“A ballroom dancing group, for younger couples. You know, George and Sam were pretty close, too. We two couples went on a vacation once where, to save a little money, we all four slept in the same room.”
Flo gave me a glance but I ignored it. But not the implication of what Betty Lord had said.
She was saying, “When we were having drinks that night, Sam unloaded on George, right where you’re sitting. Marilyn and I were over by ourselves, by the window, looking out at the sunset. But George told me later that Sam’d had a particularly rough day. Emergency room duty. Little boy, about Chip’s age, hit by a truck. Sam massaged the child’s heart, got it going again, but then it failed. He was blue, really blue.”
For a moment I thought she meant the boy.
“Sam said he tried his best. Felt awful about it. Anyway, about eight twenty Marilyn left to go start dinner. We started over, fifteen or twenty minutes later. Sam had some other work at the hospital, setting a fractured leg I believe. But he got back in time for dinner, around nine or nine thirty. All the kids, except the teenage boys who were out with friends, ate in the kitchen. We let them stay up late sometimes, on holidays. The grown-ups were out on the porch. It was sort of … idyllic. Hard to think that…”
She paused again. No tears, but her eyes bore a haunted look.
“You know the funny thing?” she asked.
“No,” we said.
“With Sam being accused of murdering Marilyn? Just a few hours later? They were almost … lovey-dovey that night. We were all watching a movie on TV, Strange Holiday, Claude Rains, he’s always good. Anyway, George had the radio on, turned low but where he could hear—there was an Indians game, they were chasing the pennant that summer. And Marilyn crawled up in Sam’s lap! Sitting kind of sideways? He put his arm around her and they watched like that. I was almost … jealous. I said to George, ‘I need a little attention, too!’ But he was lost in the game. You know men!”
“Sam was asleep when you left,” I said.
She nodded, frowned a little. “Actually, so was Marilyn. Sam must have had a really hard day—he didn’t seem to be able to keep his eyes open, and he stumbled over to that daybed and flopped down. Marilyn dozed off, too, in her chair. Around midnight, we tried to sort of sneak out, George and I, without waking them? But that roused her and she walked us to the door.”
“Did she lock it behind you?”
Frowning deeper, she shook her head. “I don’t think so. This is Bay Village. People don’t lock their doors. Or anyway … they didn’t used to.”
“But on July third, three years ago, they didn’t.”
“No. And we’re still very social here, along Lake Road.”
That gave me my opening. “Is that why there was so much talk, d’you think, in the papers at the time? About wife swapping and key clubs and so on?”
If I’d expected a reaction from her, defensive, or indignant maybe, I was wrong.
With a flip of the hand and a little half smirk she said, “Oh, that was probably some prudes down the beach. Old folks, you know? They’d roll their eyes and complain about orgies on the sand! We went swimming—in our bathing suits! Big deal.”
“One rumor,” I said carefully, “was that someone at one of these wild parties got Marilyn Sheppard pregnant. Someone who was not Sam.”
She huffed a laugh. “Ridiculous. It’s always the ones with dirty minds who call you dirty, right? Of course … there’s some truth to Sam not being, uh … delighted, shall we say, about Marilyn getting pregnant again.”
Sitting forward, her white-gloved hands in her lap, Flo said, “Oh?”
“George told me … you know how husbands and wives talk, kind of confide in each other? He told me he congratulated Sam about the blessed event and Sam just kind of … grunted, and said, ‘That’s what happens when you don’t use a rubber.’ Sorry, Miss Kilgore.”
That remark couldn’t be followed by “Flo,” apparently.
“Joking maybe,” I said.
“Maybe.”
I sipped lemonade. “You said they were ‘lovey-dovey’ that night. What about the rest of the time?”
That made her frown; she was still pretty. “The Press somehow got hold of letters where Steve Sheppard and Dorothy, his wife? Wrote Marilyn asking her not to divorce Sam. Telling her about all his good qualities and how smart and talented he was, encouraging her to stay with him. You know, that family hated the idea of having a divorce in it. Their hospital had enough trouble with all the abortion talk.”
Flo sat forward and said, with the same smile as when she guessed the occupation of a contestant on her show, “Well, dear—you and Marilyn were obviously quite close. Did she ever confide in you on that topic?”
“Divorce, you mean?”
“Divorce, yes.”
She sighed. “You’re right that we were close. I was probably her closest confidante. She told me that Sam had a girl in California that he was … how did she put it, not in love, but … ‘enamored with.’ I said, ‘You have got to be kidding,’ and she said, ‘No, it’s true, and there was another one before that.’”
“The girl in California would be Sharon Kern,” I said. “Who moved away from here to try to break it off.”
The big blue eyes got very wide. “But then Sam shacked up with that woman in California—right in front of some friends he was staying with! And this was in the middle of a vacation with Marilyn!”
“Oh dear,” Flo said, as if she’d never heard anything shocking before in her whole life.
Betty nodded. “It was some kind of wedding trip having to do with relatives of hers. Marilyn stayed with family while Sam took a side trip to see a doctor friend … although I guess we know what ‘friend’ he was really off to see. I asked her how the rest of the trip went, after Sam joined back up with her, and guess what she said? ‘Oh, it was wonderful. I think Sam fell in love with me all over again, and we had the best time.’”
Flo said, “Did she ever talk of leaving him?”
Her single shake of the head spelled certainty. “No. He was her first love, going back to high school. Maybe he was still just … growing up, she said. She would sigh and say, ‘I guess I just love the guy. I would never leave him.’”
No wonder the prosecution had seized on the “Other Woman” murder motive.
“Sam told George, once,” she said, “that he and Marilyn had an agreement, because she didn’t really like sex. That it kind of … hurt her having it. That they had … have you heard of this? An ‘open’ marriage. But it seemed to me it was only open on one side.”
“And yet she put up with it,” I said.
“Well, they did argue. But nothing violent. She was particularly unhappy when she found a receipt for a watch he’d bought the Kern woman. He had some stupid excuse, and it kind of blew over.” Betty shrugged. “Marilyn just … loved him.”
Flo said, “Sounds like she really did.”
“Oh, yes, very much,” Betty said. “But you know what?”
She turned toward the screened window, the lake still calm but burning orange, the horizon edged with purple.
“I was never quite sure,” she said, “about Dr. Sam.”
* * *
The Rib Room at the Hotel Cleveland was less than hopping on a weekday evening. The place was so dominated by a near-scarlet red—red tablecloths, red-black plaid carpeting, even red wallpaper—that right away you got the point: the prime rib would be served and eaten rare.
The menu itself was insistent about the specialty of the house, with only two entrées (variant sizes of, you guessed it, prime rib) offered on the menu, and a footnote (“Available on request”) for sirloin steak, whitefish or lobster.
The dining room was divided by a see-through wall of colonial spindles, along which Flo and I sat at a table for two, both looking rather jaundiced thanks to the yellow glow of lantern chandeliers. A few heads had turned at the sight of a celebrity from television, and I gave the maitre ‘d a couple of bucks to seat us off by ou
rselves, which he did.
Flo was clearly amused by the Midwest’s idea of fine dining, but she communicated this only with little smiles and subtle eye rolls. When I ordered the Adam’s Rib, served on the rib, she commented that it sounded “a little cannibalistic to a female.” The waiter didn’t get the joke, but I smiled. She ordered the whitefish only to be told tonight it was salmon. Pinkfish, then.
Flo looked lovely, despite the yellow cast, her dress a light pink with an almost daring neckline and bare arms, a gold necklace hugging her throat, a pink cloth flower in her brunette hair. We chatted about her kids and my son, and she mentioned in passing that she was back with her husband, Broadway producer Frank Fenton. They had started up their morning radio show again. Breakfast with Flo and Frank on WOR, always very popular.
By the time we were using two spoons on one order of cherries jubilee, I was thoroughly confused. What signal was she sending me? That hanky-panky was off the table? She and her husband had always had an understanding—she could be with any other man she chose, as long as she was discreet. And he could be with any other woman, or man, he pleased, employing similar discretion.
The dessert dish was cleared and we sat with coffee and, in her case, a cigarette. I didn’t smoke, or anyway hadn’t since the war, except in certain tight situations that recalled combat. I was fairly stuffed—the original Adam lost weight, giving up his rib, but I’d taken some on.
“So do we like the Dodges?” she asked.
“As people or suspects?”
“I don’t particularly like either of them as people,” she said, with a shrug, cigarette smoke trailing out her nostrils. “But as suspects? I certainly don’t rule them out.”
“Both of them?”
“Why not? If your friendly neighborhood butcher was having an affair with his little surrogate daughter, who looked like a teenage girl in her tight white shorts, then Mildred might well like to see Marilyn Sheppard out of the picture.”
I made a face. “Can you really see Mildred bashing Marilyn thirty-five times?”
She nodded, letting the smoke out of her mouth this time. “Considering all those blows, and all that savagery, there wasn’t much force displayed. The skull wasn’t crushed. Could easily have been a woman who did the deed.”
Probably a good thing nobody was seated near us.
“So,” I said, “Mildred is your suspect.”
“No. A suspect. I said before I liked both of them for it. Marsh might have done it, too.”
“Why?”
She shrugged. “Perhaps Marilyn threatened to tell her husband about the affair. Or worse, his wife.”
“Why not both?” I said with a nod. I sipped the coffee. “Maybe Marsh didn’t know Sam was home—if he came in through the kitchen, he wouldn’t have seen Sam on that daybed along the staircase. That light left on upstairs was a sort of signal that Sam was away, and Marilyn home.”
“It’s the night before a holiday,” she said, cocking her head, “a lot of parties, a lot of drinking. Marsh might have gone upstairs and thought he’d surprise Marilyn with a little impromptu roll in the hay.…”
“And, woken from a deep sleep, finding a fat old drunk climbing on her—even if it was her lover—she said no. Resisted. Things got rough and rougher and she cried out.”
“Very possible.”
“Sir,” someone said.
A stunned-looking waiter was there with the check. I took it and nodded to him, and he went off in a daze. You heard people talking about the damnedest things at these tables.
Flo was lighting up another cigarette. “How do you like our dedicated little coroner setting up his command post in the Dodge living room?”
That rated a laugh. “Most likely invited by the Dodges for that privilege. Where they could keep an eye on Gerber, and tabs on the investigation.”
“Of course,” Flo said, “there’s always pretty Betty and her husband George. Who slept in the same room with Sam and Marilyn on vacation. What kind of fun was really going on in the homey homes along Lake Road? And on the beach they all shared?”
I shrugged. “Wife swapping, key parties, maybe—rumors are smoke that sometimes lead to fire. But that’s consenting stuff. Husband and wives who like to fool around. The swinging set.”
She raised a slender finger; her nail polish was pink. “But sometimes when wives and keys get passed around, it turns into something more. Sometimes a wife and a husband—who are not married to each other—do more than just have a sanctioned little romp. Sometimes they find they like what the other guy or gal has to offer. Like it better than what they have at home. Sometimes they fall for each other.”
“Which makes a suspect out of both of them.”
She nodded once. “Right. Betty may have fallen for Sam, George for Marilyn. That makes any number of scenarios possible, including George misreading the situation and assuming Marilyn would welcome a post-midnight surprise visit.”
“What about the bludgeoning being more likely a woman’s handiwork?”
She shrugged. “Could be a man who’s three sheets to the wind. Could be he held her down with his right hand, assuming he’s right-handed, and wielded his weapon—a flashlight maybe? With his left.”
“Less power,” I said, nodding. “But both the Lords knew that Sam was in the house.”
“Knowing also that he was a heavy sleeper, dead to the world after a long hard day. If we’re talking about an inebriated assailant, his judgment would likely be impaired.”
I grunted a laugh. “And we’re just getting started. There are a number of other good suspects.”
“All well and good. But unless you can prove one of these suspects did it, Sherlock … excuse me—Mr. Spade … how does that get Dr. Sheppard out from behind bars?”
“A good lawyer,” I said, “can convince a jury of reasonable doubt, if another solution can be shown to fit the facts. You don’t need evidence.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Maybe, but it helps. And you don’t have a new trial yet.”
I sighed, weight-of-the-world. “Well, we would if Frank Cullitan would just come forward.”
She ground her cigarette out in a Rib Room ashtray. “Do you think he will?”
“That’s the rub. I don’t think he will unless I can show him new evidence. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.”
The blue eyes narrowed. “Maybe not. Maybe what you said about juries might convince an honest prosecutor, too. That there’s reasonable doubt, here. Too bad that … nothing.”
“What?”
Her eyebrows went up and her eyes went down. “I just wish I … nothing.”
“Stop it. What?”
“Well, it’s just … I know something I can’t talk about.”
“Then by all means talk about it.”
She leaned so close, she almost crawled across the table. “In confidence? You promise, Nate? You have to promise.”
“Hope to die.”
She sighed and then, though no one sat at a table near us, she spoke very softly.
* * *
The jury hadn’t even been impaneled yet when I had a private conversation with Judge Blythin. The day I got there so did a lot of other press, including photographers, and there was a big fuss over my arrival. Lots of pictures. You know how it is.
Anyway, the judge’s secretary approached me and said the judge would like to see me in his chambers. This was before court had been called to order. So of course I said yes. I was shown in.
The judge was very friendly. He shook hands with me and said, ‘I’m very glad to see you, Miss Kilgore. I watch you on television every Sunday night and enjoy the program. What brings you to Cleveland?’
And of course I said, ‘Why, Your Honor—this trial.’
And he asked, ‘You came all the way from New York to Cleveland to cover this trial?’
I said, ‘Well, it has all the ingredients of what we call in the newspaper business a good murder. It has an attractive victim, who was pregnan
t, and the accused is an important member of the community, a respectable, very attractive man. Then, added to all that, you have the fact that it is a mystery as to who did it.’
The judge smiled and said, ‘Mystery? Why, it’s an open-and-shut case!’
I asked him what he meant—I was a little taken aback, because I’ve talked to many judges in their chambers and never before had one given me an opinion on a case. Not till it was over.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘he’s guilty as hell. There’s no question about it.’
* * *
“Flo,” I said, and now I took her hand, “you need to come forward with that. That alone might get Sheppard a new trial.”
She seemed to be frowning at herself. “Do you think I don’t know that? That I haven’t lost sleep over it? But I’m a journalist, Nathan. And I never give up a source.”
“But you’re not using that judge as a source!”
“No, but I consider what he told me to be in confidence. And anyway, if I came forward, it would be he-said-she-said. Since I’m a known critic of the verdict in the Sheppard case, I’d be ignored and held up to ridicule … even if I did feel free to tell.”
I smirked. “Are you sure you’re not just saving it for your book?”
Some women would have slapped me for that.
Flo just said, “Well, as slow as it’s going, the judge might be dead by then. And I’d feel more comfortable sharing.”
I shook my head. “It’s a hell of a thing. Cullitan could come forward and put an end to this, and now I find out you could as well.”
She reached out and clutched my hand. “You promised, Nate. You gave me your word.”
What was my word worth, compared to a man serving a life sentence for a crime he may not have committed? And in a trial that was clearly a travesty?
But she was my friend, my good friend, and a little more.
“It’s your decision,” I said.
“Thank you.… Now. Shall we go upstairs?”
Soon we were getting off the elevator on the seventh floor, where my room was across from hers but two down, which sounded like something host John Charles Daly would have said on her game show. I walked to her door, and there was an awkward moment while we paused and decided whether or not to share a kiss, and if so, what kind. What I gave her was a friendly one, maybe a little more than friendly but not much more. Then she slipped inside.
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