Evidence of Guilt (40 page)

"Are you going to rethink Wes's arrest?"

"At this stage it's not up to me. The ball's in the DA's court."

"Does Curt Willis know the latest?"

"Yeah. Took it like the death of his favorite grandmother. Poor guy made the mistake of counting his chickens way too soon."

Unfortunately, he still had a good case. I wasn't about to point that out, though. "I've got another reason for call-

ing," I said, and proceeded to tell him about the assault the night before.

"My God, were you hurt?"

"Not badly."

"Did you see the man? Recognize the voice?" Benson's tone was a mixture of concern and police efficiency.

"No. He had a faint accent. I'm sure I would remember it if I'd heard it before."

"You think it's related to the Harding case?"

"What else could it be? I don't know who these 'friends' he mentioned are, but I'd guess they're not happy about some of the things I've been looking into."

Benson's tone softened. "It might be worth listening to them, Kali. Next time it won't be a warning."

"I can't just drop the case. Not unless Wes decides he wants a different attorney."

There was a sigh. "You want to make a formal police report about the attack?"

"Later. For now, just make note of it. Okay?"

"I could send one of my men out to keep an eye on you."

"Thanks, but I intend to be careful. And Tom's going to move in for a couple of days."

Benson responded with a humph. "You tell Tom he ought to make it more than a couple of days."

"He'll stay here as long as there's danger," I said. But I knew that wasn't what Benson was talking about. As a man who'd never been successful with love himself, he sought to even the slate by seeing that others were.

With my two pressing phone calls out of the way I turned my attention to the remainder of the day. Tom had walked Loretta before leaving for work and had set out a bowl of corn flakes for me. All I had to do was add milk.

The first I appreciated, but I couldn't stomach the idea of food just yet. I poured the cereal back into the box, spread makeup over the scrapes on my face, slipped into comfortable slacks and headed for the office.

There's nothing like an aching body to make you appreciate the fully functioning one you usually take for granted. I was keenly aware of every movement. I drove slowly, knowing my reflexes were as bruised as my body. I parked the car at an odd forty-five-degree angle because the turning and twisting required to park it correctly was beyond me.

I thought my stride into the office was smooth, but Myra picked up on it right away.

"What happened to you?" she gasped. "You're moving the way I did after giving birth."

Encouraging thought. Whatever interest I may have had in motherhood dropped considerably. "I had a run-in with a delivery man," I told her.

"What was he delivering? A six-hundred-pound gorilla?"

"Close." I explained the events of the previous evening.

"My God, Kali, you could have been hurt." She jumped up from her desk to take my elbow.

I ignored her offer of assistance. "I
was
hurt," I said.

She made a face. "You know what I mean." She followed me into my office and held the chair as I sat. "You want some coffee? Maybe a pillow for your back?"

I shook my head, slowly so that it didn't pull the muscles in my neck.

"Let me know if there's anything I can do. Just say the word."

I undertook an expression of gratitude, then said, "Well,

I'd planned on washing the office windows today and waxing the floor. They both need it badly. Now I don't know whether I'm up to it."

Myra hesitated. Her hands worked nervously, as though picking dust out of the air. "Yeah, sure. If that's what you want. There are some letters I need to finish, but--"

I grinned. "Joke, Myra. Take it easy; no floors or windows." I could see her relax. "You could bring me my messages, though."

"Sure." She fairly bounced from the room and returned with a couple of pink message slips. "Anything else?"

"Not at the moment."

She beat a hasty retreat.

I returned Jake's call first He'd phoned not long before I'd gotten into work and I worried that something had happened to Sam. His receptionist put me on hold while she went to find him.

"No, nothing new on Sam," he said. "I called to see if you were free to discuss Wes's defense. I talked with him last evening. He feels you're okay, but to be perfectly frank I have some doubts myself. There's nothing personal about it, you understand; it's just that I think we might be better off with someone more experienced in criminal defense work."

I told him I understood, but also that I felt confident I could do a good job. Under normal circumstances it would have been Wes's call entirely, but since Jake was footing the bill he clearly had to be comfortable as well.

"Perhaps we can get together this evening," he said. "After I've finished seeing patients. Let me give you a call later in the day, when I know my schedule."

"I'll be free whenever you are."

The second message Myra had handed me was from

Simmons. He'd finally gotten around to returning my call from last week.

"Simmons here," he said, picking up on the first ring. No secretary, no company name or department.

I introduced myself. He apologized for taking so long to get back to me, explaining that he'd been out of town.

"I understand you have a client interested in the Cornell property," I said.

"Yes..." He drew the word out, so that it was a measured pause as much as an answer. "May I inquire, are you a member of the family?"

"I'm an attorney."

"Ah, with Ed Cole."

It wasn't a question, so I let it be. "Can you tell me a little something about the party you represent?"

"Unfortunately, I've been asked not to."

"By your client?"

"Yes. That's why I'm acting as spokesman in this matter. Is the estate ready to be settled? My client is eager to take care of the matter as quickly as possible. My client is willing to meet, and better, any other offer."

An eager client. It was a unique piece of property, but that unique? I wondered what the real story was.

"We'd reached a tentative agreement with the previous owner," Simmons continued, "and then, unfortunately, she was killed."

Lisa's death was indeed unfortunate. But not for the reason Simmons was suggesting. "Lisa Cornell had agreed to sell the property?" I asked.

"Tentatively. No papers had been signed, of course, or we wouldn't have a problem now."

Except for the problem of a double murder. "I'm afraid the current owners will want to know who the buyer is," I

explained. "And what use he, or it, intends. The property has been in the family for years. They wouldn't want to see it spoiled by crass commercialism."

Simmons ho-hoed for a moment. "I assure you, my client has no interest in developing the property."

"I'm afraid that won't be sufficient."

He paused. "Let me check and see how much I can divulge. Maybe we can offer some assurance that will satisfy the present owners. I'll get back to you when I've had a chance to confer with my client."

I thanked him and hung up, then mentally ran through the conversation again. I'm not opposed to lying when necessary, but I try not to make claims that will put me in hot water with the ethics committee. It wasn't my most sterling moment, but I hadn't actually misrepresented myself either.

Before I returned the other calls I took full advantage of Myra's kind offer and had her bring me a blueberry muffin and a cup of coffee from The Sugar Plum. When she returned I pulled out Sam's files and my own and got to work. It surprised me to realize how much I wanted to stay on the case. If I could show Jake Harding I was on top of things, maybe I'd make enough of an impression that he'd keep me on.

When lunch time came I sent Myra out again. She didn't balk at the role of personal servant, and in fact brought me my food much more efficiently than she did anything else.

By early afternoon I'd blocked out a plan for Wes's defense, made a list of possible witnesses and another list of points that would most likely be raised by the prosecution. Sam's files still seemed on the thin side, but I had found the police reports and the notes on blood and trace evidence. I started tying up loose ends.

My first call was to Wes's neighbor, Mrs. Lincoln, to ask whether she'd recently noticed any strangers on Wes's property or in the vicinity of the compost bin. She hadn't.

Next I went through the list of Lisa's neighbors. I'd talked with most of them earlier, in person, but I was following up on the off chance they'd remembered something in the intervening week. I also reached several of the neighbors who hadn't been at home the day I'd canvassed the neighborhood. Sally Baund, I remembered, had gone to visit her daughter in Boston. I got the number from my notes and called her there.

"Yes," she said when I told her who I was. "I spoke to the gentleman the other day."

"What gentleman? "

"The lawyer, what was his name, Sam--"

"Sam Morrison?"

"Yes, that's it."

Why hadn't Sam made a note of the call? "Sorry to bother you again," I said, stumbling a bit as I tried to regain my train of thought. "We like to be sure we've covered all the bases."

"I understand. I couldn't tell him much anyway. He asked about the vehicle I'd seen the night Lisa Cornell was killed. It was a van. A white van with a band of some darker color along the side, and some lettering. I couldn't read the lettering. Couldn't tell him what kind of van it was either. I'm not very good when it comes to identifying automobiles. It wasn't really at Lisa's place anyway, but on the road at the back of her property. I happened to be driving that way because I was coming home from bridge night at my friend Maybel's."

"What time did you see it there?"

"A little after nine."

"And it was parked?"

"Yes, back off from the road a bit. I didn't think much about it at the time. You know how cars run out of gas or break down. You often see them alongside the road."

Except that most of them don't pull in and park. "Anything else you can tell me about the van?"

"It looked like it might have been one of those vans that transport the handicapped. I can't say what specifically gave me that impression, but I remember thinking it was a terrible place for someone with limited mobility to get stuck."

'You told this to the police?"

"Oh, yes. They weren't particularly interested, though. But that other man, Mr. Morrison, he was."

"Did he say why?"

"No. He didn't say very much at all, but I could tell."

It was likely Mrs. Baund had lived in the neighborhood for years. I tried on her the second question I'd been asking the others I called. "Did you by chance know Barry Drummond?"

"Of course."

"You haven't seen him lately, have you?"

"Goodness no. He ran off years ago; just up and left his wife one day. Or so they say." Mrs. Baund paused. "There was a rumor going around back then that Anne did him in and got rid of the body in pickle jars. She did a lot of canning that summer."

Of course she hadn't really believed the rumor herself, Mrs. Baund assured me. But Anne Drummond had changed that summer; there was no getting around that. She was sure that's what prompted people's tongues to wag, the way Anne Drummond had changed from a fun-loving sprite into a somber-faced recluse.

I gave her my number in case she remembered anything more about the van she'd seen near the Cornell property. When I'd carefully noted the conversation in the file I called Philip Stockman.

"I don't believe we have anything to discuss," he said curtly.

'Just two quick questions."

'Tour client's guilty and you know it. You're wasting my time."