Bluff

by Jane Stanton Hitchcock

  “Sklar said that if you want to hide something, hide it in plain sight. The plan was for me to walk into The Four Seasons when he and Sunderland were having lunch. I was to shoot Sunderland at point-blank range. I’d be arrested, obviously. Then I’d pretend to be in shock and not utter a single word, no matter what. Sklar said he was sure I could get off using the E.E.D. defense. Sklar swore to me he’d back me up and help me get out of it. He’d tell people I was crazy and I should definitely get off.”

  “And you believed him?”

  I pretend to consider this question. “I didn’t really care what happened to me then, if that makes any sense.”

  “You didn’t care if you killed a man?” Packer says.

  “I wanted to kill that man. And I really thought I could do it for my mother. So I agreed.”

  “Then what?” Packer says.

  “So then Alan and I went up to New York to see Sklar. Alan had no idea about the murder. He just believed I’d gotten Sklar to help him pay off his debt. Sklar gave us fifty thousand dollars that day as a down payment. I told Alan to leave the room while I talked to Sklar in private. We agreed I was going to kill Sunderland. And when I did it, Sklar would give Alan the rest of the money. But I was worried that if something happened to me, Sklar might not keep his word. So we exchanged notes.”

  “Notes?” Packer says.

  “I wrote that I was willing to go away to prison and keep my mouth shut if Burt gave me two hundred thousand dollars in six months. Sklar basically wrote the same thing to me.”

  Packer sniffs. “I see. And where exactly are these notes?”

  “I don’t know where his is. But as a precaution, I mailed mine to myself in D.C. by registered letter the day we signed them. I never opened it. I wedged it into my brother’s favorite book and told Alan that if anything happened to me, it was there. Sklar owed him the money.”

  “What book?” Packer says.

  “The Godfather. It’s still in my apartment if you guys didn’t take all my stuff.”

  Chen makes a note.

  “Then Sklar gave me the gun.”

  Packer, Chen, and Michaels immediately perk up like prairie dogs.

  “Sklar gave you the gun?” Packer says, unable to disguise his amazement.

  “Yeah. He put it in the bag along with the fifty thousand. He said it was untraceable. I was supposed to say I got it in D.C. from one of my poker buddies.”

  “Go on,” Packer urges.

  “So then not long after that, my brother died of an overdose. He didn’t need the money anymore. I suspected he wanted the money for drugs the whole time. I could have dropped the whole idea. But at that point, my hatred for Sunderland was burning brighter than ever. Sklar called me up to say I’d be in an even better position to get off using the E.E.D. Defense because of Alan’s death. And he promised me the two hundred thousand. But I really didn’t care about the money. I wouldn’t have had any use for it in jail anyway. I wanted to do it. As the poet says, ‘You ain’t got nothin’, you got nothin’ to lose.’ But I decided to wait until October 10th, because it was the one-year anniversary of my brother’s death. The real truth is…? I was actually planning to shoot them both that day.”

  Lydia sees that Packer, Chen, and Michaels are now riveted.

  “Walk me though the crime,” Packer says.

  I explain in detail the events leading up to my final confrontation with Sunderland and Sklar at the restaurant.

  “So Sklar and Sunderland are sitting on the banquette. My purse is open. I grab the gun. And it’s right then with the weapon in my hand and those two men in front of me that I realize I can’t go through with this! I’m standing there completely frozen. Sunderland looks at me and blurts out, ‘Lois! No! We killed you!’ And I was so startled and horrified, that the gun just kind of went off! I wasn’t even aiming. There was this deafening thunderclap. And, candidly, honestly, truthfully,” I say, echoing Sklar just for fun, “I don’t remember a damn thing after that.”

  “You don’t remember dropping the gun, walking out of the restaurant, getting on a train to D.C.?” Packer says.

  I shake my head. “Nope. The final irony is I really was in shock at that point.”

  “And you don’t remember what you did or whom you saw when you were down there?” Packer says.

  Lydia interjects. “I don’t think she needs to answer that, Vance. She’s told you what you need to know.”

  “So what’s the next thing you do remember?” Packer asks.

  I look to Lydia for help.

  “Vance, she’s just told you the truth about the shooting. What happened in Washington isn’t important,” Lydia says.

  “It is important. She pretended to be in shock when she was arrested. She lied then. How do I know she’s not lying now?”

  “Because there’s physical proof to back up her story,” Lydia says. “First, there’s the article Sklar sent her on Joyce Kiner Braden. You have that. Along with Sklar’s notation about the E.E.D. defense. You can find her note from Sklar in a registered letter in her apartment. I bet if you search his office, you’ll find her note to him. And you have the gun. Proof enough?”

  Packer clears his throat. “Maybe. If her story checks out.”

  I see that these men are still skeptical. But the thing is, there’s no way I could have known about a lot of this stuff unless it happened the way I said it did. I’ve thought this bluff through. I took all the facts and twisted them around to suit my story. I’ve watched enough crime shows on TV to know that my story—farfetched as it may sound—isn’t a patch on some of the wild schemes people dream up in order to get away with murder. Most important, I don’t look like someone who could have made all this up. I’m a frail old woman. Just like at the poker table, I will be underestimated. My invisibility makes me invincible.

  Chapter Fifty-four

  A week later, Chen reports back to Packer and Michaels. The three men sit in Packer’s office, discussing the evidence. Chen has the floor.

  “We already had the Post article Sklar sent her on Joyce Kiner Braden, plus the notation he made on his personal From the Desk Of Burt Sklar pad which says ‘E.E.D. defense’. I went back down to D.C. The unopened registered letter was in the copy of The Godfather, like Warner said. This is a photocopy of both the envelope and the note Sklar wrote.” Chen hands the documents to Packer and Michaels.

  Michaels reads aloud: “‘I agree to give Maud Warner $200,000 in cash in 6 months. In exchange, she agrees to go away and keep her mouth shut forever.’ Signed ‘Burt Sklar.’ That’s his signature.”

  Chen goes on. “We’re getting a search warrant for Sklar’s office. There’s a chance we’ll find her note to him there. We also know from his travel schedule that he was down in D.C. during the times she says they met.”

  “How do we know that?” Packer says.

  “The travel schedule from his office, plus pictures he posted on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter.”

  “How did you get the travel schedule?” Michaels says.

  “He’s being very cooperative. He maintains he wants to help Ms. Warner in any way he can. He says she’s nuts. Which fits with what she says about him backing her up,” Packer says.

  Michaels crosses his arms. “I still don’t see how we get from there to him hiring her as a hitwoman.”

  “Bear with me,” Chen says. “Warner says Sklar gave her the gun, right? One of the first things we did, of course, was to check out the gun when she dropped it at the scene. It was registered to a deceased person. But when Warner told us Sklar gave it to her, I had a hunch. I followed it up and got lucky.”

  “Do tell,” Packer says.

  “The gun Warner used was a Smith and Wesson .38. Very loud. These guns used to be standard issue for police departments in the seventies and eighties. This gun was issued to a person now deceased: Police Serge
ant James J. McCaffey of the NYPD. McCaffey died in the nineties. His widow’s still around. I went to see her. McCaffey was her second husband. She had a daughter by her first husband, a guy named Gugliantini. McCaffey was fond of his stepdaughter. He was very upset when she got cancer and her husband left her. She now lives in an assisted living facility in Long Island City. I went to see her. She’s in a wheelchair. She suffers a lot. She told me that her husband left her when he discovered she was sick.”

  “Very nice,” Michaels says in disgust.

  “Yeah. She remembered the gun very well. Her stepfather gave it to her for protection when she stayed alone in the country. She and her husband bought a little house in Westhampton when they were first married. The husband got the house in the divorce. But when they were married, she used to stay out there in the summer while her husband commuted back and forth to the city where he worked as an accountant. Three guesses who her husband was?”

  “Sklar?” Packer says wide-eyed.

  “You got it. Sylvia Gugliantini Sklar is the first and only Mrs. Burt Sklar. And, man, does she hate his guts,” Chen says.

  Michaels whistles in appreciation. “Nice work, Detective. Very nice work.”

  Packer leans back in his chair, folds his hands behind his head, and begins an uncharacteristic of stream-of-consciousness patter.

  “The improbability of this case on all fronts is mindboggling, starting, of course, with the crime itself…I always found it hard to believe that a woman of Warner’s age and background could have dreamed up something this crazy all on her own. I mean, if she only wanted to get rid of Sklar like everyone first assumed, there were other ways she could have done it and maybe even gotten away with it. Shoot him in a dark alley, not in a crowded restaurant.”

  Chen and Michaels both give contemplative nods of assent.

  Packer goes on: “So let’s examine the possibility she’s telling us the truth… That Sklar is the mastermind behind this… Given their history, how is it Sklar felt he could even approach her with an idea like this? Gentlemen, any ideas?”

  “I think it’s because of their history, and because he was chomping at the bit to get Sunderland out of the way,” Michaels says. “He knew Warner was vulnerable and he knew she was volatile. I knew her as ‘Mad Maud’ when she came to see me all those years ago accusing Sklar. I thought she was a little nuts then. It’s actually one of the reasons we didn’t pursue the case. She was passionate about saving her mother back then. She loathed Sklar. But I sensed an element of Stockholm Syndrome here when she was talking about him. She was scared enough of him to obey him. Sklar knew she desperately wanted to save her brother. He figured he can control her like he controlled her mother. That was his way in,” Michaels says.

  “So Sklar knows how volatile she is. Knows she’s on meds. Knows she’s a good shot. He senses there’s some of her mother in her. And we all know he was great at manipulating Mom… Like she said, she became her mother…” Packer says.

  Chen shakes his head. “I don’t know… I still can’t get over the fact she plays poker—not to mention that hellhole she used to play in. This isn’t your typical older lady here. She could be trying to frame Sklar.”

  “If that’s the case, how the heck does she know all the things she knows?” Packer says. “How the heck does she know Sklar’s in love with Danya? She didn’t even know Danya existed before this. How does she know Sunderland’s a sadist who killed her mother? How could she possibly know all this shit—pardon my French—if Sklar didn’t tell her? And there’s actual physical proof. The love letters Sklar wrote to Danya, the article he sent Warner, the note, the gun… And if we find her note in his office…? That’s a lot of evidence. Sklar gives Warner money to save her brother and the chance to avenge her mother by killing Sunderland. He knows she’s unstable, so he convinces her she can get away with it… Meanwhile he’s really the one with the powerful motive. With Sunderland gone, he gets the money from the tontine and the girl of his dreams.”

  “Sex and money, the dynamic duo,” Michaels agrees.

  Chen is still skeptical. “I don’t think we’re giving her enough credit. She may be tougher and cleverer than we think.”

  “You saw her when she was here,” Packer says. “Did she look like a tough, clever woman? To me, she looked like a defeated debutante. I think she’s telling the truth.”

  Chapter Fifty-five

  I’m escorted into the courtroom for the opening day of my murder trial. I have to say that I look and feel better than I have in years. I’m wearing a chic little black dress with a fetching bow at the neck that Lydia kindly bought for me. Let’s face it, it gives a girl a lift to wear nice clothes, no matter what the circumstances.

  Before taking my seat, I look around the courtroom, which is jam-packed with reporters, society folk, gawkers, and the like. I’m thinking, this is just like a New York gala, and I’m the entertainment.

  I see Sklar sitting in the front row of the peanut gallery next to his lawyer, Mona Lickel. They are Robespierre and Madame Defarge come to see Marie Antoinette on her way to the guillotine. Lickel is knitting me into oblivion. Sklar has come to see “the spoiled little prep school girl,” as he used to refer to me, get creamed at last.

  However, his triumph over me is dimmed by the sight of Danya, cozied up to a buff African American man who looks like an ad for a fitness gym. I catch Sklar turning his head to sneak a peek at his beloved, then quickly turn back to face front with a facial expression that is a trifecta of jealousy, sorrow, and rage.

  On the other side of the aisle in the middle of the bleachers are Brent Hobbs, Magma Hartz, Greta Lauber, and Jean Sunderland, a tight sheaf of insiders, whispering amongst themselves. Brent, Magma, and Greta are looking at me with sympathetic eyes. But I know Danya and Jean are on tenterhooks wondering how I can possibly avoid going to prison.

  I see Kyle Michaels and a smattering of famous faces, as well as many people I once knew socially. I’m surprised to see the maître d’ of The Four Seasons, who led me to the table on that infamous day. A murder trial makes a nice change from the hurly burly of feeding the overstuffed.

  In the way back of the room, I spot some of my poker buddies: Billy Jakes and his wife, Gloria, home from Spain; Adam Kenmore and his wife, Anita; Lyles and Sarah; Julius and Rachel; Eric, Barry, Dave, Loni, Lara, Marsha, Roxanne, and even The Gypsy himself in his red bandanna. And there’s Night Fox, and the Great North American A.J., and Big Ober and his wife, Veronica, Asian Corey, Tipps, and Cowboy, and, of course, good old Pratt. It’s like a whole contingent has travelled up to see me and root for me, even though they know it’s probably hopeless. I love them because they were my friends when no one else was.

  Vance Packer and his associates are sitting at the table directly across the aisle from me and Lydia. They don’t look at one another.

  The courtroom has the grimly festive air of the ancient Colosseum with spectators anticipating an exciting spectacle leading to blood—mine, to be precise. I sit upright with my hands crossed in my lap and my ankles crossed primly, just like I used to sit in dancing school, waiting for the music to begin. I wear my stoicism with quiet confidence, like I once wore a Chanel suit. Lydia gives me a supportive pat on the hand.

  As we wait for the judge to arrive, I think back to one of the very first poker tournaments I ever played. I was heads up against a very tough and very nasty opponent who had been picking on me the whole time. He announced to the table that he hated playing poker with women in general, but particularly older women.

  We were both “all in” before the flop. We both had fairly equal chip stacks, so whoever won this hand was going to win the tournament. Because we were both all in, we had to turn our cards face up before the dealer dealt the hand out on the board. I remember being dismayed to see that this odious man had Aces, the best starting hand in Hold’em—the ace of spades and the ace of diamonds, to be precise. I
had Queens—the queen of clubs, and the queen of hearts. Being an overwhelming favorite to win the hand, and the trophy, he was practically licking his chops.

  The Flop came: Ace of hearts, Four of clubs, Nine of clubs, giving the man three Aces, and me nothing but a pair of queens for high. My odds of winning got even worse. The Turn card was the Jack of clubs. The man was still way ahead with his trip Aces. I had a long shot flush draw. And, lo and behold, the River card was the five of clubs! He still had three aces. But I had the Queen of clubs, which gave me the club flush and the winning hand.

  The man was furious. He slammed his fist down on the table so hard chips flew up in the air. He stormed away, cursing, “I had that game won!”

  I was thinking of this when the words, “All rise for the Honorable Burkett J. Jamison!” snap me out of my reverie. Along with the rest of the court, I stand up with Lydia by my side. The jury box is still empty. My heart is pounding. I can feel Burt Sklar’s eyes boring into the back of my skull. I know I shouldn’t turn around, but I can’t help myself. I glance backward. My eyes meet Sklar’s. There’s a guttering smile on his face. I know exactly what he’s thinking: I have this game won, Maud Warner!

  I remain expressionless and face front again.

  Judge Jamison settles into his chair, tells the court to be seated, makes some comment I’m too nervous to hear, and gets right down to business. He looks directly at Vance Packer.

  “Mr. Packer, I have before me a plea deal and written allocution from the defendant.”

  “That’s correct, your honor,” Packer says.

  “Ms. Warner, please stand,” the judge says in a stentorian voice.

  I obey like a biddable child. Lydia stands up beside me and grips my hand.

  “Is everything in your written allocution truthful?” the judge asks me.

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Do you agree to testify truthfully in future proceedings?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”