A Specter of Justice

A Specter of Justice by Mark de Castrique Page B

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Authors: Mark de Castrique
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last stop?”
    â€œThe last walking stop. From there, shuttle buses transported people to three locations. Three buses left at the start, each going to a different spot. Then all the other shuttles went first to the Samuel Reed House, followed by the Grove Park, and finally Helen’s Bridge before returning to Pack Square.”
    â€œThe Reed House. That’s now the Biltmore Village Inn, right?”
    â€œThe owners gave a tour of their B and B while dressed in Victorian formal wear. They served hot cider and crumpets.”
    â€œSo, no actors,” Newly said.
    â€œNo. We had a loop of Gay Nineties music with the occasional footsteps and sounds of a pool table.”
    Samuel Reed had been George Vanderbilt’s attorney and he built his Victorian home in 1892 on a mountain overlooking Biltmore Village on the south side of Asheville. No murders occurred in the home, but of Reed’s nine children, only four made it to adulthood. Residents of the house have heard footsteps on the back stairs and the crack of balls and children’s voices in what had once been the billiard room.
    For the first time, Newly flipped back through his note pad, searching for something he’d written earlier. He stopped and tapped his ballpoint on the center of a page. “Hewitt Donaldson was on the south side last night. Was he at the Reed House?”
    â€œYou’ll have to ask him,” Nakayla said. “He was mobile as a troubleshooter. With all the vans going back and forth, we wanted a quick response in case someone was left behind or a vehicle had mechanical trouble.”
    Newly pressed the point. “So, he could have been in the Reed House?”
    â€œWhat are you driving at?” I asked.
    He closed the note pad. “Nothing particular. Just getting a sense for where everyone was. Sounds like you planned for everything.”
    â€œWe didn’t plan for a double homicide.”
    â€œNo.” Newly stood. “But somebody did.”
    Nakayla and I took his cue and rose from the porch swing. I figured our conversation had ended.
    â€œAnd you didn’t see anything in the shed or yard that could have left those dirt tracks through the house?” Newly asked.
    â€œNo,” I said. “But I have my suspicions.”
    â€œCare to share?”
    â€œAfter you answer a question for me.”
    He crossed his arms against his chest. He didn’t like negotiating over information. “What’s that?”
    â€œWhy are you so interested in Hewitt?”
    â€œI’m not. At this point, I’m interested in everyone.” Newly was a good detective, but a terrible liar. “So, what’s your suspicion?”
    â€œLook for a wheelchair.”
    We left Newland waiting for forensics, but not before he admonished us not to mention anything about the scene or our conversation. What did he think we were going to do? Call the newspaper?
    Nakayla dropped me at the office and headed to her home in West Asheville for a shower and change of clothes. She would check in later and we’d grab lunch somewhere in town.
    I exited the elevator and passed by our door, heading straight for Hewitt’s office down the hall. His whispered message had carried an urgency that he wanted to see me without delay.
    I found him at Shirley’s desk where he must have been waiting for me.
    â€œLet’s go to the conference room,” he said.
    â€œWhere’s Shirley?”
    â€œI told her to make her calls from home. She knows those apparition people better than I do.”
    Hewitt’s conference room was unlike any other lawyer’s I’ve known. Instead of a long table, a circular one filled the middle of the floor. Even though he had a massive ego, Hewitt displayed his tenet that all are created equal in the eyes of the law. There was no head of the table.
    The walls were empty of the obligatory shelves of leather-bound books or professional degrees and awards

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