by Lee Bellamy
"Hi there, Velia." I felt myself turn red. I stuffed the contents back in the bag and scrambled quickly off my knees. "I...I..."
She interrupted: "I wasn't feeling well so I left the luncheon and came home." She sounded defensive, as if she were the intruder, not I.
"I'm sorry you're not feeling well."
A soft smile curved her lips. "Why don't you come downstairs for a cup of tea? We'll talk."
"Sure."
She started down the stairs, me following, clutching the bag, thinking if it were me, and I'd found someone had broken into my house, I'd be screaming my head off, demanding to know what was going on here, threatening to dial 911. But Velia was a lady. She would rather die than create a scene, lucky for me.
A scene... a pregnancy kit... Jay gone overseas for at least five months... Murder in Three Acts by Agatha Christie...
Suddenly I knew. One after another, the answers tumbled into my head, and in the time it took to go from Tyler's bedroom down the stairs to the family room, the whole affair came clear. The facts were undeniable, and though I kept telling myself they couldn't possibly be true, I knew they were. I wasn't sure yet who shot Tyler, but I knew who killed Rudy, and who informed on Crystal, and who committed an outrageous murder that no one had even suspected. I felt no elation that I'd solved the mystery. Rather, a numbing bewilderment, because it was difficult, if not impossible, to comprehend the dark machinations of Velia Champion's twisted mind.
By the time she brought the tea, I had collected myself somewhat, and was sitting on the couch in the family room where I'd sat before. The setup of the tea tray was typical Velia—the pot and sugar and creamer fashioned of gleaming ornate silver; china cups and saucers eggshell-thin, painted with delicate pink flowers. She gently set the tray on the glass coffee table between us and inquired, "And what do you take in your tea? Cream? Lemon? Sugar?"
"Nothing, thanks." She poured. I leaned forward to pick up my cup and saucer. "How lovely."
She settled herself across from me and crossed her legs, careful to arrange her skirt. Not hurrying, she took up her own cup and saucer and sipped her tea. Finally, with gracious congeniality, she said, "Well, Holly, if you wouldn't mind, I'd rather like to know why you're here."
"Yes, I'm sure you would." I spoke slowly, borrowing time. All the puzzle pieces were present, but still scattered in my mind. I must bring them together, difficult though it would be, and present them calmly, and in some semblance of logic, to this cold blooded killer who sat across from me.
I took another sip of tea, smoothed my jeans, tugged at the neck of my sweater. And when I knew I'd run out of time and excuses, I looked her squarely in the eye. "You're pregnant, aren't you?"
Only the quick rattle of her tea cup gave her away. "Well, really!" she answered, even managing a tinkling laugh. "My goodness, what a question! Whatever makes you think that?"
"This." I dumped the contents of the bag from Thriftys on the coffee table next to the tea tray. "It's the pregnancy test you used. Tyler found it in the garbage. He wasn't snooping. You weren't giving him an allowance so he was rummaging for bottles and cans."
"Oh, my," she whispered. She set down her cup and shrunk a little, back into her chair. "But why do you—?"
"Here's the charge slip." I picked it up and waved it at her. "Signed by you. How many months had your husband been in Afghanistan? Excuse the indelicate question, but who's the baby's father?"
She sat staring at me, still as stone, eyes wide, fingers at her throat, hanging onto her pearl choker for dear life, as if it could save her.
"Who's the father, Velia? Shall I give you an educated guess?"
She stirred at that, reached for a pink Kleenex and started to shred it. "Really, Holly," she told me in a tiny voice, "I don't think this is called for."
"I didn't think so either, until about five minutes ago when suddenly it dawned on me what you've done. Want to hear?"
"No!" she answered, spunky at last. "Perhaps you'd better leave."
Not a chance. Nothing would stop me now. "Here's how I've got it figured. Help fill in the gaps. It began when Jay's reserve unit was suddenly shipped to Afghanistan. There was no one to run the office on such short notice, so you had to pitch in."
"So? Is there anything wrong in that? A lot of wives have done the same."
"Nothing wrong with it, no. You were being a good sport—doing your bit for your country, only..." I hesitated, knowing all I had was my educated guess, but chancing it all the same. "Bill Hatcher is a smooth, slick, master con man. From what I gather, you've led a rather sheltered life, so it's not surprising he would get to you. I've seen his record. A woman doesn't have a chance when he turns on the charm." With some exceptions, I thought, but nothing would be gained by mentioning my own encounters with the disgusting letch.
"Bill Hatcher?" Velia looked astonished. Vehemently she shook her head. "You are very, very wrong. I've never loved anyone but Jay."
"You don't have to love a man to screw him."
She flinched at my bluntness but didn't deny my accusation. I continued, "That snake charmed the panties right off you, didn't he? I'll bet you were working late one night and he invited you into his office. Offered you a drink. Told you how beautiful you are—how much he desired you—how all these years he'd worshipped you from afar. He sweet-talked you right onto that big leather couch of his, didn't he?"
Her mouth dropped open. "How did you—?" She stopped abruptly, but she had turned so pale that I knew I hit the truth square-on. Tears formed in her eyes. By now her Kleenex was in shreds so I passed her another. She took it automatically, hardly aware of it. And then she sobbed.
Had she buried her face in her hands, or turned away, it would have been more tolerable, but instead, she sat staring at me, tears gushing down her cheeks, crying harder and harder until I, not able to stand it anymore, got up and went to a window where I stood with my back to her, staring into their backyard.
I don't know how long I stood there, admiring the pool, the cabana, the redwood spa, but at length her sobs lessened. I looked at her sideways. She had wiped her eyes and was trying to pick up her tea cup, but her hand shook so violently that most of the tea sloshed into the saucer. Finally she gave up and set it back on the table. I went back to the couch again and handed her another Kleenex. "Tell me about it," I said, and sat down.
She got up, walked to the wet bar and took a glass from the shelves behind. She disappeared for a moment, bending down, coming up with a full bottle of Jim Beam. She poured the glass nearly full, added a splash of water, and opened a small refrigerator—also below—where she pulled out a couple of ice cubes and dropped them into her glass. She stirred the contents of the glass with her finger. "I never do this," she said to me, and brought the glass to her lips.
I spoke up fast. "Not good for the baby."
She squeezed her eyes shut and whispered, "My God, you're right. The baby. I've got to think of the baby." With a desperate "Damn!" she dumped the liquid down the sink and hurled the glass against the wall. I flinched when it shattered, but she hardly noticed and didn't seem to care.
I repeated, "Tell me about it."
Calmer now, she came and sat down again, and took a deep breath that was more a shudder than a sigh. "It was late, almost midnight," she began. "I was at the office working on the books. I was tired...and lonely, with Jay being gone. It's as you said. Bill came in. He kept telling me how beautiful I was—how much he admired me. Then he invited me to his office for a drink. I said yes, to be friendly, I guess...oh, I don't know. But before I knew what was happening..." She put a hand to her eyes and bowed her head. "He didn't force me. I wish he had. Then I could call it rape and at least have an excuse for...what happened. God forgive me, it was only the once." She started to weep again.
I sat silent, waiting for her to go on. It was tough, watching. She was such a fragile little figure, so helpless sitting there. My heart went out to her until I reminded myself of the hideous things
she'd done. I was curious. "I know how you feel about abortion, but under the circumstances—?"
"Never!" For the first time since I'd met her, I detected flash and fire in her eyes.
"But what did you intend to do? You couldn't fool Jay."
Miserably she nodded. "After I discovered I was pregnant, I spent two weeks in hell. I couldn't eat, I couldn't sleep. All I could do was pray—and go around in circles feeling utterly trapped, not knowing which way to turn. Jay always had me on a pedestal. He would be devastated if he realized the baby wasn't his—and of course he would know—and then I would lose him, and that would be...that would be..." A look of despair spread over her face. "I love him so much! If I lose him I shall die."
You pretty much have, I thought, but refrained from saying so.
In a pleading gesture, she pressed her hands together and raised them towards me, almost in a prayer. "But how could I get an abortion? It's wrong. It's murder. How could I abort my own child?"
"You were in a tough spot." The understatement of the day.
"Oh yes." Her voice shook with bitterness. "A very tough spot. So when Mother Champion died, can you imagine how I felt? I was sad and overjoyed, both at the same time. Jay could come home now. Only for a few days, to attend his mother's funeral, but long enough, I assure you. Now he wouldn't question that the baby was his." Her eyes glowed with a radiant light. "God answered my prayers. Nevada was old. She didn't have much time left anyway. He called her home a little early, that's all. So you see, it's all working out now. Please! Promise you won't tell."
"I can't do that, Velia."
Her glow faded. She slumped back. "You can't?"
I took a sip of tea, allowing myself a little time before I rained on her parade. "Problem is you gave God a little help."
"I...what?"
"You murdered Nevada."
Velia gasped and turned more pale. "I did not!"
"Yes you did," I answered, not bothering to keep the disgust out of my voice. "Bill gets you pregnant. Your husband's stuck overseas. You're desperate to get him home and into your bed. So what do you do? The only thing you can do—you murder Jay's poor old mother so you can get him home on emergency leave."
"No, no, no," she cried. "That's hideous...evil...that's just not so."
"What's the matter, Velia, didn't you want a scene? Were you so afraid of the truth you had to kill a nice old lady?"
"You're guessing."
"No, not guessing." I set the china tea cup down, signaling we were through with politeness. "You killed Nevada. You killed Rudy. You're responsible for Tyler's shooting—it was Bill, wasn't it? And that's not all. Somebody told Sereno Ghementi where to find Crystal. Who could it be but you?"
"You can't—"
"Tyler knows the truth, which is why you wanted to kill him." I stood and started pacing the floor. "We don't know his whole story yet, but I can guess what he's going to say. After he found that pregnancy kit, he confronted you, didn't he? You denied it—smoothed it over—tried to pretend nothing had happened. Only Tyler's no dummy. He knew his grandmother died a little too conveniently. He was positive you killed her, wasn't he?"
"You'll never...you'll never..." Her voice faded away. She shifted her eyes from me, running her slender fingers nervously through her hair. "Oh, please...please...just go away."
"Tyler was torn apart," I continued. "He was in a horrible dilemma. He knew how much his father loved you—how hurt he would be if he knew, but on the other hand, you murdered his grandmother whom he happened to love very much. Tyler didn't know what to do, so he went to his good friend Rudy and confided the whole sordid mess, not realizing that Rudy, being the high-minded fellow he was, would try to blackmail you."
"Try?" she asked wearily. "He did."
"And that's why you shot him." I held my breath, waiting for her reply.
Velia inclined her head, slowly, painfully, as if she realized she had just lost the game. "And that's why I shot him," she repeated in a voice so dead it was devoid of all hope. "There was no other way."
From the door of the study, an anguished male voice rang out, "There was another way, Velia. HOW COULD YOU!"
Jay. Standing in the doorway in his uniform, his face tight with shock, his voice shaking with rage. Tears glistened in his eyes.
Velia clutched at her heart. "You! What are you doing here?"
"I left the luncheon early." He stalked to the wet bar, hauled out a bottle of scotch and slammed it on the counter. "You were sick. I was worried about you." He grabbed a shot glass, poured, and drank it neat. "I've been standing in the hallway listening. My God!" He poured another shot, gulped it down, and swiped at his eyes with his palm. No new tears appeared. A muscle quivered angrily in his jaw. His blue eyes glittered, hard as volcanic rock. "Tell me about it, honey," he said, his voice bitter and mocking. "Describe to me how you murdered my mother."
"Jay, please, please..." Velia extended her arms to him.
He repeated, "Tell me about it," in a voice so savage it frightened even me.
"She was old, Jay—"
"TELL ME!"
Velia nodded, accepting defeat, beyond any tears. In a voice barely above a whisper, she began, "It was Bill, more than I. He was running scared. He kept hounding me and hounding me to get an abortion. When I wouldn't, he started looking for a way to get you home. He came up with the idea that all we had to do was murder Nevada. I knew it was wrong, but I went along. I had a terrible time, deciding how I'd do it. I decided poison. Old people, you know...it doesn't take much to carry them off, and who would even question, at her age, that her death wasn't natural?"
I said, "You poisoned her with nicotine, didn't you?"
"It seemed the simplest way. I bought a package of cigarettes. Ick—!" Velia made a face "—that was the worst part, smoking those stinky things. Anyway, I smoked maybe five and put the butts in a glass of water and soaked them overnight. The next morning, I sneaked a tiny bit of that nicotine water into Mother Champion's tea. Just a little, all day, each time she had some tea. That night she died." She paused and looked over at me. "I got the idea from Agatha Christie."
"Murder in Three Acts," I said grimly. "Hercule Poirot to the rescue."
"Hercule wasn't around. Too bad you were," she said, her lips twisting into a parody of a smile. Serious again, she continued, "Nicotine causes death by respiratory failure, due to paralysis of the muscles. I was sure the doctor would never notice. As it was, he hardly examined her."
Through clenched teeth Jay asked, "And Rudy?"
"What could I do? Rudy was blackmailing me."
I asked, "How did you do it, Velia?"
"Rudy came to my house that morning. Oh, it was horrible! I was about to leave for the airport to pick up Jay. When he demanded money for his silence, I gave it to him, hardly thinking. That afternoon, while Jay was running around town visiting his friends, Rudy called again. He said he wanted even more money. It was then I realized Rudy was not trustworthy, no matter how much money I gave him, and he might still tell Jay, money or no. I drove to the trailer yard in a panic—came in through the side gate—went to his trailer and tried to reason with him. I begged him not to tell Jay. He said he wouldn't, but I knew sooner or later he would. And so, oh, dear, there's no other way to say it—I pulled out my little pistol that you gave me, Jay, and shot him in the head.
"I saw a copy of Virgin in the Pines lying on Rudy's couch. Wanting to protect my sister, I grabbed it up and ran. Just as I expected, I got out of the trailer yard without a soul seeing me."
Her tears were gone. I could see she was warming to her task, her confession a catharsis to her guilt. As if seeking Jay's approval, she asked, "Now shall I tell you about Crystal?"
Jay stared with loathing at his wife, appearing frozen for a second in time, until his arm shot out for the telephone. "Sure I want to hear about Crystal. While we're waiting for the police, you can tell us."
Chapter 18
My daughter Ashley is a feminine
little creature (can't imagine where she gets it from). Even on the coldest days she hates wearing pants to school. Each morning she must have her frilly dress, her matching necklace and tiny earrings, her hair in an Alice-in-Wonderland, or braided, or pulled high in a ponytail tied with a velvet bow.
I love dressing her in the morning. The pink dress or the yellow? The lace-edged socks? Clasps or bow? That bleak morning after Velia was arrested, though, my heart wasn't in it. I felt terrible about the Champions. I'd seen their marriage disintegrate before my very eyes, and Velia's life, possibly Jay's, destroyed. She deserved it, but still, I couldn't get my mind off that excruciating moment when the police led Velia away. Hands cuffed behind her, tears staining her exhausted little face, she kept calling, "Jay, please, Jay please!" in her pitiful sweet voice, but he would not answer. Stony-faced, unmoving, he stood beneath the Hero sign still tacked to his garage door—it seemed to mock him now—and watched the police car drive away, his wife's bowed head barely visible in the back. He would hardly speak. I couldn't begin to guess what he was thinking. Had Velia totally destroyed him? How could he ever be the same man again?
Usually I drive Ashley to school. That day, thinking to exercise out of my dejection, I walked the three blocks with her, clear to her classroom. It helped, but only a little. When I got home I climbed into my Camaro and headed for B & P. Jay was due at ten o'clock with a check for fifty thousand, twenty-five of which was mine. Heading down the on-ramp to 41, I forced a "Whoopee!" from my lips, but the word fell flat. Yeah, whoopee. So depressing. Such a tragedy. Poor Velia...poor Jay. Then I had to remind myself: poor Nevada, and Rudy, and Tyler, and—my heart wrenched—Crystal. God help her, where was she now?
At ten o'clock we gathered in Reece's office: Himself behind his desk, sitting up straight for a change to impress the client. Perez, arms crossed, slouched against a wall. Jay, sitting across the desk, checkbook in hand—amazing, how undaunted he appeared, and I beside him, dressed corporate again, in an outward state of togetherness, concealing the depression that weighted me down.