You Bet Your Life (23 page)

I pressed the button beside his name and waited while the phone rang. The voice on the answering machine was female and I left my name and number. Whether he’d return my call was conjecture.

“Doin’ fine. Good to hear from you, Jess. How are you?” Seth asked when I reached him an hour later.

“Fine, thanks. I got your message.”

“Glad you did. How are things there in Las Vegas?”

“Confusing, but I’m confident they will become clearer. Did you have any success is finding out more about Joyce Wenk?”

“I’d say so.”

“And?”

“Mrs. Wenk has quite a bone to pick with the former Martha Reemes. Or with her first husband, would be more accurate.”

“Tell me more.”

“Seems that when Mrs. Wenk’s son was born—remember, I told you, he’s the one who’s a bit slow.”

“I remember.”

“Well, that mighta been because of a complication during childbirth. I have notes here. Want to get it right. Seems Walt Reemes was called in to do an emergency cesarean on Mrs. Wenk.”

“Walter wasn’t an obstetrician,” I said.

“Wasn’t time to find one, I’m told. Mrs. Wenk was hemorrhaging pretty bad. Walt had just finished up another surgery, a routine sorta thing, and got called into the OR to tend to Mrs. Wenk. Long story short, the boy turned out retarded. Appeared to be an oxygen problem, although Mrs. Wenk laid most of the blame on the doctors. She sued everybody—Walt, the anesthesiologist, the nurses, and of course the hospital itself. Settled out ‘a court, as I understand it, no amounts made public. That’s usually the way. But I asked around of folks who’ve been in touch with Joyce Wenk lately. Not many of ’em. She’s a loner, stays pretty much in the house with her son. I’m told, Jess, that she still lays most ’a the blame on Walt.”

“But Martha had nothing to do with the delivery. Why would she lie about
her?”

“She told somebody she wanted to see him
and his
spend the rest of their days in hell. Martha was his wife, so as far as Joyce Wenk is concerned, she should suffer, too.”

“Whew!” I said. “That’s quite a motive for her to lie about having seen Martha argue with Victor and hit him. Pure revenge. Of course, it doesn’t prove she lied in her deposition, but—”

“You might be interested in what else I came up with, Jessica.”

“I’m listening.”

“Seems that when Martha and her new husband, Mr. Victor Kildare, visited Cabot Cove, Joyce Wenk wasn’t within a hundred miles of here. She’d taken her son to a special camp way up north of here, up around Grand Lake Stream.”

“That’s on the Canadian border.”

“Just about. Was gone from here the whole week Martha and her hubby were visiting.”

“Then she lied about what she claimed she saw.”

“Ayuh. No other conclusion a reasonable man can come to, is there?”

“No other conclusion, Seth. Thank you so much for going to all the trouble to find out these things. I’m sure they’ll be of great interest to Mr. Nastasi, Martha’s attorney.”

“Imagine they will be. How much longer do you think the trial will take?”

“Hard to tell. We’re in the middle of the prosecution’s case, with the defense still to go. Another week or ten days, maybe.”

“Wish it’d get over soon so you could come back home. You taking care of yourself, Jessica?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Just remember one thing: If Martha didn’t kill her husband, somebody else did. Could be somebody you’ve been seein’ on a daily basis.”

I held the phone away from my ear, closed my eyes, and silently agreed with what my dear friend of so many years had just said.

“Jessica?”

“Yes, Seth, I’m sorry. Indulging in a bit of daydreaming.”

“A little of that can be healthy at times. But not too much daydreamin’, Jessica. Best you stay awake and alert.”

“I will, Seth. I promise. Thanks again. I’ll be in touch.”

I hung up and made a quick call to Mort Metzger, Cabot Cove’s sheriff. Martha didn’t know it, but she had a whole team of investigators from her former hometown working for her.

“I have a favor to ask, Mort.”

“Is this for Martha?”

“Yes.”

“Fire away, Mrs. F. I’m happy to help.”

“Do you think you can get access to passenger manifests to confirm if someone was on a particular flight?”

“If I can’t get it myself, I know someone who can. My buddies on the police force in New York never forget a fellow officer, even though it’s years since I moved up here.”

Mort had left the big city for a small village, endearing himself to his new friends and retaining his old ones. I thought of Martha in Las Vegas, lonely, sad, with lots of money but few friends. What a contrast to her life in Cabot Cove, where her friends remained true.

I gave Mort the details of what I knew as well as the telephone number at Martha’s, sent my love to his wife, Maureen, and hung up. I went to a window and looked out over the pool in which Victor Kildare died. The lights were on in the cottage where Oliver lived, and I wondered what he was doing. Had he had anything to do with his boss’s murder? He had an alibi provided by Cindy Kildare, Victor’s third wife. But he was her alibi, too, hardly an ideal situation. And there were Victor’s business associates, Tony, Henry, and “Chappy.” What about Daria and their spoiled daughter, Jane? Or the soon-to-be-rich Bunny?

There was always the chance Victor’s murderer was someone I didn’t know or even someone he didn’t know, an outsider, a thief who broke into the property with the intention of stealing from an obviously wealthy household. Had he been confronted by Victor, lashed out with the wrench, and fled the scene? If that had occurred, we might never solve the case, and raising that reasonable doubt in the minds of the jury might be the only thing that would save Martha from conviction.

So many possibilities to consider. But first I had a more important obligation—to get hold of Vincent Nastasi and report what Seth Hazlitt had told me about Joyce Wenk and her deposition. I reached him in the clubhouse at his country club and related my conversation with Seth.

My report accomplished, I deemed my work for the day done. I made myself a lovely dinner from the leftovers of the previous evening’s meal, and afterward wandered into Victor and Martha’s entertainment room, where shelves of movie videos beckoned. The films were arranged alphabetically and I scanned the selections trying to find something to suit my mood. I was debating between
The Murders in the Rue Morgue
and
The Pink Panther
when my eyes caught sight of a video marked
Our Wedding.
I pulled the box off the shelf to examine it more closely. On the cover was a photograph of Martha and Victor, taken on their wedding day. I slipped the video from the case, inserted it in the VCR, turned on the television with the remote, and sat down in the center of the large sectional sofa.

Scenes from Martha and Victor Kildare’s wedding filled the large television screen, from the guests seated in the pews, to the wedding procession, to the champagne-and-hors d’oeuvres reception that followed. I saw myself sitting between Betsy Cavendish and Mort and Maureen Metzger in the chapel. The Treyzes were in the row in front of me. I heard the buzz of voices, the low conversations taking place, the occasional comments directed to the camera. I looked at the faces of the people I’d met later on—Pearl. Henry, Tony, Oliver, Jane—and at the others who’d attended the ceremony but hadn’t stayed for the celebratory dinner. Now I recognized Isobel Alvarez as the lady in the lace mantilla who sat next to Jane. Was that big man in the dark suit the one called Chappy? He looked familiar but I couldn’t quite place where I’d seen him before.

The telephone interrupted my viewing. I muted the sound on the television and picked up the receiver.

“Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Yes. This is Jessica Fletcher.”

“You called me tonight.”

“Is this Mr. Chappy?”

“Yeah. Joseph Ciappino. My friends call me Chappy.”

“Thank you for returning my call, Mr. Ciappino. I appreciate your courtesy.”

“That’s okay.”

“I called you because Martha Kildare is a friend of mine and I’m working for her defense team. I was hoping I could speak with you sometime, at your convenience, of course.”

“About what?”

“I understand you were one of Victor’s business partners. I just have a few questions.” I jumped up from the couch and looked frantically around the room for something to write on, but there was no paper or pen in sight.

“All right.”

“All right? Is now a good time for you?”

“Sure. Now is just fine. I’ll be right over.”

“You’re coming here? I’d be happy to meet you somewhere in town, if it suits you.”

“No need. I know Oliver is off tonight and I’ve got a car. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.”

He hung up and I stood looking at the receiver, wondering if this was a good idea.

My assumption was that Chappy would want to come inside the house to speak with me. But the man who appeared at the front door introduced himself as the driver and said, “Mr. Ciappino wants to take you on a tour of Las Vegas, ma’am.”

“A tour?” I looked past him to a long black limousine parked in the driveway, the engine running. I couldn’t see who was inside.

“He said to tell you it’s a beautiful night in Las Vegas.” The driver was a short, squat man wearing a black suit, black shirt, and bright red tie. He had a pleasant smile. Tinted glasses perched on his sharp nose, and I wondered how he could see to drive. His most salient feature, however, was his hairpiece, a flat pancake of plastic-looking black yam sitting atop his head.

“Mr. Chappy—Ciappino—is in that limousine?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Ciappino says he’ll only keep you an hour. He wants to show you the Strip. And he wants to talk to you. He likes to have meetings in the car.”

I looked back inside the house and processed the situation. I was somewhat apprehensive about getting into a limousine with a man I knew only by name. On the other hand, he’d been Victor Kildare’s business associate, obviously someone who had Victor’s confidence. If he could help me understand Victor’s business life, it would be worth an hour with him. “I’ll be out in a minute,” I said. “I have to close up.”

The driver stood at an open rear door of the limo when I stepped from the house and approached. An interior light was on in the vehicle, and I saw the vague shape of a large man seated at the far side of the backseat. I stopped at the open door and leaned forward to better see inside.

“Good evening, Mrs. Fletcher. Please get in. It’s my pleasure to meet you.” His voice was rough-hewn and gravelly, but his words were those of someone who had worked hard at refining his speech.

I slid onto the seat but stayed close to the door through which I’d entered, keeping my handbag between us. My host’s hand shot out: “Joe Ciappino, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m very pleased to meet a famous writer.”

“Thank you,” I said. Removing my hand from his was like letting go of a catcher’s mitt.

His driver closed the rear door but left the dome light on, affording me a better overall look at Chappy. He was definitely the big man in the wedding video, and now it came to me where else I’d seen him. He’d been sitting next to Oliver Smith in the courtroom the other day, and I’d noticed his shoulders were even bigger than Oliver’s. Everything about him was large, in fact—facial features oversized, nose, lips, eyebrows, and cheekbones, but handsome in a crude way. It was hard to gauge his age. Probably late forties, early fifties. An image of the 1940s movie star Victor Mature came to mind. His black hair formed a helmet around his face, curly and closely sculpted to his skull. But it was his eyes that struck me as he turned and looked into mine. They were the blackest eyes I’d ever seen.

“Ready for a tour?” he asked.

“I hadn’t planned on one,” I said, “but if you insist.”

His laugh was a low, gruff rumble. “I insist,” he said.

Although I wasn’t especially interested in a tour of the famed Las Vegas strip, I played the good listener.

“Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower yet?”

“Not this time. I’ve been too busy in court. But I was there two years ago.”

“What about the wax museum? Been there?”

“I can’t say that I have.”

“If you want to see celebrities, that’s the place to go. Whoopi Goldberg, Brad Pitt, Elton John, Tom Jones, Frank Sinatra....”

“Frank Sinatra? Oh! You mean the celebrities in the exhibits.”

“Sure. What did you think?”

Chappy pointed out sites he thought would interest me, casinos and hotels with which he had business dealings, related some lore about the city’s rise in the middle of the desert to become one of the world’s most popular tourist destinations, and added an occasional reference to his personal beliefs, particularly as they applied to gambling.

“Gambling is for suckers,” he said. “The only way to win is to be on the house’s side. You might beat the house for a night or two, but you always end up giving it back—in spades!” His sermon was accompanied by his growl of a laugh.

We drove north to downtown Las Vegas, where the brilliant pink neon and gaudy flashing signs were even more blinding than those along the Strip, and passed the Golden Nugget, an oasis of understatement with its elegant gold-and-white awnings in the midst of a wilderness of cheap casinos. Out of the comer of my eye, I glimpsed the Clark County Detention Center where Martha was spending her evenings two blocks away from the gambling casinos and a million miles away from freedom. When I began to feel that the appeal of Las Vegas was waning, he tapped on the sliding glass panel separating us from the front of the limo. “Out to the point, Ricky,” he instructed. The driver turned left, and Las Vegas’s flashing lights began fading away to a garish glow behind us. I’d felt comfortable—until then.