Simpatico's Gift

by Frank Martorana

  The next morning, as they were sitting in a booth at the Village Diner, Kent refueled like a farm hand with bacon, eggs, and home fries while Aubrey took an occasional bite of waffle, but mostly stared into her coffee. She had been so quiet since the night before that Kent was beginning to worry he had done something wrong.

  He was studying her, and deciding whether he should say something, when suddenly she sat up straight, took a deep breath, and stared at him hard. For a moment, she did not move, thinking, her face fixed in internal conflict.

  Finally, she rocked her head out of the booth, looked to see that no one else was within earshot, and then leaned across toward Kent, elbows on the table.

  “I have to tell you something. I should have told you last night. But I couldn’t make myself do it. I feel so guilty.”

  Kent set down his coffee and gave her his full attention. “Okay.”

  “I know it wasn’t an accident, Charles that is. I don’t care what Burton says, I know!”

  “Wait. You know Charles’s death was not an accident.”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “Because Charles and I had a plan. The very fact that he and Burton were there at the Lake House was a setup.”

  Kent shifted in his seat. “You better tell me the whole story.”

  Aubrey told him about how Osvaldo had come to her with Burton’s admission and her plan to have Charles confront Burton at the Lake House. She admitted she and Charles expected a denial on his part, but not anything like what had happened.

  Kent wasn’t sure if it was anger or frustration that was causing his blood pressure to rise as he listened. Here it was, happening again: The very impulsiveness that he loved about this woman had backed her into a corner.

  “What the hell were you two thinking?”

  “I don’t know! We wanted to force Burton to make a move, I guess. It seemed like a good plan at the time.”

  “Jesus. I wish you had asked me. I would have given you a hundred reasons why it was not a good plan.”

  Aubrey stared down into her coffee, studying her own miserable reflection.

  Kent stained for a non-judgmental tone. “The question is what are we going to do now?” He tapped the morning paper that lay folded on the table. “Officially, the police have ruled Charles’s death an accident, and why not? I believed that myself until this minute. All the evidence would support it, just the way Burton said it happened. The coroner verified that Charles did actually drown. And last night right at the scene, one of the EMT’s said there were cuts on Charlie’s legs and the back of his head that had small fragments of decking embedded in them. That’s consistent with the premise that Charles stepped through the pier, fell and hit his head then rolled into the water. There was the burned-out hedge trimmer and the depositions from the two motorists who saw Burton working in the front yard.”

  “Did you talk to your brother about it?”

  Kent toyed with a salt shaker. “Yeah, I talked to Merrill. He said the State Troopers are handling things. He’s only a village cop, so it’s out of his jurisdiction. He still knows what’s going on, though.”

  “We need an eyewitness,” Aubrey said.

  Kent huffed a short laugh. “Fat chance of that. Merrill told me they will be contacting everybody who owns property or a boat on the lake. We’ll see. According to him, the Staties figure it was an accident and aren’t going to waste much time on it.”

  The waitress refilled their cups and they sipped coffee in silence.

  Finally, Kent said, “Why would Burton kill Simpatico? That’s the question. Let’s think about that, and then work backwards. If he did it for vengeance against the St. Pierres because he hated them and the job and all that, he wouldn’t have stuck around. He’d have left town right after he killed Simpatico. You know what I mean?”

  “Maybe he stayed to avoid suspicion.”

  Kent shrugged. “Okay, maybe. But the most likely possibility in my book would be good ole fashioned money. What if someone else wanted Simpatico dead, but didn’t want to risk it themselves or didn’t know how, so they hired The Burning Bush.”

  Kent felt that increasingly familiar roll of his stomach. The conspiracy theory again. He could hear Maria and Emily now — Charles and Burton, we told you so. But the longer he thought about it, the more it made sense, until it became the obvious scenario.

  “The girls were right,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Emily and Maria were right.”

  “About what?”

  “Charles is behind it. He killed the horses. Or at least hired Burton to do it for him. Emily and Maria have been suspicious of Charles right along. They’ve argued from the beginning that Charles would be the person to benefit most by the death of Simpatico, Charter Oak being out of commission, and Solar Wind dead.”

  Aubrey gave him an arched look. “Really. How come I never heard any of this?”

  “I don’t know. You work all the time, I guess. But think about it, Aubrey. It’s common knowledge that Charles took a real financial beating last year. He needed money. One of the most common motives for murder, horses or humans, is to recover insurance money. Right? VinChaRo Farm, and therefore Charles, would get the money from Simpatico’s death. And Charles was a major shareholder in the Stanford’s Charter Oak syndicate. Did you know that?”

  Aubrey nodded. “Yes, I guess I heard that one time or another. But, to tell the truth, I’d forgotten.”

  “Maria and Emily were the first to figure it out. They’ve been trying to convince me.”

  “You should have said something to me.”

  “I know, but I didn’t believe it myself until now. What you just told me locks in Emily and Maria’s theory.” Kent leaned toward her. “Charles stood to collect a lot of money since Charter Oak was insured for loss of use. And the kicker is, I heard this directly from him and Walt Stanford, Charles personally convinced the other syndicate members to get the loss of use coverage.” Kent shook his head, angry at his own slowness to accept the obvious. “I’d bet anything that Charles is responsible for Charter Oak getting that weird kind of EVA. I’m not sure just how, but somehow.”

  “Okay. So why would he kill Solar Wind?”

  “That’s where things get hazy. I’m not sure yet, but Emily and Maria believe he did it to eliminate competition from other stallions.”

  “Right after he killed his own best stud?”

  “That’s exactly what I said to them. Maybe he wanted to have his cake and eat it too. He could have killed Simpatico for the insurance, and then wipe out the competition, banking that Hubris would fill the void. Charles is — was — smart enough to figure that out, and you and I both know Hubris is the best stallion standing on New York soil.”

  Kent set his crumpled napkin on the table and signaled for the check.

  “We know for sure that Solar Wind was killed by someone,” he said. “And, if we believe Osvaldo’s story, we know that Simpatico was killed by Burton. That just doesn’t happen very often in the horse world — the malicious killing of two horses. The fact that they both occurred in the same basic time period and geographic area is way too much of a coincidence. They’ve got to be connected.”

  They held that thought while the waitress handed Kent the check, gathered a handful of dishes, and left.

  Then Aubrey said, “We all know Burton is — was — Charles’s boy. Jesus, it’s going to take me a while to get used to the idea of Charles being dead. But I mean, it would make sense that Charles would have Burton do his dirty work.”

  “True. And think about it. Charles agreed to meet with Burton alone as part of your scheme to trap Burton, the whole time knowing full well how and why Simpatico died. Really he’s planning to say nothing at all, or maybe warn Burton to keep his mouth shut when he gets drunk. Then something goes wrong — maybe Burton thi
nks that Charles is going to turn on him, or maybe Burton tries to blackmail Charles. Who knows? Anyway, they fight, out on the pier. Burton kills Charles, maybe on purpose, maybe not, then stages the accident.”

  Aubrey let her eyes drift around the diner. “It fits. How can we prove it?”

  Kent was quiet long enough that Aubrey knew something was going through his mind. She was just about to prod him when he said, “Maybe we don’t want to prove it.”

  “What?” Aubrey said, loudly enough that other customers looked her way.

  “Take it easy. I think we owe it to Elizabeth to talk to her first, tell her what we suspect, and let her decide if she wants us to pursue it. After all, it wouldn’t surprise me if she is more interested in preserving Charles’s reputation than solving the mystery. From the money standpoint, she’s already received the insurance money, so the financial loss is minimal. Figuring this thing out only stands to blacken Charles’s reputation, and it definitely isn’t going to bring Charles or Simpatico back.”

  “God. When you think about it, that’s probably what I’d do. But the thought of that weasel Burton getting away with it makes me sick.”

  Kent placed the saltshaker on the check with some cash, and then stood to leave. “Me, too.”

  CHAPTER 23

  The first thing Kent noticed when Elizabeth greeted them at the VinChaRo mansion house was the steamy redness around her eyes. Her usual energy had vanished, replaced by a spiritless slouch.

  Aubrey ran her finger along the scrolled arm of a French Provincial chair in Elizabeth’s sitting room, searching for topics to fuel the stalled conversation. Kent sat in a rocker that was so delicate he didn’t dare rock, and did the same. Elizabeth phased in and out, and seemed to be only half-listening. She contributed nothing.

  During one of the long intervals of silence, Aubrey caught Kent’s eye. Her expression asked: Should we tell her now? Do you think she can handle it?

  He shrugged.

  They made small talk for a while longer, drained the last of their tea from tiny cups, and were about to give up when a wave of conviction swept over Kent.

  “Elizabeth,” he said in a soft but direct tone, “ the main reason Aubrey and I came over this evening was to talk to you about some new information concerning Charles’s death. Do you feel up to talking about that now?”

  It actually surprised Kent when she said, “I think so. Go ahead.”

  He started with Osvaldo’s revelation, about how Burton drunkenly admitted to killing Simpatico. Then Kent told her of the plot to trap Burton at the Lake House. He went into the possible tie-in of Charter Oak and Solar Wind, and concluded with a carefully worded version of their hypothesis that Charles and Burton may have conspired to commit the crimes.

  “We think that there’s a possibility that Charles wanted the insurance money from the horses and he recruited Burton to help him. Then something between them soured, so Burton killed Charles and staged the accident. If this is true, we can’t let Burton get away with it.”

  As they sat in uneasy silence, Kent studied Elizabeth’s face. She showed no indication of even having heard his words. Her eyes remained fixed on the fireplace’s empty blackness and brass. Uncomfortable silence dragged on into minutes. Just as Kent was concluding that Elizabeth wanted them to leave, she looked up at him, her expression had turned from blank to laser focused. “Would the two of you accompany me to my study? I would like to show you something.”

  Her words would have brought them relief, had it not been for the seething tone with which they were delivered.

  She led them into an adjacent study, then closed an enormous pair of cherry sliding doors behind them. Like a scene from an old movie, Elizabeth stepped to a nineteenth century oil painting of a soldier, no doubt an ancestor, reached up, took hold of a lower corner and swung it aside on concealed hinges. It hid a safe the size of an oven. She twisted its combination lock.

  Kent leaned toward Aubrey and whispered, “I didn’t think anybody really had that kind of safe.”

  Aubrey whispered back, “As many times as I’ve been in this study, I never once had any inkling there was a safe behind that picture.”

  Elizabeth pulled out a tattered canvas document pouch, a three inch deep oak tray, and a small metal file box. She turned and placed them on a nearby desk. She made no comment about secrecy or privileged information or the importance of discretion. Instead, she simply loosened the string securing the pouch and spilled its contents on the desk. There were several bundles of official looking documents, many with vignette margins and gilded seals, all on quality paper.

  “Here are some stock certificates for you to look over,” she said. “I’m sorry I don’t have the really good ones here. They are held at several different banks — one of which the St. Pierre family owns, I might add. Did you know we own a bank?” she asked, but did not wait for a reply. “There are some good stocks in here though,” she stirred the pile with her hand. “A few million dollars worth. Pretty good investments to off-set those losses Charles experienced recently that you two are so worried about.”

  She inverted the wooden tray and a stack of legal documents slid into disarray.

  “These are assorted real estate deeds and titles. You are welcome to look through them if you wish. Again, these are not the best we own, just the best in the house. Estimated value? Oh, I don’t even know. The value of real estate in Manhattan changes so fast I can’t keep up.”

  Without waiting for Kent or Aubrey’s reaction, she lifted the file box. “I never really understood why Ward insisted on keeping this much cash around since he rarely used it. It must have been some sort of an ego thing. Anyway, the tradition lived on with Charles. A little risky if you ask me.” She dumped out a mound of bundled one hundred dollar bills, each wrapped in a proper bank band.

  Kent squirmed. There was more cash on that desk than he had ever seen in one place — by far.

  “There’s a lot of money here,” she understated. “I’m showing it to you to make a point.”

  She reached down to a low file drawer in the desk, pulled it open with much effort, and retrieved still more ammunition.

  “Here is our last year’s tax return.” She talked as she read down through the form, searching for figures to support her now obvious position. “You made one correct supposition. We lost a lot of money in a couple of bad deals last year. Yes, here it is.” She folded back several pages to expose Schedule D: Capital Gains and Losses. She held it under the desk light for Kent to see, her finger pointing to line 2c.

  He squinted, reading it aloud, “Stocks, bonds, and other securities — minus $1,991,217.” He swallowed hard. “Wow.”

  Elizabeth shrugged. “Sounds like a lot doesn’t it? Well, everything is relative.” She flipped back to page one and, this time, directed Aubrey’s attention to the bottom line.

  “Holy shit,” Aubrey whispered, as she read Elizabeth’s Adjusted Gross Income.

  A smile crossed Elizabeth’s face. “Not a bad recovery after losing almost two million.” She reached back into the desk and took out what she knew would be the coup de grace. “This is Charles’s most recent financial statement. We can skip past the minutia and look right . . . right here.” She pointed to a figure in the lower right hand column. “Net Worth.” She moved the document near the desk light and gestured for Kent and Aubrey to come closer.

  A cynical gleam flashed in Elizabeth’s eyes as she watched them recoil from the astronomical figure. Then she stood silently, letting the full impact whirl in their heads.

  When she was satisfied that her buffeting had disarmed those who dared defile the St. Pierre family honor, she said, “It causes me great pain to know that you two, of all people, would come here and malign my son with these accusations based on local gossip and an unfounded conspiracy hypothesis. My whole life, and Ward’s also, has been directed toward living a lifest
yle that fostered a strong, loving relationship with the community in which we lived. We have strived, at a high cost I might add, to avoid entering into any dealings that could create local animosity or compromise our reputation. By coming here tonight you have made it clear that all of our efforts were for naught.” Her stare held boundless disappointment.

  “Elizabeth, we would never do that,” Aubrey said.

  “It appears you have.”

  “We just don’t want Burton to get away with murder.”

  Elizabeth held up her hand. “I am too upset to discuss this anymore tonight. I suggest we meet at the farm office tomorrow morning, the three of us. We can continue our discussion then.” She gestured toward the door. “Now, I would appreciate it if you showed yourselves out.”

  “Ten o’clock?” Kent offered.

  “That would be fine.”

  Aubrey and Kent retreated from the mansion, feeling like they had been run over by a bus.

  When they were back in their car, Kent smiled derisively and said, “I guess the St. Pierre’s are worth a lot of money.”

  Aubrey laced her fingers behind her head, arched her neck back, and groaned, “Thank you, Mr. Perceptive.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Kent telephoned the CVC early the next morning. Sally gave him a list of farm calls, and he started out directly from Pine Holt, intentionally avoiding his office with its inevitable delays. He wanted to make sure he would be on time for their meeting with Elizabeth.

  He stepped into the VinChaRo Farm office at exactly 10:00. Aubrey and Elizabeth were sitting at the conference table. One look told him neither of them had slept a wink. That put them all on equal ground.

  He tested the water. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” Elizabeth said, absolutely neutral.

  Aubrey gave him an uncomfortable smile, and said nothing.

  He poured himself a cup of coffee, even though he did not get his usual invite from Elizabeth to do so, and took a chair next to Aubrey.

  When one of the barn workers stuck his head in the door, apologizing profusely for interrupting, and saying that he had a quick question for Elizabeth that could not wait, Kent seized the moment.