Evidence of Guilt (2 page)

Which brought me back to Wes Harding. I set the mail aside and rolled Sam's proposition around in my mind.

Lisa Cornell and her five-year-old daughter, Amy, had been stabbed to death two weeks earlier. Their bloodied and partially clothed bodies had been found in the barn at the back of Lisa's property, along with a family of rats who'd had several days to indulge their appetites.

Wes was first questioned several days later, after the police discovered an unusual, leather-thonged rabbit's foot near the body of the little girl. Apparently a number of people were able to attest to the fact that Wes carried an identical rabbit's foot, one he was unable to produce for the police. His arrest came shortly thereafter, well supported by corroborating evidence.

From what I knew it was all circumstantial, but it was enough to convince the police they had a case. I was will-

ing to bet it was a pretty strong case, too. You don't arrest the son of a prominent physician, even a son who's a reputed troublemaker, unless you're sure you're right Not in Silver Creek, anyway.

Of course, that didn't mean they
were
right

Rocking back in my chair, I tucked a foot up under me. The muted sounds of a summer afternoon drifted up from the street below. The murders had shaken this small town, which had felt itself largely immune from the ugliness and brutality that seemed to go hand in hand with urban living. People were frightened, and they were angry.

The murders had shaken me, too. But so had the realization that I'd so easily fallen into the camp of those who presumed Wes guilty. Sam's comment earlier this afternoon had rankled because it came so close to the truth.

But did that mean I wanted to be part of Wes's defense?

The phone rang. I rocked forward and picked up the receiver.

"You're not busy, are you?" My sister, Sabrina, had a way of layering the words with an innuendo that made me bristle. When I'd been on the verge of partnership at Goldman & Latham she'd opened her calls hesitantly, usually with a variation of /
know how
6ws)!
you are and I hate to bother you.
Now she assumed I had nothing but time.

"Never too busy for you, Sabrina."

"Knock it off," she said lightly. "If you're going to be like that, I'll just stop calling." She paused, and I could hear the clink of ice cubes. Diet Coke? Or a vodka tonic? At three o'clock in the afternoon, it could have been either, depending on her mood. My sister sometimes found it difficult to deal with the demands of a privileged lifestyle.

"Really, I'm glad you called," I told her. "I always like talking to you." That was the truth. Well, maybe I didn't

always enjoy the conversations themselves, but I liked the fact that we were comfortable enough with one another to attempt them. That hadn't always been the case.

"Peter ran into an old college buddy the other day," she continued, "on the golf course. The guy's the senior attorney at Golden Gate Savings in San Francisco, and he just happens to be looking for another staff attorney." Her voice rose and became breathless. "Peter told him all about you and he said to have you call."

"He'll have no shortage of qualified applicants. And I know next to nothing about banking."

"You could learn."

"Maybe, if I wanted to."

She gave an exasperated sigh. "It's got to be better than rotting away up there in the boonies."

"I'm not rotting away, and Silver Creek is no longer the boonies."

"Honestly, Kali, I don't understand you."

"Besides, if I wanted to take on something more, I, could." I told her about the impending trial and Sam's request for help.

"You want to get involved with murder?" There was heavy emphasis on the last word.

"What I'd be involved in is a trial."

"And you'd be playing some abstract game, trying to find the loophole that would allow a killer to go free." The ice clinked again. From the slow way she sipped I was betting on the vodka tonic. "Why'd he kill them anyway?"

"It hasn't been established that he did."

"I'll tell you one thing: I never believed half those rumors we heard about Wes back in high school." She paused. "Are you going to do it?"

"I don't know. A case like this could help me make a name for myself. Help me get established."

"Established in the middle of nowhere."

"More than anything, I feel I owe Sam. He's put himself out for me this last year."

"He wouldn't have done it if he didn't want to." Sabrina hesitated. Her voice dropped half an octave. "Does Wes still have that gypsy magic?"

'That what?"

"That aura. Mysterious, provocative, unnerving. Don't tell me you never noticed."

What surprised me was that Sabrina had. "I wouldn't know," I told her. "I've only seen him from a distance."

"I bet he doesn't," she said almost wistfully. "He couldn't, not after all these years."

When we hung up I put the matter of Wes's defense out of my mind. I returned a few phone calls, wrote a letter on behalf of Mrs. Gillis, whose neighbor's dog was killing her chickens, then revised Mr. Crawford's will for probably the fourth or fifth time in as many months. Whenever he got mad at one of his four daughters he'd write her out of his will. Then he'd reinstate her when his ire turned to a different daughter, as it invariably did. I didn't know any of the women personally--two lived in Los Angeles, one in New York, and one abroad--but from what he'd told me I couldn't imagine any of them fighting over a rundown cottage, two acres of dry grassland, a 1984 Chevy and a pitifully small bank account.

I did the typing myself, although I had a secretary. Or half of one, at any rate. Myra split her time between my office and the accountant's next door. Since neither office was overwhelmed with clients, it worked fine.

Myra wasn't a great typist anyway. She was okay at the keyboard, despite the long nails, but she was forever transposing words, and sometimes whole phrases, so that nothing made sense. Or if it made sense, it wasn't the sense you intended. She did the same thing with messages. But she was terrific at watering plants and making sure the magazines by the front entrance were current and neatly arranged in alphabetical order.

She was also a genuinely nice person.

Myra's divorce had been my first case after moving to Silver Creek. Although we got a decent property settlement, given the circumstances, it wasn't much. As a single mother with three small children and an ex who seemed disinclined toward steady employment, Myra needed every cent she could earn. It was unfortunate that her skills fell short of her needs.

With the paperwork in order, I made a quick trip downstairs to the rest room. When the building was remodeled sometime back in the late '70s, the great minds in charge removed the upstairs bathroom to make room for a storage closet, leaving only the facilities at the rear of the beauty salon. This was sometimes hell on male clients, who would invariably opt to bounce uncomfortably from foot to foot rather than walk through a roomful of women in curlers.

The smell of permanent wave lotion filled my nostrils the minute I stepped inside. I held my breath and started toward the back of the salon, picking up snatches of the collective conversation en route.

"She wasn't but a child herself," said a blond woman with foils in her hair. "And as sweet as they come. I hope they give him the death penalty."

The woman next to her nodded. 'Too bad they can't

make it slow and painful, like what he did to that poor woman and her daughter. Her little girl was the same age as my granddaughter. I tell you, I'd like to pull the trigger on that Wes Harding myself."

" 'Course by the time the lawyers get finished he'll probably get off with a slap on the wrist."

"If that."

"Loopholes and technicalities," chimed in Cherise, who owns the place. "Seems to me the law's pretty clear. You murder someone, you don't deserve any special breaks."

"Criminals get all the advantages these days."

The blonde swiveled her chair to face the others. "It's the lawyers. All they're interested in is the money. Right and wrong don't matter."

Cherise mumbled agreement, snapped the rod on a curler, then looked up. "Oh hi, Kali. Didn't see you come in. Nothing personal in this, understand. You're about as decent as they come."

I let out the breath I was holding. "There's a chance Wes Harding didn't do it, you know."

"Nah." The older woman addressed our reflection in the mirror. "They wouldn't have arrested him if they didn't have proof."

"He ought to be taken out and hung right now," the blonde said with the vehemence of those who know they're right. "Save us all a lot of time and money."

"Hanged," I said.

All three looked at me.

"The word is 'hanged' not 'hung.' "

"Doesn't really matter what you call it as long as Wes Harding gets what he's got coming. Everyone in town knows he's nothing but trouble."

After using the rest room I went back upstairs and phoned Sam.

Somewhere deep inside I'd known I would agree to take the case, although I'd expected to agonize over the decision a bit more first. It struck me, with a certain appreciation for the irony involved, that I was beset with the same lust and loathing I'd experienced as a teen. Only this time it was for the case, not Wes himself.

Myra was already at work when I arrived the next morning. On the desk in front of her, an open bottle of nail polish perched precariously atop a stack of case files.

"You're here bright and early," I said.

She nodded, brushing at a wispy curl hanging over her eyes. Myra wore her thick, dark hair pinned at the crown with a tortoise-shell clip, and strands were forever springing free.

"I have to take an extra hour for lunch today. Hope you don't mind."

I didn't, although I suspected it wouldn't have mattered if I did. "One of the kids sick again?"

"No, it's about Marc's school. They're thinking of expanding this
'good-touch, bad-touch'
program to the lower grades. Some psychologist is going to talk to the parents this afternoon. I wouldn't take time off except that a friend of mine is kiiida twisting my arm."

" 'Good-touch, bad-touch? What's that?"

Myra was concentrating on applying color to the nails of her right hand and didn't bother to look up. "It's like a sex-ed, don't-talk-to-strangers thing. You know, good touching is a hug from your mommy. Bad touching is anything that makes you uncomfortable. I guess it's important stuff, but sometimes I think they go overboard. Here I am trying to teach my kids to be comfortable with their bodies, and then some stern-sounding stranger at school lectures them about private parts and abuse. Somehow it doesn't quite fit."

"It's probably important though."

"I guess, but they're just little kids. Do we have to fill their heads with this stuff so early?"

"It's a sad commentary on society, isn't it?"

"Sure is." She held out a hand tipped in deep fuchsia and blew on the nails to dry them. "I guess it's nothing new, though. The friend who's dragging me to the meeting this afternoon says she was abused for years by an uncle. I think that's why she's pushing so hard for this program. She's almost a fanatic." Myra examined her handiwork, then capped the bottle of polish. "I made copies of that letter you asked me to. I set out the original for your signature and stamped the file copy."

"Thanks."

"What do you want me to do with the others?"

"What others?"

She nodded toward the small pile of papers next to the bottle of nail polish. "You asked for two dozen copies."

"I asked for
two
copies. Geez, Myra, why in the world would I want twenty-four copies of a simple letter?"

"How should I know, you're the lawyer." She tightened the cap on the bottle. "But I coulda sworn you said two dozen."

Suddenly it hit me. "How many donuts did you order?" It hit her too. "Oh gosh, Kali. You're right How did I manage to do that?" Her expression was stricken. She wrung her hands, heedless of die wet polish. "I'm so sorry. Stupid, stupid me. I don't know how I got them confused." Myra's not stupid at all, but she does have trouble with some of the finer points of daily living. "It's not the end of the world," I told her. "We'll use the extra copies for scratch paper. And you just saved the gals downstairs a whole hunk of calories." Though I figured I was going to have to come up with the rest of the donuts, and an explanation, before they took it in their minds that I wasn't such a decent sort after all.