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“Mrs. Smith?”
Lord, the blasted man was still sitting there, gazing at her with eyes full of pity. “I will contact Miss D’Lia and advise her you will need at least ten days to vacate the mansion.” He tugged on his collar. “I hate to say this, but by law an inventory of the contents will be done immediately, and then again when you leave.”
Ten days. An inventory. She squashed down the hysterical laughter that threatened to bubble up and escape from her insides. Surely they would then cart her out and lock her up in the loony bin. Perhaps that would be better than out on the street. Which is where I’ll be once I lose my home.
Out on the street. With nothing. And she most likely would never again hold a job since she’d walked off her shift at the Harvey House, so no reference there.
Should she ask Mr. DeMarco who this woman was? Did she really want to know?
Louis truly did despise me. Why?
She raised her chin and regarded him through weary eyes. “Yes. That is most kind of you, Mr. DeMarco. I would need the full ten days, I am sure. And you may begin the inventory whenever you wish.”
Even the staff was better off than she was. Louis had bequeathed them, along with the mansion, to Miss D’Lia. She huffed. As if people could be bequeathed. As long as they performed their duties, the new owner would most likely keep them on. Perhaps she could borrow a uniform and pass herself off as the parlor maid.
If Louis weren’t already dead, she would shoot him herself.
She had to get rid of this man who sat there looking so sad for her. He must understand from her shock that there was no inheritance leaving her well off. She almost felt sorry for him. That caused anoth
er giggle to start. She needed to pull herself together and make plans.
“Thank you, Mr. DeMarco. I will see you out.” She stood on shaky legs and walked him to the door. Nodding briefly at Martin, she turned and walked slowly up the stairs to her bedroom.
Where she climbed into bed and lay very still, staring dry-eyed at the ceiling.
Chapter 20
The District Attorney’s office was dark and dingy, making Jesse wonder how someone could work there when Galveston had such an enormous amount of fine weather right outside the door. That situation might have accounted for the DA’s foul mood.
“So you’re the lawyer for Henderson?” The DA glared at him, almost as if he resented Hunter exercising his right to an attorney. Since he hadn’t troubled to introduce himself, Jesse took note of his name—Emmett Spencer—from the law school degree hanging on the wall behind him.
“Yes, I am.”
“I don’t know why the man needs a lawyer. He should just confess and save the taxpayers the cost of a trial.”
Jesse swallowed his sharp retort. No point in antagonizing the man. “Well, perhaps he didn’t confess—to save the taxpayers’ money, of course—because he’s innocent.”
Spencer waved his hand in dismissal. “They all say that. But we have your man dead to rights.”
“That is the reason for my visit, Mr. Spencer. I’ve gotten some information from the police chief, but I want to know exactly what your case is.”
The DA shook his head as if Jesse were a young boy out of his realm, trying to play with the adults. “I know the police chief already compromised my case by blabbing to Henderson what he had, so you know what we’re looking at here. First,” he counted off on his fingers. “He threatened Mr. Smith in front of a police officer. Two, he was secretly seeing the victim’s wife, Mrs. Emily Smith, and in fact tried to escape Galveston with her only a few nights before Mr. Smith was murdered. And three, Mr. Smith was killed with a forty-four caliber gun. It is well known the Texas Rangers—the organization your client was a part of for ten years—uses a Walker Colt forty-four.”
“That’s it?”
The DA scowled. “Don’t try that with me, Mr. Big Shot Out-of-Town Attorney. You know that’s plenty to see your client swinging from a rope.”
“I don’t know that at all. Furthermore while you have the wrong person behind bars, the true murderer is walking the streets of Galveston, and might even have reason to kill Mrs. Smith. Have you thought of that?”
“Garbage. We have the right man. You know it and I know it.” He leaned closer over the desk. “We’re willing to offer your client a deal.”
“Really?”
“Yes. To save the taxpayers money, if he pleads guilty, we’ll take the death penalty off the table and let him do life.”
“So generous of you. My client spends the rest of his life behind bars for a crime he didn’t commit?”
“That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”
