Sleight of Hand (4 page)

"If Jay was killed hours before she got there, or hours after she left, Meg has little to be afraid of," Barbara said slowly, "even if someone saw her there. And that's still an unknown."

"There's another issue," Wally said, holding Meg close. "When I was in the stir years ago, Meg worked in a restaurant and she wrote some children's books and got them published. There was a television special once, with reruns now and then. Not a fortune, but a little coming in now and then. We lived on it a couple of years. And last November an editor who was having a fit of nostalgia recalled the books. He had loved them, apparently, and he's in a position where he can do something about it.

They've been out of print for years, but he got in touch with the agent who handles the residuals, and now there's a new contract in the works to reissue them with new illustrations, and he wants more to go along with them. That's why we decided it was time to settle down, give her space and a real study, put the old girl back to work."

Meg smiled. "There was never much time when we were moving around a lot. I just put them out of mind after Wally came home, but I want to do more. Over the years I seem to have accumulated a lot of ideas."

"She can't afford to have her name mixed up in a theft rap, or a murder case," Wally said. "I think certain people would say she's not fit to speak to children."

Barbara sank back against the chair. "Did you use your name?"

"No. Margaret Waite. I thought it was appropriate, since I was waiting for Wally. But in this day and age I don't think that would be a secret for long."

Barbara felt a faint memory stir. "What were the books?"

"They're about a baby dragon," Meg said. "For four- to seven-year-olds, that age group."

"Good God! I loved those books! I think I memorized them all!" A vivid memory surfaced of sitting in her mother's lap, watching her slender finger trace the words as she read about the baby dragon.

Meg dimpled and Wally flashed his big grin. "That's my girl," he said. "And, Barbara, remember, she's to be kept all the way out of whatever comes next. I won't even have her name breathed by the cops."

Chapter 7

Barbara sat on Frank's porch on Sunday afternoon, waiting for him to finish in the garden. She had brought out a glass of ice water for him. He would be as hot as she had become walking over.

Both cats came to her looking for a handout. She showed them the water glass and they walked away with disdain. Frank joined her. He took off his gardening shoes and put on house slippers, then sat in another rattan chair.

"Ah," he said, picking up his water. "Thank you."

"You work too hard."

"Noted. What's new?"

"Jay Wilkins died between two and four hours after his last meal, and take-out food was delivered at seven."

"Ah," he said again, and drank some of the water.

"Meg was there at about nine forty-five," she added.

"Ah," he said again. "I've been thinking about that." He took another drink. "You realize that the day's coming when you'll have to fess up. Material evidence in a murder case can't be concealed by an attorney, not if she expects to keep her license."

"I can't," she said. "Wally's prepared to lie to hell and gone to keep Meg out of it. If she contradicts him, he'll make it look like she's trying to save his neck. And his word would carry more weight than mine. They much prefer a confession to anything a lawyer might have to say."

"You think he'd lie under oath?"

"Dad, would you lie under oath to save my life?"

Gruffly he said, "That's a different question." He finished the water.

"And you have your answer. Also," she continued, "the insurance investigator called to let me know they found the boat. Just a little mistake, a bit of absentmindedness.

He's happy to be out of it, he said. It can be messy when someone accuses a guest of theft. Messy! He doesn't know the half of it."

"Well, keep in mind two things —the widow is still out of sight, and someone else was present that night, and that person hasn't made a peep yet. When and if they come forward will be time enough to put on your worry hat." He stood up. "I'm going to rustle up a quick dinner." He went inside and she followed him.

They ate on the back porch with the two lion-sized cats watching every bite the way they would watch a mouse, ever ready to pounce.

"Funny how it works out that there's always enough left over for me to have at least one more meal," she commented later as he spooned peas into a plastic container and she washed the pots and pans.

"Like to make enough," he said. "Don't reheat the salmon. It's better cold on a salad once it's cooked."

It had been grilled to perfection.

"Were you busy this weekend?" he asked casually.

"We went to the Hult Center last night," Barbara said. "That Irish dancing group. I don't see the point of standing like a statue and moving your feet."

She didn't add another word, but Frank was satisfied. He cursed himself for clinging to whatever shred of her private life she cast his way. But, at least, Barbara and Darren were still on track, however slowly the train was moving.

The phone rang and Frank went to his study to listen to the answering machine.

When Bailey's voice came on, he picked up the phone. "I'm here."

"Is Barbara there?" She was always there on Sunday nights. He didn't wait for an answer. "My contact got in touch a little while ago. Did you read about that woman's body they fished out of the drink a few days ago? Thursday, I think it was."

"I saw the item," Frank said. He had paid scant attention. Every year half a dozen or more poor souls ended up in the ocean.

"They've made a positive ID," Bailey said. "Connie Wilkins, the missing widow.

They shipped the remains off to the state pathology forensics lab in Salem to determine when and how she died. They won't make an official statement until they notify next of kin."

For a time after hanging up, Frank considered this new development, and finally decided there was no point in speculating.

When her father left the kitchen, Barbara had started thinking about the previous night, and how frustrated she felt about things in general, and Darren in particular.

They had gone to the Electric Station for a snack after the show, but it had been crowded, noisy, with live music, making talk almost impossible. Then, driving back to her apartment, Darren had asked her to go with him and Todd to explore ghost towns in late June.

"A week or ten days roughing it, with my cooking, yet. I guess it doesn't sound too enticing, but will you?"

"I can't. There's too much piling up with Shelley gone, and I have a case that could turn serious."

He had put his hand on her arm. "You don't have to explain."

At her door she had hesitated, then thanked him for a good evening and he had kissed her lightly on the lips and left.

Her answer had been too swift, she thought, drying her hands, done with the dishwashing. She should have given it at least a little thought first. She had not yet invited him into her apartment, and she couldn't think why. They both wanted to go to bed; it was in the air between them. He wouldn't make the first move at his house when Todd was around, and she had not gone there during Todd's weekends with his mother, and she had not once asked him in. She bit her lip and shook her head impatiently. Around and around.

"Bobby, a new wrinkle in the Wilkins business," Frank said, returning to the kitchen.

He told her about Bailey's call. "Just don't start playing the various possible scenarios until we know more," he cautioned, as if aware that she was doing just that, all thoughts of Darren eclipsed instantly with his words.

She met a secret lover for a rendezvous and he killed her? One killer, two victims?

She killed herself?

"Suddenly there are new players," Frank said thoughtfully. "There's a big estate to consider and someone's going to inherit it. Depends on who died first, doesn't it?"

Barbara switched her line of thought. If they had to send the body to a forensics lab to determine when she died, it meant she had been in the water more than just a day or two.

"I don't know a thing about her family, but on his side there's his ex," she said.

"Probably she won't get a cent. But there are two kids, young adults, and one of them is mentally ill. It's like a Chinese puzzle box," she said. "Every time you think you have all the pieces, you find another one."

Chapter 8

On late Monday afternoon Stephanie Breaux sat at her desk regarding the bill Cedar View had prepared for her. It would wipe out the savings account again, and if it weren't for Connie's monthly checks, she would have dipped into her credit line. She had just finished paying it off from the last hospitalization. The new prescription Dr.

Mohrbeck had given her that day had come to two hundred forty dollars for a month's supply. Added to the others it ran the monthly total to over a thousand dollars.

She should have stuck it out with Jay, she thought bleakly. Now she would be the widow with assets, a house to sell, art objects, antiques. Whatever she could get for the dealership. No more money worries. She drew in her breath angrily; it was pointless to pretend she had had a choice when she was as glad as Eric that Jay was dead. The ultimate scene with Jay played in her head, the one that had made divorce her only option.

Eric had come to her home office and stood in the doorway looking awkward and very young. He had been almost sixteen.

"I came up to say goodbye," he said in a low voice, keeping his gaze averted.

She looked up from the ledger she had been working on. Then, as now, she had done the books for the shop, and her partner, Diane Gormandi, the traveling and buying. "What do you mean? Goodbye?"

"Dad kicked me out. I'm going to hang out at Woody's house. His mom and dad said it's okay."

She stood up. "What are you talking about?"

"He said I have to clear out."

She went to him and hugged him fiercely. "You'll never be told to leave my home,"

she said. "We'll see about this."

He was unresponsive and she realized how near tears he was. "I'll go pack some stuff," he said.

She found Jay in front of the wall-sized television screen.

"What did you say to Eric?" She walked to the television and turned it off.

"I told him to get out. I don't intend to have a pervert living in my house, in my father's house. Let him go down to San Francisco and be with others like him. No doubt some big-hearted six-footer will welcome a cute toy boy like Eric. I was watching a game," he said. "Do you mind?" Using the remote, he turned the TV on again.

She snatched the remote from his hand and threw it across the room. "This is my home, too, and by God you can't drive our son out of it!"

He stood up, brushed past her and went to the bar. Behind it, he finally looked at her. "Get this through your head. This was my father's house and he willed it to me.

To me. Not us. And I don't have a son. I'm not even sure he's a boy. He can't bring his filth here and stay."

"If he goes, so do I."

"Your choice. Take your twisted kids and beat it. Suits me. She's a dummy, a mental case who should be in an institution. That deer-in-the-headlights act of hers turns my stomach, and he's just as sick. They both turn my stomach. Your twisted kids. Have fun with them."

She knew she could not have stayed with him, that she had stayed years longer than she should have, but she had been afraid for their sick daughter.

The day the divorce was finalized, he had dropped them from his medical insurance, and the day they reached eighteen, their monthly support checks had stopped.

Stephanie had been denied insurance for Eve.

She pushed the new hospital bill away tiredly Tomorrow she would bring her daughter home. Eve had been at Cedar View for eight days this time, one of her shorter stays.

Dr. Mohrbeck had found that hopeful. After two years of good progress, a little setback was not unexpected, he had told her. "There may be another one or two, but perhaps not. We wait and see. Call the downtown office for an appointment in a week or ten days. And get some sleep. You look exhausted."

That day when she told Eve that she had to stay only one more night, Eve had hugged her hard and whispered, "Mother, I'm sorry."

"Tell you what," Stephanie had said. "I'll make fried chicken and mashed potatoes with gravy. Plus strawberry shortcake with lots and lots of whipped cream. We'll celebrate your homecoming."

"Poor Reggie," Eve said. "There goes her diet again. Unless I eat it all." She smiled weakly, a crooked little smile that came and went fast.

Both Eve and Eric had that crooked smile, just like me
, Stephanie thought.

Stephanie pushed her chair back from the desk and regarded her bed on the other side of the room. Her home office was a corner of her bedroom, a desk with her computer, a file cabinet, a waste-basket. The settlement her attorney had wrangled from Jay's attorney had made it possible to buy a small house, this split level, big enough for her and the two children. Now that Eric was gone, Reggie lived with them and used the topmost two bedrooms.

What Eve needed, an early doctor had said, was a stable home where she felt secure.

Stephanie had provided it. She eyed the bed, then shook herself. If she took a nap, doubtful that she could sleep, but if she did, then she would be up again most of the night. She could not think of the last night she had had a long restful sleep.

Tomorrow night, she told herself. When Eve was home and safely tucked into bed, then she would sleep through the night.

She closed her eyes, and let herself fall into a near reverie state, too tired to think clearly, too fatigued to stir. The doorbell roused her.

Eric was letting himself in when she went down the stairs. He had moved back into his own apartment the previous day.

"Mother, we have to talk," he said at the door. "Is Reggie around?"

"No. She'll be back later. What's wrong?"

"Come over and sit down," he said, motioning toward the sofa. He sat in an upholstered chair near it. "Late this afternoon, Mr. Berman called me at work and asked if I could meet at his office before four."

Stephanie stiffened. She loathed Berman, who had been Jay's attorney and had fought for his client all the way through the divorce proceedings as if protecting Samson from Delilah.

Eric was plunging onward as if unaware of the effect of his words. "Connie's dead.

They won't make any announcement until they notify her family. Berman said they needed to know who to release Dad's body to since she's out of the picture, and Berman told them I'm next of kin. I have to make arrangements." He stood up and began to pace. "God, I don't care what they do with him! Berman said he'd take care of things. In a week or two there should be a memorial service or something. And we had to go to the bank to open Dad's safe deposit box with a detective. They were waiting for Connie to show up, but—"

"Stop moving around," Stephanie cried. "What about Connie? What do you mean, she's dead? When did she die? How? For God's sake, settle down and tell me!"

He sank down into the chair again and leaned forward. "Sorry. They don't know when or how. Her body was in the ocean and they don't know for how long. It might take a couple of weeks to find out." He jumped up again. "I left some beers here. Be right back." He hurried from the room.

Stephanie leaned back against the couch. Connie! She had met her for the first time in September when Connie had asked permission to meet her stepchildren. In October the monthly checks had started, twelve hundred dollars, to help with Eve, the memo had said. And now she was dead. Stephanie had liked Connie, and Eve had formed an attachment that was rare for her. Slowly, with tentative, hesitant steps, Connie and Eve had drawn together, formed a friendship that had become a strong bond by spring.

Eric returned with a bottle of beer. He drank, then set the bottle down on the end table by his chair. "I guess I'm reeling from too much, too fast," he said. "There's more. We went to the bank with the detective and opened the box. It had Connie's things along with Dad's. The deed to the house, papers, some of her jewelry, Dad's will and a copy of hers. The detective took charge of it all until they straighten out who gets what. Then I went back to Berman's office with him and he told me about the wills. He said she left half of everything to Dad, and the other half to be divided between her family in Virginia and Eve and me. He said it could be over a million dollars!"

He took another drink, longer this time. "Dad's will makes the same kind of distribution, but names somebody in New Hampshire to split half with us."

Stephanie, speechless, stared at him. Finally she said. "Are you sure?" It was a whisper.

"That's what he told me. The detective wanted to know if any of us knew about it before. They probably will ask you, too. I told him I haven't spoken to Dad or seen him in nearly ten years, and Connie never mentioned anything like that to me. I never even knew there was any family in New Hampshire."

"He told me he would leave you and Eve exactly one thousand dollars each, and a distant cousin in New England would get the rest." As far as Stephanie knew Jay had never met his cousin. "But he will carry on the Wilkins name," Jay had said meanly,

"which is more than I expect from your fairy kid."

"Right now it's a real mess," Eric said. "A lot depends on who died first. If it was Connie, and they seemed to imply it was, then her half goes to him, and that plus whatever he had could add up to quite a bundle when they start dividing it up." His eyes gleamed. "Berman said not to start spending it yet because it could take months to work out. But I can't help thinking about it. I'll go to graduate school if it's true."

And Stephanie couldn't stop thinking about it, either, after Eric left. She was Eve's legal guardian. It would mean an end to money worries, real security for her daughter, the art lessons she needed, helping her toward the goal she had to achieve ultimately: a self-directed, independent existence, free of the threat of being institutionalized and started on the downward spiral to oblivion. The threat was real, sometimes looming near enough to destroy sleep, sometimes receding, but always there. The day Stephanie could no longer pay for Eve's medication, for her hospital care when necessary, the threat would be realized.

Jay had wanted to place her in an institution at a young age. Stephanie knew that would have been fatal. Two doctors had said what she needed was a stable homelife when she was between her episodes. They always referred to them that way, episodes; lapses into insanity was what they meant. In the beginning, the episodes had been frequent with long periods of hospitalization, six weeks at a time, seven.

There were weekly sessions with a therapist between episodes.

Stephanie had homeschooled Eve after two unsuccessful tries in regular classes. Eve could not bear to be with other children rushing about, unpredictable, loud, threatening. She had been a slow reader, and still never read for pleasure.

Eve's mind struggled to keep things within their own boundaries, but if she lost control for a second, everything she saw merged into shapeless swirling colors rushing at her. Out of control. When she was eight, she froze one day when luncheon guests, strangers, rushed toward her to admire the lovely child. That was the day Jay had turned his back on his daughter. Later, from eleven onward, she collapsed into a fetal heap and refused, or was unable, to move or open her eyes.

Catatonia. The first time that happened, a neighbor's little black-and-white cocker spaniel, wanting only to play, had run at her in the backyard, and she had fallen to the ground and drawn herself into a ball. That had been her pattern ever since. If she could not control it, she could only try to deny it through complete withdrawal from the world.