Evidence of Guilt

by Jonnie Jacobs

  “I’m putting together the pleading on the Johnston case.”

  “All you had to do was staple it and slip it in an envelope.”

  A moment’s pause. “Somehow I dropped it.” She looked up, then reached for the loose sheet of paper near her left knee. “I also forgot to number the pages, so I have to kind of read the last paragraph on each page to see what comes next. Don’t worry though; I’ve got it almost all together.”

  Knowing Myra, it would read like a Mad Libs party game. “Why didn’t you just reprint it?” I asked.

  Myra set the sorted pages in her lap and looked up at me. “Gosh, I never thought of that. It would have been quicker, huh?”

  “Certainly easier.”

  She stood and handed me my messages. Then, as if I couldn’t read, she recapped the morning verbally, as well. “Ron Swanson called, said he couldn’t find anything in Lisa’s stuff that looked like a diary. The program chair from the Christian Women’s League called; she was awfully sorry, but they’ve had to cancel your speaking engagement for later this month.”

  “Did she say why?”

  “No. She was kind of vague about it.”

  I groaned. Another fallout of the Wes Harding case.

  “Someone named Bud called, but didn’t leave a last name. And Dr. Markley called.”

  “She did?”

  “Twice. She wanted you to call her today.” There was a moment’s hesitation. “Are you, uh, seeing her? Professionally, I mean.”

  “It’s about a case. Why, do you know her?”

  Myra nodded. “Sort of. She’s the psychiatrist who’s going to be doing the program at the school — the good-touch, bad-touch sessions.”

  “Lisa Cornell was seeing her about headaches,” I explained. “Did Dr. Markley say why she was calling? When I talked to her yesterday she didn’t seem to think she could be of any help.”

  Myra shook her head. “It must be important, though. She called twice.”

  I’d started to move into my office when Myra asked, “What did you think of Dr. Markley?”

  “You’re still having doubts about the program?”

  “I guess I’m worried about stirring up trouble where there isn’t any. It’s like that friend of mine I told you about. She started seeing Dr. Markley for an eating disorder and then they discovered she’d been abused by her uncle when she was young. Now that it’s out in the open nobody in the family’s speaking to anyone else, and I can’t say my friend is any happier. I mean, if you’ve got to be hypnotized to remember something, maybe you’re better off not remembering it, right?”

  “Dr. Markley uses hypnosis?”

  “She did with my friend. I got the impression that’s a specialty of hers — exploring the subconscious, emotional amnesia, that sort of thing. It’s supposed to give you a handle for working through unresolved conflict.” Myra gave an embarrassed laugh. “You hang around someone who’s seeing a shrink, you pick up the lingo.”

  “Are you saying that Dr. Markley helped your friend remember things that had happened to her in the past? Memories she’d repressed?”

  Myra nodded. “Of course, this program in the schools is aimed at preventing things from happening in the first place.”

  Unresolved conflict. Emotional amnesia. Repressed memory. I wondered if Lisa’s problems followed a similar pattern. I couldn’t wait to talk to Dr. Markley.

  I called her number and got the service. I left my name, and both work and home phone numbers. Then I tried Bud and got a disconnected number. Because Myra transposed numbers as freely as she did letters and words, I tried a couple of variations but wasn’t able to locate a Bud at any of them.

  I went back to the front of the office.

  “Did Bud say what he was calling about?”

  Myra shook her head. “Only that he was calling from San Francisco.”

  So that was the problem. “I need to know things like that Myra. Different area code.”

  “Oops. Did I forget to include that?”

  She’d finished compiling the pleading, but there was still one piece of paper remaining on the floor. “Rats,” she said in disgust.

  “Here, give it to me.” I stuck the loose page in where it belonged. “Did you ever keep a diary, Myra?”

  “In high school; not since.”

  “Where did you hide it?”

  “I didn’t; there was a lock on it. I wore the key around my neck.”

  “Did Dr. Markley ask your friend to keep a diary?”

  Myra looked surprised. “As a matter of fact, she did. It wasn’t so much of a diary really, as a log of her memories and dreams. It helped guide their sessions together. Why?”

  “She asked Lisa Cornell to keep one too, but no one seems to know where it is.”

  “You think that’s why she was calling?”

  “Not about the diary per se. But I’m hoping it might relate to Lisa’s own unresolved conflict.”

  Chapter 19

  Dr. Markley was so much on my thoughts that when the doorbell rang at nine o’clock that evening I half expected it might be her. Instead it was Tom.

  “What are you doing here?” I gasped in surprise.

  He grinned. His response was edged with lighthearted sarcasm. “It’s good to see you too.”

  “I thought you weren’t going to be back until the weekend.”

  “Chicken pox,” he said, stepping closer.

  “You’ve got the chicken pox?”

  “Not me. Two of the boys. We decided to cut the trip short and come home early.”

  Tom wrapped his arms around my waist and kissed me lightly. Then a second time, not lightly at all. His clothes were clean, his skin scrubbed, his hair still damp from the shower, but I caught the lingering scent of wood smoke beneath the aftershave. It was a surprisingly erotic aroma.

  I nuzzled into the crook of his neck. “I missed you.”

  “Probably not as much as I missed you.”

  Barney yipped and pranced at our feet. Loretta tried to inch between our legs. We did our best to ignore them.

  “You want to get a bite to eat?” Tom asked somewhere between kisses.

  “I already ate, but I wouldn’t mind tagging along for the company.”

  “How about pizza?” he murmured in my ear.

  “Sounds fine.”

  “Raffino’s okay?”

  I nodded, sliding my cheek against his.

  Tom didn’t move except to snake his hand under my blouse and unsnap my bra.

  “I thought you were hungry,” I said.

  “I was.”

  “And now?”

  He smiled. “Absolutely ravenous.”

  We moved into the bedroom and out of our clothes, more or less in one continuous motion. A trail of discarded apparel marked our path.

  <><><>

  Tom never did get dinner. Whether it was the rigors of the week or the fervor of the homecoming — which took us well into the night — he was out like a light soon after. I stayed awake long enough to drink in the tracery of moonlight on his back and the easy comfort of his breathing. I was probably the only person in the world grateful for chicken pox.

  Tom was up early the next morning, as usual. It’s an annoying habit he shows no inclination of rectifying, despite my unflagging efforts to convince him otherwise. I heard him banging around in the kitchen, whistling under his breath and occasionally conversing with the dogs. By the time I’d showered and joined him, the coffee was ready and the table set with a platter of French toast.

  “The sun’s barely up,” I mumbled.

  “You just don’t like mornings.”

  “Mornings are fine; it’s dawn I have trouble with.”

  “Best part of the day.” He handed me a plate. “Here, have some breakfast while it’s hot.”

  I poured myself a cup of coffee and took a seat at the table, where Tom joined me. His arms were tanned from a week outdoors, well-muscled from a lifetime of activity. He has a slim, athletic body, thick s
andy hair and a soft, slow way about him that I find incredibly sexy. Even at daybreak.

  Reluctantly, I turned my attention back to my French toast. “This is really good,” I said. “Much better than the stuff I make.”

  “That’s because you leave out the vanilla.”

  “Until you told me, I never knew I was supposed to put it in.”

  “You still forget half the time.”

  “Force of habit,” I said.

  He laughed. “The only cooking-related habit you have is eating.”

  1 watched him load his plate with another two pieces, his fourth and fifth.”Talk about eating,” I said pointedly. “Didn’t they feed you on this camping trip?”

  Tom cut a large bite and held it on his fork. “You ever watch a bunch of ten-year-old boys eat? It’s enough to take away anyone’s appetite.” His foot found mine under the table. He traced a bare sole up the inside of my leg. “I missed you,” he said.

  I smiled.

  “Although it was nice to have some time with Nick. Father-son bonding and all.”

  I reined in my smile just a bit. Although I understood, in theory, that divorce was hard on children, it was difficult to work up much compassion for a kid who seemed to go out of his way to be annoying.

  “Lynn’s apparently having a rough time right now,” Tom said, “and the kids are feeling it. Nick especially. He has a tendency to see himself as the great healer of all that’s wrong.”

  Among other misguided notions, I thought. “What’s the problem?”

  “I’m not sure, since I’ve only heard about it secondhand. I gather things aren’t going as well with Damon as Lynn anticipated.”

  Tom had grown up in Silver Creek, as I had, aligning himself with my older brother John in teasing me and Sabrina throughout our childhood. After college he’d wound up in Los Angeles, working for the Times. His return to Silver Creek was prompted by a quest for a better, simpler life for his family. But shortly after moving back, his wife, Lynn, had run off with the contractor they’d hired to remodel the house.

  Although I didn’t know Damon well, I’d met him on several occasions and heard about him on numerous others. He was younger than Lynn, something of a physical specimen (for those taken with the Mark Harmon type) and apparently a fine contractor. I found him pleasant enough, but I couldn’t for the life of me understand what he might have offered Lynn that Tom couldn’t. Of course, Tom never talked much about his marriage or its shortcomings, so there might have been an important piece of the puzzle I was missing.

  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. 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 likes listening to the stories. He also picks 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. “You've got a date."

  <><><>

  I had my doubts about story hour, but it was better than sitting in the woods trying to snare Granger with a cheeseburger.

  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 asking?”

  “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.”