Once the soup was simmering, she took out four jars of the tomatoes she canned last summer, chopped up garlic, onion, and fresh basil and made a pot of spaghetti sauce. Soon the marinara and the soup bubbled away, filling the house with the comforting smells of a warm kitchen.
She was just about to get back to the Janelle Maycott evidence, when the doorbell rang. Leaving the chain on, just in case one of the journos had decided to ambush her, she peeked through the crack in the door, and was dismayed to find Claire Montreaux standing there, looking perfectly put together and utterly professional.
“Sorry to come unannounced,” Claire said. “I’m here to say how sorry I am.”
“Sorry? For what?” Olivia asked.
“Can I come in?”
Not wanting Claire to see all the case evidence that was spread out in the living room, Olivia led Claire to the kitchen.
“I wanted to tell you what’s been happening with your clients face-to-face. You’ve been fair to me and I was really looking forward to working with you. I want you to know your clients came to me voluntarily. I didn’t poach them.”
“It’s not your fault,” Olivia said. Claire fidgeted with a perfectly manicured fingernail, looking decidedly uncomfortable. “What’s the matter? What aren’t you telling me?”
Claire sighed. “I hope I’m not overstepping by telling you this, but given your current circumstances, I think you need to know.”
Oh, what now? Olivia braced herself for the worst.
“Last year I attended the Bar Association Christmas party at The Spinnaker.” Like an anxious child, Claire shifted her weight from one suede pump to another. “Richard hit on me. I mean, he came on pretty strong, like he wasn’t going to take no for an answer. Thank goodness someone else came to talk to him and I was able to slip away.”
Olivia wondered for a moment how many other women would come out of the woodwork claiming that Richard had hit on them. She wasn’t quite sure how this information could help her case or help her life. For all she cared, Richard could rot in prison. If it weren’t for him and his philandering ways, they wouldn’t be in this mess.
Claire stopped fidgeting. “I thought you needed to know. If I were in your position, I would want someone to tell me.” She hoisted her purse higher onto her shoulder. “I should go.”
Out of the blue, Olivia took a deep breath and turned to face Claire. “I want to hire you.”
Claire’s eyes opened in surprise. “You’re divorcing your husband?”
“Yes, but not for that. It’s my daughter.” Olivia plowed on before she changed her mind. “I’ll give you a retainer. You’ll need an investigator. I’ll pay for that too.”
Claire pulled a legal pad out of her purse and took copious notes while Olivia explained Denny’s situation, her belief that David Grayson had been cheating on her, and that she had hired another investigator who botched the job so badly that David was aware of the surveillance.
When Olivia finished talking, Claire went down her notes and repeated everything Olivia requested verbatim. “I know a good investigator. I’ll call him when I get back to the office. If David has his mistress with him, I’ll get evidence.”
“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” Olivia said. “My daughter loves her husband. She certainly doesn’t want me meddling in her life. But David’s cheating on her. Eventually she’s going to find out. When she does, she’ll be in need of a good lawyer.”
“How long do you want me to keep eyes on him?”
“Not sure. I’ll let you know. Years in this business has made me cynical.”
“I understand,” Claire said. “You can almost sense what’s going on in these marriages, can’t you?”
“I’ve always been good at seeing other people’s troubles. Too bad I was so horrid at seeing my own.” Olivia sighed. “Shall I give you a retainer?”
“No, this one’s on me. I’ll send a bill for expenses every month. If you could pay those quickly, I’d appreciate it. Once Denny discovers what’s going on and expresses interest in a divorce, we’ll work out a retainer. Is that fair?”
“More than fair. Thank you.” Olivia held out her hand. Claire shook it.
“I’m sorry you have to go through all this, Olivia. You don’t deserve it.”
“I appreciate you saying that.”
After Claire left, Olivia got back in bed, tired all of a sudden. The events surrounding her arrest and the fear that her husband was involved in the murder of two young women at the beginning of their lives, had taken its toll. She recognized her emotional exhaustion and longed for sleep, but alas it wouldn’t come. She tossed and turned in her bed until late afternoon.
Padding into the kitchen, she detoured towards Richard’s wine closet, where she grabbed a favorite California cabernet. She poured herself a glass and sipped it as she put on a pot of water to boil and started mincing garlic. She mixed the garlic with olive oil and a bit of butter. After slicing a loaf of French bread – courtesy of Lauren – in half, she smeared both sides with the garlicky mixture, topped that with some fresh grated parmesan cheese.
She sipped her wine while the garlic bread toasted in the oven. Soon she had a plate loaded up with spaghetti and garlic bread. She topped off her wine, and sat by herself at her dining room table. Taking her time with her meal, she realized these solitary dinners were going to be the new normal.
She thought about Brian Vickery and the kinship they shared. What would it be like to date someone like him, someone kind and not ego-driven like Richard? Life with Richard had been full of excitement and promise. Olivia imagined life with Brian would be easy and full of simple pleasures. She imagined walks on the beach with romantic sunsets, and chastised herself for being ridiculous.
Although the days of romance were over, Olivia was not ready to assume the role of retired spinster. Olivia made a promise to herself that if she managed to stay out of prison, she would find something worthwhile to do with her law degree, some sort of charity work that would afford her a modicum of freedom. If she managed to stay out of prison. If …
Chapter 19
Tuesday, October 21
As Brian pulled away from Olivia’s house, he forced himself to admit – albeit reluctantly – that he was attracted to her. Although she was nothing like Maureen, who eschewed fancy clothes and haircuts and didn’t spend a whole lot of time on her appearance, Olivia and Maureen shared a down-to-earth quality that Brian found immensely pleasing. He liked women who were real and without pretense. And for all her polish and sophistication, Olivia Sinclair seemed to possess these characteristics in spades. To Brian’s way of thinking, Olivia’s worry over her daughter, despite her own daunting circumstances, spoke volumes about her character.
Admitting that he was lonely and in a strange place after Maureen’s death was one thing. Admitting he was actually attracted to another woman left Brian feeling like an adulterer, as though he were betraying his beloved wife in death. But there was no denying that Brian had enjoyed eating Olivia’s home-cooked breakfast, and – most daunting of all – enjoyed sitting across from her while doing so. He recalled the blush of her cheek, the way she moved around her gourmet kitchen like a master. The idea of his arms around Olivia filled him with desire, and God help him, he was riddled with guilt because of it. He would have to keep his distance, at least until her case was completed. Good luck with that.
He pointed his car north on 101, towards the Napa Valley, California’s premier wine-growing region, taking his time as he enjoyed the gorgeous October day, full of soft light and burnished color.
The Pritchard property was tucked among a grove of oak trees on the Silverado trail, a two-lane country road that wove through the Napa Valley and its world-class vineyards and wineries. Brian remembered what Napa was like before the California wine craze. In the 1970s, the houses were few and far between and without pretense. Since then the Napa Valley had turned into a destination vacation spot. Real estate had skyrocketed, and those who could
afford it bought acres of land, which they turned around and leased to grape growers. Others even went a step further and opened wineries, eager for the prestige and the tax benefits.
Meanwhile, the teachers, policemen, and everyday working people found themselves unable to buy homes. Brian pulled to a stop at the keypad outside the Pritchard property and pressed the code provided by Madison Pritchard to open the gates.
August through late October was crush season in the wine country. Once upon a time, crush meant laborers picking grapes. Now crush had morphed into a marketing buzzword for the entire region. It was the time of social gathering, society balls, and an onslaught of visitors to the tasting rooms. Driving slowly up the winding dirt road, Brian wove towards the Pritchard house, a large stucco affair that sat atop a sloping hill. Vineyards surrounded the house, the rows of grapes flowing in uniform lines.
The driveway ended in a circular courtyard. Brian tucked his car out of the way and walked up to the front door. He knocked, surprised when Madison Pritchard – whom he recognized from the various society columns he found online – opened the door for him herself.
“Mr. Vickery?” She gave him a forced smile as she ran her eyes over him. A quick look accompanied by a flash judgment. He didn’t care one way or another what she thought of him. “Follow me, please.”
She led him into a cavernous foyer with a flagstone floor and leaded windows on either side of the medieval-looking front door. In the middle of the empty room a large round table held a giant bouquet of flowers. Surprised that she didn’t ask him for identification, he followed her along a dark corridor into a vast library. The room was huge, with floor-to-ceiling bookcases covering all four walls. The cases were chock full of books of all kinds. Brian saw leather-bound classics, an interesting collection of atlases, and one entire bookcase devoted to old Bibles, with their gold lettering and cracked spines. He resisted the urge to peruse the titles.
One wall held two French doors, which had a view of the vineyards. Between the doors, a small wet bar and a glass-doored cabinet held an array of crystal glasses and wine goblets in varying sizes and shapes. Two couches faced each other in front of a large stone fireplace, which was lit but did little to warm the room. Each corner held its own desk, one of them made of masculine dark wood – Mr. Prichard’s, maybe? The other desk was a simple table with curved legs and a Tiffany lamp on top of it. Mrs. Prichard’s, he reckoned. And if the stamps and stationery scattered about were any indication, he had interrupted her while she was writing letters.
“Would you like coffee, tea, or something stronger?” Madison Pritchard was exactly as Brian expected. Perfectly coiffed hair, styled in a honey-colored bob. Flawless makeup, pearl earrings, a jade green silk blouse, and gray flannel trousers completed her ensemble. She had that look that older women get when they try to fight their wrinkles, too-tight skin covered with some mysterious potion that tried to emulate a youthful glow. To Brian’s way of thinking, women and men of a certain age were supposed to have lines on their faces. Wrinkles were the glorified etchings of a life well lived. They told a story. When you let the world see them, you were sharing yourself.
“No, thank you, Mrs. Pritchard,” Brian said. “I just have a few questions and then I’ll be on my way.”
“My husband is in Paris. He’ll be back next week and will gladly speak to you then.”
“Perfect,” Brian said. “Richard Sinclair was with you at your house in Atherton last weekend?”
“Yes. It’s an annual weekend house party where my husband hosts his college friends, a reunion of sorts. This year was the twentieth year. The men golf, sit down to lengthy formal dinners every night and discuss their money.”
“No wives?”
Madison shrugged. “The wives used to come, but over the years it’s turned into a men’s weekend. I went to the city to do some shopping.”
“What’s your relationship like with Olivia Sinclair? Do you and your husband socialize with her?”
Madison Pritchard met Brian’s gaze. He saw something cold there, a hint of the real Madison Pritchard, the woman without the money and the powerful husband. He wondered at her background, because what he saw in her was guttural and scrappy.
“We used to. Lately I’ve got the distinct impression she doesn’t much care for us.”
“You know Richard Sinclair is using you and your husband as his alibi for the night of his secretary’s murder? Can you tell me about the weekend, when you saw him? Is there a chance he could have left your house and killed Sandy Watson?”
A look of worry flashed in Madison’s eyes. Although fleeting, Brian noticed it.
“Tell me what happened, Mrs. Pritchard. If you aren’t honest with me, I’ll dig away until I find out what you’re hiding. And don’t be fooled by my humble means. I’m good at my job. If you’re hiding something, I’ll find out about it.” Brian waited, hoping he hadn’t pushed her too far. “What’s it to be?”
Madison stood. “Would you like a drink?”
“No, ma’am.” Brian waited while Madison walked to the wet bar, put two ice cubes in a crystal highball glass and splashed a generous dollop of Belvedere vodka over the cubes. She didn’t meet Brian’s eyes as she sat back down, downed the vodka in one go, and leaned back on the couch, eyes closed, as if savoring the initial flush of alcohol. Imagining Madison Pritchard did her share of day drinking, Brian waited.
“Very well. Richard Sinclair and I were having an affair. He left our house in Atherton and came to the city Sunday evening around 9:30. We met at the Fairmont. I didn’t leave until after lunch, but Richard left early, before dawn. I have a feeling my husband knows of our little fling. I’m sorry if I was rude to you, Mr. Vickery.” Mrs. Pritchard sighed. She looked at him with tired, beleaguered eyes. “There was no call for that. You can call me again if you need to. When my husband gets home, I’m going to tell him what happened. God knows, James hasn’t exactly been a faithful doting husband.”
“That’s a good idea. You can bet the San Francisco PD will want to talk to you, Mrs. Pritchard. And, pardon the unsolicited advice, but it’s always best to be honest with the cops. They have the resources to find out the truth.” Brian stood. “I’ll see myself out.” He left Madison Pritchard at the wet bar, pouring herself another Belvedere.
Brian sat in his car and dialed Stephen’s number.
“Any luck?”
“No. Madison Pritchard alibied Richard Sinclair.”
“We’re missing something.”
“Agreed,” Brian said.
“I’m not going to turn that photo of Janelle Maycott and Richard over to the police yet. It could be interpreted as providing Olivia a motive. I think I’ll wait until we have more evidence against Richard or someone else. Do you think there’s a copy of it in the files at the SFPD?”
“I don’t know,” Brian said.
“I wanted to run something by you.”
Brian waited.
“The police never printed the areas of ingress and egress to Olivia’s house. In my mind, that was an oversight,” Stephen said.
“They found what they were looking for and probably called off the search,” Brian said.
“If someone planted evidence in Olivia’s closet, they might have left a fingerprint at a window or a door. I’m going to see about getting the house reprinted.”
“That’s a good idea.”
“Good. I’ll see if I can make that happen. If the police don’t agree, I’ll hire an independent person to do it.”
Brian hung up, more determined than ever to prove Olivia’s innocence. The idea of Olivia Sinclair spending even a second in prison shook him to the core. I don’t want to lose her too. Three aggressive taps on the window startled him out of his reverie. Sharon Bailey looked down at him, an irritated expression on her face. She waved her hand, motioning him to roll down his driver’s window.
“A little lost in thought there, Brian?”
“Hey, Sharon.”
“Have
you spoken to Madison Pritchard?”
“Yep. Richard Sinclair snuck away from his party in Atherton and spent the night with Madison at the Fairmont. She did say that Richard snuck away Monday morning early, before dawn. I imagine you could double-check that with the Fairmont.”
“Tough luck,” Sharon muttered under breath.
“Olivia didn’t kill Sandy Watson.”
“The evidence says otherwise.”
“You didn’t hear this from me, but Richard Sinclair renewed his passport.” Brian put his car in reverse.
“What?”
“You heard me. I think Richard Sinclair killed Sandy Watson.”
“There’s no proof of that,” Sharon said, trying to keep up with the car as Brian backed away.
“Yet. There’s no proof yet.” He hit the gas pedal and headed down the driveway. In his rearview mirror, Sharon gave him the middle finger. He was close enough to see that she did so with a smile on her face.
Just as Brian got out of his car and wondered what he would do for dinner, Mrs. Winkle came up the walkway carrying two casserole dishes. It was 3 p.m., but he hadn’t eaten since breakfast at Olivia’s. Brian couldn’t help but smile at the sight of his dear neighbor, with her garish housecoat, her fur-trimmed slippers, and her hot pink glasses. Mrs. Winkle and the Vickerys were the last of the residents from the old days. Their houses were the only ones that hadn’t been remodeled and modernized, and they were the only people left in the neighborhood who didn’t drive fancy new cars.
Brian remembered the bonhomie of the past, how the neighbors used to have barbeques at each other’s houses, and speak when they passed in the street. Now the entire area had changed. Brian didn’t even know his new next-door neighbors’ names. He knew full well that they laughed at Mrs. Winkle behind her back. He had heard them over the backyard fence talking about her on more than one occasion. But Brian and Maureen had loved Mrs. Winkle like family. Over the years they had spent holidays together, and Maureen had loved Mrs. Winkle’s grandchildren as though they were her own.
The Betrayal Page 14
