Evidence of Murder (23 page)

“Bully for you.” Her boss remained, clearly, unimpressed.

“This guy’s trying to make a fool of us, Leo.”

“He’s going to succeed if he sues the office.”

“He thinks he’s smarter than us,” she goaded further. If she could get Leo’s ego on her side, she’d be unstoppable, lawyer or no lawyer.

“If he makes you lose your job over a whore like Jillian Perry, he’s right.”

“How can you
say
something like—”

“On my fifth birthday,” he began, settling back in the chair with his hands clasped around the back of his neck, “my daddy got elected head of the school board in Larchmere, Ohio. The first issue on his agenda centered around a young teacher who felt that children should be taught about the birds and the bees early on so that they’d know what mistakes to avoid later. Standard practice today, but not then. My daddy agreed wholeheartedly, since he hadn’t really planned on my sister and me, talked to the board, talked to the parents, and then fired the teacher. Without severance and without a recommendation.”

Theresa frowned.

“Because if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have lasted out his term. You have to pick your battles. It don’t matter how smart or good looking or even right you are. If you ain’t going to win, then you’re only going to bloody yourself.”

Theresa considered this unquestionably wise statement, and rejected it. She had bled before. “It’s not just the dead woman, it’s her daughter. If this guy could kill a grown woman without leaving a trace, how much easier will it be for him to murder the baby?”

“That doesn’t change a thing. If you can’t prove Jillian Perry was murdered, then you’re going to have to move on.”

This would have sounded kindly, almost paternal, were it not for the warning edge to his voice. Any battles she picked had better damn well not spill onto his field.

And she had better be sure she could win.

The comic-book shop on Madison, where Drew worked, surprised her. Venetian blinds covered the windows, the shelves had been hewn from solid cherry, and the air seemed remarkably free of dust. Every last inch of space had been utilized, but neatly. Classical music tinkled from hidden speakers.

It could not be wise to show up there so soon after Evan’s accusation of collusion, but Theresa lacked sufficient paranoia to think he would have her followed, and felt a face-to-face with Drew would be more productive. He could hang up a phone too easily.

Drew was conversing with a customer at the counter, too engrossed in his topic to notice her approach. “Do you have number 437? That one was really cool because he finally really talks to Marina about her father. And he beats up Doctor Sin too. But he gets away—”

“Drew,” she interrupted, refusing to be distracted by the history of Doctor Sin.

Drew turned, saw her, gulped. “Excuse me a minute,” he said to the customer, who hitched his computer case strap higher onto his shoulder and shuffled off toward a glass display case labeled FIRST EDITIONS. “Hi, Mrs. MacLean.”

The polished wooden counter dug into her waist as she leaned toward him. “Did you tell Evan Kovacic that I told you to apply for guardianship of Cara?”

“Um.” The red had faded, mostly, from the whites of his eyes. Perhaps he had finally ceased the relentless sobbing. “No.”

“Are you sure? Because I just met with him and his attorney and they have that distinct impression.”

He pulled his knit zip-up cardigan more tightly around his thin frame, and his eyebrows crept up in an imitation of innocence. Today he seemed no more dangerous than a stray kitten.

“He’s threatening to sue me and my employer,” she added.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to! His attorney called me after I filed the papers and asked who my attorney was and when I said I was representing myself he said then I have a fool for a client and who the hell—though he said more than hell, which I didn’t think was very professional of him—did I think I was, trying to take a man’s daughter away from him?”

“Okay. And where did I come into this?”

“He said Evan had the resources to give Cara a decent life, and a loser like me had nothing.”

This situation had disastrous potential for her and she needed to stay on track, but still, she couldn’t let that go by. “Attorneys aren’t known for their tact, especially when they’re trying to get you to drop a case, Drew. Don’t pay any attention to his insults. But as for me—”

“I might have said something like, well, that you didn’t think it was such a bad idea. If I got custody of Cara.”

Oh, hell.

“You don’t, do you?”

“Drew, I never advised you to—”

“But you don’t, right? Wouldn’t it be better for Cara to have a father who really loved her, and not just her bank account? And let’s look at the facts—Evan didn’t do such a good job of taking care of Jillian.”

“Jillian was a grown woman, Drew.”

“But—”

She fiddled with the items near the cash register to take a break from his gaze, a collectible Batmobile, light sticks in a variety of colors, the “take a penny” bowl, and tiny plastic Legolases. “Look, despite the fact that your emotions seem to—fluctuate—I’m sure you would be a perfectly good father…”

“Thank you,” he said and beamed.

“But whether you would, or whether Evan wouldn’t, none of that is up to me. Your court case over Cara has nothing to do with me. I can’t help you with that—”

“Sure you can. Prove Evan killed Jillian.”

“Drew, I don’t know that he did.” Didn’t she? Then what had she been doing for days, neglecting her job and the rest of her life to retrace a dead woman’s steps? Okay, she
knew
it. But she couldn’t
prove
it.

“Sure you do.”

“You’re not listen—”

“You got in trouble at work, I get that. I promise I won’t mention your name to anyone from now on, I’ll say it was entirely my idea to ask for Cara. I’ll pretend I don’t even know you. Just put him in jail, and Cara won’t have to be raised by the man who killed her mother. I know you can do it, because you understand.”

“Understand what?” she asked, fairly certain she did not want to hear the answer.

“What it’s like to lose someone. I looked you up, in the library newspaper archives. I—I read about your fiancé dying. That was so awful.”

As always, she didn’t know what to say.

“But that’s why you understand about Jillian, why I have to know what happened to her and punish Evan for doing it. I have to.” He patted her hand and she tried not to jerk it away. “You’ll figure it out. You’re like Wonder Woman. Just pull out your lasso of truth, all your lights and test tubes and microscopes, and justice will prevail.”

“Wonder Woman,” Theresa said. “Sure.”

Jillian’s mother, Barbara Perry, managed an antiques store in Cuyahoga Falls—not a storefront affair, but a vast box perched on the edge of a forested valley. Parked cars clustered near the door, filling one-third of the lot in the middle of a weekday. Theresa sat in hers and stared. What was she doing here? Frank had contacted Anthony and Barbara Perry, been told that they hadn’t spoken to their daughter in months, and that they could shed no light on her life or activities. “Quote,” Frank had told her. “That’s exactly what her dad said, ‘no light.’”

That was why it had taken Theresa four days to pay Jillian’s mother a visit.

Who was she kidding? She simply hadn’t wanted to converse with a woman who had just lost her daughter. Too easy for parallels to pop up and linger.

And, truthfully, if they hadn’t seen Jillian in a year or two, they would be unlikely to illuminate Jillian’s state of mind or her relationship with her husband. So why was she here, taking over for the investigators like some sort of deranged Nancy Drew?

Because she had a right to ask what they knew about Jillian’s state of mind. That
was
the job of the medical examiner’s office. Maybe not
her
job, specifically, but close enough. She opened the car door and stepped onto the asphalt.

And because she wasn’t going to turn her back on Jillian Perry again.

The frigid air filtered out of the valley with the smells of evergreens and frozen earth. Cuyahoga Falls tried to live in harmony with the nature surrounding the town, and for the most part had the funds to do so. Apparently the antiques business had not suffered along with the rest of the economy. The shopgirl who had answered the phone earlier said that Barbara Perry would be in all morning and could pick up the line as soon as she finished with a couple and their butler’s table. Theresa hadn’t waited. Barbara Perry had at least seen her newborn granddaughter, and with luck might know more about her daughter than anyone suspected.

There was only one way to find out.

Still, the walk to the lettered glass door seemed to take many more steps than it should have. The air felt especially bitter, and one lone starling gazed at her as he perched on the luggage rack of a silver Audi. The starling squawked.

“You shouldn’t be here either, my little feathered friend. Aren’t the smart birds still in Florida?”

Its marble eyes did not waver. She reached the door.

What are you hoping this woman will do? Tell you that Jillian said Evan threatened to kill her and also said, by the way this is how I’ll do it? Tell you that Jillian had been contemplating suicide, so she walked into that woods of her own accord and Evan is simply a tactless, shallow, but innocent man? Decide that perhaps she should sue for custody of Cara, since Evan is all by himself and not even a blood relation to the little girl?

Maybe.

Then he’d sue you for sure.

But Cara would be safe.

She pushed the door open and stepped through. Not even the smell of wood polish and old upholstery could unclench her stomach.

She saw Barbara Perry immediately, her hair and eye color too identical to her daughter’s to miss. The woman held a glass bowl out to an older man in a heavy parka, not removing her own hands until his had firmly clasped the beveled edges. She wore a simple pantsuit in light pink and a heavy cardigan sweater that seemed to pull her shoulders down. The blond hair was set in precise curls. The blue eyes never left the bowl.

Blowing a sale would not get their relationship off to a good start. Theresa browsed through lamps and then a few shelves of knickknacks until the man decided to pony up for the bowl. As soon as he left with his carefully wrapped package, she approached the woman.

“Mrs. Perry?”

“Yes,” she said and viewed Theresa without apparent interest.

Theresa introduced herself without specifying her position at the medical examiner’s office. “I realize this is a difficult time for you, but could I please have a few minutes?”

“We couldn’t do this on the phone?” She sounded more surprised than upset. Only plumbers made house calls these days. “I’m working.”

I thought you might be more forthcoming without your husband.
“I was in the area anyway,” Theresa lied blatantly. She’d lived in northern Ohio all her life and only visited the suburb east of her perhaps three times.

“I don’t think I can help you. My daughter and I haven’t seen much of each other these past few years.”

“Anything you could tell me would help. We’re trying to complete her case file, but I wanted to be sure that I spoke with all her next of kin first.”

With the carrot of closure dangled before her, Barbara Perry agreed to take a break. She said as much to a skinny teenager with CARLOTTA on her name tag and led Theresa to an area next to the office that showed almost as much sophistication as the showroom. The coffeepot had deep stains and the microwave needed cleaning, but the sofa had been upholstered in crimson jacquard and an orange carnival-glass teacup held the Splenda packets.

Theresa’s heart beat a little desperately as she planted her bottom on the red cushions.

Pretend she’s Rachael’s teacher, she coaxed herself. She’s given Rachael a C instead of an A on a recent test that Rachael insists she aced, and you’re not leaving until you find out why. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Perry. I’m sorry for your loss.”

The woman did not speak until after she’d craned her neck to get her coworkers in her line of sight. The teenager on the floor moved to greet a pair of young women crossing the threshold, and a man of indeterminate age spoke, low and without pause, on the phone in the adjacent office. Apparently reassured, Barbara Perry stated, “I loved Jillian.”

“I’m sure you—”

“No.” She looked at Theresa, pressed her trembling lips together. “I loved Jillian. I think she made some mistakes, and perhaps I did too, but I loved her. You don’t know how many times I’ve wished I could say it’s all right, it doesn’t matter. But it wasn’t right, bringing that baby into the world without a father, using her body instead of her mind to make a living, and how could I say it was? What’s the point of being a parent if you don’t try to influence your child to take the healthiest path?” She turned her palms up. “What am I here for if not that?”

Theresa stammered, “I see your point.”

“I could say to myself, Jillian’s an adult now, she has to make her own decisions, and of course that’s true. But I’d be saying it to absolve myself of responsibility. I see others doing the same thing, with kids younger and younger.”

It took this woman thirty seconds to confess to a parent’s thorniest worry, Theresa thought. She wants to talk. She particularly wants to talk about Jillian. “What was Jillian like as a girl?”

An awfully broad question for a medical examiner’s investigation, but Barbara couldn’t be expected to know typical queries from the atypical. Nor did she seem to care. “Sweet. They were both so easy, she and her brother. That’s why it jolted us so when she dropped out of school to be a model. She had always planned to be a teacher, and all of a sudden, after two years of college…at first I thought she’d gotten lazy, even though she never had been before. She had always worked hard for her grades. She’d had a job at the Dairy Queen since the tenth grade. Jillian was never lazy. She
wanted
to be a model.”