You Bet Your Life

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Is Daria involved? Do the police suspect her?-Is that why you’re here? Do you think she’s the killer?” Lily’s questions came faster than I could answer them. “This may sound terrible, but I wouldn’t mind if that snob was taken down a peg.”

  “Now, Lily, Daria never did you any wrong.”

  “She just thinks she’s better than the rest of us, Harry. She may have lots of her ex-husband’s money, but she has no class.”

  “Did the police question either of you after Victor’s murder?” I asked, hoping to stave off any more nasty comments about Daria. I certainly didn’t want to create ill will between her and her neighbors.

  “Not me,” Harry said.

  “There was a uniformed officer who asked me if Daria had been home the day Victor was murdered.”

  “What did you tell him, Lily?” Harry asked.

  “It was a she, actually, and I told her I’d seen Daria’s car in the driveway and that was all I knew.”

  “Do you remember whether or not the car was there the whole day?” I asked.

  “I don’t, but Karen might know. She’s Daria’s neighbor on the other side.” Lily went to the phone and dialed Karen.

  “Mrs. Fletcher, do you mind?” Harry held out a black marking pen and his TV Guide. “I’d really appreciate it if you’d autograph this.”

  I laughed. “I’ve never signed a TV Guide before, Mr. Prestonfield,” I said.

  “Would you make it ‘To Harry’?”

  “I’ll do it on one condition,” I said. “You must call me Jessica.” I found a listing for Court TV in the TV Guide, and wrote, To Harry and Lily, with Best Wishes, Jessica Fletcher on the page.

  Harry was flushed with pleasure. “I watch you every day.” He launched into an analysis of the Court TV coverage of Martha’s trial, and was surprisingly knowledgeable about legal procedure. “Always wanted to be a lawyer,” he admitted when I complimented his insight. “I think Nastasi’s been doing a lot better since you came on the team. James Curtis and Lisa Bloom said that too, just the other day. Vinnie Politan’s been saying it, too. He’s that good-lookin’ young fella on Court TV.”

  “I’m very flattered,” I said, “but Vincent Nastasi is an excellent lawyer. I think he’s doing a terrific job.”

  The doorbell rang and Lily ushered Karen and Bill Locke into the room, followed shortly thereafter by Ken and Rachel Marian, who lived across the street. Daria’s other neighbors had also seen her car the day Victor was murdered, but Karen remembered Jane arriving, and Daria and her daughter driving away in Jane’s car. “It was sometime in the afternoon, but I couldn’t say exactly when.”

  “Did you tell that to the police?” I asked.

  “No, actually. I wasn’t home when they came. Bill talked to them, though.”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t know Daria went off with Jane. I thought she was home.”

  “She left with Jane? Wow! That means she wasn’t here when Kildare was killed,” Lily said, bringing in a tray with a selection of canned beverages—beer. soda, and tea—plastic cups, and a big bag of pretzels. What had started out as the courtesy of a simple glass of water had turned into an impromptu party, with Daria as the subject under discussion.

  “ ’Course, it’s a bit of drive over to Adobe Springs,” Harry added, “but they could’ve made it and back in the time frame of his death.”

  Rachel shyly presented me with one of my own books. “I’ve read every one of your mysteries, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m a big fan.”

  “Thank you,” I said, signing her book and surreptitiously glancing at my watch to see when Oliver was due back.

  “Well, now that you know Daria can’t account for her time, what does that mean for the case?” Bill Locke asked me.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “You’re jumping to conclusions. We don’t know that Daria can’t account for her time. We only know that she wasn’t home during the hours of the murder, and that’s assuming Karen is remembering the correct day. Remember, this occurred many months ago. Memory can play tricks on you as time passes.”

  “Oh, no,” Karen said. “I have it written down in my journal, so I’m sure of the day.”

  “All right. Let’s say the day is correct and Daria drove off with Jane. She and Jane may have been shopping or visiting friends or running errands. There are a million things they could have been doing.”

  “I thought you wanted to find the killer,” Ken said. “Why are you making excuses for them?”

  “I do want to find the killer, but I don’t want to make the same mistake the police made, and rush to accuse someone else who may be innocent. We need convincing proof.”

  “Well, she wasn’t home. I can testify to that,” Karen said.

  “That’s good to know,” I said, smiling at her, “and I’ll tell Mr. Nastasi in case he would like to call on you.”

  “Ooh, Karen, we might get to see you on Court TV,” Lily said.

  “I’ll tape it for you, if you get on,” Harry said.

  “Can I have your autograph now, before you get famous?” Rachel said.

  Karen put her arm out in front of her and pretended to fend off a crowd. “You’ll all have to make an appointment with my secretary,” she said, pointing to her husband.

  “Oh, no. Not me. Get yourself another secretary,” said Bill, sparking a chorus of laughs.

  I inched my way toward the window to see if I could see Oliver and the car. He was driving up as I looked out.

  “You’ve been so kind and welcoming,” I told Lily, “but I really must be going.”

  “Let me walk you to the door.”

  “It was so nice to meet you all,” I called out to the others. “Thank you for your help.” I wasn’t sure they heard me. Karen was still pretending to be a star and Harry had turned up the sound of his Court TV tape. Ken was popping open a beer and the party was under way.

  Oliver said nothing on the drive back. I wondered if he would call Daria or Jane and alert them to my visit. I intended to check the police records to see if they’d mentioned their absence from Daria’s home during those crucial hours on the day Victor was killed.

  There were two messages awaiting me on the answering machine. The first was from Vincent Nastasi, notifying me of a Monday defense strategy session at his office. The second was from Mort Metzger. At my request, he had checked the passenger manifests on flights from New York City to Las Vegas the day Victor was killed. Victor’s man in New York, Henry Quint, had bought a ticket for an afternoon flight for that day. But had he actually taken that plane?

  “Hi, there, Mrs. F.”

  “I hope I’m not calling too late, Mort.”

  “Not a problem. Maureen has been experimenting with a new recipe all day long and it’s not quite done yet. Some low-cal, low-fat concoction that takes forever to make. I told her a couple of steaks on the grill would be done in no time, but she’s insisting this is going to change our lives. All I can see changin’ is that we’re eatin’ pretty late.”

  “I won’t keep you from your supper. I just called to learn what you found out.”

  “Your suspicions were right on the money. The airline had a Henry Quint on an early morning plane to Vegas. Got in around ten-thirty, maybe a minute or so more. He used a ticket he’d bought for a later flight.”

  “I knew it!” I said. “Mort, I can’t thank you enough for getting me this information.”

  “Glad I could help, Mrs. F. Just tell me where to send the confirmation.”

  I gave him Vincent Nastasi’s fax number.

  “Okay, got it. Uh-oh, Maureen’s calling me to sit down at the table.”

  “Enjoy your dinner, Mort.”

  “We’ll see.”

  My stomach was reminding me that I’d skipped lunch, so I mulled over Mort’s information as I put together my own dinner. There were many pieces of the puzzle, and I needed to sort out what I wanted to bring to the strategy table the next day. Contrary to Henry’s account, he had been in the city the day Victor
was killed. Now I wondered if the police had bothered to verify Tony’s alibi. Had he really been in London? Tony owed Victor a lot of money. Henry had forced Tony into making him a partner in their business.

  Daria and Jane had lied about their whereabouts. Had Cindy and Oliver done the same thing? If Martha was convicted, Jane stood to inherit a great deal more money than if she had to share it with her stepmother. As beneficiaries in Victor’s will to the tune of a million dollars, each of Victor’s ex-wives-Daria, Bunny, and Cindy—stood to benefit from his death.

  Was one of them setting Martha up? I was convinced that she was being set up. When I’d explored the pool shed—before my harrowing experience being locked in that oven—I’d noticed a pair of work gloves on the shelf where the toolbox was stored. If Victor’s murder had been an impulsive act, the killer, looking for a weapon, easily could have grabbed the work gloves along with the wrench. The fact that Martha’s slots gloves had been found on the scene suggested premeditation, and the purposeful planting of evidence. And who was pulling the strings on Harriet Elmsley? Could we find Terry Bencher in time to learn anything helpful?

  Finally, I reviewed my notes from my strange encounter with Chappy. If Victor had crossed the mob, the list of suspects could widen appreciably.

  Following dinner, I took my notes to the bedroom, tucked than into a tote bag, propped it next to my handbag, and set out my clothes for the next day. As I closed the mirrored closet door, I caught sight of the sea captain’s chest across the room. I’d left a pile of books there, thinking it would be pleasant to sit in the corner chaise some evening and read. The thought was appealing. I crossed to the chest and perused the titles. On the bottom of the stack was Betsy’s green scrapbook. I’d forgotten I had it. What a funny lady she was, attending the weddings of strangers and keeping an album of the happy couples. I pulled out the book and sat down on the chaise. I wondered if my agent would think I’d lost my mind if I proposed that he seek a publisher for this book. But there was something compelling about the faces and the costumes, something lovely and loving in having recorded these special moments.

  I remembered my own wedding. Did Frank and I ever look this young? I wondered as I examined a picture of newlyweds barely out of their teens. Another couple was decidedly past the first blush of youth, well into their eighties, I guessed. I laughed at one pair who’d decided to reverse the traditional attire; she was in a tuxedo and he wore a bridal gown.

  I turned the page, and then another, and was halfway through the scrapbook when I came upon a photo that ended my leisure. I slipped the picture from its corner moorings, retrieved my handbag, and brought them both over to the bedside lamp. I groped around in my bag until I found the magnifying glass I always carry. Did I really recognize these faces? What an odd combination. If they were who I thought they were, I had another piece of the puzzle to present at the strategy meeting.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Good morning. This is Sheila Stainback in the Court TV studios in New York. We’re starting another week in the Las Vegas murder trial of Martha Kildare, accused of killing her husband, wealthy financier Victor Kildare. Our own Beth Karas has been covering the trial, and she’s standing by outside the Clark Count Courthouse. What can we expect to see this week, Beth?”

  There may be some big breaks in the case this week, Sheila. We know Prosecutor Shelby Fordice has one more surprise up his sleeve before the prosecution rests. But there are no proceedings today. Judge Marvin Tapansky granted the defense a one-day continuance to prepare for a new witness being brought in by Fordice.”

  “And who is this person.”

  “Her name is Harriet Elmsley. She shared a jail cell with Martha Kildare about a month ago and is expected to testify that the defendant admitted bludgeoning her husband during a heated argument, and pushing him into their swimming pool, where his body was later found.”

  “Jailhouse confessions are always dramatic, Beth, but not always trustworthy. What about this witness?”

  “As far as the defense is concerned, she’s not to be believed at all. We have with us this morning a member of the defense team, famed mystery writer J. B. Fletcher, also known as Jessica Fletcher. She’s a close friend of the defendant, and last week signed on as an official member of the defense team. Good morning, Jessica, and thanks for joining us.”

  “Good morning, Beth.”

  “Jessica, having to deal with a last-minute witness must put quite a strain on the defense. Can you tell us how lead attorney Vince Nastasi plans to handle the testimony of Harriet Elmsley?”

  “Well, I can’t speak for Vince Nastasi, except to say he’s working on those plans as we speak. Obviously we need to find out everything we can about the witness and what other motivations she may have for testifying against Martha Kildare.”

  “What do you mean by other motivations?”

  “This witness is under indictment for a crime. We’re certainly not accusing her of anything, but it’s not unreasonable for us to look into what the prosecution may have promised in exchange for her testimony.”

  “A quid pro quo is fairly standard procedure when a witness under indictment is asked to testify about a crime.”

  “It may be standard to offer immunity, or a reduced charge, when the witness is part of the same case as the defendant. Here the cases are unrelated.”

  “So are you saying, Jessica, that in unrelated cases, there’s a very fine line between rewarding a witness and bribing a witness?”

  “I don’t know that I’d put it exactly like that, Beth, but we think the jury deserves to know what the witness gains by testifying.”

  “Can you tell us what other avenues the defense is pursuing?”

  “Each of us on the defense team has an assignment.”

  “What’s your assignment?”

  “I’m trying to find other witnesses who were in jail at the same time as Martha Kildare and Harriet Elmsley.”

  “Are you looking for anyone in particular?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am. Her name is Terry, but in the interests of protecting her privacy, I won’t reveal her last name. We believe Elmsley may have confided in her and we’re eager to find out what she said. We’re hoping Terry is brave enough to come forward at this time. It could mean saving a woman’s life. Terry, I hope you get this message. I’d also like to add that we would welcome speaking to others who were in the Clark County Detention Center during the last month and who also may be able to contribute useful information.”

  “Sounds like a lot of work to accomplish in just one day, Jessica. We’ll look forward to seeing what Vincent Nastasi and the defense team come up with when the trial resumes tomorrow. Thank you so much for coming on the air this morning. Back to you, Sheila, in New York.”

  “That was great,” said the producer. “I hope you’ll join us again.”

  My Court TV appearance had been the idea of Vince Nastasi, who encouraged me to go on television to announce our interest in potential witnesses. I’d told him about Terry B. at our morning strategy session, and he’d sent his investigator over to the jail to get her last known address, but said he doubted she’d still be there. I’d also given Vince the intriguing photograph from Betsy’s album, and we’d gone over plans for the defense once the prosecution rested, which we expected to occur the next day.

  “Thank you. I appreciate your accommodating me on such short notice.”

  “Not a problem. There’s a lot of interest in this case, and we’re eager to get the inside view from both the prosecution and the defense. Mr. Fordice is coming on later today.”

  “I’ll have to remember to watch.”

  We shook hands and the producer climbed into a trailer parked in front of the courthouse. There were several vehicles serving the television network, including one with a telescoping antenna that housed an on-site control room, which beamed the signal off a satellite back to the New York studio. Lined up along the curb was a series of rough folding tables. On one, cover
ed with a cloth, a local catering facility had set out an elaborate buffet for the production crew. Another held what looked like miles of black wire, different-sized lights, filters, and assorted pieces of equipment, including a small pile of old-fashioned clothespins, one of which had been used to clip the wire from my microphone to the back of my jacket.

  A young technician walked up to me. “Mrs. Fletcher? There’s a call for you. You can use that phone over there.”

  “Thank you,” I said, unhooking the microphone that was attached to my lapel and pulling the wires from under my suit jacket. I handed the microphone and clothespin to the technician and went to the telephone.

  “Hello. This is Jessica Fletcher.”

  “I understand you’re looking for me.”

  “Who is this, please?”

  “It’s Terry. I just saw you on TV saying you’re looking for me.”

  “I’m so grateful you called.” I said. “I’d really like to meet with you and speak in person.”

  “Well, maybe.”

  “Maybe what?”

  “Maybe I’ll meet with you. What do I get?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “What do I get if I talk to you? Is there a reward or something?”

  “No, there’s no reward.”

  “I’m not coming all the way downtown for nothing. I got to borrow bus money just to get there.”

  “I’ll be happy to reimburse you for your travel expenses,” I said. “You can take a cab and I’ll pay the fare when you arrive.”

  “That’s not enough. I’m looking for more.”

  “Terry? Right?”

  “Yeah, I’m Terry.”

  “May I ask your last name?”

  “What is this, some kind of game?”

  “I’d just like to be sure I’m talking to the right Terry.”

  There was a click as the person on the other end of the telephone disconnected. I sighed. Vince had warned me: “You’ll get every nut who’s down on her luck claiming to be Terry, and she’ll tell you whatever you want to hear so long as you promise to pay for it.”