Magicide (11 page)

CHAPTER 25

Wednesday, August 10, 10:30 a.m.

Regine stood in her living room window stroking the rabbit cradled in her arms and watched the two detectives get into their Explorer and drive out of her circular driveway. When they were no longer in sight, she walked into her kitchen and, with difficulty because of her arm cast, deposited Pubic in his cage.

She picked up the phone and punched into the keypad the number she knew by heart.

She dreaded what she knew she had to do.

Months of planning, endless phone calls, using every negotiation skill she had to get the job done. All without Maxwell knowing she had a hand in it. His ego would never have let her manage the arrangements. She’d worked so hard to make all this come out right.

She cradled the phone in her shoulder and tapped her long nails on the counter, but the clicking sound jarred her nerves. She slapped her hand flat on the counter.

The man finally answered. “It’s Regine,” she said. “I’m afraid we may have a bit of a problem.” She concentrated her focus on a calm tone that would magically make her bad news somehow palatable to the man on the other end of the phone.

Her mind numbed as she described the visit by the two detectives investigating Maxwell’s death. She told how they had asked about a DVD of Maxwell performing black magic, and what it might mean. When she stopped speaking, she became aware of the stillness of the air around her.

“Do you know where this DVD is?” the man asked. His tone soothed in a manner that frightened her.

“I haven’t a clue.” She pulled out a bar stool, intending to sit down at the counter. It made a scraping noise that paralyzed her.

“Well, someone has it. Someone who might want to blackmail Maxwell, for example.”

Regine didn’t sit down. Her mind raced with thoughts of different things she could say to protect herself.

“Someone close to Maxwell,” she offered. “Maybe his manager, or his protégé.”

“It won’t affect our business arrangement in any way, but it would be good to have it. The probate lawyers may think they can get out of paying their debt to us. The DVD you describe sounds like excellent leverage.”

“I’ll find it,” Regine said quickly. She hoped her voice sounded confident and didn’t betray her new premonition.

“Good answer, Regine. When you brought Maxwell Beacham-Jones to us, we trusted you had explained to him the perameters of the loan. That escape would never have taken place without our financing.”

“I know that.” Regine’s fingertips tapped the countertop in an erratic staccato that she couldn’t control.

The voice on the other end of the phone spoke slowly and deliberately. “You have your commission, so it’s vital that you address this problem as soon as possible. I want that DVD.”

His meaning was quite clear.

“I’ll do everything I can to find it for you, Guido. You have my word.”

CHAPTER 26

Wednesday, August 10, 11:00 a.m.

Cheri listened to Pizza crunch all the way from Regine’s house. He was finishing the end of a carrot stick when they arrived at the twin gray stone towers that framed the entrance to the drive of the mansion belonging to Maxwell.

They stopped the Explorer in front of a ten-foot-high, ornate iron gate with the initial M scrolled in the center of each panel. Recessed into the stones was a shiny speaker panel with a button. Cheri rolled down the window of the air-conditioned vehicle and a rush of desert heat blasted them. She reached out and pressed the button.

“Maxwell Beacham-Jones’ residence,” a woman’s voice announced.

Cheri gave her their names and said they were there on police business. Without another word, the iron gates began to slowly part.

“The Red Sea,” Pizzarelli said.

Ahead of them loomed a three-story monstrosity that had once been two houses. Cheri remembered that when Maxwell had purchased them, he’d ordered a complete remodel that resulted in the houses being joined and disappearing into a peaked and turreted faux stone structure. The progress had been followed almost daily by the
Las Vegas Post.
The resulting harsh architectural lines were softened by Chinese Elms and hundreds of imported palm trees. Grassy expanses were interrupted with bottlebrush and Chilean mesquite bushes.

She wasn’t the least bit surprised by the eerie opulence of the mansion Maxwell Beacham-Jones had called home. It was every bit as spooky as she’d imagined the home of a world-famous magician would be, albeit in an upscale way.

They were let into the house by the woman who’d answered the gate intercom. She introduced herself as, “Mrs. Schwartz, the secretary.” Then she left them alone in the main entry room while she went to find Maxwell’s personal coordinator, Edmund Meiner.

“What
is
all this shit?” muttered Pizza.

Cheri laughed. “Magic shit.” Tom would love this place, she thought. And with luck he’ll never see it.

In a niche across from the front door stood an elaborate statue of an oriental wizard, his garb dotted with suns, stars, and moons. Pizzarelli leaned closer to inspect the little statue, and a frightening “hooooooo” sounded above their heads. They both started and looked up. A stuffed owl perched on the carved top of a tall cabinet. He leaned forward again, and the owl hooted once more.

“Clever,” she said. “Certainly gets your attention.”

Mrs. Schwartz returned. “Mr. Meiner will meet you in the study. This way, please.” A curved archway leading to what Cheri figured must be the living room was festooned with dark gold velvet. The secretary led them through a large room crowded with heavy furniture. Every surface and corner was filled with exotic
objets d’art
, all with a magic theme. Through a dark hallway and into a room that felt even more crowded and claustrophobic.

Maxwell’s study was no less interesting than the rest of his home. Every wall was covered with framed certificates and photos and awards. There were so many that the edge of each frame butted closely to its neighbor. Rare open spots revealed dark wood paneling.

Without asking if they were thirsty, Mrs. Schwartz handed them each a bottle of water and left the room.

Edmund Meiner rose from behind a cherry wood desk to shake hands. The air conditioning hummed in the background, and Cheri recognized on Meiner the same gray windbreaker he’d had on the night of the murder.

“Please make yourselves at home,” he said in a tight voice. “I don’t know how I can help you, but I am at your disposal.” He sat back down behind the desk.

Cheri began to read some of the awards on the wall. “The British Ring Shield for Excellence in Performance. Best Stage Magician Award, Academy of Magical Arts. Star of Magic Award, International Brotherhood of Magicians. Grand Prix, Society of Sorcerers. . . Maxwell had quite a career, from the looks of this.”

Meiner relaxed, as if the magician’s career was his favorite subject. “Maxwell Beacham-Jones has been most often voted Magician of the Year by the AMA. He’s past president of the British Ring of the IBM. He’s been a consultant for Bette Midler, KISS, the Rolling Stones, and Celine Dion, among others. He’s been a supplier of magic concepts and technical advisor for television and theatrical productions, corporations, trade shows, and for other professional magicians. No one in the world has had a career like his.”

Pizzarelli peered upward at a large black and white photograph on the wall higher than his eye-level. “What’s this one where he’s holding the big cup?”

“That’s Maxwell the first time he won the World Championship of Magic, a competition held in Japan. He went on to win it three more times.” Meiner’s voice displayed a tone of pride, as if he were speaking of a beloved father.

“The night of the roller coaster escape,” Cheri said, “you told us you had no idea why anyone would switch Maxwell’s handcuffs. We’ve since heard that Maxwell was not a popular fellow among his peers. What can you tell us about that?”

Meiner twisted off the top of a chilled bottle of water with a neat jerk. “Maxwell was the best in the business. In the twenty-two years I’ve been with him I’ve seen him perform the most complicated illusions with such natural ease I’d think he was born knowing them.”

“We heard he stole a lot of them from other magicians,” Pizzarelli said.

Meiner’s face relaxed into an enigmatic smile. “It’s natural to feel jealousy and animosity for someone so much more successful and famous than you.”

“Did
you
feel ever feel jealous of Maxwell?” Cheri asked.

“Why would I? We were a very successful partnership. I know there are those who say I gave up my career in magic to manage Maxwell because I had no talent. I stopped listening to all those losers a long time ago. Maxwell and I have made each other rich. I’ve never regretted a minute I spent helping build his career.”

“So you got on well? No animosity or ill will between you?” Pizzarelli asked.

“Do you and your partner always get on well? You know how it is...” Meiner gave a feeble wave of one hand.

“What exactly does your job as personal coordinator entail?” asked Cheri.

“I manage the details of his performances, liaison with booking agents and clients, keep the accounts—business and household. I liaison with the ad agenc
y⎯
Maxwell personally approves all of his advertising. I handle press requests for interviews. I make appointments, stock the refrigerator, send costumes to the cleaners. In short, I manage his life.”

“We understand he had a fifty million dollar life insurance policy. You’d know then, who was the beneficiary?”

“Why, Larissa.” Meiner’s mouth formed a thin smile. “He never changed that after they were divorced, though I advised him otherwise. If you want to know about his will, everything’s in order.”

“Who gets what?” Pizzarelli asked.

“There’s a trust fund for his son. A bequest to PETA, and naturally the scholarships he’d set up for the Magic Castle will continue, funded by interest from the estate. The will also states that Maxwell’s body is to be cremated, and no autopsy performed.”

“That’ll have to wait. A criminal homicide has occurred.”

Meiner’s eyes widened. “But the will specifically states—”

“Homicide has first jurisdiction,” Cheri said. “There will be an autopsy.”

Meiner frowned and set his water bottle on his desk without taking a drink. Pizzarelli leaned closer to his face. “And the house? And Maxwell’s magic effects?”

“Th-the estate goes to Larissa and Peter, um, equally.”

Cheri thought the man seemed distracted. “That includes the magic effects?”

“What?”

“The magic effects. Who gets those?”

“His son, of course.”

“Nothing for Dayan Franklyn, Maxwell’s protégé?”

Meiner’s eyes registered surprise, then went blank. “I don’t believe so. No, nothing like that...well, maybe a small financial stipend. You’d have to ask the lawyer.”

Pizzarelli tilted his bottle of water at Meiner. “What will you do now that your employe
r⎯
excuse me, partne
r⎯
is dead?”

Meiner sat down, his slight body folding into the heavily upholstered desk chair. “This is a huge estate to manage. I’ll stay on here if Larissa and Peter wish it.” He picked up his water bottle, took a delicate sip and gazed at the detectives. “What else would you like to know?”

“Did you switch the handcuffs on Maxwell?”

Meiner’s brows furrowed in irritation. “Of course not.” In a voice laced with annoyance he said, “Maxwell’s death has made it very difficult around here. The paperwork is endless, and the media have made my life hell. None of this is to my advantage, believe me.”

“What can you tell us about Maxwell’s relationship with Regine?” Cheri asked.

“Regine made him happy. She was always polite and considerate to me. Never got in the way, so to speak. I don’t know what happened. Suddenly last week Maxwell kicked her out—literally—and announced that her name would never be spoken in this house again. I wasn’t in his bedroom—it happened at night—so I don’t know what went down. I don’t think she’d kill him—you’ll have to ask her what happened.”

“And Dayan Franklyn and Maxwell? What about their relationship?” Cheri asked.

Meiner lowered his eyes to the bottle he held in his hands. “Nothing untoward, if that’s what you’re thinking...the nicest young man. A talent that reminded me of Maxwell when he was that age.”

“Have you seen or talked to Franklyn since Maxwell’s death?” Pizzarelli asked.

Meiner’s body stiffened. “I haven’t heard from him for days. He has a follow-up dental appointment next week, and he’d better make it.”

“Or else?”

“Or else he may find himself cut off financially. With Maxwell dead and no longer mentoring him, there’s no reason to continue to foot his bills.” He rolled the water bottle between his hands and continued, “Though Maxwell would have wanted Dayan to finish his dental work. I’m willing to honor that.”

“Big of you,” muttered Pizza. “Do you have an address for Dayan Franklyn?”

Meiner stood up abruptly. “My secretary will get it for you. If that’s all, I have work to do.”

“That’s all for now,” Cheri said. “We appreciate the time you took to speak to us today, Mr. Meiner. Hope things work out for you here.” She laid her business card on his desk. “We may need to talk to you again. We’d appreciate a call if you think of anything else about Maxwell’s murder.”

“Fine.” He punched an intercom and called Mrs. Schwartz.

Pizza, his back to the desk, gazed once more at a wall of pictures. “What a weird bunch,” he murmured. The secretary appeared in the doorway.

“These detectives would like Dayan’s address,” he told her.

Pizzarelli turned and asked, “By the way, Mr. Meiner, do you know anything about a DVD of Maxwell performing some kind of magic ritual on Sunrise Mountain?”

Meiner’s face paled. He turned his glance to the window and stared at a tree outside. “Why, n-no, I don’t think so,” he said. “What are you talking about?”

“Seems there’s an incriminating piece of video floating around. Lots of people have heard about it, and we’d like to see it,” Cheri said. “Haven’t you heard about it?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Did Maxwell do that often?”

“W-what?”

“Perform special magic rituals. Did he do that often?”

Meiner turned his head back to face them, but his gaze remained to the side, his mouth tight. “Maxwell was a very knowledgeable magician. He studied the history of the magic arts in depth—white magic, black magic, but magic is a theatrical profession. We don’t turn stones into gold.”

At the desk, Mrs. Schwartz scribbled on a note of paper. “Here’s the address you wanted for Dayan.” She handed the paper to Cheri.

Meiner waved his hand. “You can’t believe everything you hear. You’ll make yourself crazy if you listen to rumors in this business. Mrs. Schwartz will show you out.”

As they followed the woman to the front door, Pizzarelli asked, “How long have you worked for Maxwell, Mrs. Schwartz?”

The woman lowered her reading glasses and let them dangle from the chain around her neck. “I don’t work for Maxwell, you know. I work for Mr. Meiner.”

“Okay. How long?”

“It’s been about eight years now.” The woman smiled, no warmth in her eyes.

“What’s it like to work here?” Cheri asked, gesturing at the velvet drapes, the skull collection, and the intricately-carved candelabras that reminded her of Liberace’s Museum.

“It’s—interesting, you know?”

Before she opened the front door, the secretary stole a glance back down the hall. “Sometimes I swear he walks through walls,” she murmured.

“Who?” Cheri asked. “Mr. Meiner?”

Mrs. Schwartz ignored the question. “It’s been a pleasure. Come back anytime.”

Cheri thought she held out her hand to shake, and was surprised when Mrs. Schwartz offered another piece of paper, this one folded in small quarters. She took it, looked up at the woman whose face she couldn’t read, and said, “Thanks. We may see you again.”