Piper is sitting at the cast-iron table, which is strewn with transcripts and other papers.
“The Dowd case?” he asks.
She nods. “I spent the day reading the appellate briefs her attorney filed. Now I’m rereading the trial transcript.”
“Any revelations?”
“Just confirmation of what we already know.” She summarizes the overwhelming evidence offered against Darlene, including a strong motive as a result of her abuse at the hands of her father, and the lack of any alibi or other exculpatory evidence.
“So, on the evidence, the jury did the right thing. And so did the appellate courts.”
“On the evidence presented, yes. But not based on what we know now.”
“So what’s the plan?”
“Before we file our petition for a new trial, I want more information on that poker game and the men involved. And I want—no, need—to talk with Lois Beal. Based on the letter Darlene’s mother wrote and what the ex-cop Ott told me, I’m certain Lois is the key here. She may really know where the murder weapon is, after all.”
“You better hurry up finding her,” he says. “Your clock is running; you had sixty days to file your petition, starting from when Darlene Dowd received that letter from her mother.”
Piper exhales, and he hears the stress in her voice. “I know. I have Tommy going up there tomorrow to track down as many of the poker players as he can, and to generally look around and turn over stones.”
He nods, looks at his watch. “It’s five o’clock exactly. You want some wine?”
“Absolutely.”
He brings out two glasses of white—Sancerre for her, Chardonnay for him. They move from the table to the outdoor sofa. He loosens his tie, and Piper curls her legs up underneath her. They sip in silence. Then Piper looks at him.
“Something happened today, with Gabby,” she says.
“What?”
“They were playing soccer in gym class. The teacher called and told me Gabby tripped one of the other girls.”
“That’s ridiculous,” he says, feeling his face redden. “Gabby would never deliberately trip someone.”
He watches Piper pause. “The teacher said it wasn’t the first time.”
“That’s bullshit.” He’s sitting up now. “I want to talk to this teacher. Who is it? And what’s the other girl’s name?”
“Miss Kendrick is the teacher. The other girl is Vanessa Coolidge.”
“Alice Kendrick? Well, there you have it. She’s a kook. And we both know Vanessa and her parents. They’re a bunch of whiners. Remember the stink they raised when Vanessa didn’t get to play Mary in the Christmas play? I mean, it was a fourth-grade play, for crying out loud.”
Piper opens her mouth to respond, but before she can say anything, he continues.
“This infuriates me. Doesn’t it make you angry, too?”
“Well, of course. If they’re wrong about it.”
He stares at her. “If?”
“Let’s talk to Gabby when she comes home from practice. See what she has to say.”
“She’ll say she didn’t do it. Because she wouldn’t.”
“Why don’t you fire up the grill?” she says, pivoting. “I bought some good-looking swordfish steaks. And I’ve been soaking one of those wood planks in the sink.”
He takes her cue and drops the subject. “I’m gonna need this,” he says, lifting his glass of wine.
He changes out of his suit, feeds Franklin, and preps the meal. In addition to the fish, he’ll serve rice and Gabby’s favorite salad—hearts of romaine with shredded cheddar, Caesar dressing, and raisins. Franklin plants himself in the kitchen the whole time, hoping Mick will drop something.
From the kitchen, he hears a car pull into the driveway. Two of Gabby’s close friends are on the team; their parents and Piper take turns driving the girls home after practice. The front door opens and closes, and he hears Gabby’s footsteps on the stairs. She’ll change out of her uniform, do some homework, and come down when dinner’s ready. What he wants is to go upstairs immediately and ask her what happened in gym class. But he knows that’s a conversation Piper will want to be part of.
Mick has just set the dinner plates on the table and is turning to go back into the house to call upstairs for Gabby when she beats him to the punch by making her entrance.
“I made your salad,” he tells Gabby.
“Fish again?” she says.
“Stop rolling your eyes,” Piper says, eliciting another eye roll.
“How about some chicken with that sweet barbecue sauce? You never make that anymore.”
“I made it a couple weeks ago,” he says.
“Just eat,” Piper says.
They chew for a few minutes; then Mick asks Gabby how school was. “And I don’t want to hear it was boring,” he adds.
“Then don’t ask.” She smiles at her own comeback.
“So, you played soccer in gym class?”
“Waste of time,” she answers. “I’m, like, the only one who knows how to play. Half those girls are too fat to run. Or too lazy.”
Mick wills himself to wait as Piper tries to tease the tale out of Gabby, although he’d prefer to ask her directly.
“How about Vanessa? She’s pretty good, isn’t she?” Piper asks.
“She tried to trip me,” she says.
He glances at Piper, then back to Gabby.
“Trip you?”
“Vanessa doesn’t know anything about soccer. All she does is try to get in my way when I dribble down the field. As if she could ever get the ball from me.”
“So, what happened?” he asks.
“What happened is I had the ball and was almost at the net. She stuck her foot out to trip me. But she’s so clumsy that she leaned back too far, lost her balance, and ended up on her fat butt!”
Gabby leans her head back and smiles wide, her mouth full.
Mick smiles back, then glances at Piper. I told you so.
15
THURSDAY, MAY 9
Tommy pulls his F-150 from the two-lane road onto the paved quarter-mile driveway dividing Elwood Stumpf’s farm. The farm is a two-hundred-acre spread in Buchanan Township.
The wide driveway suits the bright-red barn, silo, and outbuildings and the white two-story farmhouse, which all appear to be immaculately maintained. The vast fields are dotted by scores of grazing black-and-white Holstein cattle.
“Looks like Elwood’s done well for himself,” Tommy says aloud.
He was given Stumpf’s address by Melvin Ott, the retired copper Piper and Susan met with. Over the phone, at least, Ott seemed eager to help him track down the guys who’d been at the poker game with Lester Dowd the night he was killed. Ott didn’t think that any of the other players who had accused Lester of cheating, including Chief Foster’s late brother, Richie, could have been the person who actually killed Dowd.
“But you never know where the trail will lead,” the ex-lawman had told Tommy.
Tommy parks the truck in front of the barn and gets out. As he’d expected, it only takes a minute before someone exits the barn to check him out.
“Looking for Elwood Stumpf,” he tells the boy who emerges, who looks to be in his twenties, lanky but with giant hands and arms corded with steel-cable muscles—the type of guy someone might underestimate when picking a fight.
The kid looks him up and down and asks, “About what?”
“Oh, this and that,” he answers, seeing from the look on the kid’s face that he’s not happy with the answer.
“You don’t want to tell me, just say so.”
“Just did,” Tommy says, surprised at how quickly he slips into the old tough-guy role, the one that served him well in prison—and helped to get him there in the first place.
The kid turns, squaring off.
Tommy raises his hand. “I didn’t mean to give offense.”
The kid tells Tommy to wait where he is and walks back in the barn. A few minutes later,
an older man exits. Elwood Stumpf looks to be in his early seventies, a big old boy, well over six feet and going at least 250, 275. He walks like a man used to having others get out of his way. Elwood’s crew cut is white, and his hair is thin enough that Tommy can see his bright-red pate beneath it. He has dark hawk-like eyes sunk into a heavy face. Those eyes, Tommy can see, are taking his measure as he approaches.
Elwood Stumpf plants himself directly in front of Tommy. “State your name and your business.”
“Tommy McFarland,” he says, handing the man his card, which identifies him as an investigator with the law firm of McFarland and Klein.
The big man glances at the card. “And your business.”
“My firm is looking into the Darlene Dowd case,” he says, watching for a reaction. Stumpf’s eyes show that it takes a minute for him to make the connection.
“The girl who killed her father.”
“Maybe not,” Tommy says.
“How you figure? The police caught her dead to rights. A jury convicted her.”
“Juries don’t always get it right.”
“Sure, just ask anyone in prison.”
Tommy holds back a smile. “I heard the night Lester Dowd was killed, he was at one of your poker games. Won a lot of money and got himself accused of cheating.”
“Accused don’t mean he did it.”
“Not saying otherwise. But if someone thought he cheated, they might just get angry enough to do something about it.”
Elwood tilts his head. “Like beat a man to death with a hammer?”
“Was it for sure a hammer? I thought the police never found the murder weapon.”
“Now, how would I know something like that?” Elwood answers, taking a half step forward.
Tommy takes a half step back, puts up his hand, apologizes. “I’m not looking for trouble.”
“A dog not diggin’ for wasps sometimes finds ’em anyhow.”
This time, Tommy can’t help smiling. He appreciates the man’s toughness. Elwood Stumpf must’ve been a fearsome sight in his youth, and he’s not a man to fool with now. He reminds Tommy of some of the hard cases he knew in prison.
“Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot here, and that’s my fault. It’s just that we have a client who’s rotting in prison for something she probably didn’t do, however much her father deserved it.”
Stumpf stops his advance, but his body language doesn’t change. “I know what Lester done to the girl. Most others from around here do, too, and most everyone would agree with you that Lester Dowd had it coming. That doesn’t mean we want some Philadelphia law firm coming up here and digging into our business.”
Tommy nods that he gets it. “Not trying to make your business into our business. But if someone other than Darlene Dowd killed her father, then that person, not her, needs to pay for it. She way overpaid for her old man already.”
Elwood casts him a hard look. “What exactly do you want to know?”
“Just the names of the men playing poker the night Lester Dowd was killed.”
Another hard look.
“We heard the chief’s brother, Richie, was there. Lester, too, of course. Any others that you can remember?”
“That was fifteen years ago, and I was having those poker nights every other week. Hard to separate one time from the next.”
“Did you give their names to Chief Foster back then?”
Elwood looks confused. Tommy suddenly knows for certain that Sonny Foster never questioned anyone about the game, despite having told Ott that he had.
“I see,” Tommy says.
“Do you?”
Tommy looks away, then looks back at Elwood.
“I’m wasting my time here, aren’t I?”
The big man smiles. “Depends. You want to learn something about cows, I’ll talk your ear off. Come inside the barn. I’ll show you how I’m using recycled newspaper for bedding. Keeps the cows warmer than straw. It also decomposes faster than straw. And no need to worry about the ink; most of your magazines and newspapers these days use soy-based ink, which is completely safe for the cows.”
Tommy raises his eyebrows. “You’re quite the innovator.”
Elwood Stumpf’s face turns to stone. “I’m going to go into my barn now. When I turn my back, that’s the last time I expect to see you.”
Driving away, Tommy dials Mel Ott’s phone number. Ott had promised to look into who might’ve been at the poker game that night.
“I struck out with Elwood,” he says.
“Didn’t I say you would?” Ott says. “He’s rough timber, that one.”
“Have you come up with anyone?”
“I made a few calls. The only one who admitted to being there that night is Tim Powell. He’s a real estate agent, works for RE/MAX.”
“I passed a RE/MAX going out to Stumpf’s farm. That the one?”
“That’s it.”
“I think I’ll pay Tim a visit.”
Tommy hangs up and wonders why no one wants to own up to having been out at Elwood Stumpf’s place. Nothing wrong with a bunch of guys playing a little poker every now and then. Is there?
The RE/MAX office, housed in a three-story redbrick house, looks to Tommy like any other small-town real estate office. A clutter of desks and chairs, copy machines, filing cabinets topped with real and faux plants, and real estate signs, all sitting on low-grade industrial carpeting over creaky wood flooring.
As soon as he walks in, two agents rise to meet him. The one closest to the door gets to him first. The second one, farther back, sits down with a sour look on his face.
“I’m looking for Tim Powell,” Tommy says, shaking the man’s hand, which goes limp at the mention of the name.
At the same time, the agent in the back stands and approaches him, a broad smile on his face.
“Tim Powell,” he says, extending his hand. He’s a pear-shaped man, bony shoulders over wide hips. His hair, though still blond, is receding in front. Tommy can tell he’ll be bald down the middle in another ten years.
Powell leads Tommy back to his desk, clears off a plastic guest chair, and gestures for Tommy to sit.
“So, you looking to rent or buy?”
“Neither,” Tommy says. “Mel Ott told me he talked to you earlier, about the poker game at Elwood Stumpf’s place the night Lester Dowd was killed.”
The sour look returns to Tim’s face. “He didn’t say someone was going to come asking about it.”
“Can you remember anyone else who was there besides you, Lester, and Richie Foster?”
The agent leans back and rubs the side of his face. “Man, that was a long time ago. Fifteen years.”
“So, you’d have been what, twenty-five, thirty?” Tommy studies the photos on Tim’s desk. “Looks like you have two boys in high school. Fifteen years ago, they would have been toddlers, right?”
Tommy sees the agent squirm in his seat and realizes he’s hit a nerve. But why? He glances at the desk again, sees a picture of Powell and his wife taken when they were both younger.
And it hits him.
“It’s funny,” Tommy says. “I went up to Elwood’s place just an hour ago and asked about that night and who was out at his farm. He wouldn’t give up a single name. Mel Ott called around and had no more luck than I did. No one wants to remember the game. And I’m thinking, why not? What’s the big deal with some good ol’ boys getting together to throw down a few cards?”
He stops and watches Tim Powell struggle to keep his composure.
“And you know what? I’m thinking maybe it wasn’t just poker going on at old Elwood’s place every other week. Maybe it wasn’t just cards that were getting thrown down. Maybe Elwood, smart businessman that he is, offered up other entertainment as well.”
The agent leans forward and, half whispering, says, “You want to keep it down?”
Bingo.
Tommy leans forward and quietly asks, “How many women did old Woody bring in for those games? How
many men paid for them?”
Powell leans across the desk even farther. “Come on, this is my place of business. I can’t be talking about this here.”
“I’d be glad to stop by your house.”
Tim Powell sighs and speaks in a near whisper. “All right. Look, it was just a few girls, three or four. Woody would have them brought in from that strip club in Allentown. They’d walk around with no tops on, maybe give out a blow job here or there, if someone paid for it. That’s all.”
“That’s all.” Tommy repeats the words. “So why the secrecy?”
“You serious? We got small-town values ’round here. We—”
Tommy raises a hand, and Powell stops. “I can keep my mouth shut,” Tommy says. “Just tell me who else was there.”
Powell shakes his head. “I didn’t even know most of those guys. A lot of them were older, in their fifties at the time. Elwood’s friends. They were the regulars.”
Tommy gives him a hard look.
Powell closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. “The only two I knew were Buck Forney and Dave Hillman, the mayor. Well, he wasn’t the mayor then, but he is now.”
“Forney. That name sounds familiar.”
“Forney Chrysler/Dodge. You probably saw signs coming up here. He has them on all the major roads. As for the guys my age, you’re right that Richie was there, Richie Foster. So was Dale Forney—Buck’s his father. Dale was a couple of years behind me in high school . . . No, wait, that’s wrong. Dale wasn’t there that night, but he usually showed up.”
“Who accused Lester Dowd of cheating?”
“That was Buck Forney and Dave Hillman and a couple of the other old guys. And Richie, too. Yeah. In fact, I think he was the loudest of the ones that got upset at Lester.”
“Just how pissed off was Richie Foster? Did he seem angry enough to want to hurt Lester? Did any of the others?”
At this, Powell looks taken aback. “Are you serious? Is that where you’re headed with this?”
“Not sure where I’m headed yet.”
Powell leans forward again. “Like I said, I wasn’t friends with the older men at that table. So I can’t vouch for any them. As for Richie, he was a lot of things, and he did blow his top from time to time, but that guy wouldn’t hurt a bug. He didn’t have it in him.”
A Killer's Alibi (Philadelphia Legal) Page 12