I thought you kept track of his schedule.”
“I do—did. Judge Wainright was a stickler for proper procedure. He insisted I record every appointment.”
Luke frowned. “Yet he didn’t mention a meeting with Ms. Bowers.”
Annoyance painted twin creases between Chelsea’s penciled brows. “If Ms. Bowers did, indeed, have an appointment…” She shot Cassie a skeptical look that indicated she wasn’t entirely convinced of the veracity of Cassie’s claim. “Judge Wainright was undoubtedly being considerate. He knew I was expecting my mother for dinner.”
Cassie refused to take offense at the insinuation she might be lying. Chelsea was obviously miffed she hadn’t been informed of all her boss’s activities. To tell the truth, Judge Wainright’s secretiveness puzzled Cassie as much as it did the clerk. Not for a moment did she consider it an oversight. The man was too conscientious to be forgetful.
No, he’d had some reason for not advertising the meeting. But what could it be?
Resisting the morbid lure of the closed door, Cassie glanced around the sunlit anteroom while Luke continued to question Chelsea. The room seemed no different from when she’d first interviewed Wainright. File cabinets still lined one wall, and the clerk’s oak desk sat in exactly the same spot, centered on a carpet of bright crimson, guarding the entrance to the judge’s chambers. Nothing to indicate a violent crime had occurred a few feet away.
“That’s where they found the judge.”
Chelsea’s voice cut through Cassie’s thoughts, making her aware the conversation had stopped. And to make matters worse, she’d been caught staring once more at the very door she’d tried to avoid.
“But then you already know that’s where it happened, don’t you?” Chelsea said, her tone hushed with morbid curiosity.
A lump lodged in Cassie’s throat, making speech impossible. Suddenly fearful the clerk would offer to open the door, she wet her dry lips and resisted an urge to wipe her palms against her cotton skirt. She didn’t want to see the room. Even if it proved to be the only way to remember what had happened, she couldn’t look.
Her overactive imagination, abetted by a year on the police beat, supplied a much-too-vivid picture of what probably lay beyond the closed door. Gaping holes in the carpet where investigators had cut out bloodstains. Empty chalk outlines identifying the original location of possible evidence. A coating of powder on every stick of furniture that might yield fingerprints.
She shuddered. So little to mark the passage of a man’s life.
“Ms. Bowers doesn’t remember.”
The sound of Luke’s voice wrenched Cassie from her grisly thoughts. Startled, she threw a glance over her shoulder. When had he crossed the room to stand vigil behind her chair?
“Not yet.” Luke patted Cassie’s shoulder.
Chelsea’s bright lips formed into a perfect O.
Cassie felt her cheeks flame at Luke’s theatrical gesture. She realized he hoped to keep the killer guessing, but did he have to act so proprietary? If it weren’t for the clerk’s sharp eyes taking in every move, Cassie would have shrugged off his hand.
“How dreadful,” Chelsea commiserated, widening her eyes in elaborate sympathy.
“A temporary condition, I’m sure,” Cassie replied evenly.
“Since I’m through for now, why don’t you go ahead with your questions, Cassandra?” His thumb grazed the nape of her neck as he withdrew his hand.
Heat zinged along her spine.
Startled, she stiffened, fighting the surge of awareness spreading through her body. His touch had lingered just a fraction too long to be accidental, but whatever message he’d intended was lost in her efforts to ignore her tingling nerves.
She wedged herself into the corner of the chair, as far from his wandering hand as possible, but he didn’t take the hint. Instead, he rested his hands on the top of the chair, hovering over her like a tenacious palace guard.
Still much too close. But since she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much his presence flustered her, she turned her attention to Chelsea. “I’m sure you were aware Judge Wainright was assisting me with some articles I’m writing for the Denver Tattler.”
“Of course.” She sniffed. “After your interview he ordered transcripts from a long list of trials. He said he wanted to check his facts. It took me two trips to carry them all.”
Since Cassie had hauled her share of records while doing research, she could empathize with the clerk’s vexed air, but Chelsea’s remark raised an interesting possibility. Maybe Judge Wainright had found something Cassie had missed. “I don’t suppose you still have those transcripts?”
“Certainly.” Chelsea motioned toward the steel filing cabinets. “I never throw anything away without express orders.”
Too easy, Cassie thought. “Could I take a look at them?”
Uncertainty flickered across the clerk’s face. “I don’t know. I should probably get approval.” She picked up a pen. “Do you want me to try Judge Kimball?”
“I’d appreciate it. The transcripts might give me a clue to why Judge Wainright called.”
And whether his death had anything to do with me.
While Chelsea wrote herself a note, Cassie fingered the nubby fabric of the armrest and framed her next question with care. “You’re quite certain he didn’t mention anything? Some vague reference to a case, something that puzzled him?”
Chelsea shook her head.
Disappointed, Cassie changed tack, aware that approaching the problem from a different perspective sometimes jarred loose a subject’s memory. “You seem to have been quite close to the judge.”
“I worked with him for two years,” Chelsea informed her stiffly. “He often said I was indispensable.” She raised one brow and lowered her voice as though imparting a secret. “You should have seen the state this office was in when I got here.”
Cassie widened her eyes.
It was all the encouragement Chelsea needed to unbend. “Chaos. Complete chaos. Important papers mixed with department memos, files strewn everywhere. You couldn’t find a pen if your life depended on it.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste.
“Sounds like a real challenge.”
“How did you manage?” Luke asked, evidently forgetting it was Cassie’s turn to ask the questions.
Chelsea blinked. “Well,” she said, studying the appointment book in front of her, “I’m nothing if not organized.” She trailed one finger lightly over the book’s embossed surface, a look of genuine regret flickering across her face.
Regret for the job…or for the man? Cassie wondered.
With an impatient movement, Luke straightened and moved toward the file cabinets. His thoughts must have run in a similar vein to hers, for while Cassie fished for a way to tactfully get at the truth, he again butted in. “What can you tell us about his personal affairs?”
“Personal affairs?” Chelsea’s gaze was startled.
“Yes. Friends, people he socialized with, anyone he might have had disagreements with—things like that.”
“I only handled official engagements. Receptions, public appearances. You’ll have to ask his wife about his personal life.”
Cassie would have loved to explore the reason for the bitter twist of Chelsea’s lips as she pronounced the word wife, but the gleam of interest in Luke’s eye warned her she had to act fast if she didn’t want to lose control of the interview completely. Filing the clerk’s reaction away for later consideration, she