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Keith bowed from the waist. “Thank you.”
“Is there anything else?”
“Yes. Do you know the identity of Dora Murray’s biological father?”
Sarah Jane looked wildly from Judge Veronsky to Ruth Champ and back again. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Yes, Counselor,” Judge Veronsky spoke sharply from the bench. “What is the point of your question?”
“I have reason to believe,” Keith said smoothly “that Annabelle Murray knew that her husband did not father their little girl, Dora. It is also my understanding that the witness quarreled with her sister about this very issue during a phone call on the morning of the murder.”
“May I approach the bench?” Ruth Champ yelled.
There was a fifteen-minute delay while Keith and Ruth argued in front of the judge. When it was over, Keith had lost.
“The jury will disregard that last question,” instructed Veronsky.
Keith nodded. “Did you quarrel with your sister by phone on the morning of her death?”
“Yes.”
“What was the argument about?”
“Annabelle had some old family photos that were rightfully mine.”
“Did she know that you were stopping by that morning?”
“Yes.”
“To get the pictures?”
“What do you mean?”
Keith sighed. “Let me rephrase the question. Why did you go to your sister’s house on the morning of the murder?”
Sarah Jane shifted uncomfortably in the witness chair. “Because Annabelle asked me to.”
“What did she want that could not wait until a less busy time? After all, you were both heading off to work.”
“Annabelle wanted me to take the pictures right away so we wouldn’t have that argument again.”
“Isn’t it true that there was someone in the apartment with Annabelle when you spoke to her on the phone that morning?”
Sarah Jane hesitated. “Craig wasn’t home. He left the night before and didn’t come back.”
“I’m not talking about your sister’s husband,” Keith said softly. “Who was the man who made Annabelle cry only minutes before she died?”
Champ objected and the judge agreed. Keith let Sarah Jane go. Craig was next. His hair, dress, manner, and posture were confident and fit neatly with his new job as Chief Executive Officer of a major New York publishing house. His testimony was brief, sad, and inconsequential.
Paul had to stay late at the office and didn’t get home till nearly eight. I was already in bed, just lying there trying to figure out whether Keith and I were winning or losing.
He crossed the threshold without saying a word and dumped a manuscript on the floor.
He sat down beside me and rubbed his temples.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“I’m exhausted,” he answered.
