Sleight of Hand (8 page)

Chapter 14

"I gazed into my crystal ball and came up with a probable time line," Barbara said on Sunday evening. "Tomorrow Wally gives his formal statement. I'll be tied up with a plea bargain Thursday, and they'll just happen to arrest him on Thursday"

"And I'll just happen to be batting the breeze with the fellows at the station when they bring him in," Frank said. "They might hold him overnight, but by Friday he'll be back at the homestead."

She nodded. "God, I'll be glad when Shelley's back."

"We'll have a welcome home dinner."

" Wally's going to bring me a couple of videos and some letters or something. We'll have a private video show. I'll invite Darren and Todd if that's okay with you."

He nodded, waiting for more, but she was off on another topic already.

"I wish I knew Wally better," she said. "I still don't know how much of what I see is his performer's face, how much is his own."

Frank was gazing at the cats, sprawled in the sunlight like two road kills. "I can tell you this much about him," he said. "He is almost exactly the same as when he was a kid. Same big grin showing every tooth in his head. He took his punishment without a whimper. He got caught and expected more punishment than he got and he was grateful for that. He also refused to betray his accomplice. His attitude was fair's fair, and I'm pretty certain it still is. But keep in mind that he is more devoted to Meg than most men who have been married for forty years. And he absolutely won't let her go through any of the hell he's been through with the law."

Barbara nodded. "Aye, and there's the rub. If he says he took the damn boat back, the odds of being convicted for murder shoot up sky-high, and he knows it. To date, what Meg has told the police is that they worked all day on the house, ate dinner and watched a movie. So she hasn't actually lied yet."

"Once they arrest him, she'll be out of it," Frank said slowly. "And she certainly won't be called as a witness."

They regarded each other soberly for a few seconds. Then Barbara raised her glass in a semi-salute and drained it.

Her prescience proved flawless, and by two o'clock Friday afternoon, it had all come to pass. Wally and Meg were on their way back home. Barbara was in her office scanning the day's mail when there was a tap on the door. It opened and Shelley said, "Got a minute?" Barbara had never been so glad to see anyone.

She rushed to embrace her. "You look wonderful! Why are you home? We didn't expect you yet. How was the cruise?"

Laughing, Shelley led the way to the sofa and they sat down. She had a deep glowing tan and her hair had bleached out to a pale gold. It was shorter than it had been. And she was radiant.

"Alex was sketching a lot, but not finishing anything, and I kept wondering what was going on here, and we both said, 'Let's go home.' So here we are. It was a fabulous trip, fairy-tale stuff, but even Adam and Eve must have wondered what was on the other side of the wall. We wanted to come home and go back to work. I have tons of pictures and a few things I brought back. Alex has stacks of mail, e-mail messages, letters from his agent. It will take him weeks to plow through it, and he told me to beat it before you left for the day. So I did." She said this in a rush with no pauses. "What's been going on?"

"Too much to cover in a few minutes," Barbara said. "A new client, murder charge, like that."

Shelley caught in her breath. "I just knew it. Tell me about it."

Barbara started. At four-thirty Shelley stopped her and said, "Remember how we used to get take-out food, burritos and stuff, and take it to your apartment to eat while we talked? Let's do that now. I told Alex I might run late and he said good."

After Barbara cleaned off her desk, they went to Taco Loco, ordered far too much food, and took it to Barbara's apartment where they sat at her small table and proceeded to eat most of it.

"That was so good!" Shelley said, leaning back. "You can't get a decent chile relleno on a single island in Hawaii."

"Too many coincidences," Barbara said, bringing her account up to the present.

"Connie Wilkins vanishes and ends up in the ocean, her husband is killed, and on the same day his daughter has a psychotic break." She scowled. "And the cops aren't even considering a double murder, one killer."

"I see your point," Shelley said. "Then, there's the boat. That's the problem, isn't it?

Do you think Jay Wilkins would have pressed charges?"

"From what little I know about him it seems likely." She got up to make coffee. "I think the real question is why did Wilkins set up Wally And I haven't come up with anything that remotely resembles an answer.

"Anyway, I'll be getting discovery next week and maybe a whole raft of suspects will come to light. And I have to find a way to meet and talk to Stephanie Breaux and her family, even if I can't question the daughter."

"I know Stephanie Breaux," Shelley said thoughtfully. "She's a very good shopkeeper. I go in there now and then. She remembers her customers' names, their taste, more or less their measurements."

"What else? What's she like aside from running a good shop?"

"Tall, a little taller than you, very dignified, elegant in an old-world sort of way. Dark hair turning a little gray, in a chignon, reserved in her manner and conservative in her clothes. Just elegant and refined. Want me to talk to her?"

Barbara shook her head. "I'd better do it. It might make a difference in that you're a customer. I don't want to talk to the saleswoman, but to the ex-wife of Jay Wilkins and the mother of his two kids, whom he apparently despised. What I really need to find out is something about the daughter. How passive is she during her psychotic breaks?"

"Dr. Minnick," Shelley said promptly. "You know that was his specialty for most of his career back in New York, treating mentally disturbed youngsters. He knows all about schizophrenia."

"Bailey's due on Monday, discovery will start coming in, and we'll go on from there.

Next Sunday, Dad's house for a celebratory dinner, and Dr. Minnick is invited. We'll have a private showing of Wallis Lederer, the great sleight of hand artist."

"Not much yet on Wilkins," Bailey said on Monday, as gloomy as usual, and as thirsty. That time of day he settled for coffee, although any time after three he headed straight for the bar. "Neighbors thought he was a pain in the neck, complained about kids leaving stuff in sight, an old truck, a bicycle too close to the street, things like that. He liked his neighborhood kept neat and clean. He was ready to sue at the drop of a soda can. People at the dealership were pretty tight-lipped, but he was not universally loved there, either. A stickler for keeping things clean, following rules, his rules. Not motives for bumping him off, just a general attitude that suggests they aren't going to spend a lot of time grieving. When guys begin bumping off bosses they don't like there'll be a real shortage of management. He was involved in a deal to get his hands on two other lots, used cars here in Eugene, a lot for used SUVs, trucks, vans in Salem. It would have taken a million up front to close the deal."

"He didn't have a million up front," Frank said. "Millions in possessions, nowhere near that kind of cash at hand. Like farmers, land rich, cash poor. Or at least not rolling in it."

Bailey consulted his notebook. A folder he had placed on the table had his full reports with details. "No big black car yet," he said. "Not one that belongs to anyone involved, or else is unaccounted for. No autopsy yet for Connie Wilkins, full name Constantina. Why would anyone hang a name like that on a helpless baby? She was pretty battered by rocks and stuff, wave action. It's going to take a few more days, a week. A special FBI pathologist was called in. Her sister will fly in to claim the remains and take her home."

Jay's only living relatives were his two children, and one distant cousin in New Hampshire, Bailey continued. "The Gormandi and Breaux shop is solvent, not making a fortune, but providing an okay living for the two partners after a couple of rough years during the recession. And no one at the Cedar View hospital will even admit that Eve Wilkins is a patient from time to time. Period," Bailey said, closing his notebook.

"And for this I pay your outrageous fees," Barbara said. "Okay. I'll have more in a couple of days, probably."

He helped himself to more coffee.

"Anything about the people who sued Wilkins?"

He shook his head. "The manager got canned, and walked into another job just like the last one. Seems innovative sales managers are in high demand. The guys who sued got a small settlement and moved on. And that's it."

Later, Barbara sat at her desk thinking about various things Bailey had reported.

Adele, she decided.

"I understand that Connie Wilkins s sister will fly out to claim her body and take her home," she said. "Will you be seeing her when she's here?"

Adele hesitated, then said, "I've talked to her. She's pretty torn up over this, blaming herself and her brother for not doing something when they could have. She'll stay at my place while she's in town. Why do you ask?"

"I want to talk to her," Barbara said. "Like you, I think the idea of suicide stinks to high heaven."

"That really doesn't answer my question," Adele said after another hesitation. "What does Connie's death have to do with you, and Jay's death?"

"I honestly don't know," Barbara said. "My client is accused of killing him, and I know he's innocent. I want some answers, too. Maybe we can help each other."

"I'll see what I can do, but no promises."

"Good enough. Thanks, Adele."

She hung up and thought some more. After another moment, she placed a second call, this time to Randolf Berman, who had been Jay's attorney and was now in charge of the estate.

"Ms. Holloway, what can I do for you?" he asked in his best lawyerly manner.

"As you may know, I am the defense attorney for Wallis Lederer, who has been charged with the murder of Jay Wilkins," she said, just as smoothly. "I understand the scene of the crime has been unsealed by the investigators and is under your supervision. I want permission to inspect the scene."

His voice was noticeably cooler when he said, "I'm afraid that would be very inconvenient at this time. There are two estates to settle, and at present an inventory of the house contents is underway. On completion of that both estates require appraisals, and this will all take a good bit of time. If I can get back in touch with you at a later date?"

"I'm afraid that won't do," she said. "As the defense attorney in this matter I cannot be denied permission to inspect the crime scene, and I want to do so before anything is changed. As you know, I can get a court order to accomplish this, however I much prefer not to have to go that route."

When he spoke again his tone was so icy she could almost feel the chill on her receiver. "The inventory should be completed by tomorrow. I shall speak to Eric Wilkins about this. He can accompany you. He knows that nothing is to be removed or even handled. I trust you will honor that condition, as well."

Send the enemy to keep me under surveillance, she thought. "Fine," she said. "I'll give him a call tomorrow to arrange a time."

After hanging up, she muttered, "Stiff-necked bastard, don't talk to me about convenience when my client's life is at stake."

Chapter 15

Tuesday evening Eric Wilkins stood by his mother at the kitchen sliding door and watched Eve in the garden. "She's okay now?" he asked.

Stephanie nodded. Eve, dressed in shorts and an old T-shirt, was on her knees attacking weeds with fierce concentration. "The same as ever. Earlier she scolded Reggie for letting the snails get out of hand. Tomorrow they'll go to the garden center and get bait of some sort."

Eve treated each plant as an individually prized treasure, noticed if a brown spot occurred on a leaf, or if a hole appeared. She tried to track down each offending critter to dispatch it, or used a soap spray, or put down bait. Nothing toxic was allowed, no weeds.

He turned away and said, "Mother, let's talk a minute before I go out and say hi."

She nodded toward the table where she had been looking at the drawings Eve had made since she had come home. It was always like that. She returned wan and listless, the only energy she had was when she used her pastel sticks and drew. The pictures were always the same, colors without edges, a semicircle of a wall of color, with streaks of fire-red throughout. Centered in the foreground was a single object, disproportionately small, colorless. Sometimes it looked like a rock, sometimes a human figure without any real definition. The pictures had movement of their own, the wall was advancing, threatening...

Stephanie moved the half-dozen new pictures aside. "You look harried," she said, regarding her son.

"Meetings with lawyers. Connie's and his. Berman gave me a key to the padlock on the house, with strict orders not to take anything out. There's an inventory, he said, as if he's afraid I'll go in with a gunnysack and raid the place. Appraisers will come in next week. He told me that the defense lawyer for the guy charged with the murder wants to have a look, and it's my duty to accommodate her. It would not be convenient for him to do it."

"You don't have to do it," she said quickly. "It isn't your duty."

"It's not a problem," he said. "I'm taking all my days off now, vacation time, sick leave, all of it. I can't work anyway while so much is going on. Berman's arranging for a memorial service. He said the community expects it. He wants me to be there."

He smiled his crooked little smile and turned to gaze at his sister. "I'll wear jeans and a T-shirt, if I go at all. And it seems the heir to Dad's estate is named Sylvester Wilkins."

"He's Jay's third cousin or something like that," Stephanie said absently.

Eric looked at her with an ironic grin. "Isn't he going to be surprised when he finds out he's inherited a million or more! At least it won't go to a dog or cat hospital."

Stephanie bit her lip. Eric turned back to gaze at his sister and she asked, "What was on the mind of Connie's lawyer?"

"He said Connie's sister is coming to claim the body and take her home, and while she's here she should go to the house and put aside whatever personal effects she wants. That was in Connie's will, that she's to have first pick of things like that, jewelry, clothes, photographs, whatever. He asked me if I would go with her, since Connie spoke to her about me, about all of us, and I would be sympathetic. She can't take anything away, just put it in a box or something. Nothing can be removed until the estates are probated." He stopped abruptly and went to the sink to get a glass of water.

"I like that lawyer, Stan Konig. I asked him to represent me through this. He knows I can't pay him until it's all straightened out, but he said that's okay," Eric said.

He was too young, she thought, for this kind of burden. Too young to be slapped across the face by his dead father and his mean-spirited will.

"Have you told Eve anything yet?" Eric asked at the sink.

"Only that they are both dead. We haven't talked about it. I'm not sure she really comprehends it yet."

"When it sinks in that Connie's gone, she'll take it hard," he said. "Well, I'll go say hi."

She followed him out and watched as brother and sister greeted each other.

"Hey, pig, finding any truffles?" he called, approaching Eve. They always had been like that, teasing a little, close, loving, accepting.

Eve stood up, looked at her knees crusted with dirt, and held up her grimy hands.

She smiled the same crooked smile as his. She was so thin, Stephanie thought with a pang. She came home thinner every time. Eve drew near Eric and reached out.

Before he could duck, she had taken his face in both her hands, and deliberately dragged them across his cheeks, leaving streaks of dirt.

"Why should I be the only dirty one around here?" she said, and laughed.

He was laughing too as he backed away. "You little devil. I'll get you for that."

"I'll wash up and, Eric, darling, I think you should do likewise. Your face is dirty."

Still laughing, she went to the door, stopped and turned back, all traces of amusement gone. "Did you know Connie's dead?" She directed her question at Eric.

He nodded. "Dad killed her," Eve said. "He knew she liked us and he hated her for it so he killed her. I hope he's burning in hell now and forever." She entered the house.

Stephanie sank into a chair, stunned, and Eric was too shocked to speak.

Then he said, "Comprehend, hell. For God's sake, she can't go around saying that!"

Stephanie nodded, moistened her lips that had gone stiff and strange, and said, "I'll talk to her."

When Barbara reached the Wilkins mansion that Thursday, she spotted Bailey's vintage green Dodge already parked on the street. He said his car was meant to blend in, not be noticeable, but it was so old that people interested in antiques probably regarded it with awe, wondering how it managed to keep rolling, unaware that the engine and other moving parts were top of the line and recent. Bailey was taking exterior photographs. She stopped to wait for him.

When he got into his car and started it again, she drove slowly up the semicircular driveway. Rhododendrons were in full bloom in the space between the drive and the street along with two dogwood trees, already past their blooming season and other bushy plants. Eric Wilkins's little black car, garish with decals, was parked at the entrance. It would never be mistaken for a van, no matter how rainy and dark. She parked behind it with Bailey right behind her.

A covered, ten-foot wide portico, paved with brick-red flagstones with several shallow steps, extended from the house to the drive. On the topmost landing was a massive dark door with a stained-glass light. She rang the bell.

Eric Wilkins opened the door. He looked younger than she had expected, Barbara thought as she introduced herself and Bailey. Young and very good-looking with dark hair that was thick and down slightly past his ears. His eyes were dark blue, and skeptical as he looked Bailey over. Barbara couldn't blame him for that. Bailey didn't look like an investigator or a photographer, either. He looked like a bum. And Barbara, dressed in blue jeans and a T-shirt, had to admit that she didn't look much like an attorney.

"As I mentioned on the phone," she said, entering the house, "I'd like to get some pictures, if you have no objection."

He waved his hand in a general manner. "Whatever."

The foyer floor was a continuation of the unpolished flagstones that had acquired a faintly glowing luster over the years, with shadowed hollows and gleaming highlights.

Centered was a deep green, plush floor runner with gold leaves twining the length. It ran through the spacious foyer, up wide stairs to a railed landing. Two magnificent Chinese vases in the same green and gold were against one wall, a long wooden bench along the other. A few scenic tapestries were the only wall decorations.

"I'd like some shots from the balcony, or landing, whatever it is, if that's okay,"

Barbara said, thinking of what Meg had said: it had been dark up there, and in the back halls by each side of the stairs. She wanted shots from both of those sides, too.

Eric shrugged. "Sure."

"And the study? Maybe we can have a look first, then let Bailey go to work with his camera."

Obligingly, Eric motioned toward a door about twenty feet down the foyer. Beyond it was another door, and the flagstones appeared to end just past it. Eric noticed her interest and said, "Guest lavatory. Want a look?"

She nodded. It would have been shadowed, too, she thought. Someone could have stepped in there, could have glanced out to see Meg. Eric opened the door to the lavatory. It had rich gold carpeting, pale gold twin washbasins with gold spigots, a crinkled-glass partition screening the toilet. Pale gold hand towels with dark gold monograms matched the decor. Even the soap, in the shape of leaves, was gold.

"My forebears liked the color of gold," Eric said dryly, standing at the door. "My great-grandfather came west and made like Paul Bunyan. New money, spend it big.

Build a mansion. I guess by now, three generations later, it would be considered old money."

They went back to the study where the carpet was russet, but the drapes were pale gold. Barbara walked across to the glass-fronted case on one wall. "Is that where the boat was?"

"Ever since I can remember," he said, leaning against the door frame. "Afraid I can't open the case for you. Different circuit on the security system and I don't have the key or the password for it. They changed the one for the front door so I can get in, nothing else. I can still look but can't touch."

She looked at him swiftly, but could detect no bitterness in his voice or his expression. He appeared more amused than bitter, in fact. She glanced over the other objects in the case, ancient Egyptian for the most part, and probably the whole collection was worth a fortune.

The desk was L-shaped with a computer and printer on the short side, the keyboard on a sliding shelf. On the right side, the side nearest the foyer door, there were three drawers.

Come in the front door, twenty feet or so to this spot, open the bottom drawer and drop in the boat, head back out. Less than a minute, just as Meg had said.

"Okay," she said. "Onward. The bar room."

It was across the wide foyer, the door a few feet farther back than the study door.

No one in it would have been visible to Meg that night without going to the door.

Inside, she said, "Oh, my." The room was very large, the paving stones continued inside as far as the bar extended, about twelve feet, then more gold carpeting. A long, curved sofa in cream-colored leather was back twelve feet or so from a giant television screen. The sofa had cushions of red and black piled on one end. Several other upholstered chairs in the same creamy covering flanked it, and there were two glass-topped tables with their own chairs with red or black seats. Gold drapes were wall to wall, with filtered light showing through them. Even the lighting in the room had taken on a golden hue.

"You expect to see the furniture pushed back and a bright and shiny Buick on display," Eric commented, then walked behind the bar. "Teak," he said, pounding the countertop. "Stools, too. Heavy as sin. Black as sin."

A brilliant brass foot rail gleamed against the black teak. The rungs of the bar stools were of the same heavy brass, the swivel seats were black. Barbara's gaze lingered on a gold-and-white antique telephone. So far that was the only thing she had seen that she might covet. The bar was as well stocked as any commercial bar she had ever been in.

"You want a drink?" Eric asked. "Name it, bet I have it back here somewhere."

Barbara smiled and shook her head, and Bailey said, "Thanks, but I'd better get some shots now." She thought he showed incredible self-control.

"You want to keep an eye on me?" Bailey asked, setting his duffel bag down.

"What for? Go shoot away," Eric said.

Bailey ambled out, and Barbara said, "Mr. Wilkins, I really appreciate your cooperation. It must be difficult since I'm the defense attorney for the man charged with killing your father."

He smiled, "Eric, just Eric. Funny, I haven't been in this house for over ten years, but nothing's changed, not a single thing. It's exactly the same way it was the day I walked out. Here he was always Mr. Wilkins, and I was just Eric. That hasn't changed, either." He pulled a bar stool closer and sat down, put his forearms on the bar, then said, "Ms. Holloway, I know who you are and what you do, your interest in this case, all that. I want to tell you frankly that if your client did kill my father, I know beyond a doubt that he had a good reason. I wouldn't lift a finger to help convict him. In fact, I'll do anything I possibly can to help you. If you get him off, more power to you and to him."