Pennies on a Dead Woman's Eyes (4 page)

“Jack,” I said after a moment, “do you really believe Lis Benedict is innocent?”

“I do.”

Why was he so definite? I wondered. Certainly not because he was in love with Judy. Jack was a good criminal lawyer, and in the course of his career he'd heard even more lies and bullshit than I had. He wouldn't allow his emotions, however strong, to blind him to the facts.

“You sound as if you think otherwise,” he added.

“I'm not sure.”

“Read the transcript.”

“Jack, I have to warn you, I feel a tremendous resistance to this case.”

“I told Judy you would. And frankly I don't blame you. But how much trouble would it be to go over the transcript?”

“Not much. I suppose I could look at it this weekend. And I do want to find out who's responsible for those phone calls and the graffiti.” I glanced at my watch. “What's keeping Nueva, anyway? He said he'd report by five, and it's almost six now. I've never known him to come up empty-handed on something this simple—much less pass up an extra ten bucks.”

Rae came up next to me. “Shar, I'm going to run some errands before I go over to your house,” she said, “Can I have a spare key in case you're not home when I get there?”

“Sure. Ask Ted for his.”

She nodded and headed for the door.

Jack raised his eyebrows.

“I've acquired a temporary roommate. Her garret's open to the air until the skylights are installed, so I offered her the use of my guest room.”

“Skylights—Jesus. I don't know why Hank's such a soft touch where Rae's concerned. He spoils her rotten. She's already preempted a third of the attic for her living space; why does she need skylights too?”

I shrugged. “There's something about Rae that makes people want to spoil her rotten.”

“Guess so. How come she's staying with you instead of Willie?”

“He's up in Reno this weekend opening a new store, and I don't think she likes to stay in that big house of his when he's not there.” Willie Whelan, Rae's current love, had expanded his chain of cut-rate jewelry stores to Nevada. Soon most of the newlyweds who had tied the knot in the West's marriage Mecca would be up to their eyeballs in debt to him. “Rae's promised to help me get my garden in shape for spring planting,” I added.

“A little late, aren't you? It's already the end of May.”

“Not as late as last year; I didn't get so much as a petunia into the ground. Rae and I have a hot weekend planned: hard work in the garden followed by a culinary experiment with Larry's mushroom enchilada recipe, and then early to bed—alone.”

“Hy's not flying down?”

Hy is a pilot and owns a Citabria Decathlon, a small aerobatic plane that is a sweet, sometimes scary thrill to fly in. “I haven't heard from him, so I assume not. But you never know; he's one of the world's truly unpredictable souls.” And puzzling ones, I added to myself. “Anyway, the most I'm hoping for from the weekend is that this weather will hold so I can laze on my deck on Sunday and contemplate the fruits of our labors.” I paused. “Do you and Judy have plans for tomorrow night?”

“No. It's one of those hot weekends for us, too. Why?”

“I was thinking you might come for mushroom enchiladas. Bring Lis, too. It would be a good chance for all of us to talk, since I intend to go over that transcript tonight.” Even as I spoke, a plan took form; I'd read up on the case, feed everybody, make some provocative comments that would pique Rae's interest, and turn the case over to her. The easy way out, maybe, but Rae was a good investigator, and I could always help—more effectively because I could maintain a certain objective distance.

Jack looked skeptical. “Dinner sounds fine, but I don't know about the enchiladas. Koslowski's recipes . . .”

“Rae's had them, and she says they're good. Trying them is part of my campaign to begin eating more healthfully.”

“You're just a bundle of good intentions these days, aren't you?”

“So far I'm only working on my minor flaws. The major ones would take more effort that I can put forth right now.”

“Well, we'll be happy to bring some wine—something robust to drown out the peculiar undertaste that all Larry's recipes have.”

I smiled. “Tomorrow night at seven, then.”

After I'd set my empty wineglass in the sink, I went down the hall to Ted's desk, to see if someone might have taken a call from Tony Neuva and neglected to locate me. Surprisingly, Ted had returned to the foyer, was sitting in his chair staring into space. I hesitate, not wishing to intrude, but he glanced my way and monitored for me to come in.

“Don't mind me,” he said. “I'm just brooding.”

“About something specific or everything in general?”

“Oh . . .” he shrugged.

I waited, but he didn't go on. During the past six months I'd noticed a worrisome change in Ted. He was as efficient and devoted to his work as ever, but at times I could tell he felt overburdened. He laughed and joked as much as ever, but often his humor had an edge. And more and more I found him staring blankly like this or aimlessly wandering through the house.

Of course, I reasoned, these were hard times for a gay person. Ted had lost his oldest friend to AIDS, more recent friends and former lovers, too. So far—thank God—he'd tested negative for HIV, but the prospect of a positive result always cast enough of a shadow so that Ted had engaged in no relationships for quite some time.

Loneliness, I thought now, was the crux of his problem. Throwing himself into his work couldn't fill the void; neither could any amount of laughter and joking and socializing. And much as we at All Souls loved him, that still couldn't take the place of the love of one special person. Still, you have to try to help….

I perched on the edge of his desk. “Want to talk?”

He shrugged again. “Nothing to talk about. It's just more of the same.”

“I'm always here for you.”

“I know that. Friends like you are what keep me from hanging myself from the roof beam.”

“That's just as well—the skylight guy says it's rotten, remember?”

He smiled faintly.

“By the way,” I added, “did Tony Neuva call me while you were sitting here?”

“Nobody's called, and I don't see any message in your box.”

“Odd. Well, I'm out of here. See you Monday.”

As I went upstairs to fetch my jacket and bag, I wondered about Tony. This was the first time since I'd been using him that he'd failed to deliver when promised.

The evidence at this trial will show that the defendant, Lisbeth Ingrid Benedict, had the motive, the opportunity, and the means to murder Cordelia McKittridge. It will further show that Mrs. Benedict made complicated and well-thought-out preparations for her crime, and that she went to the dovecote on the Seacliff property belonging to the Institute for North American Studies on the evening of Friday, June twenty-second with full intent to kill the young woman she had lured there.

The portion of the transcript containing Deputy District Attorney Joseph Stameroff's opening statement lay on my kitchen counter. I wanted to go over both it and the closing statement before my dinner guests arrived in two hours. Now I left off reading and went to stir the lumpy grayish white mixture in the cast-iron skillet on the stove.

Stameroff had argued persuasively for the People, and the state's case, while circumstantial, had been strong. But there were a few holes, made obvious by the passage of time and my own detachment. Holes that might lead to various avenues of inquiry.

I gave the mushroom mixture a final stir and went back to my reading.

The evidence at this trial will show Lisbeth Benedict's motive to be age-old unoriginal; a betrayed wife's jealousy of her husband's younger paramour. The defendant's solution to the problem of a faithless husband was also age-old and unoriginal, but she took advantage of her opportunities in a creative manner. The opportunity: The evidence will show that Mrs. Benedict was aware of her husband Vincent's habit of meeting with Miss McKittridge at the dovecote on the think tank's property. That she knew he set up these assignations by note rather than by telephone. That she was aware that on the night of June twenty-second her husband, his colleagues, and their spouses would be at a banquet in honor of visiting Secretary of State John Foster Dulles at the Blue Fox restaurant downtown—an event no one would miss.

A bubbling noise came from the stove; the heat under the skillet was too high. I adjusted it, then picked up the wooden spoon and tasted a mushroom. It had no more flavor than cardboard, was overpowered by the green chilies. And the sauce . . . it must have been the low-fat cottage cheese that had given it that lumpy consistency. The yogurt didn't help the flavor, and the lack of salt . . . Quickly I grabbed the shaker and dumped in a couple of teaspoonfuls, then pulled the transcript closer, stirring as I read.

The means: The evidence will show that Lisbeth Benedict had studied calligraphy, was in fact an excellent calligrapher, and was in the habit of signing her husband's name to checks when it was not possible to obtain his signature. That she was fully capable of creating a note that Cordelia McKittridge would believe came from her lover, requesting that she meet him at the dovecote on the evening of June twenty-second. That Mrs. Benedict came down with a convenient and unconfirmed case of food poisoning on the afternoon of June twenty-second and was allegedly forced to cancel out of the dinner for the secretary of state. That the household staff had been given the evening off, and that Mrs. Benedict and her ten-year-old daughter, Judy, were the only persons at the estate from six o'clock until midnight. The only persons save for one other: Cordelia McKittridge.

I tasted the mushroom mixture again. The salt had done absolutely nothing for the dreadful concoction. Tossing the looming spector of high blood pressure to the winds, I grabbed the shaker and dumped in a whole handful. On the back burner sat a second skillet containing a tomato-based sauce to be poured over the filled enchiladas. I hesitated before tasting it. The oily sheen on its surface—what could have caused it? Health food wasn't supposed to be greasy. I dipped the spoon into the skillet and sampled a small amount. Oh, that was nasty stuff! Shuddering, I went back to the transcript.

The People, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, cannot presume to know exactly what went on in that isolated dovecote between Lisbeth Benedict and Cordelia McKittridge. We can assume that angry words were spoken on both sides; we can assume that emotions ran high. The evidence will show that Cordelia McKittridge was attacked with a pair of gardening shears, that she was badly mutilated, that she died of exsanguinations—that is to say, she bled to death on the floor of the dovecote. Testimony from Mrs. Benedict's own daughter will show that the defendant returned to the mansion shortly after ten that evening with red stains on her dress, stains that she later—much later, after she was arrested for the crime—attempted to explain as ink stains. But, ladies and gentlemen, it would have taken a great deal of ink to make those stains; Cordelia McKittridge lost practically all her blood.

I looked up from the page, glanced at the skillet containing the red sauce, then tried to wipe the obvious from my mind with a flurry of activity. I dumped in some garlic powder, followed by more cumin and chili powder. Stirred furiously and tasted.

“Oh, my God!”

Whatever restraints I'd imposed upon myself in the interests of sound nutrition fell by the wayside. I snatched up a bottle of red cooking wine and poured with abandon. As the vile concoction simmered, I read on.

A crime of passion, you say? Violent and reprehensible, but understandable as a product of momentary insanity? No, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, it was not.

The evidence we are about to present will show that the murder weapon—those sharp and deadly shears—was not seized either in an unanticipated fit of rage or self-defense. The shears were kept, not in the dovecote, but in the gardener's shed, had in fact been in the shed when the gardener locked it before going home at five that afternoon. And a duplicate key to that shed was kept on a Peg-Board in the pantry of the mansion, easily accessible to any of the residents. Lisbeth Benedict went to the dovecote with those shears in hand, prepared to do murder.

You may recall that we have stated that Lisbeth Benedict took advantage of her opportunities in a creative manner. Creativity was one of the hallmarks of this crime. Lisbeth Benedict took with her to the dovecote not only the shears with which she killed Cordelia McKittridge but also two symbolic objects. And she came away from there with an even more symbolic object.

The objects that the defendant took with her were two pennies. It could be claimed that everyone has at least one pair of pennies with him at any given time, but these were not ordinary coins. They were war-issue pennies, no longer in wide circulation. And although we cannot presume to know what significance they held for Lisbeth Benedict, we do know what she did with them. After Cordelia McKittridge had bled to death there on the floor of the dovecote, the defendant laid her body out as if for burial and placed one of those pennies on either eye. And the symbolic object she took away with her? A ring. An amethyst ring that the evidence will show had been given to Miss McKittridge by the defendant's husband. A ring that was later found among the defendant's things by her daughter, Judy, after the family had moved from the estate to their own home, where outsiders would have no access to their possessions. A ring, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that was not merely removed from Cordelia McKittridge's hand, but hacked from it—along with the finger on which she wore it.

I pushed the transcript away. Right there was the reason I didn't want to reinvestigate this case. Perhaps what had been done to Cordy McKittridge was mild in comparison to what went on today, but it still repulsed me. And just as I refused to watch splatter movies or read lovingly crafted fiction or true-crime accounts dwelling on mutilation and sadism, I didn't have to deal with this.