Death by Surprise

by Carolyn Hart

  So he found her.

  “It was . . . sickening. I kept staring at her face. It was awful.”

  I knew that. I had seen her, too, her face blotched and swollen, the tongue protruding.

  “I looked down,” and there was growing horror in his voice, “I looked at her throat and I could see how she was strangled and I couldn’t believe it. I thought I was losing my mind.”

  I waited and I could swear his horror was genuine.

  “She was strangled with my scarf. With the white silk scarf Megan gave me for Christmas last year.”

  “Oh Kenneth . . .”

  I started to say that was impossible but I knew from his face that it was true.

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  He nodded heavily. “It was custom made. My initials are in the lower right hand corner in gold thread. I know it’s crazy, but it’s true. It’s my scarf and I swear to God that I didn’t kill her.”

  I stared at him in growing shock for there had been no scarf when I found her.

  “Kenneth, oh my God, did you take the scarf?”

  “Yes.”

  I had a sudden dreadful picture of Kenneth bending over that inert sprawled body, desperately working on the soft silk, trying to get it loose from that swollen neck. It was his breathing, frantic with haste and fear, we heard on the recorder.

  “Oh Kenneth, you shouldn’t have done that.” Because I could see no way that anyone, Farris or a jury, would ever believe Kenneth was innocent.

  “I know. But if I’d left it . . . hell, there wasn’t any way anybody would believe me then, either. I couldn’t leave it there. I was sure it would convict me. I kept trying to get it off and it was awful. My hands kept touching her skin and she was still warm. I thought I was going to be sick. I had to yank it finally . . . and her hair shook . . .”

  But taking the scarf hadn’t helped him. It had made it worse.

  “Ferris found the scarf in your trunk?”

  “Yeah.”

  I stared at Kenneth.

  “I didn’t do it. I know it looks bad, but I didn’t do it.”

  It didn’t look bad. It looked impossible. How had that scarf come into the possession of the murderer?

  “Had you ever been to her apartment before?”

  “Never.”

  “Had she ever come to your office?”

  “Yes, but just once. That first visit, about six weeks ago.” He shook his head. “That won’t help. I had the scarf Monday.”

  On Monday and this was Wednesday night. No, actually now it was early Thursday morning.

  Kenneth frowned in concentration. “That’s the last day I remember seeing it. It was foggy Monday morning. Megan got my all-weather coat out of the closet and pulled the scarf down from a hook.”

  He had had a touch of a sore throat. Megan had looped the scarf around his neck, tucked it inside his coat. To keep him warm. “You have a lot of speeches to make, Kenneth. You can’t afford to get sick.” He had laughed. He’d no intention of getting sick. The campaign was taking shape and he felt confident now he could beat Greg Garrison. He didn’t need the scarf but he took it because Megan wanted him to.

  “Monday was the last day you wore it?”

  Kenneth nodded.

  Monday. That was the day we met at Kenneth’s office to dissolve the Cochran-Carlisle trust and at Grace’s that evening to discuss how we could face down Francine Boutelle.

  It was cold in that dingy, ill-lighted room on the third floor of the La Luz County Jail, but the chill of the room didn’t account for the icy tingle in my mind.

  Kenneth and I both understood the implication.

  “When did you miss it on Monday?”

  “I wore it to the office. I didn’t go out for lunch because I was too busy getting ready for the meeting. I had a sandwich at my desk. That evening, Megan met me at the office and we drove to Grace’s. I know I didn’t wear it, but it could have been in my coat pocket. I usually fold it and stuff it in my coat pocket. It was fairly warm when we left the office so I didn’t think of it. That night, when we started home from your mother’s, there was a cold breeze. I remember standing in the foyer and reaching into the pocket of my coat. It wasn’t there. I was kind of surprised but I thought it must have dropped out onto the floor of the coat closet at the office. I didn’t think of it again. Until tonight.”

  The scarf could have been taken from Kenneth’s coat pocket by anyone at his office or by anyone at Grace’s. That number included, of course, quite a few people with no love for Francine Boutelle.

  The scarf made all the difference. To Chief Farris, it proved Kenneth’s guilt. To me, it suggested that someone had decided in advance to kill Francine. Someone who thought ahead. Someone with very little regard for Kenneth.

  I could have taken the scarf. So could Travis or Edmond, Priscilla or Grace. So could Edmond’s wife, Sue, or Travis’ wife, Lorraine.

  A white silk scarf. The unnecessary accoutrement of a rich man. A white silk circle around the Carlisle family.

  I should have expected it, but the circus atmosphere in the corridor outside the courtroom next morning caught me by surprise. TV and still cameramen jostled for the best shot. Local, state, and wire reporters surrounded Kenneth and me and Kenneth’s police escort when we stepped off the elevator on our way to the arraignment.

  “Hey, Carlisle, look this way.”

  “C’mon, man, hold your head up, that’s a way.”

  “Did you kill her, Carlisle?”

  “What’s the word on the race, Carlisle? Will you be stepping down as the nominee?”

  “Hey, Carlisle, was Boutelle your girlfriend? What’s the story, man?”

  For a man accustomed to deference, it must have been difficult. Kenneth stopped at the doorway to the courtroom and held up his hand. In an instant it was quiet, the portable mikes held up.

  “I intend to plead not guilty. If I am released on bail, I will hold a news conference this afternoon. If I am denied bail, I will release a statement through my attorney.”

  Then he pushed on into the courtroom.

  For a man with his back to the wall, it wasn’t a bad effort. I was busy thinking about the promised statement as we walked to the defense table. I had drafted a lot of documents in my five years of practice, but I didn’t have any idea how to draft a statement to the press.

  Judge Foley drew the arraignment. He was an old friend of Dad’s but he looked down at us with no change of expression when I stood to speak for the defendant. I really didn’t know what to expect. Sometimes a murder defendant is released on bail. It depends a lot upon the judge, the defendant and the circumstances of the crime. Nobody is going to let loose an axe murderer or sex deviate. On the other hand, if the defendant is a stable member of the community and isn’t considered a danger to the public, bail will be set.

  Judge Foley accepted the charge, received Kenneth’s plea of not guilty, listened to the assistant DA’s request for a half-million dollar bond. I immediately requested a reduction. Judge Foley impassively studied the notes he had made then, brusquely, set bail at $100,000 and bound Kenneth over for trial on the next docket. I had already made arrangements with a bail bondsman should bail be granted.

  On the way out of the courtroom, the reporters surrounded us and it was bedlam again. I felt an instant of panic, then a strong hand gripped my elbow.

  “This way, K.C. I have a car waiting downstairs.”

  Harry Nichols shouldered us through the crowd.

  An angry reporter yelled, “Hey, Nichols, what do you think you’re doing? Setting up some kind of exclusive for The Beacon? Carlisle will regret it if . . .”

  “You’ve got your story for now,” Nichols replied brusquely. “The same story I’ve got. Carlisle’s pleaded not guilty and he’ll hold a news conference this afternoon.”

  I realized that Harry must have been near at hand during the turmoil when Kenneth spoke out before we entered the courtroom. Now Harry held the reporters and p
hotographers at bay while we hurried into the small private elevator used by the judges. It was only a moment’s respite, though. Some of the harder and leaner media types were waiting for us at ground level, but Harry knew how to handle them.

  “Four o’clock, folks. At Carlisle’s office.”

  A black Mercedes with a chauffeur waited, motor running. Harry opened the front door for Kenneth, and he and I slid into the back seat.

  As the car pulled away, Kenneth looked back at us, bewildered.

  “You’re Harry Nichols, aren’t you?” Kenneth asked.

  “Right.”

  Kenneth looked wary and totally puzzled. “You’ve always gone out of your way to fight me.”

  Harry nodded, his face forbidding. “Right. I may do so in the future. But I’ve done some checking, Mr. Carlisle, on Francine Boutelle. She worked for an LA paper at one time. She was fired because she tried to get money for not running a story. I don’t like that. I like a lot less the idea that she was setting up The Beacon with her letter to me. Nobody determines what The Beacon will run except me.” Harry looked at me. “I’ve seen the way your cousin has come to your defense. I don’t know whether you are guilty or innocent, but I like loyalty.” Harry smiled and he looked years younger and quite charming. “Besides, if this all washes out and you’re exonerated, The Beacon will probably profit from an exclusive interview.”

  Kenneth managed a slight smile at that. “Believe me, I’ll be glad to give you one, under those circumstances.” He looked out of the front window. “Where are we going?”

  “I’ve asked Ed to take us to your house. Is that all right?” Nichols asked.

  “Yes,” Kenneth said wearily. “Yes. I’d like to go home.”

  When we reached Kenneth’s drive and pulled into it, the front door opened. Megan stood on the steps, waiting.

  Kenneth opened the door and was out before the car stopped. Then he stopped and looked up toward Megan.

  “Kenneth,” she cried, “oh Kenneth,” and she ran down the steps and into his arms.

  “Go on,” Harry told the chauffeur and the Mercedes glided quietly out of the drive.

  We sat back against the soft comfortable upholstery. I was suddenly tired, so tired.

  “Poor devil,” Harry said abruptly.

  The tone of pity in his voice frightened me.

  Harry looked at me soberly. “He hasn’t got a chance, K.C.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Farris has some solid evidence. I don’t know what it is, but the rumor is out that it’s solid gold.”

  The scarf, of course.

  “I know what it is.”

  I told him and suddenly the pity in his eyes was for me. “Jesus, K.C.”

  “He didn’t do it. I don’t care how it looks, Harry. To me that scarf proves the crime was premeditated.” I told him when Kenneth had last seen the scarf and who could have had access to it.

  I could tell that Harry thought I was grasping at straws.

  “I’m afraid the scarf can’t be explained away, but you could be right. You could be. Anyway, I’ve picked up some information that might be helpful to you. I thought we might stop for lunch at El Pajarito and I’ll tell you what I’ve found out.”

  El Pajarito is on the outskirts of La Luz and overlooks the sea. It sounded very appealing, the quiet and elegance, and the distance from the pressures that would push at me once I went back to my office.

  “I’d like that.”

  It was early and we had the terrace overlooking the water to ourselves. We had a very private table with a vine-covered trellis between us and the other tables. The sweet scent of the vines mingled with the damp sea air.

  “I noticed that the maitre d’ led us here without a question. Do you come often?”

  “This is my table. It’s always held for me.”

  He said it matter-of-factly, sure of himself and his place in the world.

  The waiter hovered near by and we made our choices quickly, ordering beer and the specialty of the day, red snapper a la veracruz.

  The beer came in icy bottles beaded with water. I took a deep drink, savored the light, slightly acrid taste.

  “I’ve been on the phone, finding out what I could. For starters, the cops are sure Carlisle’s the killer. The investigation is over except for what they can pile up against him.”

  The brisk breeze off the sea rustled the vines behind us. It was a lonely sound, as lonely as the dull roar of breakers. I looked at Harry in dismay. He was telling me there wasn’t any hope for Kenneth, that it was cut-and-dried so far as the police were concerned.

  If Kenneth were innocent, no one was doing anything about it.

  Francine’s killer was home free.

  Unless I could find him.

  The only way I could find him was through Francine. I pulled my legal pad out of my briefcase.

  “Okay, Harry,” I said grimly, “what have you got?”

  Much of it was repetitive, the same personal history of Francine that Pamela Reeves had produced. He did have one interesting fact. Francine worked at the Cocoa Butter from the time she was fired from the LA paper until she came to La Luz. So she had given up her night club job to write the article on the Carlisles.

  “I called Fred Sheltie, the managing editor of Inside Out,” Harry explained. “She showed up in his office about seven weeks ago and said she had a great idea for a story on a very well-known California family. Of course, the Carlisles aren’t in a class with the Hearsts or Chandlers, but they are well enough known for the idea to interest Fred. She told him just enough so that he thought it had real possibilities, especially since Kenneth was running for Congress. He told her she could submit it on a freelance basis.”

  It was clear Francine had zeroed in on the Carlisles on her own hook, not at the instigation of the magazine. It suggested some kind of contact with the family, or, at the least, someone who knew a great deal about us.

  The waiter brought our plates then, steam rising from the fish with its thin red sauce. I peppered my salad and wondered whether Pamela had done any more looking for me. I needed a clearer picture of Francine’s circle of acquaintances. Somewhere among the people she knew must be a link to the Carlisles.

  I realized then that Harry was still talking and I hadn’t heard a word of it.

  “Sorry. What did you say?”

  “I just said it was odd, but the police so far hadn’t found any trace of a story on the Carlisles in her papers or tapes.”

  I laid my fork down and stared at Harry. “Nothing on the family? Nothing at all?”

  “Just a list of the Carlisles she intended to interview. All of the names had check marks by them.”

  Oh yes, she had talked to all of us, she had indeed.

  The room where she died had shown evidences of search. Was that what had been taken, the manuscript?

  I suppose my relief was evident.

  Harry’s cool grey eyes narrowed. “So that was the game. She was up to her old tricks?”

  I hesitated, but, hell, it was obvious if he thought about it.

  “Yes. She was offering not to print her most interesting tidbits—for a price.”

  “How much?”

  “Fifty thousand. From each of us.”

  “That could add up to a nice sum.”

  I had never totaled it, but Harry was right. If all of us had been willing to pay her off, she would have scored big. I added it up in my mind, me, Kenneth, Priscilla, Edmond, Travis, and Grace. Three hundred thousand dollars. Not bad pay for a beginner.

  “If Farris finds out about the story, it will pretty well close the gate on your cousin.”

  I suppose my alarm must have shown.

  Harry reached across the table, took my hand. “Don’t look like that. If I’m asked, I don’t know a damn thing—except what I read in the newspapers.”

  His hand was warm and strong, a link to a saner world, but a reminder too that I didn’t now belong in that world, the world where
the police could be counted on to look for killers. I was committed to hiding ugly facts and twisting and turning to try and find a way out of danger for Kenneth.

  I felt suddenly very tired and very alone.

  “What are you going to do, K.C.? Hire a private detective?”

  “I’m not sure, Harry.” I told him about John Solomon and Pamela. “The most important thing is to find out who might have taken Kenneth’s scarf.”

  The possibilities were terribly limited. All those who had access to it had motives. That was the hell of it. They all had motives and they were all Carlisles.

  “From Carlisle’s office or from your mother’s house, is that right?” Harry asked.

  I nodded.

  Harry understood my dilemma.

  If I set out to seek Francine’s murderer to save Kenneth, I might substitute one kin for another in the prisoner’s dock.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

  After lunch, the chauffeur drove us to my office. As I got out of the car, Harry said, “Be careful.”

  “I will, Harry.”

  “I’ll call you soon.”

  “Please do.” I meant it.

  I liked him although I don’t suppose many people would find him likable. He was aloof and self-assured, certain always to follow his own inclinations. I understood that. I was thinking of the kindness he had shown me, the help he had offered me, despite the estrangement of our families. I was tired and worried but smiling, and totally unprepared for what awaited me in my office.

  Greg was standing just inside the door and he was furious.

  “Who the hell was that?” He grabbed my arm.

  Pat took one look and slowly rose from behind his desk. He looked at me questioningly.

  “It’s all right, Pat,” I said quickly. “You’re hurting my arm, Greg.”

  Greg dropped my arm but stood, pugnacious and scowling, looming over me.

  “Greg, for heaven’s sake, what’s the matter with you?”

  “Who’s your friend in the chauffeur-driven limousine?”

  “He is not exactly a friend.”