Evidence of Guilt (39 page)

From memory I started a list of the particulars Sam was to have covered, filling in the results when I could. On a separate sheet of paper I kept a running list of open questions. When I'd covered everything that came readily to mind I grabbed a soda out of Sam's little refrigerator and settled back to take stock.

The big question in my mind, aside from the issue of the underwear, was Lisa's sketch. Was it really Barry Drummond?

I tried to think who would have been in town twenty years ago who might be able to tell me. Tom might be able to unearth a picture from the newspaper files, but it would be a long, tedious search with no guarantee of results.

Then it hit me: Ron and Reena Swanson. As I'd hoped, I reached Ron and not Reena.

"Would you happen to have a picture of Barry Drummond?" I asked.

"Reena might have one somewhere. I'm not sure. Why?"

I explained. "I'd like to know whether the sketch is re ally him before I invest much time in this line of thinking."

"Why don't you fax us a copy of Lisa's sketch?" Ron said.

The joys of modern technology. I complain about it sometimes, but it's mighty useful when you need it. "I think her sketchbook is still in my car. I'll run down and get it."

Ron gave me his fax number. I hurried to grab the picture and slid it through the machine. Then I sipped my soda and waited. Five minutes later the phone rang.

"Reena says it looks like him. She thinks she has a picture somewhere, but it will take time to find it."

"Would Lisa have known Drummond when she was a child?"

'Yes. In fact, Lisa was staying with Anne and Barry at the time he took off. I think she'd been there for several months by then. It was right after Barry left that Anne insisted Reena come get Lisa and take her home. I think the shock of losing her husband probably upset her more than she let on."

The pieces fit. If only I could decipher the picture they made. I thanked Ron Swanson for his help.

"No problem. Let me know if there's anything else."

"Actually, there is one other thing."

"What's that?"

"I was trying to remember what you said the other evening. Didn't you tell me that you and Reena hadn't talked to Lisa in months?"

I could sense
the
caution even before he spoke. "That's right."

"I wanted to check because a woman who worked with Lisa said you came by the diner to see her about a month ago."

There was a moment's hesitation. "We hardly talked."

"But you did come to see her?"

"Yes." He sighed. "I did. I was in the area. I wanted to see if I could mend the rift, for Reena's sake. She always hoped Lisa would get over whatever it was that turned her against us. And then, when we learned we had a grandchild ... well, it made losing Lisa even harder."

"What was Lisa's reaction?"

"She said she was working on it. That maybe things would be different soon. I didn't want to tell Reena because I didn't want to give her false hope."

The truth or an easy explanation? I wasn't entirely sure, but I leaned toward the former.

When I got off the phone I stared at the picture of the man I now knew to be Barry Drummond. Barry Drummond as he looked twenty years ago. Why had Lisa drawn him? And more importantly, what role, if any, had he played in her death?

I called the hospital to check on Sam. No change. I tried to convince myself the news was encouraging. I called Tom, but he wasn't at home. Tried my own number to see if Benson had left a message. He hadn't. Finally I gathered my papers and called Sam's sister, Pat.

"I don't think there's much in the way of Sam's work here at the house," she said, "but you're welcome to look. If you don't mind prefab microwave, you're welcome to stay for dinner, as well. I could use some company about now."

That made two of us.

Pat had showered and changed since I'd seen her that morning, and probably found a couple of hours' sleep too, since she looked a bit less ragged.

"I hate feeling helpless like this," she said, leading the way inside. "Sam's in the hospital fighting for his life, and there's nothing I can do to help."

I nodded agreement.

Her short legs set a brisk stride. "I was just going to fix myself a vodka tonic. Would you like one?"

"That sounds wonderful."

While Pat made the drinks, I went into the spare room that Sam used as an office. It had been his wife's sewing room before her death and he'd changed very little. A four-drawer file cabinet occupied the corner alcove where the dressmaker's mannequin had stood, a wall of books had replaced the cubicles of yarns and threads and the desktop was strewn with papers rather than pieces of pattern and fabric. But the walls were still yellow, the curtains edged in eyelet and the narrow wicker chaise with its floral covering still occupied a major portion of the room.

I checked the desk first, then the file drawers. Nothing relating to the Harding case. On a pad beside the phone he'd scratched Barry Drummond's name and doodled a border of concentric circles around it, the way he often did when he was thinking. I imagined Sam sitting there in his chair, listening to the message I'd left yesterday after my visit with Irma Pearl. It seemed ages ago now.

When I'd satisfied myself that Sam had no case files at home I went to find Pat. She handed me my drink and suggested we sit on the front porch where it was cool. We sipped our drinks, shared anecdotes about Sam, specu-

lated about what his future might hold. Pat stuck a couple of frozen meals into the microwave and made us a second drink. Our conversation moved on to other topics, but neither of us focused much on what was said. We were simply filling the empty spaces, going through the motions of social discourse, so that we didn't have to think about what might happen to the man we both cared for.

By the time I headed home the rich, varied hues of sunset had faded to a flat ash-gray. I pulled into the driveway, retrieved the box of papers I'd taken from Sam's office and headed for the house.

The front porch light had burned out since I'd last noticed and I had trouble seeing. I stepped carefully to avoid tripping on the loose stones in the path. When I got closer I saw a sprinkling of fragmented glass under the light socket. The thing had not only burned out but exploded. Which meant I was going to have to somehow get the remains of the bulb out of the socket without electrocuting myself.

Cursing, I brushed the glass aside with my foot. Then, with the box of files against my hip, I reached into my purse for the key. Suddenly there was a movement behind me. Before I could turn I felt a hand slap roughly over my mouth. An arm grabbed me, knocking the box to the ground and pinning my own arms to my sides. My assailant pressed against me from behind, shoving me against the wall. He was strong, though not especially big, and smelled of stale cigarette smoke and beer.

Panic flooded my body. All at once I understood that the porch light had not exploded but had been knocked out The man had been waiting there in the shadows. Waiting for me.

I couldn't scream. I couldn't move. I couldn't see any-

thing but the paint-peeled siding of the house. I wondered if Lisa had felt the same rush of terror, the same bleak certainty.

The man's breath was hot on my neck, his weight crushing. I tried squirming loose, but he tightened his hold and pressed closer. "You move like that again, I get maybe my own ideas about fun, eh?"

His voice was soft, with a faint accent I couldn't trace. Maybe Spanish or Italian. When he spoke his hand on my mouth relaxed. I opened my mouth just enough and bit hard into the flesh of his fingers. He pulled back with a yelp and slammed me harder against die house.

"Bitch!" His voice was a coarse whisper. He pulled out a knife and held it at my throat. I felt the sharp edge press against my skin. "You listen and listen good. I got a message for you."

The scuffle had set Loretta to barking. Too bad there were no neighbors close enough to hear. I tried to swallow my fear, to concentrate instead on his movements.

The man brought his mouth close to my ear. I could feel the puffs of air against my skin as he spoke. "You've got some friends in town think it would be wise for you to take a vacation. A long one. Too much work isn't good for pretty ladies. They think you should leave real soon. Better that way for everyone."

"Are you one of these friends?" I mumbled against his palm, mindful of the knife against my neck.

He laughed without humor. "Me, I'm just the delivery man."

Out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of the hand with the knife. It was a stubby hand, covered with dark hairs. The arm was hidden by a shirt.

"So, you got the message?"

I nodded as best I could. "Good."

Suddenly there was a flash of pain at the back of my skull. I fell, and then there was nothing.

Darkness had settled in by the time I came to. I noticed that first, the darkness. And then the pain. It came slowly, the way you wake from a heavy slumber. An almost unde-tectable sensation at first, then building until it took charge.

Slowly easing myself to my knees, I felt for the key and crawled inside. Loretta sniffed, unusually subdued. Maybe it was the fact that I was on all fours, or maybe it was that sixth sense animals have about the wounded. Whatever, I was thankful she didn't leap and bound as she usually did.

Gripping a chair for support, I dragged myself to my feet and shuffled into the bathroom. Surprisingly, the movement helped.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror. My face was scratched. I could tell that my shoulder and hip would be bruised by morning. But I certainly looked better than I felt. It was an encouraging discovery. I took a double dose of Motrin and washed the grime from my face and hands.

When I felt strong enough to move again I called Tom and told him what had happened.

"Do you want me to call die doctor?"

"I don't think there's anything a doctor can do."

"How about the police?"

"I'll make a report in the morning. There's nothing they can do either. Not tonight anyway. What I need is to not be alone."

"I'll be right over. Don't open the door until you know it's me."

He was there almost as soon as we hung up.

I awoke the next morning stiff and sore. And tired, since Tom had insisted on waking me every couple of hours to check for signs of a concussion. I did manage to get some sleep, however, which is more than could be said for Tom. He'd stayed awake the entire night, watching over me like a mother hen.

He left at seven. I stayed in bed until almost nine, then downed another double dose of Motrin and a cup of strong coffee before calling the hospital to check on Sam.

"He's resting comfortably," the nurse told me.

"Does that mean his condition has improved?"

"I'm not in a position to say."

"Is he off the ventilator?"

"I'm sorry; you'll have to talk to the doctor for specifics."

I thanked her, although it wasn't clear why, and called Daryl Benson. "Were you able to get the search warrant?" I asked.

"Yeah, finally. Last night."

"And?"

He sighed. 'The underwear was there, just where you said it would be."

"Did the boy cooperate?"

"You bet. After the detective threatened to haul his ass in for tampering with a crime scene the kid wouldn't shut up."

"What did he say?"

"Pretty much what your friend Bongo told you. I don't think the boys were involved with the actual murder, but their behavior is certainly disgusting. Here we have two dead bodies, a woman they both knew and her little girl, and all those kids can think about is undressing them and running off with their underwear like it's some fraternity prank."

Loretta came to rest her head in my lap. I began scratching her ears. "I don't suppose you've any idea how the underwear in the compost bin got there."

"Nope. It could be happenstance." Benson didn't sound convinced.

"You know it isn't. The person who killed Lisa and Amy Cornell is still out there running around, hoping like hell Wes gets put away for the crime."

"There are other explanations, Kali, but I'm not going to argue the point. You could be right"