Free Pennies on a Dead Woman's Eyes by Marcia Muller Page A

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.
    â€œThere’s hope now,” I said.
    â€œNo, it’s too late for me. But not for Judy.”
    â€œThen 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?”
    â€œNot very good, I’m afraid.”
    â€œIs 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.”
    â€œI’ll ask her to work on him, then. Maybe she can persuade him to discuss the case 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?”
    â€œHarry Moylan? He’s been dead for years.”
    â€œWhy a public defender, anyway?”
    â€œHe was all I could afford.”
    â€œSurely on your husband’s salary—”
    â€œMy husband was an alcoholic, Miss McCone. The first item in an alcoholic’s budget is liquor. Most months we could barely meet our expenses.”
    â€œAnd the Institute didn’t offer to help?”
    â€œThey 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.”
    â€œAnd your family—did you appeal to them?”
    â€œThere 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?”
    â€œI have no idea what happened to Bob and Jane. For all I know, they might be dead.”
    â€œAre there any other Institute staff members I should speak with?”
    â€œMost were older than Vincent and I, and have died.”
    â€œDomestic help at the estate?”
    â€œDead 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—”
    â€œPlease—Lis. I’m not used to formality.”
    â€œLis,” 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.”
    â€œAll right.”
    â€œWas food poisoning the real reason you didn’t attend the banquet for Dulles?”
    â€œI was ill, yes.”
    â€œAnd the stains Judy saw on your