Natural Suspect (2001) (2 page)

"Typical. Blame your failings on someone else."

"You haven't exactly been the most attentive husband."

"I've built a successful business out of nothing, if that's what you mean. I've dedicated myself to making a huge pile of money you've been more than happy to squander."

"Oh, yes. Money. Well, that's certainly made us all happy, hasn't it?"

"All I ever asked in return was your affection and fidelity. But did I get it? No, sir. Not even that."

"You haven't got many brownie points in the fidelity department yourself, dear."

Hightower drew himself up like a hot-air balloon. "I never claimed to be flawless. No one who grew up the way I did ever could." He leaned forward, over-pronouncing every word. "But at least I've never carried on with the gardener!"

Marilyn let out a little shriek. "Mother! No!"

"Oh, don't act so self-righteous, Marilyn," Hightower bellowed. "You've slept with every man you've been alone with for more than five minutes since you were fourteen. Not to mention the entire Springdale High class of '91."

"Daddy!"

"But I damn sure never expected to find my wife dancing the hokey-pokey in my own bedroom with the gardener!"

Julia's face flushed bright red, and not from the alcohol, either. "Arthur, please. The children."

"The children. What about the children? For all I know, they've slept with the gardener, too."

Sissy giggled. "Who's the gardener? I didn't know we had a gardener."

"Daddy," Morgan said, "I think you're forgetting yourself. I'm
a b
oy, remember? Er, a man." He chuckled awkwardly. "I couldn't sleep with the gardener."

Hightower arched a bushy eyebrow. "Couldn't you, Morgan?"

Morgan took a deep swallow of his martini.

"Arthur," Julia said, "I think your high blood pressure is getting to you. Why don't you go have a soak in the hot tub? You know that always calms you." She paused. "If you'd like, I could join you ..."

"Don't disgust me, woman. I'm trying to tell all of you there are going to be some changes made around here. Big changes. Julia, I'm divorcing you."

"Arthur!"

"In fact, I'm divorcing all of you. Cutting you loose. You won't get a cent from me from now on. You'll have to work for a living, for the first time in your miserable existences. It'll do you a world of good."

Julia's martini hand began to shake. "Arthur, you can't mean . . . you don't mean . . .
me--"

"Indeed I do, woman."

"Arthur, you can't do that."

"But I can, dear. Have you forgotten that little prenup you signed all those years ago?"

The color drained out of her face. "Arthur ..."

"I'm taking it all back, woman. Every last cent." He reached toward her throat. "Starting with that triple-A imported cultured pearl Mikimoto necklace."

"Arthur--no!" She clutched the necklace, refusing to let go.

"Julia! Give it up!"

"I won't!"

Sissy screamed. Marilyn and Morgan stared at one another, then back at the horrible tableau, unsure of what to do. Hightower continued to struggle with his wife, grunting and straining. Sweat flew off his brow. But Julia would not release the necklace.

"Fine!" he snapped, finally relinquishing his hold. "Keep the damn thing. For now, anyway." He wiped his forehead. "I'll get it soon enough."

Julia fell back against the sofa, breathless. "I need a drink."

"That's right," Hightower bellowed, "get drunk. All of you. Get perfectly potted. Enjoy it while you can. Because first thing after I return, you're going to enter a whole new world. And I rather suspect you're not going to like it very much."

He stormed out of the room, leaving them all in killing silence.

At long last, Marilyn walked to the bar, helped herself to a couple of ice cubes, and rattled the glass. "Well, I'm certainly looking forward to the holidays. How about you?"

Thanksgiving Day. A
time when families all across the country spend quality time together delighting in one another's company, an occasion for love, laughter, and prayerful thanks. But at the Hightower mansion, the residents were having a difficult time coming up with blessings for which to give thanks.

Morgan, Marilyn, and Sissy sat at the formal dining-room table staring at an array of expensive Wedgwood china--with nothing on it.

"Lovely dinner," Morgan said sharply. "Is there any food?"

"One can only hope," Marilyn answered. "Where's Mother?"

"Three guesses." He made a tippling gesture with his hand.

"Martinis?"

"Except without the vermouth. Or the olive."

Sissy giggled. She placed her hand over her husband's and squeezed affectionately. "I hope she comes soon, lover boy, and brings the food with her. I always work up an appetite when we--" She giggled again, then covered her mouth with her hand. "You know."

"Speaking of appetites," Marilyn said, "I just lost mine. I'm going to look for Mother."

She didn't have to. At that moment, the Hightower matriarch wobbled into the room.

"Has anyone seen my pearl necklace? I haven't been able to find my pearl--" She glanced at the barren tabletop. "What, you ate without me?"

"No, Mummy," Morgan answered. "No ones eaten anything. There's no food."

"Oh." She lowered herself into her seat. "Well, your father always arranges for the Thanksgiving meal."

"Father? I haven't seen him in weeks. Where is he?"

"How should I know?" Julia hiccuped. "Ask Marilyn."

"I certainly don't know," Marilyn said, pressing her hand to her gown. "I haven't seen him since . . . well, I'm sure we all remember."

"/remember," Morgan said solemnly.

"Me, too," Sissy echoed. "I still haven't gotten to try chicken's feet."

Morgan rolled his eyes. "While we're on the subject, dear sister of mine, let me tell you something that will chill your heart. I bumped into Joe Kellogg yesterday. That's Father's lawyer. He told me Father had made an appointment to see him right after Thanksgiving."

Marilyn's face fell. "Then he really meant it."

"He did. Either that, or he's giving us one hell of a good scare."

"I've already had a good scare today," Julia said, weaving sideways a bit. "I can't find my pearls."

"You'll be missing a lot more than your pearls if Daddy visits that attorney, Mother." Marilyn whipped her head around to face Morgan. "Do you understand how serious this is?"

"I'm trying, but my concentration is dulled by lack of nutrition. Where's the food?"

Julia waved her hand in the air. "Ask your father."

"Maybe this is how he's going to punish us. Maybe he's going to starve us to death."

"That's the way it always is with you, Morgan. Me, me, me. So selfish."

"Why? Because I want food on Thanksgiving?"

"Even as a toddler, you were never satisfied. Constantly crying. Drove your nannies to distraction."

"Maybe there's some food in the refrigerator?" Sissy offered, trying to be helpful.

Morgan wasn't encouraged. "There isn't. I've already looked."

"We could have a pizza delivered."

"On Thanksgiving?" Morgan slapped his forehead with his hand. "Its Thanksgiving, heart of my heart. No restaurants will be open. Or supermarkets."

"What about that big freezer in the basement?" Marilyn asked. "You got that to store food, didn't you, Mother?"

"I always meant to," Julia said. "I thought if I bought food in large quantities, I wouldn't have to go to the grocery so often."

"Mother, you haven't seen the inside of a grocery store in twenty years."

"Well, the freezer was on sale and I couldn't resist. But I've never put any food in it."

Morgan was becoming wild-eyed. "So you're telling me we have a gigantic food freezer with no food in it?"

"There he goes again. Selfish, selfish, selfish."

Morgan covered his face. "God help me."

"But I think it came with something," his mother continued. "Three frozen pizzas. That's part of what made it such a bargain."

"Good enough." Morgan jumped out of his chair and started toward the basement.

"Morgan!" Marilyn said. "Those pizzas will be something like six years old."

"It's that or cannibalism."

Julia held up her hand. "You'll need the key." She wobbled into the kitchen, took it off a hook on the wall, and returned.

Morgan snatched the key from her and disappeared. They heard the basement door slam, and after that heard nothing at all. Until they heard Morgan scream.

"Morgy!" Sissy leapt out of her seat and headed downstairs. Her scream was loud enough to be heard in the suburbs.

"Good God, what is it?" Almost grudgingly, Marilyn pushed herself away from the table. Her scream was much more controlled, more like a repressed cry for help. But that was Marilyn's way.

Julia frowned. "I suppose I'm obliged to go look." She wobble
d d
ownstairs, using the wall for support whenever possible. The basement steps were particularly treacherous, but she finally managed to make it to the far corner where the other three were still huddled around the open freezer.

Inside the freezer, spread out, faceup, and covered with a thick layer of frost, she saw the frozen remains of her husband of thirty-seven years, Arthur Hightower. His eyes were open, his lips were parted--and he had her triple-A imported cultured pearl necklace clutched in his right fist.

"Great," Julia said. "Leftovers again."

It may have
looked as if Devin Gail McGee was sitting calmly at the defendant's table, but in fact her brain was rehearsing her canned opening statement for at least the sixteenth time since breakfast. She'd been working on it all week, but there were still a million unresolved variables. Should she refer to her defendant--that is, her
client
--as Julia, or Mrs. Hightower? Julia seemed more personal, and suggested that Devin liked her and felt intimate toward her, but the honorific reminded the jury that the woman had been married for thirty-seven years and was a member of one of the most prominent families on Long Island. Should she reveal Julia's alibi--such as it was--now, or save it until Julia was on the stand? Should she describe what a miserable human Arthur was and suggest that he deserved to die, or save that until closing? And on and on and on . . .

And none of these questions were trivial. As well she knew, cases were won and lost in opening statements. Juries' first impressions often remained unchanged. She had to make a decision--and she had to choose correctly. Julia had placed her trust in Devin. She couldn't let the poor woman down.

The prosecution's table was still unoccupied, which was a definite cause for concern. Day before yesterday, Kent Conrad, the assistant D
. A
. who was handling the case, went to the hospital with appendicitis. Rather than delay the trial, the D
. A
. announced he would assig
n a
nother lawyer, but as of last night, they still couldn't tell Devin who would serve as lead counsel. This murder was so high-profile that virtually every lawyer in the office had been working on it in some capacity. And there were some Devin would rather be up against than others.

Devin glanced at Julia, who was sitting beside her at the table. She was wearing a simple blue dress with buttons down the middle, as per Devin's instructions. There was no point in denying that Julia was obscenely rich--especially now that her husband was dead. But there was no reason to flaunt it, either.

Julia was a grab bag of nervous mannerisms--a scratch, a twitch, a flutter with her hands. Devin supposed she had every right to be tense. Who wouldn't be, when they were accused of such a heinous crime, and their very life was at stake?

Devin was distracted by a commotion in the back of the courtroom. The gallery was already packed, so the only likely incoming traffic would be . . .
yes
. Her esteemed opponents. The D
. A
.'s team was finally putting in an appearance, and standing front and center was--oh, dear God,
no\

Devin swiveled back around, her hand pressed against her forehead. Was this some sort of cosmic karmic revenge? What could she possibly have done to deserve this? Was it that time she was playing with her mother's makeup and got mascara all over the carpet? Or that time when she was nine and she wouldn't let her cousin Megan bounce on her trampoline? Or did Fate just generally hate her size-six guts?

Trent Ballard was lead counsel for the prosecution, damn it. She hadn't seen him since the trial lawyers' conference at Barkley Beach in May. And actually, she hadn't seen him there, except for Saturday night, late, in the hot tub, when she was wearing that new form-fitting swimsuit she'd gotten from J. Crew and she'd had way too much to drink . . .

"Hiya, Devin. How's tricks?"