The Betrayal

by Terry Lynn Thomas

  “I’ll be fine,” Olivia said.

  “You know I’ll help you in any way I can, right?”

  “I do. It means the world. Thanks for cleaning up this mess. I’ll finish it tomorrow.” A soft laugh. “Remind me to never get arrested again.” She took her mug of tea and headed down the long dark corridor to her bedroom, where she stripped off her clothes and fell into bed. When she awoke, her bedside clock said 3:48 a.m. She had been asleep for twelve hours.

  Moving to the window, she pushed the curtain aside. Across the street, she saw the glow of a cigarette and the dark shadows of the die-hard journalists who had decided to stake out her house all night. Suddenly paranoid, she went through her house, making sure all the doors and windows were locked, and all the curtains were shut against prying eyes. Only then did she shower again. Wrapped in her warm bathrobe, she girded herself for chaos as she turned on the lamps in the living room. Not a thing was out of place. Lauren had stayed and put everything away. Even under house arrest, she at least had this sanctuary. No one could take that from her.

  When Olivia had designed her kitchen cabinets, she had built a small desk in the corner, with a place for her landline. Now that a landline was required for house arrest, she was glad she’d resisted the urge to get rid of it. She also had an answering machine, which Denny and Richard teased her about, arguing how obsolete answering machines were in this era of smartphones and constant connectivity. Although Olivia had a cell phone, she had yet to take the plunge and get rid of the telephone number that had belonged to her family since they moved into the house when Olivia was thirteen years old. Now the answering machine blinked with messages. Olivia took her tea and sat down at the desk. Her finger reached towards the “play” button, hovering there for just a moment.

  “Mrs. Sinclair? This is Jennifer Lindstrom from People Magazine. I’m writing an article about Sandy Watson’s murder. Would you be interested in telling your side of the story?” Olivia pressed next.

  “Mom? It’s me. What happened?”

  Oh, Denny. I am so sorry.

  “I’m so worried about you. No one will tell me what’s happening. Please call me. I don’t care what time. I’ll have my phone with me. I love you.”

  Olivia dialed Denny’s number. She picked up on the first ring.

  “Mom,” Denny said, her voice raspy with sleep.

  “Hi, honey. I’m sorry to call at this ungodly hour. I just got your message. Tell David I’m sorry if I woke him.”

  “He’s on a business retreat and won’t be home until tomorrow. Are you okay? What happened? The news said that you were arrested for murdering Dad’s secretary.”

  “It’s a big mix-up,” Olivia said. “I was arrested, but now I’m out on bail, house arrest actually. I’m confined until my trial.” Eager to reassure her daughter, she plowed on. “Listen to me, Den. It’s going to be okay. I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “Of course you didn’t. How could anyone think that?”

  “Have you spoken to your father?”

  “I tried to call him, but he hasn’t called me back. He had Wendy call me to tell me he’s okay and will call me tomorrow.”

  “Try not to believe what you hear on the news, okay, honey? Can you come visit?”

  “Yes, I’ll come as soon as I can.”

  “There are reporters everywhere. Come up the back garden, okay? You can avoid them that way, and if you’ll text when you’re on your way, I’ll look for you. Now try to get some sleep and don’t worry. I love you.”

  “Love you, too.” Denny said.

  Olivia worried that David would use the circumstances surrounding Olivia’s arrest to drive a wedge even further between Denny and her. Didn’t all abusers try to isolate their victims? She stopped, her mind whirling. Would David Grayson set Olivia up for murder, so he could free Denny of involvement with her once and for all? No. Surely not.

  As she brushed her teeth, ready to get back in bed, she thought about Richard’s true nature – how could she have been so blind all these years? Could he have murdered Sandy Watson? Tucking herself under the thick duvet, she wondered just how far Richard would go to protect his law firm and his precious reputation.

  Olivia was awake when the sun came up. Fidgety and unable to concentrate, she turned on the news, flipping through the channels until she stumbled across the video clip from yesterday when she and Stephen arrived home from jail. The camera focused on her for a moment, but immediately followed Stephen after his announcement that he would like to make a statement.

  “Olivia Sinclair is an innocent woman wrongly accused. She will have her day in court and she will be exonerated.”

  Several reporters shouted their questions at the same time.

  “What evidence do they have? Isn’t it true that there’s video of Olivia’s husband sleeping with the dead girl? Is Richard Sinclair involved?”

  Stephen held up his hands. “We don’t know who was involved. As for evidence, I can’t comment at this time, but we are investigating other leads.”

  Another reporter, a man this time, spoke, “Does investigating other leads mean Olivia Sinclair is going to exonerate herself by finding out who really killed Sandy Watson? Would you say that’s a correct statement?”

  Olivia clicked off the television. Picking up her pen, she started making notes of all the things Mary would have to deal with. The doorbell rang just as she finished.

  “Did those reporters stay out there all night? You should see the mess they’ve made. Coffee cups, cigarette butts, garbage all over the place. Like a bunch of children,” Mary said. Olivia watched as she unpacked a grocery bag full of food.

  “What’ve you brought?”

  “Comfort food. And I don’t want to hear about your diet. You need your strength. I’ve brought chicken soup, fresh bread, homemade oatmeal raisin cookies, and macaroni and cheese.”

  “Thanks, Mary,” Olivia said. “Help yourself to coffee. We can sit in the living room.”

  Once they were seated on the couch, Mary said, “The clients are calling. I’ve been taking messages. I’ll need to tell them something, what with the news and all. And I’m afraid that Sheila Blanding and Will Guyton are going to get new lawyers. They talked about hiring Claire. Others will follow, I feel certain.”

  Olivia took a deep breath. She knew clients would leave her over this. If her lawyer had been arrested for a very sensational murder, she’d jump ship, too. That inevitable truth couldn’t be ignored.

  “What are you going to do?” Mary asked.

  “Other than Blanding and Guyton, we only have four other active cases. I’d like you to call those clients this afternoon. Gently suggest they hire Claire. Can you get the files ready to be transferred before you leave for Ireland?”

  “Easily,” Mary said. “But should I cancel my trip?”

  “No, absolutely not.”

  “I’ve brought a list of cases that aren’t active,” Mary said. “I thought we could maybe split it up and call people, maybe convince them to stay.”

  Olivia shook her head. “No. I’m finished. The idea of going into the office and practicing law gives me a headache, and I need to focus on my defense.”

  “But you won’t have a practice left. How can you turn the practice over to Claire Montreaux if there aren’t any clients?”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  Mary sipped her tea. “Is there anything I can do for you, Olivia? You know all you have to do is ask.”

  “No, thanks. I’ll be fine.” A pause. “You know I didn’t kill her.”

  Concern flitted across Mary’s face. “Of course you didn’t. Forgive me if I’m overstepping, but have you thought Richard might be involved?”

  “Yes,” Olivia whispered. “The thought has crossed my mind.”

  “This is going to get worse before it gets better.”

  “I know,” Olivia said.

  Olivia spent the morning compiling a comprehensive list of everyone who had been in or had a
ccess to her house over the last month. In an attempt to be thorough, she included her handyman, the man who inspected her gas fireplace, the man who cleaned her windows, and anyone else who could have figured out a way into her home while she was predictably away during the day. Although she knew the list was an exercise in futility, she realized the importance of staying busy. Having something to do kept her from thinking about that poor dead girl, Richard’s betrayal, and his likely involvement in her murder.

  Today Stephen wore blue jeans, a burgundy sweater and a baseball cap pulled so low it covered his eyes. She watched through her kitchen window as he pushed through the crowd of reporters, his well-worn leather briefcase in one hand, a large bulging shopping bag in the other.

  “You look well rested,” Stephen said, as Olivia locked the door behind him.

  “I’m ready to fight this,” Olivia said.

  “Good. Because I have a plan. Where are we sitting?”

  “Living room. Coffee?”

  “Please,” Stephen said. When she brought them both mugs of coffee, she found Stephen with his briefcase open, spreading papers out on the coffee table in organized piles.

  “What’re those papers?”

  He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “My paralegal pulled everything she could find on Sandy Watson. Jonas gave me the preliminary police report, the emails, and a copy of the video recovered from your cell phone. That’s just the beginning. I served an official discovery request yesterday. We’ll get everything they have within fifteen days. I’ll send supplemental requests every two weeks up until the time of trial. That way, there won’t be any misunderstanding in case Jonas decides to withhold something. These are copies for you to review. Someone is framing you. I’m hoping you can go through these documents and look for something that leads us to who that person is. Are you up for this, Liv? I have two extremely competent paralegals on staff if this is too much.”

  “I need something to do, Stephen. If I sit around this house, I’ll go crazy.”

  Stephen handed Olivia the shopping bag. “Here’s your new laptop and cell phone. I’ll let you get busy getting set up and leave those documents for you. You can review them, make any notes you think might help. Other than that, there’s nothing really for you to do right now. But there will be soon. I’ve got an expert who will prove you didn’t open the American Express card used to rent the murder scene. He’ll want to speak with you. We need to hire a PI. I’ve got someone in mind, but I need to see if he’s taking new cases. I’m going to see him after I leave here. Are you on board with that?”

  Olivia nodded.

  “Are you okay, Olivia? Did you speak to Denny?”

  “We spoke. She’s going to visit as soon as she is able,” Olivia said.

  “Good. You’ll feel better when you see her in person.”

  After Stephen left, Olivia leaned against the front door, feeling defeated in every way. In the back of her mind was Richard’s betrayal, taunting her at every turn.

  Chapter 11

  Thursday, October 16

  Whitfield Adam’s family had been running Tamalpais Bank and Trust since its inception in 1898, ten years before the town of Larkspur was incorporated. Other than minor repairs completed over the years, the small brick building, snuggled smack in the middle of a redwood grove on Magnolia Avenue, hadn’t changed since that time. Once they stepped through the glass doors, the bank’s customers often commented about the timelessness of the place.

  Brian Vickery stood outside for a moment, saying a silent prayer that he wouldn’t lose his house, before he stepped inside. The wide-planked floors covered in what were surely original Aubusson rugs, the brass banker’s lamps on the old dark wooden desks, and three teller cages all gave a silent nod to a time long forgotten. The bank catered to upper-crust Marinites, old families who had lived in the county just north of San Francisco when it was a weekend getaway and resort community for people who wanted to escape the city fog during the summer months.

  If it weren’t for Brian Vickery’s friendship with Whit Adams, Tamalpais Bank and Trust would never approve a large loan to the likes of Brian Vickery, who lived on his police pension. But although Brian and Whit ran in different circles in adulthood – Whit ran with the yacht club set, while Brian had spent his free time at home with his wife Maureen – they were best friends growing up and this bond had withstood the test of time.

  Now Brian sat in the comfortable chair across from the large antique desk, his anxiety preventing him from enjoying the warm sun as it beamed through the window.

  “I’m so sorry for you, Brian. Maureen will be missed. Brenda and I were both shocked when we heard. We would have come to the funeral, but we didn’t know—”

  “There’s no need to apologize,” Brian said. “I didn’t have a funeral. Couldn’t bear it, to tell you the truth. And don’t go blaming yourself for my financial woes, Whit. You advised me against taking such a large mortgage. You made it very clear that the repayment would exceed my pension, and I didn’t listen. I just wanted to save Maureen. When the doctors said there was nothing else to be done, I couldn’t believe it – didn’t want to believe it. We went to a cancer specialist in Houston and finally wound up in Zurich.”

  Only after Maureen was gone did Brian realize the truth of the situation: Maureen had known she was dying, but she had gone along with Brian’s insistence on trying everything under the sun because she loved him. He swallowed the familiar lump in this throat. No way in hell would he cry in front of Whitfield. The last thing he wanted was his friend’s pity.

  “I should start collection proceedings. If it were anyone but you in this position, I would have commenced legal action weeks ago.” Whit opened his desk drawer and set a brochure in front of Brian. “Forgive me for being forward, but I’ve been trying to figure out what you could do to get out of this mess. I spoke to a Realtor. You’re sitting on a goldmine, Brian. Sell the house. You’d easily fetch enough money to pay your loan and buy someplace smaller, a condo in San Rafael or something like that.”

  Whit pushed over the brochure with a coiffed young woman standing next to a large brick house with a “sold” sign in its well-manicured front yard.

  “My house? Surely it can’t be worth that much,” Brian said.

  They had scrimped and saved to purchase the house in 1979. It had been fashionable at the time, with its avocado green appliances and brown and gold carpeting. The avocado range still graced the kitchen. The matching refrigerator had long ago been replaced by a simple white one. Neither Maureen nor Brian cared to upgrade their house. They loved their neighborhood, with its access to miles of open space and hiking trails, but mostly they loved their huge backyard. Many happy hours were spent planting, and harvesting vegetables they grew. Maureen had drawn up the plans for the exterior garden, and it had taken ten years to plant everything they wanted.

  Now the garden had filled in and was nothing short of miraculous. When they had company over, they entertained outside. Maureen had come up with the idea of building an outdoor firepit and grill, along with a covered area with a sink, which allowed them to entertain outdoors all year round.

  For some reason, Brian and Maureen were never blessed with children. They talked about adoption, fertility doctors, and the like, but neither were too enthusiastic about the idea. They had each other, and although they would have liked children, their love was enough to sustain them. Their life was full with hiking, trips to the beach – they both learned to surf at a young age – and working in their garden. As the years went by and the interior of the house became more dated and shabby, the garden, as if a testament to their love, flourished. Maureen often joked that the garden was their love child.

  Brian pushed the brochure back to Whit. How could he sell his house?

  “Maureen is all over that house. I can’t get rid of it.”

  Whit blew out a long puff of air as he leaned back into his chair and closed his eyes.

  Brian waited, giving his old
friend room to brainstorm and come up with some miracle plan that would let him keep the house he could ill afford and preserve the memories of his dead wife.

  “I get it, Brian. I really do. So we need to figure out a way for you to keep the house and get me paid. I could refinance it with a long-term loan. You could make the monthly payments, but from where I sit, you’re going to have to get a job, old man. Hate to say it. And at the risk of getting you angry with me, maybe a job would be a good thing. No offense, but I think something to get your mind off your troubles might be just the ticket.

  “Here’s what I can do right now. I can give you sixty days. But I’m going to have to ask for a balloon payment after that time. If you can get your income stream up with the sixty days, we can write you another long-term loan.”

  “Thanks, Whit.” Brian stood and held out his hand.

  “No problem. You’ll need to come back and sign a mountain of paperwork. How about we do it over dinner? You look like you could use a home-cooked meal.”

  Brian had no interest in socializing with Whit and his charming wife, knowing full well he was incapable of the innocuous small talk and the required pleasantries. And, knowing Brenda, she’d invite a few of their other friends, people who knew Maureen and would utter their condolences. Brian shook his friend’s hand. “Not ready for that yet. But rain check, okay? And give Brenda my love.”

  By a stroke of luck, Brian managed to walk out of the bank and make it to the safety of his car before breaking down completely.

  Brian returned home, memories of Maureen running through his head. Knowing full well that Whit had given him the gift of time, Brian girded himself to face his own horrible reality. He needed to find a way to make some money. Fast.

  Around him, the musty room with its accumulated piles of mail and dust and untended business seemed to taunt him. Was Maureen watching him from heaven? He looked out the window to their beloved garden, now overgrown with weeds and dead leaves that he hadn’t bothered to rake. The neighbor’s cat stared at him through the sliding glass door. He knew Maureen used to feed it treats. In the kitchen, he rescued a small piece of chicken from the lone casserole dish – when had Mrs. Winkle come and cleaned out the refrigerator? – and fed it to the cat. The creature purred and rubbed against his legs, then stared at him with her steady knowing gaze. He bent down to scratch the cat’s ears before letting her out.