She will kill him.
As simple as that.
In the state of Florida, you do not need a license to purchase and own a gun. Or guns. There is a Colt .45 automatic aboard Toy Boat and there are two guns in the Toland household, one of them a Walther P-38, which Brett keeps in the nightstand on his side of the bed, and the other a .22-caliber Colt Cobra, which Etta keeps in the nightstand on her side. Her gun is fully loaded. Six-shot capacity. She plans to shoot her husband with it, if what Bobby Diaz told her is true.
There is no question about this.
It is a firm decision.
If he is cheating on her, she will kill him.
Toward that end, she dresses for the part before leaving the house. Pulls on a pair of black tights and a black leotard. No bra. Black Nike running shoes. Takes from her closet a black silk cape she wore over a long black gown to the Snowflake Ball last Christmas. Until last Christmas, your husband was having an affair with Lainie Commins. Finds a sassy black slouch hat she bought at Things Amiss on St. Lucy’s Circle not a month ago. Pins her hair up. Puts on the cape and the hat and looks at herself in the mirror-lined wall of the bedroom she may now be sharing with a philanderer. She looks like the Phantom of the Opera. The walnut stock of the Cobra feels cool to her touch. The fifteen-ounce gun is light in her hand. She drops it into a black tote, drops the cassette into it as well, and slings the bag over her shoulder. Gloves. Remembers gloves. Basic black needs basic black gloves. She finds a pair she bought in Milan last September, soft black leather, slips into them. Looks at herself in the mirror again. Yes, she thinks.
Her greenish-black Infiniti J30 is parked in the driveway outside. She loves the name Nissan has given the color: Black Emerald. She fires up the engine.
The time on the dashboard clock is 11:10 P.M.
This time of night, with no traffic on the road, she makes it to the club in ten minutes flat.
Her car is known here. She cannot have it recognized and later remembered, not if what Bobby Diaz told her is true, not if she is going to kill her husband. She plans to confront him with the tape. Ask him why he kept the tape from her. Ask him if it’s true that…
Is it true?
Is it?
Ask him.
She parks the car on the shoulder of the road outside the club. Moves in the shadow of the trees inside the stone wall, black as the night, her hands beginning to sweat inside the buttery-soft silk-lined gloves. The black leather tote bangs against her hip as she works her way toward the parking lot. She is starting across it, out of the shadows, when…
A white Geo.
Parked under the single lamppost at the far end of the lot.
Lainie’s car.
The time is eleven-twenty.
Etta nods bitterly.
Strides determinedly across the lot to the boat. The dock is silent. The boat is silent. As she moves swiftly up the gangway, past the empty cockpit, she hears cries from below, the unmistakable sounds of a woman moaning in ecstasy, hears a woman’s voice now, Give it to me, yes, Lainies voice, yes, do it, do it, and there is no longer any need to ask her husband anything at all.
She will kill him.
She is starting down the ladder leading to the saloon when she hears their voices again. He is reminding her of the tape he now has in his possession. He is telling her the tape can be very damaging to her career. He is suggesting that she might care to drop her infringement suit before all of kiddieland learns about that tape.
———What are you saying, Brett?
———I’m saying drop the suit or I’ll send copies to every company in the field.
———What?
———I think you’re hearing me, Lainie.
———Five minutes ago…
———Yes, but…
———You told me you still loved me!
———I know, but drop the suit.
———You son of a bitch!
———Drop the suit, Lainie.
Etta almost loses her resolve. If he lured Lainie to the boat only to threaten her with exposure if she didn’t…
In which case, why did he make love to her?
In which case, why did he tell her he still loved her?
———You told me you still loved me!
———I know, but drop the suit.
She hears more angry words from Lainie, hears her shouting she’ll never drop the suit now, go to Ideal, go to Mattel, go to hell, you rotten bastard, and realizes she’s about to leave the stateroom, her voice is at the stateroom door, she is hurling these last words at him as she storms out. Etta knows this boat, knows every corner of it, every curve. There is a head adjacent to the saloon, and she slips into that now, closes the door swiftly behind her, and listens, waiting.
Her wristwatch reads eleven-thirty.
There are footfalls rushing past in the passageway outside, hurried footfalls moving through the saloon and onto the ladder leading above. The gangway creaks under Lainie’s weight as she goes ashore. Etta stands still and silent behind the bathroom door, listening for the sound of a car starting, but she hears nothing. Has she gone? Has she really gone? She waits.
Her watch reads eleven thirty-five.
At last, she opens the door.
From the stateroom at the far end of the passageway, she can hear the sound of the shower running. Good, she’ll do a Psycho on him, kill him in the fucking shower. Her hand dips into the shoulder bag. Her fingers find the Cobra. Tighten around the walnut stock. She comes down the passageway. The stateroom door is open. The shower is still running. She comes stealthily into the room. Kill him in the shower, she is thinking. And sees several things on the bedside table. Brett’s side of the bed. Sees all these things in the very next instant.
Sees the time on the digital bedside clock.
11:38.
Sees an empty black vinyl cassette holder.
Idle Hands.
Sees a woman’s scarf lying on one of the upholstered stateroom chairs.
Blue scarf, red-anchor design.
And sees Brett’s pistol.
Everything suddenly comes into clear, sharp focus.
She smiles.
Actually smiles.
And drops the Cobra back into the tote.
The digital clock reads 11:39.
The shower stops.
She moves swiftly to the side of the bed, picks up the forty-five in her gloved right hand. The bathroom door opens. She turns toward it. Brett is wearing only a towel. His eyes open wide in surprise.
“Etta?” he said. “What…?”
Her first shot misses him.
The next two take him in the face.
The digital clock on the bedside table reads 11:40.
Before she leaves the boat, she slips the cassette into its holder, carries it across the room to the bookshelves holding similar cassettes and places it there in plain view. Let them find it, she thinks. Let them link it to Lainie’s scarf and conclude she was here to get the tape from him. Let them link it with this, she thinks, and tosses the forty-five onto the bed. She looks down at Brett where he lies bleeding on the carpet, the towel open now, his penis looking shriveled and shrunken and small.
Good, she thinks, and leaves the boat.
She drives home in twelve minutes.
Gets there at eleven fifty-five.
Changes her clothes.
Leaves the house again at midnight.
Is back at the club again by twelve-sixteen.
Which is when she discovers her husband’s body.
“She told you all this, huh?” Folger asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I wouldn’t have brought her here otherwise.”
“Too bad she wouldn’t repeat it,” Skye said.
“Too bad,” I said.
“What do you want from us, Matthew?”
“Drop the charges against my client…”
“No way.”
“…pending full investigation of Etta Toland.�
��
“Can’t do that,” Folger said, shaking his head.
“Why not?”
“Make us a laughingstock,” Skye said.
“And suppose we come up empty?” Folger said.
“How can you?” I said. “Get a warrant to search her closets. The night watchman saw someone dressed in black…”
“She may have burned the clothes by now,” Skye said.
“Subpoena her phone bills. In her deposition, she told me she called the boat at eleven forty-five, and got to the club at twelve-sixteen. Instead, she really placed the call…”
“How does that prove she killed him?” Folger asked.
“It proves she’s a liar.”
“So? You never lie?”
“Pete, I’ve got her calling the boat at ten to eleven, and leaving the house ten minutes later. Dressed to kill, I might…”
“No,” Skye said. “The phone bills may show when she called the boat, but they won’t show when she left the house. That’s all in your head so far.”
“It’s in her head, too, Skye.”
“If it is, she’s not letting anybody else in there.”
“How do you see the timetable?” Folger said.
“Full cast?”
“A to Z.”
“From the top?”
“From minute one.”
I took a lined yellow legal-sized pad from the top drawer of my desk. I picked up a pencil and began writing.
9:00 PM: Bobby Diaz calls Toland.
“Toland tells him to buzz off,” I said. “Says he doesn’t need the tape.”
9:05 PM: Toland calls Lainie to invite her to the boat.
“He called her from home,” I said. “Not from the boat as Etta later claimed.”
“Why would she lie about that?”
“She lied about everything, Skye. She killed him.”
“So far, I have no evidence of that. Let’s see the rest of the timetable.”
I began writing again.
9:10 PM: Diaz leaves for Fatback Key.
9:15 PM: Toland leaves for the boat.
9:30 PM: Toland arrives at the boat. Lainie leaves for the boat.
10:00 PM: Lainie arrives at the boat. Diaz arrives at the Toland house.
10:45 PM: Werner spots Lainie and Toland on the boat. Etta finds the video cassette in the Toland safe. Lainie and Brett move to the boat’s bedroom.
10:50 PM: Diaz leaves the Toland house. Etta calls the boat, gets no answer.
11:00 PM: Etta leaves for the boat.
“Here’s where it begins to get speculative,” Skye said. “Bear with me,” I said.
“None of this jibes with the deposition you took on the eighteenth,” Folger said.
“She was lying under oath, Pete.”
11:10 PM: Etta arrives at the club, parks on roadside shoulder.
11:15 PM: Etta spots Lainie’s parked Geo. Night watchman sees Etta boarding the boat.
11:20 PM: Etta discovers Brett and Lainie in bed together.
11:30 PM: Lainie leaves the boat. Witnesses report seeing car parked on road.
11:35 PM: Etta starts for stateroom.
11:38 PM: Etta enters stateroom.
11:39 PM: Brett comes oat of shower.
11:40 PM: Etta shoots him. Bannermans hear shots on Toland boat.
11:43 PM: Etta heads home.
11:55 PM: Etta arrives home, changes clothes.
12:00 AM: Etta leaves for boat again.
12:16 AM: Etta, arrives at boat, “discovers” body.
12:20 AM: Etta calls the police.
“The rest of her story is true,” I said.
“I ask you again, Matthew. What do you want us to do?”
“You know what he wants,” Frank said. “He wants you to stay all proceedings until you further investigate Etta Toland. That’s what he wants.”
“Show me a way out,” Skye said.
“You’ve got the black clothes…”
“Maybe.”
“…and a witness who saw her going aboard twenty-five minutes before the murder,” Frank said. “You’ve got her lying about Brett calling Lainie from the boat instead of the house, where she overheard the call. “You’ve also got her lying about when she herself called the boat. “You’ve got witnesses who saw a dark, expensive car parked on Silver Creek Road, which is where she herself told Matthew she…”
“What she told Matthew doesn’t interest me!”
“She says she didn’t get to the club till twelve-sixteen. Witnesses saw this dark, expensive car between eleven-thirty and midnight. Etta drives a dark green Infiniti. That puts her at the club while the murders…”
“You call that reliable?” Folger asked. “A half-hour time span?”
“Gentlemen, I need proof,” Skye said. “You can’t expect me to…”
“Will tire tracks do?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Matching tire tracks?”
“Do you have matching tire tracks?”
“I have a cast of the track found where the witnesses say they saw the car.”
“Does the track match the tires on Etta Toland’s car?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Well, when you do know…”
“You can find out quicker than I can, Skye.”
“Oh? How can…?”
“The police department’s been sitting on the cast since Wednesday.”
“Who’s got it?”
“Nick Alston.”
“Find him,” Skye snapped.
Folger went to the phone.
“If we get a match…” I said.
“You get a stay,” Skye said.
We got a match.
Nick Alston reported that he’d heard from the FBI late that afternoon, and that the tire in question was a Toyo A05 all-season, steel-belted radial tire in size P215/60R15 manufactured by Toyo Tire and Rubber Company Ltd. as standard factory-issued equipment on Nissan’s Infiniti J30 luxury sedan—the car Etta Toland drove.
Pete Folger merely asked for a court order to seize the car.
The rest was a piece of cake.
Patricia, I said, there are things we have to talk about. I know I have a reputation for being a sensitive, understanding, violin-playing, macho-loathing male, but I have to tell you I learned a great many things about myself after my accident—if you can call getting shot an accident—and I’m not sure the person who got out of that hospital bed is the same person who…no, please let me finish.
To begin with, I no longer have any patience with stupidity. I cannot abide stupid people. Nor can I abide amateurs. I’m not saying you’re a dumb amateur, don’t misunderstand me. In fact, I respect and admire you as a highly intelligent professional, which is really the only sort of woman I’ve ever been involved with…well, that’s not entirely true, I have known some pretty dumb broads, to tell the truth, and if you take exception to the use of that word, I can tell you here and now I don’t give a damn. Anyway, that was in another country, and the wench is dead, so to speak. That was then and this is now, and what we’re talking about, Patricia, is now.
So if I seem impatient with the trivia of life and living, it’s because I was in that valley, Patricia, I was walking in the valley of the shadow of death, and there was no one walking beside me, no one who’d gladly bear the cross of extinction for me. I wandered all alone in that valley with the clouds gathering black on the horizon, I came this close, Patricia, and I don’t ever want to come that close again. Ever.
So, yes, I may be cranky and grouchy these days, I may be a fucking grizzly, I may be short-tempered with all the ignorant, insolent, intolerant, self-centered, self-righteous, abusive, oblivious, suspicious, distrustful, blithely unaware people who would enjoy nothing better than to impose their narrow views and beliefs upon me, who would love to limit my right to choose a path appropriate to my needs and my wishes—which are very strong these days, my needs and wishes, I can tell you that, Patricia, very str
ong. I see things a lot more clearly now, Patricia. Getting shot did that to me. Coming close did that. I don’t care who marches in the St. Patrick’s Day parade. I just don’t want to march in any parade but my own.
Which brings me to what I’ve been trying to express for the past four months now, ever since I got out of the hospital, but which for a lawyer who’s been called glib at times, I’ve had a difficult time putting into words. I have to tell you I’ve been noticing other women, Patricia…no, please, no objections, counselor, let me finish, please. I’ve been noticing their legs and their thighs and their breasts, I sound like someone ordering a bucket of fried chicken, I know. And I know it’s politically incorrect and possibly sexist to take notice of a woman’s parts, but I really don’t care about political correctness anymore, I don’t care about any labels anymore. In fact, I find them boring. In fact, they piss me off.
A lot of things piss me off these days.
My own mortality pisses me off.
Patricia…
What I’m trying to say…
I’m okay now.
I’ve been okay for the past four months.
I want to make love to you.
I want you to stop feeling I’m not quite whole, I want you to stop thinking of me as an invalid. I was there, Patricia, but I’m back.
I’m here now.
I’m alive.
Can we start again?
Please?
“Okay,” she said.
On Monday, the twenty-fifth of September, a hot, sunny, sticky Rosh Hashanah morning, Judge Anthony Santos handed down his decision in the Commins v. Toyland, Toyland copyright, trademark, and trade dress infringement action. It read in part:
Since the early 1900s, millions of teddy bears have been sold worldwide by thousands of different manufacturers. Teddy bears trace their name to Theodore “Teddy” Roosevelt, the 26th president of the United States.
Shortly before Christmas in the year 1902, the President took his family away from Washington on a four-day bear-hunting trip in the state of Mississippi. Although he was a skilled hunter, his fortunes ran against him, and the only bear he had an opportunity to shoot was a cub trapped in a tree. He chose not to take advantage of the poor frightened creature.
This episode was widely reported and became the basis of a cartoon by Clifford K. Berryman, which appeared in the Washington Post. Berryman later drew the bear in many other cartoons, utilizing the cuddly little cub as a symbol for the President. It was not long before an enterprising toy manufacturer brought out a stuffed toy in the cub’s image. Dubbed the “Teddy” bear, after the President, it immediately captured the public imagination.
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