Genuine Lies (67 page)

“And what time was this?”

“It was just one o’clock, perhaps a minute or two past.” “How can you be sure?”

“Eve had given me several letters to type. As she was leaving, I went into my office to start them, and I looked at my desk clock.”

Julia stopped listening for a while. If her body couldn’t get up and walk away, at least her mind could. She imagined herself back in Connecticut. She’d plant flowers. She would spend a week planting them if she wanted. She’d get Brandon a dog. That was something she’d been thinking about for quite a while, but she’d put off going to the pound to choose one, afraid she’d want to take them all.

And a porch swing. She wanted a porch swing. She could
work all day, then in the evenings, when things were quiet, she could sit and swing and watch night fall.

“The state calls Paul Winthrop to the stand.”

She must have made some sound. Lincoln put a hand on hers under the table and squeezed. Not in comfort, but in warning.

Paul answered the opening questions briefly, weighing his words, his eyes on Julia’s.

“Would you tell the court the nature of your relationship with Miss Summers?”

“I’m in love with Miss Summers.” The faintest of smiles touched his lips. “Completely in love with Miss Summers.”

“And you also had a close personal relationship with Miss Benedict.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Didn’t you find it difficult to juggle relationships with two women, women who were working closely together. Women who were in actuality mother and daughter.”

“Your honor!” Lincoln, the picture of righteous indignation, sprang to his feet.

“Oh, I’d like to answer that one.” Paul’s quiet voice cut through the uproar of the courtroom. His gaze had veered from Julia to pin the D.A. “I didn’t find it difficult at all. Eve was the only mother I’d ever known. Julia is the only woman I’ve ever wanted to spend my life with.”

Williamson folded his hands at his waist, tapped his index fingers together. “Then you had no problem. I wonder if two dynamic women would have found it so easy to share one man.”

Heat flashed in those pale blue eyes, but his voice was cool and disdainful. “Your implication is not only idiotic, it’s revolting.”

But he need not have spoken. Lincoln was already objecting over the courtroom buzz.

“Withdrawn,” Williamson said easily. “Mr. Winthrop, were you present during the argument between the deceased and Miss Summers?”

“No.”

“But you were on the estate.” “I was in the guest house, watching Brandon.” “Then you were present when Miss Summers returned, directly after the scene on the terrace.” “I was.”

“Did she describe her feelings to you?”

“She did. Julia was upset, shocked, and confused.”

“Upset?” Williamson repeated, rolling the word around on his tongue as if testing its taste. “Two witnesses have stated that Miss Summers left the terrace in a rage. Are you saying that in a matter of moments that rage had cooled so that she was merely upset?”

“I’m a writer, Mr. Williamson. I choose my words carefully.
Rage
is not the term I’d use to describe Julia’s state when she returned to the guest house.
Hurt
would be closer to the mark.”

“We won’t waste the court’s time with semantics. Did you receive a phone call from Miss Summers on the day of the murder?”

“I did.”

“At what time?”

“About one-twenty P.M.”

“Do you recall the conversation?”

“There wasn’t a conversation. She could barely talk. She told me to come, to come right away. That she needed me.”

“That she needed you,” Williamson repeated on a nod. “Don’t you find it odd that she would have found it necessary to make a phone call when her mother was lying dead only a few feet away?”

When court recessed from one to three, Lincoln tucked Julia away in a small room. There was a plate of sandwiches, a pot of coffee, but she touched neither. She didn’t need his constant rehearsing, refining, to remind her that she would take the stand herself when court resumed.

Two hours had never gone more quickly.

“The defense calls Julia Summers to the stand.”

She rose, well aware of the stares and murmurs behind
her. Reaching the witness box, she turned and faced those stares. She raised her right hand and swore to tell the truth.

“Miss Summers, were you aware when you came to California that Eve Benedict was your natural mother?”

“No.”

“Why did you come across country to live on her estate?”

“I had agreed to write her biography. She wanted to give her complete cooperation to the project, as well as maintain some control. We decided that my son and I would stay on her estate until the first draft was completed and approved.”

“During the course of this project, did Miss Benedict share portions of her private life with you?”

Sitting by the pool, sweating in the gym. Eve in a vivid robe squatting on the floor building a space port with Brandon. The image flashed by quickly, stinging her eyes. “She was very frank, very open. It was important to her that the book be thorough. And honest,” Julia murmured. “She didn’t want any more lies.”

“Did you have occasion to tape conversations with her, and with people closely connected with her, personally and professionally?”

“Yes. I work from taped interviews and notes.”

He walked back to his desk to pick up a box of tapes. “Are these copies of those taped interviews you conducted from January of this year?”

“Yes, those are my labels.”

“I’d like to offer these tapes into evidence.”

“Your honor, the state objects. These tapes contain the deceased’s opinions and recollections, her personal observations on individuals. And their authenticity cannot be substantiated.”

Julia let the argument roll around her. She didn’t see the point in bringing the tapes into it. The police had listened to the originals, and nothing they had heard had swayed them.

“I’m not going to allow the tapes at this hearing,” the judge decided. “Since Mr. Hathoway cannot establish their direct bearing on the accused’s defense. My listening to Miss
Benedict’s memoirs at this time would only cloud the issue. Proceed.”

“Miss Summers, during the course of conducting these interviews, did you receive certain threats?”

“There were notes. The first one was left on the porch outside the house.”

“Are these the notes you received?”

She glanced down at the papers in his hands. “Yes.”

He questioned her about Eve’s reaction to them, about the plane flight back from Sausalito, about the argument, her feelings, and at last her movements on the day of the murder.

Her answers were calm, brief, as she’d been instructed.

Then she faced the prosecutor.

“Miss Summers, was anyone present when you received these notes?”

“Paul was there when I received the one in London.” “He was present when it was handed to you?” “It was delivered to my room, my hotel room, with a room service tray.”

“But no one saw who delivered it, or when.” “It was left at the front desk.”

“I see. So anyone might have left it there. Including yourself.”

“Anyone could have. I didn’t.”

“I find it difficult to believe that anyone would feel threatened by such inane phrases.”

“Even the inane is threatening when it’s anonymous, particularly when Eve was relating to me volatile and sensitive information.”

“These anonymous notes weren’t found in your possession, but in the deceased’s dressing table.”

“I gave them to her. Eve wanted to deal with them herself.”

“Eve,” he repeated. “Let’s talk about Eve, and volatile information. Would you say you trusted her?” “Yes.”

“That you had grown fond of her?” “Yes.”

“And that you had felt violated, betrayed by her when she revealed that you were the child she had borne out of wedlock, in secret, then had given up for adoption?”

“Yes,” she said, and could almost hear Lincoln wince. “I was stunned, and hurt.”

“You used the word
manipulated
that night, did you not? You said she had manipulated your life.”

“I felt that way. I’m not sure what I said.”

“You’re not sure?”

“No.”

“Because you were too enraged to think clearly?”

“Objection.”

“Sustained.”

“Were you angry?”

“Yes.”

“Did you threaten to kill her?” “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? Miss Summers, do you often have trouble recalling your words and actions during violent incidents?”

“I don’t often have violent incidents.” “But you have had them. Didn’t you once attack a teacher for correcting your son?” “Your honor, really!”

“I’m merely establishing the defendant’s temperament, your honor. Her previous incidents of physical outbursts.”

“Overruled. The defendant will answer.”

It should have been funny. Julia wondered if years from now she’d see the humor in it. “I once struck a teacher who had belittled and mortified my son for not having a father.” She looked directly at Lincoln. “He didn’t deserve to be punished for the circumstances of his birth.”

“As you felt you had been? Did you feel belittled and mortified by Miss Benedict’s revelation?”

“I felt she had taken away my identity.”

“And you hated her for that.”

“No.” She lifted her eyes again, found Victor’s. “I don’t
hate her. I don’t hate the man she loved enough to conceive me with.”

“Two witnesses have sworn, under oath, that you screamed out your hate for your mother.”

“At that moment I did hate her.”

“And the next day, when she came to the guest house, came to—in her own words—have it out with you, you picked up the fireplace poker, and, fueled by that hate, struck her down.”

“No,” she whispered. “I did not.”

She was bound over for trial, on the strength of the physical evidence. Bail was set for five hundred thousand.

“I’m sorry, Julia.” Lincoln was already writing a note to his law clerk. “We’ll have you out within the hour. I guarantee you a jury will acquit.”

“How long?” Her gaze flew to Paul’s as handcuffs were snapped over her wrists. She heard the quiet metallic clicks and thought of the cell door, locking into place. “Brandon. Oh, God, call Ann, please. I don’t want him to know.”

“Just hold on.” He couldn’t reach her, couldn’t touch her. Could only watch while they took her away. He dragged Lincoln around by the collar. The violence in his eyes only reflected the tip of the emotion in his heart. “I’ll post bail. You get her the hell out. Do whatever you have to do to keep her out of a cell. Understand?”

“I don’t think—”

“Just do it.”

The crowds were still there when they released her. She walked through the dream, wondering if she’d already died. She could still feel the coldness the handcuffs had left at her wrists.

But there was the limo. Eve’s limo. But not Lyle, she thought dazedly. A new driver. She slipped inside. It felt clean, cool, safe. Eyes closed, she heard the sound of liquid
hitting glass. Brandy, she realized, when Paul pressed the snifter into her hand. Then she heard his voice, as cool as the interior of the limo.

“Well, Julia, did you kill her?”

Fury punched through the shock so fast, so hot that she was hardly aware of snapping up, of dragging the sunglasses off and tossing them on the floor. Before she could speak he had his hand firm on her chin.

“You keep that look on your face.” His voice had changed, roughened. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit by and watch you let them beat you. It’s not just your life you’re fighting for.”

She jerked away and used the brandy to calm her. “No sympathy?”

The muscles in his jaw worked as he drained every drop in his own snifter. “They cut me in half when they took you away. Is that enough for you?”

She shut her eyes again. “I’m sorry. It doesn’t do any good for me to swipe at you.”

“Sure it does. You’ve stopped looking like you’d melt through the floorboards.” He put a hand to the back of her neck to rub away the tension. Her fingers were twisting in her lap as she battled her own nerves. Slender fingers, he thought, with the nails bitten viciously down to the quick. Gently, he lifted them, touched them to his lips.

“Do you know what first attracted me to you?”

“The fact that I pretended not to be attracted to you?”

The way her lips curved made him grin. Yes, she would fight. No matter how fragile her hold, she would fight. “Well, there was that—that intriguing sense of distance. But even more was the way you looked that first time, walking into Eve’s parlor. There was a look in your eyes.”

“Jet lag.”

“Shut up and let me finish.” He touched his mouth to hers, felt her relax fractionally. “It said, quite clearly, I don’t like chatty little dinner parties, but I’m going to get through it. And if anyone here takes a punch at me, I’ll punch them right back.”

“You did, I recall.”

“Yeah, I did. I didn’t like the idea of the book.”

She opened her eyes then and looked into his. “Whatever happens, I’m still going to write it.”

“I know.” Because he could see tears were threatening, he kissed her eyes closed, then pulled her against his shoulder, where her head could rest. “Now take five. We’ll be home soon.”

The phone was ringing when they walked in the door. By tacit agreement, they both ignored it. “I think I’ll take a shower,” Julia said. She was halfway up the stairs when the phone machine clicked on.

“Julia Summers.” The voice was friendly, amused. “Well, maybe you’re not back from the big day yet. Do yourself a favor and give me a call. The name’s Haffner, and I’ve got some interesting information for sale. You might want to know who else was snooping around on the estate the day Eve Benedict went down.”

She froze, one hand on the banister. When she turned, Paul was already picking up the phone and punching it to speaker.

“The number here’s—”

“This is Winthrop,” Paul interrupted. “Who the hell are you?”

“Just an interested bystander. I saw you and pretty Julia leave the courthouse. Tough break.”

“I want to know who you are and what you know.”