Would it be safe to say that Fate intervened? Was it written in the stars that I should drop into this evening’s party? Or had Wiggins considered possibilities and felt no need to dispatch another agent in the expectation that when en route to the Express and with time on my hands, I couldn’t possibly resist the temptation of a party? Was Wiggins that crafty?
I pictured Wiggins, stiff dark cap riding high on brown hair, broad, open face still youthful despite a walrus mustache and muttonchop whiskers, white shirt high-collared, gray flannel trousers sturdily upheld by broad suspenders. Yes, he had a turn-of-the-century formality about him (the early twentieth century), but Wiggins often surprised me with a glint of humor.
Certainly I was on the most innocent of errands when I strolled to the ladies’ lounge to check on my hair. Red hair is distinctive, and I was afraid that last vigorous tango had left me looking as if I’d stepped out into an Oklahoma wind. (It isn’t vain to want to appear at your best.)
Moreover, a quick glance in the mirror would remind me to be thankful that I always appeared as I had been at twenty-seven, even though I’d been considerably older when I departed the earth. It is one of Heaven’s thoughtful aspects that we are seen as we were at our best. I found twenty-seven splendid. There are many other cheerful surprises in Heaven, such as the way that joy can be seen in colors. For example, imagine an incandescent violet with ... Oh. Sorry. Precept Seven again. One of these days you will see for yourself.
As I crossed the hallway, a dark-haired woman in her thirties bolted toward the door of the ladies’ lounge. She gave a hunted look over her shoulder. Her eyes were wide and strained. The hand reaching for the knob trembled. She yanked open the door and entered the lounge.
Quick footsteps sounded behind me.
I paused to admire a tapestry, one of those dun-colored, pretentious representations of an English hunting scene.
A plump blonde in a pink palazzo jumpsuit, her face creased in concern, opened the door. I saw the convulsive start of the dark-haired woman. As she turned, her low-cut beige blouse slipped from one shoulder, revealing a purplish-red bruise on her upper arm. She gasped and yanked the blouse up, hiding the mark. The door closed.
I disappeared. In an instant, I was in the mirrored anteroom with its comfortable tufted-satin hassocks. I still get a thrill when I move through a solid wall. It gives me such a sense of freedom.
One hand still clasped to her blouse, the brunette sank onto a hassock and gave a travesty of a smile. “Hi, Joan. I haven’t seen you in a long time.” Her voice was brittle. “I heard you and Jack went to Alaska. Did you have a good time?”
“What happened to your arm, Eleanor?”
“My arm? Oh.” A strained laugh. “Just one of those odd accidents. I’m fine.”
The blonde frowned. “You and Brad didn’t look like you were having fun tonight.”
It might have been a non sequitur. It wasn’t. She stared at the younger woman with anxious, worried eyes.
Eleanor fumbled with the clasp of her purse, lifted out a lipstick. Her hand shook. She stared at the tube, abruptly thrust it back into her purse. Did she fear that her hand was shaking too badly to be able even to dab color to her lips? She came to her feet, stared at Joan with hollow eyes. “Brad? Oh, it’s nothing to do with him. I’m afraid I’m getting a migraine. I’ll ask him to take me home.” She moved toward the door.
Joan stepped in front of her. “Are you sure? Look”—her tone was awkward—“if there’s anything we can do. If you’d like to come home with us—”
Eleanor gave a trill of ragged laughter. “I’m all right. I promise. It’s just . . .” She gripped Joan’s arm. “Please, don’t say anything to anyone. It would be dreadful for me. Please. You’ve got to promise me.”
“Don’t go with Brad. Come home with us. Or let me call the police.”
Eleanor dropped Joan’s arm. “The police? Oh, my God. Never. You don’t understand. Everything’s okay. I swear it is. I just can’t think straight when I have a headache. You’ve misunderstood. Brad would never . . . No. It isn’t like that at all.” She whirled away.
Joan took a step after her, but as the door closed, she stopped with a frown and shook her head. She’d tried to help, and her help had been refused. She had no real option. If she called the police, they would need more than her assumptions.
However, there might be another way to forestall abuse.
In an instant, I was walking alongside Eleanor. She moved steadily, managing strained smiles to acquaintances. I wondered if she realized that her distress was obvious.
Her steps grew slower as she approached the terrace, then, with a quick-drawn breath, chin held high, she curved around a cluster of tables.
An athletic young man stood near a splashing fountain. I was reminded of a young Van Johnson, a broad, freckled, all-American face topped by reddish gold hair. Instead of disingenuous charm and good humor, however, this face was set and hard, blue eyes burning with anger.
She stopped a few feet away. “I need to go home. I have a headache.”
“Is that what you’ve been telling everyone?”
She folded her arms, looked frightened.
“Dammit, stop that. If anyone sees you like that—”
Shoes clicked on the terrace. Joan strode up to them. She stopped and gave Brad an uncompromising look. “I’m sorry Eleanor isn’t feeling well. Perhaps it would be a good night for her to come home with us. I’ve had migraines. They’re hellish.”
Brad flushed. “She’ll be all right.”
The chunky blonde stared at him. “I’ll call tomorrow. I’m sure everything will be all right. Now.”
I had underestimated Joan. Her commanding stare warned him.
Brad flashed a black look at Eleanor. “If you’re ready.” His tone was clipped.
Eleanor avoided looking at Joan as they walked past.
MY first surprise was when they reached a Mercedes coupe and she clicked to unlock the car and slid into the driver’s seat.
He slid into the passenger seat and stared glumly forward as she expertly maneuvered the small car and whipped out of the parking lot.
She drove with the sunroof open, the warm summer air ruffling her hair. He turned his face away, stared out at the moonlit night.
They spoke not a single word.
In only a few minutes (Adelaide is a small town), she pulled into a circular drive in front of a big house with a bloated appearance and a plethora of superfluous spires on the steep roof.
When the car stopped, he threw open the door and walked toward the front steps, ignoring his wife.
She followed him into the marbled entryway and dropped her evening bag on a side table. Her reflection in a huge beveled mirror was at odds with her appearance at the party. She looked cool, amused, and confident.
A double staircase embraced a fountain and clumps of greenery. He was halfway up the left stairs, shoulders hunched, fists clenched.
“You haven’t asked,” she lifted her voice to be heard over the splash of the fountain, “if I had a good time at the party.”
He stopped, his back rigid. Slowly, he turned and looked down at her. “You’re a bitch.”
She continued to smile. “Sticks and stones ... Come down. We’re going to talk.”
He remained midway up the stairs. “I want out.”
“Not in this lifetime.” Her tone was relaxed.
“I’ve got proof about you and Roger.” The muscles ridged in his face.
She shrugged. “A private detective? I’ve always wondered if they get a kick out of wondering what goes on behind the closed doors. I don’t care if you have a picture of us in bed; it isn’t going to do you any good. And here’s my hole card: you’re running for reelection next year. Do you think anybody will vote for a judge who beats on his wife? Shall I tell you what good work I managed at the party this evening?”
He gripped the handrail as if forcing himself to remain there. “I’m surprised someone ha
sn’t killed you, Eleanor.”
Her peal of laughter was derisive. “You’re too good a boy to commit murder, Brad.”
She stood with her head uplifted, quite beautiful and arrogant and terrible. I didn’t know what had brought their marriage to this stage, but there was no mistaking her intent. She had publicly played the part of a fearful woman trying to hide spousal abuse. He could proclaim his innocence, but whispers and sidelong looks and disbelief would dog him forever.
“I’ll tell everyone you’re lying.”
She waved a hand in dismissal. “Be my guest. No one will believe you. I’ve already made a good start on that. You’d better come down. I will explain”—and now her face was formidable, her voice cold—“exactly what I want and why you will be happy to cooperate.”
She didn’t wait to see if he complied. She turned to her left, flicked on a light, and walked into a comfortable den.
He started down the stairs, and I felt a pang of sorrow. He had a lost, bewildered look, a man facing ruin with no way out.
I dismissed thoughts of Precept Three. Though I would be happy to work behind the scenes, this time I had to make my presence known. There was only one chance to outwit Brad’s unscrupulous adversary.
I popped next to him on the stairs, gripped his arm, and whispered, “Keep her talking. I’ll video everything she says.”
He froze.
The clink of ice sounded from the den.
Brad stood rigid.
“You’d better get down here.” Her raised voice had a metallic edge. “I might have to call a friend for help. Big, bad old Brad. I don’t think you want me to do that.”
I tugged at his arm. “Do what I say.”
His head jerked from side to side.
Honestly, some men are so difficult to lead. With a little huff of exasperation, I swirled into being, admiring, as I did so, the crisp French blue of the Adelaide police uniform. Very flattering to a redhead. (A simple factual comment.)
He leaned back against the banister.
I jerked a thumb. “I’m here to help. Get down there and talk to her.” I tapped the small video camera anchored to my belt. “Every word will be recorded. Don’t give me a thought.” I disappeared.
The click of shoes on parquet flooring announced her impatient arrival in the doorway. “What’s keeping you?”
He rubbed his head as if it hurt, then made an odd, helpless gesture. “I’m coming.” He started down the stairs, but he darted several quick glances behind him.
Of course, there was no one there.
She waited, arms folded. “Who are you looking for?” She, too, gazed up the stairs, her face uneasy.
“I don’t know.” His voice was thin. “I thought I heard something.”
“Maybe you wish you did. You’d like an audience, wouldn’t you? Sorry not to oblige.”
Slowly, his expression befuddled, he followed her into the den.
She finished making her drink. “What’s your pleasure?” she asked.
I moved behind her, dropped down behind a brown leather sofa, and appeared. I unhooked the video cam from my belt and turned it on. I placed it on the floor, moved several feet away, and disappeared. The camera remained where I had placed it. Wiggins had never fully explained the physics of appearing along with whatever accessories I might need. I had learned that an accessory separated from my person remained in existence. Voilà, I now had the instrument for Eleanor’s undoing.
I lifted the video cam and propped it near a vase, the lens aimed toward Eleanor.
Brad ignored her question. He stood stiffly near a potted palm, arms folded. “I’ll tell everyone you’re lying. You know I’ve never struck you.”
She bent forward a little, pulled down the edge of her blouse, revealing a reddish purple splotch. “How do you like it?”
He strode forward, face incredulous.
I nodded in unseen approval. Now he, too, was within camera range.
He lifted a shaking hand. “Where did that come from?”
She tore off a length of paper toweling from the minibar, held it beneath a gushing faucet. “Now you see it.” She lifted the damp toweling, swiped at the splotch. “Now you don’t. The wonders of makeup, Brad. Of course”—and her tone was careless as she pulled her blouse up to cover the now unblemished skin—“what matters is that Joan Grainger got a very good look at my awful bruise in the ladies’ lounge at the club this evening. She was quite sympathetic. Of course I told her, my voice shaking, that I was perfectly all right when she offered to put me up tonight.”
“She thinks I hit you?” His shock was obvious.
“Afraid so.” She swirled the ice cubes in an amber drink, took a sip.
“You can’t do this to me.”
“Yes, I can. Tonight I laid the groundwork for some very ugly gossip that I’m an abused wife. Joan saw the bruise. Now, here’s the deal. Joan keeps her mouth shut. That’s why I picked her. Joan never says anything bad about anyone. Your secret is safe with her. She will check in with me, make sure I’m all right. If you play up, I’ll convince her the bruise was from a fall and I appeared distraught tonight because, poor little me, I had the onset of one of my dreadful migraines.”
“Play up? What do you mean?”
“No divorce. You’ve got evidence on me, but you will never use it. I like being the judge’s wife. I like the fact that you are rich enough that I can do what I like, travel, shop, entertain. You will strive to be the gentleman you are, pleasant in public, out of my way in private.”
“If I refuse?” His voice was grim.
“That would be a grave mistake. You see, most of the women I know are not as reticent as Joan. Tomorrow night I’m playing bridge with some ladies whose mouths never shut, and gossip is their life-blood. I can create quite a spectacular bruise for them. So”—she took another drink—“it’s up to you, Brad. If you file for a divorce, I’ll convince everyone who matters in Adelaide that you use me for a punching bag.”
“That’s extortion.” His voice was harsh.
“How lovely to have a lawyer in the family. Extortion has an ugly sound. Let’s say it’s quid pro quo. You do as I say, or I set you up as a wife beater.” She lifted the glass in a toast. “Here’s to us, Brad.”
In the faraway distance, I heard the unmistakable wail of the Rescue Express. Within minutes, I must be done.
I eased the camera below the side table and moved behind her to French doors that likely opened onto a terrace. The camera appeared to be floating in the air. I waggled it, catching Brad’s attention. The evident shock in his face appeared to her to be the result of her taunt.
I swirled into being, camera held high.
He appeared frozen.
I reached behind me, opened the French door.
She heard the creak of the opening door and jerked about. Her eyes widened in shock.
I suppose a police officer approaching with a stern expression was unnerving.
Brad shook his head in disbelief, but there was a sudden aching hope in his blue eyes.
I held up the video camera. “Extortion is an offense punishable by a sentence of up to four years in prison and a substantial fine.”
“You have no right to be here.” She was struggling to breathe. “You can’t come into someone’s home and tape them—”
I interrupted, “I have a full videotape and recording of your attempt at extortion.”
“—without their permission.”
“I am here at the invitation of your husband”—I looked warningly at Brad—“who had reason to believe he might be subject to threats. Therefore”—my smile was bright—“I am lawfully present and”—I tapped the video cam—“the evidence contained here is admissible in court.” Again I looked at Brad. “As any judge would explain.”
The train whistle sounded again. Of course, only I could hear. Would the Express leave without me?
“Isn’t that correct, Judge?” My tone was sharp. I was desperate to depart.
I nodded approval. “In that event, I will proceed to file my report, and a summons will be issued.” I had no idea as to police procedure at this level. Certainly Brad, as a judge, would know, but I was counting on him to remember that I wasn’t here. Was he clever enough to understand?
Did I smell coal smoke?
“Officer, I might be willing to drop the matter.”
I frowned. “Your Honor, a crime has been committed. Extortion, as I don’t need to remind you, is a felony.”
“However”—he spoke quietly—“it is my prerogative to settle the matter without the filing of charges.” He turned toward his wife. “Eleanor, it’s up to you.”
I folded my arms and looked as menacing as a five-foot-five-inch redhead can manage.
“You got me, didn’t you? I never expected you to be clever, Brad.” She stared at him as if he were a stranger. “What do you want?”
“First, call Joan. You are to sound cheerful and upbeat. Here’s what I want you to tell her . . .”
The Rescue Express wailed, the high, wavering cry much nearer.
In a moment, Eleanor was on the telephone. “Joan,” she sounded at ease, “I’m afraid I gave you a wrong impression tonight . . . That bruise had nothing to do with Brad. I got whacked by that automatic door at the grocery. You know the one I mean. You take your life in your hands when you go through that door. Tonight I was upset because I knew I was going to ask Brad for a divorce ... Actually, it isn’t because of him. I’ve met a guy, and I was worried about how Brad would take it, but he’s being the perfect gentlemen.” Her eyes burned as she looked toward him.
Brad gave a thumbs-up.
The whistle sounded overhead.
“Anyway, it always helps to talk things out. I’m off to Dallas tonight. Everything’s working out . . . Right . . . I’ll keep in touch.” She clicked off the phone. “Satisfied?”
Crimes by Moonlight Page 30