Shadow of Doubt (A Kali O'Brien legal mystery)

by Jonnie Jacobs

  “For a while I was so mad I couldn’t see straight, but I loved the guy, too. I kept hoping we could work it out.” A sniffle. “It was just awful to pick up the paper and see his picture right there on the front page. I’ve never before dated a man who was murdered.” Vicky’s voice trailed off. “Married, murdered — jeez, I really know how to pick them, don’t I?”

  I tried to work up some sympathy, but I couldn’t. Too many people I cared about had been hurt. Were hurting still. “When you found out he was married, what then?”

  She set her empty juice glass in the sink, adding it to the existing assortment of crusty cups and bowls. “He said he was going to leave his wife, that I just had to be patient until he worked it out. Then he told me we had to lay low for awhile because his wife knew about us.” Vicky’s eyes narrowed. “It took me awhile to figure out that if she already knew, and he was going to leave her anyway, we shouldn’t have to sneak around. God, men are such shits.”

  That sentiment I could sympathize with. “How long had you known him?”

  “Not long.” She actually sounded embarrassed. “A couple months is all. But it was intense.” The fuchsia mouth quivered. “Intense and very, very special.”

  “Did you meet at The Mine Shaft?”

  “Oh no, nothing like that” The quiver was gone. The habitual head toss was accompanied by a breathless laugh. “I work for Baker Janitorial and Maintenance. Part-time. I go to cosmetology school, too.”

  Baker Janitorial — the name sounded vaguely familiar, although I couldn’t think why. It still didn’t explain Eddie though, so I waited.

  “One day he came in to talk to Mr. Baker about an account. It was just like out of the movies. He stopped by my desk and said, ‘Hi, gorgeous.’”

  Eddie was deep all right.

  “The next time he came by, Mr. Baker was tied up, so I suggested we have lunch while he waited. It kind of went from there.”

  “What, exactly, is Baker Janitorial?”

  “Commercial cleaning, floors, windows ...” She did a little shuffle. “You name it, we do it, and do it right!”

  It may not have been the job of her dreams, but she gave it her best, I had to give her credit for that. “What was Eddie’s connection to Baker Janitorial?”

  Vicky shrugged. “All I know is Mr. Baker wasn’t any too happy to see him.”

  “Didn’t you ever ask Eddie about it?”

  “No, he didn’t like to talk about everyday stuff like that.”

  That was Eddie — deep with a capital “D.”

  I’d figured out that Vicky wasn’t going to be able to give me much, but I had one more question. “Where were you last Saturday?” I asked.

  She thought for a moment. “Home for the most part. Why?”

  “You didn’t go out at all?”

  She shook her head. The blonde mane bounced around her shoulders. “I went out that evening, though. There’s this guy I started dating to get my mind off Eddie. He’s got no class at all. Comes to pick me up, and he honks the friggin’ horn.”

  I let go of a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Her story matched Jannine’s to a tee. I thanked her and let myself out.

  To the best of my knowledge, Benson didn’t know anything about Vicky. I wanted to keep it that way. Jealous wives were a favorite with homicide inspectors, probably with good cause, and Jannine had enough jewels in her crown already.

  As I headed back to Silver Creek, I thought about Eddie and Jannine and Vicky. And love. And I pondered the dark irony of the fact that Jannine was able to provide an alibi for her husband’s mistress, while she herself had none.

  Chapter 17

  I got to the high school just as the passing period bell rang. In an instant, the hallway was empty, its silence almost as deafening as the preceding bedlam.

  The student assistant working at the front desk was the same cherubic young lady I’d met on my last visit.

  “You here to see Mrs. Walker again?”

  “Mr. Peterson first. Is he available?”

  “He’s got someone with him right now. You want to wait?”

  I nodded and she went back to the paperwork in front of her, but not for long. “This is so bor-ring,” she said. “And now it looks like I’m stuck here for the rest of the year. I’ll never get back to attendance.”

  “I thought this was temporary, until the regular girl got well.”

  She smiled, a shy, girlish smile you don’t see on many her age. “You’ve got a good memory.” Then her face grew serious again. “I don’t think she’s coming back. She isn’t sick after all. She ran away. Nobody knows where she is.

  “Cheryl Newcomb?”

  “You know her?”

  I shook my head. “Do you?”

  “Yes. No. I mean, we’ve been classmates since kindergarten, but you know how it goes.”

  “What’s she like?”

  A shrug.

  “Who did she hang around with?”

  The girl thought. “Mostly she kept to herself. Last year in junior high she used to hang around with Eva Holland, but Eva’s kind of. . .” She made a circular motion with her finger. “You know that expression, her elevator doesn’t go all the way to the top. She was in regular classes last year, but high school’s tougher. They had to send her to a special school in Northvale. I don’t know whether Cheryl stayed friends with her or not.”

  “Do you happen to know where Eva lives?”

  “Sure. The little white house across from the school. Doesn’t seem fair. She could practically fall out of bed and roll to school, and instead she has to be bussed clear over to a different town.”

  Just then an interior door opened, and Jack Peterson ushered out a couple and a freckle-faced boy who was obviously their son. None of them looked happy, including Peterson, who looked even less pleased when he saw me.

  “Miss O’Brien,” he said. “What a surprise.”

  “I’d like to speak with you if you have a moment.”

  “I have another parent conference coming up, and then this thing with Ch ...” He looked over at the assistant, then caught my eye and mouthed, “the missing girl.” He cleared his throat. “Of course, the school is not directly involved, but we’re trying to cooperate any way we can.”

  “That’s part of what I’d like to talk to you about.”

  His smile was gracious, but unbending. “I really don’t have the time just now, I”

  “It will only take a minute.”

  He frowned. “Well, just a minute then.”

  Peterson’s office didn’t begin to compare to the partners’ offices at Goldman & Latham, but I would have been willing to bet it was fancier than any other room at school. It certainly outshone the teachers’ lounge by a country mile.

  The room was large, probably a remodel of several smaller offices, and furnished with an antique armoire, several easy chairs and a large oak desk. Clearly none of it was regulation issue.

  He caught me looking, and smiled. “I want the students and parents to feel comfortable here. No reason for the principal’s office to look like the reception area at San Quentin. But I paid for it myself. I’m fortunate to be well enough off that I can afford such indulgences. Now, what can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to talk to you about Eddie.” I settled into the green wing chair across from him. “How did he seem in the days before his death?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did he seem worried or upset? Anything out of the ordinary?”

  Peterson thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, not that I was aware of.”

  “Did he talk to you much about his uncle or the tavern?”

  “He’d mention it on occasion. ‘My ticket out of here,’ is how he referred to it. He and his sister inherited an interest in the tavern from their father.”

  “So you'd be looking for a new coach?”

  “At some point, most likely. But we expected that. Eddie was taking business courses, you know, wo
rking on his MBA.” Peterson smiled. “Those of us in education sometimes feel the need to move on to something a bit more . . . challenging. I may be running for State Assembly, myself.”

  I smiled back and tried to look impressed. “Are you familiar with any of the details of the transaction? Like where Eddie was getting the money to buy his sister’s share?”

  “We never got into that sort of thing.”

  For a man who liked to talk, Eddie had been surprisingly closemouthed about his business venture. “He apparently stopped by school the Saturday morning he was killed,” I continued. “Would there be some record of the time he arrived or left, the calls he made, that sort of thing?”

  “No. Teachers aren’t required to sign in on weekends, and we no longer have a central switchboard. I’m afraid I can’t help.”

  I hadn’t expected much, but I was disappointed all the same. “Cheryl Newcomb was here that morning, also,” I said, shifting to the second item on my agenda. “One of the students saw her talking to Eddie.”

  “I hadn’t heard that” Peterson swallowed hard. “So many terrible things happening all at once. And it had been such a successful year, too, before all this.” His fingers drummed the desk top and then stopped suddenly. “Surely you don’t think there’s a connection?”

  “I don’t know. It seems odd that they were both here Saturday morning, then suddenly Eddie’s dead, and Cheryl is missing.”

  “I suppose, looking at it that way, it does seem odd. But teachers and students are frequently here after school hours.”

  “What do you know about the girl’s disappearance?”

  “Not much. I got a call from the authorities last evening, pretty routine questions about her attendance record and so forth. And then I phoned Mrs. Newcomb this morning to see if there was anything we could do to help. She was rather reluctant to discuss the matter. Frankly, I don’t blame her.”

  “She isn’t worried?”

  “The girl is a bit of a troublemaker, I’m afraid. This is not the first time she’s run away.” He paused for a moment, meeting my eyes. “I probably shouldn’t say this, but it’s my opinion that Cheryl is a disturbed child. She’s dishonest and entirely unreliable. There are a number of schools, usually residential facilities, that are equipped to handle children like that; we are not. I suggested to Mrs. Newcomb this morning that she begin exploring the alternatives.”

  I’d heard of such places. Some have decent track records, but others are little more than privately operated reformatories. Their charges might learn something about obedience, but I couldn’t believe they learned much about love or trust. Then again, I doubted that Cheryl was learning much about them at home, either.

  There was a knock at the door, and Peterson stood. “I know you’re trying to help Jannine, but sometimes you’ve got to face facts. All this poking around and asking questions — it’s not going to change anything.”

  “You don’t think Jannine killed him, do you?”

  “I don’t know what to think, to tell you the truth. Jannine’s a dear soul. She and Eddie are . . . were, almost like family. But we can never really know another person. If the police think she’s guilty, then I have to believe she probably is. That’s their job, you know, checking the evidence, solving crimes.”

  He’d forgotten the part about burden of proof and a fair trial, but I didn’t feel it was the right time for a civics lesson. I left Jack Peterson to his next parent conference, another grim-looking couple with child in tow, and went off to find Nancy. She was busy typing up a grammar test, but took time out to dig through the yearbook files for a picture of Cheryl.

  “I’m glad somebody’s doing something,” she said. “Jack Peterson just about bit my head off when he found out I’d bypassed him and called the county directly. He’s not too happy with you either, I might add.”

  “Me? What did I do?”

  “It was you who started all this.”

  “Because I discovered that she was missing?”

  Nancy nodded.

  Terrific. A young girl in trouble, possibly injured or dead, and Peterson sees nothing but bureaucratic inconvenience. How do people like that end up working with kids anyway?

  <><><>

  I found the white house across from the school without any difficulty. It was a narrow two-story Victorian with yellow climbing roses by the porch and a low picket fence along the front. A swing set and slide took up one side of the yard, a sandbox, the other. It could have been the backdrop for a Norman Rockwell painting.

  And Eva’s mother, who was short and round and rosy- cheeked, looked as though she belonged in the painting as well. She greeted me with a dishtowel in her hands and a host of young children hanging on to the hem of her skirt.

  She laughed, and spoke before I had a chance. “No, they’re not all mine.” She rumpled the head of a blond toddler, then added, “Though I’m as fond of them as if they were. Sunshine Day Care. They provide the sunshine, I provide the care. What can I do for you?”

  I introduced myself. “I’d like to talk to you about Cheryl Newcomb.”

  “Oh dear, she isn’t in trouble, is she?”

  “She’s missing.” I explained my interest in the case, relying heavily on my association with Nancy Walker. “The police seem to think she’s run away.”

  The oven buzzer sounded from the other room. “Come in, why don’t you? I’m in the middle of fixing lunch for this bunch of rascals, but we can talk while I finish up.”

  She sent the children off to wash up, then led me to the kitchen. “Poor Cheryl,” she said, taking a large pot from the stove. “What happened?”

  “No one seems to know. She hasn’t been at school all week, or at home. Her mother thought she was staying with a friend.”

  “Staying with a friend,” Mrs. Holland humphed. “I don’t suppose that mother of hers ever thought to check which friend. You wonder what a woman like that uses for a brain.” She set spoons and napkins on the table, then poured five glasses of milk. “And the string of boyfriends the woman’s had! I’m surprised she can keep their names straight.”

  “What about Cheryl’s father? Is he around?”

  “She never mentioned him. At least not to me. Eva might know, though.”

  “Are your daughter and Cheryl still friends?”

  “They don’t see each other very often now that they’re at different schools. Much to my sorrow. Cheryl was always sweet to Eva; she never made fun of her the way some kids did.” Mrs. Holland sighed. “Eva doesn’t have any real friends at the new school, but at least no one teases her either.”

  “I get the impression Cheryl wasn’t a model child. Weren’t you worried about her influence on Eva?”

  “Pshaw. There’s trouble and there’s trouble. Too many people can’t tell the difference, if you ask me. Cheryl isn’t going to be on anybody’s list of most likely to succeed, but deep down she’s as sincere and decent a person as I’ve known.”

  The youngsters returned, hopping and giggling and jiggling every which way. Mrs. Holland scooped spaghetti onto plastic plates, then set a bowl of crackers in the middle of the table.

  “Poor, poor child,” she said again. “And to think she sat right here in my kitchen only last Saturday.”

  “Cheryl was here?”

  “She stopped by to see Eva. Didn’t stay but about ten minutes. She’d been over at the school. Seeing as how it was Saturday, she was pretty sure Eva would be home, so she came to say hello.”

  “What time was this?”

  “A little after noon, if I recall. I asked her to stay for lunch, but she was in a hurry to get home. I can’t imagine why. Her mother wouldn’t have known whether she was there or not.”

  “Did she happen to say why she’d been at school?”

  Mrs. Holland shook her head.

  “How did she seem? Worried, upset?”

  “Not really. Mostly she and Eva talked about school and people they knew. I was in and out of the room, so I didn�
��t hear everything. She wasn’t all bubbly the way she was last time we saw her, though.”

  “When was that?”

  “Let’s see, it was sometime after the first of the year. I’m sure that’s when she told me she had a boyfriend. When I asked her about him on Saturday though, she looked at me like I was crazy. ‘What boy would ever want me?’ is what she said. Just about broke my heart.”

  “Do you remember anything else about Saturday?”

  She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

  “Will you ask Eva, see if she does?” I wrote my name and number on a slip of paper. “Anything at all.”

  Mrs. Holland promised she’d speak to her daughter that afternoon. “I only wish I could do more,” she said. “I have a warm spot in my heart for that girl. She deserves better than she’s got.”

  Chapter 18

  Loretta was happy to see me, and even happier to see the box of dog treats I’d picked up at the store on my way home. She pranced at my feet, then plopped herself down near the cupboard and thumped her short tail hard against the linoleum floor.

  She was so obviously pregnant I couldn’t believe I’d missed it. I felt like one of those women in the supermarket tabloids, the ones who give birth and then utter in amazement, “And I thought it was just the stomach flu.” For a person trained in logic and keen observation, it was not an encouraging comparison.

  While Loretta chewed on her snack, I put away the groceries, then called the vet and made an appointment for the next day. This was as much for my benefit as hers. Nothing short of a fully-equipped canine delivery room would give me real peace of mind. Lacking that, I wanted advice.

  Then I made myself a cup of tea and pulled out the photograph of Cheryl. What struck me immediately was how young she seemed. Fresh and unsophisticated in a way many girls her age are not. She was small-boned, with a pale complexion, thin, almost invisible brows, and straight brown hair that hung limply to her shoulders. Her eyes were an unusual shade, almost teal, and her smile so tentative you wanted to smile back in encouragement.

  While I sipped my tea, I studied the photo, trying to unlock its secrets. I squinted through half-closed lids, as though that would enable me to read her soul. Then I put the picture into an envelope, hastily scribbled a note to Beverly Silverstein and walked down to the mailbox at the end of the road.