Pennines on a Dead Woman's Eyes

by Marcia Muller

  Perhaps Jack and Judy had decided to get Lis out of the house, I thought. They might have taken her to the park or to lunch over in Marin. Then I remembered the vigorous walks her doctor had prescribed. I’d climb up to the tower: even if she wasn’t there the exercise would do me good.

  More people were using the public land this afternoon than on Friday, but it was not nearly as crowded as the city’s more scenic areas would be. I didn’t pass anyone as I followed the curve of the blacktop, saw only the distant figures on the lower inclines. But when I topped the final rise, I spied Lis Benedict at the cliff’s edge where the drop-off was most precipitous.

  She stood very still, wrapped in a black wool cape that fell in folds to her calves. The bright sunlight made a shining halo of her white hair. As I reached the guardrail, a sudden gust of wind caught the cape and blew it into great flapping wings. Lis leaned forward, balancing on the tip of her toes.

  I had a vision of a bird of prey taking off from the cliff, soaring high, then plummeting to seize a small animal from the jagged rocks below. Unease stirred in me as I slipped over the rail.

  Lis leaned out farther. I started to call to her, then quickened my pace instead. For a moment she stood poised on the very edge of the cliff, looking down at the city that, for her, was caught in a time warp. Then she rocked back on her heels and drew the cape around her, her body seeming to shrink within its engulfing folds.

  I sighed and slowed down, relaxing. Told myself my anxiety had been foolish, unwarranted. But I knew otherwise.

  After a moment Lis turned away from the cliff and began walking my way. Her face was drawn with resignation: it didn’t change when she saw me. As I approached her, she stumbled. I took her arm.

  “Are you alright?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “We missed you last night.”

  “Did you?” The words were shaded by disbelief.

  “Yes. I understand there was another graffiti incident. More phone calls, too?”

  She hesitated a beat before replying. “Yes, three last night and again around noon today.”

  “Plus a call from Joseph Stameroff.”

  “. . . Yes.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He tried, as he called it, to reason with me about what the mock trial might do to Judy.”

  “Did he threaten you in any way?”

  “No.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I didn’t tell him anything. He didn’t give me a chance. That’s the kind of man he is.”

  “Are the phone calls the reason you came up here? To get away so you wouldn’t have to answer them?”

  She merely made a weary gesture, allowed me to help her settle on the guardrail.

  I said, “You should stay away from the edge of the cliff, Lis.”

  Her eyes met mine: the knowledge that I’d seen her near-leap made their translucence more pronounced. Saying nothing, she looked away. After a moment she asked, “Why did you come up here?”

  “To talk with you. I’ve decided to investigate your case.”

  “Why?”

  Surprised at her reaction, I took a moment to formulate a reply. “Because I read the transcript and found some loose ends that bear looking into. Because it’s important to Jack and Judy . . . and to you.”

  She laughed dryly. “What’s important to me doesn’t matter to you, Miss McCone. It’s plain you don’t like or believe me. That’s all right: I can live with it so long as you don’t let it get in the way of your job.

  Instead of taking offense at what she’d said, I felt relieved to have everything out in the open. “You’re right, but I don’t have to like my clients in order to investigate them professionally. And as for believing or not believing you, there are enough of those loose ends to make me wonder. I wouldn’t take this on unless I had some doubts about the prosecution’s case.”

  “Lawyers take on clients they know are guilty.”

  “It’s a lawyer’s job to provide the best possible defense for the client, guilty or not. My job, on the other hand, is to get at the truth. I don’t have any patience with being tricked or lied to. If I find out you’re hoping I’ll prove you didn’t kill Cordy McKittridge when in fact you did, I’ll not only drop the case but make the truth public.”

  “So you’re an idealist, Miss McCone.”

  “I’m not sure what I am anymore.” Not after the past few years, I wasn’t. Not after the things I’d seen, been forced to do. And certainly not after the things I’d sometimes had to stop myself from doing.

  Fortunately, Lis Benedict’s focus was inward; she didn’t ask what had caused the uncertainty. “I used to be an idealist,” she said, “but prison cures you of that—rapidly. Our system of justice does, too. I stopped believing in justice the day they arrested me. I stopped believing in compassion the day they took me to Corona—that’s where they kept condemned women in their fifties, until it was time to drive them to the gas chamber at San Quentin.”

  “What about when the governor granted a stay of execution and then clemency?”

  She laughed derisively. “I knew what was operating there.”

  “What?”

  She tensed and didn’t reply, as if she’d been voicing random thoughts and now realized she’d said too much. But too much about what?

  I studied her, wondering if I could press for an answer. No, I decided, better to get her talking about something else. “What about prison?” I asked. “Do you ever get used to it?”

  “In a way. At first it’s like being dropped into a whole different universe, particularly for someone who was raised the way I was. The physical surroundings are bad, of course, but the inability to make your own decisions is even worse. And the feeling of being set apart from the other inmates is worse yet. After a while that changes. You learn to make small decisions: What brand of toothpaste will I buy this month? What book will I check out of the library this week? What daydream will I use to put myself to sleep tonight?”

  I thought of Judy’s comment about her daydreams; apparently her mother had similarly eased her pain.

  “After a while,” Lis went on, “you begin to accept the other inmates and they begin to accept you. It doesn’t matter that for the most part they’re badly educated and poor, or that some are just plain insane. They become your family, because they’re all you have. And to them it doesn’t matter that you’ve had advantages they haven’t. They become proud of you, in fact. ‘That’s my college-lady friend,’ one woman would tell her visitors. As I grew older, the younger ones saw me as a surrogate parent and would tell me their troubles or their mad fantasies. Some of them called me Mom, and in a strange way, I liked that.”

  She paused, then added in a softer tone. “You can become adapted to anything, I guess, but there was one time of day when I always hurt. Early evening was my favorite time of day before. A time of peace and hope. After I went to prison it became the loneliest, saddest time, because I knew there would never be any hope again. I cried in the early evening, before the wells dried up and I stopped crying for good.”

  The simple words touched me deeply, all the more so because she’d spoken in a manner that did not ask for sympathy: This is how it was; this is why I am as I am. No more.

  “There’s hope now,” I said.

  “No, it’s too late for me. But not for Judy.”

  “Then for Judy’s sake let’s get started on this.” I took my notebook from my bag. “I’ve done some preliminary checking, but I haven’t been able to located most of the people who were connected with your case. How about Joseph Stameroff? What are my chances of talking with him?”

  “Not very good, I’m afraid.”

  “Is there any possibility he could be behind the graffiti and phone calls?”

  She considered, then shook her head. “He wouldn’t do that to Judy. To me, perhaps, but not to her.”

  “I’ll ask her to work on him, then. Maybe she can persuade him to discuss the cas
e with me. Now, Leonard Eyestone—I’ll call his office first thing tomorrow and try to set up an appointment. And this Louise Wingfield, the friend of Cordy who testified about the note—I’ve heard of her. Society matron, got a big divorce settlement about fifteen years ago, took back her maiden name. Since then she’s used the money to establish a foundation that aids minority kids. I’ve got a connection who may be able to persuade her to see me. What about your attorney?”

  “Harry Moylan? He’s been dead for years.”

  “Why a public defender, anyway?”

  “He was all I could afford.”

  “Surely on your husband’s salary—”

  “My husband was an alcoholic, Miss McCone. The first item in an alcoholic’s budget is liquor. Most months we could barely meet our expenses.”

  “And the Institute didn’t offer to help?”

  “They were only too glad to wash their hands of me. My alleged crime placed their government contracts in jeopardy. Russell Eyestone was a cold man. If you speak with Leonard, you’ll find he’s much like his father.”

  “And your family—did you appeal to them?”

  “There would have been no point in that. Years before, I’d quarreled with them over Vincent’s drinking and bad treatment of me. Once I was arrested, they broke off whatever tenuous contact we had.”

  There was no bitterness in her tone, no regret; the years in prison had dried those emotions up, too. “Okay,” I said, “what about the Sheridans, the couple who were at your house the night Judy found Cordy’s ring?”

  “I have no idea what happened to Bob and Jane. For all I know, they might be dead.”

  “Are there any other Institute staff members I should speak with?”

  “Most were older than Vincent and I, and have died.”

  “Domestic help at the estate?”

  “Dead or scattered. I can’t imagine how you could locate any of them.”

  I closed my unused notebook and turned to a more sensitive topic. “Mrs. Benedict—”

  “Please—Lis. I’m not used to formality.”

  “Lis,” I agreed, “if you’ll return the favor. Now I need to ask you a few questions that may make you think I doubt your account of the night of the murder. I don’t want you to take offense; I’m doing it only for purposes of clarification.”

  “All right.”

  “Was food poisoning the real reason you didn’t attend the banquet for Dulles?”

  “I was ill, yes.”

  “And the stains Judy saw on your clothing—were they actually ink?”

  “I was a calligrapher, and working on a project involving red ink.”

  “You were doing calligraphy even though you were too ill to attend a banquet for the secretary of state?”

  “I felt better by then.”

  “Where were you working on this project?”

  “Where . . .?”

  “Judy testified that you returned to the house form somewhere with stains in your dress.”

  “Judy was mistaken. A child awakened by a noise is easily confused.”

  “What sort of noise?”

  “Why, almost any kind.”

  “No—I mean, Judy, specifically, that night.”

  “I . . . don’t know.”

  “But she’d been awakened—”

  “And saw me downstairs with stains on my dress and assumed I’d been outside. I usually did my calligraphy work on the big table in the library.”

  “I see. And so far as you know, there was no one on the estate that night but you and Judy.”

  “. . . That’s right.”

  I didn’t like what her reaction to the series of questions had told me. Most people can’t entirely mask a lie. They betray themselves with physical gestures, changes in posture and voice level, innumerable small signs. In Lis’s case it was a faint tic at the right corner of her mouth. No matter how candidly she met my eyes, she couldn’t control that, and the questions about Judy seeing the stains on her dress had especially aggravated it.

  Lis was hiding something, but what? What could have been—still was—so important that she would have died in the gas chamber in order to keep it secret?

  As I studied her, she lowered her eyes, pleating the fabric of her cape between her fingers.

  After a moment I asked. “Can you think of anyone else I should talk with?”

  “No.”

  “Was there a friend you confided in?”

  “About what?”

  “Your husband’s affair with Cordy McKittridge. Your feeling toward her.”

  She rose suddenly and moved toward the cliff’s edge. Uneasy again, I followed. She stopped a safe distance, however, facing southwest toward the Golden Gate. Beyond the rust-red towers of the bridge a bank of fog hovered, ready to reclaim the city once darkness fell.

  Lis said, “From here I can see almost every place except where it happened.”

  “Maybe that’s just as well.”

  “I don’t think so. I have to face the nightmare if I’m going to go through with the mock trial.”

  “But not by looking at Seacliff and brooding. You wouldn’t recognize much, anyway; it’s all changed.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “Lis, I asked you a question. Did you tell anyone about your feelings toward Cordy?”

  She continued to stare at the cityscape. After a moment she said, “I spoke of Cordy McKittridge to two people, and two people only—my husband and my daughter.”

  “And what did you say?”

  She turned candid aquamarine eyes on me. This time there was no evidence of the facial tic. “I told them that I wished Cordy were dead. I sad I would gladly cut her heart out.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “What kind of woman would say a thing like that to her ten-year-old daughter?” I asked Jack.

  He shrugged, clearly troubled.

  We were seated on the sofa in his office at a little after nine on Monday morning. The worktable was still strewn with papers, but they looked as if they hadn’t been touched since yesterday. I was on my third cup of coffee; he’d downed at least that many and still seemed half asleep.

  “Dammit!” I pounded the arm of the sofa with my fist and only succeeded in hurting myself. “She didn’t even act as if she thought she’d done anything wrong.”

  “Don’t get all riled up,” he told me absently.

  “How do you expect me not to? I should have trusted my initial instincts and stayed the hell out of this. How on earth can you justify this . . . farce?”

  Jack stood and poured himself yet another mug of coffee from the percolator on a side table. “I happen to believe in her innocence. I don’t feel called upon to make a character judgment, as you seem to.”

  “And you also happen to be in love with her daughter.”

  “True.”

  “When’s the mock trial?”

  “It’s not calendared yet. The Historical Tribunal considers this an important issue, since the defendant is still living. They’re trying to assemble an impressive jury.” Jack’s expression turned sour; I knew he didn’t care for the Tribunal’s publicity-hungry organizer, a retired attorney names James Wald.

  “Going to turn it into a media circus, are they?”

  “Not if Rudy Valle has anything to say about it.” John “Rudy” Valle was the superior court judge who presided over the Tribunal’s sessions. “Valle’s a brilliant jurist and an amateur historian. He takes the proceedings very seriously.”

  “And the jury—where do they get them?”

  “They’re volunteers selected from a permanent roster. Most’re legal experts, historians, journalists, crime writers. The trial’s conducted pretty much like an actual one, except the witnesses are also volunteers—many with acting experience—who’ve been briefed on the fact their testimony is to cover.”

  “So whatever I find out in my research will be told to them, and they’ll act the parts of the various people who participated in the re
al trial?”

  “Essentially.”

  “What if a real witness wanted to play himself or herself; would they allow it?”

  “You’re thinking of Judy and Lis. We’ve talked about it, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea. The Tribunal, particularly James Wald, would love it, of course.”

  I tried to imagine the proceedings. I’d often had to testify in both civil and criminal cases; even during occasional moments of courtroom levity, I was aware of an underlying seriousness. But in a mock trial—didn’t the word “mock” imply a certain level of frivolity?

  I said, “It sounds like half theatrical production and half trial. Only in this case, they’ll be fiddling around with Judy’s and Lis’s lives—”

  There was a resounding thump against the rear wall of the building. Jack and I exchanged alarmed glances. When I looked at the window, a blue-and-white striped cap appeared; the cheery face of one of the painters followed. He grinned idiotically at us and waggled his eyebrows.

  I got up, stalked over there, and yanked the blinds shut.

  “God! Ever since they started, it’s been like a bad Marx Brothers comedy around here.” Returning to the sofa, I added. “What I was trying to say before we were interrupted is that I’m not terribly comfortable with the idea of a mock trial. I can’t shake the idea that it’s a silly exercise that could have serious repercussions.”

  There was a horrendous crash overhead. Jack tipped his head back and glared at the ceiling. “Now we’ve got to listen to that! Goddamn manipulative little bitch and her skylights!”

  The outburst was totally uncharacteristic of him. I stared, speechless.

  “Sorry,” he said, “I know you’re fond of Rae. I like her, too. It’s just that I think she takes unfair advantage.”

  “Rae’s like a lot of people who’ve had unhappy childhoods: she’s making up for it by stepping on toes.”

  “Well, I wish she’d hurry up and even the score and cut it out. To get back to what we were talking about, let me ask you this: did you ever suspect that I might be aiming at something more than a mock trial?”