You Bet Your Life (20 page)

I assured her I would, although the contemplation of having Oliver as my closest neighbor was somewhat unpleasant.

“Please call me for anything you need till then,” she said. “I will give you a tour of the house whenever you like, so you will know where everything is. I have prepared several meals for you and put them in the freezer. Tonight dinner will be at eight, if that is convenient.”

I thanked her for her hospitality and assured her that eight o’clock was fine for dinner. “You don’t need to fuss,” I said. “I’m very happy eating in the kitchen. Please, no formalities for me.”

Her reply was interrupted by Oliver, who entered the room carrying my garment bag on one shoulder with the box of papers tucked under his other arm. He set them down in the room and attempted a hasty escape, but Isobel followed him into the hall, scolding him in a combination of English and Spanish for dropping me at the garage instead of at the front door, and reminding him that his home and position were being paid for by the Kildares, and that he was obligated to work for his living. I almost felt sorry for him as she pursued him out of the house, reprimanding him as she would a child and forcing him to agree to behave better.

I pulled aside the blue drapes at the window to see Oliver jog across the terrace and past the pool to his cottage, Isobel still rebuking him in a loud voice. The telephone rang, and without thinking, I picked it up.

“Ah, Jessica, I see you’re settled in.”

“Hello, Tony. Thank you for having Oliver pick me up this afternoon.”

“He resisted at first, but I reminded him that, as executor of Victor’s will, I could easily cancel the salary that is automatically deposited into his bank account each month and that he should cooperate.”

“I think he’s getting the message from several sources.”

“Good. I understand Isobel goes on vacation tomorrow. Would you like me to arrange for a substitute housekeeper in her absence?”

“It’s not at all necessary for me, but if it would make you more at ease that the house was being cared for, go ahead.”

“Jessica, please. You know I never meant to imply that you would be an untidy guest; my suggestion is only for your comfort.”

I laughed. “I know that, Tony, and I wasn’t offended. Whatever makes you, and especially Martha, happy is fine with me. Just let me know if you decide to send someone.”

“Will do. Actually, I was calling not to discuss house-keepers but to see if I could coax you to have dinner with me on Saturday night.”

“Tomorrow night?”

“Yes, according to my calendar.”

“I’m not sure, Tony.”

“I think I see another rain-check offer coming my way.”

“You’re very astute,” I said. “I would be more than happy to have dinner with you another time, but I was planning to make this a working weekend.”

“Working on the case?”

“Yes. I’ve brought home a box full of papers to review.”

“Are you still convinced Martha is innocent? Seems to me she’s the logical suspect.”

“The logical suspect isn’t always the guilty party.”

“That reminds me, I checked into the travel vouchers of my esteemed partner, as you suggested.”

“You mean Henry?”

“Yes. Got Pearl to go through the files.”

“What did you find out?”

“Henry did stop off in Las Vegas on his way to Mexico City. He was ticketed on a Continental flight leaving Newark at twelve-thirty-five and scheduled to arrive here around three in the afternoon.”

“Afternoon? But Isobel saw his car in the morning.”

“Must’ve been someone else’s car. Henry was high in the sky.”

“Are you sure that’s the flight he took?”

“Yes. Had to pressure Pearl to look through the files, but finally got her to pull out the itinerary from the travel agent. His boarding pass was there. Much as I despise the little bugger, Jessica, he’s not your killer.”

“Well, thank you for looking into that, Tony.”

“You’re welcome. You realize, of course, that Pearl is likely to tell Henry about my call. She’s his sister as well as his secretary, and now that Henry’s officially a partner, she thinks he’s more important than I am.”

“There would be no point in telling her to keep quiet,” I said. “That would simply alert her to tell him right away. What will you tell him if he asks you why you were checking his travel schedule?”

“I think I won’t tell him anything. I’ll just let him stew about it.”

“I’m sure he won’t be pleased, but I appreciate your checking into it for me.”

“Happy to help. Now what’s my reward? Do you come to dinner with me?”

I sighed. “Not tomorrow, I’m afraid. But I hope you’ll ask me again.”

“I’m a glutton for punishment, so I probably will.”

Isobel insisted on serving me dinner in the formal dining room, bringing me dish after dish and arraying them in a semicircle around my place at the large glass table. The base of the table was wrought iron in a design that I suspected was the work of the same artist who created the iron gates at the front of the estate. The table was the only modem element in a room that featured traditional chairs upholstered in a classic tapestry pattern, the colors of which matched an antique Native American rug inspired by the Grand Canyon. I tried to question Isobel about some things that had been swimming around in my mind, but at first she was too busy serving to stop for conversation.

“It is nice to have someone to cook for,” she said, bringing in a tray of home-baked bread and fresh butter.

“Won’t you join me?” I asked. “There’s certainly enough food here for both of us.”

“Muchas gracias,
no. You are our guest. Besides, I have my dinner already. I eat earlier than eight.”

I usually eat earlier, too,
I thought, but said, “Why don’t you sit down anyway? I’d enjoy talking with you.”

She wiped her hands down the front of her apron, obviously uncomfortable with my suggestion. “If I sit, how will I serve you? Too bad you did not come sooner. Now I leave and when I return, you will probably be gone.”

“Don’t you cook for Oliver?” I asked, spearing a piece of fragrant roast chicken from a platter of food that would last me for days.

“No. The cottage, it has its own kitchen,” she said, pouring me a glass of iced tea and placing the pitcher on a pad on the table. “I only cook for the señor and señora, so it has been some time now since I cook for anyone other than myself.” She pushed a dish of rice closer to my plate. “Señorita Jane, she does not want to come here anymore. Too many sad memories. When Señor Kildare was alive, we had two on staff—I had a helper—but with no one to cook for, I just keep house now until the trial will be over.”

“What will happen then?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I am afraid the house, it will be sold no matter what happens, and I will be without work.” She studied the table and then, seemingly satisfied with the amount of food she’d prepared for me, went into the kitchen, leaving me alone.

When she returned some time later, it was to remove my dinner plate and the serving dishes. I knew better than to offer to help her clear the table, but I was finding the formal service frustrating. “Thank you,” I said, folding my napkin and placing it on the table. “Everything was delicious.”

“There is dessert to come. I baked a flan,” she said, shaking her head over all the food I didn’t eat. “And also, I put up a pot of coffee for you.”

“Tell you what,” I said. “Let me keep you company in the kitchen while you clean up, and I’ll find some room for flan and coffee.”

She reluctantly agreed, and I followed her into the kitchen, still bright from the setting sun. Isobel had already washed and put away the pots. I took a seat at the kitchen table, which doubled as a work island, and watched while she wrapped up the leftovers and tucked them in the refrigerator. She opened the freezer and pointed out all the dishes she’d prepared for my meals, then poured a cup of coffee and slid a plate of flan in front of me.

“Have you watched the trial at all since you testified?” I asked as she filled the dishwasher.

“No. I don’t like to go downtown.”

“It’s been on television, too.”

“I only watch the TV when I iron, and then I watch the Spanish stations.”

“Cindy Kildare testified the other day. She said Victor was having an affair with her and wanted to marry her again.”

“Pffft! That one, she has a good imagination.”

“You never saw her at the house with Victor?”

“Only when she comes to beg a favor.”

“She said she visited Victor whenever Martha went for her beauty parlor appointment.”

Isobel poured soap into the dishwasher’s dispenser, closed the door, and pushed the start button.

“Do you remember seeing her here during those times?” I prompted.

She looked out the window, remembering. “She comes sometimes when the señora is away, but I don’t see her with Señor Kildare. She comes the back way and sneaks into Oliver’s house. She thinks I don’t see her, but I do.”

“So as far as you know, Victor wasn’t having an affair with Cindy.”

“Never. He was happy to be rid of that one. And he loves the señora too much. I see how he looks at her, so proud, so pleased. It pains me when they fight, but later, they are so in love. No, I don’t believe he has an affair with Cindy.”

“Did Victor and Martha fight often?”

“Not often. He was away too much. But when they fight, that’s what they fight about. She was lonely and wanted him to bring her along on his business trips. I think, maybe, he was going to start doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Taking her with him, but now it is too late.”

“All his trips were for business, weren’t they?”

“Sí. Sí.
He is a very important man, Señor Kildare.”

“Did you ever meet his business associates? Did Victor entertain them here at all?”

“Sometimes. I meet Señor McKay from England, and Señor Quint from New York.”

“Any others?”

“Señor Chappy, of course. He is often here.”

“I’ve heard of Chappy. Is that his given name or his last name?”

“They only call him Chappy. I have never heard another name for him.”

“And he came here, to the house?”

“Sí.
And they work together in Señor Kildare’s study.”

“I’m surprised I didn’t meet him at the wedding.”

“He was there. Like me, he comes for the service but doesn’t stay for the dinner.”

“Yes. I remember noticing that several people left right after the wedding. Why didn’t you stay?”

“They are very kind. They ask me to join the party, but I say no. It is not right for the staff to sit with the employer. Oliver, he thinks he is the equal to Señor Kildare, but he is not. I try to teach him his place, but he will not listen.”

While we chatted, Isobel had washed out the coffeepot, putting the leftover coffee in a carafe. She’d wiped down the sink and the counters, and hung the damp dishcloth over the handle on the oven door to dry. It didn’t look as if she would join me at the kitchen table, and I knew once her chores were completed, I might lose the opportunity to question her further. I decided to address a topic I’d been hoping she would know about.

“Isobel, when Martha went to the restaurant to meet Jane the day that Victor was killed, she had a long conversation with the waitress while she was waiting. Martha said the woman spoke English with a Spanish accent—she thought she was Mexican. It’s possible that the waitress was in the country illegally, because when the police came to ask questions about Martha, she became afraid and ran away. I’d like to find her. Can you recommend someone in the Mexican community in Las Vegas I could talk to, someone who knows a lot of people and could suggest ways I might find this woman?”

To my surprise, Isobel pulled out a chair and sat down. She looked at me sympathetically and shook her head. “Señora Fletcher, there are hundreds of thousands of Mexicans living in Las Vegas. You look for the pin in the bale of straw, as you say.”

“I realize that,” I said, “but we know a little about the waitress, maybe enough for someone to recognize her description and point me in a direction to find her.”

“What do you know about her?”

“We know her name, Luz, and that she had two daughters in college. She also spoke English very well, so perhaps she’s been here for a while, although we suspect she’s not a legal resident. And we know she worked at the Winners’ Circle.”

“It’s not much.”

“No, it’s not, but it’s a start. I understand the chances of finding her are slim, but I hate to leave any possibility unexplored. If we could find Luz and put her on the witness stand, I’m convinced it would help the jury acquit Martha.”

“You are a good friend to the señora.”

“Martha deserves my best. Besides,” I said, smiling, “I’m an official member of her legal team. It’s my job now.”

“I don’t know how to help you, but I will do this. I will talk to my son-in-law tomorrow before I leave. He knows many people.” She got up from her chair and took a pad and pen from the shelf next to the telephone. “Here is the telephone number of Carlos Santoya, my son-in-law. He is a dentist.”

“I remember your telling me about him.”

“I will ask him to call you.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate this.” I held up the piece of paper she’d torn from the pad.

“I hope it will help,” she said, taking my plate and cup to the sink. “Good night, Señora Fletcher.”

I spent the rest of the evening reading through the pile of phone records and police reports Evelyn had copied for me. Jane’s cell phone was included in the phone records now, but apart from a call to her mother’s house the night before the murder, there was nothing of interest there. I looked through Victor’s phone records again. Could he have made that final call to Cindy? And if so, why?