Looked like you two were fitted together.
Maybe that was why Mel wasn’t convinced. And maybe that’s why Diana hadn’t been too convincing when she told her daughter that she and Jack were only going to be friends.
JACK WAS BLEARY-EYED after going over the reports that Jared had secured for him. Thirty-two women drivers had been cited for traffic violations in the county on the day Amy was killed. Jack had compared the women’s last names with those from the softball teams. None of the names matched.
If Bruce had driven away from the game with a woman, she wasn’t one of the other guy’s wives. That meant she might have been another guy’s date. Or a sister or daughter with a different last name.
Including the three Weaton men, there were sixty guys who’d played at the park that day. It had taken Jack four days to track down and interview the seven men who had been on the guest list for Bruce’s memorial service. They all told the same story about Bruce’s drinking before AA, his killer business instinct beneath a charming façade and his womanizing ways. Jack had learned nothing knew from them.
There had to be a quicker way of locating the woman Bruce had been with and the car he’d been driving on the day of Amy’s hit-and-run.
Jack punched in Jared’s cell number. His brother answered after two rings, the background music telling Jack that Jared was out somewhere. He checked his watch. Eight o’clock. He hadn’t realized it was that late.
“I need a favor,” Jack said.
He heard a woman giggling in the background as she asked for another drink. “You’d better not need that favor now,” his brother warned.
Jack grinned. “Bright and early tomorrow will do. Vehicle registration checks on sixty names.”
“You’re joking.”
“Current records aren’t as important as what they were driving five years ago.”
Jack could hear his brother’s irritation over the phone. “Do you have the foggiest idea the amount of time it would take to check on that many vehicles belonging to that many people over that period of time?”
“Give me your access to the Department of Licensing records and I’ll be happy to search them myself.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
No, Jack was sure he couldn’t. Jared would bend the law but not break it. “I hear the county commissioners have finally agreed to add a Chief of Detectives to your unit. When you solve Amy Pearce’s hit-and-run, you’ll be a natural for the new position.”
An exhale of frustration came through the telephone line. “If you weren’t my brother…”
Jack grinned. “I’ll drop the names off at your place tonight. I’ll even bring over a chilled bottle of imported wine and a box of chocolates for the lady.”
“Your tail better be out of there in forty minutes. If tonight’s going to be my last free night from work for a while, I’m damn well going to make the best of it.”
Jack laughed as he disconnected the line. The thought occurred to him that there was still time for him to make a call and spend the night in the same kind of fun as his brother planned to engage in.
Except that he’d lost his taste for that since he got this case. Or, more accurately, since he got a case of Diana Mason.
He’d stayed away from her all week, diligently rejecting all the flimsy excuses that came to mind to see her. Except every time he remembered the taste and feel of her, she was right back in his arms, melting into him. And he was—
The ringing phone jarred Jack out of his fantasies. With the conflicting emotions of relief and irritation, he answered with his name.
“Glad I caught you in, Jack,” Shirley’s voice said. “Need some help here.”
Diana’s aunt was the last person Jack expected to receive a call from. He sat up, feeling a sharp stab of unease. “What’s wrong?”
After listening to Shirley’s explanation, Jack relaxed back in his chair, wearing a big smile that should have bothered him. “Sure, Holmes. Happy to be of service.”
THE WEATON HOME WAS on the end of a cul-de-sac in a hilly part of the city, sheltered beneath four-hundred-year-old western hemlocks. Plush honeycomb-colored carpet, crisp white linen drapes and spotless glass shelves full of lovely handpainted Lenox vases reflected a carefree woman with relentless good taste and ample time for housecleaning—not a harried working mother with two young boys.
Diana always wondered what genes enabled some women to pull off such feats.
Audrey showed Diana and the court reporter into the living room where an assortment of delicate finger-sandwiches waited.
At least she was being civil. That was a nice change from her husband. Still, she was clearly tense as she sat on the couch, bouncing a two-year-old boy on her knee.
While the court reporter munched a sandwich and wrestled with her uncooperative machine, Diana took advantage of the delay to try to relax Audrey.
“Is that a sample of the jewelry you make?” she said, pointing to the bracelet that the woman was wearing, a delicate gold filigree with turquoise and diamonds.
Audrey nodded. “Yes, it’s one of my designs.”
“It’s beautiful,” Diana said.
Audrey picked up a brochure from the end table. “This is the latest catalog, hot off the press.”
Diana accepted the catalog with the name Farrell’s Originals embossed on the cover, flipped through the glossy pages. The pictures were professional, highlighting the delicate intricacy of design and pleasing symmetry of an assortment of beautiful rings, broaches, pendants.
The prices weren’t listed, but Diana was certain that whatever they were she couldn’t afford them. “Very nice,” she said.
“I make most of the jewelry right here,” Audrey volunteered proudly. “Lyle had the attic converted into a workshop when we moved in here after the wedding.”
“So jewelry making was your business before you married?” Diana asked, as she took a bite of one of the finger sandwiches. It was also very good.
“My mother’s and mine. Still is. We’re co-owners, although she relies on me to make most of the jewelry now that her sight isn’t the best. Our clients are from all over the world.”
Diana could believe it after seeing the beautiful bracelet on Audrey’s wrist and the samples in the catalog. “A successful businesswoman, a perfect housekeeper and a full-time mom. If you tell me you made these sandwiches, too, I’m going to start hating you.”
Audrey laughed, a nice sound. “My cook made them before she left this evening. I also have a housekeeper. Am I forgiven?”
Diana smiled. “Your membership in the ‘real woman’ world has been reinstated.”
Audrey’s shoulders relaxed as she rested back on the sofa. “This week has been a madhouse because my sitter quit,” she confessed. “Can’t watch the kids and get anything done. But Jason is a good boy. He’ll be quiet while we talk. Won’t you, honey?”
Audrey’s voice was a hopeful plea. Jason squirmed on her lap and stuck a chubby finger up his nose.
The reporter nodded to Diana that she was ready. Diana acknowledged the message and beckoned for the court reporter to swear Audrey Weaton in. The chitchat was over. Time to get down to business.
“Please tell me what happened on July 27 of last year,” Diana began.
“Bruce invited all of us for a barbecue at his place.”
“All of us?” Diana repeated.
“Lyle, me and the boys. And his parents, of course. Bruce said it was so we’d have a chance to get to know Connie.”
“Had he done this with other women he dated?”
“No, that was a first. Family get-togethers were always restricted to family.”
So much for Lyle’s earlier contention that Bruce had included other women he’d been seeing.
“Had you met Connie before this, Mrs. Weaton?”
“None of us had.”
“When did you arrive at Bruce’s that day?” Diana asked.
“Little before noon, I think. Connie wa
s already there and Philip, Lyle’s dad, arrived soon after we did. We were all standing around the barbecue. Lyle Jr., my oldest, was playing catch with Connie. When he dragged Connie into the garage to see the bike Bruce had got for him, Lyle told me to take Jason into the kitchen and start getting the salads and drinks ready while the men of the family made the fire.”
“Real caveman approach, huh?” Diana coaxed when Audrey paused.
“I wanted to wait until Barbara got there,” Audrey said. “But Lyle obviously wanted to talk to his father and brother alone.”
“Was that usual behavior?”
Audrey shrugged. “When they talked business or shared dirty jokes, they generally made sure the kids and I were elsewhere.”
Diana nodded. “What happened next?”
“I was in the kitchen a few minutes later when I heard shouting outside.”
“Could you tell who it was or what was said?”
“No. I looked out the kitchen window, but the shrubbery hid the view of the street. Then Philip burst through the back door and said a car had hit Bruce. He ran over to the phone and dialed 911.”
“And what did you do, Mrs. Weaton?”
Audrey’s eyes seemed to glaze over. “I picked up Jason and hugged him.”
Like she was hugging him now? So tightly that the little boy was wiggling and starting to complain?
“Sorry, honey,” Audrey said, as she seemed to come to her senses and loosened her hold on her child. “I guess I was in shock.”
“What happened next?” Diana asked.
“Philip hung up the phone, said something about the ambulance being on its way and then collapsed. His breath was labored like he wasn’t getting enough air. I sat Jason in his chair. Then I dug the bottle of nitroglycerin tablets out of Philip’s pocket so I could put one under his tongue.”
“How did you know to do that, Mrs. Weaton?”
“It had happened before. When Philip continued to have trouble breathing, I called for another ambulance, explaining his medical condition. Then I ran outside for Lyle. He came in and rolled Philip onto his back to try to help him breathe better.”
“Was Philip a big man?” Diana asked.
“Six-three and more than two hundred and fifty pounds, most of it around his middle. He was a smart man about business, Ms. Mason. But he could be so stupid about his health.”
“How so, Mrs. Weaton?”
“He’d had two heart bypass operations, yet refused to stop smoking and overeating. His doctor had warned him to cut back on work, too, but he ignored that as well.”
“Did your husband know this about his father?”
“Of course. Lyle was always trying to get his dad to quit smoking and to start exercising.”
And yet Lyle had mentioned nothing about his father’s medical problems in his deposition. He’d tried to put the blame of Philip Weaton’s death on Connie. Diana had no doubt he’d try to do that on the stand as well. Only now she had confirmation that Philip Weaton was a walking time bomb. And Audrey could testify that Lyle knew that as well. He wasn’t going to appear too credible to a jury.
That was exactly what Diana wanted.
“Mrs. Weaton, were you surprised to learn that Tina Uttley’s underwear was found in Bruce’s car?”
“Truthfully, no. Bruce…played the field, and he wasn’t what you’d call a sensitive man. The moment I met Connie and saw how shy and unsophisticated she was, my heart went out to her.”
“Did you think Bruce would hurt her?”
“He couldn’t help but hurt her, Ms. Mason.”
Audrey sighed, feathering the fine hair on her son’s head. “He was my brother-in-law, and I know what she did wasn’t right. But I kind of understand it. Bruce had no idea how to treat a nice woman. He should have left Connie alone and stuck to the Tina Uttleys of this world. Those women have no heart to hurt.”
“Do you know Tina Uttley well?” Diana asked.
Audrey’s mouth tightened. “Well enough.”
“How long was Tina involved with Bruce?”
“Ever since they met in real estate school.”
“They met in real estate school?” Diana repeated, surprised. “When was this?”
“About a year after Lyle and I were married, must be eight years ago now. That was when Bruce’s father gave him the ultimatum that he either learn the business or get out. When Tina got kicked out of her real estate job, Bruce hired her and resumed their affair—if you can even dignify calling what they did together an affair.”
There was considerable anger in Audrey’s voice when she said that. Did she know about Tina and her husband? Is that why she had such contempt for Tina?
And why had Tina given Jack the impression that she’d only become acquainted with Bruce when she went to work for him, a few months after Amy’s death? Was she hiding something?
Diana made a mental note to tell Jack. This had been a very interesting deposition.
WHILE JACK LOOKED for the woman who had been with Bruce on the day of Amy’s death, he also continued to complete his background investigation into Bruce.
One of the things Jack had learned from his parents was that talking to a person’s enemies could prove as helpful in getting to know them—and sometimes even more helpful—as talking to their friends. He’d made use of that knowledge many times in his career. He was about to make use of it again.
A perusal of the county’s civil lawsuit records had revealed that Edgar Pettibone had sued Bruce for destruction of property. The suit had been settled out of court and the particulars hadn’t been revealed. But the original filing was still on the record, along with Edgar Pettibone’s address.
When no one answered at the Pettibone house, a friendly neighbor volunteered that Edgar had gone out on his boat and should be back soon. Jack waited in his car to avoid getting soaked by the relentless drizzle until he heard the telltale putt-putt of the boat’s engine.
A few minutes later, Jack was making his way down the long boat ramp.
The smell of the sea and the dark gray water were heavy beneath the weight of the overcast day. A man tying up his boat looked over his shoulder as Jack approached. “Help you?” he asked in a slightly high voice.
“Edgar Pettibone?”
The man got to his feet, pulled a white cloth out of his pocket and began to wipe his hands. “Yeah. And you’d be?”
Jack gave the man his name and business card.
“Private investigator, huh? Who you after?”
“I’m collecting background information on Bruce Weaton.”
Edgar flipped Jack’s card between arthritic fingers. “This for the trial of that woman?”
“Yes.”
“You for or against?”
Not sure what Edgar meant by that, Jack decided to play it safe. “For the truth. Against any lies. I could use your help.”
Edgar thought about it a moment. “Let’s get up to the house and out of the wet. My joints don’t do so well in this weather.”
Edgar’s house was a small cottage—from the water markings on the rocks below, probably no higher than six feet above extreme high tide. Inside was a compact three rooms with a small kitchen to one side and a bath at the back.
Jack sat on a threadbare plaid couch while Edgar retrieved two beers from his small refrigerator, the loud motor of which reminded Jack of an old lawnmower his dad had once owned. Edgar handed one of the beers to Jack and then eased himself onto the padded wicker chair across from the couch.
“Cheers,” he said as he flipped off the tab and took a swig.
Jack followed suit out of politeness.
“What do you want to know about Weaton?” Edgar asked, after a couple of thirsty swallows.
“You filed suit against him a while back. What was it about?”
“Part of the settlement agreement was a promise not to discuss the particulars.”
Not many out-of-court civil settlements went in for gag clauses. Jack’s curiosity upped a not
ch. “I can understand why you’d be concerned about living up to your promise while he was alive. But now that he’s dead…”
Jack waited. If Edgar hadn’t been ready to talk, he would never have invited Jack into his home.
“He killed my friend, H.G.”
Jack came forward in his seat. “How?”
“With his Mercedes.”
“When was this?”
“If you’ve looked up the records, then you should know that it was seven years ago.”
“I know that’s when your suit was filed. But no date of the actual incident was in the records. Do you remember the exact date?”
“Not likely to forget the day H.G. died. A month before I sued.”
“Mr. Pettibone, I’m confused. Wouldn’t a homicide be something for the criminal court to handle?”
“H.G. was my African gray parrot. Been with me for twenty-five years.”
“I see. I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Pettibone. Will you tell me what happened?”
The older man took another swig and was silent for a moment as he stared into space. “I put H.G.’s cage on top of the mailbox right before eleven. The postman would open the cage and let H.G. collect the mail in his beak. Watching for the postman to arrive was the highlight of H.G.’s day. I kept a lookout from the window. That day Weaton arrived before the postman, drove his car into the mailbox and tore it to pieces. H.G. didn’t have a chance.”
Edgar swallowed hard, seeming to fight down his sorrow. A moment later he went on to explain that he had gotten the license number of the car and called the sheriff’s office. They showed no interest in coming out to investigate a dead parrot. Edgar contacted an attorney who traced the black Mercedes to Bruce Weaton and filed a civil suit against him.
“He killed H.G.,” Edgar said. “I couldn’t let him get away with it.”
“But you settled out of court.”
“Lawyer said we had to. Said a jury wouldn’t understand about me and H.G. They’d think me a crazy old fool. H.G. would only be a parrot to them. He wasn’t only a parrot, Mr. Knight. Every morning he’d fly off his perch, land on my bedpost and mimic a trumpet doing reveille to wake me up. He’d eat his seed at the breakfast table with me and recite the alphabet without missing a letter. When the cat next door would sneak through the fence to stalk the birds at our feeder, he’d drop twigs on its head and laugh. He could sing the first stanza of the Star Spangled Banner. He could…”
For the Defense Page 18
