The Blue Journal (44 page)

These men are convinced they are worthy of your attention. They make mistakes, behaving carelessly, and act with little regard for your feelings or the consequences that will be suffered by those they are betraying.

Sexually, such men are often a disappointment. Their sense of entitlement leads them to believe it is their pleasure that is important, not yours.

R, as we shall call him, was a particularly easy target. His opinions of himself, who he was, his place in society, all were informed by arrogance. He was a successful attorney, a respected man who had married for money and was intent on preserving that affluence and the façade of respectability.

Like so many of his ilk, R's initial charm evaporated in the overwhelming imperative of his selfishness. These are the men who deserve to be exposed for what they are. Their smug existence, their careers and especially the counterfeit personal lives they lead—all the truths of their duplicity need to be bared.

When I told R it was over, that I was finished with him, his incredulity was pathetic. So much so, in fact, that I was actually delighted for the opportunity to laugh in his face. Who did he think he was, I demanded to know—a question that cut to the core of his narcissism. In the end, he was so much less than he wanted to believe.

He angrily gathered up the papers, shoved them back into the envelope, hid it under the floor mat, put his car in gear and decided he would drive around a while.

Linda Stratford was waiting in the kitchen when her husband finally arrived home. “Well?” she asked. “What did he want?”

“Walker doesn't believe Wentworth murdered Elizabeth Knoebel.”

“You're not serious.”

Stratford looked at her for a moment, then went to the cupboard and, without another word, pulled out a bottle of Glenlivet, took a crystal tumbler from the shelf and poured himself a drink, no ice.

“Why would he say such a thing?” she asked.

Stratford took a long pull of the scotch as he searched for an appropriate reply, allowing the whisky to course through him with a pleasurable, dulling sensation. Linda knew of the diary, of course, because Linda knew everything that happened in Darien, but he had never told her anything about his relationship with Elizabeth, and this was no time for a confession. “I don't know,” he said.

“Why is he bothering you at this point? The case is closed.”

“He won't give up on that journal the Knoebel woman was writing. She obviously intended it as an X-rated
Peyton Place
, and Walker seems hell-bent on using it to ruin as many lives as he can.”

“There must be more to it than that Robert. You're not telling me everything.”

Stratford took another gulp of his drink. “He accused me of murdering Fred Wentworth. He said Wentworth's car was run off the road, and he thinks I'm the one who did it. Can you imagine?”

“But we both know where you were that morning.”

Stratford responded with a curious look. It was not the reaction he expected.

“What is it, Robert? Did you expect me to ask why he would think such a thing? Why he would believe you had a reason to kill that man?”

“It crossed my mind.”

“After all these years, do you really take me for a fool? You think I didn't know why you became so involved in a police investigation that you normally wouldn't make a phone call about?”

“Her murder was becoming a scandal for this town,” he replied, but it sounded as false to him as it did to her.

“Please,” she said, as if she could not bear another affront to her intelligence. “I know all about you and Elizabeth, and I know you're scared to death her diary will become public.”

Stratford was barely able to reply. “You're wrong,” was all he could manage.

“Am I? If there had never been a diary, we would have had no problem. The ‘diary matter' as you kept calling it, that changed everything.”

“Stop this.”

“You think I don't know that you're the one who called Knoebel's lawyer? Told him the diary was becoming an embarrassment to the whole town and would end up humiliating Doctor Knoebel? Once you found out about it you tried to contain the damage, but it was too late.”

“Enough.”

“Enough? That phone call might be the one piece of hard evidence they can track back to you, but it doesn't prove you're the murderer.”

He stared at her. “What are you saying?”

She spoke slowly now, as if to a child who simply wasn't getting it. “The day Wentworth died, you can cover that time fairly well with the meeting you had. But the day Elizabeth was shot. What are we going to do about that?”

Before he could respond, the doorbell rang. Stratford placed his glass on the counter and went to answer it. He opened the front door to find Lieutenant Walker and Officer Kovacevic standing there.

Stratford said, “I think I've had just about enough of you for one evening, Detective.”

“We're not here to see you,” Walker told him. “We're here to speak with Mrs. Stratford.”

“What?”

Linda Stratford was already standing behind her husband. She said, “Don't be rude, Robert, show them in.”

Reluctant and anxious, Stratford nevertheless stepped aside and allowed his wife to lead the two policemen into their comfortable den.

“So,” she said to Walker, “you wanted to speak with
me
?” Her tone conveyed both curiosity and amusement. Walker quickly wiped the smile from her face.

“Officer Kovacevic,” he said, “please read Mrs. Stratford her rights.”

“What is this,” Robert Stratford demanded.

“Mr. Stratford, you either need to identify yourself as the attorney representing your wife or I am going to have to ask you to leave the room. If you refuse to either represent her or leave, we'll have to take Mrs. Stratford to headquarters for questioning.”

The Stratfords stared at each other for a moment without speaking. Then Stratford said, “Of course I represent my wife.”

“Good,” Walker said. Then he had Kovacevic read her rights and pulled out a release for her to sign.

When the formalities were over everyone was still standing, Stratford and his wife facing the two policeman, and no one was being offered a seat. Kovacevic turned on his recorder.

“You mind telling us what this is about now?” the lawyer demanded.

Walker looked to Linda Stratford. “Please tell us the nature of your relationship with Elizabeth Knoebel.”

No one missed the look of surprise on Robert Stratford's face. The room became quiet as all three men waited for her answer.

“Mrs. Stratford?”

“Why do you want to know?” she finally replied.

“I'll be asking the questions ma'am. At least for now.”

Linda turned to her husband. “What now, Robert? I either answer his questions or take the Fifth? Is that the proper legal way to say it? Take the Fifth?”

Stratford ignored his wife and again directed himself to Walker. “See here, Detective, whatever vendetta you've developed against me, why in the name of decency are you dragging my wife into this?”

“I'm conducting a murder investigation. There is no vendetta against you. I just want the truth.”

“Chief Gill told me this case was closed. You have no right . . .”

“The investigation has been reopened. We have new information from the State Troopers who have continued to look into the death of Fred Wentworth.”

“What? When did all this happen?”

“Less than fifteen minutes ago. At our meeting earlier this evening I told you the car that forced Fred Wentworth off the road had been located. After you left I confirmed certain facts with the State. I also discovered new evidence in Elizabeth Knoebel's diary.” Walker turned back to Stratford's wife. “You knew that Mrs. Knoebel was writing a diary.”

Linda took her time removing a cigarette from a marble case on a nearby table. She lit up, drew deeply and exhaled slowly, then stared at the detective. “Yes, I did.”

“And you've seen the diary.”

“I have.”

“Right now I don't care how you came to see the diary, ma'am, we can deal with that later. I need you to tell me if you knew of the diary
before
Mrs. Knoebel died?”

She shook her head slowly. “Wish I did.”

“Why do you say that, Mrs. Stratford?”

“I, uh, don't know. I just said it, is all.”

“You know that she wrote about her relationship with you in that diary.”

When Linda offered no reply, her husband said, “My wife and I need . . .”

Walker held up his hand to the lawyer, not taking his eyes off Linda Stratford. “There was a chapter in Elizabeth's diary about a relationship she had with another woman. You remember that?”

Linda nodded slowly. “As I recall, there was more than one of those.”

“The name of the file I'm talking about was ‘SHAKE.' It was one of the few files Elizabeth did not name with the code she used for most of the others. We thought the word
shake
was a comment on the nervousness of the woman she was describing.”

Linda Stratford waited.

“It was also one of the few files where Mrs. Knoebel used a name rather than an initial within the chapter. She called the woman Celia, right?”

“Yes.”

“Celia was a character in
As You Like It
. Celia loved another woman in the play. Do you recall the play?”

“Rosalind was the other woman's name,” Linda said, almost in a whisper.

“So that file name, SHAKE, had nothing to do with nerves. It referred to
Shakespeare
.”

Linda stared at him without speaking.

“Celia was a woman who loved another woman, but was not actually gay. In fact, she ends up marrying a bad guy at the end.”

“I remember,” Linda Stratford said.

Walker looked to Bob Stratford and then back to his wife. “So the file name and the use of the name Celia was also intended as a twist on the name of Shakespeare's birthplace.”

Linda nodded. “Stratford-upon-Avon.”

For a moment the room became dead silent.

“Was Celia some sort of pet name Mrs. Knoebel used for you?”

Now sadness filled Linda's deep blue eyes. “Something like that. Something you and my husband and this young policeman here wouldn't understand.”

“So, are you ready to tell me about your relationship with Mrs. Knoebel?”

“Unique,” she said. “I would describe it as unique.”

“In what way was it unique, ma'am?”

“There was nothing else like it, not in my life.”

“Did you also know Fred Wentworth?”

She took some time on that one. “No, not really.”

“When you say ‘not really' . . .”

“Let's say we were never introduced. I came to know who he was.”

Walker nodded. “I'm going to need to ask you some detailed questions about your unique relationship with Mrs. Knoebel.”

“Hold on,” Stratford interrupted again. “My wife has rights.”

“We've already read your wife her rights, Counselor.” Turning back to Linda, Walker asked if she still understood what she had signed.

“Yes,” she replied quietly. “Yes, I do.”

“Mrs. Stratford, it can be difficult to solve a murder case, but once a clear suspect has been identified it becomes much easier to connect the dots. Take this case, for instance. Matching the paper that was used to write the anonymous notes left at Randi Conway's office. Reviewing telephone records of calls between the suspect and victim, as well as the call to Doctor Conway the night she and I were out to dinner. Matching DNA found in the car that ran Fred Wentworth's station wagon off the road. Tracing ownership of a murder weapon. Confirming a person's whereabouts at a given date and time. It all becomes much simpler once we believe we know who committed the crime. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

She looked at him without speaking.

“Mrs. Stratford, do you want to tell me why you murdered Elizabeth Knoebel?”

This time, when Robert Stratford began sputtering a string of lawyerly objections, no one paid him any attention. His wife and Anthony Walker were locked in a staring contest neither was willing to lose.

Linda finally relented, crushing the remains of her cigarette in an ashtray and lighting another. “It was the most difficult decision of my life,” she began, her voice quiet, her attention trained on Walker. “Somehow I have the odd feeling you understand that.” She searched his gray-brown eyes for evidence of that comprehension. “It became a choice between my safe, comfortable life, and this strange, alternate existence, this bond to a woman I didn't really know and couldn't trust. I had never done anything like it before, never cheated on my husband with another man, let alone a woman. Not ever.”