A Deadly Judgment (18 page)

“I dropped the charges, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“Yes, I know you did, and I’m sure you had good reason. But you also know that simply by charging him with rape, you caused a violation of the trust fund of which he was a beneficiary.”

“I don’t have to talk to you,” she said. “Excuse me.”

“Ms. Simone, do you know Harry LeClaire?”

If my asking the receptionist and manufacturing supervisor at LeClaire Metals whether they knew Cynthia Warren caused a reaction, my mention of LeClaire’s name to Gina Simone caused her to look as though I’d shoved a stake in her heart.

I followed up with, “Do you know of a relationship that existed between Harry LeClaire and Cynthia Warren?”

She answered by slamming the door in my face.

I returned to the car, got in the front seat, and looked back at the house. Ms. Simone was peering down at me through a second-story window.

“I get the feeling you weren’t welcome,” Cathie said.

“I would say that’s an understatement.”

“Would I be out of place asking you some questions, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“No one is ever out of place
asking
questions. Whether I’ll answer them is another matter. Shoot.”

“I have a feeling you’re doing a lot more than acting as a jury consultant.”

“I would say that’s a fair assumption. But let me ask
you
a question.”

“What?”

“Can I can trust you to keep everything that I say, and do, between us? And I really mean
between us.”

“Discretion is my middle name. You should see some of the situations I end up observing as a limo driver.”

“Good. Then let’s keep going.”

“Okay. Next stop?”

“Around the corner.”

“What?”

“Find a place to park where we can keep an eye on Ms. Simone’s house. If she leaves, we’ll—”

“Go in the same direction,” Cathie said, laughing.

“Exactly.”

After we’d found a good spot, and had parked, I said, “I wonder how the trial is going?”

“Let’s see,” Cathie said, turning on the radio. “This station has been carrying a lot of it.”

After a series of loud commercials, a newscaster said:

“Does that change your plans, Mrs. Fletcher?” Cathie asked.

“Not at all. It could even hasten things along.”

When Gina Simone hadn’t left after we’d waited for a half hour, I considered giving it up. But just as I was about to announce this to Cathie, a black Cadillac passed us and pulled up in front of the house. I leaned closer to the window and narrowed my eyes. No doubt about it. It was alternate juror Harry LeClaire behind the wheel.

He beeped the horn. Moments later Ms. Simone, now dressed in black slacks and a tan blazer, and carrying a large overnight bag, bounded down the steps and got in the Cadillac.

“Do we?” Cathie asked, having already started the engine.

“Absolutely. But keep your distance. I don’t want them to know we’re following.”

Cathie giggled. “This is exciting,” she said. “I’ve never followed anyone before. Like cops and robbers.”

I didn’t say what I was thinking—that this was no game.

Harry LeClaire had given Cynthia Warren ten thousand dollars the day before she was murdered. And he obviously had a relationship of some sort with Cynthia’s friend, Gina Simone, the young lady who’d accused Cynthia’s boyfriend, Billy Brannigan, of rape, potentially depriving him of his trust benefits.

We followed them as they headed out of Somerville and in the direction of Logan Airport.

“Looks like somebody’s taking a flight,” Cathie said as they turned on to the airport access road.

“Looks like it,” I said, my eyes trained on the back of the Caddy.

They pulled into the American Airlines departure area and stopped. Cathie came up behind, maintaining a three-car gap between us. Gina Simone got out with her bag and walked away from the car, but returned and started talking to LeClaire through the open front door. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but her body language and facial expression said she was angry. She confirmed that by slamming the door and stomping through the terminal doors.

LeClaire reached across the seat, closed the door, and prepared to join the traffic flow.

“Do we go with him?” Cathie asked.

“No. But how about following Ms. Simone in the terminal, Cathie? See if you can determine where she’s headed. I’d go, but she’ll recognize me.”

“Just like a private eye,” she said.

“Robert Parker would be proud of you,” I said, referring to the best-selling Boston-based crime writer.

She got out of the car and disappeared inside the terminal.

A uniformed security guard came to where I waited and told me to move.

“My driver is inside,” I said. “She’ll only be a minute.”

“You can’t sit here,” he said.

“Just one minute,” I said. “I’d move it, but I don’t drive.”

He walked away to instruct another driver to move, and I was relieved when Cathie came running through the doors and got behind the wheel.

“We almost got a ticket,” I said.

“Wouldn’t be my first, Mrs. Fletcher. She’s taking a flight to Florida.”

“Miami?”

“Fort Lauderdale. Leaves in a half hour.”

“Good work,” I said. “Thanks.”

“I’m enjoying this,” she said. “Beats driving boring business moguls to board meetings. What’s next?”

The digital clock on the dashboard read: four-thirty.

“I think I’ll head back to the hotel.”

“I’m available this evening.”

“What about my nighttime driver?”

“You haven’t been using him,” Cathie said as we pulled away from the curb.

“I know. No need for a driver tonight. I need a quiet night by myself.”

“Whatever you say. What time do I pick you up tomorrow?”

“Eight. Court convenes at nine. The judge is supposed to make a ruling about a letter supposedly written by Cynthia Warren.”

“A letter?”

It wouldn’t have been proper for me to reveal details to her about the letter, so I changed the subject.

“Have a nice evening, Mrs. Fletcher,” Cathie said when we arrived at the Ritz-Carlson.

“You, too, Cathie. See you in the morning.”

“I just want you to know, Mrs. Fletcher, that you can trust me to keep my mouth shut. I mean, they could torture me and I wouldn’t say anything, burn me with cigarettes, shove bamboo shoots under my nails, no matter what. My lips are sealed.”

I smiled and patted her arm. “Hopefully,” I said, “you won’t be put to such a severe test. But it’s nice to know I can trust you. Good night.”

She’d obviously watched a lot of World War II movies.

I’d promised to keep in touch with Malcolm’s office, but hadn’t, and called the moment I reached my suite. Rachel Cohen answered.

“Hello, Rachel, It’s Jessica.”

“Malcolm was asking about you. Court broke early.”

“So I heard. Is he there?”

“No. He’s at a Bar Association dinner at the Copley Plaza. How was your day?”

“Good. Yours?”

“Okay. Judge Wilson says he’ll rule on the Warren letter tomorrow morning.”

“I heard that, too. Any inkling of which way he’ll go?”

“No. He’s a good poker player. By the way, are you free for dinner?”

“Free? Yes. Willing? No.”

She laughed. “Joe has the night off from the hospital and is taking care of the kids. So I have this one night of liberation—and not the slightest idea what to do with it.”

“Sounds like a pleasant dilemma. Sorry, Rachel, but I’m not up to much more than a long, hot soak and a good night’s sleep.”

“I understand.”

“I’ll be here at the hotel if anyone needs me.”

“I’ll pass the word. See you in court in the morning?”

“Yes. I’ll be there.”

I followed through on my intentions for the evening, luxuriating in a hot tub filled with aromatic bath gel, then ordering up a variety of appetizers from room service. My phone didn’t ring once: I wondered if I might have died and gone to heaven.

But once I’d settled down to start reading a new book I’d brought with me, my mind began to wander. I couldn’t get off the first page.

I went to the window and looked down over the Public Garden. There was still some daylight left, although darkness was closing in. The weather forecast was for rain that night. I decided it was nonproductive to stay in the suite and try to achieve the calm I’d sought. I left the hotel and took a taxi to Boston’s dramatically revived and rejuvenated waterfront. The city’s approach to turning a dreary waterfront area into a handsome amalgamation of apartment and office buildings, restaurants and shops had become a model for other cities around the country.

Many shops were closed, but a few remained open. As I browsed windows, taking in the displays of designer clothing, glittering jewelry, and supple leather goods, I felt the tickle of mist on my cheeks. It was now clouded over; rain wasn’t far away.

I crossed a street and stopped in front of an art gallery called FIRE & ICE. The name struck a bell. Of course. It was the name of the gallery owned by the pottery maker, Thomas McEnroe, one of the six alternate jurors.

One window of Fire and Ice was dominated by two modem paintings on easels. The other window featured small pieces of wire sculpture, and ceramic pottery. One pot immediately grabbed my attention. It had a pre-Columbian look to it, yet the artist’s use of metallic green and yellow were distinctly modern in concept and execution. It instantly appealed to me. It was also markedly similar to one of the ceramic pieces I’d seen in Cynthia Warren’s home the day she was killed.

I stepped inside the well-lighted gallery, where dozens of interesting paintings on the walls, and artifacts on pedestals provided a feast for the eyes.

A tiny bell attached to the door sounded, bringing from a back room a short, slender woman wearing a flowered artist’s smock. Her dull brown hair was pulled back into a severe chignon. Oversized glasses rendered her eyes twice as large as they actually were. The term “mousy” came to mind.

“Hello,” she said in a voice as small as she was. “May I help you?”

“I’m just browsing,” I said. “It’s starting to rain.”

“Yes, it is.”

“You have a beautiful gallery.”

“Thank you. Is there anything you’re especially interested in?”

“That pot in the window. The one with the metallic green-and-yellow highlights.”

“That’s one of my favorites,” she said, going to window, removing the pot, and handing it to me. I turned it over in my hands, and held it up to catch the light. As I did, I glanced at the woman. She was watching me with intense interest, face screwed up in deep thought, arms crossed on her chest.

“It’s lovely,” I said. “How much is it?”

“You’re Jessica Fletcher,” she said flatly.

I lowered the pot and smiled. “That’s right. Are you the owner?”

“Part owner. You know my partner, Thom. He’s on the jury.”

“That’s right.”

“Is that why you came, because of him? Or because you want to buy a ceramic pot?”

“I came here only because I happened to be passing by. It looked like it was about to rain, and I saw this lovely work of art in the window. But yes, I did realize before entering the gallery that Thomas McEnroe owned it.”

Her expression said she was debating whether to believe me.

“You know who
I
am,” I said. “You are?”

“Patty Zeltner.”

“Pleased to meet you. Do you and Mr. McEnroe work together on the pottery?”

“No. Thom is the artist. I manage the gallery.”

“It’s beautiful space.”

“Beautiful, and expensive. Very expensive.”

“I imagine. It’s always that way when an area gentrifies. It must be difficult with him away on jury duty.”

“Worse than that. He’s not creating anything new. It also helps to have him here to sell. Buyers like to meet the artist.”

“I always do. Is Mr. McEnroe here? I understand the trial recessed early today.”

I asked not because I wanted to see him, but because I didn’t want to see him. I wasn’t anxious to violate Judge Wilson’s stern admonition to stay away from jurors.

I examined the pot again. “How much is it?” I asked.

“Two-hundred and fifty dollars.”

“It’s worth it,” I said. “I recently saw a similar pot.”

“We’ve sold a few like this one,” Ms. Zeltner said. “Where did you see it?”

“On the Cape. And under unfortunate circumstances, I’m afraid.”

“Oh?” Her face went to stone.

“It was in the home of a young woman who was murdered.”

“Cynthia Warren.”

“Yes. I’m sure you’ve been reading about her.”

She said nothing as she took the pot from me and returned it to the window.

“I’d like to buy it,” I said.

She responded by going behind a counter and pretending to straighten things that didn’t need straightening. Her abrupt dismissal of me was off-putting. I didn’t know whether to leave, or to force further conversation. She resolved my dilemma by saying, “You’ll have to excuse me, Mrs. Fletcher. It’s just that—”

I said as I approached the counter, “I’m sorry if I said something to upset you. Did you know Cynthia Warren? Did she buy her pot from you?”