Page 72 of The River We Remember

“That girl’s young enough to be my granddaughter. Breaks my heart to think of what a man like Quinn might have done to her, or tried to do. I could surely understand the temptation to open him up with a load of buckshot.” Graff struck a match, touched the flame to his cigarette, and blew smoke at the ceiling. “Charlie, you and I both know that justice isn’t always about what the law dictates. Hell, maybe it never is.”

CHARLIE RETURNED KYOKO to her home. The old dog came out of the shadows to greet them. Charlie intended to walk the woman inside, but Kyoko turned and offered her hand in parting. “Thank you, Miss Bauer.”

“It’s Charlie, Kyoko.”

“I’m grateful for your help.”

“I could be of a lot more help if you’d let me. All the evidence indicates that Jimmy Quinn was out here on the night he died. I’d like to know why.”

“It’s not my place to speak of this. It’s for my husband to say.”

“He killed Jimmy Quinn for good reason, I think.”

Kyoko’s face showed not a ripple of emotion. “Forgive me,” she said. “There’s much work to be done.” She turned and went inside with Fuji at her heels.

Charlie stood a moment, looking the small homestead over. The pigs were lounging in their pen with no sign of being hungry. The chickens in the hen yard pecked and cackled and seemed unperturbed. To put these things in order and still be ready when Charlie arrived to take her to town for her husband’s arraignment, Kyoko Bluestone had to have risen well before dawn. Charlie was fairly certain that if she returned that evening, she’d find Kyoko still at work in the fields after the sun had set.

Noah Bluestone had married a remarkable woman. And Charlie thought that Connie Graff was right. If Quinn hated the man and was intent on doing him harm, Kyoko offered the best way to pierce Bluestone’s heart and crush his soul. If she could just get some piece of evidence indicating that was exactly what had brought Jimmy Quinn out the night he’d been murdered, Charlie knew she could win over a jury.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHARLIE HAD TO wait a bit before anyone answered her knock on the screen door of the Quinn home. Colleen, the Quinns’ fourteen-year-old daughter, finally appeared, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Charlie had seen her often in town in the company of her family, so even though they’d never been formally introduced, Charlie knew who she was. A dash of white flour lay across the girl’s cheek like a streak of war paint.

“Yes?” she said.

“Hello, Colleen. I’m Charlotte Bauer. I’m an attorney. I’d like to speak with your mother.”

The girl had blossomed young, the cut of her waist and curve of her hips womanly, her breasts already well defined. She wore a long calico apron, and her dark red hair hung limp from the humidity of the day and the heat of the kitchen. All of which made her look older than her fourteen years, almost matronly. “She’s not here right now.”

“Do you know when she might be home?”

“She’s at a doctor’s appointment. It could be a while.”

A face appeared behind her. The Quinns’ other daughter.

“Hello,” Charlie said.

“Hello,” she echoed back.

“You’re Bridget, aren’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“My name is Charlotte. But everybody calls me Charlie.”

“Charlie?” Bridget said. “That’s a boy’s name.”

“It’s my name, too.” Charlie sniffed the air. “Is that cinnamon bread I smell?”

“Yes.” Bridget smiled.

“You’re baking it?”

“Me and Colleen. She’s teaching me.”

“It smells heavenly. You two must be good bakers.”

“I don’t bake so much,” Bridget said. “But I cook a lot.”