You Bet Your Life (25 page)

“Henderson,” I said. “Do you know any bars over there?”

“Little early to start drinking, isn’t it?” I heard him mutter. “I don’t go to bars in Henderson,” he said, looking at me in the rearview mirror.

“Well, then, we’ll just have to explore the area together.”

Oliver drove to the highway and took it going south, eventually exiting onto Sunset Road. At the first bar in Henderson, I got out, went inside, and looked up Terry Bencher in the telephone book. There was no Bencher listed in Henderson or in Las Vegas. I talked to the barmaid and to a fellow hauling in a barrel of beer from the back room, describing Terry Bencher and leaving my name and Martha’s telephone number. I had Oliver stop at two more places, just in case I got a lucky break, but no one recognized her name. On Monday, I’d ask Vince Nastasi to get Terry’s address from the Clark County Detention Center or perhaps from the courts. As long as I was in Henderson, I decided to pursue a different quarry. “Oliver, I understand that Daria Kildare lives in Henderson. Do you know her address?”

“It’s not exactly Henderson. She lives over in Little LA.”

“Little LA. I haven’t heard of that.”

I saw his smirk in mirror. “It’s a local name because so many people there moved from California.”

“Is it close by?”

“Not too far.”

“Please take me there.”

Daria’s house and the ones on either side of it were expensive variations on adobe homes, large buildings on small lots with thick beams poking out of the tops of stucco walls and cactus-and-pebble gardens to ensure low upkeep. Oliver pulled into her driveway and I got out. “I’ll be about an hour,” I told him. “Why don’t you get yourself something to eat.”

He shrugged and waited until I walked up to the pergola that shaded the front door before he backed down the driveway and drove away.

The front door was a wide expanse of distressed wood with wrought-iron hinges and an elaborately carved iron knocker. I pulled on the knocker, and heard a bell ring inside. I waited, but no one responded. I pulled on the bell again and placed my ear on the door. No footsteps, no sounds of occupancy. I walked back down the path to the driveway and peered around the side of the garage to see if there was access to the backyard.

“She’s not home. Went off this morning.” The speaker was a stout, middle-aged woman in sunglasses and a broad straw hat held on her head with a long scarf tied under her chin. She carried a whisk broom and a wicker basket into which she was depositing dried leaves that had collected among the sand-colored stones in her front garden. The job hadn’t been done in quite some time and she’d managed to clear debris from only a small portion of the arranged rocks.

“You’re sure she’s not out back?” I asked.

“Don’t see her car, do you?”

“No.”

“Well, it’s always there when she’s home.”

“I’m sorry to have missed her,” I said.

“Too bad you came for nothing. When’s your driver coming back?”

“Not for an hour, I’m afraid.”

“Would you like to come in and have a soda or something? I’m tired of doing this. My husband says it’s a waste of time anyway. The wind only blows the leaves back again.”

“That’s very kind of you. Yes, a glass of water would be wonderful.”

“Come along then.”

I followed her inside to an enormous kitchen and family room. A man in a T-shirt and blue jeans was stretched out on a plaid sofa, his stocking feet propped on one arm of the sofa, his head leaning against the other, I recognized the Southern accent of Fred Graham of Court TV coming from the television.

“Harry, turn off the set. We got company.”

“Aw, Lily, how’m I ever gonna catch up with my tapes if you keep interrupting me?” He pushed himself up to a sitting position and looked around.

“Please don’t let me disturb you,” I said. “Your wife kindly offered to get me a cold drink, but I certainly didn’t intend to disrupt your Sunday.”

“That’s Harry. I’m Lily, Lily Prestonfield.”

“How do you do? I’m Jessica, Jessica Fletcher.”

Harry jumped up from the couch. “Lily, do you know who this is?” He lumbered over to me. “How do? How do? What a pleasure. I’ve been watching you on TV just now,” he said, pumping my hand. “Lily, Mrs. Fletcher is the famous mystery writer who’s working on the Martha Kildare murder case.”

“Oh, how exciting! I didn’t know I’d invited in a celebrity. What can we get you? A Coke? A beer? A cocktail? Harry can make you a martini.”

“No. Please,” I said, “a glass of water would be perfect.”

“Harry tapes Court TV all week and then catches up with what he missed on the weekends.”

“Yeah, it’s better than any football game or soap opera. Tell me whatcha think. D’you think Nastasi can get her off? There’s a lot of evidence piling up against her.”

Lily handed me a glass of ice water and led me to a chair of honor. Harry sat on his plaid sofa and used the remote to mute the sound of a panel of experts analyzing the case.

“Almost all of the evidence presented so far is circumstantial,” I said. “I think someone is trying to set Martha up, and I’m hoping to produce some evidence to make that clear.”

“Is Daria involved? Do the police suspect her?-Is that why you’re here? Do you think she’s the killer?” Lily’s questions came faster than I could answer them. “This may sound terrible, but I wouldn’t mind if that snob was taken down a peg.”

“Now, Lily, Daria never did you any wrong.”

“She just thinks she’s better than the rest of us, Harry. She may have lots of her ex-husband’s money, but she has no class.”

“Did the police question either of you after Victor’s murder?” I asked, hoping to stave off any more nasty comments about Daria. I certainly didn’t want to create ill will between her and her neighbors.

“Not me,” Harry said.

“There was a uniformed officer who asked me if Daria had been home the day Victor was murdered.”

“What did you tell him, Lily?” Harry asked.

“It was a she, actually, and I told her I’d seen Daria’s car in the driveway and that was all I knew.”

“Do you remember whether or not the car was there the whole day?” I asked.

“I don’t, but Karen might know. She’s Daria’s neighbor on the other side.” Lily went to the phone and dialed Karen.

“Mrs. Fletcher, do you mind?” Harry held out a black marking pen and his
TV Guide.
“I’d really appreciate it if you’d autograph this.”

I laughed. “I’ve never signed a
TV Guide
before, Mr. Prestonfield,” I said.

“Would you make it ‘To Harry’?”

“I’ll do it on one condition,” I said. “You must call me Jessica.” I found a listing for Court TV in the TV Guide, and wrote,
To Harry and Lily, with Best Wishes, Jessica Fletcher
on the page.

Harry was flushed with pleasure. “I watch you every day.” He launched into an analysis of the Court TV coverage of Martha’s trial, and was surprisingly knowledgeable about legal procedure. “Always wanted to be a lawyer,” he admitted when I complimented his insight. “I think Nastasi’s been doing a lot better since you came on the team. James Curtis and Lisa Bloom said that too, just the other day. Vinnie Politan’s been saying it, too. He’s that good-lookin’ young fella on Court TV.”

“I’m very flattered,” I said, “but Vincent Nastasi is an excellent lawyer. I think he’s doing a terrific job.”

The doorbell rang and Lily ushered Karen and Bill Locke into the room, followed shortly thereafter by Ken and Rachel Marian, who lived across the street. Daria’s other neighbors had also seen her car the day Victor was murdered, but Karen remembered Jane arriving, and Daria and her daughter driving away in Jane’s car. “It was sometime in the afternoon, but I couldn’t say exactly when.”

“Did you tell that to the police?” I asked.

“No, actually. I wasn’t home when they came. Bill talked to them, though.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t know Daria went off with Jane. I thought she was home.”

“She left with Jane? Wow! That means she wasn’t here when Kildare was killed,” Lily said, bringing in a tray with a selection of canned beverages—beer. soda, and tea—plastic cups, and a big bag of pretzels. What had started out as the courtesy of a simple glass of water had turned into an impromptu party, with Daria as the subject under discussion.

“ ’Course, it’s a bit of drive over to Adobe Springs,” Harry added, “but they could’ve made it and back in the time frame of his death.”

Rachel shyly presented me with one of my own books. “I’ve read every one of your mysteries, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m a big fan.”

“Thank you,” I said, signing her book and surreptitiously glancing at my watch to see when Oliver was due back.

“Well, now that you know Daria can’t account for her time, what does that mean for the case?” Bill Locke asked me.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “You’re jumping to conclusions. We don’t know that Daria can’t account for her time. We only know that she wasn’t home during the hours of the murder, and that’s assuming Karen is remembering the correct day. Remember, this occurred many months ago. Memory can play tricks on you as time passes.”

“Oh, no,” Karen said. “I have it written down in my journal, so I’m sure of the day.”

“All right. Let’s say the day is correct and Daria drove off with Jane. She and Jane may have been shopping or visiting friends or running errands. There are a million things they could have been doing.”

“I thought you wanted to find the killer,” Ken said. “Why are you making excuses for them?”

“I do want to find the killer, but I don’t want to make the same mistake the police made, and rush to accuse someone else who may be innocent. We need convincing proof.”

“Well, she wasn’t home. I can testify to that,” Karen said.

“That’s good to know,” I said, smiling at her, “and I’ll tell Mr. Nastasi in case he would like to call on you.”

“Ooh, Karen, we might get to see you on Court TV,” Lily said.

“I’ll tape it for you, if you get on,” Harry said.

“Can I have your autograph now, before you get famous?” Rachel said.

Karen put her arm out in front of her and pretended to fend off a crowd. “You’ll all have to make an appointment with my secretary,” she said, pointing to her husband.

“Oh, no. Not me. Get yourself another secretary,” said Bill, sparking a chorus of laughs.

I inched my way toward the window to see if I could see Oliver and the car. He was driving up as I looked out.

“You’ve been so kind and welcoming,” I told Lily, “but I really must be going.”

“Let me walk you to the door.”

“It was so nice to meet you all,” I called out to the others. “Thank you for your help.” I wasn’t sure they heard me. Karen was still pretending to be a star and Harry had turned up the sound of his Court TV tape. Ken was popping open a beer and the party was under way.

Oliver said nothing on the drive back. I wondered if he would call Daria or Jane and alert them to my visit. I intended to check the police records to see if they’d mentioned their absence from Daria’s home during those crucial hours on the day Victor was killed.

There were two messages awaiting me on the answering machine. The first was from Vincent Nastasi, notifying me of a Monday defense strategy session at his office. The second was from Mort Metzger. At my request, he had checked the passenger manifests on flights from New York City to Las Vegas the day Victor was killed. Victor’s man in New York, Henry Quint, had bought a ticket for an afternoon flight for that day. But had he actually taken that plane?

“Hi, there, Mrs. F.”

“I hope I’m not calling too late, Mort.”

“Not a problem. Maureen has been experimenting with a new recipe all day long and it’s not quite done yet. Some low-cal, low-fat concoction that takes forever to make. I told her a couple of steaks on the grill would be done in no time, but she’s insisting this is going to change our lives. All I can see changin’ is that we’re eatin’ pretty late.”

“I won’t keep you from your supper. I just called to learn what you found out.”

“Your suspicions were right on the money. The airline had a Henry Quint on an early morning plane to Vegas. Got in around ten-thirty, maybe a minute or so more. He used a ticket he’d bought for a later flight.”

“I knew it!” I said. “Mort, I can’t thank you enough for getting me this information.”

“Glad I could help, Mrs. F. Just tell me where to send the confirmation.”

I gave him Vincent Nastasi’s fax number.

“Okay, got it. Uh-oh, Maureen’s calling me to sit down at the table.”

“Enjoy your dinner, Mort.”

“We’ll see.”

My stomach was reminding me that I’d skipped lunch, so I mulled over Mort’s information as I put together my own dinner. There were many pieces of the puzzle, and I needed to sort out what I wanted to bring to the strategy table the next day. Contrary to Henry’s account, he had been in the city the day Victor was killed. Now I wondered if the police had bothered to verify Tony’s alibi. Had he really been in London? Tony owed Victor a lot of money. Henry had forced Tony into making him a partner in their business.

Daria and Jane had lied about their whereabouts. Had Cindy and Oliver done the same thing? If Martha was convicted, Jane stood to inherit a great deal more money than if she had to share it with her stepmother. As beneficiaries in Victor’s will to the tune of a million dollars, each of Victor’s ex-wives-Daria, Bunny, and Cindy—stood to benefit from his death.

Was one of them setting Martha up? I was convinced that she
was
being set up. When I’d explored the pool shed—before my harrowing experience being locked in that oven—I’d noticed a pair of work gloves on the shelf where the toolbox was stored. If Victor’s murder had been an impulsive act, the killer, looking for a weapon, easily could have grabbed the work gloves along with the wrench. The fact that Martha’s slots gloves had been found on the scene suggested premeditation, and the purposeful planting of evidence. And who was pulling the strings on Harriet Elmsley? Could we find Terry Bencher in time to learn anything helpful?