“But if Bull’s innocent, why doesn’t he just tell the truth?” Susan demanded.
Jasper rose. “No more questions. Anything else you want to know, you can ask his lawyer. Old Purvis knows more than I do, and he can explain it better.” He turned toward the kitchen, then paused. “The phone number you want is on a piece of paper in the office. You can bunk in Rose’s old room. It’s the one that’s empty. Clean sheets for the bed are in the closet. I’ll be out by the pasture if you need anything.”
He was
gone without waiting for her to thank him.
Susan took a few minutes to put her suitcase on the bed and freshen up in the bathroom. She couldn’t blame Jasper for being distant. She’d started out as Ferg’s fiancée, then stirred up trouble when she fell in love with Bull.
If she’d left well enough alone, would Bull be in jail now? But even if she could answer that question, it was too late to change anything. Now was now. The man she loved was in trouble, and she would do anything in her power to save him.
In the office she found the phone number and called Ned Purvis. The lawyer answered the phone himself. His voice was that of an old man with a note of warmth that put her at ease.
“Bull didn’t tell me he had a fiancée,” he said after she’d introduced herself.
“We’re keeping that under wraps for now,” Susan said. “But it’s urgent that I talk with you. I need to understand what’s happened and maybe give you some insight into the Prescott family. Most of all, I’m hoping you can get me into the jail to see Bull.”
There was a pause. “No promises, but I’ll see what I can do. I’ve got some free time this afternoon. How soon can you get here?”
“I can leave now,” she said.
He gave her directions to his home, which was on a country road east of Blanco Springs. Fatigue forgotten, she raced out to her car. Thirty minutes later she pulled up in front of a charming, old Victorian house with roses in the front yard and gingerbread trim along the roof that shaded the broad front porch. A small, neat-looking man in shirtsleeves rose from a wicker chair.
“Miss Rutledge.” He nodded, as if tipping an imaginary hat. “Please have a seat. It’s cooler out here than inside.”
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Purvis. You have a lovely home.” Susan sat in the white wicker chair he’d indicated. A pitcher of iced lemonade and two glasses sat on a matching wicker coffee table.
“Thanks. Since my wife passed away two years ago I don’t have much to do except take care of the place—unless a case like this one happens along. Here.” He poured a glass of lemonade and handed it to her, then picked up a yellow pad and a pen from the table. “Now, let’s talk.”
Susan told him as much as she knew. “What I don’t understand is why Bull doesn’t just tell the truth,” she said.
Purvis nodded. “All I can tell you, because of lawyer–client privilege, is that we discussed that option and it wasn’t the best one—mostly because the jury wasn’t likely to believe him. I did check out Ferg Prescott’s claim that Bull called Ham at the house that night. Bull was telling the truth. There was no phone call. Of course, Ferg could wiggle out of that one by claiming he’d heard something else and jumped to the wrong conclusion.”
“He could also be lying about what Uncle Ham told him.”
“Or Ham could’ve been lying. See what a complicated mess this is?”
“My father and Ham were stepbrothers,” Susan said. “I was even engaged to Ferg for a while. I broke it off because he was cheating on me, but he always blamed Bull for coming between us. Ferg would say or do anything to destroy Bull and get his hands on the Rimrock. You can’t believe a word he says.”
“Maybe not, but a jury might. That’s the problem. Sympathy will be on the side of a man who’s lost his father.”
“Ferg despised his father—and the feeling was mutual.”
“I understand.” Purvis jotted down some notes. “We’ll be going before the grand jury next week. As things stand, our best chance of an acquittal—one that would clear Rose as well, by implication—would be to put all this aside and plead not guilty by reason of self-defense. Ham was on Tyler property, and Bull insists that he had a pistol in his hand when he was shot. I believe Bull. But there’s just one problem—no sign of the gun.”
Susan felt a chill. “Could Ferg have picked it up?”
“Maybe. Bull says he never saw Ferg take the gun. But the deputies searched the yard. So did Jasper Platt. Nothing. Find that gun, with Ham’s prints or his blood on it, and Bull stands a chance of going free. Otherwise . . .” Purvis shook his head. “Otherwise it’s a crapshoot, and the dice are loaded in Ferg’s favor.”
“I’ll do anything I can to help,” Susan said. “The funeral’s the day after tomorrow. I’ll be going with my parents. I might get a chance to talk with Ferg. Maybe he’ll let something slip. But right now I need to see Bull—and to let him see me.”
“I already called the jail,” Purvis said. “You can go in with me tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock. We can meet in the parking lot. All right?”
“Yes!” Susan blinked back tears. “Thank you so much! I’ll be fighting this with every ounce of strength in my body.”
“So will I. And this fight’s a long way from over.” Purvis smiled as he rose to see her off. But Susan noticed that the smile failed to reach his eyes.
* * *