Evidence of Guilt (14 page)

"Goodness, no." She reached for another chocolate. "We're just here today to see my grandma. She's very old." Irma leaned forward conspiratorially. "She's so old, she can't even go to the bathroom by herself." A thin line of chocolate drool dribbled down the side of Irma's chin. "She's so old, even, that she
smells,
but we can't say anything because it might hurt her feelings." She held the box of chocolates out to me. "You want a piece?"

I shook my head. Whatever my ill-defined objective in visiting Irma Pearl, the answer was fairly clear to me. There

wasn't anything to be gained by involving her in the difficult and emotionally laden decision of selling the house that was once her home.

I spent another few minutes talking with her, then headed out to pay a visit to Philip Stockman. A visit that was bound to be as uncomfortable as my visit with Irma, although for entirely different reasons.

II

I considered calling ahead and then discarded the idea. It might have been the mannerly thing to do, but it wasn't likely to help. By showing up at Stockman's door unannounced, on the other hand, I might be able to get in a word or two before he slammed the thing in my face. At the very least I'd be able to get a firsthand impression of the guy.

The Stockman home, set a good quarter mile up a winding private drive, was large, though not nearly as large as I'd expected. Nor as grand. It was an older house, immaculately maintained, but with none of the showy extravagance that often seems to follow money.

I rang the bell and braced myself for a quick rebuff.

The door was answered not by a man, or even a teenaged boy, but by a tall, stern-faced woman who appeared to be in her late forties. I might have taken her for a housekeeper but for the fact that she was dressed in an expensive-looking silk shirtwaist and clutched a section of the morning newspaper in her hand.

"I'm here to see Philip Stockman," I said. "Is he in?"

"Do you have an appointment? He didn't mention it."

I shook my head, taken aback by the question. "No appointment. Do I need one?"

"You should have called first. However, since you're here .. ." She looked at her watch. "Mr. Stockman is still at church, but he should be back any minute. Why don't you come inside and wait."

She didn't ask for my name, which was too bad, because I was dying to know hers. And her connection to Philip Stockman.

The door opened wider and she stepped back, motioning me into the hallway. I caught a whiff of furniture polish--the real beeswax stuff, not the aerosol imitation you buy in the grocery.

The house was furnished in a style befitting its vintage-- lots of brocade and velvet and spindly furniture of dark mahogany. Undeniably elegant, but too stiff and formal for my tastes.

The woman led me to a small sitting room, offered me tea, which I declined, then announced she'd let Stockman know I was here as soon as he arrived. At the doorway she hesitated, started to say something, then apparently decided against it. With a nod in my direction, she was gone.

Left to my own devices, I explored the room. The bookcase on the far wall held a collection of works in what looked to be German, several volumes on California history and two rows of
Reader's Digest
Condensed Books dating back to the 1950s. Prominently displayed on a separate, angled shelf was a leather-bound Bible, which from the inscription at the front I gathered had belonged to Philip's grandfather. There was a sepia-toned globe of the world at one end of the sofa and a lace-covered table

dotted with ceramic knickknacks at the other. The magazines on the low table in front were a mix of Christian-living and business-related publications, although a copy of
Popular Mechanics
had somehow found its way there as well. A crystal candy dish, filled with sugar drops, rested atop the piano. I took a cinnamon ball and sucked on it while I listened to the grandfather clock tick away the minutes.

I was about ready to give up and come back another day when I heard a car pull to a stop in front of the house. Moments later a fair-haired man, thick around the middle, strode into the room and offered me his hand. "I'm Philip Stockman," he said, settling himself on the edge of the chair across from me. 'Thank you for waiting."

I murmured something unintelligible. This was not the reception I'd expected.

Philip Stockman looked to be in his early fifties, with a broad, flat face, determined mouth and pale eyes that were magnified by silver-framed glasses. His hairline had receded to a wide U, leaving him with a high, polished forehead surrounded by closely cropped gray. He wasn't unattractive, but he was certainly not the sort of man I'd have pictured with Lisa Cornell.

"Let me tell you a bit about the job first," he said, "and then if you're interested, we can get into the details."

So that was it. I started to explain. "I'm--"

Stockman cut me off. "Please, let me finish." He cleared his throat. "The job is ostensibly one of housekeeper, but in truth what I need is a babysitter. Or more accurately, a chaperone." He offered a weak smile. "You can't tell a sixteen-year-old boy you're leaving him with a babysitter."

"I imagine not, but why I'm--"

He continued as though I hadn't interrupted. "I know

there are people who leave children that age alone, but I don't approve. It's just asking for trouble. There are far too many temptations, even for the best of them."

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "Not that Daniel would cause any problems himself. He's a good boy, and he's been raised properly. But you never know when friends will show up uninvited. You get a bunch of kids together and . . . and things happen." He pressed the fingers of his two hands together and frowned. "My sister, Helene, lives here with us. You met her earlier."

I nodded, even though it wasn't a question.

"She and I run a family business," Stockman continued, "a chain of hardware stores. We're going to be traveling quite a bit in the next few months and I need someone to hold down the fort while we're gone. We wouldn't expect any heavy cleaning; just a little cooking and picking up around the place."

When he paused I seized the opportunity to set things straight "Mr. Stockman, I'm not here about a job. I'm here about Lisa Cornell."

Stockman's face froze, as though he'd been unexpectedly doused with ice water.

"I'm an attorney looking into her death."

"I thought they already had the guy."

"They have
a
guy. I represent him."

There was a moment's silence while the words sank in. "You're working for the guy who killed Lisa?" His voice was tight and rose with each word. The muscle under his eye twitched.

"I'm working for the man who's accused of killing her."

The twitch grew more pronounced. 'That must be quite a burden," he said with thinly veiled hostility.

"Not nearly so heavy as the burden of putting away an innocent man."

Stockman took off his glasses and wiped them on his sleeve. "That's pure poppycock, you know. The man's as guilty as they come. If he burns in hell for all eternity, it won't be punishment enough as far as I'm concerned."

"Why do you think he's guilty?"

"He was arrested, wasn't he? The evidence they have against him is more than ample. I guarantee you that rabbit's foot didn't walk there on its own. I know his kind. Believe me, they have no respect for anything." He gave me a hard look. "What's your name?"

"Kali O'Brien." I handed him a business card.

"You have one hell of a lot of nerve, Ms. O'Brien."

Helene entered just then, with tea. A pudgy teenage boy trailed behind her.

'This woman's not here about the job," Stockman said brusquely. "She's an attorney. She wants to talk about Lisa."

"Lisa? Why would . . ."A look bounced between them and she stopped midway across the room. "Philip, I'm sorry. I just assumed ... I mean the other ..."

He sighed, long and loudly. "It's okay, Helene. You might as well set out the tea since it's made."

Helene gave me a dirty look, as though my sole purpose in visiting had been to trip her up. She set the tea tray on the table between us, handed me a cup and sat down without saying a word. The boy, who I assumed was Daniel, grabbed a handful of cookies from the tray and sat near her.

Stockman sipped his tea, his expression stern. "Ms. O'Brien, I'm a Christian and a gentleman, and a proud

American. And I have faith in our judicial system, so I'm not going to throw you out of here on your ear. I'll talk to you, but I don't want to hear any nonsense about innocent defendants or tainted evidence." He set the cup down. "Now, what is it you want to know? I don't have all morning."

"I'm trying to find out more about Lisa. Her friends, her hobbies, her activities the night she was killed. I understand the two of you were seeing each other."

"We were engaged," he replied, with emphasis on the last word.

"Had you known her long?"

"Long enough. We met in church. Lisa sang in the choir."

Daniel added three spoonsful of sugar to his tea, then proceeded to slurp it noisily.

"Her voice was lovely," Stockman continued, "like everything else about her. If you'd known her, you'd appreciate what a terrible loss her death is."

"I did know her, though only slightly."

"Lisa hadn't had an easy life, but she didn't let that stop her. She talked about going back to school after we were married, maybe getting her degree."

"How did you feel about that?"

"It was all right by me. We have a housekeeper who comes in to clean twice a week, so Lisa would have had plenty of free time."

"You were going to continue living here after you were married?"

He looked surprised at my question. "Yes, of course. I've lived here since I was a child. There's not another house of this quality in the whole county. And the fur-

nishings are pieces my parents collected during their travels, selected by them especially for this house."

I wondered how Lisa felt about the arrangement I know what my own reaction would have been. Something of my skepticism must have shown. "There's plenty of room," Philip said. "And Helene would be lost without us."

"I've practically raised Daniel," Helene added. "I couldn't bear to lose him." She smiled at the boy, who continued to munch on his stack of cookies, oblivious to the expression of affection.

Lisa was getting a package deal, I thought. Along with a husband, she got his house, his sister and his son. And probably a lot of family history. "Had you set a wedding date?" I asked.

"Not a specific date, no."

"It was set," Helene said with a certain huffiness, "until Lisa put it off."

Stockman gave his sister a harsh glance. "She just needed a little more time to adjust to the idea," he explained. "I think her first marriage made her a little gun-shy."

"The guy was a total jerk," Daniel said, chomping into yet another cookie.

"Daniel, please." Stockman's voice was sharp.

"What guy?" I asked.

"Her husband."

"You've met him?"

"Only once," Stockman said, taking over for his son. "The man showed up here in town a couple of months ago. Wanted to spend time with Amy. That's the kind of father he was. Hadn't seen the kid for over a year, then suddenly he's got this hankering for a relationship."

"What was Lisa's reaction?"

Distaste colored his face. "Lisa wanted
Amy
to know her father."

"Do you know where I might reach him?"

"Sorry, I don't." Stockman's tone was brusque.

"How about his name?"

"Sylva. Jerry Sylva. Lisa went back to using her maiden name after they separated."

We were close to finishing our tea and I hadn't even begun with my questions about Lisa's death. "I'm trying to trace Lisa's activities the day she was killed," I said. "I know she got home from work about four. Do you have any idea what she might have done between then and the time she was killed?"

"Not specifically," Stockman said. "She was planning to come for dinner that evening. Nothing fancy; it was our standard Friday night arrangement.
A
chance for the kids to get to know one another."