I ran out of the building, Martha hard on my heels. Down the hill from the courthouse on North Broad Street was a collection of Federal-style buildings called Lawyers Row. Warren Ziegler’s offices were located in an ornate brick-fronted building with an elegant black and gold carved sign hanging on the wall outside.
“Good morning,” his receptionist greeted us. She sat at the far end of the room behind a mahogany desk and an expanse of oriental carpet.
“Good morning,” I replied politely as we hurtled past, ignoring her squawks of protest, and straight into Warren’s bookshelf-lined office.
He didn’t seem inordinately surprised to see us.
“Just give me one good reason why,” I said, gasping for breath.
Warren sighed softly and templed his small pale hands together. “It was not in Angus’s best interest to go through a hearing at this time.”
“What in the hell kind of answer is that?” Martha demanded, striding up to his desk and towering over him.
He blinked calmly behind his round spectacles. “I deemed it best to eliminate the rehashing of allegations without any new evidence to clear the defendant.”
“Huh?” She turned to me, breathing heavily. “Daisy, what’s this bow-tied worm talking about?”
Warren took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes, showing a hint of weariness, or maybe he was just trying to block the blinding view of Martha’s décolletage.
He looked directly at me, almost pleading. “We have nothing to refute with. It would simply be more bad publicity in the court of public opinion. If this goes to a jury trial, we’re going to need all the sympathetic jury members and character witnesses we can get.”
Damn it, he was right. The number of people who still believed Angus was innocent was growing alarmingly small.
“And to warn you both, I might waive the arraignment, too. Perhaps a bench trial is our best hope in a case that offers little hope.”
I nodded glumly. He didn’t have to spell it out. Obviously Warren had also talked to Angus lately and seen his fragile, confused state of mind.
I’d been so sure that Warren had made some huge blunder. Now in his calm, measured way, he actually made some sense.
“Perhaps by the time this comes to trial, you’ll have cracked the case, Ms. Buchanan.”
I smiled wanly back at him.
He straightened his bow tie a fraction. “At least we might get some concessions. Reduced jail time and the like.”
I nodded to Martha, calling off my rabid dog, and we trailed out of his office and onto the street.
“Now what?” I asked.
“You can leave me here. I need a mani and pedi after all that drama. They have the best salon up on East State Street. I’ll grab a cab back to Millbury.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, yes.” She waved her fingers at me. “I don’t plan on doing any more strenuous physical activity today, other than taking out my credit card.”
Jeez. Martha seemed in a hurry to get rid of me. Maybe I’d pushed her a little too hard.
Doylestown was a beautiful town, full of great stores and restaurants. It had become the county seat in 1813 and the resulting buildings clustered together along the walkable Main Street were an interesting mix of styles from late Federal to Colonial, Italianate, and Victorian. Residences with wooden decorative porches were set back from the street with mature trees shading the wide sidewalks. Black gas lamps held overflowing flower baskets.
The courthouse was the only odd man out in the historic district, but it was set apart on its own triangular block at the top of the hill.
There were the typical art galleries, antique and gift shops, but also contemporary high-end apparel and home furnishings stores. Quirky used bookshops and cafés snuggled in between only added to the charm. Even the Starbucks was tastefully housed in an old tavern.
If I didn’t have to work, I’d have loved to stay and spend the day with Martha. I’d hung a sign on the door that Sometimes a Great Notion would open late today, but I needed to get back.
Once in Millbury, I was heading for the store when Joe called and asked me to come and take Jasper off his hands. He sounded rattled.
Hey, join the club.
I had my second shock of the day when I saw the state of our kitchen.
All the cabinets had been pulled off the walls. Countless haphazard piles of dishes and pots and pans were crammed together on the tiled floor of the adjoining sunporch, blocking the entrance to the room. Joe was sanding the uneven patches on the old kitchen floor and a fine dust lay over everything.
It wasn’t how I would have organized it, of course. I’d have put the contents of the cabinets in covered boxes—labeled—with neat walkways in between. I’d need to rewash every single one of these dishes when he was done.