You Bet Your Life (19 page)

“Yes.”

“And when did Mr. Kildare tell you he wanted to reconcile?” Fordice continued.

“It was a few days before he was killed.”

“What did he say to you?”

“He told me we never should have parted, that he still loved me and that he missed me and wanted me back.”

“And what did you reply to his offer to reconcile?”

“I told him I’d be happy to have him back, of course. I was in love with him. I still love him. I miss him every day. But I told him we shouldn’t declare our love while he was married to her. It would humiliate her and that wasn’t fair. I told him he needed to talk to her, and let her down easy.”

“Talk to the defendant, Martha Kildare?”

“Yes, to her.”

“And what did he say to that?”

“He said she’d get over it. He’d give her a settlement and send her back to Maine.”

“And later on, did he tell you when he’d spoken to her?”

“Yes. Right before he was killed. He called to tell me that he’d spoken to her over the weekend and told her he wanted a divorce. He said she got furious with him and swore she’d see him dead before she’d ever give him one.”

“Objection!”

“No further questions, Your Honor. Your witness, Mr. Nastasi.”

I scribbled a note to Nastasi, who rose slowly from his chair. “Ms. Kildare, did anyone else ever hear Victor say he wanted to reconcile with you?”

“I don’t know.”

“So we only have your word that these conversations actually took place.”

“Oh, they took place, all right.”

“So you say.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Ms. Kildare, did you know that the defendant, Martha Kildare, wouldn’t be home when you brought boxes over to the house?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And how did you know this?”

“I called Oliver, Mr. Kildare’s assistant, and asked him when she would be out.”

“So you planned to see Mr. Kildare when his wife wasn’t home?”

“I missed him and wanted to see him again.”

“Just answer yes or no to the question, please.”

“Yes.”

“You intentionally timed your visit for when his wife wasn’t home?”

“Yes.”

“And how many times did you come to the house when Martha Kildare was out for her regular beauty parlor appointment?”

“I don’t remember exactly how many times.”

“Was the housekeeper there each time you visited?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“Who answered the door when you came?”

“I didn’t come in the front way. I used the rear entrance so I could put my car in the garage. I didn’t want her to find out about us until Victor actually told her.”

“Her being his wife, Martha?”

“Yes.”

“And you claim that you rekindled your romance with Victor Kildare on the days that his wife was at the beauty parlor. Did you ever see him at other times?”

“He’d stop by my place every now and then.”

“And did you speak on the telephone?”

“Not very often.”

“Doesn’t sound like a hot-and-heavy romance if he only saw you every now and then, and you didn’t even speak on the telephone.”

“Victor was a very busy man. I understood that and didn’t want to pressure him.”

“Very considerate. You expect us to believe that on the basis of a few visits and even fewer telephone calls, Victor was ready to give up the wife he had married only a little more than a year earlier—and by all accounts was madly in love with—to take you back? And furthermore, that he didn’t mention these intentions to anyone else?”

“He might have told other people.”

“Who? Whom might he have told?”

“I don’t know. Friends. Businesspeople.”

“Who were his friends? You were married to him at one time. You should know who his friends are. Shall we ask these people?”

 

The conference table in Vince Nastasi’s office was littered with papers and file folders. Two telephones had been brought in to accommodate Charlie Biddle, the investigator, and Dean Brown, Nastasi’s associate, while they gathered information on Harriet Elmsley, who was scheduled to testify against Martha on Monday. Evelyn had cleared one end of the table to set out the usual lunch.

“She’s lying,” Nastasi said, taking a seat and unwrapping a roast beef on rye.

“Of course she’s lying,” Biddle said. “Never knew a snitch who told the truth.”

“No, not Elmsley. Cindy Kildare, the victim’s ex-wife. One of them anyway. She constructed this elaborate fantasy this morning on how Victor met her in secret and promised to many her after he divorced Martha.”

“Do you think the guy was playing two sides?”

“Doubt it. He looks to be a serial monogamist, only one woman at a time. But you never know. And the jury is probably willing to believe he’d cheat on his wife.”

“So what does Cindy get out of lying about their relationship? Other than the psychic thrill of tormenting her successor,” Biddle asked.

“That could be enough,” Nastasi said. “What do you think, Jessica?”

“I find it strange that Victor was ever married to Cindy,” I said. “Martha is so very different, but maybe that was her appeal.”

“Yeah, Cindy’s charm eludes me. But then again, she’s not aiming to charm me.”

“She should be aiming to charm the jury, however, if she wants them to believe her.”

“I wish I knew what she was up to,” Nastasi said.

“If Martha is convicted,” I said, “the police won’t look for the real killer. Maybe she’s protecting someone—or herself.”

“Good point.”

“I’d like to look over the police reports this weekend,” I said. “Would it be okay if I took them back to Martha’s?”

“Sure. Evelyn can make you copies. Mostly boring stuff, however.”

“May I take the phone records as well?”

“You’re planning an exciting weekend, I see. Evelyn will pack up a box for you.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. I have to thank you. I’m getting paid for my work. You’re doing this for nothing.”

“Martha’s acquittal will more than compensate me,” I said. “What do you think of her chances?”

“Too soon to guess,” he said. “Let’s see what we’re up against next week, and let’s figure out how we’re going to combat it. Charlie, what did you find out?”

 

The afternoon in court was taken up by housekeeping matters, irritating Judge Tapansky greatly. Nastasi had filed for a continuance, asking the court to grant a few extra days to give the defense time to formulate its strategy in dealing with the testimony of Harriet Elmsley.

“Under the rules of discovery,” Nastasi said, “the prosecution had an obligation to give us advance notice of the existence of this witness. We’ve just received her proffer and we need time go over it and to prepare for our cross-examination.”

Shelby Fordice said he was only complying with the judge’s demands that he move the case along. The prosecution’s witness was ready to testify. How much time did the defense need to read the witness’s statement and put together some questions? They had two whole days over the weekend. That should be sufficient.

The dispute raged back and forth with Nastasi arguing that in the interests of a fair trial, the defense should be granted a continuance, and Fordice fighting to put his witness on the stand on Monday morning.

“Enough!” said Tapansky, glaring at Nastasi. “How many days do you need?”

“At least two, Your Honor.”

Tapansky banged his gavel down. “Court will resume nine o’clock Tuesday morning,” he said, bolting from the bench and disappearing into his chambers.

Nastasi shrugged. “Well, at least we got an extra day,” he said, gathering up his papers. He looked at his watch. “I imagine the judge can fit in at least nine holes before the end of the day. He needs the practice. Before this trial, I’d been beating him pretty regularly.”

 

Oliver Smith, in shorts and T-shirt, was lounging against Martha’s Mercedes-Benz. The car, its trunk open, was parked on the street outside Nastasi’s office when we returned from court. Dean Brown had carried down the box of papers I hoped to review over the weekend, and had left it on the backseat. My luggage had already been stowed.

Nastasi scowled at the bodyguard. “As long as the estate is paying your salary, Mr. Smith, you work for Martha Kildare and will conduct yourself as both she and Mr. Kildare would have wanted,” he said. “That includes dressing appropriately when you’re on the job. Remember that. The next time I see you, I expect you to be clothed in more formal attire. Is that understood?”

Oliver straightened up. “I’m no servant,” he said, slamming the trunk closed. But he opened the back door for me. I climbed in.

“Vince, you know where to reach me,” I said, “but I don’t have a weekend number for you.”

Nastasi wrote his cell phone number on the back of a business card and handed it to me. “This will get me wherever I am, even on the golf course.”

“I’d wish you good luck,” I said, “but if you’re playing with the judge, I don’t want him to be annoyed with you.”

“Never happen. Believe it or not, he’s a good sport. But you don’t have to worry anyway. We skip the socializing when I’m arguing a case before him.”

Oliver didn’t utter a word the entire trip to Adobe Springs, but I could see the angry line of his mouth in the rearview mirror. At the entrance to the community, he pressed a button inside the car and the gate lifted to allow us to pass. He drove past the iron gates to the estate and around the back to the garage. I was sure he would have driven Victor or Martha to the front door, and was expressing his annoyance by dropping me off at the rear of the property. But I was secretly pleased. This gave me an opportunity to view the alleyway leading to the garage, to see where Victor’s killer might have entered the property unobserved.

There were six-foot-high stucco walls and a narrow sidewalk on either side of the short street that served two properties, Martha’s and her neighbor’s. The walls cut off any line of vision from the Kildare estate to the street, but someone who happened to look out a particular window on the second floor of the house next door could see into the alley, but not into the back garden. The roofs of the outbuildings and the surrounding foliage ensured privacy.

The garage could accommodate four cars, and an equal number of large panel doors across the way indicated that Martha’s neighbor also had a four-car garage. Oliver used another remote-control device to open one of the doors and pulled in.

“Please bring the box of papers on the backseat when you carry up my luggage,” I told Oliver as I exited the car, not waiting for him to open the door. “I’ll go ahead and see where Isobel wants me to stay.”

The door to the garden was at the right rear corner of the garage. I hadn’t noticed another door from the garden to the street, but I would look more closely when Oliver wasn’t around. The toolshed was nearby. I visualized the murderer coming through the garage, ducking into the shed to grab a weapon from inside, and sneaking up on an unsuspecting Victor.

I counted the steps from the garage to the shed and from the shed past Oliver’s cottage to the cabana. Three of the four buildings were partially hidden by tall bushes, planted to screen them from view. Only the cabana with its covered patio was completely open and easily seen from the swimming pool and house.

I crossed the Mexican-tiled terrace to the sliding glass doors. They were locked. I rapped on the glass and a flustered Isobel came to open them for me.

“What is he thinking, to bring you round the back?” she said, apologizing profusely for Oliver’s lack of manners. “I will speak with him right away.”

“It was only a minor inconvenience,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“But it is not right. You are a guest. He should bring you to the front entrance. You must not let him take advantage of your good nature. I tell this to Señora Kildare all the time, too. Ever since Señor Kildare is gone, Oliver acts too big for his trousers.” She paused. “Is this the right phrase?”

“I think you mean ‘britches,’ ” I said. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow. I’m sure we’ll get along fine.”

“I will talk to him, too,” she said, still irritated by Oliver’s rudeness. “Come now, I have prepared the guest room for you. It is one of Señora Kildare’s favorite rooms. She redecorated it herself.”

Isobel led me through the living room, down the hall, and to the right to a large bedroom with its own bath. Martha had done up the space to bring a little bit of Maine to the predominantly Southwest flavor of the house. A four-poster bed had a crocheted tester and crisp cotton skirt in white. The coverlet was blue-and-white check. A bank of pillows echoed the blue-and-white theme with touches of yellow and green for contrast. A captain’s chest that could have been lifted from any seagoing vessel sat against one wall with a ship in a bottle resting on its top. A classic New England secretary stood on the opposite wall, a beautiful ladder-back chair drawn up to the open desk. In the corner was a club chair upholstered in a green-and-blue plaid with a matching ottoman.

“This is lovely,” I said. “I’m sure I’ll be very comfortable here.”

Isobel showed me the empty closet and drawers for my clothes and turned on the lights in the bathroom. She pointed out the bedside telephone and call button that rang in the kitchen to summon her. “This is for the security system,” she said, indicating another switch behind the nightstand. “It is for emergencies only. It rings into the police station. We have never used it, but it’s nice to know it’s there.”

“Is there an alarm system I need to set when I go out?” I asked.

“This is Oliver’s responsibility; he knows what to do. But I will show you as well. I am so sorry, but my son-in-law picks me up here tomorrow, and then I will be away. You will be all right alone in the house?”