He crossed the room and sank into one of the guest chairs, moving with easy confidence. Today he wore gray slacks and a white shirt open at the collar, no tie.
He looked to be in his mid-thirties, with darker blond hair and sharp brown eyes that scanned our environment. Taller than me and polished, in that big-city-prosecutor kind of way, he seemed comfortable in my office. His briefcase gleamed where he set it on the floor, the leather smooth and expensive. His loafers were definitely Italian.
“This is a surprise.” I was suddenly glad I’d chosen a blue skirt suit today, with a green-and-blue shell under the jacket. It worked for both the office and St. Patrick’s week.
“I’m here with a plea.” He settled in.
A plea? My stomach tightened.
“For your grandmother,” he added.
“Considering that’s the only case we have against each other, I figured,” I said lightly. “Last I heard, she hasn’t been charged.”
He nodded once. “I’m still trying to obtain an arrest warrant. It’s funny how small towns sometimes work against an honest citizen.”
If he only knew my Nana, he’d realize how ridiculous that sounded. “If you understood her at all, which apparently you don’t, you’d know she would never sabotage anybody’s pie.”
He leaned forward slightly, the movement calm but calculated. “She admitted in front of too many witnesses that the ingredients in Ms. Walton’s pie included her lotion.”
I stared at him. “She could’ve been wrong, and even if she wasn’t, there’s no proof she’s the person who injected it into the pie.” I refrained from noting that Gloria’s pie had probably sucked before being infused with peppermint lotion.
He nodded again, one side of his mouth quirking. It wasn’t a smile. “As you know, I could charge her with felony food tampering, which carries up to fifteen years in prison.”
My jaw tightened.
“Not to mention false pretenses, maybe reckless endangerment, even public nuisance. That’s just off the top of my head right now.”
“It’s all baloney, and I think you know that,” I said evenly, studying him.
His eyes widened a touch. “No, I don’t. The only person who would’ve put her own lotion in that pie was your grandmother. She always takes first place. Gloria second. This was Gloria’s year.”
I cocked my head. “Gloria, huh? You sure went from Ms. Walton to Gloria pretty quickly.”
His chin dipped, eyes narrowing slightly. “I’ve been working with Ms. Walton for the past day, trying to craft a decent case. I find her kind and deeply hurt by your grandmother’s actions.”
“What’s the plea?” I asked, noting how highly irregular it was to make a plea offer before there was even an arrest warrant.
Brad folded his hands on his lap. “I’ll tell you what. We’ll drop the felony food tampering if she pleads guilty to misdemeanor deceptive practices, pays a two-thousand dollar fine, and accepts six months unsupervised probation.”
My mouth dropped open. I shut it before it could betray me and start spitting out Italian curses. “Are you insane?”
“I’m letting her off with no jail time. Give me a break, would you?” His brows knit down, creating a deep groove above his nose. “In addition, Fiona O’Shea has to sign a statement admitting she knowingly added a non-food substance to the contest entry.” He paused as if wanting the words to sink in. “And she agrees never to enter any baking contest in Silverville again.”
I fought the urge to hurl my stapler at his head. “You are insane.”
Brad sat up straighter, posture perfect. “I suggest you watch your words, Ms. Albertini. I would love a slander case.” The threat had a soft, polished edge.
I looked him over slowly. “Well, gee, Brad, considering there’s nobody here to hear that statement, I don’t see how you could possibly be damaged.” What a joke. I leveled my stare. “Tell you what. Go get that arrest warrant, and we’ll fight this out the right way, and just so you know, I will absolutely kick your ass.”
His face hardened. “I can make a strong case without additional evidence. I strongly advise your client to take my offer.” He rose then, gathering his briefcase with a quiet efficiency, and closed my door softly behind him.
I put my elbows on the desk and pressed both thumbs into the corners of my eyes until the pressure blurred the lines of the room. A headache was threatening to bloom behind my temples.
Brad hadn’t seen the CCTV of the leprechaun leaving the dynamite at the shop, and even if he had, he wouldn’t be able to prove it was Nana. Still, the O’Shea crest on the vest had been visible. Everyone in town has seen her wearing that outfit on St. Patrick’s Day for decades. It wouldn’t take much to convince a jury that the person captured on grainy footage was my grandmother.
Of course I had a defense. Why would she risk being seen? He could get creative with alternative theories. He could suggest motive. He could paint my Nana as bitter, jealous, or desperate. The thought boiled under my skin even as my hands trembled slightly.
I leaned back, thumbed my phone from the pile of paperwork, and dialed her number with fingers that felt too heavy. The line clicked, and then Nana’s voice came through, bright as always. “Hi, honey.”
