Death Wears a Beauty Mask and Other Stories (23 page)

Without turning from the stove, she responded. “Maybe not quite those circumstances, but I did defend a number of people who had been so high on drugs at the time that they didn't even remember committing the crime. Typically, though, there were witnesses who offered sworn testimony against them. It was tough.”

“So they were found guilty, of course?” Shipman asked.

Sunday paused and looked at him, smiling ruefully. “They had the book thrown at them,” she admitted.

“Exactly. My attorney, Len Hart, is a good and capable fellow who wants me to plead guilty by reason of insanity—temporary, of course. But as I see it, my only course is to plea bargain in the hope that in exchange for a guilty plea, the state will not seek the death penalty.”

Henry and Sunday now both were watching their friend as he talked, staring straight ahead. “You understand,” Shipman continued, “that I took the life of a young woman who ought to have enjoyed
fifty years more on this planet. If I go to prison, I probably won't last more than five or ten years. The confinement, however long it lasts, may help to expiate this awful guilt before I am called to meet my Maker.”

All three of them remained silent as Sunday finished preparing the meal—tossing a salad, then pouring beaten eggs into a heated skillet, adding chopped tomatoes, scallions, and ham, folding the ends of the bubbling eggs into flaps, and finally flipping the omelet over. The toast popped up as she slid the first omelet onto a heated plate and placed it in front of Shipman. “Eat,” she commanded.

Twenty minutes later, when Tom Shipman pushed the last bit of salad onto a crust of toast and stared at the empty plate in front of him, he observed, “It is an embarrassment of riches, Henry, that with a French chef already employed in your kitchen, you are also blessed with a wife who is a culinary master.”

“Thank you, kind sir,” Sunday said briskly. “The truth is, whatever talents I have in the kitchen began during the time I put in as a short-order cook when I was working my way through Fordham.”

Shipman smiled as he stared distractedly at the empty plate in front of him. “It's a talent to be admired. And certainly one Arabella didn't possess.” He shook his head slowly from side to side. “It's hard to believe I could have been so foolish.”

Sunday put her hand on top of his, then said quietly, “Tommy, certainly there have got to be some extenuating circumstances that will work in your favor. You've put in so many years of public service, and you've been involved in so many charitable projects. The courts will be looking for anything they can use to soften the sentence—assuming, of course, that there really is one. Henry and I are here to help in any way we can, and we will stay by your side through whatever follows.”

Henry Britland placed his hand firmly on Shipman's shoulder. “That's right, old friend, we are here for you. Just ask, and we will try
to make it happen. But before we can do anything, we need to know what really did happen here. We had heard that Arabella had broken up with you, so why was she here that night?”

Shipman did not answer immediately. “She just dropped in,” he said evasively.

“Then you weren't expecting her?” Sunday asked quickly.

He hesitated. “Uh . . . no . . . no, I wasn't.”

Henry leaned forward. “Okay, Tom, but as Will Rogers said, ‘All I know is just what I read in the papers.' According to the media accounts, you had phoned Arabella earlier in the day and begged her to talk to you. She had come over that evening around nine.”

“That's right,” he replied without explanation.

Henry and Sunday exchanged worried glances. Clearly there was something that Tom wasn't telling them.

“What about the gun?” Henry asked. “Frankly, I was startled to hear that you even had one, and especially that it was registered in your name. You were such a staunch supporter of the Brady Bill, and were considered an enemy by the NRA. Where did you keep it?”

“Truthfully, I had totally forgotten I even had it,” Shipman said tonelessly. “I got it when we first moved here, and it had been in the back of my safe for years. Then coincidentally I noticed it there the other day, right after hearing that the town police were having a drive to get people to exchange guns for toys. So I just took it out of the safe and had left it lying on the library table, the bullets beside it. I had planned to drop it off at the police station the next morning. Well, they got it all right, just not in the way I had planned.”

Sunday knew that she and Henry were sharing the same thought. The situation was beginning to look particularly bad: not only had Tom shot Arabella, but he had loaded the gun after her arrival.

“Tom, what were you doing before Arabella got here?” Henry asked.

The couple watched as Shipman considered the question before
answering: “I had been at the annual stockholders' meeting of American Micro. It had been an exhausting day, exacerbated by the fact that I had a terrible cold. My housekeeper, Lillian West, had dinner ready for me at seven-thirty. I ate only a little and then went directly upstairs because I still wasn't feeling well. In fact, I even had chills, so I took a long, hot shower; then I got into bed. I hadn't been sleeping well for several nights, so I took a sleeping pill. Then I was awakened—from a very sound sleep, I must say—when Lillian knocked on my door to tell me that Arabella was downstairs to see me.”

“So you came back downstairs?”

“Yes. I remember that Lillian was just leaving as I came down, and that Arabella was already in the library.”

“Were you pleased to see her?”

Shipman paused for a moment before answering. “No, I was not. I remember that I was still groggy from the sleeping pill and could hardly keep my eyes open. Also I was angry that after ignoring my phone calls, she had simply decided to appear without warning. As you may remember, there is a bar in the library. Well, Arabella already had made herself at home by preparing a martini for each of us.”

“Tom, why would you even think of drinking a martini on top of a sleeping pill?” Henry asked.

“Because I'm a fool,” Shipman snapped. “And because I was so sick of Arabella's loud laugh and irritating voice that I thought I'd go mad if I didn't drown them out.”

Henry and Sunday stared at their friend. “But I thought you were crazy about her,” Henry said.

“Oh, I was for a while, but in the end, I was the one who broke it off,” Shipman replied. “As a gentleman, though, I thought it proper to tell people that it had been her decision. Certainly anyone looking at the disparity in our ages would have expected it to be that way. The truth was, I had finally—temporarily, as it turns out—come to my senses.”

“Then why were you calling her?” Sunday asked. “I don't follow.”

“Because she had taken to phoning me in the middle of the night, sometimes repeatedly, hour upon hour. Usually she would hang up right after hearing my voice, but I knew it was Arabella. So I had called her to warn her that it couldn't go on that way. But I certainly did not invite her over.”

“Tom, why haven't you told any of this to the police? Certainly based on everything I have read and heard, everyone thinks it was a crime of passion.”

Tom Shipman shook his head sadly. “Because I think that in the end it probably was. That last night Arabella told me that she was going to get in touch with one of the tabloids and was going to sell them a story about wild parties that you and I allegedly gave together during your administration.”

“But that's ridiculous,” Henry said indignantly.

“Blackmail,” Sunday said softly.

“Exactly. So do you think telling that story would help my case?” Shipman asked. He shook his head. “No, even though it wasn't the case, at least there's some dignity to being punished for murdering a woman because I loved her too much to lose her. Dignity for her, and, perhaps, even a modicum of dignity for me.”

•  •  •

Sunday insisted on cleaning up the kitchen while Henry escorted Tommy upstairs to rest.

“Tommy, I wish there were someone staying here with you while all this is going on,” the former president said. “I hate to leave you alone.”

“Oh, don't worry, Henry, I'm fine. Besides, I don't feel alone after our visit.”

Despite his friend's admonition, Henry knew he would worry, as he began to do almost immediately after Shipman went off to
the bathroom. Constance and Tommy had never had children, and now so many of their close friends from the area had retired and moved away, most of them to Florida. Henry's thoughts were interrupted by the sounding of his ever-present beeper. Using his cellular phone, he replied immediately. The caller was Jack Collins, the head of the Secret Service team assigned to him. “I'm sorry to bother you, Mr. President, but a neighbor is most anxious to get a message to Mr. Shipman. She says that a good friend of his, a Countess Condazzi who lives in Palm Beach, has been trying to get through to him, but he is not answering his phone and apparently his answering machine is turned off, so she has been unable to leave him a message. I gather that she has become somewhat distraught and is insisting that Mr. Shipman be notified that she is awaiting his call.”

“Thanks, Jack. I'll give Secretary Shipman the message. And Sunday and I will be leaving in just a few minutes.”

“Right, sir. We'll be ready.”

Countess Condazzi, Henry thought. How interesting. I wonder who that can be.

His curiosity deepened when, on being informed of the call, Thomas Acker Shipman's eyes brightened, and a smile formed on his lips. “Betsy phoned, eh?” he said. “How dear of her.” But almost as quickly as it had appeared, the brightness faded from his eyes, and the smile vanished. “Perhaps you could send word to my neighbor that I won't be accepting calls from anyone,” he said. “At this juncture, there seems to be little point in talking to anyone other than my lawyer.”

•  •  •

A few minutes later, as Henry and Sunday were being hustled past the media, a Lexus pulled into the driveway next to them. The couple watched as a woman jumped from the car and, using the stir created by their departure as diversion, managed to get to the house undisturbed, where, using her own key, she entered immediately.

“That has to be the housekeeper,” Sunday said, having noted that the woman, who appeared to be in her fifties, was dressed plainly and wore her hair in a coronet of braids. “She certainly looks the part, and besides, who else would have a key? Well, at least Tom won't be alone.”

“He must be paying her well,” Henry observed. “That car is expensive.”

On the drive home, he told Sunday about the mysterious phone call from the countess in Palm Beach. She made no comment, but he could tell from the way she tilted her head to one side and puckered her forehead that she was both disturbed and deep in thought.

The car they were riding in was a nondescript, eight-year-old Chevy, one of the specially equipped secondhand cars Henry kept available for their use, especially helpful in allowing them to avoid detection when they so desired. As always, they were accompanied by two Secret Service agents, one driving while the other rode shotgun. A thick glass divider separated the front seat from the back, allowing Henry and Sunday the freedom to talk without being overheard.

Breaking what for her was an extended silence, Sunday said, “Henry, there's something wrong about this case. You could sense it from the accounts in the paper, but now, having talked to Tommy, I'm certain of it.”

Henry nodded. “I agree completely. At first I thought that perhaps the details of the crime might be so gruesome that he had to deny them even to himself.” He paused, then shook his head. “But now I realize that this is not a question of denial. Tommy really doesn't know what happened. And all of this is just so unlike him!” he exclaimed. “No matter what the provocation—threats of blackmail or whatever—I cannot accept that even confounded by the combination of a sleeping pill and a martini, Tommy could go so completely out of control as to have killed the woman! Just seeing him today made me realize how extraordinary all this is. You didn't know him
then, Sunday, but he was devoted to Constance. Yet when she died, his composure was remarkable. He suffered, yes, but he remained calm throughout the entire ordeal.” He paused, then shook his head again. “No, Tommy simply isn't the kind of man who flips out, no matter what the provocation.”

“Well, his composure may have been remarkable when his wife died, but then falling hook, line and sinker for Arabella Young when Connie was barely cold in her grave does say something about the man, you'll have to agree.”

“Yes, but rebound perhaps? Or denial?”

“Exactly,” Sunday replied. “Of course, sometimes people fall in love almost immediately after a great loss and it actually works out, but more often than not, it doesn't.”

“You're probably right. The very fact that Tommy never married Arabella after actually giving her an engagement ring—what, nearly two years ago?—says to me that almost from the outset he must have known it was a mistake.”

“Well, all of this took place before I came on the scene, of course,” Sunday mused, “but I did keep abreast of much of it through the tabloids, which at the time made a big fuss over how in love the staid secretary of state was with the flashy PR person only half his age. But then I remember seeing two photos of him run side by side, one showing him out in public, snuggling Arabella, while the other was taken at his wife's burial and obviously caught him at a moment when his composure had slipped. No one that grief stricken could be that happy only a couple of months later. And the way she dressed—she just didn't seem to be Tommy's kind of woman.” Sunday sensed rather than saw her husband's raised eyebrow. “Oh, come on. I know you read the tabloids cover to cover after I'm done with them. Tell me the truth. What did you think of Arabella?”