“Well, thank you for looking into that, Tony.”
“You’re welcome. You realize, of course, that Pearl is likely to tell Henry about my call. She’s his sister as well as his secretary, and now that Henry’s officially a partner, she thinks he’s more important than I am.”
“There would be no point in telling her to keep quiet,” I said. “That would simply alert her to tell him right away. What will you tell him if he asks you why you were checking his travel schedule?”
“I think I won’t tell him anything. I’ll just let him stew about it.”
“I’m sure he won’t be pleased, but I appreciate your checking into it for me.”
“Happy to help. Now what’s my reward? Do you come to dinner with me?”
I sighed. “Not tomorrow, I’m afraid. But I hope you’ll ask me again.”
“I’m a glutton for punishment, so I probably will.”
Chapter Fifteen
Isobel insisted on serving me dinner in the formal dining room, bringing me dish after dish and arraying them in a semicircle around my place at the large glass table. The base of the table was wrought iron in a design that I suspected was the work of the same artist who created the iron gates at the front of the estate. The table was the only modem element in a room that featured traditional chairs upholstered in a classic tapestry pattern, the colors of which matched an antique Native American rug inspired by the Grand Canyon. I tried to question Isobel about some things that had been swimming around in my mind, but at first she was too busy serving to stop for conversation.
“It is nice to have someone to cook for,” she said, bringing in a tray of home-baked bread and fresh butter.
“Won’t you join me?” I asked. “There’s certainly enough food here for both of us.”
“Muchas gracias, no. You are our guest. Besides, I have my dinner already. I eat earlier than eight.”
I usually eat earlier, too, I thought, but said, “Why don’t you sit down anyway? I’d enjoy talking with you.”
She wiped her hands down the front of her apron, obviously uncomfortable with my suggestion. “If I sit, how will I serve you? Too bad you did not come sooner. Now I leave and when I return, you will probably be gone.”
“Don’t you cook for Oliver?” I asked, spearing a piece of fragrant roast chicken from a platter of food that would last me for days.
“No. The cottage, it has its own kitchen,” she said, pouring me a glass of iced tea and placing the pitcher on a pad on the table. “I only cook for the señor and señora, so it has been some time now since I cook for anyone other than myself.” She pushed a dish of rice closer to my plate. “Señorita Jane, she does not want to come here anymore. Too many sad memories. When Señor Kildare was alive, we had two on staff—I had a helper—but with no one to cook for, I just keep house now until the trial will be over.”
“What will happen then?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I am afraid the house, it will be sold no matter what happens, and I will be without work.” She studied the table and then, seemingly satisfied with the amount of food she’d prepared for me, went into the kitchen, leaving me alone.
When she returned some time later, it was to remove my dinner plate and the serving dishes. I knew better than to offer to help her clear the table, but I was finding the formal service frustrating. “Thank you,” I said, folding my napkin and placing it on the table. “Everything was delicious.”
“There is dessert to come. I baked a flan,” she said, shaking her head over all the food I didn’t eat. “And also, I put up a pot of coffee for you.”
“Tell you what,” I said. “Let me keep you company in the kitchen while you clean up, and I’ll find some room for flan and coffee.”
She reluctantly agreed, and I followed her into the kitchen, still bright from the setting sun. Isobel had already washed and put away the pots. I took a seat at the kitchen table, which doubled as a work island, and watched while she wrapped up the leftovers and tucked them in the refrigerator. She opened the freezer and pointed out all the dishes she’d prepared for my meals, then poured a cup of coffee and slid a plate of flan in front of me.
“Have you watched the trial at all since you testified?” I asked as she filled the dishwasher.
“No. I don’t like to go downtown.”
“It’s been on television, too.”
“I only watch the TV when I iron, and then I watch the Spanish stations.”
“Cindy Kildare testified the other day. She said Victor was having an affair with her and wanted to marry her again.”
“Pffft! That one, she has a good imagination.”
“You never saw her at the house with Victor?”
“Only when she comes to beg a favor.”
“She said she visited Victor whenever Martha went for her beauty parlor appointment.”
Isobel poured soap into the dishwasher’s dispenser, closed the door, and pushed the start button.
“Do you remember seeing her here during those times?” I prompted.
She looked out the window, remembering. “She comes sometimes when the señora is away, but I don’t see her with Señor Kildare. She comes the back way and sneaks into Oliver’s house. She thinks I don’t see her, but I do.”
“So as far as you know, Victor wasn’t having an affair with Cindy.”
“Never. He was happy to be rid of that one. And he loves the señora too much. I see how he looks at her, so proud, so pleased. It pains me when they fight, but later, they are so in love. No, I don’t believe he has an affair with Cindy.”
“Did Victor and Martha fight often?”
“Not often. He was away too much. But when they fight, that’s what they fight about. She was lonely and wanted him to bring her along on his business trips. I think, maybe, he was going to start doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Taking her with him, but now it is too late.”
“All his trips were for business, weren’t they?”
“Sí. Sí. He is a very important man, Señor Kildare.”
“Did you ever meet his business associates? Did Victor entertain them here at all?”
“Sometimes. I meet Señor McKay from England, and Señor Quint from New York.”
“Any others?”
“Señor Chappy, of course. He is often here.”
“I’ve heard of Chappy. Is that his given name or his last name?”
“They only call him Chappy. I have never heard another name for him.”
“And he came here, to the house?”
“Sí. And they work together in Señor Kildare’s study.”
“I’m surprised I didn’t meet him at the wedding.”
“He was there. Like me, he comes for the service but doesn’t stay for the dinner.”
“Yes. I remember noticing that several people left right after the wedding. Why didn’t you stay?”
“They are very kind. They ask me to join the party, but I say no. It is not right for the staff to sit with the employer. Oliver, he thinks he is the equal to Señor Kildare, but he is not. I try to teach him his place, but he will not listen.”
While we chatted, Isobel had washed out the coffeepot, putting the leftover coffee in a carafe. She’d wiped down the sink and the counters, and hung the damp dishcloth over the handle on the oven door to dry. It didn’t look as if she would join me at the kitchen table, and I knew once her chores were completed, I might lose the opportunity to question her further. I decided to address a topic I’d been hoping she would know about.
“Isobel, when Martha went to the restaurant to meet Jane the day that Victor was killed, she had a long conversation with the waitress while she was waiting. Martha said the woman spoke English with a Spanish accent—she thought she was Mexican. It’s possible that the waitress was in the country illegally, because when the police came to ask questions about Martha, she became afraid and ran away. I’d like to find her. Can you recommend someone in the Mexican c
ommunity in Las Vegas I could talk to, someone who knows a lot of people and could suggest ways I might find this woman?”
To my surprise, Isobel pulled out a chair and sat down. She looked at me sympathetically and shook her head. “Señora Fletcher, there are hundreds of thousands of Mexicans living in Las Vegas. You look for the pin in the bale of straw, as you say.”
“I realize that,” I said, “but we know a little about the waitress, maybe enough for someone to recognize her description and point me in a direction to find her.”
“What do you know about her?”
“We know her name, Luz, and that she had two daughters in college. She also spoke English very well, so perhaps she’s been here for a while, although we suspect she’s not a legal resident. And we know she worked at the Winners’ Circle.”
“It’s not much.”
“No, it’s not, but it’s a start. I understand the chances of finding her are slim, but I hate to leave any possibility unexplored. If we could find Luz and put her on the witness stand, I’m convinced it would help the jury acquit Martha.”
“You are a good friend to the señora.”
“Martha deserves my best. Besides,” I said, smiling, “I’m an official member of her legal team. It’s my job now.”
“I don’t know how to help you, but I will do this. I will talk to my son-in-law tomorrow before I leave. He knows many people.” She got up from her chair and took a pad and pen from the shelf next to the telephone. “Here is the telephone number of Carlos Santoya, my son-in-law. He is a dentist.”
“I remember your telling me about him.”
“I will ask him to call you.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate this.” I held up the piece of paper she’d torn from the pad.
“I hope it will help,” she said, taking my plate and cup to the sink. “Good night, Señora Fletcher.”
I spent the rest of the evening reading through the pile of phone records and police reports Evelyn had copied for me. Jane’s cell phone was included in the phone records now, but apart from a call to her mother’s house the night before the murder, there was nothing of interest there. I looked through Victor’s phone records again. Could he have made that final call to Cindy? And if so, why?
The police had done a thorough job as far as it went. They had gone to the Winners’ Circle and spoken to the hostess. They had questioned Martha, Jane, Oliver, Isobel, and all three of Victor’s ex-wives—Cindy, I noticed, had neglected to inform the investigators of her alleged affair with Victor. Officers had interviewed neighbors of the Kildare estate, and the guard who manned the community gate. The latter had given them a list of the guests who had been expected that day. There were write-ups of conversations with people who collected the trash and delivered the mail, the groceries, the dry cleaning, and other services, as well as with Victor’s business partners. They’d even written down Henry’s flight number, although I doubted they’d checked with the airline to confirm he was on board.
Then the tenor of the interviews changed as the police zeroed in on Martha, asking about the details of her daily life, visiting her beauty parlor, her bank, the shops where she bought her clothes, and tracking down Matt Jenkins’s Gamblers’ Heaven. They pored over the bills Martha received and her phone records, and sent investigators to Cabot Cove to look into the state of her marriage to Walter Reemes and, in particular, how he had died. There wasn’t much to point to her beyond the fact that her alibi wouldn’t hold up, but once it was obvious she was the focus of police attention, the interviewees began to see her as the suspect. Each person who was interviewed thereafter found reasons why Martha would want to kill Victor. It wasn’t until after Martha was accused, however, that Joyce Wenk had come forward with her story about the hostility she said she’d witnessed between Martha and Victor. And now there was Harriet Elmsley, Martha’s onetime cellmate, who was expected to return Martha’s kindess by testifying against her.
Bleary-eyed, I put the papers back in the box and prepared to retire, mentally reviewing all that I’d read in hopes of finding an avenue to pursue in my own investigation. Once I was in bed, however, my mind wouldn’t shut off. I began to doubt myself. Was I being naive? Was it possible this woman I thought I knew so well in Cabot Cove could actually have killed her husband? Had the bride who’d been thrilled by her new husband’s wealth and attentions changed so much a year later? Had disillusionment led to rage and then violence? Martha was an actress, and a good one. Had she deceived all of us for so long? Was her declaration of innocence an act? In a moment of weakness, had she admitted her crime to a sympathetic ear? Distressed by the direction of my own thoughts, I spent a restless night, finally falling deeply asleep just as the sky began to lighten.
It was almost ten before, showered and dressed, I wandered into the empty Kildare kitchen. Isobel had left a carafe of coffee, a bowl of fruit, a plate of corn bread, and several boxes of cereal on the counter. I poured myself a bowl of shredded wheat and sliced half a banana into it. The morning paper was on the table, and I paged through it while I waited for a piece of corn bread to toast. The benefit of several hours of sleep had allowed me to think more clearly about Martha’s case, and I pushed aside my doubts and made plans to follow through on some of the notes I’d taken as I reviewed the police reports.
“Buenos días, señora,” Isobel said, lugging a suitcase into the kitchen. “I am almost all packed and ready.” She shut the door to her room behind her.
“Good morning to you,” I said, rising. “Do you need any help with that?”
“No, no. Please keep your seat. My son-in-law, he will carry it out for me.”
I sat down again.
“Did you sleep well?” she asked.
“I did,” I said, thinking that it had taken a while, but I was rested now.
“Would you like a tour of the rest of the house when you have finished your breakfast?”
“Will you have time?”
“Sí. Sí. I do not leave till noon. We have plenty of time.”
“Then I’m happy to take you up on your offer.”
“I have still a few more things to do. Please, don’t hurry. You can knock on my door—it’s right here—when you are ready.”
Fifteen minutes later, Isobel conducted me around Martha’s home, which was larger than I’d realized. Apart from Isobel’s private quarters, there were three other bedrooms in addition to the one I was using, each with its own bath. Martha and Victor’s spacious master suite included a dressing room and a well-equipped gym. Jane’s room was starkly elegant, in contrast to another guest room in which I could see Martha’s warm touch in the décor.
Victor’s office was in the library. A bookshelf-lined room, it was furnished with a caramel-colored leather sofa and matching armchairs. Atop the broad wooden desk was a laptop computer. A multiline telephone and two fax machines sat on the credenza behind it. Adjacent to the library was a small room by Kildare standards, which might originally have been intended as a large closet. It held file cabinets, business supplies, a desktop computer, a state-of-the-art copier, and several other technological wonders.
A family room with a stucco fireplace also served as the entertainment center in the house. A collection of electronic equipment filled the shelves of a custom-built unit, and rows of videotapes, compact discs, and DVDs guaranteed hours of appealing distraction, if I could only figure out how to make the machines work.
A laundry, hidden bar, and elaborate guest bathroom completed the rooms on the tour. Isobel had skipped the living room, dining room, and kitchen, with which I was already familiar, as well as her own suite. She gave me a set of keys to the house and grounds, showed me where the security system was installed and how to operate it, including the release for the front gate, and handed me a list of regular services and the days they could be expected, plus the appropriate phone numbers. Managing a property this size was not a job for a timid person. I was beginning to think Tony’s idea of a substitute housek
eeper might have some merit.
Isobel’s son-in-law, Carlos, came to pick her up and was all apologies to me. Finding Luz, he said, was an impossible task. Latinos in Nevada made up close to fifteen percent of the population. Searching for one woman, especially one without papers and with so little information, would be an exercise in frustration. He couldn’t in good conscience ask his contacts to waste time on such a futile effort.
While Carlos gave me the bad news, Isobel shook her head sadly. “You will find another way,” she told me before she climbed into the passenger seat and Carlos guided the car down the driveway and through the gate.
For an hour after Isobel left, I wandered the empty rooms of Martha and Victor’s house, learning the layout and acquainting myself with their belongings. Victor’s office held the most appeal, but I resisted going into his files. There was too much to do today and that was better left for the evening.
I walked through the living room, slid open the door to the patio, and closed it carefully behind me. The garden was very still. No breeze rustled the fronds of the palms or the leaves of the lush tropical plants. No birds or small animals contributed a chirp. I stood still and listened. The only sounds I could detect were a gentle hum coming from the direction of the pool shed, and the occasional soft whoosh of tires from cars passing on the main road. I walked to the cabana, my footsteps loud in the silence. The door was open and I entered the cozy interior. The small building was divided into his and hers changing rooms with a lovely common area designed as an escape from the searing sun and beat. A dresser held an assortment of bathing apparel and coverups. Terry-cloth robes and piles of towels filled a closet.
I left the cabana and passed Oliver’s cottage, intent on exploring the pool shed. The door was locked, but I used the ring of keys Isobel had given me to find the one that opened the shed door, leaving it ajar so daylight would illuminate the inside. The small space was almost completely occupied by the pump that filtered the water in the pool. In the center of the ceiling was a fixture with a lightbulb. Shelves on one side held plastic buckets and bottles of preparations to maintain the various chemical levels to control the cleanliness of the water. On the opposite wall were a host of garden sprays, hose connections, gardening tools, work gloves, and the notorious toolbox, which the police had returned. I pulled the top open. A few of the tools inside still bore the police department tags attesting to the fact that they’d been examined and cleared as potential murder weapons. I closed the box and looked around. The silver lamé gloves had been found crumpled behind the pump. I peered around the metal housing that concealed the pump itself. The space behind it was small, but anyone searching for evidence in the shed would be certain to look there.
You Bet Your Life Page 16
