated, and tried so hard to bring his mind into focus that Steve could almost feel the intensity of his thought. But the forbidden knowledge never broke through the wall, and this meant that Albert Trench was the only barrier to Jaime’s freedom.

  “Mr. Trench,” Steve began, “how long have you been in the employ of the deceased?”

  Albert Trench regarded him with wounded eyes. “Why, Mr. Quentin, you know as well as I do—”

  “Tell the jury, please.”

  The wound gave way to understanding. Trench nodded in agreement. “I had been in the employ of Sheilah Dodson, the deceased,” he answered carefully, “for the past nine years—ever since she opened the house on the point. I was her first employee.” Trench smiled in proud remembrance. “‘I want a man housekeeper,’ she told me. ‘I couldn’t bear to have some motherly housewife on the premises. You will never offer me a bowl of hot soup—not even if I’m dying, understand!’” Trench’s voice broke in sentimental recollection. “And I did not,” he added stoutly, “ever!”

  “I take it you were fond of your employer.”

  “Indeed! Indeed, I was! There was no finer lady on this earth than Sheilah Dodson—and I mean lady. With her profession and all the pressure that went with it, she never forgot to be that.”

  “And what of her brother—was he a gentleman?”

  Trench shot a quick, dark look in Jaime’s direction. “I wouldn’t say that,” he answered. “Not that—exactly. Mr. Dodson has always been on the wild side. He gave Miss Dodson a great deal of trouble over a period of years.”