You Bet Your Life

by Jessica Fletcher

  “I’m sure that’s the case with a lot of couples,” I said. “But you had a good life together. You were happy and loved each other.”

  “Yes. We did have a good life together.” She stared out the window. I had the feeling that she didn’t even see the blaze of colorful neon lights and brilliant images advertising the attractions of the city. Her thoughts were with another time, another man. “Seth thinks I’m crazy to have married Victor,” she said, looking at me over her shoulder. “No, don’t deny it. I could see it in his face.” She pulled a chair out from the table and slumped into it. “Please sit down.”

  “I think Seth misses Walt, as do you,” I said, joining her at the table.

  “I know.”

  “He would like things to be as they were, but he recognizes that that’s not possible any longer. He only wants you to be happy, Martha. How you find that happiness is your choice, as it should be.”

  “I’m not sorry I married Victor. He may be crass from time to time, but he’s a good man, and he truly cares for me.”

  “And you care for him.”

  “I do. Really, I do. It’s funny, you know. He’s so different from Walt. But apparently I’m very different from the previous Mrs. Kildares. Or so I’m told. Victor is a businessman, but at heart he’s a gambler, a very successful one. He’s a self-made man, and every move that put his business ahead was a gamble. He says what he risks at the craps table is nothing to what he bet when he and Tony started the business.”

  “What business are they in?”

  “Venture capital, whatever that means. But I gather he and Tony invest in businesses or buy them out, fix them up, and sell them again. Victor says he doesn’t really like to work, but he likes to help other people work,” she said. “Isn’t that nice?”

  “You admire him, too, I can see.”

  “I do. I care for him and I admire him, but I’m also practical. I was a middle-class widow from Maine without a lot of money, but with a need to explore all the avenues I’d never ventured down before. It was more than a need, really. I was desperate not to reach the end of my life, as Walt had, with so many sights unseen and experiences untasted. I wanted to live.” She jumped up from her seat and began pacing in front of the window. “That rage to experience life—Victor understands that. And while I may have to hold certain of my desires in check—going to London tomorrow, for instance, or even having a honeymoon—I’ve already gotten much more than I ever thought I would.”

  “You mean material things?”

  She sighed. “Oh, Jessica, I can see I disappoint you. But yes, material things are part of it, too. Maybe they won’t be in a year or two, but right now I’m enjoying the novelty of beautiful clothes, jewelry, and gifts, lovingly presented to me by a handsome man who is now my husband.”

  “No one can blame you for that, but you know as well as I do that a marriage requires a lot more than buying and receiving gifts. What would happen if Victor lost all his money tomorrow? Would you still want to be married to him?”

  “Believe it or not, I actually thought about that when Victor asked me to many him.” She sat down again. “I asked myself if I was just marrying him for his money.”

  “And what was your answer?”

  “My answer was no, of course. But truthfully, deep down, I don’t believe he could lose all his money. I have confidence in him that he will take care of me, give me what I need emotionally as well as materially, and I will give him back whatever he wants from me.”

  “Does that include being a mother to his daughter?”

  “She already has a mother who lives nearby, even if they’re not very close. No, I’m the one who wants a relationship with Jane. When Victor let her move in with him after her divorce, it was probably guilt on his part. He was pretty much an absentee father when she was a child. I think he wanted to make it up to her. But for good or ill, she’s living in his house... our house ... and whether she likes it or not, whether she likes me or not, I’m her stepmother and I’ll be living there, too. I’m determined to make a friend of her.”

  “You’ve got a job ahead of you.”

  “She’s not usually as badly behaved as she was today.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.”

  “You’ll see. Next time you come, you’ll meet another Jane. She can be very sweet.”

  “If you say there’s a lovely woman under that crusty exterior,” I said, “it must be so. And if anyone can bring her out of her shell, it’s you, Martha.”

  “Thanks, Jessica.” She leaned over and gave me a hug. “I can always count on you. Now let’s make some tea and eat some of my wedding cake. You can tell me all about the goings-on in Cabot Cove. Then we’ll watch the Bellagio’s dancing fountains together from here. Best seat in the house. It’s a fabulous spectacle. I love it.”

  Chapter Five

  The present

  The hairdresser, Krista Scarborough, left the stand, and the judge instructed the prosecutor to call his next witness.

  “Please state your name and spell your last name,” the prosecutor, Shelby Fordice, asked the attractive young woman now occupying the witness stand.

  “Lydia Bellis. B-e-l-l-i-s.”

  “How are you employed, Ms. Bellis?”

  “I’m a manicurist at Opal Salon here in Las Vegas.”

  “Have you had occasion to spend time with the defendant?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Please tell the ladies and gentlemen of the jury under what circumstances this occurred.”

  “She has a weekly appointment at our salon.”

  “Manicurists and hairdressers become pretty friendly with their clients,” said the prosecutor. “Correct?”

  Ms. Bellis smiled. “Oh, yes, we become real friendly. We talk about a lot of things.”

  “Yes, I imagine you do. Did the defendant ever discuss her personal life with you and others in the salon?”

  The defense attorney quickly stood. “Objection,” he said firmly. “What others heard in the salon is hearsay coming from this witness.”

  “Objection sustained,” the judge, a heavyset man with a Brooklyn accent, said from the bench. To the witness: “Confine your answers only to what you heard.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Under questioning from the prosecutor, the manicurist confirmed what the hairdresser had testified to minutes before.

  The attorney for the defense, Vincent Nastasi, approached the witness stand.

  “Ms. Bellis, have you ever been angry with anyone close to you?”

  “I guess.”

  “So angry that you wanted to kill them? Figuratively, of course.”

  “I don’t understand the question.”

  “Have you ever gotten so angry at someone you loved, your boyfriend or your mother or your sister, for instance, that you said, ‘I could just kill him—or her’? Lots of people feel that way from time to time. That’s not unusual, now, is it?”

  Fordice called out, “Objection, leading the witness.”

  “Rephrase your question, Mr. Nastasi,” said the judge.

  “Let’s take your boss, Ms. Scarborough, as an example. Have you ever been angry with her?”

  “We have disagreements.”

  “Sure you do. Everyone does. Think you might ever have said of Ms. Scarborough, ‘I’m so mad, I could kill her’?”

  “Maybe. But this was different.”

  “Why was it different, Ms. Bellis?”

  “Because she never talked that way. She always seemed like such a nice lady. When Mrs. Kildare said she wanted to kill her husband, I was in shock.”

  Shock had been my response, too, when, seven months ago, I’d opened the Cabot Cove newspaper one morning to see the headline: Former Resident Accused of Murder. I’d heard about Victor’s death the month before. What I hadn’t known was that he was bludgeoned in the head and pushed into the pool, where his blood had run into the clear water, a rusty stain hovering over the turquoise tile. The police had a
rrested Martha, his wife, even though she’d denied being in the house when the crime occurred.

  Accompanying the article was a photograph of Martha, a publicity shot that had been taken for the Cabot Cove Village Theatre Troupe’s production of Witness for the Prosecution. Martha had played the lead, the same role Marlene Dietrich made so memorable in the movie version.

  The judge called a ten-minute recess after the manicurist had finished testifying, and I took the opportunity to step outside the courthouse for some air. I’d forgotten how hot Las Vegas can be in June; it was like breathing in fire.

  I’d arrived in Las Vegas late the previous morning after a pleasant and uneventful America West flight from JFK Airport, in New York. Mr. Nastasi, Martha’s defense attorney, had dispatched an associate from his office to pick me up at the Bellagio that afternoon, and the young man had driven me to the law firm in downtown Las Vegas. Nastasi was a short, stocky man with a shaved head, a close-cropped salt-and-pepper beard, and a no-nonsense, matter-of-fact demeanor, not abrasive but not terribly warm either. After keeping me waiting in his reception area for a half hour, he burst through his office door, apologized for the wait—he’d been rehearsing a witness—and ushered me into his private office, a masculine room in dark woods and heavy burgundy leather furniture. Original Frederic Remington paintings of the Old West dominated the walls, except for one wall containing floor-to-ceiling bookcases with a movable library ladder to enable access to the top shelves.

  “Good flight in?” he asked after we’d been seated, him behind a massive, paper-laden desk, me in a chair on the opposite side.

  “Yes, fine, a very nice airline. I’d never flown it before.”

  “As good as any of them, I suppose,” he said in a growl. He was in shirtsleeves, the collar of his white shirt open, tie yanked down, black suspenders dotted with bright yellow sunflowers straining at what might have been weight lifter’s shoulders.

  “It was good of you to come,” he said, “although as I told you when I called, I hope you’re not needed as a character witness at sentencing. I don’t intend for there to be any sentencing. Your friend Martha Kildare is innocent, and I’m committed to making sure the jury believes that.”

  “As I told you, Mr. Nastasi, I was planning to be here anyway. I’m only sorry I missed the first few days of the trial. I’ll do anything to help Martha, and I share your hope that sentencing won’t be necessary. Whether I’m called as a witness or not, I’m here to lend Martha whatever emotional support I can.”

  “Just seeing you in court will be a boost to her morale, Mrs. Fletcher. Do you mind if I call you Jessica? I’m Vince.”

  “First names by all means.”

  “I haven’t put you on the witness list because I’d like you in the courtroom. Potential witnesses are precluded from being in court until they testify. I may add you later. I don’t think the judge will deny me. We get along pretty good.”

  “Add me? In case there’s a sentencing?”

  “Maybe before that. The prosecution is trying to paint Martha’s marriage to Victor as one made in hell. I may need you to testify otherwise.”

  “I really don’t know much about their marriage except that—”

  He held up a hand. “We’ll get into that during my prep of you, if I do feel it’s necessary for you to take the stand. In the meantime, I’ve arranged for you to visit Martha in jail tomorrow. It’s a short court day; the judge has a meeting at three.”

  “Fine. Thank you for all you’re doing for my friend.”

  “I’ll level with you, Jessica. I always go into a murder trial confident that I’ll win for my client. This trial is no different. But there’s a lot stacked against Martha Kildare. Lots of things stacked against her.”

  As he walked me to the reception area, where his young associate was poised to drive me to my hotel, Vince said, “You wouldn’t by any chance be out here covering this trial for a magazine, would you?”

  “Heavens, no. Why do you ask?”

  “Just that you’re a famous writer and all. I thought maybe you were writing about this case.”

  “Actually, I had a query from a national magazine to do just that, but I declined. I could never write about a friend being charged with murdering her husband and facing possible execution or life in prison. No, I’m strictly a friend, and a concerned one.”

  “Well, then, I’m glad you’re here. Martha Kildare needs all the support she can muster.”

  “She has mine. Thank you for your courtesies.”

  “My pleasure. See you in court tomorrow.”

  I took the same seat I’d occupied before the recess and glanced over to where Martha sat at the defense table. Seven months of incarceration had taken their toll. She was pale and gaunt; her dull hazel eyes seemed sunken into her face, as though the skeletal support was crumbling. She saw that I was looking at her and managed a small, pained smile, which I returned, hopefully a smile that reflected more optimism.

  The next witness was the hostess at the Winners’ Circle, a restaurant outside of the city. Martha claimed to have been at the restaurant during the time that Victor had been killed, which, according to the medical examiner, was between noon and three in the afternoon. The hostess, Anne McGinnis, was visibly nervous on the stand as the prosecutor led her through a series of questions. He wrapped up his direct examination with two questions.

  “And you’re certain, Ms. McGinnis—no doubt at all—that the defendant was not in your restaurant on the day of the murder?”

  “Absolutely certain.”

  “Is it possible that you were distracted, that you were called away from your post at the entrance to the restaurant and simply didn’t see the defendant enter?”

  “No, sir, that isn’t possible. We’re very busy at lunch. Dinner, too. But I’m very good with faces. I greet every customer who enters, and hand them off to my assistants, who show them to their tables. No, I do not leave my post—ever!”

  How could she be so adamant? I wondered. Surely things would occur that would cause her to leave her position, if even for a few minutes.

  Vince Nastasi pursued the same question during his cross-examination, but Ms. McGinnis held firm, never wavering as he attempted to poke holes in her testimony.

  She was the final witness of the abbreviated day. The morning had been taken up by the testimony of various law-enforcement officers who’d been called when Victor’s body had been found, and by technicians who’d gathered and preserved evidence from the scene. The information, while circumstantial, had not been helpful to Martha’s case.

  “Lieutenant, would you please tell the court where you found the murder weapon?” Fordice said.

  “Yes, sir. One of the officers on the scene noticed what he thought might be a few drops of blood on the concrete around the swimming pool. We initiated a search of all the buildings on that side of the property. In the pump house we found a toolbox, which contained the wrench and other implements.”

  “And you have since confirmed that the wrench was the actual murder weapon?”

  “Yes, sir. An initial laboratory analysis confirmed that there was blood on the wrench and that it was the same type as the victim’s. A DNA test later confirmed that the blood came from Victor Kildare.”

  “We’ll be hearing about those tests from forensic scientists later on,” Fordice said. “Since the murder weapon was found in the toolbox, is it safe to say that whoever murdered Victor Kildare was familiar with the property and the location of the toolbox?”

  “Objection. Answer calls for an assumption on the part of the witness.”

  “Sustained,” said the judge. “The jury will disregard the question.”

  Fordice continued, “Lieutenant, will you please describe what other items were taken into custody from the scene?”

  “We took the whole toolbox. We took some rags that were on a shelf.”

  “Why did you take the rags?”

  “In case one might have been used to wipe off the
weapon.”

  “And that turned out to be the case, didn’t it?”

  “Yes. There were no fingerprints on the wrench, and we believe the murderer used one of the rags to wipe it down.”

  “The toolbox and the rags. Was that all you took?”

  “No, sir. We found a cell phone at the side of the pool that we later learned belonged to the victim. And a further search of the premises disclosed a pair of silver lamé gloves, of the kind typically used when playing slot machines.”

  “And where did you find those?”

  “Behind a piece of equipment.”

  “Behind a piece of equipment?”

  “Yes, sir. On the floor behind—I believe it’s the pump for the swimming pool.”

  “Not the usual place you would expect to find slots gloves. And were those gloves tested as well?”

  “They were, and there were also traces of the same blood on the gloves.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. Your witness.”

  In his cross-examination, Nastasi had been able to elicit from the policeman that the toolbox had been left in a location where anyone entering the pump house would have seen it.

  I’d no sooner stepped out of the courthouse into the 105-degree heat of Nevada when a young man ran over to me. “I’m a producer for Court TV,” he said. “We’re covering the trial live.”

  “I know,” I said. “I watch your channel often.”

  “Would you sit for an interview, Mrs. Fletcher? Beth Karas would like to talk with you on-camera.”

  “I really don’t know if I should,” I said. “I’m not here officially.”

  “Please. Only take a minute. We’d really appreciate it.”

  “All right,” I said, thinking it wouldn’t hurt to put in a good word for Martha.