Evidence of Guilt (32 page)

"And I know of at least one other man who claims Lisa was a tease."

Caroline looked doubtful.

"Personally, I'd give Duane the benefit of the doubt if I were you."

"Mommy! "Jeremy's shriek reverberated down the hallway from the other room.

"I'm coming, sweetie."

"And I'm leaving," I said, thanking her for her time.

I was rewarded with a tentative smile and a face that was only partially teary.

I headed back to the office feeling disgruntled and testy. I wasn't at all sure I was making progress. Certainly none that was going to exonerate Wes. It was like being in a field of prairie dogs; I'd see what looked to be a promising lead, but by the time I got closer it had disappeared, only to pop up again at a later date elsewhere.

I was glad I was meeting Tom for dinner that evening. I'd try to leave the prairie dogs behind.

Although the menu at Raffino's listed such tempting fare as veal piccata and fettuccine with clams, the food itself was marginal. As far as Tom and I were concerned, the real attraction was the outdoor patio, where the feather-touch of warm evening air and the sweep of black velvet overhead more than made up for inadequacies in the kitchen. Tom raised his wineglass and tapped it lightly against

mine. "You're not mad at me for standing you up the other night?"

I shook my head. "How was Erin's performance?"

"Quite good. She made a terrific prince."

"Prince?"

"They did a modern adaptation of 'Sleeping Beauty.' "

"And how's Lynn?"

He shrugged. "Damon's moving out."

"Permanently?"

"That's the big question. Seems like instant family was more than he bargained for."

"I thought he and the kids got along."

"They do, but apparently he feels that having them under foot doesn't allow him enough 'personal space.' "

I raised a hand in protest.

"I'm only reporting what I've been told."

"It's Damon's house, though."

Tom's face darkened. "Yeah, that's a problem."

I was feeling a little the way you do when there's been a small earthquake; you sense the imbalance, but everything looks the same. "What's going to happen?" I asked.

A half-shrug. Tom ran his hand through his hair and smiled grimly. "Life is full of surprises."

Wasn't it, though. I tried to read his reaction, but I couldn't decipher the expression on his face or the tone of his words. Tom has a tendency to bury his feelings, the way a dog buries a bone. I'm sure that, like a dog, he pulls them out when he's alone and gnaws on them, but he guards them vigilantly otherwise.

"You heard about Dr. Markley?" he asked, cutting abruptly into my speculation about Lynn.

I nodded.

"The photos looked bad. The car was almost flattened.

It must have rolled a number of times before coming to a stop."

"Who's covering the story for you?"

"Charlie. Why?"

Just wondering if you'd heard anything that might indicate it wasn't an accident."

"You suspect foul play?"

"The timing seems suspicious. I can't help thinking there might be a connection between her death and the Cornell murders."

"I'll ask around." Tom paused. "Sounds like you're thinking that maybe Wes Harding is telling the truth."

It wasn't a question, but it invited a response. 'There was a lot going on in Lisa's life, more than I'd imagined. The headaches and therapy, a family background right out of afternoon television, an ex-husband no one knows much about, a fiance she felt it necessary to lie to."

"And you think somewhere in all of this there's a motive for murder?"

"I think it's worth exploring. Lisa herself was something of a mystery." I told Tom about the shaggy-haired man she'd been meeting at the Last Chance, and about the incident with Duane Anderson. I left out her flirtation with Wes, which I regarded as confidential. But it was that revelation, and Wes's discomfort in retelling it, that had first persuaded me he might truly be innocent.

The waiter brought our salads and refilled our wineglasses. Tom sipped thoughtfully for a moment.

"Lisa struck me as the girl-next-door type," he said. "Like someone you might find in an ad for Ivory soap or Sunshine laundry detergent."

I looked up. "You knew her?"

"I'd seen her at the diner. Then about a month or so ago she came
by
the paper to look through old editions."

"What was she after?"

He shrugged. "She spent a couple of hours going through the files, then wanted to see the property records."

"What property?"

"I don't know. That's not the kind of stuff we have. I sent her over to City Hall."

My fork was halfway to my mouth. I set it down and made a mental note to try reaching Robert Simmons again. He had been interested in buying the Cornell place, and Lisa herself had been interested in property records. Maybe there was something to the real estate angle after all.

"What were you doing fielding research inquiries?" I asked Tom. The newspaper was small, but not that small.

"Lisa came to my office. I guess it was because she knew I worked there."

"You don't work there; you own it. Why would Lisa come to you personally to ask about old papers?"

He shook his head. "We'd kid around sometimes at the diner. I gave her a ride home once when her car wouldn't start. I guess mine was the only familiar name on the door."

"So she just walked right in?"

"Apparently so."

The waiter cleared our salad plates. I waited until he left, then turned back to Tom. "You never told me you knew Lisa."

"I didn't."

I sat forward. "But you did." The words had a sharpness I hadn't intended.

"Okay, if you want to mess with semantics, I did. But barely." The lines in his brow deepened. "What's the problem here?"

I didn't know exactly. Tom was right, though; it bothered me that Lisa had come to see him. Most people who wanted old papers went to the front desk.

"Did she flirt with you?"

Tom frowned. "Flirt?"

"Yes. You do know the meaning of the word, don't you?"

"What's with you tonight?"

I smiled weakly over my wineglass. "Humor me."

"No, Lisa did not flirt with me," he said. "And, for the record, I didn't flirt with her, either."

I leaned back. Duane, Wes and the shaggy-haired man, but not Tom. It did indeed take all kinds.

I touched his hand. "Believe it or not, that was an inquiry of a professional nature. It goes to defense strategy-"

He gave a clipped laugh. "No wonder lawyers have a bad name."

We drove home with the windows down and the radio volume up. It made me feel like a teenager again.

"Do you think kids still park at that same spot down by the river?" I asked.

"Probably." His fingers traced a lazy
s
on the back of my neck. 'You interested in reliving your youth?"

I gave it serious consideration. Tom's truck had a bench seat, fairly wide, and no floor gearshift. I'd certainly managed under worse conditions, but I'd been younger then and my back more forgiving. "I think I'll opt for the comfort of a mattress."

"You're getting old, Red." He shook his head sadly.

"Guess I'm going to have to look elsewhere for excitement."

"You want excitement?" Strategically, I placed my hand on his thigh.

He grinned. "Let's get back in one piece, first."

My message light was blinking when we got home. Sabrina had called, and the bartender from the Last Chance. His message was brief. "That man you were looking for, he's here."

I found Tom stretched out on the bed, hands behind his head. He was still dressed, but his feet were bare. He grinned. "What was that you were saying about excitement?"

I took a moment to admire the view, then told him about the message. "I'm sorry. I've got to talk to him."

"You can't do it another time?"

I wavered. If only I could be certain there would be another time. Finally I shook my head. "This might be my only chance. I think I'd better see him tonight."

Tom groaned and rolled off the bed. "Okay. Let me get my keys."

"I think it would be better if I went alone."

"What? Are you crazy?"

I hoped I wasn't. "I suspect he'll be more willing to talk if it's just me."

"And what if he's somehow tied to the killings?"

"It's not late, and there are bound to be other people at the bar."

Tom shook his head. "I'll drive you and wait outside if you want. But it's--"

His words were interrupted by the chirp of his beeper. He checked the display, then grabbed the phone and punched in a number.

"What is it?"

"I don't know, but it's Lynn's number. Something must have happened to one of the kids."

I held my breath until I'd listened to enough conversation to pick up on the fact that no one was hurt. Then I went into the other room to wait. Tom came in a moment later. His expression was grim, but more angry than frightened.

"Is everything okay?" I asked him.

"Nick got sprayed by a skunk. He's hysterical and, unfortunately, so is Lynn. I've got to go take care of this."

Tom pulled on his shoes. "Hopefully it won't take long. We can head over to the Last Chance as soon as I'm finished."

"I don't know how long the shaggy-haired man will be there. You go take care of Nick; I can handle the Last Chance alone."

Tom started to grumble a protest, then wisely ceased. He knows how much I dislike being lectured to.

"At least take my cell phone," he muttered. "And don't do anything stupid."

I readily agreed to both.

The Last Chanee was more crowded than it had been on my previous visit, but it still wasn't packed the way some places are. The music was subdued, the noise level almost tolerable. The tables were occupied by singles and couples, rather than large groups, and about half the spots at the bar were empty. Ricky, die bartender, was making change for a big-bellied man in lizard-skin boots and a pair of jeans at least one size too small for his frame.

I slid onto the nearest stool and caught Ricky's eye. "Is the man still here?"

Ricky nodded, then leaned on the counter, bringing his face close to mine.

"Where?" I asked.

He held out a hand, palm open. A snide smile flickered across his lips. "You're forgetting something."

I opened my purse and counted out the bills. He counted them again himself, before folding his wealth and slipping it into his pocket

"There at the end of the bar," Ricky said. The guy in the denim shirt."

Although the man was sitting, I could tell that he was long and thin. He was clean shaven, with a narrow, angular face and dusty blond hair that hung unevenly around his face like the dry, wild grasses of summer. When I got closer I saw that his nose was slightly bent, as though it had been broken at some point and never set.

Luckily, the stool next to him was vacant. I slid onto it, ordered a beer and waited for him to glance my way.

He didn't. Instead, he remained hunched over his nearly empty glass, fingering a pack of matches.

Finally I grew tired of the passive approach. "You come here often?" I asked, grimacing inwardly at the cliched opening.

The man looked over, letting his eyes run down my body and back up again. They were glassy and a bit bloodshot. "Some," he said. "How about you?"

"Just once before. I'm kind of new to the area."

"That makes two of us." He hailed the bartender and ordered another beer. "Where are you from?"