Vindication Page 4

  “Thanks for coming, Matt. I’m sorry to be such a bother.”

  I kissed her on the cheek. “J.D. wanted to come, but I asked her to stay out of this until I figured out what’s going on. What can you tell me?”

  “Not much. I heard a knock on my front door around eight o’clock this morning. It was a deputy sheriff telling me that they had a warrant for my arrest for the murder of Olivia Lathom and that they were going to search my home. I let them in, and one of the deputies handcuffed me and put me in the back of a patrol car and brought me here. Lord knows what they’ve done to my house.”

  “Did you know Ms. Lathom?”

  “I’ve heard of her, but never met her.”

  “How did you hear about her?”

  “She was a writer. I’d read one of her books. It wasn’t very good, but a friend of hers is in our book club, and she had asked us to use it for one of our monthly meetings.”

  “Tell me about your book club.”

  “It’s just a bunch of women who get together every week or so in a meeting room over at the Eisenhower Center. A friend of mine owns a bookstore in the shopping center over where the Publix is on Highway 44, and she invited me to join the club. We read one mystery novel a month and then talk about it. Most of us like to write mysteries, mostly short stories, you know, so we get together once a week and present some of our writings to the group for critiques. None of us are real serious writers, but it’s kind of fun to hear what the others think of your stories. Nobody gets mean or anything. The criticisms are usually low key and always constructive.”

  “What’s the lady bookstore owner’s name?”

  “Judy Ferguson.”

  “Does she live in The Villages?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll have to talk to her at some point. Do you know her address?”

  “I know where she lives, but I don’t remember the address.”

  “I’ll get that later. You said the bookstore is on Highway 44?”

  “Yes. In the Grand Traverse Plaza. Her store is right next to the large Publix Market.”

  “Okay. I’ll find her. You said that a friend of Lathom’s was in your book club. Have you seen her lately?”

  “No. I dropped out of the book club a couple of weeks ago. I haven’t seen her since.”

  “Why did you drop out?”

  “The bitch who was the friend of the dead woman. Her name’s Ruth Bergstrom. She was the club president and seemed to know a lot of people in the publishing industry. Or at least she let on that she did. A little over a year ago, I showed her one of my stories, actually a novel I’d been working on for years. She gave it back to me a couple of weeks later. She said she didn’t think it was ready for a publisher and wasn’t sure I could ever get it to the point that a publisher would be interested in it. She was nice enough, but said the plot was weak and the characters weren’t well drawn.

  “It turns out Ruth had sent my manuscript to that Lathom woman in Atlanta. Two weeks ago her publisher released Lathom’s newest book and it debuted as number six on the New York Times best-seller list. It was my book.”

  “How did you find that out?”

  “I read the damn book and compared it to my manuscript. It’s identical, right down to most of the commas.”

  “What did you do about it?”

  “Nothing. I hadn’t copyrighted the manuscript, so how could I prove I wrote it? Besides, I can’t afford a lawyer to sue Lathom or her publisher.”

  “There’s a way around that, but we’ll think about it when we get you out of this mess. Do you still have the manuscript?”

  “Of course. I put it in my safe deposit box at the bank and I’m sure most of it will be on my laptop.”

  “The sheriff will have your laptop, I guess.”

  “Probably not. I was at my next-door neighbor’s last night showing her some old pictures I’d taken of my yard in Atlanta. I ran off and left the thing on her coffee table.”

  “Have you told anybody about the book theft?”

  “No. I was afraid I’d sound like some kind of nutcase taking credit for a book I didn’t have the talent to write.”

  “I’m going to see the sheriff and find out what they’ve got on you. I’ll come back to see you later today, and we’ll talk some more. The sheriff must have something to cause him to arrest you. Do you know Ruth’s address?”

  “Are you going to see her?”

  “I think so. She’s the only lead we have right now.”

  “Lead? That sounds like one of those detective programs on TV.”

  “Remember, Esther. This is real life. I think it best if you don’t talk to any of the other inmates. They’ll sell you out for a ham sandwich. You get the least bit close to some of these characters, and they’ll be happy to testify that you told them that you killed Lathom, or even Abe Lincoln, if necessary. Maybe I can get you into some sort of isolation. Away from the general population.”

  “If you think that’s best.”

  “What about Ruth’s address?” I asked.

  She gave directions to the Bergstrom home.

  “Do you need anything?” I asked.

  “Well, I could use a ride home.”

  I smiled. “I’ll see about that as soon as I can get you before a judge. See if we can get bail. I don’t think the county judge who will handle first appearance will set bail, so you’ll probably spend the weekend here.”

  “What are the chances of bail?”

  I was quiet for a moment, shrugged, and said, “Esther, to be perfectly candid with you, the chances of getting bail on a murder charge are slim to none, and I’m afraid Slim just left town.”

  She didn’t react. She sat there for a few seconds, and said, “Matt, do you know how Olivia Lathom was killed?”

  “She was shot.”

  “In Paddock Square?”

  “I don’t know. She could have been killed somewhere else and dumped there. I’ll know more when I talk to the prosecutor.”

  We chatted for a few more minutes, and I left for my meeting with the sheriff. I was saddened by the forlorn look on Esther’s face, but she was tough and, according to J.D., would be able to handle whatever came her way.

  CHAPTER 6

  SHERIFF BRIAN CORNETT hadn’t changed much since I’d last seen him. He was a tall, raw-boned guy with a shock of copper hair that was going to gray. He met me in the reception area, holding his big paw out for a shake. I reciprocated.

  “Good to see you, Matt. I heard you were coming up to see Ms. Higgins.”

  “Bad news travels fast.”

  “I didn’t think it was bad. I thought it was a good thing that she was going to have good representation.”

  “I’m glad you see it that way, Sheriff. I was afraid our last encounter might have left some hard feelings.”

  “We had a good case, Matt. There’re not half a dozen lawyers in the state who could have gotten an acquittal. You did your job. I did mine.”

  “How’s the doc?”

  “He’s still practicing medicine. I see him regularly. You haven’t kept in touch?”

  “No. I think I’m sort of a bad recollection for my criminal defense clients. Even if they were acquitted, I tend to bring back the memories of the worst time in their lives.”

  “I heard you were retired. Living down on Longboat Key.”

  “Yep. Living the dream.”

  “You’re kind of young for that, aren’t you?”

  “Probably, but I just wore out earlier than most.”

  “What brings you up here? I’m surprised you’d be suiting up again. I’d think the beach beats the courtroom every time. May I ask how you got involved in this?”

  “Esther Higgins is a friend of the family.”

  “Close enough friend to get you out of retirement?”

  “Afraid so. What can you tell me about the evidence you’ve got?”

  “Nothing, I’m afraid. I wish I could, but I’d better leave that to the state attorney.
”

  That wasn’t unexpected. The state attorney always controls the action leading to trial. I was entitled to all the evidence the state had, but it would have to come to me through the discovery process. Sometimes the prosecutor just hands it over without any argument. We’d see. “Can you at least tell me whether the victim was killed in Paddock Square or somewhere else?” I asked.

  “I don’t see why not. We’re pretty sure she was not killed in the square. We think it was a body dump.”

  “And no idea where she might have been killed?”

  “Not yet. We’re working on that.”

  “Has a judge been assigned?” I asked.

  “Ms. Higgins will have a first appearance this afternoon. The county judge will hear the bail motion and bind it over to the circuit court. The only circuit judge who sits regularly in Bushnell is Bill Gallagher. I’m sure he’ll get the assignment.”

  “I remember him well.”

  The sheriff laughed. “Me, too.”

  “Isn’t Brownwood actually in the city limits of Wildwood?”

  He nodded.

  “I was a little surprised to hear that your department was handling this rather that Wildwood PD.”

  “We usually take over on big cases. We have a lot more resources than the city does.”

  “Makes sense,” I said. We shook hands and I left.

  I drove two miles out of downtown Bushnell and stopped at a McDonald’s drive-thru for a Big Mac and a Diet Coke. I eschewed the fries and congratulated myself for my healthy approach to eating. I merged onto I-75 for the twenty-five-minute drive to The Villages, my thoughts meandering through my brain, jumping from one subject to another. I knew we wouldn’t get much out of the county judge in the way of bail. On a case this serious, the first appearance judge would usually leave it to the circuit judge to whom the case had been assigned to set bail. I’d try for a bail hearing as soon as possible, but I didn’t hold out much hope that we’d be successful.

  I was a bit confused by Sheriff Cornett’s friendliness. I knew he hadn’t been happy with me when he left the witness stand in the doctor’s trial, and it had been my experience that self-righteous pricks like the sheriff carried grudges for a long time. Was he trying to sandbag me in some way? I’d have to be careful.

  I wondered which prosecutor would be assigned to the case. The fifth judicial circuit of Florida was comprised of five counties including Sumter. Generally, the prosecutors who were assigned to the county where the case was to be tried would represent the state. But that rule wasn’t written in stone, and the state attorney could assign any of his assistants to try a case anywhere in the circuit. I was pretty sure that only the most experienced prosecutors would be assigned to a murder case. I would not find out who it was at the first appearance hearing since the youngest prosecutors were sent to court for those kinds of pro forma hearings. The judge would read the charging documents to the accused and make sure she understood them. If the accused had a private lawyer representing him or her, that part of the process would likely be waived. If the accused did not have a lawyer and could not afford one, a public defender, who would be present in the courtroom, would be appointed. Like a lot of things in the court system, it seemed to me that it was a waste of resources, but there were good reasons for doing it this way. The American justice system is creaky and slow and often frustrating, but it usually cranked out justice, and in truth, was the envy of the civilized world. And rightly so.

  The Villages is divided into ninety-one neighborhoods called villages, spelled with a lower case “v,” I guess to distinguish it from The Villages, spelled with two upper case letters, which denoted the overall development. With a lot of help from the map on my GPS system and the directions Esther had given me, I found Ruth Bergstrom’s house in the Village of Hillsborough. I took Highway 44A into The Villages, turned left onto Buena Vista Boulevard, and at the fourth roundabout, turned onto Hillsborough Trail. As I entered the neighborhood, I came to an unmanned gatehouse with a bar that blocked the road. There was a lane for residents and one marked for visitors. Residents had a device similar to an electric garage door opener that raised the barrier and gave them access. A non-resident had to pull up to a post on which sat an apparatus that housed a camera, a button that would raise the swing-arm guarding the street entrance, and a speaker that connected directly to a security post somewhere in the vastness of The Villages. I pushed the button and the bar went up and the camera probably took a picture of me. I didn’t need the speaker, but I figured it had some function that was beyond my simple understanding of security matters.

  As I went through the gate, I noticed another camera facing inward and at about the height to get a good picture of the license plate of any car entering the neighborhood. It was a fairly sophisticated security system and there would be no reason for it unless the security people kept a record of everyone who entered and left each of the villages.

  The Bergstrom home sat on a small cul-de-sac, one of four similar houses placed close to each other on small lots. The houses were only three or four years old, each one sporting stucco and fresh paint. They all had garages that would hold two cars and a golf cart. It was a pleasant neighborhood with manicured landscaping and a generous number of streetlights. A small sign in the front yard assured me I was at the home of James McNeil and Ruth Bergstrom.

  I parked on the street and walked to the front door and rang the bell. No answer. I gave it a beat or two and knocked. Still no answer. I was walking back to my car when a woman who appeared to be in her sixties pulled up in a golf cart, turned into the driveway, and stopped. “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “I hope so. Are you Ruth Bergstrom?”

  “I am.”

  “Ms. Bergstrom, my name is Matt Royal. I wonder if I could talk to you for a few minutes.”

  “About what?”

  “You may know that Esther Higgins was arrested this morning. I’m her lawyer and would like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

  “About what?” Her tone was confrontational.

  “I’d like to find out who killed Olivia Lathom. I understand you were friends.”

  “I’ll tell you who killed Liv. Esther Higgins did it.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Esther told me she was going to kill her.”

  “When did she tell you that?”

  “A couple of weeks ago.”

  “Was that after she found out that you had given her manuscript to Ms. Lathom and Lathom published it as her own work?”

  “That’s a foul lie.”

  This wasn’t going too well, but this lady was lying to me. She had stiffened herself into a defensive posture, her hands still gripping the cart’s steering wheel so hard that her knuckles were turning white.

  “What’s a lie?” I asked. “That you gave Ms. Lathom the manuscript or that she sent it to her publisher claiming it was her own work?”

  “You’d better leave now.”

  “Which was it, Ms. Bergstrom? I know you gave her the manuscript. Where else would she have gotten it?”

  She climbed out of the cart without another word and walked toward her front door. I called to her. “I’ll be back with a subpoena and you can answer my questions under oath.”

  “You do what you have to do, but you’ll still get the same answer.”

  She stepped into the house and slammed the door shut.

  CHAPTER 7

  I LEFT HER house and drove the several blocks to Brownwood. The Villages include three town squares, each one holding a variety of shops and restaurants surrounding a square in the middle that was the entertainment venue. Brownwood was the newest of the three and was built to resemble a small nineteenth-century town on the Florida frontier. Golf carts were parked everywhere. It was the preferred mode of travel throughout The Villages, and almost everyone who lived there owned one.

  There were 115,000 residents living in 70,000 homes and driving an estimated 60 to 80,000 gol
f carts. Eve Fletcher, one of Esther’s neighbors, had explained to me that The Villages, like Longboat Key and many other places in Florida, explode in the winter with the influx of Northerners. The residents were divided into three classes: the snowflakes who drifted in and out of the area, spending a few days or weeks in their houses; the snowbirds who came in December and stayed until April; and the frogs who planned to live in The Villages until they croaked.

  There were cart lanes on either side of the residential roads, but the carts did not share the major thoroughfares with automobiles. The developer had built paved tracks, called multi-modal paths, parallel to the four-lane divided boulevards. Tunnels under the main intersections gave the golf carts a safe transit from one point to another. People in cars tended to give them the right of way, and collisions between carts and automobiles were rare. There were 43 golf courses comprising 630 holes within The Villages, and many of the carts had golf bags strapped to the rear cargo carrier.

  By two thirty, I was parked at Paddock Square, located in the middle of Brownwood, surrounded by shops, restaurants, and a movie theater. Tiered rows of bleacher-style seats took up one side of the square with a stage on the opposite side, separated by a large concrete area that in the evening would be filled with senior citizens dancing to whatever music was coming from the stage. There was entertainment every night in each of the three town squares and the crowds always came. The music stopped at nine p.m., so everybody could get home early. I understood that some of the revelers actually went home, but there were plenty of bars and restaurants in the town squares and the country clubs where people could go and drink and dance the night away.

  I stood on the edge of the concrete area of Paddock Square, wondering just where Lathom’s body had been discovered. Was she killed here or had she been killed somewhere else and brought here? Sheriff Cornett had seemed pretty certain that Olivia had been killed somewhere else and the square was just the body dump. I didn’t trust the sheriff, but surely, he knew that I would soon figure out the truth about whether this was a murder on the square or somewhere else.