Room for Doubt

by Nancy Cole Silverman

  “I’d be very grateful. And, like I said Sunday night, it might be good for people to hear your side. I can help you do that.”

  “Save it, Ms. Childs. You’re overselling. I’ve been listening to your station. I’ve heard what your listeners are saying about Marcus and me. How they think I killed him in a jealous rage. Believe me, if they only knew what—” Andrea stopped herself short and exhaled, as though she’d been debating that very thought. Then said, “If I do agree to speak with you on the air, I’ve got a few conditions.”

  “What do you need?”

  Andrea Reddings wasn’t exactly a sympathetic figure. Her voice alone was off-putting, harsh, and menacing. But after hearing this morning’s listeners rant on about her husband’s underhanded business dealings and his numerous affairs, part of me pitied the woman. It had to be tough to live such a public life, where everything she did was subject to the public’s scrutiny.

  “I’d like you to remind your listeners that Marcus and I were very much together. The story in The Times this morning focused on Marcus’ affair with Ms. Yablonski and referred to her apartment as their love nest. That’s a lie. As I already told you, Marcus and I had mended our relationship, and the proceedings for our divorce had been withdrawn from the court.”

  “I can do that.”

  “And, I’d like to propose a few questions of my own. Things I think your listeners might find of interest. If you can promise me that, Ms. Childs, I’d be happy to answer a few questions. And if not—”

  “Not a problem. You’ve got it.” I answered quickly. I didn’t want to give Andrea a chance to say anything else. I was afraid she would change her mind. I told her not to go anywhere. That I’d call her back in the next couple of minutes. Then I hung up the phone and ran down the hallway to the newsroom.

  “Reddings is a go!” I yelled at Tyler as I entered his office, my heart beating like a mix-master. I leaned up against the door and tried to catch my breath. I couldn’t believe the opportunity. Twice in forty-eight hours I’d spoken with Andrea Reddings, and now I was about to have her on the air again. Nobody in LA had had such luck.

  Fifteen minutes later, I took a seat between Kit and Carson in the studio and immediately felt as though I had entered a man cave. Sports memorabilia was everywhere. Baseball caps, team towels, and a copy of KNST’s billboard, with the words Fake Right/Fake Left, splashed across a tightly framed close-up of a couple Double-D’s in a bikini top, hung on the wall behind the console. All of which was very fitting for two former college football jocks turned broadcasters. Fate had sidelined Kit, a once hopeful Raider linebacker, with a knee injury, and Carson had never been big enough or fast enough for the pros. But together they talked enough smack with listeners about news and sports that Tyler had given them a shot at the morning show.

  Kit set up the interview, his voice hard and fast like he was calling a game.

  “All right, fans. You’ve been listening to this morning’s top story. And we’ve been listening to you. We’ve heard the accusations. The conspiracy theories. Marcus Reddings is dead. Possibly murdered. And now, coming up next, we’ve got the wife, Andrea Reddings, in an exclusive interview with KNST’s late-night news host Carol Childs. Stay tuned.”

  Kit cut his mic and addressed Carson, ignoring me completely. The two were more interested in returning to a private conversation about the upcoming bowl game for Super Sunday. When we returned, Carson introduced me.

  I leaned forward and welcomed Andrea to the show. I reminded those listening that I’d spoken with her on my show Sunday night.

  “At that time, Ms. Reddings, you mentioned you and your husband had stopped divorce proceedings and—”

  “And we were living together, as husband and wife. Which is why I take great exception to the article in the Times this morning describing Marcus’ apartment with Ms. Yablonski as their love nest.”

  “I can imagine that was quite upsetting.”

  “The truth is, Ms. Yablonski is nothing but a money-hungry vixen. That apartment was only part of what she had her claws into. And while your listeners’ recent comments concerning Marcus’ death appear to have cast suspicion upon me, I’d like to introduce an item of my own I believe they’ll find equally as compelling.”

  “That’s fair. We’re listening.”

  “My attorney informed me this morning that Ms. Yablonski had recently taken out a life insurance policy on my husband for seven million dollars, naming herself as the beneficiary.”

  I gagged. Seven million?

  “How is that even possible? He was married to you.”

  “Anything’s possible, Ms. Childs. The question is, is it legal? It’s called an insurable interest, and my attorneys are checking into the matter now. Ms. Yablonski is a lot of things, but a dummy she’s not. She claims Marcus was paying her mortgage and supporting her. I’m quite sure whatever papers Marcus signed, he had no idea what he was doing.”

  “And you’re convinced this policy has something to do with your husband’s murder?”

  “I believe Ms. Yablonski was upset when she heard Marcus and I had reconciled. The girl thought Marcus would marry her. And she knew if Marcus died before that happened, she’d lose everything. The apartment. Her fancy cars. Not to mention her monthly income. I suspect the insurance policy was a last-ditch effort on her part to protect what gifts Marcus had given her.”

  “I don’t understand. Were the gifts in question?”

  “Everything Marcus and I own is in a trust. He couldn’t have violated that trust without my consent. The attorneys will no doubt fight it out, but it’s my understanding any monies he used to purchase anything—gifts or otherwise—is essentially mine.”

  “And you think this new insurance policy is evidence that Ms. Yablonski may have had something to do with your husband’s death?”

  “Carol, what I want your listeners to understand is that I didn’t kill my husband. I was home when the police came by to inform me of his death. And my butler can verify I never left my home that night. And, frankly, I don’t imagine Ms. Yablonski killed him either, at least not personally. I doubt she’d have the nerve for it, much less the strength to push him off the balcony of her apartment. Marcus was a big man. He might have been old, but he wasn’t frail. But there are other ways in which she could’ve arranged for him to fall.”

  “Are you saying Ms. Yablonski may have hired someone?”

  “I could certainly understand it. Marcus was a very powerful, attractive, and exasperating man. He had a way of driving a woman crazy. I’m not proud to say I once considered taking out a contract on him myself. I even went so far as to buy a gun. But a woman I had gone to for counseling, and who I thought might be persuaded to do such a thing, refused.”

  “You sound like you’ve been through a lot.”

  “Enough so I was going to do it myself. But thankfully, a close friend talked me out of it.”

  A close friend? I wanted to ask but didn’t dare. Not on the air. Instead, I said, “And still you stuck with him all those years.”

  “It wasn’t exactly a bed of roses. Marriages have their ups and downs. But Marcus and I, we were on the up. As far as Ms. Yablonski goes, I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before the police find her, and when they do, we’ll have her story. Then let’s see who your listeners think is responsible for my husband’s death.”

  Kit signaled me we had sixty seconds.

  I asked Andrea if she had one more thing she wanted to say. “Only that I didn’t kill my husband. He wasn’t perfect, but I understood him, and in what may sound very strange to some, I still loved him.” I wrapped the interview with Andrea’s final statement and signed off, then left the studio and hurried back to my office. I wanted to call Chase.

  If Chase was the close friend who had stopped Andrea from murdering her husband, I wanted to know why he hadn’t told me. He must have be
en waiting by the phone. He picked up before I even heard a ring.

  “Hey, Carol. Good interview. I was listening—”

  “Why didn’t you tell me Andrea tried to kill her husband?”

  “Hold on there, Reporter Girl. That was a long time ago and—”

  “And what? You didn’t think it was important?” I picked up a pencil and began scratching a note to myself. I wanted to ask Andrea more about the woman who had counseled her.

  “Andrea was hardly the first woman who found out her husband was cheating on her and wanted to kill him. It’s not an unusual reaction.”

  I bit down hard on the pencil to keep from screaming. “But she didn’t just try to kill her husband, Chase, she tried to hire someone to do it for her. A woman. And not just any woman, but a woman who counseled her and who she thought might be the type of person to do such a thing. What if there’s a connection?”

  “Not every person who’s ever been approached about a contract slaying’s connected. It’s not like there’s a 1-800 number for it.”

  I tossed my pencil across the desk. The man was driving me nuts. “I don’t agree. I think Andrea knows Mustang Sally, and I think at one time Andrea wanted Sally to murder her husband for her.”

  “Carol, hold on. I don’t know anything about Andrea ever trying to arrange a hit on her husband. Yes, she bought a gun. She told me she wanted to shoot him, but I talked her out of it. And far as Mustang Sally goes, if she knew her back then, she’s never mentioned her to me or anything about a contract. But go ahead and ask her yourself.”

  “Oh, believe me, I plan to.”

  CHAPTER 25

  After hanging up on Chase, I tried Andrea Reddings’ number. The call went immediately to voicemail, and I left a message. But I didn’t hold out a lot of hope she’d return my call. Andrea didn’t strike me as the type of woman who’d avail herself to idle chitchat. She had allowed me to use her to get what word she wanted out, but until she needed me again, I doubted I’d hear back.

  Even so, I must have checked my voicemail a dozen times, running back between news breaks in the studio to my office to see if just maybe Andrea Reddings had returned my call. She hadn’t. But later that afternoon, when I was in the studio, a story came across the wire that so surprised me I nearly stumbled in my delivery.

  This just in…Police have arrested A-Ava…Ava Yablonski, the former girlfriend of LA Stars owner Marcus Reddings, as she waited to board a private jet at an airport in Palm Springs this afternoon. Also taken in for questioning was her travel companion, Ralph Watson, a maintenance man for the apartment building where Ms. Yablonski lives. The two have been the subject of a massive search surrounding the murder of Marcus Reddings.

  As soon as I finished my broadcast, I returned to my office and placed the call. If the story of Ava Yablonski’s arrest was already on the newswire, I knew the police would have also alerted Ms. Reddings. And this time, I was confident she would want to talk.

  A youthful female voice answered. Her demeanor was most professional. I assumed her to be an assistant.

  “Reddings’ residence. May I ask who’s calling, please?”

  I introduced myself and explained I was calling from KNST News and Sports Talk radio, and Ms. Reddings and I had talked earlier that morning.

  “Please allow me to see if Ms. Reddings is available.”

  There was a long silence before Andrea came on the line.

  “You don’t give up easily, Ms. Childs. I assume you’ve called back to ask if I’ve heard the news?”

  “I have, and I was hoping I might be able to get a statement from you.”

  “And what would you like me to say? That I’m not surprised? I gave you that much this morning.”

  “How about something else? Ralph Watson, maybe. He worked as a maintenance man for the apartment building where Ava Yablonski lived, a building you and your husband own. Do you think she hired him to push your husband off the balcony?”

  “Ms. Childs, I don’t believe the police make arrests without some form of evidence.”

  “Then you do believe there’s a connection?”

  “Would it surprise you to know I’ve had evidence all along that shows Ava Yablonski has been involved with Ralph Watson while simultaneously carrying on an affair with my husband?”

  I was beginning to think there wasn’t much Andrea Reddings didn’t know about her husband or his affairs. But I decided to keep that to myself.

  “How?” I asked. “How did you know?”

  I imagined her grinning confidently with the phone to her ear.

  “I had the security tapes from outside Ms. Yablonski’s apartment pulled. The tapes show that Mr. Watson made numerous visits—all hours of the day—to the apartment when Ms. Yablonski was home, and again the day Marcus was murdered. They show him entering her apartment shortly before Marcus arrived. And believe me, there were no maintenance reports filed to back up any of these visits. I’m quite certain the police will find he was lying in wait.”

  “That sounds pretty damning.”

  “I’m not a fool, Ms. Childs. When you have as much to protect as I do, you cover your bases. Now, unless there’s something else you called to ask about, I’m afraid I’m very busy. I’ve my husband’s memorial to plan.”

  “Actually, Ms. Reddings, there is.” I cleared my throat and went for it. “I was hoping we might talk about something else or someone really. Someone I think you might know or did know in the past.”

  “And whom might that be?”

  “The woman you said you tried to contract to kill your husband.”

  “You mean Sally?”

  My hand gripped the receiver so tight I thought I might break it. “You know her?”

  “Ms. Childs, I’m hardly prepared to have this conversation on the phone. But if it’ll help to convince your listeners I’m not responsible for my husband’s death, perhaps you’d like to come by, and we can chat quietly about my past. Inquisitive as you are, I doubt you’ll have any trouble finding the address.”

  The address for the Reddings’ residence was a matter a public record. Not at all difficult to find. In addition to its listing with the Los Angeles County Recorder’s Office, it was on every Star Sighting Map in LA, Marcus Reddings, owner of the LA Stars. What made it unique, however, was that there were addresses in Los Angeles for the rich and famous, and then there are addresses. By that, I meant some of them were beyond believable. The Reddings’ estate, located just north of Beverly Hills, was in an area known as Billionaire’s Row. And the home itself, if one could call it that, was more like an eighteenth-century French chateau, hidden behind twenty-foot, ivy-covered walls. Decorative iron gates with a coat of arms featuring an angry lion made it more like an embassy than a private residence. Miraculously, the gates swung open, as though some magic eye knew who I was and had seen me approach.

  Inside the gates, I parked my Jeep in the circular drive between what I guessed to be an eighteenth-century fountain with a life-sized statue of Venus de Milo surrounded by jets of spewing water and a huge stone gabled entry to the front door. Obviously, the Reddings weren’t concerned about the California drought. I rang the bell. A soft mellow tone, like elegant Tibetan wind chimes, sounded, and moments later, an elderly gentleman answered. He looked like he could have come directly from central casting, gray hair and dressed in a three-piece suit with tails. I didn’t think people still had butlers, but there was no denying his position.

  Without waiting for me to introduce myself, I was asked to follow him. We walked down a long vaulted corridor with statues and works of art and into the parlor, a stately looking room with an ornate wood ceiling, paned-glass windows, and paneled walls. I had once visited Hearst Castle and learned that William Randolph Hearst had raided Europe’s best castles to furnish his home. I wondered if the Reddings had done the same.

  “Would you
be in need of anything, Ms. Childs? Coffee? Tea?”

  “No,” I said. “But thank you.”

  He nodded politely and said Ms. Reddings would be along shortly before leaving the room.

  I took a seat in one of the wingback chairs in front of a large, pane glass window overlooking a well-manicured backyard with another fountain and more marble statues and waited. On the table beside me, a small antique clock began to chime. Three p.m. It wasn’t more than six or seven inches high and no bigger than the palm of my hand, but with its delicate cloisonné finish and gold enamel leafing, it was too stunning to resist. I picked it up. The inscription on the bottom read, To Andrea, love Marcus, for old times’ sake.

  “Nice, isn’t it?” Andrea entered the room from behind me.

  Startled, I placed the clock back on the table and started to stand.

  “Please, don’t. Sit.” She waved a thin arm above her head as she approached. Her hair, swept up in a French twist like a silver helmet, didn’t move.

  In person, Ms. Reddings was older and smaller than I expected. Reed-thin with crepe paper skin. She walked with a slight bend, her shoulders slightly forward, but with the steely determination of a woman not to be messed with.

  “That little bauble there,” she said, pointing to the clock on the table, “was a gift from Marcus, for our tenth anniversary. The man could be very generous when it suited him. Particularly when he was feeling guilty. Let that be a lesson to you. You should always keep your men feeling guilty.”

  I didn’t say anything.