“Welcome to the team, Jessica,” Nastasi said. “Glad you’ve joined us.”
“Thanks. I’m grateful Mr. Fordice didn’t object.”
“If he had, I’d threaten to stop letting him win our tennis matches. When we’re not in court, we play three times a week.”
“Quite a little club you gentlemen have.”
“Actually, I knew Fordice wouldn’t object. He wouldn’t want to give us any basis for appeal.”
“You and the judge seem to be friends, too.”
“We’re all friends here in Las Vegas. Tapansky comes from the Red Hook section of Brooklyn; I’m from Bay Ridge. Fordice moved here from Long Island. Three-quarters of the lawyers and judges out here are from New York. We may argue in court, but we’re friends on the outside. Don’t misunderstand, though. When it comes to defending clients, there are no friendly favors done in the courtroom. It’s all business there. You heard Tapansky come down on Fordice just for cracking wise.”
“I was grateful to hear the judge’s response,” I said. “A murder case shouldn’t be a competition between attorneys. Sometimes that’s the way it appears, I’m afraid.”
“You’re right. When a defendant’s life is at stake it’s a heavy responsibility—on both sides.”
We walked a block to the lot where he’d parked his car. “Where’s your car?” he asked.
“I don’t have a car. I don’t drive.”
“Don’t drive? How do you get around?”
“Cabs. My bicycle back home.”
He laughed. “You need a lift to the Bellagio?”
“No. I want to stop by Martha’s house to pick up a new outfit for her.”
“That’s right. I forgot. I’ll have Evelyn call Mrs. Alvarez and tell her you’re coming.”
He pulled his cell phone from his jacket and spoke with his secretary. “All set.” he said, snapping the cover shut on the phone. “I’ll drop you.”
Twenty minutes later we entered Adobe Springs, an area of stylish homes confined behind high gates. It was an elegant neighborhood, but there was something sterile about the place, as if it were a Hollywood set and no one really lived there.
“The people here must certainly be well-to-do,” I said.
“Yeah. Victor Kildare was a pretty successful guy. I’m not sure he made all his money legitimately but...”
“What do you mean?”
“He had a questionable rep, Jessica, ran with some bad people. You know, ‘the guys with funny noses,’ we used to call them in the old neighborhood. Did business with them. That’s who I’m convinced killed him, one of his so-called business associates.”
“The mob?”
“Could be. The mob built Las Vegas. Bugsy Siegel was the main mover and shaker, built the Flamingo, brought in all the top stars, Sinatra, Davis, the Rat Pack. Siegel got whacked; nobody knows who did him in, but it was a mob hit. The Mafia’s biggest days are long gone, but they still have their hooks in. You can’t have so much money floating around one place without the mob wanting its piece.”
“Funny,” I said.
“What’s funny?”
“What Martha said to me on the phone one day a long time before this happened. She said some of her husband’s friends were like ‘gangsters.’ That’s the word she used. She was uncomfortable with them.”
“See if you can get her to talk more about that, Jessica. I’ve questioned her at length about Victor’s business associates, but she didn’t seem to have much to offer—or want to offer.”
“I’ll do that,” I said. “Any restrictions on what Martha can wear in court?”
“No, but keep it simple, conservative. We don’t want to dress her like a murderer.”
“And how does a murderer dress?”
“We just want her to look like what she is, an innocent housewife caught up in the life of a powerful man with enemies.”
Chapter Ten
Martha and Victor’s house in Adobe Springs was much like many of its neighbors, a sprawling stucco ranch painted in earth tones and surrounded by lush tropical plants and trees, which subsisted on imported water and provided relief from the searing Nevada sun. Even though the community itself was cordoned off—Nastasi had been stopped at a guard-house to confirm that our names were on the guest list—the Kildare property itself was bordered by a tall iron fence that made it clearly separate from its neighbors. The filigreed gates, designed by a modern artist, were open, and as we drove up the winding drive, I tried to imagine Martha’s life in this sumptuous setting, so different from her modest Victorian home in Cabot Cove.
“Do you want me to wait for you?” Nastasi said, pulling under the porte cochere, constructed to protect arriving guests from the blinding sun and occasional rain.
“No, thanks,” I said. “I’ll call a cab.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow then.”
Isobel Alvarez met me at the front door.
“Buenos días, Señora Fletcher.”
“Buenos días, Señora Alvarez.”
“Please, I am Isobel.”
“And I’m Jessica,” I said. “I’m here to pick up a change of clothes for—”
“Sí. sí. I know. Follow me, please.”
The housekeeper had changed from her court clothes into a yellow-flowered housedress covered by a clean white apron. On her feet were backless bedroom slippers, and her heels clapped against the soles as she walked down the cool Mexican-tiled hall.
I followed her into the living room, which was furnished with an overstuffed white sectional sofa and matching armchairs, trimmed in green piping. One side of the room was dominated by a large, colorful canvas, the hues in the painting picked up in accent pieces in the room, in pillows on the sofa, and in a collection of colored-glass pieces displayed on the glass-top cocktail table. The opposite wall was all glass, overlooking the garden and the pool. Giant terra-cotta pots holding palms echoed the plantings on the patio outside and brought the landscaping into the room, making it seem even larger than it was. The combination of greenery, glass, and white fabric was refreshing to the eye. It was a room designed for entertaining, but was surprisingly cozy despite its size. And it was spotless. Obviously the housekeeper was doing her job every day, even though one of her employers was dead and the other in jail.
A navy suit bag with two front pockets was draped over one arm of the sofa. Mrs. Alvarez picked it up and hugged it to her chest. “When you bring these clothes to ... to ...”
“The jail?”
She shuddered and waved one hand in front of her face. “I don’t like to think of this. To Señora Kildare. When you bring to her the clothes ...”
“Yes?”
“Please make sure they put the other ones in this bag. And then you bring those back to me in the bag. Did Evelyn tell you?”
“Yes. I’ll bring you the bag and her other court clothes.”
She looked down and picked an imaginary piece of lint off the blue bag. “Have you seen her there?” she asked.
“Yes. I was in the court today.”
“No, not there. The other place.”
“In jail? Have I visited her in jail?”
She nodded, her brown eyes sad.
“Yes. I went there yesterday to see her, and I plan to visit her again.”
“She is all right there? They don’t ... they don’t...” She trailed off.
“I don’t think they mistreat her, but it certainly isn’t a pleasant place to be. She’s very unhappy.”
“I could see that. She is so thin now. Her face, so thin.”
“She’s under a lot of stress. Stress can do that to you, make you lose weight.”
“I hope I don’t say anything today to make it worse for her. She’s a very nice lady, always treats me very nice. You can tell a lot about a person in how they treat the staff, you know. She ... she was a good one, not like ... well, not like some others.”
“Yes. She’s a nice person.”
“I don’t think she does
this terrible thing, but I don’t know for sure.”
“I don’t think she did it either.”
“Who would do such a thing? I cannot imagine it.” She shuddered again.
I walked to the glass wall, looked out, and remembered the chart that had been an exhibit in the courtroom. “Is that where you found him?” I asked, pointing to the side of the pool visible through the branches of a tree.
“Yes,” she said, coming up to where I stood. “Do you want to see?”
“I would,” I said, “but I don’t want to distress you again. You had a rough day in court yourself.”
“It’s all right. I look at it all the time.” She carefully smoothed the suit bag over the arm of the sofa, and opened the sliding glass doors. We stepped through to the patio and she pulled the doors closed behind us
The same terra-cotta Mexican tile that had been in the hallway and continued into the living room had been used to pave the patio. Shaded by arching palm trees and decorated with pots of varying sizes, some filled with red and pink flowers, other with spiky grasses or cascading vines, the outdoor room also held a round glass-and-wrought-iron table, four matching chairs, and two chaises with wooden frames and green patterned cushions. Beyond the patio, the sun lit up a broad strip of grass dividing it from the concrete perimeter of the rectangular pool. On the far side of the turquoise water, a series of small buildings was almost concealed by tall bushes and flourishing vines. We walked to the edge of the pool.
“Which building is the garage?” I asked. I’d read in the papers that Martha had said she left her car in front of the house when she returned from the restaurant instead of driving around to the back and putting it in the garage. By that time, the police had arrived, and Martha had learned from the investigating officer that she was a widow again.
Isobel pointed to a red roof on the far right where only a tiny portion of white stucco wall could be seen. “That one is the garage, and next to it is the maintenance shed and pump house for the pool,” she said.
“That’s where the murder weapon was found?”
“Yes. And on this side of the shed is the guest cottage where Oliver lives. And over here is the cabana. Señor Kildare, he likes to keep his bathing suits, towels, and sunscreen all in one place.”
“And when you found the body, which way was it facing?”
“All I see at first is a cloud of color—I didn’t realize it was his blood—and his bathing suit and his legs after that.”
“Then whoever hit him,” I said, “was standing on the other side of the pool from where we are now, and when he fell forward into the pool, his body drifted forward, his head toward you.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Martha said she expected to arrive home before you did. She was coming from a restaurant on the other side of town, and you had a dentist appointment. Why would she think your appointment would take so long?”
“I go to the clinic where my son-in-law works. It is often many hours till I am taken. Mrs. Kildare, she wants me to go to a different dentist. She says they will pay so I don’t have to wait. But I tell her, this is my family. I have to show my son-in-law that I trust him. So I go to the clinic instead, and I wait.”
“Then how did you happen to come home before she did?”
“A child came into the clinic. He had been hit by the swings in the playground. My son-in-law says he must take the child to the hospital first for some tests. All the appointments were canceled, and I came home.”
“When you left the house in the morning, was anyone here aside from Martha and Victor?”
“No. Oliver had gone to Mrs. Kildare’s house, the former Mrs. Kildare.”
“Cindy?”
“Si. ”
“What time did he leave?”
“It was quarter past eleven.”
“How can you be so sure of the time?”
“I was getting ready to leave myself, and he comes into the kitchen to tell me he is going to Cindy’s and do I need him to buy anything while he’s out.”
“Was he in the habit of offering to shop for you?”
“He picks something up for me from time to time, but always I have to ask. He thinks he’s too important to help me.”
“So when you left, Martha and Victor were home alone? No one was expected?”
“I thought perhaps Señor Quint was coming, but I was wrong. ”
“Would that be Henry Quint from Victor’s New York office?”
She nodded.
“Why did you think he might be expected?”
“Outside, when I leave, I see a car that looks like his.”
“He keeps a car in Las Vegas?”
“Sí. It’s an old car, a blue-and-white convertible.”
“Where did you see the car?”
“On the comer, around the side of the house.”
“Did you tell the police you saw his car?”
“No, no. Someone else must be driving this car. Señor Quint, he called to speak with Señor Kildare that afternoon. He didn’t know Señor Kildare was dead. The police were still here and they talked to him on the telephone.”
Oui conversation was interrupted by an impatient woman’s voice. “Isobel, where the hell are you? There’s no iced tea in the fridge.”
We turned to see a statuesque blonde stride across the patio, leaving the sliding doors to the living room open wide. She was dressed in a lavender bikini with a diaphanous patterned skirt tied over it at one hip, high-heeled sandals, and a broad straw hat. A dozen thin gold bangles jangled on one wrist, and around her neck she wore a long gold chain with a heavy man’s ring hanging from it.
“I’ll go make some tea,” Isobel said nervously. She hurried across the patio and closed the doors behind her.
“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” I said. “I’m Jessica Fletcher, a friend of Mrs. Kildare’s.”
The new arrival rested a fist on one hip, looked me up and down, and said, “I’m Mrs. Kildare.”
“Not the current incumbent, however,” I said, intrigued that this woman would present herself as the mistress of the house that, until the jury decided otherwise, was Martha’s. “I’m also a member of Martha Kildare’s defense team. May I ask what you are doing here?”
“I thought I knew all Martha’s lawyers. You must be new on the case.”
I said nothing, letting her think what she would.
“Well, I came over to see Oliver,” she said when I didn’t answer. “He’s helping me move some boxes I left in storage here to my new place. Where is he?”
“You came to move boxes dressed in a bathing suit?”
I saw two spots of red bloom on her cheeks but wasn’t sure if the color was from embarrassment or anger.
“Look,” she said with a big smile, evidently deciding charm would be more effective with me than arrogance, “it’s hot, and there’s a pool here and no one is using it. Victor always let his wives swim here after the divorce. After all, it was my house once.” She looked around, satisfied. “I may just buy it back for myself when Martha goes to jail.”
“I’m not sure Martha will want to sell when she’s acquitted.”
“I really came to see Oliver. He said I’m welcome anytime. Where is he, anyway?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t seen him,” I said.
“Well, I’ll just go knock on his door.” She sauntered across the grass, around the pool, and past the cabana to the guest house where Oliver Smith lived. I watched her open the door without knocking and disappear inside.
Isobel brought out a tray with a pitcher of iced tea and several glasses and set them on the wrought-iron table on the patio. I walked back to talk with her.
“Please sit down,” she said, pouring a glass and handing it to me. “I make very good tea.”
“It’s one of my specialties as well,” I said. “I’ll give you my recipe for sun tea if you’ll give me yours.”
“Oh, yes? I will be happy to share it.”
> “Won’t you join me?” I asked, sipping the cool drink.
“Oh, no,” she said. “It wouldn’t be right.” She cast a worried glance at the guest house.
“This is delicious,” I said, putting down the glass. “Do I detect a taste of honey?”
Isobel only smiled at me. “I will write down the recipe for you.”
“That’s Cindy, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Sí,” she said with a sigh.
“Did Mr. Kildare really allow his former wives to come here and swim?”
Isobel shook her head. “No. He wouldn’t do that. That one”—she cocked her head toward the guest house—“that one always took advantage of his good nature when they were married. She would put on big parties, catered, when he was traveling. People drunk, sleeping all over the place, getting sick. Madre de Dios! Four, five, six people staying here all the time. They’d take off fast when he got back, though. He caught on to her quick, stopped her credit, and divorced her. Good riddance, I said. But now, she’s back. And no one is here to throw her out.”
“Are you saying bad things about me, Isobel?” Cindy called from across the pool. She walked up to the patio, her hips swaying provocatively even though there was no man nearby to admire her.
“We were talking about our recipes for iced tea,” I said, as Cindy pulled out a chair and sank into it. “Do you have a favorite recipe?”
“Honey, my favorite iced tea—when Isobel isn’t making it—is Lipton’s, straight from the bottle.” She leaned forward and picked up the glass Isobel had filled for her. The housekeeper took her tray and returned to the house.
“So how’s little Martha doing in jail?” Cindy asked, crossing her legs and bouncing her foot up and down. “Bet she never thought she’d end up there when she bashed good old Victor on the head.” She played with her chain, lifting one side and then the other, making the gold-and-diamond ring on it slide back and forth along the links.
“I understand Oliver was helping you move furniture on the day of the murder,” I said, deciding not to rise to her bait.
“That’s right,” she replied. “I called the day before to ask Victor if he’d lend me Oliver, and he said if Martha didn’t need him, it was no problem. You can ask her yourself. She told Victor it was all right. Ollie came over at noon and didn’t return here till after four, when the cops were swarming all over the place.”
You Bet Your Life Page 10