Evidence of Guilt (25 page)

Tom frowned slightly. "According to Nick, they've had some major fights of late."

I tried to read Tom's voice to see how he felt about this. I couldn't pick up on any emotion at all. But I didn't know if that was because there was none there or because he was carefully disguising it. Tom's a master at disguising emotion.

"Fights about what?" I asked.

"I don't know. I'm not sure even Lynn and Damon know." Tom speared the last piece of French toast with his fork. "You want this?"

I shook my head.

'Technically, I still have today off," he said. "Nobody at the paper knows I'm back. You want to play hooky with me? Maybe take in a movie or go on a picnic?"

I hesitated.

"Spend the day in bed?"

I laughed. "Sounds lovely, but I can't." I explained my involvement in the Wes Harding case. "I want to reach Dr. Markley today, if possible. I'm hoping she's got something for me that may help. There are also a slew of loose ends I haven't begun to nail down." I got up to get the coffeepot. "You want a little more?"

Tom held up his cup. "What kind of loose ends?"

I shrugged. "Lisa Cornell's neighbors, the phone call she may have received Friday night . . . There's also a homeless man who sometimes slept in Lisa Cornell's barn. It will probably go nowhere, but I can't write it off until I've talked to him. A fellow by the name of Granger." I took a sip of coffee. "During the school year he hung out in the woods behind the school. Now that summer's here, it's anybody's guess where he is."

"Try the library."

I forced a laugh. "Fiction or nonfiction?"

"I'm serious. Today's Friday. Story hour's at eleven. There's a good chance he'll be there."

"At the children's story hour?" I couldn't tell if he was pulling my leg or not.

Tom nodded. "As I recall, Granger liked listening to the stories. He also picked up discarded food from the kids' lunches."

I set down my cup. "You know him?"

"I interviewed him for the piece I did on the homeless last spring. You do occasionally read what I write, don't you?"

I'd forgotten that piece, but I remembered it now. Moving, and at times humorous, it was a break from the more analytical and often controversial studies Tom usually favored.

"What was your impression of Granger?" I asked.

Tom shrugged. "He's harmless, I'd guess. Smart enough to figure out where his next meal's coming from." Tom leaned across the table and picked up my hand. "Sure I can't talk you into taking the day off?"

"Sorry. We've only got two months to prepare for trial."

"Dinner tonight, then?"

"Didn't we try that last night?"

"You complaining?"

I was most decidedly not.

I had my doubts about story hour, but it was better than sitting in the woods trying to snare Granger with a cheeseburger. Besides, there were a couple of new books I wanted to put on hold and this would give me a chance.

The library was located in the old section of town, in a wing of what used to be the grammar school and is now the community center. Mrs. McKay, the regular librarian, wasn't in, but one of her young assistants was: a moonfaced girl with dark hair tied in a ponytail and a mouth

full of braces. She was reading a paperback but looked up when I approached.

"I'm looking for a man who sometimes attends your story hour," I said. "His name is Granger."

She tugged at her ponytail. "Today's session was canceled. Mrs. McKay is ill."

"Do you know the man I'm talking about?"

"I've seen him."

"Was he here today?"

"I couldn't say for sure. I posted a sign on the door, so a lot of people left without coming inside. You can look around if you want."

The place was empty except for a middle-aged woman browsing through the display of new fiction and a mother and son in the children's corner. After placing my holds I wandered through the stacks, looking for anyone who fit Granger's description. On my way out I passed through the children's area and paused.

"Excuse me," I said, addressing the young mother, "were you here for story hour?"

"It was canceled today." She didn't bother to return my smile.

"Do you come every week?"

"Usually." The child pulled a handful of books off the shelf and onto the floor. "No, no," the woman said. "We take books off the shelf one at a time."

"I'm looking for a man who attends fairly regularly, a kind of drifter. Someone without a child. Would you recognize him?"

She nodded, then frowned. "Are you a friend of his?"

"I've never met him, but I need to talk to him. Have you seen him today?"

The woman was busy reshelving the books her son had

hauled to the floor. "No, I haven't," she sniffed. "But I wasn't looking, either. I don't know why Mrs. McKay tolerates him."

Mrs. McKay not only tolerated, but welcomed and encouraged, just about anyone who professed an interest in books. I suspected she viewed Granger as one of hers, regardless of his age or appearance.

"Do you know where I might find him?" I asked the woman.

She regarded me coolly. "No, I don't."

I wandered outside and sat on the bench in front of the library, careful to avoid the soft, sticky wad of pink bubble gum stuck to the seat. I hadn't found Granger, and I hadn't, despite repeated attempts, been able to reach Dr. Markley. I
had
determined that the Bud who'd left a message yesterday was actually Robert Simmons, the man who'd contacted Cole about the Cornell property. But I hadn't spoken with him, only his machine. I was quickly piling up a column of big, fat zeros.

Just as I was about to drag myself to the car, I caught strains of music, very faint, coming from somewhere behind the building. I couldn't tell for sure, but it sounded enough like a harmonica that I scurried to have a look.

It was indeed a harmonica. The man playing it was sitting in the shade on the rear steps. He was skinny, almost gaunt, with a misshapen nose and stringy gray hair that fell past his shoulders. His pants were worn and rumpled, rolled at the cuffs. Despite the heat he wore a baggy army-surplus jacket.

I waited until he finished the song before speaking. "Are you Granger?" I asked.

He ignored me, cupped the instrument in his hand and started playing again. Then stopped abruptly. "Who's ask-ing?"

"Me." I gestured to the steps. "May I join you?"

When he said nothing I took a seat on the step below him, near the railing. On closer examination I saw that the man wasn't as old as he first appeared. Maybe early forties. His skin, though weathered, was largely free of wrinkles.

"Why
are you asking?" he said.

"I have something for Granger." I opened my purse and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill. "I need to ask him a few questions. Are you Granger?"

"Some days I am."

"And other days?"

He grinned, flashing teeth that overlapped at odd angles. "Other days I ain't so sure." He eyed the twenty dollars. "Are the questions hard? What if I get 'em wrong?"

"There's no right or wrong answer. I just wanted to talk to you about Lisa Cornell."

His eyes, a pale, milky blue, turned a shade darker. He picked up the harmonica and began to play a slow, sad ballad I recognized from my childhood.

"I understand she sometimes let you spend the night in her barn."

Granger continued playing the song through until the end; then he said, "I wasn't like them kids, I always axed first. And I never left things a mess, neither."

"Kids. You mean the boys? The ones who used the barn as a clubhouse?"

"You got a cigarette?"

I shook my head. "Sorry, I don't smoke."

"Them boys do." He started to play another song, then stopped and giggled instead. "That's not all they do, neither. Oooh, la!"

I knew about the beer and the girlie magazines. If it went further, I wasn't interested in hearing about it. 'You know Mrs. Cornell and her little girl are dead, don't you?"

Granger nodded, suddenly subdued.

"Were you around the barn the weekend they were killed? Maybe you saw someone, or something. It could help us learn what happened."

"It's awful dark inside the barn. I feel my way around mostly."

"Were you there that night?"

He scratched his cheek and looked over at me. "Have to check my appointment book." He reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out an old Payless Drugstore coupon book. "What night was it you wanted to know about?"

"August eighth. A Friday, about three weeks ago."

Granger scratched his cheek again, flipped through a couple of pages, then back to one that offered savings on cat litter. He scowled and looked up. "August eighth's missing. Musta been my secretary took it."

I drew in a slow breath, for patience. "But you'd remember if you saw something, wouldn't you?"

He giggled again. "Depends on what I saw."

My hopes of learning anything from Granger were dwindling fast. "Lisa Cornell was good to you. Letting you use her barn, giving you work occasionally."

"And food," he added with solemn regard.

"So if you knew something that might help us find her killer, you'd want to help, wouldn't you?"

He nodded gravely.

"Do you remember seeing anyone unusual around the barn?"

"Frogs and snails and puppy dog tails."

'The boys?"

"Boys will be boys."

"Anyone else, besides the boys?"

"You could ax Charlotte."

"Who's Charlotte? Is she a friend of the boys?"

"Spider."

Nervously, I brushed my legs. "Where?"

"In the barn. Charlotte lives in the barn."

This had a familiar ring to it. "Charlotte is a spider in the barn?"

"Ain't you never read
Charlotte's Web?"

"Not for a while."

"Charlotte sees everything. She's so tiny, people don't know she's there."

"Does Charlotte tell you what she sees?"

He squared his shoulders. "We talk some."

"Did Charlotte mention anything about visitors? Did she say anything about Lisa's and Amy's deaths?"

"Sure you ain't got a cigarette?" Granger asked, angling to get a better look at the contents of my purse.

"Sorry. How about a candy instead?" I pulled out a package of Tic Tacs and handed it to Granger, who poured out a handful and popped them into his mouth.

"Oooh la," he said, biting down. "These buggers are powerful."

"Yeah. I should have warned you to take one at a time." I waited until his mouth was empty, then tried my question again. "Did Charlotte see what happened the night of the murders?"

Granger fanned his mouth and shook his head at the same time. "Only afterwards."

"Afterwards?"

"When they found the bodies."

"Charlotte was there when that boy, Bongo, discovered them?"

Granger's face scrunched together. "Boys will be boys. That's what Charlotte says."

"What else does she say, about the murders?"

Silence.

"Could you do me a favor and ask Charlotte again what she remembers? I could take you there now if it would help. We could stop by the store for cigarettes after we're finished."

Granger thought about that for a moment. His expression grew forlorn. Then he shook his head and said, "I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"Charlotte's dead."

"How could she be dead?" I asked, unable to keep the irritation from my voice.

"You sure you read that book? It says right there at the end that she died."