by Stuart Woods
“I thought airplanes couldn’t fly over the Grand Canyon,” Jane said, snapping pictures furiously.
“Only in certain zones; that’s where we are. You used to be able to fly in the Canyon, until a helicopter and a sightseeing airplane collided. Then the rules were changed.”
They reached the south rim, and Wolf turned east again, glancing at the airport, remembering his last visit there.
Jane read his mind. “That’s where you were when…” Her voice trailed off.
“Not exactly,” Wolf said. “I was in the house. At least, I think I was.” He began to tell the story again. He was becoming practiced now, and telling it hurt less than it had before.
When he had finished, Jane was quiet for a while. “Well,” she said finally, “it sounds as though you’re telling me you may have killed Jack and your wife.”
“I don’t know,” he said truthfully.
“I know that anybody is supposed to be capable of murder,” she said, “but I can’t bring myself to believe that you had anything to do with it.”
“I’m glad you feel that way,” he sighed.
“There’s got to be some other explanation.”
“I hope so.”
They flew east toward Santa Fe in silence.
CHAPTER
17
An off-duty policeman glanced at their invitation, then allowed them through the high gates of the Kensington estate.
“Exactly who are these people?” Jane asked.
“He is said to be one of the richest of the English dukes,” Wolf replied, “and that’s rich. The current duchess is his fourth wife, and I hear they are socially jealous of our other D & D, the Bedfords, who have a place in Tesuque. That’s all I know about them.”
Jane looked around at the lighted grounds as they drove down the drive. “I wouldn’t want their electricity bill,” she said.
“Or any of their other bills.” Wolf laughed. He looked around, too. “They seem to have about five acres walled in. Apparently the Duchess has spent a fortune planting and watering an English garden. Pity it’s cold weather and we’ll miss the blooms.”
“Pity.”
Their car was taken away, and they were met at the front door by a uniformed butler, who asked for their invitation. Wolf could see the Duke and Duchess waiting farther down the entrance hall.
The butler braced up and announced loudly in a broad Scottish accent, “Mr. and Mrs. Wolf Willett!”
“Oh, Christ,” Wolf muttered, then he corrected the man.
“Mr. Wolf Willett and Miz Jane Deering!” the butler yelled, unabashed.
The D & D stood waiting, smiles frozen onto their faces. Wolf looked farther down the hall and saw a flash of blond hair and a face he would rather not have seen disappearing into the living room.
“Mr. Willett, how very nice to see you,” the Duchess said, extending a tiny hand.
“Yes, yes,” the Duke echoed, offering a hand nearly as small. “Jolly nice.”
“May I present Ms. Jane Deering?” Wolf said.
“So very nice,” the Duchess said to Jane.
“Jolly nice,” the Duke said.
“Please do go through and have a drink,” the Duchess said, dismissing them and turning toward her next arriving guests.
Wolf took Jane by the elbow and steered her toward the living room.
“I thought he was rather sweet,” she said.
“No one knows for sure,” Wolf said. “She does all the talking for both of them.”
They paused at the entrance to the enormous living room to peer inside, and as they did so, they stepped into a spotlight that had been trained onto the broad doorway. A hundred and fifty heads turned, and the room went suddenly quiet.
Wolf stood there, momentarily stunned, then recovered himself and led Jane down the short steps into the room. Conversation in the room continued; Wolf knew exactly what the topic was.
“That was very weird,” Jane said.
Wolf nodded. “Once, I was in a London restaurant not long after the Manson family murders in L.A., and Roman Polanski walked into the room. Exactly the same thing happened.”
Mark Shea was making his way toward them. “Wolf, good to see you out,” Mark said, shaking his hand warmly and looking at Jane. “And who’s this?”
“This is Jane Deering, the editor of our new film,” Wolf said, feeling suddenly defensive.
Mark turned his attention to Jane. “Jane, welcome to Santa Fe. Is this your first visit?”
“Yes,” she said, immediately warming to Mark, “and I think it’s wonderful.”
“I can see this won’t be your last trip,” Mark said, smiling. “And how is work going on L.A. Days?”
“Work was completed just yesterday,” Jane replied.
“Congratulations to you both. You must feel an enormous sense of relief, having it in the can.”
“I certainly do,” Wolf said.
“Got something new to move to the front burner?”
“It’s being costed right now,” Wolf replied. He glanced across the room and saw Ed Eagle, head and shoulders above the crowd, making his way toward them.
A waiter appeared with tall flutes of champagne on a tray. Wolf snagged two, passed one to Jane, and managed to get a long swallow down before Ed Eagle arrived.
“Evening, Wolf,” Eagle said, smiling slightly.
“Evening, Ed. Let me introduce you to Jane Deering, who is the editor of our new film.”
“Miss Deering, it’s a great pleasure to meet you,” Eagle said, enveloping her small hand in his giant one. He turned back to Wolf. “Could I have a brief word with you?”
“Sure. Mark, would you take care of Jane for a moment?”
“Of course.”
Eagle steered Wolf toward a sliding glass door and ushered him out into the frigid night air. He turned to face his client. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” he asked pleasantly.
Wolf was baffled. “What? I thought you said for me to go out, to be seen.”
“I didn’t tell you to be seen with a beautiful woman in a killer dress, two weeks after your wife was murdered,” Eagle said. His voice was perfectly modulated and friendly. There was, if anything, a note of regret.
“Oh,” Wolf said helplessly. “I see your point.”
“I wish you had seen it a couple of days earlier,” Eagle said. “The first bit of gossip I heard when I arrived here was that you were at Santacafé last night with a woman, and now you turn up here with her. I suppose you went to meet her in Albuquerque.”
“Yes.”
“You’re not supposed to leave town; that’s a violation of what I promised the D.A.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Wolf replied. It didn’t seem like the best moment to mention the airplane trip with Jane to Monument Valley and the Grand Canyon.
“Martinez is going to know about this evening before he even has his coffee tomorrow morning, and it’s just feasible, should you, God forbid, come to trial, that one or more of the people here tonight might be on your jury. I don’t suppose you considered that.”
“Not for a moment, I’m afraid,” Wolf said sheepishly.
“All right. It’s done,” Eagle said. “Now I want you to go back into that room, take that girl by the hand, and introduce her to every single person you know here. There’s nothing to do but brazen it out. Be sure to be among the last to leave.” He opened the sliding door and waved Wolf back into the room.
Wolf, feeling abashed, had hardly stepped into the warmth again when he saw a blur of blond hair and gold dress, and Monica Collins stood before him trembling with anger.
“Good evening, Monica,” Wolf said uncertainly.
“You bastard,” Monica said, winding up to deliver a blow across his face.
Mark Shea’s hand snaked between them and caught the slap before it could land. In one swift motion, he swung the woman around and swept her from the room. “Now, Monica,” he was saying, “you must behave yourself.”
> Wolf stood transfixed, trying to keep an expressionless face. Everyone seemed to have noticed what had happened. He forced himself to move toward Eagle and Jane.
“You all right?” Jane asked, peering closely at him.
Ed Eagle spoke up. “I take it that was Monica Collins.”
“Yes,” Wolf said.
“I don’t think we’ll seek her testimony,” Eagle replied.
“I guess not.” Wolf sighed. “Come on, Jane, I want you to meet some people.”
“Who the hell was that?” Jane asked under her breath as they moved into the crowd.
“A friend of Julia’s.”
“Such nice friends.”
On the way home, Jane shook off her shoes and braced her feet against the dashboard. “Whew,” she said. “I never knew you were such a social lion. Was there anybody we didn’t talk to?”
“I hope not,” Wolf replied wearily.
“Who was the tall Indian again?” she asked.
“His name is Ed Eagle.”
“The hotshot lawyer?”
“You’ve heard of him?”
“Yeah, he got that actor, what’s-his-name, off a rape charge in L.A. last year, remember?”
“Right.”
“Is he your lawyer?”
“Yes.”
“And he wasn’t very pleased to see me with you tonight, was he?”
“No, but that’s not your fault; it’s mine. I’ve been behaving as if nothing has happened, when one hell of a lot has happened. I think it’s just hit me for the first time.”
“Julia’s death?”
“No. I’ve been dealing with that. I’ve just realized that, no matter what happens now, nothing is ever going to be the same again—not my social life, not my work, not the way people look at me or think of me. Nothing.”
“I think maybe you’d better put me on the first plane to L.A. tomorrow morning.”
“You’re right,” he said. “It’s not what I want, but it’s the only thing, under the circumstances.”
“It’s not what I want, either, if that helps.” She put her hand on his.
“It helps,” he said.
CHAPTER
18
Ed Eagle drove north from New York to Poughkeepsie and turned off at the sign for the correctional facility for women. The road was slushy from a snowfall the night before, and light flakes were still coming down. Eagle had visited a lot of such places in his time, and this one was no different from the dozens of other low-security prisons around the country; the only difference was that it held what the courts regarded as hard cases. Apparently the state felt that hard-case women didn’t need high walls, guard towers, and vicious dogs to keep them inside.
He presented his card to the man at the gate, who checked his appointment on a list, then waved him to a parking area. He walked through another gate and to the administrative office.
“I’m here to see Hannah Schlemmer,” he said to a uniformed female clerk.
“Take a seat,” the woman said, then made a phone call.
Eagle sat on a hard chair and waited ten minutes, his overcoat in his lap. Finally another woman in uniform appeared and ushered him to a small, nicely furnished sitting room, with a window overlooking a wooded area at the rear of the prison. The room had obviously been arranged to make visitors feel at ease. A moment later, a strikingly beautiful woman walked into the room. She was tall—five-ten or -eleven, he reckoned—something that had always appealed to him. She was dressed in tight designer jeans and a blue work shirt that had been knotted at the waist, covering ample breasts but revealing a couple of inches of flat belly. Her hair was cut short—dark with highlights of red; her nose was long and straight, her lips full, her eyes large, under lush eyebrows; the lashes were incredibly long. Her skin was perfect, and she wore little makeup.
“Mr. Eagle, I’m Barbara Kennerly,” she said, sticking out a hand. Her grip was firm and frank.
His own hand did not swallow hers, the way it did with most women. “What happened to Hannah Schlemmer?” he asked.
“I’ve just had it changed; the system here hasn’t quite caught up with the courts. Won’t you sit down?” She might have been an elegant housewife entertaining a guest in her home, instead of a convicted felon.
Eagle took a comfortable chair; Barbara took the sofa.
“Would you like a cigarette?” she asked.
“Thank you, I don’t smoke.”
She smiled a little. “I’ve given it up, myself, but cigarettes are legal tender here, so I always keep a pack in my pocket.”
Eagle couldn’t imagine how she could squeeze a nickel into one of her pockets, let alone a pack of cigarettes.
“How can I help you?” she asked.
“I’m a lawyer, Miss…Kennerly, and—”
“I know who you are, Mr. Eagle; I read the papers.”
“I’m representing Mr. Wolf Willett—your sister, Miriam’s, husband. I’m trying to get to the bottom of what happened to her.”
She laughed again, something she seemed to do easily. “You mean Julia. She changed her name long before I did.”
“Yes, Julia.”
“Has Mr. Willett been charged with anything in connection with Julia’s death?”
“No. As I say, I’m just trying to get to the bottom of the murders.”
“You’re not exactly a private detective, Mr. Eagle. If Mr. Willett has hired you, it must be for a defense.”
“There is no charge to answer at the moment.”
“You’re just being prepared, in case there is?”
“I don’t anticipate a charge.” He was not exactly controlling this conversation.
“I’m impressed that you came all this way yourself, when you could have sent somebody,” she said, looking him in the eye. “Frankly, if I’m going to talk with you, I want to know what you’re up to.”
Eagle sighed. “All right, I’ll be frank with you. Wolf Willett had nothing to do with the murders—I feel certain of that—but it’s possible that the New Mexico authorities might, if they can’t solve the case, try to make a victim of him.”
“That’s close enough to the truth, I guess,” Barbara said. “You’re here to protect your client, and you hope I can somehow help you.”
“I’m here to find out the truth, because I believe the truth will vindicate my client,” Eagle said.
“Forgive me if I sound cynical, Mr. Eagle; prison does that to you. You’re always looking for people’s hidden motives, especially lawyers’.” She shrugged. “All right, I’ll tell you whatever I can. The truth can’t harm me.”
“Were you and Julia close?”
“I hadn’t seen her for a couple of years when she was killed.”
“What were the circumstances the last time you saw her?”
“She was in jail, at Riker’s Island. She wanted money for a lawyer.”
“Did you give it to her?”
“I managed to scrape up a couple of thousand. I didn’t want my husband to know.”
“Had you been close before that?”
Barbara Kennerly looked out the window. “I don’t know,” she said. “There were times when I thought we were close, but I learned that you could never tell what Julia was thinking. She was like that from childhood.”
“Was Julia older than you?”
“Yes, by two years.”
“And you grew up in Cleveland?”
“Yes. Daddy had a pawnshop on the wrong side of the tracks. Tough neighborhood. He tried to protect us from it, but Julia didn’t want protecting; she was always fascinated by the slick guys and fast talkers. I was the straight arrow—good grades in school, all that. It’s ironic that I ended up in prison, just like Julia.”
“Did Julia have anything to do with that?”
“No. I was married to a man who had a diamond distribution business on West Forty-seventh Street in New York. I fell in love with another man—really in love, head over heels—and he convinced me that the only
way we were ever going to be together was to rob my husband and get out. I got him into Murray’s office—there was quite an elaborate security system—and the minute he got his hands on the diamonds, he shot Murray. I was stunned. He forced me to go with him. They caught up with us in Florida, just as I was about to try to sneak out and turn myself in.”
“What happened then?”
“I turned state’s evidence, pled to involuntary manslaughter. I got five to eight; I’m up for parole next year.”
“And the man?”
“He got life. Broke out of prison last year; they still haven’t caught him. That’s partly why I changed my name; I don’t want him ever to find me.”
“After you saw Julia at Riker’s Island, did you ever hear from her again?”
“Yes. She’d write a postcard now and then. When she got married to Wolf Willett, she sent me a phone number, and I called her a couple of times. She was going to help me when I got out.” She laughed. “That’s funny. Julia was always in trouble, always came to me for money. Now the tables were going to be turned. I, the conventional married Jewish lady, stable home and all that, needing the help of my sister with the criminal past.”
“Did you ever get the feeling that Julia was working some sort of con with Willett?”
“No. If anything, she seemed to have changed. Whenever I talked to her, she always seemed happy as a clam. I guess she got the things honestly—more or less—that she had been trying to get dishonestly for all those years.”
“’More or less’?”
“Oh, I think Julia would always have conned people to get what she wanted. But lots of women do that to marry the right man.”
“Did she love him, do you think?”
Barbara frowned. “That might be stretching things a little far. Julia mostly loved herself, but she seemed to be working at being a wife when I talked to her. I think she was trying to live some sort of normal life.” She laughed again. “Mind you, it was normal life with houses in Bel Air and Santa Fe—hot and cold running Mercedes, that sort of thing. Julia could get used to that—for a while, anyway. Nothing and nobody ever lasted very long with Julia. She always had ants in her pants.”