Chapter 4

Cynthia smiled at the three men who sat facing her in Clint's office and stood up, zipping her briefcase on the revised contracts that were now ready for Hank's signature.

"Thank you, gentlemen," she said demurely. "I'm sure when you've had the time to think it over, you'll realize that we've made a good bargain. I'm glad you could see it my client's way."

Bill Hargreave, chairman of the fair committee, grinned at her, his freshly shaven round moon of a face lit by twinkling blue eyes.

"Your father would be proud of you this morning, Cynthia, same as he always was," he told her. "You put up a fine argument. I just hope you'll be able to do as well at the Conyers trial. That boy really needs help."

"He'll get it, Mr. Hargreave, the very best I can provide," Cynthia answered, shook hands with the three men and turned toward the door, slender, crisply cool-looking in her pale green gingham cress.

Cynthia grinned impishly and went back to her own office across the street from the courthouse. As she came into her office, Maggie looked up from the brief she was typing.

"Hank telephoned to say that he wouldn't be able to make it for lunch," Maggie told her briskly, and chuckled at the expression on Cynthia's face. "Don't look so woebegone. He'll be out of town a day or two, but will see you as soon as he gets back."

"I'm going out to the Henslee place, Maggie, to see what I can pick up."

Maggie glanced up at her. "A load of buckshot, probably, if you aren't careful," she suggested dryly.

Cynthia managed a rueful laugh.

The Henslee place was out not far from the Kaolin works, where most of the Henslee men worked.

There was a rickety fence behind which a large and vicious-looking dog was chained.

A woman appeared in the doorway and then vanished, and a moment later, another woman came to stand for a moment on the verandah, shading her eyes against the sun with a gnarled, work-worn hand as she called out sternly, "What do you want?" Cynthia got out of the car, so she could easily be recognized, but stayed prudently on her own side of the fence.

"I'd like to talk to you, Mrs. Henslee, if I may," Cynthia called.

The woman spoke sharply to the dog, who dropped to his forepaws and let his barking descend to a low, menacing growl.

After a moment the woman came down the walk: a tall, rawboned woman in a dark calico-print dress, her face brown and stern beneath the thinning gray hair brushed sharply away from her face and done into an uncompromising bun on top of her head. Her dark eyes were hostile and her thin-lipped mouth was a bitter line.

"Won't do you no good to talk to me, or any of my folks, Miss Cynthia," said Mrs. Henslee, her voice a harsh rasp of sound. "I know what you're here for. You're trying to get that murderin' Bud Conyers out of jail."

"Mrs. Henslee, I'm trying to find out who really killed your son."

"You got the man that done it, Miss Cynthia. He's as guilty as sin."

"I don't believe he is, Mrs. Henslee."

"You being paid to defend him, natural you wouldn't. Other folks know couldn't have been nobody else. I aim to see Bud Conyers hung for what he done to my boy."

Before Cynthia could speak, the woman's harsh voice went on swiftly, "Oh, I know what folks thought of my boy. Mose wasn't never quite right in the head; likely he done a sight of things he oughtn't to've done. But he never done nothing that made it right for Bud Conyers to shoot him down like a mad dog! And for that he's got to pay!"

"But, Mrs. Henslee-" Cynthia began, appalled by the dark fury in the woman's face and voice.

"No buts about it, Miss Cynthia. Bud's guilty, and I aim to see it proved and him hung," snapped Mrs. Henslee, and turned and went stalking back to the house. And this time, when the dog lunged the length of his chain and bellowed his fury at the intruder, Mrs. Henslee did not so much as glance at him or speak to him.

Cynthia got back into her car and turned to drive back to town.