Geraldine is still on her feet, facing the judge. “Your Honor, Mrs. Rawlings stands charged with first-degree murder, based on extreme atrocity or cruelty, in the bludgeoning death of her husband, Herbert Andrew Rawlings.”

For a moment the room falls quiet, the only sound a sharp intake of breath from the chair next to mine.

“As you can see from Dr. Ramsey’s report, the cause of death is drowning, secondary to head trauma.”

Dr. Ramsey took over as Barnstable County’s Medical Examiner little more than a year ago. He’s already proved, more than once, that he’s damned good at his new job. Geraldine isn’t taking any chances with the Rawlings case. She went straight to the top gun.

“The victim’s injuries are consistent with a single blow from behind with a blunt object,” she continues. “Dr. Ramsey concludes that the blow rendered Mr. Rawlings unconscious, after which he was bound with rope at the wrists and ankles, and then dumped into the ocean, still breathing.”

Geraldine pauses and turns to fire a theatrical glare at Louisa, but the attempt at drama is wasted. Louisa doesn’t notice. She’s rigid in her chair, her eyes closed, her left fist pressed against her mouth. Two tears seep out from beneath her long lashes and meander down her right cheek.

“When the Chatham police questioned the defendant as to her whereabouts when her husband disappeared…”

Geraldine pauses again and stares at our table until Louisa opens her eyes.

“…she lied.”

Louisa turns to me and shakes her head, but her eyes are worried.

“The defendant stands to inherit a substantial estate as a result of her husband’s death,” Geraldine continues. “Two million in life insurance proceeds if we’d all been duped into thinking his death was an accident, but that’s just the beginning. Mr. Rawlings’s net worth exceeded six million exclusive of insurance. And his will names the defendant as the sole beneficiary.”

Judge Long takes a minute to scan Geraldine’s paperwork and Louisa leans toward me during the lull. “That’s wrong,” she whispers, shaking her head. “I didn’t lie to anybody. And the life insurance part is wrong too. There’s only a million.”

“Okay,” I tell her.

So Louisa Rawlings is unaware of the double indemnity clause. My gut tells me to leave her in the dark on that issue—at least for a while.

“Ms. Nickerson,” the judge says without looking up from his papers, “how does your client plead?”

I stand to address the court but another voice fills the room first. “Not at all guilty, Your Honor,” Louisa says from her chair.

“Not at all,” she repeats when I look down. For a moment, she seems to think I’m the one she needs to convince.

Judge Long stares at her.

Geraldine does too.

“Not the least little bit,” Louisa adds. She’s wiped her tears away, but her cheeks are still wet and her mascara is smudged.

I lean over to silence her, but think better of it when I take in the judge’s expression. He’s not reading anymore. He’s looking at Louisa, his eyes wide, his smile quite different from the one he earlier bestowed upon the rest of us. If he were a white man, his cheeks would probably be red right now. I wonder if there’s a male on the planet who’s immune to Louisa Rawlings’s charms.

I clear my throat and Judge Long seems to snap out of his reverie. He smiles at me, still looking a bit bemused. “Should I take that as a garden-variety not-guilty plea, Attorney Nickerson?”

“Yes, Your Honor, you should.”

The judge turns his attention back to Geraldine. “Attorney Schilling,” he says, taking his half-glasses off and tapping the documents with them, “I’m sure it’s all in here, but enlighten me, please. You’ve mentioned a possible motive—and you seem to have reason to believe this defendant was less than forthcoming with the Chatham police officers. But what have you got in the way of physical evidence that ties this woman to the crime?”

Now we’re getting somewhere. Judge Long won’t hold any criminal defendant on the basis of motive alone, even a plausible motive. If Louisa Rawlings is telling the truth—and my gut says she is now, even if she didn’t come clean with the cops—then the Commonwealth won’t have any physical evidence implicating her. That won’t get us out of the woods permanently, of course; Geraldine’s just begun to sink her teeth into this one. But it will buy us some time.

Geraldine turns away from the bench and sends an index-finger signal to Clarence Wexler. My stomach somersaults. I know that look on her face. She’s got something. Or at least she thinks she does.

Clarence jumps to his feet and rushes forward as if summoned by God Himself. He’s holding an evidence bag, a large one. From here, I can’t make out what’s in it.

I start toward the bench so I can see, but I stop when the Kydd slides two sheets of paper across the table to me. One is a report from the crime lab. The other is Clarence’s summary of the lab report’s contents. I lean over to read and my eyes absorb the words as Geraldine speaks.

“What we’ve got,” she says, “is this. On it are skin fragments from the victim’s skull. And two of his hairs. And traces of his blood.”

Geraldine pauses for a moment and I look up. “Also on it,” she says, “are Louisa Coleman Rawlings’s fingerprints. No one else’s.”

Judge Long takes the evidence bag and holds it up to the light. “But what is it?” he asks.

“It’s a decorative plumbing fixture,” Geraldine replies. “A brass swan.”

CHAPTER 19

Judge Long called a thirty-minute recess to give the defense time to examine the Commonwealth’s surprise exhibit, time to digest the contents of the lab report, time to construct our own version of what it all means. Normally, the prosecutor is required to disclose all such evidence before presenting it in court. Trial by ambush went out with the Dark Ages.

The disclosure rule is always malleable at this stage of the game, though. The government’s version of probable cause came to light today, not yesterday. And since Geraldine’s office received the report from the Commonwealth’s crime lab just an hour or so before open session began, Judge Long ruled that the Common-wealth’s failure to disclose was harmless.

As a practical matter, of course, the judge is right. This judge usually is.

We’ll be given ample opportunity to have an independent lab examine the brass swan before this case gets to trial. We’ll hire our own forensic experts to analyze DNA, to determine blood type, and to identify fingerprints. But the answers I want right now can’t come from a lab or a physician or a scientist. They have to come from Louisa Rawlings. And so far at least, she doesn’t seem to have any.

She’s shivering, though it’s not the least bit cold in here. We’re in the jury deliberation room, across the hall from the main courtroom. Louisa and the Kydd are seated at a long, narrow table; I’m on my feet. The Commonwealth’s documents are spread out in front of the Kydd and he’s still wading through them. The bagged brass swan is in front of Louisa. She doesn’t touch it.

I take it from the table and hold it up to the fluorescent light. It’s the mother swan, not one of her two cygnets. Portions of the skin fragments Geraldine referred to would have been scraped off at the crime lab for analysis, but two remain affixed to the brass. Even through the plastic, the fragments are easy to see with the naked eye. And I’ll be damned if they were there twenty-four hours ago.

We’ll get to the swan in a minute. I have another issue on my mind. “Louisa,” I ask, “did you have brunch at the club last Sunday morning?”

She stares at me for a moment before she answers. “No,” she says. “I didn’t. Truth is, I found my companions rather dull. And I had a lot on my mind. I bought a coffee and drove to Lighthouse Beach with it.”