“Do I know you?”
“We’ve met a couple of times. I’m an attorney. My name’s Kali O’Brien.”
Irma smiled, smoothing the collar of her gown. “Of course, Kali. How could I have forgotten? I’m so sorry, dear, it’s just that . . .” She made a meaningless gesture with her hands. “Just that things get mixed up in my mind sometimes.”
“That’s understandable. It’s hard to keep track of everyone you know.”
She nodded. “Sometimes I can’t even remember which ones are dead and which ones aren’t.” The hands fluttered in her lap. “Can I have a piece of candy? It’s still morning, I think, but I ate a good breakfast.”
I peeled off the wrapper and opened the box. After much deliberation Irma chose a piece with white chocolate glaze. She plopped the whole piece in her mouth at once.
When she finished the candy she peered into the box and surveyed the remaining choices. “I was hoping maybe Sheri would come today and take me home.”
“You enjoy those visits, don’t you?”
There was a girlish laugh. “You don’t visit your own home, silly.”
“Isn’t this your home now?”
“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.
Chapter 11
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?”
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 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, although not well.”
“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 furnishings are pieces my parents collected during their travels. They 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.”
Daniel smirked.
“She called that afternoon to say she wouldn’t be able to make it. Apparently a woman from her support group needed some help.”
I sat forward. “What support group?”
"The chronic pain group. Lisa suffered from headaches. The doctors couldn’t come up with a cause. Couldn’t do much to help her, either. It was one of those mysterious maladies that baffles modern medicine. Anyway, she joined this group — I think they learned stress reduction techniques, shared ideas for coping, that sort of thing. I’m not much on this therapy stuff myself; in fact, I think it’s a crock of you-know-what. Lisa thought it was important, though. And it was run by a doctor, so I figured there couldn’t be too much voodoo in it.”
“Was the group helping her?”
Stockman adjusted his glasses. “Not that I could tell. If anything, the episodes were becoming more frequent. And she’d started getting stomach pains as well as headaches. I wanted her to see a specialist at UC Medical Center in San Francisco. Offered to pay for it myself. But Lisa claimed she was getting a handle on things.”
“Can you tell me more about this woman who needed help?”
“I’m afraid not. Lisa said she got a call from the woman. That’s all I know.”
“What about the woman’s name?”
“Lisa never mentioned it.”
“I wonder if the police were able to track her down.”
Stockman shrugged, looked at his watch.
“You told them about the phone call, didn’t you?”
“What’s there to tell?” His tone was sharp. “Anyway, they didn’t ask. They had their man.”
Helene returned her empty cup to the tray. “I don’t see what all this has to do with Lisa’s death.”
“If my client didn’t kill her, someone else did.”
“Surely you don’t think it was her friend?”
“I haven’t thought that far yet, but I’d like to talk to the woman. Do you know the name of the doctor who ran this group?”
“Markley,” Stockman said with growing impatience. “Or something close to that. He has an office in Sierra Vista. The group met Wednesday evenings.”
Mrs. Arabagucci’s babysitting time. So much for that mystery. I’d been hoping for something more. Something that might have given us a solid lead.
“When Lisa called that afternoon to bow out of dinner how did she seem?”
; Stockman looked at his sister, then back to me. “I didn’t actually speak with her. Helene did.”
“We didn’t talk long,” Helene said. “Lisa gave me a short message to give to Philip, which I did. There was nothing in any way noteworthy about the conversation.”
Stockman glanced at his watch again. I could tell he was getting antsy, and Daniel had gone through the entire plate of cookies.
“One last question,” I said. “Did Lisa ever mention a drifter called Granger?”
Stockman shook his head, but Daniel blinked to attention.
“Isn’t he that crazy guy who’s missing half his teeth?”
“You know him?”
“Yuk, get real. Why would I want to know him? But I’ve seen him around—eating out of garbage cans.” Daniel wrinkled his nose in disgust. “He hangs out in the woods behind the school sometimes. The guy’s a total loser.”
Stockman gave his son a stern look.
“I know,” the boy said, raising the pitch of his voice, “people like that need our prayers not our censure, and you shouldn’t open your trap until you’ve walked a mile in the dude’s shoes. Well, let me tell you, you’d have to fumigate them first.”
“Daniel, that’s quite enough.” Stockman offered me a thin, apologetic smile. He stood, signaling the end of the interview.
I thanked him for seeing me, which was an honest expression of gratitude. I’m not sure I’d have been as cordial had our roles been reversed.
<><><>
The wooded area behind the high school was not my idea of an exciting place to spend a Sunday afternoon. There’d been a time, many years earlier, when I’d considered the place a safe haven, and infinitely preferable to Mr. Dodge’s math class. But even then I’d have drawn the line at squandering a fine summer’s day on the place.
I brushed away loose debris from a log and sat, feeling more foolish by the minute. Daniel had said Granger sometimes hung out in the woods. And the boy didn’t strike me as the most reliable source, in any event.
Overhead, a blue jay mocked me.
“Go pick on someone your own size,” I told him.
Evidence of Guilt (A Kali O'Brien legal mystery) Page 10