Silent Witness

by Collin Wilcox

  “I’m very serious.”

  “You mean that—that—” She was unable to say it.

  Speaking slowly, in a calm, measured voice that suggested she had thought so often of the events she described that the facts were rote, she recited: “On June ninth, a Friday, Connie and John drove down to Santa Barbara. They’d been here, in San Francisco, at the townhouse, so they left from here. They stayed with me through the weekend. On Monday—that was the twelfth—they drove down to Los Angeles. They did Disneyland and the Spruce Goose and the Q.E. II, and came back to Santa Barbara on Thursday. They stayed overnight, and left Friday morning. Connie told me they were going to San Francisco, but she apparently decided to go to the winery instead. Except for what Dennis has told me, that’s all I know. The next day—Saturday—Dennis called to say Connie was dead. She’d surprised a burglar, he said, and she’d been killed. It had happened in the master bedroom, at the winery. There’s a big fireplace in the room. Apparently there was a struggle. Furniture was overturned, things were broken. She was hit with a poker. Or, rather, fireplace tongs. It—” She broke off, bit her lip. Then: “It crushed her skull on one side, at the temple. It happened about midnight, Dennis said.”

  “Where was Dennis when it happened?”

  “He said he was asleep in the spare room.” Bitterly, she grimaced. “He said he couldn’t sleep in the master bedroom, in their bed, without her.”

  Paula frowned. “Dennis didn’t strike me as that sentimental. Or that lovey-dovey with Connie, either.”

  “Well, that’s what he said.” She drank the last of her tea and nodded to the waitress, who cleared away the lunch dishes, leaving only the teapot and cups. “I’m sure that’s what he told the police.”

  “But you don’t believe him.”

  “At first I believed him. It’s a perfectly plausible story, if you accept his statement that he was sleeping in a spare room. But then I asked him about John.”

  “I was wondering. Where was John, that night?”

  “He was downstairs in the living room. ‘On the couch,’ Dennis says. ‘Asleep.’”

  “Don’t you believe that?”

  “I do believe that. They got a late start leaving Santa Barbara, and the winery is at least fifty miles north of San Francisco. Connie would’ve stopped for dinner, so I’m sure they didn’t get to the winery until late at night. And John, I’m sure, would’ve gone to sleep in the car. Connie might’ve been able to carry him inside. She’s—she was—an athlete, as you know. A tennis player, and a swimmer. I used to tease her about her muscles. But she wouldn’t’ve carried him upstairs, I don’t think. She would’ve gotten Dennis to do that.”

  “What does John say happened?”

  “I don’t know, Paula. Dennis won’t let me talk to him.”

  Paula frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “He says he doesn’t want John questioned. He says it’s doctor’s orders—that a child psychiatrist doesn’t want John reliving the trauma.”

  Still frowning, the other woman considered. Finally, tentatively, she said, “That makes sense, of course. It’s only been two months since Connie was killed. I can see that John needs time to heal. But you have to wonder why Dennis took John to the funeral, if he was so concerned about trauma.”

  “He says he hadn’t consulted this child psychiatrist at that point.”

  Judiciously, Paula shrugged, then spread her hands. “I have to say, it all seems to add up, Janice. What is it, exactly, that’s bothering you?”

  “What’s bothering me,” she answered, speaking quickly, decisively, “is that, ever since Connie died, Dennis hasn’t let me spend a single minute alone with John. Literally, from the time they arrived in Santa Barbara for the funeral until the next day, when they got on the plane to go home, Dennis didn’t let John and I exchange a single word out of his earshot.”

  “Well—” Still judiciously, Paula considered, then shook her head. “I don’t know, Janice. It doesn’t seem to me that he’s being—”

  “He’s hiding something, Paula. I know he’s hiding something. I’m sure of it.”

  “Are you saying—” Involuntarily, the other woman dropped her voice, moved closer across the table. “Are you saying that you think Dennis killed her? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I’m saying,” she answered, “that the only thing I know about Connie’s murder is what Dennis told me—what he wanted me to hear. And that simply isn’t good enough, Paula. It just isn’t.”

  “Have you called John since the funeral?”

  “I call once a week, at least.”

  “And?”

  “And Dennis stays on the line.” As she spoke, the waitress arrived with the check. Firmly, Janice placed her credit card on the elegant red lacquer tray. “My treat.”

  “Thank you. Would you like to come to dinner with Alan?”

  “I’d love to. But I’d like to talk to him, first.”

  “Of course. You talk with Alan, then give me a call. Okay?” Across the carved black teak table, Paula smiled. Then, seriously, she said, “If you need anything—anything at all—give me a call. Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “I know you, Janice. I know you value your autonomy. And I can relate to that, as they say. But everyone needs friends once in a while. Maybe this is one of those times, for you.”

  As Janice smiled at the other woman, images came back: Paula standing in front of a horse she yearned to ride, solemnly staring the horse straight in the eye—Paula on the beach at night, one of a circle of teenagers, experimenting with beer and the beginnings of sex—Paula at Connie’s funeral, stricken.

  “Definitely, this is one of those times,” she answered softly.

  THURSDAY

  August 17

  2:30 P.M.

  PLACING THE YELLOW LEGAL pad on the marble coffee table, Bernhardt wrote Janice Hale on the first line, followed by the date. They’d been talking for almost an hour: a long, hard hour filled with this woman’s strong emotions, always rigidly contained, yet constantly boiling just beneath the surface. Now it was time he began taking notes. On the second line he wrote Constance Hale Price, disc. Friday, June 16th., age 30.

  “You say the Prices had a house in San Francisco. Do you know the address?”

  “Yes. It’s 2784 Broadway.”

  Bernhardt nodded approvingly as he made the note. “Pacific Heights.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know the phone there?”

  She recited the number.

  “And the winery. It’s about ten miles west of Saint Stephen, you said.”

  “Yes. It’s the Brookside Winery.”

  “That’s in—what—Benedict County?”

  “I think so, I’m not sure. They’ve only had the winery for two years. I’ve only seen it once in that time.”

  “Do you know the phone number?”

  “Sorry, no. But the Dennis Price number is in the book. And—yes, you’re right—it’s in Benedict County, I remember now. The area code is six-four-seven.” Then: “Are you sure you won’t have some coffee? Wine? It’s no trouble to send down for it.”

  Smiling, Bernhardt shook his head. “Thanks, no. I’m cutting down on caffeine.” The smile widened. “I’m also cutting down on booze, come to think of it.”

  She answered the smile—successfully, she knew. Since Connie had died, almost exactly two months ago, she couldn’t remember smiling, not really smiling, with genuine pleasure. Perfunctorily, yes. Dutifully, yes. Sadly, certainly. But, until now, she hadn’t really smiled. For this small boon, she realized that she could thank Alan Bernhardt. He was one of those quiet, perceptive men who could help the healing process. He listened. He considered. He thought before he spoke. She remembered Paula’s account of his life: everyone close to him dead, beginning with the father who was killed before Alan was born. And ending with his wife, a victim of random street violence.

  She watched him as he bent over his yellow pad, earnest
ly frowning as he wrote. He was a tall, lean man, slightly stooped. His complexion was dark, unmistakably Semitic. The nose was long and slightly hooked, the forehead and cheeks were furrowed, prematurely aged. It was a thoughtful face, a reassuring face—a face deeply etched by both pain and compassion. There was sadness in the face, but no bitterness—anguish, but no anger. His dark eyes were expressive, his mouth firm. His dark hair was thick and only casually combed. The glasses went with the face—serious, horn-rimmed glasses; but they were high styled, suggesting that, yes, appearances counted, yet another hint of the man behind the face—and the actor behind the man.

  Would they marry, Paula and Bernhardt? Should they marry? When she saw them together, perhaps she would know.

  “What’s the name of the winery again?” Bernhardt was asking.

  “Brookside.”

  “Is it a boutique winery?”

  She nodded. “Exactly. It’s the trendy thing, you know, to have a winery. A wonderful spot for weekend parties.”

  “Was your sister trendy?”

  She hesitated, then decided to say, “Connie wasn’t really sure what she was, I don’t think. ‘Trendy’ doesn’t fit, though, not really. But—” She dropped her voice. “But Dennis is trendy. Definitely trendy.”

  Bernhardt nodded, reflected for a moment, then said, “Does Dennis know you’re hiring a private investigator?”

  “No.”

  “When’s the last time you talked to him?”

  “A little less than a week ago. I call once a week, to talk to John. Dennis always answers the phone—and listens in.”

  “Paula told me a little about your family history. John is your only blood relative.”

  “Yes. Except for an aunt, who has Alzheimer’s.”

  “And you and your sister were very close.”

  “Our parents died when Connie was only ten. I was sixteen. Our aunt came to live with us, my father’s sister. But I really raised Connie. Florence—our aunt—” She shook her head, shrugged.

  Bernhardt’s nod was sympathetic, but his next question was professionally matter-of-fact: “You haven’t seen John since the funeral. Dennis won’t let you spend any time alone with him. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can understand how that would be painful for you. But—” Bernhardt hesitated, choosing the phrase. “But I’m not sure it’s necessarily suspicious. If he says he’s protecting John from pain, maybe you should give him the benefit of the doubt.”

  She decided to smile. This time it was a humorless smile, the hallmark of her life since her sister’s death. “You don’t have a very strong profit motive, do you?”

  He guffawed, then shrugged. It was a reprise of a sheepish, small boy’s shrug. “Touché.”

  They sat silently for a moment, each regarding the other with growing trust. Finally Bernhardt said, “Give me a rundown on Connie and Dennis. Start as far back as you can. I’ve discovered that helps—the histories, the bios. I know a little of Connie’s story, from Paula—and your story, too. Your father was rich. You grew up in Santa Barbara, in Montecito. I know your parents died when Connie was only ten.” He broke off, gestured that the story was hers to finish.

  As she nodded acknowledgment of her cue, Bernhardt saw a shadow of sadness remembered darken her eyes. “That’s part of it,” she said, speaking softly. “Psychologically, my parents’ death was certainly part of it—the start of it, maybe. They drowned in a boating accident—a freak wave. That was bad enough. But, worse than that, Connie was with them. Connie was wearing a life jacket. My folks always did that, always made us wear life jackets, even though they didn’t. So when the Coast Guard arrived—” She shook her head, lowered her eyes. “Connie was the only one they found.”

  “Christ—” Bernhardt, too, shook his head. “That’s terrible. The guilt, for Connie. The loss must’ve been bad enough. But the guilt—” Eloquently, he let it go unfinished.

  “I’ve always thought—I’ve always known, really—that the accident marked Connie for life, psychologically.”

  “In what way was she marked?”

  “The usual way, for a girl. Getting involved with the wrong boys—and then the wrong men. Letting them walk all over her, victimize her so she could expiate the guilt she felt for living. Psychologically, it’s pretty open and shut, really. But that doesn’t make it easier, when it happens to someone you—” Suddenly her voice caught, choking off the rest of it.

  “And Dennis is just like the rest of them—the wrong man.”

  “Definitely, Dennis is just like the rest of them. The old-fashioned word was ‘gigolo.’”

  “‘Fortune hunter,’ too?”

  “Definitely, ‘fortune hunter.’”

  “Tell me about Dennis.”

  “The truth is,” she answered, “that Dennis is a Los Angeles type. His father was a supporting actor in Hollywood—not much more than a bit player, really. He’s one of those men who was born with a handsome face but not much else. And Dennis is just like him, really. Except that Dennis has pretensions. And ambitions, too. Dennis is greedy.”

  “What’re his ambitions?”

  “He wants to be one of the beautiful people,” she answered promptly. “Which is exactly the life he’s living, at least superficially. He’s a gentleman vintner, which is currently the with-it thing to be doing, as you know. And, of course, there’s the townhouse in Pacific Heights. And, yes, he has an airplane, too.”

  “Did Connie go along with all that?”

  “Connie fitted in. She had the looks, and the money. For the kind of life Dennis wants, that’s all you need—as long as your forehand is acceptable.”

  “Does Dennis inherit everything?”

  “He inherits a third of her estate. I get a third. And John gets a third, when he’s twenty-one.”

  “Who administers John’s third?”

  “Dennis does. And there’s a provision that John gets an allowance until he’s twenty-one, administered by Dennis.”

  “What’s the total value of the estate?”

  “We won’t know exactly until the will’s actually probated.”

  “What d’you estimate?”

  “I’d estimate at least twenty-five million dollars.” She spoke calmly, without visible emotion. The message: for Janice Hale, wealth was synonymous with ordinary, day-to-day life. The moral: the rich were different.

  Twenty-five million divided by three. More than fifteen million for Dennis Price—plus access to his son’s allowance, plus an administrator’s fee for the son’s share of the estate.

  “How soon will the will be probated, do you know?”

  “The time for probate is six months, if there aren’t any complications. That’d be four months from now.”

  “Do you have the name of Connie’s lawyer?”

  “Yes. It’s Albert Fink. He’s in San Francisco. I haven’t found him very helpful, though.”

  “Is it all right if I talk to him?”

  “Yes. And when you do, tell me what he says.” As she said it, Bernhardt heard the hard edge of resolution in her voice, saw the muted flash of determination in her clear blue eyes. Janice Hale spoke softly, but she knew what she wanted—and knew how to get it. She was a slim woman, economically proportioned. Beneath a casually worn cotton fisherman’s sweater, her breasts were small. Beneath loosely cut slacks, her legs were slim, her buttocks firm. If she was six years older than her sister, then Janice was now thirty-six. Worn short, her brown hair showed streaks of gray she’d disdained to have retouched. Her features, too, were unretouched: the face of an intellectual, unmistakably a member of the privileged class.

  “Does Dennis know you’re here?”

  “No. Do you think I should tell him?”

  “Probably not, at least for now. You’d better give me a chance to ask a few questions.”

  “We’ll be in touch, won’t we?”

  “Certainly. I’ll call you every day. Here—” He slid a business card across the t
able. “I’ve got a machine, so you can leave a message. I’ll need a letter from you, identifying yourself as Constance Price’s sister, and authorizing me to investigate the circumstances surrounding her death.” He gestured to a nearby writing desk. “You can write it now. Mention that, aside from Dennis and John, you’re Constance Price’s only blood relative. When it comes to the legalities—things like authorizing funeral arrangements, swearing out complaints—a blood relationship is what it’s all about.” He let a beat pass. Then, conscious of his own awkward discomfort, he said, “I charge—”

  Quickly, she raised a hand. “Please. I’ve known Paula all my life. Let’s not talk about money. Just send me a bill. Will you?”

  Gravely, he nodded. “Of course.”

  “Good.” With an air of someone releasing energy, she rose to her feet and strode across the large, ornately furnished hotel sitting room. When she returned to sit across from him, Bernhardt watched her cross her legs, lean forward, prop an elbow on her knee and cup her chin in her hand. It was a classic finishing school posture.

  “What’ll you do first?” she asked. Her eyes were brighter now, more sharply focused. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “I don’t think so,” Bernhardt answered. “Not now. Of course, I’ll be calling you, for instructions. For instance, when I talk to Price, should I say that you’ve retained me?”

  Considering the question, she frowned. “Yes, I see.” She uncrossed her legs, thoughtfully tapped a fingernail on the arm of her Regency chair. “I see what you mean. Strategy.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Will you talk to Dennis first?”

  “To be honest,” Bernhardt answered, “I haven’t figured it out. But I think I’ll talk to the police first, find out who handled the murder investigation, and talk to him. Do you have any idea whether the authorities have a suspect?”

  “As I said, I only know what Dennis told me. But somehow I don’t think there was a suspect. I think Dennis would’ve mentioned that.”

  “What about John? Was he questioned by the police?”

  “I don’t know.”