The Name’s Daisy - InkSpot.Com

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The Name’s Daisy

"Ms Miller, you have to help me!"

I rubbed my eyes and brushed my short red hair out of my face; the panicked call came in at seven a.m. on a Sunday. The woman on the other end sounded desperate.

"Call me Daisy. What's your problem?"

"I've been arrested for murdering my husband! I didn't do it, I swear I didn't!"

I took a deep breath and sat on my bed, still sore from jujitsu practice the day before. As a criminal defense attorney in rural Tennessee, I had handled several murder cases over the years. Some of my clients were innocent, some were not. My job was to be on their side no matter what. It’s a sordid business, but somebody's gotta do it.

"Where are you? I'll be right over."

"The Cantrell estate. I'm Eliza, Bobby Cantrell's wife - he was stabbed to death!"

"I'll take your case. Don't say anything to anyone until I advise you."

"You'll really help me?"

"Yes. I won't handle DUIs and domestic violence—meaning I'm not defending a drunken wife-beater. That's not your situation, so trust me, you're in good hands."

I got dressed, grabbed some energy bars for the trip and headed out. Though the roads were deserted on a Sunday morning, reaching that estate took fifteen minutes. I didn't need to brandish my ID; I'm on first-name terms with all the county law enforcement officers.

"Hope you didn't miss breakfast for this, Daisy. It's a cut-and-dried affair." Detective Lenny Stewart greeted me brusquely. "We caught her with the knife in her hand."

My hardly-full-enough stomach cringed when I saw him. We had been on opposite sides of significant cases more than once. His reputation as a clever guy is overrated. I brushed him aside and turned to my client, sitting on an elegant French sofa.

"I pulled the knife out when I saw—anyone would!" She was still in a frantic state, frazzled blonde hair flying loose about her bony face. I sat beside her and tried to comfort her, noting her clean white nightgown and pale thin arms. I also noticed a shattered lamp and an overturned table.

"She has a record. Petty theft," Stewart informed me with a smug look.

"That doesn't prove anything," I glared at him. Not even two minutes in, I already couldn't stand his attitude. As if he had the woman tried and convicted. I became aware of the man and elderly woman in the room.

"Victim's brother, Bill Cantrell. Their mother, Louise."

Bill loomed over Eliza with arms folded grimly. Louise eyed her with a look of disgust that could stop a clock. Eliza was outnumbered, overwhelmed, surrounded, like a wren among vultures.

"We need some privacy, please."

He ushered the two of us down a long thickly carpeted hall lined with expensive oil paintings to an elaborately furnished spare room, and I shut the door in his face, relieved to get away from him and everyone else.

"Now, tell me everything, hon." I settled down with a pen, paper and phone before opening my briefcase.

"The whole town talked about our marriage a few months ago," she began with a heavy sigh. "I'm ten years younger than Bobby is, and I'll be the first to admit I've had a troubled past. But that's over now. We love each other…" She paused as it sank in how much else was over now. "I didn't marry him for his money. His mother and brother live here with us. They hate me. Bobby was such a dear good soul. I don't know who would do this to him. A terrible crashing and banging woke me up this morning—I ran down and found Bobby in the living room with a knife in his chest. I pulled it out, and his brother came running in and—"

She was getting choked up. I took notes and considered the matter.

"You have security cameras, indoors or out?"

She shook her head.

"The security system broke when the power went out in the storm two days ago. The service man still hasn't shown up."

That figured. I wondered if someone had tampered with it.

After a long session of earnest conversation, paperwork and advice on what would happen next, we stood up.

"I'll be looking into this." I packed my briefcase. "Don't lose hope. I believe you're innocent, Eliza." We shook hands, and I took hers in both of mine and patted it reassuringly.

"I'm eternally grateful." Her eyes shone with tears.

I slipped out quickly past the guarding officer and returned to the living room before I started crying too. The body had already been removed. I wondered if the medical examiner had even shown up. They still had the chalk outline on the carpet.

Detective Stewart was sitting on the French sofa writing up his report. He looked up as I entered.

"It's no use you poking around, Daisy—I'm sure you won't find anything I missed. And as the defense lawyer, you're really not entitled to look for clues," he added with a slight frown.

"You seriously think that poor woman in there stabbed her husband to death?"

"Who else? His banker brother wouldn't do such a thing. I'm sure his 78-year-old mother doesn't have a motive either."

I was getting irritated.

"Unless you were drunk when you chalked the outline, the man was over six feet tall. If he had to struggle with Eliza, she'd be on the floor."

"She must have sneaked up on him."

I groaned.

"Come on, how do you sneak up on someone and stab them in the chest? And that's a damn cold-blooded thing to do. Eliza would never pull that off."

"Look, Daisy, she's just another white trash bimbo. I've seen the likes of them before and so have you. We know how these things happen."

"Shut the hell up! How dare you call my client that?! Some detective you are! Have you even interviewed the mother and brother?"

Stewart wrinkled his nose.

"I don't think you need to be so touchy about it." He waggled his pen at me.

"You're being a misogynist pig, picking on her because she's a helpless woman with an arrest record. An easy target."

"Nothing of the sort."

"I've dealt with this nonsense before. Two of my clients were wrongfully convicted. One was on death row because that so-called lawyer Jim Chandler bungled the case, and we all remember how Paul Anderson was framed by the policeman who pulled him over because he was Black! You can't tell me—"

"Are you accusing me of tampering with the evidence?" Stewart's eyes narrowed with a steely glint. "I recommend you vacate the premises immediately. Eliza will be booked at the sheriff's office. You can discuss things with her at the county jail." He turned towards an officer. "Escort her out, please. She's giving me a headache."

Ugh. So much for being on speaking terms with the local law enforcement. I sped off in my yellow Jeep, determined to prove Eliza innocent and find the real murderer. I knew the four primary murder motives: sex, drugs, money and power. None of them fit my client that I could tell. And if it was anything like self-defense, she would let us know rather than denying it. There had been a struggle, that was obvious by the mess in the room, but she was no more disheveled or injured than I was when her phone call woke me up.

It would help if I could search the place for clues, but I was now a persona non grata. I drove to visit my best friend, Chris Sterling, a freelance investigative journalist. He was the only Black independent reporter, and I was the only lady lawyer in our rural area, so we shared a longtime bond.

"We must get as much information as possible on this," I told him over breakfast. "If Eliza didn't do it, someone else did, and they must be found."

"Agreed," Chris poured himself a large cup of coffee. "How do you propose gathering such information, seeing you were forcibly removed from the scene?"

I rolled my eyes.

"Being a well-respected reporter, you'll have access to the investigation, including the interview with Bobby's brother. I think he's the prime suspect. All we need is a motive."

"Bill's decent enough. He's a vice president at the community bank. Don't know what kind of motive he could have."

"Probably tons more motive than the man's own wife." I reached for a cinnamon roll and phone and started Googling Bill Cantrell and eating simultaneously. My hectic schedule had made me an expert in not getting food on my screen over the years. I found his Facebook page and scrolled past the usual inane shots of hangouts at local eateries, birthday parties and other idle wastes of time.

"Look! He's a gambler!" I waved the phone triumphantly. "He visited a casino in Florida a couple months ago."

"Some people don't gamble at casinos," Chris observed. "Maybe he was there for the ambiance. Or the drinks."

I felt an unreasonably sharp retort coming, and tried to curb my hangry-ness with another bite of food. "Bill won money there. And he said he'll be back to hit the jackpot!" I slid the phone in his direction. He leaned over it and dripped coffee on the screen. "Oh please, Chris, that screen cost me a small fortune to get replaced."

"Just because a man gambles doesn't mean he murdered his brother," He wiped my phone off with a napkin and studied the post.

"Yes, but it indicates something."

"It indicates he knows how to have a good time," Chris shrugged. "Wish I'd won that money. I could surely use it."

"So could I, but that's beside the point."

"Don't you think if Bill Cantrell stabbed his own brother, the police would figure it out on their own?"

"No, I don't. Lenny Stewart would rather brag at the donut shop about a fast catch than expend the effort to pursue real justice."

"Well, he doesn't have much to go on to convict Eliza, for sure."

"That never stopped him before. I know what I'm talking about. He's a real dumbass."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that…"

"It's true. Stewart’s not being the least bit objective about this case. How can we prove that someone else did it? There must be a way."

We finished breakfast silently, trying to figure out how to conduct our investigation.

*****

The following day it was plastered across the Southern Banner: Wife Allegedly Stabs Husband to Death At Home. The district judge had denied Eliza’s bond. I was furious.

Reading the article, however, I spotted something I'd been unaware of: five months before, Bob Cantrell had gotten a job as a teller at a different branch of his brother's bank. Aha.

I called Chris while we were both still eating breakfast.

"Listen, we need to go search Bob's belongings."

"What??" His coffee cup clunked down on the table. "Daisy, we can't do that. Wouldn't the police have already searched the house?"

"Not if Lenny is handling it. We need to find a journal or something to know what he knew. I'll bet you he found out his brother was embezzling from the bank and he would tell on him."

"And what's the chance an old guy would keep a handwritten paper diary like a little girl? Come on, Daisy, that's ridiculous."

"No it isn't. Thomas Jefferson, Ben Franklin and Henry David Thoreau kept journals!"

"And what if it has a padlock?"

"Chris, I have a job to do. As we speak, Eliza is rotting in jail for a crime she didn't commit."

"Most criminal defense lawyers don't do their job by ransacking the victim's home."

"The police are bungling it, I'm telling you. This is serious—if Bill knows Bob kept records, he'll destroy them. It may already be too late."

"You're building a whole fantastical case inside your head. How do you know anything of the sort? Just because Bill and Bob worked at the same bank… it wasn't even the same branch."

"But Bob would have access to all the bank information. He could see if anything suspicious was going on."

"Why don't you tell Detective Stewart to search? What if Bob kept his journal on his phone or computer? We can't sneak into his house and access his devices."

"We have to do whatever we can do. Lenny won't listen to anything I say. He's mad at me for telling him off. He called Eliza a bimbo."

"Not the most respectful of names, I'll admit, but heavens, Daisy, the man has a brain. He'll listen to reason."

"No he won't. Next thing you know he'll be calling me nice names like that too."

"This feels increasingly childish."

"It ain't my fault. You try asking Lenny if you can search the place. He'll have you out on your ear."

"Why not ask him if he can search?"

"The more you ask, the less he'll do it. I'm telling you, he's pigheaded."

"Ok, ok. Next thing I know you'll be calling me pigheaded. Seems like there's too much name-calling going on around these parts."

"I reserve the names for those who deserve them. You're not in that category."

"Thanks. I guess I'll have to help you out. I'm not letting you get arrested for messing around at a crime scene alone."

"Yeah, it'll be more fun if we're both arrested. I'll visit Eliza and ask if she knows if Bob kept a journal. That way we won't be wasting our time."

"And then?"

"I'll let you know and we can go on from there."

"These shenanigans better win me a Pulitzer award."

*****

We pulled into the Cantrell estate driveway early that afternoon in Chris's black sedan with the word MEDIA displayed prominently on it.

"You sure you want to do this?" His brow furrowed. "What if Bill finds you in there? You could be in danger."

"Pooey, I'm not afraid of him. I'm a jiujitsu ninja, remember?"

"Hard to forget that. I was there when you won your black belt. Now remind me again what Eliza told you."

"She gave Bob a little brown leather notebook for his birthday last year. He wrote in it most evenings before going to sleep."

"But she doesn't know where it is?"

"She said she doesn't keep track of his private papers, which is reasonable."

There was one policeman at the front door. I recognized Joe Green and knew he would be easy to get past. If Lenny was a dumbass, Joe was simply…dumb. Hence his assignment to door-guarding duty. He most likely hadn't been told to keep me out, but I couldn't be sure.

"I have an appointment for an interview with the Cantrells." Chris would distract the mother and brother by writing an article/biography/eulogy, allowing me to poke around as much as possible upstairs.

"Certainly, sir. And Ms Miller?"

"We're besties. We do everything together," I flashed the officer a bright, airheaded smile, put my arm around Chris and gave him an affectionate little hug. "Oh, and I brought you a couple donuts, Joe."

"Aww, thanks, Daisy. Awful dull here, y'know."

I felt pretty sure he wouldn't wonder why the suspect's attorney was going to sit down and help interview the victim's family for a news release. But now I had to avoid them noticing me. This could get weird fast.

I immediately scooted off to the bathroom, hoping the Cantrells wouldn't know I was present. Chris texted me the go-ahead when he was all set up with them in a quiet back room, and I silently ascended the stairs to the bedrooms, clutching my phone and feeling like some kind of bandit.

First I glanced through Bill's bedroom, looking for anything indicating bad habits. Did I find them? Tripped over them, to be exact. Those tiny liquor bottles from gas stations were rolling out from under his bed and spilling from the closet. I opened a drawer with a pile of receipts from Hard Rock and other casinos—and a gun. My phone camera was busy; I tried to touch as little as possible. Obviously Bill had a drinking and gambling problem, but must have kept secrets well.

After gathering sufficient evidence of Bill's issues, I hurried down the hall to Bob and Eliza's room, remembering what she had told me about the floor plan. The bed was still untidy from the day before; neither was there anymore to make it. I could feel the vibe of her shock and pain as if she were standing next to me. A photo of the two looking sweet and happy sat heartbreakingly on the dresser.

I picked up a pad of sticky notes and fanned quickly through it. Nothing there but jots of phone numbers and such. I bent down and peeked under the bed; no little liquor bottles to trip over in this room. Then I opened the dresser drawers one by one and found nothing but Bob's clean clothes, neatly folded. Where would he stash his gifted leather journal? In the master bathroom magazine rack? Hidden on a bookshelf? Ugh, this could take a longer time than I had thought. Maybe he even had a locked office room where he kept the important stuff. Maybe Chris was right and this was a harebrained idea.

Now I was getting nervous. I listened for any warning sounds downstairs. It would have been too awkward to text Chris and expect him to respond in the middle of an interview. Then a thought occurred to me. I dove into the clothes drawers again and delicately checked underneath each folded item. Sure enough, there it was: a dark brown leather-bound book with the year stamped and a loop to hold a pen. I held my breath and took a picture of it sitting between his polo shirts, then picked it up in both hands as though it were alive. Goodness, would I even be able to read his handwriting? What was I doing? What if things were written there that nobody should see?

I sat on the edge of the bed and started turning the lined pages, checking for dates in the upper corners and trying not to read anything too closely, scanning paragraphs for words like "job," "bank," "brother," "money," "gambling" and all that. He had firm, square handwriting that was large and easy enough to read: a sign of a sound mind. I found the dates around when he was hired at the bank, and saw his pride and excitement about getting a new job after retirement. A couple months in, I spotted a slight change in handwriting: he had noted the first signs of suspicious activity in the bank records. Then, on a Friday two weeks before, he had written this, still solid and firm but with a tremor in the words:

"I fear my brother Bill is responsible for my observed discrepancies. This is not something that anyone working in a lower-level position like mine could pull off."

I snapped a photo as my hair stood on end, then resumed my progress through his journal. I could tell whenever he wrote about it again, because his handwriting betrayed his concern over what he saw. Then, finally, the smoking gun: the night before he was murdered, he had written in a shaky hand,

"This has gone on too long. I need to talk to Bill about what he's doing. I cannot burden Eliza or Mother with the knowledge. And I will not go to the authorities without first pleading with him to make it right."

That was the last thing he ever wrote; it trailed off weakly in the middle of a sentence as though he were too tired and anxious to continue, and the empty page next to it stared at me as though saying "Well? What are you going to do about this?"

As I checked my phone to see if all the pictures were taken correctly, I heard heavy footsteps striding up the stairs. Yikes. Well, surely Bill wouldn't venture into Bob's bedroom. Unless—?

I froze, barely breathing, heart racing, clutching Bob's journal and my phone. I opened up the audio recorder app and set it going. If he would barge in here I hoped he would at least say something incriminating.

The footsteps went into one of the rooms, and I thought I heard a drawer opening and closing. A picture formed in my head of Bill going to fetch his gun, and it wasn't pretty. I heard the steps coming closer, down the hall towards the bedroom door. I hadn't thought to lock it behind me…

I stood as the door opened and Bill Cantrell came in holding his gun. Although he was a few years younger than Bob, I could see the alcohol had aged him. He frowned.

"I thought so. The cop mentioned you showed up with that reporter."

"Eliza sent me here to get some clothes for her." I had the excuse all prepared. She had told me to go ahead and try to find whatever I needed to.

He snickered.

"She won't be needing her clothes in jail. Why didn't you let us know, instead of sneaking into our private quarters?"

"You don't need to hold a gun on me. I'm not a robber."

"Yeah right. Drop the book. And the phone." I snapped a picture of him before dropping them onto the carpet and raising my hands. He shut the door behind him and approached me. "You're trespassing. I have a perfect right to shoot you."

"That would be a really dumb thing to do, especially considering you already murdered your own brother." I had to buy time. I figured Chris would probably follow him up any minute to see what was happening. Hopefully he'd bring Officer Joe along. Unless the mother was distracting them with cookies or something.

"You can't prove it," he sneered. "Can you tell me why I'd do something like that?"

"I can tell you, but you already know why you did it."

He moved closer across the bedroom until he stood before me, blocking the way out.

"What are you basing that on? You don't know anything. You're just Eliza's stupid lawyer."

"You're the stupid one. Let me go. You can't shoot someone point-blank in cold blood. I'm unarmed and non-aggressive."

"You're digging through our things. And what are you doing with that notebook anyway? That doesn't look like Eliza's. If that's Bob's, I'll keep it for him."

"Bob wrote about you, Bill."

"Oh yeah? What'd he say about me?"

"Maybe you should read it for yourself."

"Ok, pick it up and hand it over."

I did nothing of the sort. He waited a moment, then bent down and reached for the little brown leather notebook himself. In one swift move, I launched into action and flipped him onto the bed flat on his back. The gun fell from his hand, hitting my phone on the floor with a loud crack.

"Hey, you broke my screen, you murdering embezzling idiot."

The sound of several sets of footsteps came pounding up the stairs. Chris burst into the bedroom. Officer Joe was close behind him. The sight that met their eyes must have been rather amusing: Bill lying on the bed looking dazed, me gathering up my shattered phone, the journal and the gun as nonchalantly as possible.

"Daisy, are you ok? I didn't realize he was headed up here!"

"Don't worry hon, I'm fine." I brushed my hair out of my eyes and held up the book. "We were right: Bob had evidence of Bill's misconduct at the bank. When he confronted him early that morning and threatened to tell, Bill figured he'd have to kill him. And Eliza conveniently walked right in and grabbed the knife. And that's all there is to it."

"You were right. I thought the whole thing was a fool's errand myself."

"Could someone please tell me what's going on?" Officer Joe demanded.

I heard yet another set of feet stomping up the stairs, and a familiar figure appeared in the doorway.

"What's all this? Daisy Miller, what are you doing here?" It was none other than Detective Stewart, glaring at me suspiciously, arms folded.

Chris and I looked at each other for a moment. He seemed like he didn't know whether to laugh or frown.

"Bill's your guy, Lenny," I informed the detective. "Next time, try not to be such a dumb—" Chris tapped me gently on the arm.

"I suggest being polite to him. We have a lot of explaining ahead of us."

Word count: 4115.

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