Evidence of Guilt (A Kali O'Brien legal mystery)

by Jonnie Jacobs

  Benson held the elevator door, then smiled at me fondly. “It’s a funny position, being chief of police and finding myself rooting for the defense attorney.”

  “Is that what you’re doing?”

  Instead of answering he let his eyes linger on my face. “You remind me more of your mother every day,” he said at last.

  There was a moment of awkward silence. My mother’s suicide was one of the shared memories on which our current friendship had been forged. It was a powerful bond, but an uncomfortable one for both of us.

  The elevator came to a stop and we exited.

  “What kind of lab work are you doing on the underwear?” I asked him.

  “The usual. We want to see if we can tie it conclusively to the victims. And, of course, to the defendant. We’ll look for trace evidence, run blood and semen tests . . . but the truth is, I don’t think we’ll find much.”

  I turned. “There was nothing in the file to indicate that either victim had been sexually molested.”

  “They weren’t,” Benson said. “But it takes a certain kind of depraved individual to rip the underwear off a woman he’s murdered. The way I figure it, he’s a guy with a fetish.” Benson scratched his chin. “There was a man in town years ago who used to go around stealing ladies’ underwear off the clothesline. By the time we caught up with him he had suitcases full of the stuff. He was kinky, but harmless.”

  I couldn’t imagine Wes Harding fueling his desire with a pair of nylon briefs, even if they were black and lacy. Not that I had much to go on but instinct.

  On the other hand, Wes saw himself as a man whose advances had been spurned. A guy like that just might be thinking in terms of power rather than passion. Strip your victim of her dignity as well as her life.

  So I supposed it might have fit — except for the fact that I didn’t want it to. Maybe it was the gypsy magic Sabrina had talked about, or maybe it was simply seeing Wes as the man he really was, without the posturing. Whatever the reason, I found I didn’t want to believe he was a killer.

  Chapter 27

  I’d spoken to Mrs. Lincoln earlier, when I’d canvassed Wes’s neighborhood in the hopes of establishing an alibi. But I couldn’t recall the woman specifically until I pulled up in front of the address Benson had given me, a small, white frame house immediately to the south of Wes’s. Then I was able to recollect a woman in her late fifties, bone thin, with almost lashless eyes. She hadn’t been home the Friday night of the murders, but she’d told me she had no complaints about Wes as a neighbor.

  As I was getting out of my car, she came down the front path from the house, her purse over her arm. I met her halfway.

  “I remember you,” she said when I introduced myself. “We talked a week or so ago.”

  “I’d like to ask a couple more questions, if I might.”

  “I’m on my way out at the moment.”

  “I’ll make it quick.” I followed her down the driveway to the garage. “It’s about the compost bin. Can you tell me about your arrangement with Wes Harding?”

  “It wasn’t an arrangement, really. We just let him use it.”

  “On a daily basis?”

  “Heavens no. My husband and I, we dispose of most all our organic waste by composting, but lawn clippings and leaves were about all Wes ever brought over. And not that often.” She paused and glanced toward his place. “He didn’t care much for yard work, as you can probably tell.”

  I glanced next door. The grass was mowed — probably Jake’s doing — but the weeds were abundant, the shrubs overgrown and the flower beds empty. It looked a lot like my own yard had when I’d first moved in after my father’s death.

  “Was this a recent arrangement?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “No, Wes has been using it almost as long as he’s lived here. The couple before Wes kind of kept to themselves, so we were happy to have a neighborly sort move in. He was handy, too. Helped Herman install a new vanity in the bathroom.”

  I was surprised. I hadn’t imagined Wes as the neighborly sort. But I was coming to realize that I’d been wrong about a lot of things where Wes was concerned.

  “Did he check with you each time?” I asked.

  “Before he brought stuff over?”

  I nodded.

  “It wasn’t anything formal like that. He was welcome to use it anytime he wanted.”

  Willis must have loved learning that. Wes could easily have walked next door, disposed of the evidence — and no one would have noticed anything unusual.

  “How come you didn’t tell me about the compost bin when I talked with you before?”

  Mrs. Lincoln opened the garage door, then dusted her hands on her slacks. “I didn’t think about it,” she said.

  “You told the DA, though.”

  She looked me in the eye. “He asked.” Then she scowled. “If I’d known I was going to end up with a bunch of heavy-hoofed cops poking around my yard, I wouldn’t have told him, either.”

  “Do you mind if I take a look? I’ll be careful.”

  She hesitated. “I guess it’s okay. Just watch out for my tomato plants.”

  <><><>

  When Mrs. Lincoln had driven off I walked around the garage and into the rear yard. There was a small patio close to the house, rimmed with roses and well-tended flower beds. Farther to the back was a large vegetable garden, and behind that, partially screened by raspberry vines, were several wooden frames for composting. Nearby I noticed a matted area where the police had apparently raked through the compost mounds, spreading them thin. I could see how their efforts to restore order had fallen short of Mrs. Lincoln’s expectations.

  Turning, I followed what I thought was the most likely route between the two yards. There was no fence separating the Lincolns’ property from Wes’s, but a row of pines ran along what I assumed was the property line. Along the street in front a dense hedge obscured the yards from public view.

  Wes could no doubt have hidden evidence in the compost bin without raising suspicion. But it would have been almost as easy for anyone approaching from the street, particularly at night. For that matter, with Wes in jail and his house empty, anyone could have followed the same path between the houses I had.

  From my position near the corner of the house, I surveyed Wes’s rear yard. It was largely scrub brush and dry, wild grass. There’s a fine line between neglect and natural, and I thought Wes had probably crossed it. On the other hand, Jake had said he was focusing his efforts on the interior remodeling. He could hardly be expected to tackle a major landscaping job at the same time.

  Out of curiosity I approached Wes’s house and peeked through the rear windows. I could see a laundry room and an enclosed back porch that served as a storage area, and next to that the breakfast nook where Wes had begun stripping off layers of wallpaper. I knew from experience what a chore that was, especially when you reached those early papers that had been applied with hard-drying paste. It looked like Wes’s efforts had become stalled there, at an era when kitchen chic meant wallpaper with watering cans and stenciled geraniums in pots.

  When I got back to my car I checked my watch again and decided it was late enough to call Sam.

  Someday, when I was no longer scraping by, I was going to get myself a car phone. My perpetual search for pay phones had gotten old, fast. At the Chevron station I found a phone booth, but no phone. My luck was better at the convenience store next door.

  I reached Sam and told him about the underwear discovered in the Lincolns’ compost bin.

  “Have they made a positive link to Wes or either of the victims?”

  “Not so far.”

  Sam sighed. “We’d better keep our fingers crossed all the same.”

  “I’m not sure how much it matters. Willis is going to play this for everything he can. And the press is going to have a field day.”

  “You’re full of good news,” Sam humphed.

  “Actually, I may have some.” I told him about my meeting the prev
ious night with Jerry, Lisa’s ex-husband. “I’m going to see if I can get another look at her drawings. Jerry said she didn’t keep a diary the way Dr. Markley asked, but used her art for the same purpose.”

  “What’s a drawing going to tell you?”

  “I don’t know; maybe nothing. But I’d like to see for myself.”

  When I hung up I fished out another quarter and dialed Ed Cole’s office, hoping to get Lisa’s key. Unfortunately, he wasn’t in.

  Knowing that people sometimes hide spares outside, I drove to Lisa’s house. I was a little uneasy about the ethics of entering without Cole’s consent, but I tried to push my qualms aside. The police had finished with the house, Lisa’s parents had taken what they wanted and I was only going to borrow the sketchbooks, not take them permanently. In any case, I was reasonably sure Cole would have given me the go ahead, and I’d tell him what I’d done as soon as I could reach him.

  I parked at the end of the long drive and walked around to the back of the house, where I looked under the doormat and nearby flowerpots and loose rocks. I climbed under the porch to inspect the posts and then moved farther afield to the area near Amy’s tire swing. Nothing.

  I was growing hot and sticky and cranky. I decided to give up, and was headed around front when I saw a large white Cadillac pull into the driveway. The car looked familiar, but it wasn’t until Sheri Pearl opened the driver’s side door and stepped out that I realized why.

  As I stepped forward, she put a hand over her heart and let out a little shriek.

  “Good heavens, Kali, you scared me to death. What are you doing here?”

  “I might ask you the same thing.”

  “I came to look at the house.” Sheri closed the car door and locked it. The alarm gave a little chirp. “I’m working hard on getting this listing. The place is going to go for a bundle, and I want to be in on it, one way or another. If I’m both listing and selling agent, so much the better.”

  “Have you talked to Cole?”

  She tossed her head. “Of course I’ve talked to Cole. How do you think I got the key?"

  “You have the key?” I tried to stifle my excitement.

  She held it aloft with one finger. The key dangled from a loop of twine. “You think I’d drive out here on a weekend just to walk the property and size up the exterior?”

  “Can I tag along for a bit? Cole let me in earlier, so I don’t think he’d mind.”

  “You interested in buying it?”

  I shook my head. “I want to take a look at Lisa’s sketchbooks.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “I’m probably chasing rabbits, but I thought her drawings might tell me something about her murder.”

  Sheri dropped her car keys into her bag. “I suppose it’s all right. Truth is, I’m not any too happy going in there alone. It seems kind of spooky, if you know what I mean.”

  While Sheri toured the main floor of the house with clipboard and tape measure, I headed for the upstairs bedrooms. In the back of my mind I remembered seeing some spiral-bound sketchbooks in Lisa’s bedroom. I found them, plus a pad of drawing paper, in a desk drawer. I picked up the sketchbook from Amy’s room as well, then headed back downstairs to find Sheri.

  “I’m taking these books,” I told her, holding them out for inspection. “You want to make an inventory or something?”

  Sheri wasn’t interested. “Just be sure to tell Cole.”

  I nodded and stuck the sketchbooks in my canvas tote.

  “Will you hold the end of this tape for me?” Sheri asked. “I’m trying to get a rough estimate of square footage.”

  I held the end of the tape measure with my foot while she walked down the hallway, trailing the tape after her.

  “The house isn’t much,” she said, eyeing the narrow hallway with disdain. “I mean, it’s nice enough, but compared to the value of the property, the house is likely to be a secondary consideration. Whoever buys the place will certainly want to remodel and add on, maybe even tear it down and start over. That would be the wisest move.” She reeled in the tape and we went through the exercise again across the back of the house.

  “Anne Drummond loved this place,” I said. “She left it to Lisa precisely because she didn’t want it sold or torn down.”

  “Yeah, but they’re both gone now.”

  “It seems sad somehow.”

  “It’s not my decision, Kali. I’m simply doing my job.” Sheri jotted something on her clipboard. “I guess I’ve seen enough for now. I want to take a look at the barn. Will you come with me?”

  As we headed out back, Sheri continued to scrutinize the property in terms of sales potential. At the barn door she hesitated.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “It’s just an empty barn.”

  “It seems morbid.”

  “You’re the one who wanted to see it.”

  “I’m going to suggest they tear the barn down before listing the property. No buyer’s going to have use for the thing anyway. And it will just remind people of the murders.”

  I led the way into the dim interior. Since my last visit there’d been a proliferation of cigarette butts and gum wrappers. A small pyramid of empty beer cans had appeared under the loft. The boys had apparently returned. I wondered if Bongo was among them, or if finding the bodies had scared him off forever.

  Sheri sneezed. “It’s dusty in here. And smelly.” She looked around.”The structure is rickety. Useless, really. I can’t imagine why Anne Drummond didn’t tear the thing down herself, years ago.”

  “I think she used it for storage.”

  Sheri’s eyes surveyed the interior. She nodded in the direction of the storage shelves at one end of the barn. “Looks like she tried to make something useful of the place at one time. Seems a waste, though, to put shelving that sturdy out here where you couldn’t store anything that might be harmed by the elements. It’s got to be damp in the winter and infested with bugs the rest of the year.”

  We turned and started for the door, then stopped short when we heard a scratching sound from behind the barn. Sheri turned white.

  “What was that?” she whispered.

  “Probably an animal. A squirrel or rat—”

  She grabbed my arm and pulled herself up on her toes. “Rat?”

  There was another thump and then a cough. Sheri dug her nails into my flesh. “Animals don’t cough.”

  I unwound her fingers from my arm and darted for the door. I got there just in time to see a hunched figure scurrying for the woods.

  “It was only Granger,” I told her.

  “Who?”

  I explained.

  “I hope to God he stays away once the property is listed.” She dusted off her skirt. “That’s another reason to tear the barn down. Rats and bums don’t do a lot for sales potential.”

  Probably not. But Sheri’s single-minded focus on marketing and financial gain left a sour taste in my mouth. It also reminded me that I’d yet to connect with Robert “Bud” Simmons. As we headed back to the front of the house, I asked Sheri if she knew him.

  “Doesn’t ring a bell,” she said. “Why?”

  “He has a client who’s interested in the property.”

  “There are going to be a number of people interested. That’s why I’m doing everything I can to be part of it.” Sheri unlocked her car. “I’ve got to run some stuff over to Mother and then get on to an appointment. I’m dreading it because I know she’ll expect me to stay and visit. When I tell her I can’t she’ll fall into a funk. Assuming it’s one of the days she even remembers who I am.”

  I nodded. It was hard to know what to expect with Irma Pearl. That’s what made it so hard. Some days her mind was clear and lucid; others, she lived in a world of her own making.

  Sheri tossed her clipboard into the backseat. “I hate to disappoint her, but I simply don’t have time to sit there making small talk. It’s taking a lot of my energy just getting her house ready to put on the market. I had to sort through eve
rything before I brought in the movers and—”

  “Why don’t you let me take her whatever it is she needs.”

  Sheri lifted her head. “You wouldn’t mind?”

  “Not at all.” On some level I owed Sheri a favor for letting me into Lisa’s house. But I also found that visits with Irma Pearl eased my conscience. Although it was the judge, and not me, who’d ultimately decided she needed a conservator, I couldn’t help feeling rotten about my role in bringing it about.

  I stuck the bundle Sheri had given me into my canvas tote, along with Lisa’s sketches, and headed for the Twin Pines Rest Home.

  Chapter 28

  Irma Pearl was having one of her better days. She was not only lucid, but cheerful. Her hair was clean and combed, and she was dressed in a cotton shirtwaist rather than a robe. A smile of recognition crossed her face the moment she saw me.

  “Kali. What a pleasant surprise.”

  “I brought you a package from Sheri. She wanted to come herself, but she had an unexpected business appointment.”

  “That poor girl works herself too hard,” Mrs. Pearl said. “Always has. I don’t think she knows the meaning of rest. And now, of course, she’s got me to worry about as well. I hate being a burden on her.”

  “I’m sure Sheri doesn’t see it that way.” I figure white lies don’t count.

  Her face clouded. “It’s no fun growing old, I’ll tell you that.”

  We were sitting at one end of a large lounge — a pleasant, airy space that opened onto a patio and a garden. The walls were painted a soft yellow and adorned with framed landscapes. The floor was carpeted, the furniture comfortable and homey. Although the ambience was hardly nursing-home institutional, it wasn’t home.

  “And don’t tell me growing old is better than the alternative,” Irma Pearl added, “because some days I’m not so sure that’s true.” Her expression was troubled, as though she’d bitten into a lemon when expecting chocolate. “I never thought I’d end up in an old-folks home.”