“Four hours of moving furniture,” I said. “You must have a pretty big place.”
“I fed him lunch to keep his strength up. That took some time.”
“How far away do you live?”
“My house is ten minutes from here,” she said, “but you can ask me that on the stand. Shelby Fordice said he may ask me to testify that Oliver was at my house at the time of the murder, and I’m happy to do my civic duty.”
“Who testifies that you were at your house at the time of the murder?” I asked.
“Now don’t be a smart-ass, sweetie,” she said, taking a sip of her tea and thumping her glass back down on the table. “Not when we’re getting along so famously. I had no reason to kill Victor. He was the goose that laid the golden egg.”
“How’s that?” I asked.
“As long as he was alive, I was getting a nice little piece of alimony. Not as much spending money as when we were married, but not bad either. Enough to keep me comfy without having to go to work.”
“And you still had the use of his pool.”
“That’s right.” She smiled at me. “I’m not at all happy that Martha offed him, if you’ll pardon the expression.”
“Because now you have to work to support yourself?”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“So you have enough money to live?”
“A woman never has enough money, Jessica. Don’t you know that? I’ve just had to lower my expectations.”
“Is Oliver home?” I asked.
“What?”
“Just now, when you went to the guest house. Was Oliver there?”
“No. I left him a note.”
“Are you going swimming now?”
She stretched her arms over her head and arched her back. “I don’t think so,” she said. “It’s too hot to lie in the sun, and I don’t like to sit around in a wet bathing suit. I think I’ll go home. Can I drop you anywhere?”
“That’s kind of you to offer,” I said, “but I’m getting picked up soon.” I didn’t mention that it was a taxi that would be picking me up or that I hadn’t called for it yet. But I thought the one place I wouldn’t like to be was at Cindy Kildare’s mercy.
Chapter Eleven
“This is Sheila Stainback in the Court TV studios in New York, sitting in for Fred Graham. We’re about to start another day in the Las Vegas murder trial of Martha Kildare, who is accused of having murdered her wealthy husband, Victor Kildare, by striking him in the head with a wrench by their pool. Let’s go to Las Vegas, where our own Beth Karas is standing by outside the Clark County Courthouse. Good morning, Beth.”
“Good morning, Sheila. I hope it’s cool where you are. They’re forecasting a hundred and ten today.”
“What’s the temperature likely to be in the courtroom?”
“Possibly as heated as the air temperature outside. First up as a witness is Kay Bergl, a forensic scientist who’ll testify about the now infamous silver lamé glove allegedly worn by the defendant when she killed her husband.”
“Who else will be on the witness stand today?”
“Shelby Fordice, the prosecutor, was vague about that when I asked him. But after being admonished yesterday in no uncertain terms by Judge Tapansky, the prosecutor is sure to have his witnesses lined up and waiting. The big news is an addition to the defense team headed by Vince Nastasi.”
“Jessica Fletcher, the famed mystery writer.”
“That’s right. Late yesterday, the judge approved the defense motion to add Mrs. Fletcher to the team. She’s an old friend of the defendant, who used to live in Cabot Cove, Maine, where Mrs. Fletcher has a home.”
“Any comment from Vince Nastasi about what he hopes to accomplish by adding her to his team?”
“No, but I’ll try to get him to talk with us during a break in the trial. I’ll see if Mrs. Fletcher is willing to talk with us, too.”
“Well, get back inside that air-conditioned courtroom, Beth. We’ll check in with you later.”
It hadn’t occurred to me that my joining Martha’s defense team would be newsworthy. But when room service was delivered with my breakfast the next morning, the accompanying copy of the newspaper had a photo of me on the front page, and a story about my joining the team. The room service waiter eyed me suspiciously as he removed items from the rolling cart and placed them on the white tablecloth he’d laid on the round marble table by the window.
“Yes,” I said, pointing to my photo.
“You’re famous,” he said pleasantly.
“It’s fleeting,” I replied. “Fame.”
“May I get your autograph?” he asked, holding out the room service check.
I laughed. “Here it has some value,” I said, signing my name and adding a tip to the bill.
When the taxi dropped me off in front of the courthouse, I was confronted by a dozen members of the press, as well as a producer from Court TV.
“Please,” I said, “I have nothing to say right now. I’m due inside and—”
“What will you be doing for the defense?” a reporter yelled.
“Do you have some crucial information that will spring your friend?” asked another.
I glared at the reporter who asked the second question and started up the steps.
“Mrs. Fletcher,” the producer said as he raced to my side. “Will you come on camera when the court breaks for lunch?”
“No, thank you,” I said, continuing to walk. “I think it would be inappropriate for me to make public statements while the trial is in progress. Excuse me, please.”
Although it was forty-five minutes before court was scheduled to begin, Nastasi was already at the defense table poring over documents and scribbling notes on a lined yellow legal pad. “Good morning,” he said as I sat beside him.
“Good morning. The press is certainly aggressive out there this morning.”
“You’re big news, Jessica.”
“Hardly what I expected. Court TV wants me to give an interview during the lunch recess. I told them no—in no uncertain terms.”
He stopped writing. “Why?” he asked.
“Why? Because it would be inappropriate.”
He said nothing.
“Isn’t it? Inappropriate?”
He looked around to ensure we wouldn’t be overheard, leaned close to my ear, and said sotto voce, “Give ’em all the interviews they want, Jessica. Talk to any reporter who wants you to.”
I sat back and processed what he’d just said. When I couldn’t rationalize it, I whispered to him, “I don’t understand.”
Again, he spoke so no one could overhear. “It’s a PR war out there. Public relations shouldn’t count, but it does. Jurors aren’t supposed to be influenced by the press, Jessica. No TV or radio, or reading the papers during the trial. But the world’s not that perfect. Things get back to them no matter how conscientious they are in following the judge’s rules. Shelby Fordice never saw a microphone he didn’t love. I don’t want his to be the only voice heard. Any chance you have to put a positive spin on Martha and our case out there with the public, grab it. I always do. Do it, if for no other reason than we have to counter the prosecution’s rhetoric.”
“But I thought there were gag orders.”
“Not in this trial. Some judges impose gag orders, some don’t. Tapansky doesn’t believe in gag orders. Most judges in Vegas don’t.”
“I see. Legal reality versus my idealistic notion of it.”
“Something like that. You picked up the clothes for Martha?”
“Yes, and dropped them off. I got to talk to the housekeeper, Isobel, and Cindy Kildare was there, too.”
He turned to me. “The third Mrs. Kildare,” he said. “Piece ’a work, isn’t she?”
“I suppose you could say that. She’s no friend of Martha’s, that’s for certain.”
“Think she might have killed Victor?”
“Hard to say. She claims his death hurt her financially, that she reli
ed on the alimony.”
He grunted and returned to writing. “Have any trouble getting a cab back to the Bellagio?” he idly asked.
“Not at all. Isobel called a taxi for me.”
“Nice hotel,” he said. “Have you seen the Cirque du Soleil show, called ‘O’? It’s a real spectacle.”
“Not yet, but I was invited to another show last night. In fact, at first I thought you issued the invitation.”
A lovely scent had greeted me when I’d returned to my room at the Bellagio the previous evening. Its source was a dozen long-stemmed roses that had been arranged in a vase and left on the desk behind the sofa. They were the same flowers Martha had chosen for her wedding bouquet. How nice, I thought. Vincent Nastasi must have sent this to me as a “welcome to the defense team” gift. But the accompanying card was puzzling: It’s not raining. Meet me in the Fontana Bar at nine-thirty.
The Fontana Bar was on the casino level. A sign outside the entrance announced that a singer named Effie would be performing at ten and midnight. There was a line of people waiting to get a table and I took my place at the end of it. When I reached the front of the line, I gave the young man there my name. “I hope you can help me,” I said. “I’m supposed to meet someone here this evening but I don’t know who it is.”
“Let me see if any instructions were left.” He checked his watch and flipped through a pile of papers. “Yes, we have a table for you. Please follow me.”
The table for two, halfway back in the center of the room, had an excellent view of the stage. All the tables around me were occupied, and an excited buzz of conversation filled the air. A waiter came by and I ordered a white wine.
“I thought I might try to talk you into a bottle of champagne.” The voice was masculine, the accent English. Tony McKay, Victor Kildare’s business partner, folded his long body into the chair next to mine. “It’s nice to see you again, Jessica, although the circumstances leave something to be desired.”
“Thank you for the flowers,” I said. “Why didn’t you sign the card?”
“You’re a mystery writer. I left you a clue. Did you figure it out?”
“It stumped me in the beginning. But I don’t know many people in Las Vegas. Then I remembered that at Martha and Victor’s wedding, when you invited me for a drink, I asked you for a rain check. Was that the reference?”
“See? Couldn’t trip you up after all, could I?”
The waiter brought my wine and Tony ordered a martini: “Very dry, very cold, please.”
“When did you get in?” I asked.
“This afternoon. I flew in from New York, but I feel like I’ve been traveling for days on end, and I suppose I have. I left London two, no, three days ago, but so far, the jet lag hasn’t caught up with me or I haven’t caught up with it.”
I chuckled. “Don’t get too smug. It always gets you in the end.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” he said, stifling a yawn. “Have you heard about this singer?” He picked up a tent card with the headline Effie, the Greek Sensation, next to a photograph of an exotic, dark-eyed young woman in a scarlet dress with a plunging neckline.
“I’ve read about her in the newspapers, but I’ve never heard her perform.”
“You’ll love her. She really is sensational. I caught her at Royal Albert Hall last year—she sold out in a minute and a half—and you would never believe the British are known for their reserve if you’d heard the audience that night.”
“That’s quite an endorsement,” I said. “I look forward to seeing her.”
We chatted for a bit more, but when the waiter left after placing a dry martini in front of Tony, I asked, “Are you here for the trial?”
“Yes. And I have to tie up some of Vic’s business dealings and eventually transfer ownership of his properties. Of course, that will depend on the verdict. If Martha is found guilty, she gets nothing. All Vic’s holdings will go to Jane. If Martha’s acquitted, she gets a hefty portion of his estate. Their prenup expired a month before the murder.”
“How do you know this?”
“I’m the executor of Vic’s will.”
“What would Martha have inherited if the prenuptial agreement were still in place?”
“She would’ve gotten the same as Vic’s other ex-wives.”
“He left money to his ex-wives?”
He started to laugh. “Good old generous Victor. He never could resist a woman in need. He bequeathed a million dollars to each of his ex-wives.”
“In his will? He left each one a million dollars?”
“Not a bad motive for murder, eh?”
“It certainly shines a new light on the situation. Do the police know this?”
“I imagine they do. Victor’s will is a public document now.”
“Do Victor’s ex-wives know of their inheritance?”
“I’m sure they know by now, but whether they knew it before he was killed I couldn’t say.”
“How much does Jane get if Martha is acquitted?”
“I haven’t toted up the numbers, but she’s well provided for. Aside from what he left to his ex-wives and bequests to his housekeeper and chauffeur, Jane and Martha are the only heirs. Of course, Jane’s inheritance rises significantly if Martha is convicted.”
“Interesting.”
“I thought you’d think so.”
“It must have been difficult for you, losing both a friend and a business partner.”
“It’s been hell. We went back a long way, Vic and I. Made me very sad and nostalgic for many months, reexamining my life and all that.”
“Did you take over Victor’s side of the business?”
“Looking for another motive?” he said, sipping his drink. “I saw on the telly today that you’re an official member of Martha’s defense team.”
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” I said.
“Takes more than that to offend me. I’ve got a thick skin, as I think you Yanks like to say. By the by, I was in London when Vic was killed. You can confirm that with the police, if you like. As to Vic’s business, I have more than I can handle right now. His death left a big hole in our business plan. I had to take on a new partner, and things have been in a shambles for months.”
“Then what happens to Victor’s business interests?” I asked, knowing I was being nosy, but not wanting to waste the opportunity to learn something else that might help Martha.
“Depends on who his partners were and what arrangements he made with them. We had the main business together , but he invested in other schemes without me. Those are partly why I’m here, to review the agreements and settle those accounts following the trial.”
“Why do you have to wait?”
“I can’t probate the will until there’s a decision because I won’t know who the heir is until then. Bloody nuisance.”
“On his other investments, do you become a partner in Victor’s place?”
“No, and I’d never want to. Mostly his partners take over and pay off his share to the estate. We had the same agreement. Keeps it clean. Also keeps family members from interfering in the business. But since neither of us ever expected to die, we didn’t plan for how the actual work would get done. If I hadn’t made Henry a partner, the firm could have gone under.”
“Henry? From the wedding.”
“Yes, Henry Quint. Victor’s man in New York. Soon after Victor died, the little bugger threatened to leave if I didn’t cough up a partnership. He knew I couldn’t handle the state-side business alone and there wasn’t time to audition new managerial talent with so many deals hanging fire.”
“So he blackmailed you into a partnership.”
“You could say that.”
“That doesn’t make for very cordial business relations, does it?”
Tony smirked. “He’ll get rich, but I’ll get even in the end.”
“He was in Las Vegas on the day Victor was killed. Did you know that?”
“Who was?”
“Henry.”
“You must be mistaken. He was in Mexico City. We’d sent him there with a deal for a new client.”
“Victor’s housekeeper saw his blue-and-white convertible the morning of the murder.”
“Are you sure?”
“The business reimburses him for travel expenses, doesn’t it?”
“Of course.”
“Can you check his travel vouchers?”
“I’ll call Pearl in the morning.”
While we’d been talking members of a big band had been assembling their instruments and music stands on the stage. One musician tapped a key on the piano, and his colleagues tuned their instruments to the note. I noticed that every seat was filled and that people were standing along the back and sides of the room. With the band members in place, the lights in the room dimmed and went out. A sonorous voice intoned: “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Fontana Bar at beautiful Bellagio. We have a special musical treat for you tonight from the heart of the Mediterranean. The Greeks have always appreciated beauty. In Athens, they say the Trojan War would never have taken place if Paris had seen this face first. Forget Helen of Troy. Direct to Bellagio from her sold-out world tour, it’s the ravishing, fascinating Effie.”
In the dark, a drum solo established a rhythmic pattern, building in intensity until a spotlight poured a pool of white onto the stage. Breaking into the edge of the light were a gold-sandaled foot and then a knee, followed by a thigh and hip encased in red silk. Effie slithered into the spotlight and cocked her head at the audience, which wildly cheered her entrance. Long black hair partly covered one eye and fell into the deep vee of the singer’s evening gown. She flicked her hair over her shoulder and purred into the microphone, her hip keeping time with the drum. And she began to sing.
It was hard not to pick up the enthusiasm of the audience for this performer. And by the end of her opening song, I was as taken with her as her ardent admirers were. Hers was a new kind of music unfamiliar to me, a combination of stirring ethnic melodies, the insistent beat of a rock band, and improvised lines, almost jazzy in their interpretation, delivered by a strikingly beautiful, charismatic woman.
You Bet Your Life Page 11