Alvirah tried not to grab it out of his hand. The name on the paper was Leslie Fallowfield.
“Leslie Fallowfield,” she exclaimed. “There can’t be too many of them around.”
“That’s what I thought when I met him,” Sam agreed.
“Sam, do you know if he was from around here?”
“I’m pretty sure he was. He wasn’t much to look at. He was short, skinny and balding.”
“About how old was he?” Please, God, don’t let him be so old that he might be dead by now, Alvirah prayed.
“Oh, I’d say he was about fifty. I think he may have been Cora’s boyfriend because he said something to her about meeting for drinks at the usual place.”
Alvirah wanted to kiss Sam but held back. Instead she pumped his hand. “Sam, I don’t know how to thank you. I just don’t know how to thank you.”
When she got back in the car, Willy asked, “Any luck?”
“Willy, if what I just heard leads to anything, we are going to tile all the floors and walls and ceilings in the apartment.”
31
“Your Honor, the state calls Peter Benson,” said Prosecutor Holmes.
The back door of the courtroom opened and everyone turned around to watch him enter. A strikingly handsome man, flecks of gray in his dark brown hair, about six feet tall, he walked to the well of the courtroom, raised his right hand and swore to tell the truth. He settled into the witness stand and the prosecutor approached him.
The jury watched intently as the questioning of this highly anticipated witness began.
Elliot Holmes had handled many witnesses like Peter Benson in the past. Sometimes it was necessary to call a witness who was very close to the defendant and basically hostile to the prosecutor in the case. But he had no choice because it was the only way to bring out certain information.
Holmes also knew that he had to be careful because sometimes these witnesses would look for any opportunity to give an answer that would sandbag his case. And Peter Benson, Ph.D., was a very smart and educated man.
The prosecutor’s initial questions established that Benson was the Chair of the Humanities Department at Franklin University in Philadelphia. His wife had been fatally injured in a car crash nearly five years ago. They had been married for almost thirteen years and had not had children. His wife had been an adjunct professor at the same university.
“Sir, how long have you known the defendant, Betsy Grant?”
“We both grew up in Hawthorne, New Jersey, and we both attended Hawthorne High School. We graduated twenty-six years ago.”
“During your high school years, how much contact did you have with her?”
“I did see her quite often. Actually, we dated in our junior and senior years.”
“After you both graduated, did you continue to see her?”
“Only a few times. She had skipped a grade in elementary school. And I remember that her parents felt that she was too young, just having turned seventeen, to go away to college. They decided that it would be best if she went to Milwaukee to live with her aunt for a year and work in her dress shop before starting college. So, around mid-summer she left for Milwaukee.”
“In the next couple of years, did you see her at all?”
“No. I went to Boston College and my father’s company relocated to North Carolina so that’s where I went on school breaks. So we just kind of lost contact.”
“When is the next time that you saw or had any contact with her?”
“We met quite by accident at an exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in Manhattan. That was about three and a half years ago. As I walked by her, we looked at each other, did a double take and immediately recognized each other.”
“After that, did you rekindle your friendship?”
“If by rekindle you mean did we become friends again, yes, we did.”
“Did she tell you that she was married?”
“Yes, she told me that her husband was quite ill with Alzheimer’s, and of course, I told her that my wife had been killed in the car accident.”
“Now you live in Philadelphia, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And she has lived in Alpine, is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And about how long does it take to drive from Philadelphia to Alpine?”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never driven from Philadelphia to Alpine.”
Holmes paused and then continued, “How often have you seen her in these last three and a half years?”
“About once or twice a month up until Dr. Grant died.”
“And where would you meet her?”
“We would usually have dinner at a restaurant in Manhattan.”
“Did you ever have dinner in New Jersey?”
“No, we did not.”
“Why not?”
“No special reason. We just enjoyed going to the city. There were a few restaurants we liked there.”
“Did you drive directly to Manhattan?”
“Yes, I did.”
Holmes’ voice became sarcastic. “So you never once had dinner in New Jersey, anywhere near her home?”
“As I said, we had dinners in New York.”
“And in going to New York, is it fair to say that it was far less likely that you would run into people that either of you knew?”
Peter Benson hesitated, then said quietly, “Yes, that is fair to say.” Then he added, “However, it was not a secret that we were having dinner. Mrs. Grant always gave my cell phone number to the caregiver as a backup in case there was a sudden change in Dr. Grant’s condition.”
“In those three years did the caregiver ever phone you?”
“No, she did not.”
“Now, Mr. Benson, you just indicated that you stopped seeing Betsy Grant after her husband died. When was the last time you actually saw the defendant?”
“Until I walked into the courtroom today, it was the evening of March 20th of last year.”
“And Dr. Grant was found dead the morning of March 22nd?”
“That is my understanding.”
“Mr. Benson, were you having an affair with Betsy Grant?”
“No, I was not.”
“Were you in love with Betsy Grant?”
“I respected her for her devotion to her husband.”
“That was not the question I asked. Mr. Benson, were you in love with Betsy Grant?”
Peter Benson looked past the prosecutor and directly at Betsy as he answered the question. “Yes, I was and am in love with Betsy Grant, but I must adamantly add that she was devoted to her husband.”
“So are you telling us that you have not seen her since her husband died?”
“Yes, that is what I am telling you.”
“And why have you not seen her since her husband died?”
“Mrs. Grant called me on March 22nd and told me that her husband had passed away. The next day she called me again and told me that the funeral director had discovered a suspicious injury to her husband’s head and that now the police were looking at her as having caused it.”
“And what was your reaction?”
“I was utterly startled when Betsy said that the police were investigating her. I knew that she had nothing to do with his death.”
Holmes stopped. “Your Honor, I ask that that last comment be stricken because it was not responsive to my question.”
Judge Roth nodded and turned to the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen, you will disregard that comment. Is that understood?”
All of the jurors nodded their heads and looked back at the prosecutor.
Holmes resumed. “What else did Mrs. Grant say to you?”
“She told me that she did not want me to be drawn into this whole terrible scenario. She told me that we could not see or even speak to each other until everything was over. She said that she had no idea when that would be. I read within a couple of weeks thereafter that she had been arrested.”
“And
again, you are telling us that there has been no communication since then?”
“I am telling you exactly that.”
“Mr. Benson, I will ask you again. Prior to Dr. Grant’s death, had you been having an affair with Betsy Grant?”
“Absolutely not. I just told you, no, absolutely not.”
“And you just admitted that you were in love with her, correct?”
Peter Benson again looked at Betsy as he answered the question. “When we first started having dinner, I was still in deep mourning for my wife. As time went on, I knew that I was developing strong feelings for Betsy. I think that the tragedy of her husband’s illness and the tragedy of my wife’s death were a shared bond between us. And now, to specifically answer your question, I repeat, yes, I was and am in love with Betsy Grant, but I must adamantly also repeat that she was utterly devoted to her husband.”
“Have you asked her to marry you since her husband was murdered?”
“I told you, I have had no communication.”
“Did you ever discuss marriage with her at any point in your relationship?”
“No, we did not.” Peter Benson shifted in his chair and his face reddened with anger. “Mr. Holmes, Betsy Grant loved her husband deeply and took care of him in their home when he could no longer care for himself. She is completely incapable of hurting anyone. When she is cleared of this horrendous and false accusation, then yes, I will ask her to marry me.”
Elliot Holmes momentarily considered asking the judge to strike those comments, but he understood that the jury had heard the words and he could not undo that. He would deal with it later in his summation.
“No further questions, Your Honor.”
The judge turned to Robert Maynard. “Mr. Maynard, you may begin your cross-examination.”
To the surprise of everyone in the courtroom, he answered, “I have no questions, Your Honor.”
As Peter Benson stepped down from the witness chair the only sound that could be heard in the otherwise hushed courtroom was Betsy Grant’s uncontrolled sobbing.
32
The day that Peter Benson testified at the trial, three neighbors were Betsy’s loyal supporters in the courtroom. They wanted her to join them for dinner at one of their homes, but she firmly turned them down. “You’re all so good,” she told them, “but I’m absolutely exhausted. I’m going straight to bed.”
Once again the media crowded around her as with her defense team she made her way to the car. Peter had not exchanged glances with her after he left the stand. Without his telling her, she knew that he was desperately afraid that his testimony might have been harmful to her.
In her mind she could see him as though he had been beside her when he told the prosecutor that he loved her and would ask her to marry him. And if they ask me that same question when I am on the stand, I will have to answer that same way, she thought, because it’s true. It has been true since I bumped into him in the museum. She knew that Peter would call her tonight. It had been eighteen months since she had seen or heard from him, and they desperately needed each other. The minute she realized she was under suspicion of having murdered Ted and hired Robert Maynard, he had warned her not to have any contact with Peter until the trial was over.
For some reason she thought of the brief time she had lived in New York City when she was in her early twenties. I used to rent an apartment on the West Side, Betsy recalled, but then when I knew I was not cut out to work at a PR firm, I went for my master’s at night. Then I was hired to teach at Pascack Valley and moved back to New Jersey.
And met Ted.
For the rest of the way home she closed her eyes and willed herself not to think about what would happen if she was found guilty of murder.
She had told Carmen not to worry about preparing dinner for her, but when she got home, Carmen was there.
“Miss Betsy, I can’t have you not bothering to eat,” she said. “And this morning you told me that you absolutely were not going to accept a dinner invitation.”
“Yes, I did,” Betsy said and realized that the scent of baking chicken probably meant that Carmen was preparing a chicken pot pie, one of her favorite dishes. She went upstairs to change into slacks and a long-sleeve shirt. As always in the bedroom she glanced around hoping that somehow she would think of a place where Ted might have hidden the emerald-and-diamond bracelet. But, of course, that was useless. She and Carmen had ransacked not only this room but the whole house looking for it. I might as well put in a claim to the insurance company, she thought.
When she went downstairs Carmen had a glass of wine poured for her. She sipped it in the den as she watched the end of the five o’clock news. There was only a small reference to the trial on that one, but over dinner she watched the six o’clock news, when Delaney Wright reported on it.
Betsy had noticed Wright in court and sensed that she was constantly being studied throughout the day by her. Of course, that was to be expected because she was being paid to report on what was going on. When Delaney Wright was on camera, she said that Peter Benson, the Chair of Humanities at Franklin University, had testified under oath that he was in love with Betsy Grant and was going to ask her to marry him. She finished the report by saying that the prosecutor looked like the cat who had swallowed the canary when he heard that statement.
Then when the anchor asked Delaney her thoughts about how the trial was going, she said, “Don, I certainly don’t think that today was a good day for Betsy Grant. I was really surprised when the defense attorney said, ‘No questions, Your Honor.’ I guess it was because he didn’t want to keep hitting on the fact that she was dating a man who was in love with her, but on the other hand I could tell that the jury expected him to ask questions of Peter Benson to try to soften the impact of what Benson had said.”
Betsy pushed the off button on the remote. She knew that Carmen must have been watching the broadcast in the kitchen, because when she removed the barely touched pot pie, she did not urge her to try to eat a little more.
She was almost finishing her coffee when the phone rang. It was her father calling from Florida. “How are you doing, Bets?”
He knew that she hated being called “Bets,” but he always forgot that or pretended to forget it. Even before she said hello, she finished the thought. He continued to call her “Bets” not to annoy her, but because he simply didn’t bother to remember to not call her “Bets.”
“Hi, Dad. How are you doing?”
“Oh, I’m doing okay. Not bad for a guy on Social Security for ten years.”
Betsy knew that was his way of saying she had forgotten that last Sunday was her father’s seventy-fifth birthday.
“Oh, belated happy birthday,” she said unenthusiastically.
“Thanks. I’ve been reading about the trial. Believe it or not it’s in all the papers here. I’m glad you haven’t been asked about your relatives. Or were you?”
“I said that my mother was dead and that my father was elderly and lived in Florida. They didn’t ask any more than that.”
“To tell you the truth I’m glad. I haven’t said anything about it and I wouldn’t want the grandkids to be asked questions about it in school.”
The grandkids! Betsy wanted to slam down the phone. Instead she said, “Dad, I hate to cut you short but I’m expecting a call from my lawyer.”
“Oh, I’ll get off. Keep your chin up, Bets. Everything is going to be okay.”
When Betsy hung up the phone she tried to push down the familiar rush of anger she had always felt for her father. He had remarried twenty years ago, within months after her mother died, then taken early retirement, sold the house and moved to Florida with his new wife. She had wanted to be near her grown children, and now Betsy was sure it was as though neither her late husband nor his late wife had ever existed.
Or me, Betsy thought. Or me.
If I see one more picture of him on Facebook grinning with his grandchildren, I think I’ll go mad. Then why do you look at their p
osts on Facebook? a voice in her head asked.
Carmen came in from the kitchen to say good night. “Try to get a good night’s sleep, Miss Betsy,” she said.
• • •
The bedroom had become her sanctuary. She walked through the house turning off the downstairs lights that Carmen had left on. The living room, the hallway, the den, the library that was now completely back to what it had been before she made it into Ted’s room. Before she snapped off that light, she looked at the shelves with their rows of medical books. He had pulled them out a number of times when he woke up in the middle of the night and Angela didn’t hear him. It was the same way he pulled out drawers all over the house whenever he got the chance.
Once again Betsy wondered if Ted in his mind had been looking for something, or had it all been meaningless, random outbursts?
Peter phoned at nine o’clock. She was already in bed, trying to concentrate on the book she was reading. When she heard his voice, the icy calm that had protected her emotions shattered, and she could only sob, “Oh, Peter, how will this end? How can it end?”
33
Jon had phoned Delaney to say that he would be waiting on the sidewalk when she came out of the studio at a quarter of seven.
When she opened the door, he was observing the traffic on Columbus Circle. For a moment she studied him. His black hair was neatly trimmed, as opposed to so many men his age. His hands were in the pockets of his zip-up jacket. His stance was relaxed and comfortable as though he was completely at ease with himself and at peace with the world.
She walked over to him and tapped him on the shoulder. “Are you available to be picked up, sir?”
As he turned, his arms reached out to give her a brief hug and he kissed her on the lips.
“I’m afraid not. I’m waiting for a beautiful, intelligent, charming young lady. No one can possibly ever compete with her.” They both laughed and he said, “I have one of my excellent ideas. It’s a perfect evening to eat out and I passed the former Mickey Mantle’s place on Central Park South. They have tables on the sidewalk.”
As Time Goes By Page 12
