Silent Witness

by Collin Wilcox

  “Christ, I did let her talk. I couldn’t shut her up. And I’ll tell you, she’s not about to slink back to Santa Barbara. No way. The lady is out to get me.”

  Holding her pose, she made no response. In the silence, each sitting at opposite ends of the long sofa—the fifteen-hundred-dollar sofa—they stared silently at each other. He couldn’t read her face. Had he ever been able to do it? Did he ever know what Theo was thinking? Was that part of the attraction—the obsession? In three months—three erotic months—they’d done it all, woman to man and man to woman. Everything. But the woman he faced now was a stranger. An inscrutable, desirable stranger.

  Now, speaking slowly, her eyes shifting beyond him, plainly articulating the thoughts as they came to her, she said, “It sounds like she misses John. It sounds genuine. And it could be—” As the thoughts outdistanced the words, she broke off. Then: “It could be that you’re worrying too much. You’re assuming the worst, where John’s concerned. You’re assuming he was awake, and heard it all. Everything. But you never’ve talked to John about what he heard—or saw.”

  “But—”

  “Wait.” She raised an abrupt hand. Repeating: “Wait.” It was a short, harsh monosyllable. Her eyes were hard, her mouth set. She let a beat pass before she began speaking crisply, decisively. Her eyes had come alive now, locked with his, compelling his close attention. “What we could be doing,” she said, “is assuming the worst. Erroneously assuming the worst. We’re assuming that John knows what happened—or suspects, anyhow. And we’re assuming that Janice wants to talk to him because she’s suspicious. But that could be wrong. It could be completely wrong. So why don’t we assume the best, instead of the worst? Why don’t we assume that John didn’t hear or see a thing? And why don’t we assume that all Janice wants to do is spend some time with John? Why don’t we—”

  “That could’ve been true, at first. But today, she sure as hell—”

  “Wait. Let me finish.” Her voice rose, her eyes snapped. Was it anger? It was the first time he’d seen her eyes like this, the first time he’d heard this edge to her voice. In response, he shrugged, spread his hands, looked away. He’d let her have her way. Then he’d speak. Didn’t she know that they had to assume the worst? Didn’t she realize that—

  “What about this—” Now she spoke calmly, earnestly. Her eyes, too, were earnest. Intense, but earnest. “What if you take John away for a few months? What if the two of you went to Europe, traveling around? No one would really know where you were—no one but me. Before you go, you call Janice. You apologize. You say she has to realize how disturbed you’ve been, these last couple of months. And John, too, of course. Emphasize that you’ve done it all for John. Then you tell her that when you get back from Europe she’s welcome to have John for as long as she wants. In fact, you’ll say, you like traveling so much that you’ve decided to live in Europe for a while. Spain, maybe in a small village. You’ll say that …”

  As she continued to speak, his thoughts turned inward, overlaying her voice. She was right. God, she was right. He would stay in Europe, traveling, out of touch. Then he’d come back to San Francisco. No, he’d go first to Los Angeles, then up to Santa Barbara. He’d give John to Janice—give him to her. Then he’d go to San Francisco, and pick up the inheritance check from his lawyer. The winery, he’d leave for the creditors. The townhouse, one-third his, one-third John’s, he’d instruct his lawyer to sell, and send the check to him.

  Then, back in Europe, he would send for Theo. Janice and John would live happily ever after.

  Theo was no longer speaking. She was looking at him. Watching. Waiting.

  “I wonder …” Suddenly he rose, walked to the view window, stood for a moment looking out at the Marin County vistas: Mount Tamalpais, shimmering in the afternoon heat. Because of the view, the rental was fifteen hundred, for a small three-room apartment. “I wonder, would it work?” Frowning, biting his lip, he turned to face her. Uncertainty clouded his eyes.

  “Why wouldn’t it work?” As she spoke, she lowered her feet to the floor, and turned on the couch to face him. The urgency was gone from her voice now, the tension had gone out of her body. The message: having expressed her opinion she would abide by his decision. There was another message, too: a suggestion of sexual quickening.

  “There’s the winery to run. And bills to pay,” he said.

  “Couldn’t your lawyer handle that? What’ll it be, another three months, before the will’s probated?”

  “Closer to four, I think. The whole process takes six months.”

  “You could keep in contact with your lawyer through me.” As she spoke, she raised her arms over her head, stretched, then moved closer. Yes, her eyes were softening, the pattern of her movements invited his caress. Suddenly it suffused him: the aura of her, the promise of release, of abandon, of oblivion.

  6:10 P.M.

  FROM THE BATHROOM SHE heard the sound of the shower. Soon, she knew, he would begin to sing: big, booming, masculine songs. A rooster crowed after screwing a hen. Was that what Dennis thought he was doing: crowing after he’d screwed her, thrust into her, left her gasping, helpless, lying across the bed, her part of the barnyard?

  How little he knew.

  How little they all knew: men like Dennis, more vanity than cock. Pretty boys, posing. Thirty-dollar hairstyling, tight jeans, smooth talk, a knowing smile. Children. Vain, spoiled children, smiling for the camera. All his life, Dennis’s smile had been his fortune; he was a vain, indulged pretty boy. Somehow his parents had scraped together enough money to send him to UCLA—a business major, so-called. A fraternity boy, really, a party boy. Even then—especially then—Dennis’s face had been his fortune. He’d met Constance Hale at a frat party. On graduation day, they’d driven to Las Vegas, four of them, two couples, and gotten married. Constance Hale, worth millions—and millions. Constance Hale, hooked. A meal ticket for life.

  Constance Hale, dead.

  More than two months, dead.

  But, still, a meal ticket, a passport to a lifetime’s riches.

  Letting her eyes close, she allowed her thoughts to return to the night of June sixteenth. Because it was necessary, she knew, that she remember. Otherwise, in years to come, she’d be in trouble. Psychiatrists, she knew, “peeled the onion,” removing the outer layers of time, working back to the cause of it all: the single incident, the poisonous seed that lodged in the psyche, and began to fester.

  And murder was the most poisonous seed of all.

  It had been only the second time they’d made love at the winery. Earlier in the day, they’d been flying. She’d driven up from the city, and met him at Buck Field. With Connie out of town, in Disneyland, they hadn’t hesitated to spend the day together, flying. They’d first met at Buck Field, when she was taking flying lessons.

  Had it only been three months, since they’d met?

  In three months, a lifetime could change.

  Three months … plus three seconds, on June sixteenth.

  They’d flown up to Clear Lake, a beautiful flight through clear summer sky. They’d had lunch, rented bicycles, taken a swim. The weather had been perfect, not too hot, not too cold. They’d stayed at Clear Lake until just after six, leaving enough time to return to Buck before twilight. They’d intended to drive into San Francisco, to her place. But Dennis had an appointment the next morning with a lawyer representing a potential buyer for the winery, a possibility Dennis was secretly exploring. So they’d gone to the winery, the night of June sixteenth. They’d been careful not to—

  Suddenly he was in the room. Showered, scented, smiling, hair carefully combed, his acceptably proportioned body posed for her approval. Pleased with himself. An hour ago, frightened, he was quaking. Now he was preening.

  “You look very—” She hesitated. “Very self-satisfied.”

  The smile widened. “So do you.” Appreciatively, he studied her. Beneath his eyes, also posing, she subtly moved her body, responding to his gaze as she
might to his touch. Soon—very soon, perhaps—they would make love again. When the flesh was willing—and able.

  But now she saw the shadow of fear return, clouding Dennis’s remarkably clear gray eyes. What would those eyes be capitalized at? she wondered. Athletes insured their arms, their legs, the muscles that let them make millions. What part had those eyes played in winning the hand of Connie Hale?

  As he came into bed, she pulled up the sheet, then decided to ask, “So what’d you think? Are you going to call your travel agent?”

  “It’s not that simple. I can’t just buy tickets, and get on an airplane, and go to Europe.” In his voice, she heard a peevish note, a petty whine. She drew slightly away from him, to see his face. Yes, his mouth was pursed, pouting.

  “Christ,” he protested, “there’s the house in the city, and the housekeeper. And the winery—a buyer, maybe, for the winery. There’s the bank, too. I’ve had to borrow money on the inheritance, to pay the bills. Everything’s frozen, you know. Everything.”

  “There’s your lawyer. Could he—?”

  Sharply, he shook his head. “I’ve already told you, he’d be all right to handle the probate, get the money. But I can’t let him deal with the creditors. It just wouldn’t work.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m living on money borrowed against assets in probate. That’s tricky. That’s very tricky. Especially when I’ve used the money to buy you a car, and furniture.”

  “I told you, they could deal with you through me. As far as they’re concerned, I could be your business manager. Your lawyer could handle some things, I could handle other things.”

  “Jesus, Theo, that’s the last thing we want, for people to connect the two of us.” He spoke irritably. “Don’t you see that? Now, everything’s cool. But the last thing we want is—”

  “An hour ago, you didn’t think everything was so cool.”

  “With the sheriff—Fowler—everything’s cool. That’s what I mean. The other—Janice, and John, and Bernhardt—that’s something else.”

  “That could be everything else.”

  “Not necessarily. It’s still Fowler’s jurisdiction. I know that much about the law. Whatever happens, anything legal, it’s got to go through Benedict County law enforcement. So Janice and Bernhardt have to go through Fowler.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” Staring up at the ceiling, he lapsed into silence. As the silence lengthened, she saw the fear return to his face. Reacting, once more frightened by his own thoughts, he shook his head. It was a sharp, involuntary movement. Then, heavily, he said, “I’ve got to talk to him, to John. Now. Tonight, I’ve got to talk to him, when he goes to bed. I’ve got to know.”

  “We’ve got to know.”

  He nodded. “Yes, ‘we.’”

  She watched him for a moment. Then, speaking very distinctly, she said, “You aren’t forgetting that it’s ‘we,’ are you, Dennis?” Still watching his face, she saw the words register: tiny muscle spasms around the eyes and mouth, a tightening at the throat. She let a beat pass before she said, “I wouldn’t want you to do that. Ever.”

  As she said it, she saw the spasms quicken. Yes, the threat had registered. If she didn’t get hers, the message read, then he’d never get his. Ever.

  6:30 P.M.

  “A BLONDE LADY WHO drives a fancy sports car,” Al Martelli had said.

  Satisfied with himself, Bernhardt smiled. The sports car—a white Toyota Supra—was in the carport, parked beside Price’s dark green Porsche 911. And the lady herself—blonde and, yes, beautiful—had just stood in front of a picture window, looking off in the direction of Mount Tamalpais. Only a few minutes ago, bare chested, Dennis Price had stood in the same window, looking at the same view.

  Whether or not Price was a gigolo, or a villain, or even a murderer, he was certainly a philanderer. Finally, after more than a week’s surveillance, after accomplishing nothing beyond a few minutes’ conversation with Al Martelli and John Price, Bernhardt had a wedge: Price, and a good-looking blonde, one of them bare chested, sharing a picture window in San Rafael, an hour’s drive from the winery.

  A sports car, an airplane, a boutique winery, a Pacific Heights townhouse—an heiress for a wife and a blonde girlfriend, Price had it all.

  Plus a son. A towheaded boy. A quiet, sensitive boy. A sad boy, without a mother. With a father who probably wished he wasn’t a father.

  Bernhardt yawned, stretched, checked the time. Six-forty. How long would Price stay? Another hour? All night? Would they go out for dinner? Eat in? Snack? Drink? Fuck? All of the above? At what stage in the love cycle were they? If they’d just met—even, possibly, after Connie’s death, thus negating the philandering rap—they’d probably make love again and again. If they’d known each other for a year, the fires might be burning low. A quickie, and Price could be back in the Porsche and driving to the winery, where he would resume his vigil, keeping John incommunicado. He would—

  On the stairs leading down from the building’s two upper apartments, a pair of legs materialized. Faded blue jeans. And now the torso: a striped rugby shirt. Price. Alone. Leaving. Almost certainly leaving. Surreptitiously, Bernhardt lowered himself in the front seat of his Corolla. Yes, Price was striding to his upscale Porsche, bending down to open the door. His movements were ragged, his mannerisms mismatched, as if he were trying to project a decisiveness he didn’t feel, an actor at odds with his lines. On the stage of life, Price was a type: a pleasing face, with nothing behind the mask.

  The plan, then, might be working, the script playing out as written. They’d stirred Price up, put him in motion, probably found his mistress.

  Leaving Bernhardt with a choice: follow Price, or talk to the blonde.

  8:20 P.M.

  MARIA STOOD BESIDE HIS bed, looking down at him. “Your daddy’s gonna be here pretty soon, John. You wanna read a book, till he come?”

  “Okay—” Without enthusiasm, John nodded.

  Irresolutely, Maria frowned. Should she try to tell him a story? It wasn’t her job, to put him to bed, get him ready, see that he washed himself, brushed his teeth, peed, like she did tonight. It wasn’t her job to tell him stories, try to read books to him. Sometimes he knew the words better than her, made her feel bad, like a fool. Jennifer, from down the road, always did all that. Jennifer stayed with John, nights when Price was away. Baby-sitter, Jennifer was, got good money. Better money than she got, figure it by the hour. But she had her place over the garage, free. Good place, one big room. Plenty of space for her sister. But Price, that bastard, say no. Then he ask her to babysit. All day long, she cook, do the washing, clean, work hard. But after dinner, that was her time. Watch TV. Go into town, if Ricardo or the other ones come by for her, grape pickers with cars, trucks. They drive her, she buy them beers. She let them touch her, fool around, sometimes, what the hell, get their rocks off.

  Especially tonight, with her sister come to town, staying with the Ochoas for a week, maybe more, she wanted to be in town. Drinking beer, laughing, talking about Mexico, the old days. But Jennifer, she went swimming in the river, cut her leg bad, have stitches. Fever, too. Kids.

  “Okay,” she said, “you read. Okay? I’m gonna go downstairs, watch TV. Okay?”

  “Yes—okay.” He sat up in bed, reached for a book, the top book on the pile beside the bed.

  “Okay,” she said. “Your daddy come home soon. He already phoned, say he’ll be here, say good night to you. Okay?”

  “Okay.” John nodded, watched her turn away, and leave. His third-floor room was small, with gabled eaves. Maria was so big she almost filled the doorway. He heard her going down the hall, heard her steps on the stairs. Maria walked so heavily he could almost tell where she was anywhere in the house. Sometimes she reminded him of a cow.

  The book was about dinosaurs, one of his very favorite books. They’d bought the book in San Francisco, he and his mother. They’d gone downtown, and had lunch at a real restaurant,
with waiters and white tablecloths. Then they’d gone shopping, first at a store that sold dresses, then at the bookstore. At the bookstore he’d seen Amy MacFarland, from his class. Amy was always very quiet, very shy. Even on the playground, at recess, Amy almost never yelled.

  It was only two weeks, his father had said, until they went back to the city, and he started school. Second grade. In the second grade, they wrote longhand, and did arithmetic, and even worked on computers.

  Who would take him to school, now?

  Would his father take him? Every single day, like his mother?

  Would they know, at school, that his mother had died? Would they ask him about her? Would Miss Case, the art teacher, talk to him about his mother?

  They’d gone to Disneyland right after school was out, he and his mother. It was a celebration, she’d said. They’d go to Disneyland, and see his Aunt Janice in Santa Barbara. Then they’d come home.

  His mother had been going to drive from Santa Barbara to the house in San Francisco. Then they’d go up to the winery later, in a day or two, she’d said. But she’d promised to buy him a mountain bike, to ride during the summer at the winery, a real twelve-speed bike like Al had. So he’d wanted to go to the winery rather than to San Francisco. That way, they could buy the bike in San Rafael the first day they got back from Santa Barbara, not the second day, or even the third, still in San Francisco, waiting.

  He’d heard his father and Sheriff Fowler talking about it, about how it had happened that they’d come to the winery rather than to San Francisco from Santa Barbara. Had his father expected them to come to the winery? No, his father had answered, he hadn’t. Had there been anyone else in the house, that night? No, his father had answered. There were just the three of them.

  The three of them, and someone else.

  Someone who—

  From outside, below his window, he heard the sound of his father’s Porsche, that special burbling sound that only the Porsche made. Maria had been right, then. His father was home.