Evidence of Guilt (19 page)

"Did she say why she was making the change?"

"Not specifically, but I know she wanted the house to go to someone who would live here. I think she was worried Lisa's mother would sell the place."

"Were Lisa and her aunt close?"

"I got the feeling it had been several years since they'd seen each other. I doubt they'd even been in touch until Anne learned she was sick. But Lisa lived with Anne for a while when she was a child. I imagine there's a pretty strong bond that develops in a situation like that."

"What made Mrs. Drummond think Lisa wouldn't sell?"

"She worried about that," Cole said, "but the two of them apparently talked it over."

"Anne Drummond must have cared deeply about the property."

"She did. But she was also a funny lady; you couldn't always follow her logic."

"She lived alone?"

He nodded. "She was married, but her husband ran off years ago. They'd only been married a short while when he left her. He was a handsome fellow, although I never did like him much. He was one of those types who smiles too often and walks with a swagger. Thought he was better than everyone else."

Sounded a lot like one of my old boyfriends, only he'd had the decency to run off before we made it official. "She never remarried?" I asked.

"Nope. Never got a formal divorce either. Some people thought that was because she was still pining for him, but you want my opinion, I think she just forgot about him."

We pulled into the long gravel drive and parked. "Did Anne Drummond leave everything she owned to Lisa?"

"Just the property and furnishings." Cole searched

through his pockets for the key. " 'Course there wasn't much else except for a small savings account. Left that to charity."

He opened the door and we stepped inside. "Things are pretty much as they were when Anne lived here," he said, flipping on a light. "I don't think Lisa had much stuff of her own, or maybe she just preferred what was here."

The house had a heavy, closed-up smell and a visible layer of dust, but it was otherwise clean. The decor was simple but inviting. Lots of pine and oak and nubby fabrics in solid, strong colors. An oil landscape hung above the stone fireplace, a braided rug lay in front of the hearth. Otherwise the walls and floor were bare.

Although it was clearly a house that had been lived in, most of the personal touches were Amy's. There was a stuffed tiger on the sofa, a glazed clay impression of a child's hand on the mantel, a copy of
Ranger Rick
on the coffee table. Games and children's books filled the bookshelf near the door.

Comfortable and homey. I tried not to dwell on the two people whose abbreviated lives were reflected in the surroundings.

^c
What are you looking for?" Cole asked. "Maybe I can lend a hand."

"I don't know exactly. A desk calendar, address book, bills -- anything that might help me piece together what happened the night Lisa died. I'm also looking for a small notebook she might have used as her diary."

Cole jangled the keys and change in his pocket. "Her parents took a lot of her papers, but you're welcome to look around. I think there's a calendar by the phone in the kitchen. She had some letters and manila envelopes in the bedroom, though they were probably among the

things her parents packed up. I need to verify a few items for probate; then I'll come back and help you look."

I found the calendar by the phone--a week-at-a-glance publication from UNICEF. It was still open to the first week of August. Nothing was penciled in for the night she died, not even her date with Stockman. There was a ten o'clock dentist appointment for Amy written in for Wednesday, a notation about two dozen cookies on Tuesday, and a cryptic "GD" listed for Sunday. Granger? I'd have to check to see if anyone knew his last name.

I flipped through earlier weeks and found nothing illuminating.

I didn't find an address book, but I did find a short list of numbers at the front of the phone book. I copied them onto the back of an envelope I pulled from my purse. I recognized Caroline's name and Mrs. Arabagucci's, and surmised the others would prove to be of a similar nature.

From the kitchen I moved on to Lisa's bedroom--a large, sunny, second-floor room at the back of the house. There was a four-poster bed to the left of the door, a tall chest at one end of the opposite wall, a rocking chair and low table at the other. As was true with the rest of the house, the room had little in the way of Lisa's personal touch. No photographs, books, mementos. But maybe they'd already been packed up by her mother and stepfather.

I started with the bottom drawer of the chest, which was empty, worked my way up past the jeans and T-shirts to the underwear in the topmost drawer. Amid the simple white cotton briefs and bras I found a pair of lace Gstring pants that suggested "gift" I wondered if they had come from Philip or a previous admirer, and whether Lisa had found skimpy lingerie as impractical and uncomfortable as I did.

Cole appeared in the doorway just as I finished my search. "Any luck?" he asked.

I shook my head.

"I've got an inventory for the stuff her parents took back at the office. It wasn't much. They tagged the furniture they wanted to keep and asked me to ship it when the legalities were straightened out."

On our way downstairs we passed what was clearly Amy's room. Pink-and-white-striped wallpaper, a ruffled bedspread, and an abundance of stuffed animals.

"Mind if I look here too?" I asked.

"Go ahead, as long as it won't take too long."

I gave the closets and cupboards a cursory inspection. Nothing but toys and children's books. The drawers held clothing, both child-size and doll-size. On the wall shelf, next to a wooden puzzle which spelled "Amy," I found crayons and a spiral sketchbook.

Opening the book, I flipped through the pages. They were filled largely with colorful, childlike scribblings. At the back there were pages of adult-quality sketches followed by a child's attempt to imitate them. Several depicted dilapidated barns and gnarly trees. Another was a page of tiny flowers that reminded me of the wallpaper from my grandmother's house when I was young. In addition, there were three pages of eyes and brows, as if the artist had been perfecting her technique, and a couple more of complete faces. The corresponding child's sketches would have been indecipherable on their own, but with the adult drawings as a guide, I found it relatively easy to make sense of the younger artist's efforts.

Cole peered over my shoulder. "Like mother, like daughter."

"Lisa drew these? They're quite good." This was another

side of Lisa I wasn't familiar with. I knew the wide smile and friendly manner, the proud and devoted mother, the waitress with boundless energy. But her artistic talent, like her upcoming marriage and her problem with the headaches, was an area we'd never touched on. I wondered what other facets of her character I'd find if I looked.

"I assume they're hers," Cole said. 'There were a couple of sketchbooks among the things her parents packed up and took with them."

He turned to the last page--stick figures of a mother and daughter holding hands. The body lines were too sure to have been drawn by a child, but the red crayon smiles, which extended well beyond the confines of the face, bore the clear stamp of a five-year-old hand.

I had a sudden vision of Lisa and Amy, curled side by side on the sofa, heads bent, maybe giggling in conspiratorial fashion as they crafted the picture together.

My chest grew tight and my throat burned. Mother and daughter, both now dead.

When I got back to the office I found the door locked. Taped to the front was a note from Myra:
Be back soon.
Since she hadn't bothered to indicate the hour, or the date, I had no idea when "soon" might be. Not that Myra's notion of time and my own had much commonality anyway.

Once I opened the door it was clear she'd at least been there that morning. The day's mail was stacked on the left side of my desk, phone messages on the right. There was nothing of note in either pile except for a white business-size envelope marked "personal and confidential."

That always gets my attention, even though nine times out often it's a gimmick. The last such missive had offered me a record-breaking low price on hand-tailored suits from Hong Kong.

I took the letter into my office and opened it. This time it wasn't a sales pitch.

The envelope contained a single sheet of standard typing paper, erratically folded over on itself. The note, typed

on what looked to be a manual machine, consisted of two lines:
Who the hell do you think you are, anyway ? I wait for the day you suffer like they did.

I read the note a second time, and then a third. My heart, which had stalled for a beat or two, began thumping noisily, like a dog's tail against hard ground.

I knew I shouldn't take it personally. Criminal cases tend to push people's buttons. And a case like ours, which involved a particularly disturbing crime, was bound to tap the public's frustrations and fears.

Nonetheless, the words had the intended effect: first shock, and then alarm. I felt goosebumps run across my shoulders and up my neck. For a moment I had trouble breathing.

Finally I wadded the letter up tight, tossed it into the trash and tried my best to forget I'd ever seen it. Out of sight, out of mind.

I reached for the stack of phone messages but ended up dialing Sam instead.

"Have you received any hate mail?" I asked.

"For which particular sin?"

I told him about the letter, tried to make light of it and failed miserably.

"No, nothing like that," Sam said. "Not recently anyway. I've had my fair share of hate mail on previous cases, though, and I'm sure I haven't seen the end of it." His tone, like his message, was reassuring.

"It's more upsetting than I thought it would be."

He mumbled concurrence. "It always is, but I don't think you should worry about it unless you get others. Judging from what went on in court yesterday, people's feelings are running pretty high. That's not unusual in a case like this."

With the phone tucked under my chin, I sorted through the stack of mail a second time, just to be safe. The tension across my shoulders eased when I found nothing the least bit suspicious.

"What did you learn about the Cornell property?" Sam asked.

"Nothing useful. There's interest, but there's been interest for years. Cole gave me a couple of names. Most are people he knows, but one, a guy by the name of Robert Simmons in the 415 area code, might lead to something. I'll call this afternoon."

I removed a flyer for a free blueberry muffin from the stack of otherwise mundane mail. "When all's said and done it's really not much of a lead. Even if you wanted the property enough to kill for it, there's no guarantee you'd be the one to end up with it once Lisa was dead."

"Unless you inherited directly."

"Yeah, I had thought of that." I read the fine print on the flyer and discovered the muffin was free only with the purchase of a full dozen. I dropped it into the trash. Then I bent over a second time and retrieved the note I'd wadded up earlier.

"Any idea who that would be?" Sam asked.

"Probably Lisa's mother, but maybe her husband." I repeated what Cole had told me. "If the divorce wasn't final, the property might arguably go to him."

"How about the Friday night phone call? Any luck there?"

"Nothing. I wasn't able to find Lisa's diary either. I have a feeling it could prove to be important. Her parents packed up a couple of boxes of stuff. I thought I'd check with them, see if they have it."

"Good thinking," Sam said. "You ought to be able to get

a feel for the mother's interest in the property as well. Where do they live?"

"Los Angeles."

"That's good. You can get down and back in a day. You think you could do it tomorrow?"

I rocked forward. "Who said anything about a personal visit?"

"If they've got the diary, you're going to want to look at it, right? So you'll end up going there anyway. Jake Harding wants us to leave no stone unturned. An expense this minor, it's nothing. We don't even need to clear it with him."

"It wasn't the expense I was thinking of."

Sam made a sound of disgust. "Planes are safer than cars, Kali. But if you'd rather take a couple of days and drive down ..."