You Bet Your Life

by Jessica Fletcher

  I hesitated before asking, “What sort of deals?”

  “You get right to the point, huh? I like that in a woman.”

  I said nothing.

  “Legitimate business deals,” he said.

  “I’m not in a position to argue that with you,” I said, silently reminding myself that although I was confident I wasn’t in any physical danger at that moment, it would be prudent not to be too combative.

  “Vic Kildare was an interesting guy, Mrs. Fletcher. I liked certain things about him.”

  “Just certain things?” I asked.

  “Yeah, like most people. I like some things about people, and don’t like other things about them.”

  “What did you like about Victor?” I asked.

  “Why don’t you ask what I didn’t like about him?”

  “What didn’t you like about him?”

  “He was a nice guy, you understand, very generous with his friends, but he didn’t always keep his word.”

  “That’s not a very good trait in a partner, is it?”

  “You got it in one.”

  “Did he owe you money?”

  “Let’s just say he was careless with our business. Business is private. It’s not something to talk about, and I’m not going to talk about it with you or I’d be just like Victor, now, wouldn’t I?”

  “How much did Victor reveal?” I asked.

  “Enough to make me mad.” He squinted at me. “You’re a very sharp woman, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Did Victor make you mad enough to—”

  That laugh again, bubbling up from deep in his chest. “Mad enough to kill him? He was killed by his wife. Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “So I understand. You and her were good friends, huh?”

  “That’s right. And she didn’t kill her husband.”

  He grunted, turned, and looked out his window.

  “Please, I’d like to be taken back to the house now.”

  He returned his attention to me. “Yeah, we’ll take you back, Mrs. Fletcher, but I still have something to say.”

  I sat and waited.

  “I’m a man who believes in keeping my word,” he said, “something your buddy’s husband didn’t follow. I also believe in justice. Now, it would be a real injustice if Mrs. Victor Kildare gets off and walks out of the court a free woman after murdering her husband. That wouldn’t be right. Would it?”

  “Not if she were guilty,” I said. “But she’s not.”

  “You’re a writer. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “A famous writer.”

  “My books are fairly well known.”

  “It doesn’t matter how famous you are, writers don’t make a hell of a lot of money. I know that for a fact.”

  I couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped my lips. “I do just fine,” I said.

  “I’m talking big money. I am in a position to make you an offer, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “That I can’t refuse?” The words tumbled out of my mouth too fast for me to stop them.

  “You watch too many movies, Mrs. Fletcher. I don’t want to see Victor’s wife get away with murder. You’re trying to help spring her. I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t do that.”

  “I don’t know what influence you think I have over this case, but I assure you—”

  “You’ve got more influence than you think. All you gotta do is stop snooping into Victor’s business, and let Nastasi do his thing all by himself.”

  “Mr. Ciappino—”

  “I can make you a very rich writer, Mrs. Fletcher. Think about that.”

  “I believe this conversation is over,” I said.

  “I will be a very unhappy man if justice isn’t done in the murder of my pal Victor.”

  This time I was the one to turn away. Chappy signaled for Ricky, who got back in the car, and we drove in silence down the hill and back to the Strip. It wasn’t until we were close to Martha’s house that he spoke again. This time, his hand on my arm squeezed tight, but I didn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d hurt me.

  “Give what I said some serious thought, Mrs. Fletcher. I really enjoyed your company tonight.”

  I got out of the limousine and started for the house.

  “Give me a call again after they’ve convicted the bitch,” he said through the rolled-down window. “I’ll be waiting with your reward.”

  The limo pulled away.

  I calmly deactivated the alarm and entered the house. I shivered. If ever there was a time for a soothing cup of tea, this was it. In the kitchen, I put up a kettle of water and sank down into a chair while I waited for the water to boil. The reality of what had just occurred caught up with my stomach and I felt ill. If Martha was acquitted, would her life be in danger? The police would begin looking elsewhere for Victor’s killer, and their suspects would probably include Mr. Chappy Ciappino. A man like him wouldn’t be pleased having authorities probing his business dealings, if you could call them that. Even if the police decided not to investigate Victor’s finances, Martha would be likely to hire an accounting firm to advise her. If Jane inherited the estate, would she be less likely to do that? Was Chappy counting on that? Or was Jane’s life in the balance as well?

  I wasn’t sure what to do. If I called the police and reported an attempted bribe of a member of Martha Kildare’s defense team, it would be my word against Chappy’s. I could make a lot of noise, but how would that help Martha? Was what he’d said to me a bribe in the strictly legal sense? Vince Nastasi would know the answer to that.

  I took my tea to Victor’s office and sat at his desk. In the top drawer, I found a lined yellow legal pad, on which I wrote out every scrap of the conversation I could remember. If I had been on the receiving end of a bribe attempt, I wanted to be as factual as possible.

  Bugsy Siegel might no longer be a force in Las Vegas, but that didn’t mean there weren’t others of his ilk “doing business” there. And Victor hadn’t been very selective in choosing those with whom he did business. I wondered if that assessment extended to his other business associates as well.

  I reactivated the alarm, made sure all the drapes were tightly drawn, and watched television until falling asleep in the chair, awakening with a start at four in the morning. I dragged myself to bed. My final thought was of Seth Hazlitt. I heard his voice saying: “Be careful, Jessica. You’re in over your head again—as usual.”

  Sleep precluded me from having to respond.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “What can you tell me about Victor’s business partners, Martha?”

  “I don’t know any of them very well, Jessica. Victor kept his business very private.”

  It was Sunday, and I was downtown at the Clark County Detention Center visiting Martha in jail. There was something different about her. She was drained, as if all her energy had run out and even talking was an effort.

  “Talk to me about Chappy,” I said.

  “Chappy makes me nervous.”

  “I don’t doubt it. But what can you tell me about his relationship to Victor?”

  “He was around. That’s all I know.”

  “Martha, you can do better than that.”

  “Victor used to say that to me, too. He’d say it whenever he came home and I kissed him hello.”

  “Martha, focus. When did you first meet Chappy? Were he and Victor always in business together?”

  She shook her head. “I only know that when we were first married, Victor was excited about some deal he and Chappy were doing, and Chappy used to come to our house all the time.”

  “Go on. Did that change?”

  She sighed. “I’m not sure. I guess it did. Victor got upset over something Chappy said. He told him that just because they were in business together didn’t mean Chappy could tell him what to do.”

  “What did he want Victor to do?”

  “I don’t know. Victor wouldn’t tell me. But he got very cool toward
Chappy, and I didn’t see him for a long time.” She picked at a loose piece of carpeting that covered both sides of the booth she sat in. “He’s been in the courtroom almost every day. Isn’t that funny? I wonder why.”

  “Might Victor have dissolved their business deal?”

  “It’s possible, but I don’t know. The police took away all Victor’s papers during the investigation. Come to think of it, I don’t know who has them now. Maybe Tony.”

  “Speaking of Tony, did he and Henry come to Las Vegas to see Victor, or did Victor travel to see them?”

  “Victor was always traveling, but I think it was to see clients, not Tony and Henry.”

  “But he saw them sometimes.”

  “They came here occasionally. Henry came more often than Tony. New York is closer than London. He never stayed with us. I think he keeps a place in town, but I’m not sure where.”

  “Henry?”

  “Yes.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Well, he’s got this classic car that he drives around when he’s in town, so I guess I just figured he had an apartment here, too. It would be strange to keep a car here if you didn’t have a place to live, wouldn’t it?”

  “But you don’t know for sure?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “Do you think Tony might have a place here, too?”

  One corner of Martha’s mouth tipped up in a small smile. “Oh, no. Tony always stays at the Bellagio. It’s his favorite hotel, and he says if he has to travel all the way across the ocean and across the United States, he wants his creature comforts. I know what he means. I could use some creature comforts myself.”

  “I’m sure you could,” I said. “I left another change of clothing for you with the officers downstairs.”

  “Thank you.” She fell silent, her head bent down, her thoughts in another place.

  “Martha?”

  She raised her eyes. “Just dreaming. Are you all right in the house? Do you have everything you need? We can get in a temporary housekeeper if you’d prefer to have someone there with you.”

  “I’m fine just as I am.” I glanced at my watch. Time was running out on Martha and on my ability to help in her acquittal. “Let’s talk about Harriet Elmsley,” I said. “We assume the prosecution has made a deal with her. Is there anything you can tell me that would help me discredit her story?”

  Martha’s face fell. “Oh, Jessica, she’s so young and vulnerable. She was always sweet to me, so eager for my company and grateful for my advice. I can’t believe she’s doing this.”

  I didn’t tell Martha the young woman she’d befriended was probably preying on her, using Martha’s sympathetic nature—her own need for a child to mother—to gain information she could sell in some way. “Did she have any friends, any other woman she might have confided in?”

  “Not really.”

  “She must have spoken to one of the others. Try to remember.”

  “There was this one girl. But it’s not like she spent a lot of time with her.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Terry. Terry’s out now. Harriet liked to braid Terry’s hair. Everybody did. Girls with long hair are popular. Doing each other’s hair is a major activity here.”

  “It is?”

  “Yes. I resisted it at first, but I don’t anymore. It passes the time and it’s soothing for both sides.”

  “Do you know this Terry’s last name? What she does on the outside, anything that can help me find her?”

  “I can’t recall.”

  “Come on, Martha. Think.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe a bartender over in Henderson. That sounds right. At least that’s what she used to be. Maybe they fired her. Maybe she’s not there anymore. She was in on drug possession.”

  “And her last name? Did you ever hear it? At roll call, or some other time?”

  “She was Terry B., because there was another Terry.”

  “And the B stood for?”

  “Ummm. I’m not sure. Bencher? I think that’s it. Terry Bencher. But you probably won’t find her.”

  “I’m going to try anyway,” I said. “What did she look like?”

  Ten minutes later, Martha pushed herself up and shuffled out to rejoin the other inmates, her orange socks and rubber sandals forcing her to drag her feet. She was indistinguishable now from her sister prisoners. Her slumped posture and vacant gaze were duplicates of so many of the women behind bars, without a future, without goals, without hope. She had lost even the fire to fight. I was worried. We needed her help in mounting her defense. I wanted the jury to see her innocence, to know she was determined to prove it, to trust in Martha’s integrity. But the vague, insecure woman I’d just met with was not the self-assured Martha I wanted.

  Oliver was waiting outside the detention center, sitting in the Mercedes with the engine running and the air conditioning set to high. He opened the car door for me and I climbed inside. “Where to?” he asked when he was once again behind the wheel.

  “Henderson,” I said. “Do you know any bars over there?”

  “Little early to start drinking, isn’t it?” I heard him mutter. “I don’t go to bars in Henderson,” he said, looking at me in the rearview mirror.

  “Well, then, we’ll just have to explore the area together.”

  Oliver drove to the highway and took it going south, eventually exiting onto Sunset Road. At the first bar in Henderson, I got out, went inside, and looked up Terry Bencher in the telephone book. There was no Bencher listed in Henderson or in Las Vegas. I talked to the barmaid and to a fellow hauling in a barrel of beer from the back room, describing Terry Bencher and leaving my name and Martha’s telephone number. I had Oliver stop at two more places, just in case I got a lucky break, but no one recognized her name. On Monday, I’d ask Vince Nastasi to get Terry’s address from the Clark County Detention Center or perhaps from the courts. As long as I was in Henderson, I decided to pursue a different quarry. “Oliver, I understand that Daria Kildare lives in Henderson. Do you know her address?”

  “It’s not exactly Henderson. She lives over in Little LA.”

  “Little LA. I haven’t heard of that.”

  I saw his smirk in mirror. “It’s a local name because so many people there moved from California.”

  “Is it close by?”

  “Not too far.”

  “Please take me there.”

  Daria’s house and the ones on either side of it were expensive variations on adobe homes, large buildings on small lots with thick beams poking out of the tops of stucco walls and cactus-and-pebble gardens to ensure low upkeep. Oliver pulled into her driveway and I got out. “I’ll be about an hour,” I told him. “Why don’t you get yourself something to eat.”

  He shrugged and waited until I walked up to the pergola that shaded the front door before he backed down the driveway and drove away.

  The front door was a wide expanse of distressed wood with wrought-iron hinges and an elaborately carved iron knocker. I pulled on the knocker, and heard a bell ring inside. I waited, but no one responded. I pulled on the bell again and placed my ear on the door. No footsteps, no sounds of occupancy. I walked back down the path to the driveway and peered around the side of the garage to see if there was access to the backyard.

  “She’s not home. Went off this morning.” The speaker was a stout, middle-aged woman in sunglasses and a broad straw hat held on her head with a long scarf tied under her chin. She carried a whisk broom and a wicker basket into which she was depositing dried leaves that had collected among the sand-colored stones in her front garden. The job hadn’t been done in quite some time and she’d managed to clear debris from only a small portion of the arranged rocks.

  “You’re sure she’s not out back?” I asked.

  “Don’t see her car, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it’s always there when she’s home.”

  “I’m sorry to have missed her,” I said.
<
br />   “Too bad you came for nothing. When’s your driver coming back?”

  “Not for an hour, I’m afraid.”

  “Would you like to come in and have a soda or something? I’m tired of doing this. My husband says it’s a waste of time anyway. The wind only blows the leaves back again.”

  “That’s very kind of you. Yes, a glass of water would be wonderful.”

  “Come along then.”

  I followed her inside to an enormous kitchen and family room. A man in a T-shirt and blue jeans was stretched out on a plaid sofa, his stocking feet propped on one arm of the sofa, his head leaning against the other, I recognized the Southern accent of Fred Graham of Court TV coming from the television.

  “Harry, turn off the set. We got company.”

  “Aw, Lily, how’m I ever gonna catch up with my tapes if you keep interrupting me?” He pushed himself up to a sitting position and looked around.

  “Please don’t let me disturb you,” I said. “Your wife kindly offered to get me a cold drink, but I certainly didn’t intend to disrupt your Sunday.”

  “That’s Harry. I’m Lily, Lily Prestonfield.”

  “How do you do? I’m Jessica, Jessica Fletcher.”

  Harry jumped up from the couch. “Lily, do you know who this is?” He lumbered over to me. “How do? How do? What a pleasure. I’ve been watching you on TV just now,” he said, pumping my hand. “Lily, Mrs. Fletcher is the famous mystery writer who’s working on the Martha Kildare murder case.”

  “Oh, how exciting! I didn’t know I’d invited in a celebrity. What can we get you? A Coke? A beer? A cocktail? Harry can make you a martini.”

  “No. Please,” I said, “a glass of water would be perfect.”

  “Harry tapes Court TV all week and then catches up with what he missed on the weekends.”

  “Yeah, it’s better than any football game or soap opera. Tell me whatcha think. D’you think Nastasi can get her off? There’s a lot of evidence piling up against her.”

  Lily handed me a glass of ice water and led me to a chair of honor. Harry sat on his plaid sofa and used the remote to mute the sound of a panel of experts analyzing the case.

  “Almost all of the evidence presented so far is circumstantial,” I said. “I think someone is trying to set Martha up, and I’m hoping to produce some evidence to make that clear.”