Sharon blinked in surprise. "Of course, Kate. I'd be happy to help." Turning to her friends as she rose from the table, she said, "Mary, I'll see you tonight, and Chris, call me tomorrow, okay?" Both women nodded as Sharon grabbed her tennis racket and joined me.
"Thanks so much, Sharon. She'll really appreciate your help," I said, and headed toward one of the curving pathways that edged the rolling expanse of golf course.
"What sort of legal situation does your friend face, Kate? That way I can tell which attorney would be best."
Now that we were alone, I took a deep breath and threw all caution onto the nearby ninth green. I was banking on total honesty. "Actually, Sharon, she faces the gravest situation there is. She may be accused of her husband's murder."
Sharon stopped in mid-stride. "Kate, what are you talking about? Who is this?" She peered at me intently, as if answers were written on my face.
I resumed a leisurely stroll, so we wouldn't draw attention. Golfers were wandering the greens, and an occasional wayward golf cart puttered along. "I'm talking about Amanda. I'm worried about her, Sharon. She has no alibi for either murder. She was home alone both times. You know as well as I do, Amanda couldn't commit murder."
"Kate, I don't understand. Why are you coming to me?" she asked, the inscrutable mask discarded. Sharon looked genuinely perplexed. "Amanda already has the best criminal lawyer in town, Bob Carruthers. Did you want me to recommend someone else? Is she not satisfied?"
"No, that's not why I came, Sharon. I'm here without Amanda's knowledge. I'm hoping you can shed some light on why Cheryl Krane was killed."
Once again, Sharon stopped in her tracks. This time I noticed she'd paled slightly beneath her tan. "How on earth could I help? I don't even know Cheryl Krane. Not really."
I turned and looked her straight in the eye. "Sharon, Marilyn and I were at the Old Town cafe the same day you met Cheryl Krane for lunch. We saw you having what appeared to be a very intense conversation. Forgive me for being blunt, but I was struck by Cheryl's expression at the time. She appeared disturbed by what you were saying. When I mentioned that to Marilyn, she told me that both you and Cheryl had a relationship with Mark."
Sharon's cheeks began to regain their color, and I sensed my comments were a shock to her well-preserved privacy. I knew I was treading very close to insult, with a woman who would not forgive easily, but I didn't care. I was going to help Amanda any way I could. And if shaking the unflappable Sharon Bassett would yield a clue to help my friend, then I'd shake away.
"I was hoping Cheryl might have told you something during lunch, something that might help us find Mark's killer. Something, anything." I let my own intensity show through.
Sharon swayed just a bit on her feet, then stared off at a foursome in the distance. The insistent cry of a mountain jay caught my attention as he swooped from a maple tree to a nearby evergreen. With the Rocky Mountains as a backdrop, the golf course view was spectacular.
I didn't say another word. It was Sharon's turn. Either she'd respond as the friend Amanda assumed she was, or she'd ice up and tell me to remove my nose from her private business. Clearly, there was a struggle going on inside. At last, she turned to meet my gaze again. No ice to be seen. I felt my insides relax.
"I think Cheryl was upset by what I told her," she said softly. "She had no idea of our relationship. So I suppose it was a shock to her. That's probably what you saw."
"I'm curious, Sharon. Why did you tell Cheryl Krane about your relationship with Mark? Especially after he was killed?"
She studied the cement path for a moment, then started walking slowly. I matched my pace to hers. "I wanted to know if Mark had revealed any personal information. Information about me. As soon as I saw her reaction, I knew the answer. Clearly, it was news to Cheryl."
"Did she say anything about Mark, or anyone else for that matter?"
Sharon shook her head. "Actually, Cheryl didn't say much at all. She was definitely the quiet type. Plus, I did most of the talking. I wanted to know if Cheryl had been interviewed by the police. I needed to prepare myself, if she had."
"Had she been interviewed?"
"No. In fact, she looked petrified at the very thought. Of course, I was relieved to hear that the police had not, well... hadn't felt the need to dig into Mark's romantic past, so to speak. I was continuing with my plans to move to Denver, and I was scared of what might happen if the police started digging into Mark's relationships." She exhaled a long sigh. "I wanted to start a whole new life, Kate. This tragedy forced me to reexamine everything."
We were tracing the pathway leading to the front of the country club now. Sharon started across the parking lot, and I followed. Disappointment rose within me. I had so hoped Sharon could remember some comment from Cheryl that might lead the police away from Amanda and toward the real killer.
"Damn," I said softly, unable to hide my disappointment.
Sharon headed toward the closest row of parked cars. "I'm sorry, Kate. I wish I'd heard something that could help. Personally, I don't think Cheryl knew anything."
"Well, she must have learned something after you talked to her. Something that got her killed."
Sharon paused and stared at me, fear in her pale blue eyes, but she didn't say a word. Instead, she reached inside the small leather pouch that was attached to her racket case and withdrew a car key. "Do you really believe that, Kate?" she asked as she leaned over to unlock her car.
"Yes... yes... I do," I stammered. Whatever words had been on my tongue disappeared at the sight of Sharon Bassett's car. A sleek, gold Lexus. I stared without speaking as Sharon opened the door and tossed her racket inside. These parking lot revelations were getting spooky.
According to Greg, the observant little neighborhood skater, the "funny, fat jogger" had driven off in a gold car that was parked down the street from the Schuster house. An expensive, gold car. Watching stylishly-slim Sharon climb into her car, I wondered if she could have cleverly disguised herself. The detectives had mentioned that clothes were strewn all over the upstairs bedroom. I pictured her stuffing extra clothes inside a sweatsuit, choosing a close-fitting hat that concealed her hair, winter gloves to hide her delicate hands, sunglasses to obscure her face, and topped off with a pair of Mark's street shoes. A clever disguise, indeed. The jogger would appear to be a man.
My pulse began to race. Was Sharon the mystery jogger? Had she killed Mark? Was her shocked reaction to my questions just now merely a clever performance designed to throw off suspicion? Was all this talk about starting a new life in Denver a ruse to take her conveniently out of town and off the police radar screen? I took a deep breath to calm myself and slow my speeding thoughts.
Sharon closed her car door, then leaned out the window. "Kate, I don't know what to say. Should I call Amanda?"
"Yes, why don't you," I managed. "I'm sure she'd appreciate it."
I endeavored to keep my voice and expression calm, when inside, I was desperately searching for a way to get more information from Sharon, startle her into revealing something—anything. Suddenly, the image of the jogger appeared in my mind again. It was a gamble, especially if Sharon was the killer. I'd be making myself an even bigger target than I already was. I hesitated, then took a deep breath and followed my instinct.
"Just tell her you believe she's innocent, will you, Sharon?" I said dramatically. "She needs to hear that we all know she couldn't commit murder."
Sharon nodded, sun glinting off her frosted hair. "I will, Kate. I promise."
Pausing for just a second, I rolled the dice. "I just wish the police could find that jogger. One of the neighbors saw a suspicious-looking jogger outside the house that afternoon. I can't help thinking that might be the person responsible for this awful crime." I attempted to sound as worried as possible, which wasn't difficult.
Sharon stared up at me, her expression unreadable. "A jogger? Do you really think so, Kate?"
"Yes, I do. There's no one else who has appeared as a s
uspect. Except Amanda." I released a dramatic sigh.
"Are the police looking for this... this jogger?"
"Well, they say they are." I remembered Bill's skeptically lifted brow when I'd recounted the young skater's story.
Sharon turned the ignition, and the engine gave a low throaty purr. "I'll call you later, Kate. After I've spoken with Amanda." She slipped on her sunglasses. "And thank you, Kate."
That surprised me. "Thanks for what?"
"For sharing what was obviously privileged information with me. I appreciate your trust." She lifted her hand in a delicate wave and backed from the parking space.
I stood and watched the stunning woman I'd socialized with for a decade drive away, wondering what had just happened. Had I shared confidences with a friend or drawn a bulls-eye on myself that would make Chekov's targets shrink in comparison?
Locating my own car, I drove back through the leafy, winding roads to town, not noticing autumn's beauty this time. My mind was too busy trying to figure out Sharon Bassett's motive for killing Mark Schuster, if indeed she was the murderer. She'd obviously loved him enough to risk an affair. Being married to a divorce lawyer, Sharon surely knew the risks involved. Messy public divorce, scandal, gossip—all the things aloof, reserved Sharon seemed to abhor. Was she too aloof for murder? What could have incited her fury enough to stab Mark in the throat?
Betrayal. Rage at being dropped for a younger woman. Perhaps so. There was no woman I knew who was more concerned with preserving her physical beauty than Sharon Bassett. And she was an expert, according to Marilyn. With her inherited wealth always at her fingertips, Sharon had indulged herself in the latest anti-aging remedies. I had to admit they worked. Sharon didn't look her fifty years. Late thirties would be closer.
Turning onto an arterial street leading back into the heart of Fort Collins, I didn't even glance at some of my favorite views—horses grazing in the pasture, Rocky Mountains in the distance. I was lost in puzzling thought. Clearly, Sharon's image of herself was of a stunning woman used to having her own way. Had she assumed their affair would continue? Did she go to Mark's house to tell him she was moving to Denver to be near him? Did she fly into a rage when Mark rejected her? Obviously, Sharon was not used to rejection of any kind. Could it have driven her to kill?
Perhaps. But killing Mark was one thing. Why then would she kill Cheryl? What possible threat could she be? After all, Mark had rejected Cheryl too. Then I remembered that Cheryl had been to Mark's house first. The skaters said the white Rabbit was parked in their space when they returned early from school, then was gone.
Had Sharon arrived, seen Cheryl's car, then parked down the street? Was she seething within with jealous fury that Mark might be indulging in one last fling with his longtime lover? Did Cheryl see Sharon's gold Lexus and recognize it as she drove off? Did she mention it to Sharon? And if so, was that her death sentence?
At that point, all the competing theories began to jumble. No more for now. I was confusing myself. How would I ever present a cogent theory to Bill?
I needed coffee. Then I would check on Amanda. I hadn't been over to see her in a few days, phoning her instead. Something pushed me to go over there now. But first, I'd make a detour past one of my favorite haunts and fortify myself.
Chapter 20
As I pulled into the parking lot adjacent to Amanda's condo, I noticed another familiar and expensive car—Jonathan Bassett's silver Acura—backing out of a space. Jerking my Explorer to a stop, I jumped out and waved to catch Jonathan's attention.
His window whirred down and I bombarded him as I approached. "Jonathan, how is Amanda doing? Did the police call to interview her again?"
"Yes, they did, Kate. They were here this morning, in fact." He removed his sunglasses, and I was struck by the strange look on his face. It resembled genuine concern.
"How did it go?"
He glanced away. "Judging from what Amanda told me, it didn't go well. She's convinced the police will show up on her doorstep with handcuffs any moment now."
I winced. "Jonathan, I'm really worried about her. She has no alibi for either murder. I know Amanda can be overly dramatic at times, but this time I fear her suspicions may be right. The police have no other suspect. Right now, Amanda looks like the logical choice."
"I am aware of that, Kate," he said, his voice softer than normal. "And I promise I will do what I can. I'm going back to the office now to speak with Carruthers. Amanda gave me her consent for Bob to update me fully with what he's doing to protect her."
"Please, Jonathan, do what you can," I pleaded as I backed away from the car.
"I will, Kate, I promise." He began to send the window up, then hesitated. "She needs to calm down, Kate. See what you can do, okay? I wasn't very successful."
I nodded and watched him drive away, not sure I would be much help either. Amanda would probably pick up on my own concern. I headed for her door and knocked, while I vainly rummaged through my brain for some encouraging thoughts.
Amanda opened the door, saw me, and practically yanked me inside. "Kate! Oh, Kate! I'm so scared," she cried. "The police came this morning. Two detectives this time! Two! And they asked me so many questions. I got so confused, I couldn't answer straight. Bob took over when he could, but it was me... it was me that had to answer..."
Her voice trailed off as she clutched and unclutched her hands, her gaze darting back and forth around the open living room, not lingering long on any object. I noticed her nail polish was chipped. Unthinkable for the Amanda of three weeks ago. She was even paler than when I saw her last, and thinner. The shadows under her eyes were deeper. I fought to push the wave of worry away, lest she read my mind and spiral further downward.
"Amanda," I said as I took her twitching hands in mine. "You've got to relax. You are not helping yourself like this. Why don't you let me take you for a drive into Poudre Canyon? You know how you love it. We'll take a hike, then come back into town and have dinner."
She jerked her hands away. "I can't, Kate. Don't ask me why. I just can't right now." She spun around and hurried toward a marble and glass sofa table, littered with coffee cups, overflowing ashtrays, and packages of cigarettes. Grabbing one, Amanda quickly lit it and took one deep drag after another.
My heart ached for her. There was real panic in her eyes, and for good reason. She was her own worst enemy. Desperate for some way to distract her from the morning's distressing interview, I grabbed at anything. "What was Jonathan doing here? I thought all the divorce proceedings were null and void, since Mark died."
She glanced distractedly at me and gestured toward the dining room table. "He was returning all the divorce papers. Said I should destroy them, since they are no longer needed."
Either the cigarette or the change of topic had brought a change in her voice, however small. At least an octave lower. Hopeful, I headed for the exotic, black marble and glass table. If it would calm Amanda, I'd go through every piece of paper in that thick portfolio with her.
"I'll be glad to help you, Amanda. I agree with Jonathan. You shouldn't have these papers lying around. Let's tear them up, okay?" I unsnapped the portfolio's flap and withdrew a two-inch-thick set of legal-sized documents, bound with a black clamp.
Amanda took another puff and began to pace the living room, her arms clasped around herself. "That's fine, Kate. Thank you. I don't want to see them."
Her voice was approaching normal. "That's okay," I said as I unclamped the lot. "I'll just read the title, and you nod if you want it destroyed. Then I'll tear each one, and send the whole pile through my office shredder tonight."
She didn't answer, just kept on pacing, but I sensed she was glad for my help. Just looking at the documents would bring back needless pain.
"Okay, first one is the petition for divorce," I announced. "We won't be needing this." And I purposely tore the pages lengthwise, then across, in a long, slow sound of finality. I hoped that sound would help Amanda on some level. At some point, this w
hole ordeal would be over.
I continued announcing and tearing, placing the torn pieces back into the portfolio for disposal later. So many documents. Letters, affidavits, petitions. I paused whenever I found a letter to an international investment firm. Or financial statements. But Amanda assured me each time that Jonathan had made copies of all pertinent documents related to Mark's hidden assets.
Working my way through the pile, I was about to ask Amanda to stop her pacing, which had slowed somewhat, and make a pot of her delicious coffee. I'd spent lunch-time visiting with Sharon. Once again, I was running on empty.
Glancing at the next legal-sized document, I looked for a title. Then I recognized it as a list of personal possessions. Very special possessions, very dear to Amanda and Mark. I paused to read the entire list. What I saw surprised me.
"Well, I must confess I'm amazed that Mark agreed to let you keep all the Paris engravings, Amanda. I remember your saying he insisted on half. I wonder what changed his mind."
She stopped her circuit of the living room and turned to stare at me. "What did you say?"
"I said I was surprised Mark let you keep all the Paris engravings. Didn't you tell me he insisted on keeping half?"
She looked at me strangely. "Yes, he did. He refused to bargain, even when I gave him the Degas."
"Well, he must have changed his mind, because he signed right here, and put his initials after every item." I waved the piece of paper.
Amanda strode over to me and grabbed the document from my hand. Her intense interest was surprising, but gratifying. Anything to keep her mind away from the police. After a moment, she glanced up, clearly puzzled.
"I don't understand. I asked Jonathan to speak with Mark one more time about these pieces. He promised me he'd go see Mark that Monday afternoon. The same day Mark was killed. But when I called Jonathan that evening to ask, he told me he never got a chance to go. Too many clients. He never got there."
I snatched the paper from her hands and scrutinized each line item. Those were Mark Schuster's initials and his signature at the bottom, all right. I recognized both from all the contract pages he'd signed when I listed their house for sale. Why would Jonathan Bassett lie about something like that?
Dying to Sell Page 18
