Closely Akin to Murder (26 page)

I sank down on a small sofa and thought over what Beatrice had said. Poor Frannie, yes—but poor, poor Ronnie. She'd spent the last thirty years convinced of her guilt. Her telephone number was with my notes; I resolved to call her the minute I returned to my room. I had no idea how she would react to this bombshell. I was debating if I should deliver said bombshell in person when the lounge door opened and a young woman entered.

“Detective West asked me to find you. He's ready to resume.”

I wasn't, but I washed my hands and returned to the conference room. A tissue box had been placed in front of Beatrice, who appeared shaken but composed. Chico was slurping down a cup of coffee, oblivious to the dribbles accumulating on his chin like beads of dirty dew. Detective West and Sergeant Prowell were watching him with expressions of distaste.

“You're going to have to tell us about that night,” I said to Beatrice as I resumed my seat. I heard a click as the recorder was reactivated, but I kept all my attention focused on the woman across from me. “After
Fran realized what she'd done, she went into shock, didn't she?”

“She curled up in a corner of the room. I finally persuaded her to stand up so that I could wipe the blood off her face and hands and get her into some clothes. She was a zombie, unable to speak or assist me. I kept remembering how I'd bathed and dressed her when she was a baby. Happier times, even though I was married to that bastard.” She snatched a tissue from the box and wiped her eyes.

“She was unable to speak,” I said gently, “but she was able to understand you. You told her that her only chance was to put the blame on Ronnie, who was asleep in the master bedroom. Did you assure her that neither of them would go to prison, that they would be deported because they were minors?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

Detective West tapped on the table. “Then why the need to involve the other girl?”

“Because,” I said, continuing to address Beatrice, “you were aware of the laws of inheritance. You knew that if Fran confessed, she would not be able to inherit her father's estate. Oliver Pickett had no other heirs. It was logical to assume the bulk of his estate would go to his only daughter, whether or not he'd made a will. That was quick-witted of you.”

“Yeah,” she said bitterly. She crushed the tissue in her hand and dropped it on the table.

Chico giggled. “You ought to get on a game show, Bea. Is
I've Got a Secret
still on the air? I always wanted to be on it, but I never could think of a decent secret.”

“When we get to you, I'll suggest one,” I said without
bothering to look at him. “Okay, Beatrice, you told Fran what to do and sent her out to the limousine, then soaked a towel or something with Oliver's blood and went into the bedroom to dab some on Ronnie. She must not have been awake or she would have objected.”

“No, she was asleep. I . . . put blood on her shirt, face, and arms. She stirred a bit, as if on the verge of regaining consciousness. I murmured in her ear, telling her over and over what she'd done. I told her how Oliver had tried to rip off her clothes, how she'd fought back, how she'd grabbed the knife to save herself, how she'd stabbed him. When she began to cry, I put the knife in her hand and left the bungalow.” She again covered her face with her hands. “It was a nightmare. I could hear the sounds of music and laughter from the terrace. Christmas lights were twinkling in all the trees. Everybody was so festive, so—”

“You didn't tell Fran that they should throw the body off the balcony, did you?” I asked her before she lapsed into sobs.

“No, only to go back to the bungalow, scream, and run to the lobby. She must have decided she could save Ronnie if they got rid of the evidence. Neither of them was clearheaded. If Frannie had done what I told her, she would never have been put through that horrible ordeal.”

“This is an amazing story,” said Detective West. “I don't quite see how you patched it together, Ms. Malloy, but you seem to have done so.”

“A regular Sam Spade,” Chico said.

Sergeant Prowell sighed. “That's it, buddy. Take him back to his cell and see that he's real cozy.”

“No,” I said, “we haven't gotten to the second act of
this three-part melodrama. It's even more convoluted, isn't it?”

Chico made an unconvincing attempt to appear bewildered. “I couldn't say.”

I gave him a moment to sweat, then said, “Sure you can, Arthur.”

The following evening I was
back in Farberville, bathed in candlelight in the most expensive restaurant in town, and being wined and dined by a particularly handsome member of the Farberville CID (who'd had the perspicacity to meet me at the airport with an armful of flowers). I'd forgiven him for his disregard for my sticky situation in Phoenix, and he'd forgiven me for my admittedly peevish telephone call at four o'clock in the morning. This is not to say there was no tension between us as I paused in my recitation to take a sip of burgundy.

Peter waited until a waiter had removed our plates, then said, “Arthur Landonwood? Didn't you tell me that he was killed in an accident?”

“It wasn't an accident any more than Santiago's purported fall that left him permanently disabled. Beatrice finally admitted she realized Santiago had seen her leave the bungalow that night. The next day she paid Jorge Farias to make sure her presence was kept a secret. It's impossible to say if she dictated that degree of violence or if Jorge decided it was necessary in order to protect Fran.” I shrugged. “Maybe it was the traditional way to communicate in those days.”

“That doesn't explain why Arthur Landonwood is alive.”

“No one was aware that the Mexican maid had been looking out the window at the significant moment. She went to the Landonwoods and told them she'd seen someone creeping away from the bungalow. The police wouldn't listen to her, however, so Margaret decided to take her to the embassy. When the girl's employer objected, Arthur was dispatched to her bungalow to distract her while the girl was whisked out of Acapulco. Chad Warmeyer agreed to drive the car.”

“So he was a careless driver,” Peter said with a grin, although he was listening intently.

“The car was rented from the same tourist agency that employed Jorge. Care to guess who delivered the car that morning?”

“Do you have any proof that he tampered with it?”

“No,” I said, “and I don't think he'll come forward and confess. Beatrice must have promised him more money once she got her hands on Oliver's estate. It was enough for Jorge to buy the agency.”

“This Beatrice must be a monster.”

I thought about this for a moment. “She didn't actually kill anyone, although I did suggest to Detective West that Rogers Cooper might beg to differ if he could. Beatrice was trying to save her daughter. I personally can testify that maternal instincts can rage out of control. When I showed up in Acapulco with a list of potential interviewees, another instinct—that of self-preservation—came into play.”

“Oh?” Peter murmured.

“Manuel took the list to Jorge for advice. Jorge had no difficulty associating those on the list with the thirty-year-old murder. He's the only person who could have
known why I was there, who accompanied me, and where we were staying. He threatened me on the telephone, and when that was ineffectual, went to the hotel and killed Santiago. Placing my note under the body was the consummate touch. If the police hadn't come after me, he probably would have called in an anonymous tip—and if he hadn't been quite so imperious, I would have left Acapulco as soon as I had permission.”

“A second monster?”

“I don't know if any of this will stick,” I said. “So long ago, so few credible witnesses. Fran's out of the picture, and Ronnie's delusional. How am I supposed to tell her that not only did she spend eight years in prison for no reason, but that her father is alive—that he simply tossed in the towel and opted to become a burn on the streets of Acapulco?”

Peter caught my hand and squeezed it. “Not all parents are perfect,” he said.

“No one's perfect.” I paused to glower at the waiter, who seemed to presume he could wheel up the dessert cart and disrupt our conversation. He retreated. “At least Beatrice kept fighting to save her daughter. Arthur Landonwood could have done the same for Ronnie. The only reason she survived was that Beatrice paid to have packages delivered every month. He couldn't be bothered to let her know that he was alive. Or visit her. If he was so broke, he could have taken a bus to the prison.”

“Calm down, Claire.”

“I don't want to calm down,” I retorted, confused and angry. At whom, I wasn't sure. At a father who'd abandoned his child? At those who'd knowingly let an innocent girl spend eight years in prison? Or at myself?

“Then don't calm down,” Peter said in the velvety tone of a gynecologist. “Just try to relax.”

I resisted the urge to put my heels on the tablecloth and lean back. It was a classy restaurant, after all, and I had no desire to be banned in perpetuity. “I'm relaxed—okay?”

“Have you told any of this to your cousin?”

“Not yet,” I said, conceding a certain level of cowardice, “but she should be relieved to learn that she no longer has to worry about being exposed. Beatrice was the logical person to possess copies of the court transcripts and whatever else she needed to file all those appeals. An officer searched the trailer and found them stashed in a closet. Detective West has the evidence, but he said he can't file charges without Ronnie's cooperation.”

“How did Beatrice find Ronnie?”

I finished my wine and set down the crystal glass. “She refused to say, but I think she must have kept tabs on her over the years because somehow it might have led her to Fran. Maybe she believed the letter that Ronnie wrote suggested the two girls meet. Oliver's estate would have provided plenty of money to hire a private detective to pick up the trail in Acapulco and follow it to San Diego. Ronnie's petition to change her name would have been a public record at the court house. At that point, it couldn't have been all that difficult to get information from co-workers, landlords, neighbors, and so forth.”

“Then why didn't she do the same thing when her own daughter left?” asked Peter as he reached across the table to pour the last of the wine into my glass.

“I don't know, and she wouldn't say. She may know where Fran is—buried in the backyard, sucking her
thumb in a mental institution, or making license plates in a less solicitous environment. Most of what I've told you is nothing but speculation. The men who came to the trailer weren't peddling Mary Kay cosmetics. Thirty years ago, Jorge was a respectful employee; these days he's nigh onto a mob kingpin. Beatrice acknowledged her own involvement, but then clammed up. I don't blame her for that.”

“Is there any reason to blame yourself?”

“Of course not,” I shot back automatically.

Peter gestured to the waiter to bring another bottle of wine. We'd been there so often that all of the waiters knew the label he preferred. A minor achievement in the realm of hometown aristocracy, perhaps.

“So what's next?” he asked, dimpling.

“I should have called Ronnie last night from Phoenix, but I was too overwhelmed,” I said. “I took a couple of aspirin and dropped like a rock. She has to hear all this, though. She's suffered for thirty years. How am I supposed to tell her that Fran's mother made a mercenary decision to create those memories? That she's not a murderer, that she never should have been forced to spend those years in prison?”

Peter took an envelope out of his coat pocket and placed it on the table. “You need to put the ghost to rest,” he said. “This is an airplane ticket to Chicago. Someone will pick you up at the airport and take you to the suburb where Ronnie lives.”

“I have her home telephone number, but not her address,” I admitted. “I suppose I could try to catch her at the research facility. It's not the place I'd choose to hear something of this magnitude, but I guess that can't be helped.”

“Give me the number and I'll wheedle the address
from the telephone company. Tell her what you uncovered, step by step. If she decides to get in touch with her father, that's her decision. It's not yours, Claire.”

“I was too timid to call her,” I said in a low voice. “The realities are so ugly. Thanks, Peter.”

“All I want is for this to be behind you.”

“I know,” I said as I put the ticket in my purse. My throat tightened and my eyes began to sting. “When I get back, we'll talk.”

“It might be time,” he said.

Just in case I haven't made this clear, I am not an aficionado of sentimental movies and romance novels. “It might,” I said, then waved imperiously at the waiter hovering behind the dessert cart. “The mousse looks good, doesn't it?”

There may have been a trace of discouragement in Peter's voice as he said, “Yes, the mousse. Looks divine.”

 

Caron was waiting for me when I arrived home. Not exactly waiting for me, she explained, but staying by the telephone in case Inez called with an apocalyptic revelation. Waiting for me was a secondary activity.

I told her what had happened in Arizona.

“That's awful,” she said. “Could Ronnie have really been persuaded to believe she killed someone?”

“It's called false memory. If you imagine how you would react in a situation and continue to embellish it with credible details, you eventually trick your mind into incorporating it into your experiences.”

“Creepy.”

“And destructive,” I said as I went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

“What's going to happen to that nasty man?”

“Chico?”