Shadow of A Doubt

by William J. Coughlin

  Squinting a bit harder I saw a band of fabric around her chest with a matching band at her hips.

  “Do come up, Mr. Sloan. I’m lonely and bored. I don’t mind being lonely, but being bored is dreadful.”

  I crunched off the beach and up to the pool. I didn’t recognize her at first, then I got a closer look. Her legs seemed to go on forever, so long and shapely they seemed almost unbelievable. The rest of her wasn’t bad either, except she was so flat-chested that the thin fabric bathing suit top was hardly needed. I thought she looked even better out of clothes than in.

  “Mrs. Johnson,” I said. “I’m flattered you remembered me.”

  “A beautiful man like you? Who wouldn’t.” She laughed.

  I laughed too. It was a ridiculous statement.

  “Is Mr. Johnson around?”

  “Willoby Johnson, owner of half the world, told me he is playing golf today.”

  “Good weather for it.”

  She took off her sunglasses and smiled. “He must play extremely skillfully. He spends hours at it but never gets tan.”

  “Some people have been known to have their best rounds in the bar.”

  “Speaking of bar, would you like a drink, Mr. Sloan?”

  “Just water. By the way, everyone calls me Charley.”

  “Rosa!” Her voice, suddenly powerful, seemed to echo off the waters of the Gulf.

  A young woman in jeans and tank top appeared.

  “Rosa, bring Mr. Sloan some ice water. Oh, and a margarita for me.”

  The girl smiled and disappeared.

  “A lovely girl,” she said. “Out here on the Key we tend to steal each other’s servants. Rosa used to work for Patricia Barkley, the shipping Barkleys, until I stole her away. Money seduces, Charley, and Willoby’s money allows me all kinds of juicy seductions. It’s so much different here than Cleveland.”

  “Cleveland?”

  She giggled. “I was the tallest girl in Cleveland, or at least in my high school. There, on the banks of Lake Erie, I was considered something of a freak. When I moved to New York I found that what was freakish in Cleveland was fashionable in Gotham. I became a model. The gay designers loved my long bones. From there I went to Paris, met Willoby Johnson, one of the richest men in the world, unhorsed my predecessor, became the fourth Mrs. Willoby Johnson, and ended up here in Sheridan Key.”

  “A love story.”

  She snorted. “Sure, just like in the storybooks, with one small exception. Willy isn’t playing golf, Charley. He’s in a dreadful little apartment in Bradenton, being whipped by a chubby young man decked out in leather. He goes twice a week.”

  “C’mon.”

  “It’s true. Poor old Willy is as twisted as a pretzel. It’s the only way he can get his little pecker up anymore. I used to do it. You know, pretend to hurt him, the usual S-and-M crap, but I tired of it. I’m the one who lined up the chubby little specialist, although Willy doesn’t know it.”

  The maid brought the drinks. I sipped mine to make sure it was just water. It was.

  She came away from the margarita with a green-lined lip. Her tongue, a pink snake, provocatively licked it off. “Other than that small variation on a theme, this is an ideal existence. Willy isn’t half bad. He’s in the bag most of the time, but out here that’s almost expected. He’s harmless.”

  She looked at me. “Tell me, Charley, do you like to fuck?”

  “Why don’t you dress up in leather and find out.”

  Her laugh echoed off the water.

  “Mrs. Johnson —”

  “My real name is Wanda. I didn’t like it, so I changed it in New York to CiCi. There’s a lot of Wandas in Cleveland but damn few CiCis. I prefer it.”

  “CiCi, I’m down here trying to build a defense for Angel Harwell. Frankly, how do you figure the situation?”

  “Do I think Angel killed her father? Perhaps she did. She’s an odd duck, that Angel. She’s like a ghost. You see her flitting around, but there’s little chance for conversation. So I have no real way of knowing.” She smiled. “You’re her lawyer. You tell me. Did she do it?”

  “I don’t think she did. As I told you last night, I believe that Harrison Harwell may have killed himself.”

  She seemed genuinely interested. “You really mean it, don’t you?”

  “Did you know him well?”

  “Not as well as he wanted me to, but I knew him as well as anyone else here on the Key. We are, as you saw last night, one happy band of brothers down here. More or less.”

  “I take it he made a pass at you?”

  She sighed. “I’d have been offended if he hadn’t. There’s three sports down here, tennis, golf, and screwing. Frankly, I think when you men get old and fat you slow down in all three.” She smiled. “I suppose that’s why they have senior leagues, eh? And then, some still talk a good game but can’t even play anymore. But I understand that wasn’t Harrison’s problem.”

  “What was the gossip?”

  “You aren’t a hairdresser on the side, are you Charley?”

  “No.”

  “They just love to hear all the juicy stuff too. Anyway, Harrison tried to lay every woman he met. A kind of backroom Tarzan. He did everything but beat on his chest and thump the ground. I thought him amusing, but most people here thought he was a horse’s ass. Anyway, our aging Tarzan made a specialty of pronging the little Hispanic women who worked as household staff. The joke here was that he had a boat and a full-time boat captain to bring them in and take them back.”

  “What was the effect on his wife?”

  She snorted. “Robin? She didn’t care. I think she may have even endorsed the arrangement. Just as I approve of Willy’s little twice weekly so-called golf games.”

  “Are you sure? I understand the police were called there several times.”

  “That was Tarzan. Harrison was the kind who loved to beat on women. There are a few just like him down here. He’d get drunk and take after Robin or Angel. More mouth than fist, like so many drunks.”

  “What about Angel?”

  “I hardly know her. And that’s unusual down here. We are rather inbred and if someone has a pimple on his ass it becomes a topic of mutual concern. But Angel never mixed in.”

  “Maybe she’s shy?”

  She snorted again. “Harrison was convinced she was crazy. Something about her really got under his skin, although we never really knew why. Of course, she was never around down here until a few years ago.”

  “Oh?”

  “When her mother died Harrison shipped her off to some fancy school in Europe. Of course, at that time I hadn’t even met Willy and didn’t know this place or these people even existed. It was a Swiss school, I hear. She finished school in this country. Quite a bright girl, they tell me. But Angel didn’t go on to college. When she began living here full-time, that’s when the fireworks really started. There was some dynamic between father and daughter. What it was I never really knew.”

  “What about Robin? How well do you know her?”

  She smiled. “Tell me, where are you from again?”

  “Detroit, a few miles north of there now.”

  “I’ve never been to Detroit but I’ll bet it’s a lot like Cleveland. Escape while you can, Charley. Robin did. So did almost every woman down here. We, all of us, are numericals.”

  “Numericals?”

  She laughed. “I’m a number four. Robin is a number two, a rather rare thing on Sheridan Key. It’s the number wife you are to the millionaire of your dreams. We are like a sorority. Robin and I are friends. Not close maybe, but friends. Of course, she’s managed to win the big prize.”

  “And that is?”

  “To outlive your rich old husband. It can get dicey, Charley. For instance, Willy may decide to dump me for some young thing who loves to play crack the whip. I would get what I bargained for in the prenuptial agreement but the whip lady would become number five and maybe end up with it all.”

  She stretched, wr
ithing like a boa constrictor, one segment at a time; her moving body seemed to go on forever. “Anyway, Robin, although only a number two, has won it all. Still, she had to put up with a lot. Ten year’s worth. But she can now do whatever she wants with the rest of her life, and in a style Cleopatra would have killed for.”

  She studied the empty margarita glass. “Life is a contest and Robin has grabbed the brass ring.”

  She sat up enough to reach over and stroke my arm. “Are you sweet on her, Charley? I do notice a little note in your voice when you speak her name. Is that why I don’t stand a chance?”

  I laughed. “We knew each other as kids. That’s all.”

  “Why don’t you marry her and move down here? That would be a novelty, having a man as a number two.” She batted her long eyelashes. “Think about it. You’d like it here. Everyone is discreet. You could sneak over and we could play all kinds of delicious games.”

  “Like crack the whip?”

  She grinned. “If that’s what you like, sure. Everything goes down here.”

  *

  I TALKED TO some ether people on the Key. I got the impression that they knew a great deal more than they were willing to tell me. Some were charming about it, some weren’t.

  When I got back I questioned the members of the Harwell’s local staff. Again, they were polite but very guarded in what they said. That was natural, given the circumstances. Loose lips can sink jobs. Still, it seemed to me that their careful reserve went beyond even that.

  The sun was near the horizon by the time I finished up. A swimsuit had been provided in my room so I took a nice solitary swim in the beautiful pool, mostly floating or paddling on my back and enjoying the warm air and the cloudless tropic sky. CiCi Johnson had inspired the thoughts I was having. Being a kept husband, living in such magic splendor, enjoying this tropical paradise, might not be the worst fate imaginable. It was kind of fun to think about.

  After the swim I showered and dressed. Then I had one of the servants take me to Harrison Harwell’s office.

  It was a carbon copy of the one at Pickeral Point, down to the smallest detail, including the identical photos on the wall and the little statue of a Japanese warrior on the desk.

  Both swords, exactly the same as those in Pickeral Point, hung behind the desk.

  I slid the small sword from its scabbard. It was a beautiful thing, as much a work of fine art as an implement of war. I tentatively fingered the blade. It was so sharp a person could literally shave with it.

  Or kill. I put it back.

  The expensive state-of-the-art stereo was an exact duplicate of the one in Michigan There was a tape ready to play so I pressed the button.

  The small room filled with Japanese music, very beautiful, played slowly and mournfully. I didn’t know if they had funeral dirges, in Japan, but to my ear it sounded like one.

  I snapped it off.

  Somehow the Tarzan that CiCi Johnson had described didn’t seem to fit with this room or the music.

  I felt sad. And it wasn’t only because of the tape.

  *

  DINNER, with just the three of us, was strained, like three strangers sharing a table. The conversation was formal and touched topics that were universally neutral.

  Even when I brought up my conversations with their neighbors, editing some of what CiCi had told me, there was no more than polite interest.

  Coffee was served, and then after-dinner drinks. The lure of sweet rum, and the mental ease it promised, whispered to my consciousness, inspired by the tropic night. But I stayed with the coffee.

  “What happens now. Charley?” Robin asked.

  “I go back home and start preparing for trial.”

  Angel studied me. “Which means?”

  “Basically, we have two trials. First, there’s the Walker hearing on the admission of your statement, Angel. I’ll be using several doctors as witnesses. I have to prepare them. We have to show that what the police did, the way they questioned you for hours, amounted to mental and emotional duress so that the statement wasn’t voluntary.”

  “Is that it,” Angel asked, “just doctors?”

  “Not exactly. The prosecution will put the cops on the stand to show you did everything of your own free will. There’s no jury on this one, just the judge. He decides whether they can use the statement against you at trial.”

  “What happens if he says they can?” Angel asked.

  “He might not. Nothing’s sure. I think I can make a hell of a case to keep it out. If he does exclude it, that damages their case against you. Maybe not fatally, but significantly.”

  “And if he keeps it in, what then?” Robin asked.

  I shrugged. “It makes things more difficult. I can still attack the so-called confession at trial, basically using the same witnesses, but that brings in things I’d rather a jury not look at.”

  “Like what?” Angel asked.

  “Your treatment records. That kind of thing can go either way in a case like this. But if your statement gets in, we have to challenge it. There’s no choice. How we do it will depend on the circumstances. Jury trials, for that matter any trial, take unexpected shifts as they go along. You have to adjust to those shifts as they happen. You try to plan for everything that could happen, but nothing ever quite goes the way you expect.”

  “Will I have to testify?” Angel asked.

  “If we keep the statement out, probably not. If we don’t, that’s a judgment we’ll have to make at the time. A good prosecutor can make Mother Theresa look like Jesse James on the stand. It’s always a gamble. We’ll just have to wait to see if it’s worth it.”

  “I wish it would all just go away,” Angel said.

  “Me too,” I responded. “But it won’t.”

  “You’ve done a lot of work on it now, Charley,” Robin said. “What do you think of the chances now?”

  “Good.” I said it, but I didn’t really mean it.

  “I will not go to prison,” Angel said, her tone as quietly determined as it had been before, perhaps even more.

  “It’s my job to see that you don’t,” I replied.

  “We have every confidence in you, Charley,” Robin said. I wondered if she really meant it.

  *

  I COULDN’T sleep. I left the windows open in my bedroom. The air was warm but I wanted to listen to the soft sounds of the tropical night and the whisper of the Gulf.

  I must have dozed off because I didn’t hear her come in. I became aware of her naked body, cool and supple, as she slid in next to me in the bed.

  Her hand slid slowly down from my chest, moving with sensuous slowness past my stomach. I felt her lips on the side of my neck and then her teeth as she bit me softly and painlessly.

  “It’s been a while,” I whispered, reaching for her.

  She said nothing. Her hand did all the communicating necessary.

  “Oh, Robin,” I sighed as I turned.

  There was some moonlight, enough to see that it wasn’t Robin.

  “Surprise, Charley,” Angel said.

  She was as naked as I was.

  I pulled away.

  “Don’t be like that.”

  I almost laughed at myself. It was a scene out of a farce. I jumped out of bed and turned on the bedside lamp.

  She lay there, watching me, knowing the effect she was having. “Are you gay, Charley?”

  “No, Angel. But this just won’t work.”

  “Why not?”

  “Look, in a few short weeks I have to defend you for murder. I have to be objective. That sounds silly to you. It even sounds silly to me. But it’s true nevertheless. If I’m to do a job for you, a good job, I can’t be emotionally involved.”

  She sat up slowly. Again expressionless. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  She stood up. She was magnificent, physically perfect.

  That Mona Lisa smile played briefly on her lips. “You’ll think about this, Charley, you will. And you’ll regr
et it. This chance won’t come again. Are you really sure?”

  “Good night, Angel.”

  “Dream of me, Charley,” she said.

  And then she was gone.

  21

  EVERYTHING WAS GOING MUCH TOO FAST.

  I had forgotten how much detail work was necessary in a major case. The troubling memories of my short stay in Florida receded as I threw myself into preparing for trial. There seemed to be a thousand things to do.

  The days flew by, imitating the hands of a clock that showed the passage of time in old movies, or so it seemed to me.

  And I had my own problems. I needed office help, but getting it hadn’t been easy. I thought for a while that I was working my way through every secretary the temporary service had on its list.

  The first woman they sent me, a middle-aged matron testing returning to work as if she were dipping a tentative toe into a murky pool, suffered from a terrible telephone addiction. She couldn’t stay away from the thing no matter how much other work had to be done. She had a thousand friends to chat up. I called the service, when I finally pried the phone away for a minute, and had them send another candidate.

  The next, a skinny little woman, eyed me as if I was about to rip the clothes off her. My simplest request paralyzed her with wide-eyed fear. She went after one day.

  The third was a young man who frequently broke into tears for no apparent reason. The fourth was a stocky woman with a mashed nose and a golden front tooth who had arms like tree trunks and who I thought might rip my clothes off and perform despicable acts on me.

  The fifth, Donna Massey, was a former medical secretary, fiftyish, who worked with quiet competence and who could spell. She was available only for part-time work, just the mornings, but I grabbed her like a life ring.

  Sidney Sherman’s people continued digging, providing information that sometimes seemed more confusing than helpful. Sidney informed me that the deal for the copy of the prenuptial agreement was about to bear fruit, the kind of fruit that blooms only in the dark of the moon.

  The money I requested had been sent from Florida. It was sufficient to finance the fees and expenses of the expert witnesses who had agreed to appear.