Evidence of Guilt

by Jonnie Jacobs

  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 Mabel’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. 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.”

  Chapter 32

  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 Lisa’s fiancé, Philip Stockman.

  “I don’t believe we have anything to discuss,” he said curtly.

  “Just two quick questions.”

  “Your client is guilty and you know it. You’re wasting my time.”

  “Did Lisa say anything to you about selling her property?”

  “You don’t give up, do you?”

  “No, I don’t.” I tried to keep the tone light. “So you might as well answer my questions and be done with me.”

  Stockman grumbled, but he answered. “We talked about it some. Lisa’s aunt left her the place because she wanted Lisa to live there. Lisa suggested that we make that our home and let Helene have the family house. But that was out of the question, and I told her so.”

  “Why was it out of the question?”

  “Ours is a much nicer house. And it belonged to my parents. I wouldn’t think of moving.”

  Stockman rubbed me the wrong way every time I talked to him. I couldn’t understand how Lisa had ever agreed to marry the man.

  “So Lisa decided to sell?”

  “I know that she’d been approached by someone who was interested, but I don’t know the details.”

  “Or the name?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Did she ever mention the name Barry Drummond?”

  “He was her aunt’s husband. I knew him myself, though only to say hello to.”

  “What was he like?”

  “Rude, impatient. The kind who’s over-impressed with himself. Lisa asked me the same thing not too long ago.”

  “Did she say why she was interested in Drummond?”

  “No, she didn’t. And you’ve more than used up your two questions.” Stockman punctuated this last remark by hanging up on me.

  By late afternoon my back and neck were stiff from work. But I had the case files in order and was feeling pretty confident about convincing Jake Harding that I was the woman for the job. I was also feeling increasingly optimistic about our chances at trial.

  At five o’clock Jake Harding called. “Sorry I couldn’t get back to you sooner. It’s been one of those days. Are you free about eight? I’ve got to admit a patient for surgery, and then I’ve got to make rounds, so I’m afraid I won’t be free any earlier.”

  “Eight is fine.”

  “Why don’t you meet me here at the office. Hopefully I’ll be through for the night and we can go out for a drink somewhere. Maybe get a bite to eat.”

  Softening me up before he fired me, no doubt. But I’d made a decision: I wasn’t going to roll over and give up. And I wasn’t going to remove myself from the case unless I heard directly from Wes.

  I worked for another hour, then went home, took a shower and put on clean clothes. I chose a professional-looking mid-calf skirt and jacket of navy gabardine. I carried my leather briefcase and hoped I’d remember to hold it so that the impressive brass monogram was readily visible when I greeted Jake.

  On the way to Jake’s office, I stopped by to see Sam. He was heavily sedated. There was no sign of the recognition I’d seen on my first visit. No fluttering of the eyes, no response when I squeezed his hand. I had trouble recognizing anything of the man I remembered.

  The nurse I’d talked to that morning was right — Sam was resting comfortably. But only because he was no longer able to experience discomfort.

  I leaned over and kissed his forehead lightly. In a storybook tale he might have woken. But this was life, and Sam remained as motionless as a waxwork.

  <><><>

  Jake’s office was across from the hospital. I walked there and found the main door to the building locked. I pressed the intercom button, identified myself to Jake and was buzzed in.

  On the main floor I passed a janitor sweeping the hallway. He didn’t look up. Most of the offices were dark, but occasional lights shone from inside. Jake Harding was not the only doctor working late.

  The waiting room to his office was empty, as was the reception desk. I knocked on the glass partition.

  “Is that you, Kali?” he called out.

  “It’s me.”

  “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  Before I could take a seat he poked his head around the corner. “Come on back while I finish up.”

  I followed him past the examination rooms to his office at the back. The desk was wide and highly polished. To the side was an array of family pictures. One of Grace and the three girls, another of Wes and himself with fishing poles. Jake’s various diplomas were arranged on the wall straight ahead, along with certificates for service on the hospital board and recognition within the community.

  He smiled when he saw me looking. “Myself, I think it’s a bit pretentious. But if you don’t have them prominently displayed, patients wonder what you’re hiding.”

  The phone rang. Jake picked it up. “Charles. Good of you to get back to me.”

  The conversation progressed to gallstones and bilirubin levels. I tuned out and mentally ran through the major arguments in favor of my remaining Wes’s attorney.

  In the process of reaching for a pen Jake knocked some loose message slips off the desk. I bent over and picked them up for him. As I handed them back, I caught a quick peek at a phone number that looked familiar. I tried to place it and couldn’t.

  When Jake was off the phone he looked my way and smiled wearily. “Let’s get out of here. You up for a drink?”

  “That sounds nice.”

  “Good; so am I.” He gathered some papers from his desk. “Is it okay if we take your car? Mine’s low on gas.”

  “Sure.” As we headed down on the elevator, it hit me why the phone number on Jake’s message slip looked familiar.

  “How do you know Bud Simmons?” I asked.

  Jake gave me a curious look.

  “I saw his number on one of the message slips I handed you.”

  The scrunched brows eased. “He does real estate work for me. I have some investments in small commercial centers, medical office buildings, that sort of thing. He puts deals together. Why?”

  “Probably nothing. It’s just that he apparently has a client interested in the Cornell place.” We left the elevator and
walked through the lobby. “You haven’t heard anything about development of that property, have you?”

  Jake shook his head. “Zoning restrictions would make that difficult, I should think.”

  The parking lot had emptied out. Visiting hours at the hospital must have been over.

  “It’s the blue Subaru,” I said, nodding in the direction of the car. It hardly looked like something a successful attorney would choose. I started to apologize.

  Jake smiled. “I don’t pick my attorneys by the car they drive.”

  I smiled back. “Good thing.”

  I opened the door and set my briefcase in the backseat, monogram side out. I’m sure he didn’t pick his attorneys by the briefcases they carried either, but I’d learned early on that success breeds success. And it never hurt to look the part.

  “I have a good grasp on the facts of Wes’s case,” I told him. “I’ve laid out some ideas for his defense and I think we can win. I’ve interviewed most of the people involved. It would take anyone else weeks to get up to speed.”

  He mumbled noncommittally.

  “There’ve been a couple of recent developments you might not know about.” As I started the car and backed out of the parking space, I told him about the planted evidence in the compost bin, about Lisa’s drawing of Barry Drummond, even about Sally Baund. I was trying my darnedest to be impressive.

  Jake listened and nodded. Polite, but clearly not enthusiastic.

  As I talked, I made a sweeping turn around the back of the lot to head out the east exit. We passed the doctors’ parking lot and then a row of white vans. They all had wheelchair racks affixed to the rear, and a wide dark stripe down the side with printing above.

  Just like the van Mrs. Baund had seen at the back of Lisa Cornell’s property the night she was killed.

  There was a tickle in my brain. Suddenly I didn’t like what I was thinking.

  Jake Harding had a message from Bud Simmons, a man who was representing a mystery client interested in the Cornell property. Jake Harding had access to a white handicap van with a stripe on the side.

  I turned to ask him about the vans and saw a gun in his hand.