by Carolyn Hart
The scene dissolved and the girl continued, “The cost-of-living index figures released today in Washington, D.C., indicate . . .”
I turned off the set. Greg, as always, radiated excitement and vigor. Perhaps he would sweep the campaign no matter what happened to Kenneth.
Frankly, I didn’t give a damn about the campaign. What mattered now was to save Kenneth from prison. He didn’t, under the particular requirements of California law, qualify for the gas chamber. But what difference did that really make? Conviction would be a death for him.
If it came to a trial . . . Dear God, I hoped not. A murder trial is the most grueling contest in the world. Day after day of strain and fear and pressure and, ultimately, a man will die or go to prison for the rest of his life—or be freed. It is hard on everyone involved, the judge, the jurors, the defendant, the prosecutor, the defense attorney.
I finished my drink, put on a tape of Debussy and settled on the couch with my legal pad. Kenneth would stand trial—unless I found the murderer first.
I renewed that pledge to myself the next morning as I stood at the side of an open grave and looked at Amanda’s coffin. Amanda would expect it of me. She always trusted me to do my best. I would do it for her now, no matter what the cost.
The crowd was slimmer at the graveside than at the church. Rudolph and his family were there, of course, and some of Amanda’s friends from her church circle and Kenneth and Megan and me. We were the only ones from the family.
After the last prayer, as the mourners began to straggle down the hill toward their cars, Kenneth and Megan came up to me. Kenneth slipped his arm around my shoulders, gave them a hard squeeze. We didn’t speak. We didn’t need to.
I drove back to my office. Once at my desk, I studied the plan of attack I had sketched on my legal pad last night. It seemed meager this morning, but it was all I had. I called John Solomon and asked him to have Pamela continue her search for the men in Boutelle’s life. I called Priscilla, Edmond, and Travis and made appointments to see each. None was especially eager to talk to me.
Travis was still at Mother’s. I met him in the library.
“Sad thing about old Kenneth, isn’t it?” Travis observed, trying to look suitably serious and sorrowful.
“He’s innocent.”
Travis looked at me searchingly. “I’m sure that’s the proper response, family and all, but, just between the two of us, they about caught him in the act, didn’t they?”
“She was dead when Kenneth got there.”
“Well, it’s a pretty sticky wicket. Hope you can help the old fellow out.”
“I intend to. For starters, where were you Wednesday night?”
Travis managed a not very friendly smile. “Not a very sisterly question.”
“No.”
“I’m pretty well out of it, old thing. I took Lorraine out to catch a plane back to Chicago. She had some surgery scheduled.”
“What time did her plane leave?”
“Sixish.”
Six. He would have had plenty of time.
“Why are you still here in La Luz, Travis?”
“Well, uh, I thought I should spend a little time with mater. I haven’t seen so much of her these late years.”
No, he hadn’t. Travis, as perhaps even he recognized, scarcely ever had thoughts for anyone other than himself—or Lorraine.
I had given a little thought to Travis. He had two passions in life, antiquities and Lorraine. He had never really had the money to satisfy the first.
“Francine put it all in writing about you, Travis.”
He no longer looked genial, pleasant or professorial. “What are you talking about?” he asked angrily.
“You didn’t know?” I raised an inquiring eyebrow. “She had finished the section on you. All about the . . . I don’t know just how it would be described in the art world, but . . .”
He reached out, grabbed my arm in a grip that hurt. “Will it get out, K.C.? Will it be in the papers?”
“I don’t know, Travis. Of course, I will do my best to keep it quiet. Tell me everything that happened and I’ll see what I can do.” I shrugged free from his grasp.
“I thought I was safe. I thought no one would ever know.”
It wasn’t cold in the library, but I suddenly felt cold. Why had Travis been sure he was safe? Because Francine was dead?
He looked at me imploringly. “Don’t look at me like that. That’s like Lorraine. She’s so damn rigid about things. K.C., you’ve got to help me. If Lorraine ever finds out, she’ll leave me.” He slammed a fist onto the table. “It’s not like I’m really a crook. Hell, those greedy uneducated fools don’t deserve to have fine art objects, anyway.”
I understood. “You’ve provided some fakes, is that it? Sold forgeries to rich people who don’t know any better?”
“Sure. It’s easy. Easy as rolling off a log. Those damn people, the rich oil men from the Sun Belt, they don’t know anything. They want a Ming vase. All right, I’ll get them a Ming vase.”
“You take your profits and have money to buy what you want.”
“Beautiful things,” he said softly, “lovely things.”
“How did Francine find out?”
“I’ll be damned if I know,” Travis said slowly. “A couple of years back, I sold a Mayan figurine to Joe Seltzer here in town. He figured out it was a fake and took it to the DA but I managed to convince Seltzer I’d been fooled, too, and I repaid him. I didn’t think anybody knew about it. It wasn’t in the papers.” He paused. “Lorraine was in London, attending a surgeons’ seminar.”
But Francine had discovered his secret. Worse, she had followed up some of his sales in recent years, obtained photographs of the works, and threatened to submit them to museum authorities.
“She could have ruined me,” Travis said heavily. “And I would have lost Lorraine, too.” He looked at me anxiously. “Where is the story? Who has it?”
“The police have one copy, I’ve heard. Of course, I don’t know whether it contains that section on you.” Now that I had it well baited, I sprung the trap. “But, look, Travis, when you paid her off Wednesday night, she probably destroyed the section on you.”
“Oh hell no,” he moaned. “She was already dead. I didn’t . . .”
He stopped short.
“What time were you there, Travis?”
It was very quiet in the room. I realized suddenly just how big and powerful Travis was. He stood a head taller than I. He had strong shoulders and long arms and powerful hands.
“What are you up to?” His voice was hard.
“I’m trying to find out who killed Francine.”
“I didn’t kill her.”
“I didn’t say you did.” You could have, I thought. “Look, Travis, the more I know, the more chance I will have to help Kenneth.”
“Sure,” he said. “I understand that. You want to get Kenneth out of a hole.” He stared at me coldly. “Well, let me tell you something, little sister, you aren’t going to put me in Kenneth’s place,” and he turned and slammed out of the library.
I drove next to Edmond and Sue’s house. They invited me into their cheerful daisy-yellow breakfast room and offered me coffee. I accepted and there was an awkward silence.
They say old married couples look alike. There is something to it. Edmond has a narrow gentle face. Sue is his smaller, feminine image. They both stared at me worriedly, their faces pale and tense.
“You want to talk to us,” Edmond said finally, putting his coffee cup down with a nervous rattle, “about that Boutelle woman?”
“Yes.” I laid it on the table, “She was trying to blackmail you, too, Edmond.”
“Yes.”
I had to admire that quiet answer. He was a sensitive man, a retiring man, contending with a force beyond his experience.
“She was evil.” Sue’s face flushed, her voice shook. “I could have . . .”
“Sue.” Edmond said sharply.
I stared
at Sue. A pulse throbbed in her throat. The flush faded away, left her grey and trembling.
Edmond jumped up, moved to her side. “Sue, please, you will make yourself sick. Let me help you to your room.” He glanced at me. “A moment, K.C., I’ll be back in a moment.”
His arm protectively around her, Edmond led her from the room. He was gone a few minutes, five or so, and, when he returned, his face was creased with worry. “Sue isn’t strong, you know. She’s had one heart attack and this is upsetting her.”
“I’m sorry, Edmond. I didn’t know or I would have spoken to you privately. I do need help. I must find out what Boutelle was up to, if I am to help Kenneth.”
Edmond brushed a hand through his thinning hair. “I’m sorry I hadn’t asked. How is Kenneth? Do you think it will work out all right?”
I suppose Edmond had spent his life with euphemisms. I was not in a mood to be euphemistic.
“Do you mean, do I think he will go to prison? Right now, I’d say it looks like it. The only hope he has is for me to find out who killed Francine.”
Edmond stared down at the clear glass of the breakfast room table. “She was an evil woman.”
“Did you go to her apartment Wednesday night to pay her off?”
“No. I was supposed to go. I had an appointment at six-thirty.”
So another Carlisle had been scheduled to appear, cash in hand. Francine obviously had set up our visits on a staggered schedule and intended to lay back and watch the money roll in.
“Why didn’t you go?”
“I felt that since we, the family, had asked you to meet with her that night, I should wait to see the results.”
How nice of Edmond. So far as I had been able to determine, he was the only one who had followed the plan.
“Moreover,” he said quietly, “I decided it was immoral to succumb to her threats. You see, I had not done anything wrong.”
I waited.
“It is embarrassing to explain but I shall tell you and then you will understand that I really had nothing to fear. Just unpleasant publicity.”
Unpleasant, indeed. For a man of Edmond’s background and temperament, devastating publicity.
Edmond had, for years, enjoyed walking through La Pluma Park. The park had been, at one time, the pride of La Luz, but, of late years, it had become a rendezvous for drug users and homosexuals. Of this, Edmond was unaware. Three years earlier, he had been taking his customary walk, just at dusk. Suddenly he heard shouts and the sound of gunfire. Edmond stopped beneath a towering pine and wondered what to do. In a moment, a young man, dressed in corduroy shorts, tennis shoes and a t-shirt, ran lightly up the path. He was looking back and he ran into Edmond. As they picked themselves up, Edmond asked what was happening. The young man shrugged, “I dunno, mister. I heard shots and decided to get the hell out. Hey, here come some cops. Let’s see what’s going on.”
As the police came closer, the young man abruptly began to run toward them. “Hey, man,” he called out. “Help. This old fag’s giving me the make. He dropped his pants.”
Before Edmond could protest, he was under arrest for indecent exposure and lewd solicitation. He spent the night in the drunk tank, too stunned to call Sue or anyone.
“What happened?”
“I called Jim Holloway the next morning. He got me out of jail. Then, it turned out the charges were dropped because the complaining witness had given a false address and he never did show up for the trial. Jim thought probably the kid had been running to get away from a drug bust, they picked up eighty thousand worth of cocaine in the park that night, and he was diverting the police from himself.”
It was just wild enough to be true, but that didn’t wipe out the record of Edmond’s arrest on charges that would destroy his social standing, humiliate his family, and wound his pride, should they be published.
“You decided just to let it all hang out, to let Francine publish and be damned?”
Edmond paused. “I had begun efforts to buy the magazine.”
Surely Edmond and Sue weren’t naive enough to believe that would be the end of it?
He hesitated, asked quietly, “Do the police know this?”
“I don’t think so. Yet.”
“Are you going to tell them?”
“Not unless I should determine it would be in Kenneth’s interests for me to do so.” That would only be if I decided Edmond was the killer. I didn’t say that.
I left Edmond slumped in his light and airy breakfast room, looking out through glistening glass panes at an expanse of exquisitely groomed grass and tropical shrubs, wondering, perhaps, who had loosed the serpent in his Eden.
As I was driving to Priscilla’s, I turned on the radio to catch the latest news. But Kenneth had been pushed out of first place, an excited announcer reporting that the body of an unidentified woman had been found in La Pluma Park. She was a well-nourished female in her middle twenties. She had been strangled.
“Police indicate death occurred sometime yesterday. The murder is the second this week in La Luz, an all-time record for homicides. In state news, flood waters are receding . . .”
I turned off the radio and wondered how best to approach Priscilla.
Priscilla wasn’t in any mood to talk to me. She stood in her doorway, “I don’t have time to talk today. Like I told you on the phone, I don’t know a thing about Kenneth or what he’s been doing lately.”
She started to close the door.
I said briskly, “Wait a minute, Prissy. I know you were at Boutelle’s apartment Wednesday night.” It was a guess but I felt pretty confident Prissy would have been included in the roll call of Carlisles that evening.
The door stopped. She stared at me, her pale blue eyes hostile. She looked spectacular this morning, her color as rich as fresh cream, her hair a shining loose golden blonde, her mouth moist with red lip gloss.
“Fuck,” she said quietly in her soft husky voice.
It was as obscene, that expletive coming from between those perfectly painted lips on that fresh young face, as graffiti on a Christmas card.
Abruptly, she shrugged. “All right. Come in.” She led the way to the living room but she didn’t ask me to sit down.
“Who saw me?”
“A neighbor.”
She thought about it. “I can say he’s a damned liar.”
“Come off it, Prissy. You’re pretty memorable.”
That flattered her. “Okay,” she said finally, “I was there. So what? She was dead. Damned dead.”
“What time?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“I’m trying to help Kenneth.”
She took her time. She wasn’t, obviously, swept by sisterly concern. “Look, K.C., I’ll tell you—but if you repeat it, I’ll deny every word of it. It was about six-forty-five.”
“Did you knock or . . .”
“The door was open,” she said carefully. “Wide open. Like I was supposed to come on in. I did. I stood in that little hall for a minute and it felt creepy, really creepy. I yelled out, ‘Hey, where are you?’ but it was quiet. Too damn quiet. I started to back out then, I don’t know, I guess I was curious, I thought, hell, I’ll just take a look around.”
I could interpret that. Prissy might not be too brainy, but she was shrewd. She thought she was in an empty apartment with a golden chance to look around for that famous manuscript.
“I took a few steps into the living room. God. She looked awful.”
“What did you do then?”
“I got out. I got the hell out.”
I asked the next question very carefully.
“Okay, Prissy, pretend you’re standing in that little hall. I want you to think about it, remember it.”
She looked at me warily, but nodded.
“Okay, Prissy, what do you see from where you are standing?”
“A big chair,” she said slowly. “It was blue. And a big fat rubber-tree plant and her desk.”
“That’s good, Pri
ssy, really good.” But not a word about drawers being pulled out, papers askew. “Okay, Prissy, what did you do with the manuscript and tapes?”
She backed away from me, reached out to grip the mantel over the fireplace. “Go to hell, K.C.”
“You’re going to tell me, Prissy.”
She stood, her mouth a tight line, and shook her head.
“Yes, you are, because I’ve recorded every word you’ve said and, if you don’t cooperate, I’m going to play it for the cops.”
It wasn’t nice. I didn’t feel nice. I kept remembering the look on Kenneth’s face before he turned to go up the walk to meet Megan.
Prissy turned and walked blindly toward the liquor cabinet. She sloshed whisky into a tumbler, raised it, and drank it half down before she turned to face me.
“K.C.,” and her husky voice was hard, “you are a bitch.”
“Let’s not fight, Pris,” I said tiredly. “I’ll protect you, but I have to know exactly what happened. You got there and Boutelle was dead so you decided to look around and see if you could find the manuscript. Is that right?”
Sullenly, she nodded.
“That was good thinking, Pris,” I said encouragingly. “Did you find it?”
My praise threw her off. “Yes,” she said uncertainly. Then, eagerly, “It was sitting on her desk, the final copy and the carbon. I grabbed them up and then I looked on her desk and there were a bunch of cassettes with the name Carlisle on them. I rummaged through the drawers, looking to see if there were anything else, but I didn’t find anything.”
So it was Prissy who had searched the room, taken the manuscript and tapes. And Grace’s fifty thousand?
“There was a shoe box,” I said carefully. “It had some money in it. Did you take that?”
She frowned. “I didn’t see a shoe box.”
When Prissy came, Francine was dead and the shoe box gone. Could it have been murder for profit, after all? I felt a surge of hope. Then I remembered Kenneth’s scarf. It couldn’t have been murder for theft. The scarf had to be explained.
I considered the timing. Grace came at six, paid her money and left. According to her, Francine was alive. I didn’t know when Travis had come. Edmond and Sue claimed they had not come. Prissy said she came at six-forty-five. According to her, the murderer took Grace’s money but left the manuscript. Now, that was funny, wasn’t it? After all, the manuscript threatened all of us . . .
