You Bet Your Life (21 page)

The police had done a thorough job as far as it went. They had gone to the Winners’ Circle and spoken to the hostess. They had questioned Martha, Jane, Oliver, Isobel, and all three of Victor’s ex-wives—Cindy, I noticed, had neglected to inform the investigators of her alleged affair with Victor. Officers had interviewed neighbors of the Kildare estate, and the guard who manned the community gate. The latter had given them a list of the guests who had been expected that day. There were write-ups of conversations with people who collected the trash and delivered the mail, the groceries, the dry cleaning, and other services, as well as with Victor’s business partners. They’d even written down Henry’s flight number, although I doubted they’d checked with the airline to confirm he was on board.

Then the tenor of the interviews changed as the police zeroed in on Martha, asking about the details of her daily life, visiting her beauty parlor, her bank, the shops where she bought her clothes, and tracking down Matt Jenkins’s Gamblers’ Heaven. They pored over the bills Martha received and her phone records, and sent investigators to Cabot Cove to look into the state of her marriage to Walter Reemes and, in particular, how he had died. There wasn’t much to point to her beyond the fact that her alibi wouldn’t hold up, but once it was obvious she was the focus of police attention, the interviewees began to see her as the suspect. Each person who was interviewed thereafter found reasons why Martha would want to kill Victor. It wasn’t until after Martha was accused, however, that Joyce Wenk had come forward with her story about the hostility she said she’d witnessed between Martha and Victor. And now there was Harriet Elmsley, Martha’s onetime cellmate, who was expected to return Martha’s kindess by testifying against her.

Bleary-eyed, I put the papers back in the box and prepared to retire, mentally reviewing all that I’d read in hopes of finding an avenue to pursue in my own investigation. Once I was in bed, however, my mind wouldn’t shut off. I began to doubt myself. Was I being naive? Was it possible this woman I thought I knew so well in Cabot Cove could actually have killed her husband? Had the bride who’d been thrilled by her new husband’s wealth and attentions changed so much a year later? Had disillusionment led to rage and then violence? Martha was an actress, and a good one. Had she deceived all of us for so long? Was her declaration of innocence an act? In a moment of weakness, had she admitted her crime to a sympathetic ear? Distressed by the direction of my own thoughts, I spent a restless night, finally falling deeply asleep just as the sky began to lighten.

It was almost ten before, showered and dressed, I wandered into the empty Kildare kitchen. Isobel had left a carafe of coffee, a bowl of fruit, a plate of corn bread, and several boxes of cereal on the counter. I poured myself a bowl of shredded wheat and sliced half a banana into it. The morning paper was on the table, and I paged through it while I waited for a piece of corn bread to toast. The benefit of several hours of sleep had allowed me to think more clearly about Martha’s case, and I pushed aside my doubts and made plans to follow through on some of the notes I’d taken as I reviewed the police reports.

“Buenos días, señora,”
Isobel said, lugging a suitcase into the kitchen. “I am almost all packed and ready.” She shut the door to her room behind her.

“Good morning to you,” I said, rising. “Do you need any help with that?”

“No, no. Please keep your seat. My son-in-law, he will carry it out for me.”

I sat down again.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked.

“I did,” I said, thinking that it had taken a while, but I was rested now.

“Would you like a tour of the rest of the house when you have finished your breakfast?”

“Will you have time?”

“Sí. Sí.
I do not leave till noon. We have plenty of time.”

“Then I’m happy to take you up on your offer.”

“I have still a few more things to do. Please, don’t hurry. You can knock on my door—it’s right here—when you are ready.”

Fifteen minutes later, Isobel conducted me around Martha’s home, which was larger than I’d realized. Apart from Isobel’s private quarters, there were three other bedrooms in addition to the one I was using, each with its own bath. Martha and Victor’s spacious master suite included a dressing room and a well-equipped gym. Jane’s room was starkly elegant, in contrast to another guest room in which I could see Martha’s warm touch in the décor.

Victor’s office was in the library. A bookshelf-lined room, it was furnished with a caramel-colored leather sofa and matching armchairs. Atop the broad wooden desk was a laptop computer. A multiline telephone and two fax machines sat on the credenza behind it. Adjacent to the library was a small room by Kildare standards, which might originally have been intended as a large closet. It held file cabinets, business supplies, a desktop computer, a state-of-the-art copier, and several other technological wonders.

A family room with a stucco fireplace also served as the entertainment center in the house. A collection of electronic equipment filled the shelves of a custom-built unit, and rows of videotapes, compact discs, and DVDs guaranteed hours of appealing distraction, if I could only figure out how to make the machines work.

A laundry, hidden bar, and elaborate guest bathroom completed the rooms on the tour. Isobel had skipped the living room, dining room, and kitchen, with which I was already familiar, as well as her own suite. She gave me a set of keys to the house and grounds, showed me where the security system was installed and how to operate it, including the release for the front gate, and handed me a list of regular services and the days they could be expected, plus the appropriate phone numbers. Managing a property this size was not a job for a timid person. I was beginning to think Tony’s idea of a substitute housekeeper might have some merit.

Isobel’s son-in-law, Carlos, came to pick her up and was all apologies to me. Finding Luz, he said, was an impossible task. Latinos in Nevada made up close to fifteen percent of the population. Searching for one woman, especially one without papers and with so little information, would be an exercise in frustration. He couldn’t in good conscience ask his contacts to waste time on such a futile effort.

While Carlos gave me the bad news, Isobel shook her head sadly. “You will find another way,” she told me before she climbed into the passenger seat and Carlos guided the car down the driveway and through the gate.

For an hour after Isobel left, I wandered the empty rooms of Martha and Victor’s house, learning the layout and acquainting myself with their belongings. Victor’s office held the most appeal, but I resisted going into his files. There was too much to do today and that was better left for the evening.

I walked through the living room, slid open the door to the patio, and closed it carefully behind me. The garden was very still. No breeze rustled the fronds of the palms or the leaves of the lush tropical plants. No birds or small animals contributed a chirp. I stood still and listened. The only sounds I could detect were a gentle hum coming from the direction of the pool shed, and the occasional soft whoosh of tires from cars passing on the main road. I walked to the cabana, my footsteps loud in the silence. The door was open and I entered the cozy interior. The small building was divided into his and hers changing rooms with a lovely common area designed as an escape from the searing sun and beat. A dresser held an assortment of bathing apparel and coverups. Terry-cloth robes and piles of towels filled a closet.

I left the cabana and passed Oliver’s cottage, intent on exploring the pool shed. The door was locked, but I used the ring of keys Isobel had given me to find the one that opened the shed door, leaving it ajar so daylight would illuminate the inside. The small space was almost completely occupied by the pump that filtered the water in the pool. In the center of the ceiling was a fixture with a lightbulb. Shelves on one side held plastic buckets and bottles of preparations to maintain the various chemical levels to control the cleanliness of the water. On the opposite wall were a host of garden sprays, hose connections, gardening tools, work gloves, and the notorious toolbox, which the police had returned. I pulled the top open. A few of the tools inside still bore the police department tags attesting to the fact that they’d been examined and cleared as potential murder weapons. I closed the box and looked around. The silver lamé gloves had been found crumpled behind the pump. I peered around the metal housing that concealed the pump itself. The space behind it was small, but anyone searching for evidence in the shed would be certain to look there.

A sudden breeze outside caused the shed door to slam shut. I jumped at the sound, my heart beating so hard I could feel it with my hand. The shed had no windows and the blackness engulfed me. I felt my way to where I believed the door to be, patting the wooden wall in front of me, looking for a switch that would turn on the light. The rough surface guaranteed splinters if I moved too quickly, and I gently pressed my palms on and off the wall in a pattern straight across and then down and back, until I found a metal plate with a switch. I flipped it up, but nothing happened.

I became aware of the hot air and dank smells inside the shed and fought against a wave of dizziness. I tried to remember if I’d seen a doorknob on the inside when I unlocked the door. Another few minutes of frantic patting found the metal hinges but no inside knob. From the hinges, I traced the groove that outlined the shape of where the door fit into the shed, using my fingers to feel for an inside latch or knob, and pressing my hip into the door. When I reached the hole where a knob should have been, a frisson of nerves raised goose bumps on my arms. Was I permanently locked in? Why hadn’t I taken my handbag when I went exploring? I always carried a small flashlight, matches, and a Swiss army knife for emergencies. Now I had a genuine emergency and no tools.
Tools!
I had the toolbox.

I turned to my right, hoping I was close to my goal, and slid my shoes along the floor so I wouldn’t trip and compound my predicament with an injury. I moved my hands out slowly, feeling in the air for the shelves I knew were there. Trying to take shallow breaths in the fetid air and inching my way forward, I knocked my hand against a shelf, raising a welt I couldn’t see. But the shelf gave me a starting point. Despite the dark, I closed my eyes, trying to envision the shelves I’d glanced over so quickly earlier. I remembered that I’d been able to look down into the toolbox, so it was below eye level. I lowered my hand to the shelf beneath the one I’d hit and tapped along its edge until I found the metal box. Using one hand to steady it, I lifted the top again and held it open while I groped inside for a crowbar, screwdriver, or hammer I could use on the stuck door.

Screwdriver in hand, I let go of the top and it dropped back in place. The heat inside the shed had become unbearable. My blouse stuck to my body and perspiration flowed down the back of my legs. Damp hair clung to my forehead. I shifted my stance to what I hoped was ninety degrees to the left. Slowly, the heat making my ears ring and my stomach rise, I felt my way again to the outlines of the door, my foot knocking into something and sending it skittering across the concrete floor.
I hope that’s not a doorknob I just kicked across the room,
I thought.

With one finger on the seam where the door met the casing, I wedged the flat end of the screwdriver into the groove, driving it as far as I could with the heel of my palm. I pressed against the screwdriver, but the door wouldn’t budge. I pushed on the handle of the tool while I pressed my hip into the door. Nothing. Frustrated and fearful that I’d lose consciousness in the rising temperature as the midday sun baked the roof of the shed, I rammed my hip against the door again and again, each time banging my hand against the screwdriver, only to hear the sound of tearing wood as the screwdriver splintered the wooden molding around the door.

“Help!” I screamed, pounding the wood with my fists. I took a step back and threw my left shoulder and hip into the door. It banged open and I went tumbling out, landing at the feet of Oliver Smith, whose hand was on the outside doorknob.

“Mrs. Fletcher, are you all right?” he asked as he bent down to help me up.

“Where have you been?” I asked, glaring at him and struggling to regain my equilibrium. I brushed the dust off my clothes and wiped my wet brow with a shaky hand.

“I just got back,” he said, pointing to the garage. “I heard noises inside the shed and came to investigate.”

“Why isn’t the light switch working?” I asked. “And why isn’t there a knob on the inside of the door?”

“The light works, Mrs. Fletcher,” Oliver said, stepping into the shed and pulling the short metal chain that hung next to the naked bulb. He flipped the switch by the door and the bulb lit up. “See?” He pointed to a wooden wedge on the floor, the piece I’d apparently kicked with my foot. “I always use that to prop the door open so it doesn’t slam shut on me. You know, Mrs. Fletcher, if I hadn’t come just now, you could have suffocated in here from the heat.” He walked out of the shed and closed the door. “You should be more careful nosing around when you don’t know the idiosyncrasies of the property. It could be dangerous.”

“Nosing around”? An interesting way to put it, I thought. Are you trying to scare me off, Oliver? Is something hidden here you don’t want me to see?
But I kept my thoughts to myself and said instead, “Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

He swaggered away and I leaned against the small building that might have been my grave, grateful to breathe fresh air.
Yes, Oliver, I’ll certainly keep that in mind.

It was tempting to give in to my shaky knees and spend the afternoon recovering, lolling poolside at the Kildare estate. But I wouldn’t let a little brush with danger force me to ignore my promise to work on Martha’s case. After another shower and change of clothes, I asked Oliver to bring the car around. If he was still disgruntled at being on tap to drive me around Las Vegas, he didn’t show it. Of course, he was by nature a taciturn young man, not given to idle chatter or even pleasant exchanges. At least he wasn’t surly or discourteous. Dressed in dark slacks, a dress shirt, and a tie, he even demonstrated a modicum of politeness toward me.