For the Defense (17 page)

“What happened next?” Diana asked.

“Philip hung up the phone, said something about the ambulance being on its way and then collapsed. His breath was labored like he wasn’t getting enough air. I sat Jason in his chair. Then I dug the bottle of nitroglycerin tablets
out of Philip’s pocket so I could put one under his tongue.”

“How did you know to do that, Mrs. Weaton?”

“It had happened before. When Philip continued to have trouble breathing, I called for another ambulance, explaining his medical condition. Then I ran outside for Lyle. He came in and rolled Philip onto his back to try to help him breathe better.”

“Was Philip a big man?” Diana asked.

“Six-three and more than two hundred and fifty pounds, most of it around his middle. He was a smart man about business, Ms. Mason. But he could be so stupid about his health.”

“How so, Mrs. Weaton?”

“He’d had two heart bypass operations, yet refused to stop smoking and overeating. His doctor had warned him to cut back on work, too, but he ignored that as well.”

“Did your husband know this about his father?”

“Of course. Lyle was always trying to get his dad to quit smoking and to start exercising.”

And yet Lyle had mentioned nothing about his father’s medical problems in his deposition. He’d tried to put the blame of Philip Weaton’s death on Connie. Diana had no doubt he’d try to do that on the stand as well. Only now she had confirmation that Philip Weaton was a walking time bomb. And Audrey could testify that Lyle knew that as well. He wasn’t going to appear too credible to a jury.

That was exactly what Diana wanted.

“Mrs. Weaton, were you surprised to learn that Tina Uttley’s underwear was found in Bruce’s car?”

“Truthfully, no. Bruce…played the field, and he wasn’t what you’d call a sensitive man. The moment I met Connie and saw how shy and unsophisticated she was, my heart went out to her.”

“Did you think Bruce would hurt her?”

“He couldn’t help but hurt her, Ms. Mason.”

Audrey sighed, feathering the fine hair on her son’s head. “He was my brother-in-law, and I know what she did wasn’t right. But I kind of understand it. Bruce had no idea how to treat a nice woman. He should have left Connie alone and stuck to the Tina Uttleys of this world. Those women have no heart to hurt.”

“Do you know Tina Uttley well?” Diana asked.

Audrey’s mouth tightened. “Well enough.”

“How long was Tina involved with Bruce?”

“Ever since they met in real estate school.”

“They met in real estate school?” Diana repeated, surprised. “When was this?”

“About a year after Lyle and I were married, must be eight years ago now. That was when Bruce’s father gave him the ultimatum that he either learn the business or get out. When Tina got kicked out of her real estate job, Bruce hired her and resumed their affair—if you can even dignify calling what they did together an affair.”

There was considerable anger in Audrey’s voice when she said that. Did she know about Tina and her husband? Is that why she had such contempt for Tina?

And why had Tina given Jack the impression that she’d only become acquainted with Bruce when she went to work for him, a few months after Amy’s death? Was she hiding something?

Diana made a mental note to tell Jack. This had been a very interesting deposition.

W
HILE
J
ACK LOOKED
for the woman who had been with Bruce on the day of Amy’s death, he also continued to complete his background investigation into Bruce.

One of the things Jack had learned from his parents was that talking to a person’s enemies could prove as helpful in getting to know them—and sometimes even more help
ful—as talking to their friends. He’d made use of that knowledge many times in his career. He was about to make use of it again.

A perusal of the county’s civil lawsuit records had revealed that Edgar Pettibone had sued Bruce for destruction of property. The suit had been settled out of court and the particulars hadn’t been revealed. But the original filing was still on the record, along with Edgar Pettibone’s address.

When no one answered at the Pettibone house, a friendly neighbor volunteered that Edgar had gone out on his boat and should be back soon. Jack waited in his car to avoid getting soaked by the relentless drizzle until he heard the telltale putt-putt of the boat’s engine.

A few minutes later, Jack was making his way down the long boat ramp.

The smell of the sea and the dark gray water were heavy beneath the weight of the overcast day. A man tying up his boat looked over his shoulder as Jack approached. “Help you?” he asked in a slightly high voice.

“Edgar Pettibone?”

The man got to his feet, pulled a white cloth out of his pocket and began to wipe his hands. “Yeah. And you’d be?”

Jack gave the man his name and business card.

“Private investigator, huh? Who you after?”

“I’m collecting background information on Bruce Weaton.”

Edgar flipped Jack’s card between arthritic fingers. “This for the trial of that woman?”

“Yes.”

“You for or against?”

Not sure what Edgar meant by that, Jack decided to play it safe. “For the truth. Against any lies. I could use your help.”

Edgar thought about it a moment. “Let’s get up to the
house and out of the wet. My joints don’t do so well in this weather.”

Edgar’s house was a small cottage—from the water markings on the rocks below, probably no higher than six feet above extreme high tide. Inside was a compact three rooms with a small kitchen to one side and a bath at the back.

Jack sat on a threadbare plaid couch while Edgar retrieved two beers from his small refrigerator, the loud motor of which reminded Jack of an old lawnmower his dad had once owned. Edgar handed one of the beers to Jack and then eased himself onto the padded wicker chair across from the couch.

“Cheers,” he said as he flipped off the tab and took a swig.

Jack followed suit out of politeness.

“What do you want to know about Weaton?” Edgar asked, after a couple of thirsty swallows.

“You filed suit against him a while back. What was it about?”

“Part of the settlement agreement was a promise not to discuss the particulars.”

Not many out-of-court civil settlements went in for gag clauses. Jack’s curiosity upped a notch. “I can understand why you’d be concerned about living up to your promise while he was alive. But now that he’s dead…”

Jack waited. If Edgar hadn’t been ready to talk, he would never have invited Jack into his home.

“He killed my friend, H.G.”

Jack came forward in his seat. “How?”

“With his Mercedes.”

“When was this?”

“If you’ve looked up the records, then you should know that it was seven years ago.”

“I know that’s when your suit was filed. But no date of
the actual incident was in the records. Do you remember the exact date?”

“Not likely to forget the day H.G. died. A month before I sued.”

“Mr. Pettibone, I’m confused. Wouldn’t a homicide be something for the criminal court to handle?”

“H.G. was my African gray parrot. Been with me for twenty-five years.”

“I see. I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Pettibone. Will you tell me what happened?”

The older man took another swig and was silent for a moment as he stared into space. “I put H.G.’s cage on top of the mailbox right before eleven. The postman would open the cage and let H.G. collect the mail in his beak. Watching for the postman to arrive was the highlight of H.G.’s day. I kept a lookout from the window. That day Weaton arrived before the postman, drove his car into the mailbox and tore it to pieces. H.G. didn’t have a chance.”

Edgar swallowed hard, seeming to fight down his sorrow. A moment later he went on to explain that he had gotten the license number of the car and called the sheriff’s office. They showed no interest in coming out to investigate a dead parrot. Edgar contacted an attorney who traced the black Mercedes to Bruce Weaton and filed a civil suit against him.

“He killed H.G.,” Edgar said. “I couldn’t let him get away with it.”

“But you settled out of court.”

“Lawyer said we had to. Said a jury wouldn’t understand about me and H.G. They’d think me a crazy old fool. H.G. would only be a parrot to them. He wasn’t only a parrot, Mr. Knight. Every morning he’d fly off his perch, land on my bedpost and mimic a trumpet doing reveille to wake me up. He’d eat his seed at the breakfast table with me and recite the alphabet without missing a letter. When
the cat next door would sneak through the fence to stalk the birds at our feeder, he’d drop twigs on its head and laugh. He could sing the first stanza of the Star Spangled Banner. He could…”

Edgar bent his head and sobbed.

Jack knew there was nothing he could say. A background check on Edgar had revealed that the man had worked as a machinist at the Bremerton Naval Shipyard until his retirement eight years before. He’d never married or had children.

H.G. hadn’t only been his friend; he’d been his family.

Edgar pulled the cloth out of his pocket and wiped his eyes. Jack was waiting until the man had himself back together before asking him if he’d agree to testify to what he’d told him.

“He came back,” Edgar said suddenly. “The bastard came back.”

“Bruce Weaton came here?” Jack asked in surprise.

Edgar nodded. “Two years ago. Out of the blue he knocked on the door, asked me if I remembered him. Like he was someone I could forget.”

The man’s arthritic hands clutched the handles of his chair.

“What did he want?” Jack asked.

“He was holding a cage with a parrot in it. Idiotic smile on his face. Said he was replacing the one I lost.”

Edgar’s jaw clamped shut, the muscles in his cheek twitching.

“What did you do?” Jack asked after a moment.

“I slammed the door in his face. Any man who thought giving me another parrot was the way to make amends would never understand what he’d taken from me. Never.”

Jack was certain that Edgar was right.

Could Bruce’s actions in this case be the key to understanding what made the guy tick?

S
HIRLEY ANSWERED THE DOOR
before Jack even had a chance to ring the doorbell. Her short-cropped black hair was slicked back, yellow sweats under her brown cape, the black cat in the crook of her arm.

“Heard your footsteps coming up the drive,” she said. “Firm step. Good you brought a van. Come inside.”

“I parked the van at the back of the garage. How did you see it?”

“Didn’t. Distinctive engine noise. The rest of the household isn’t up yet.”

Jack enjoyed how well Shirley had adopted Sherlock’s detection skills. Maybe that was the secret to happiness, deciding who you were going to be and being your best at it.

Stepping between the neatly stacked boxes arranged by size, Jack noticed their typed labels listed not only precise contents but also directions for exact placement within the new house.

“Someone’s either compulsively thorough or thoroughly compulsive,” he said.

“Diana’s current bout with insomnia has its productive side.”

Diana wasn’t sleeping well, either. He was perversely glad.

“Let us start out our day’s task with a hearty breakfast,” Shirley said.

Sounded good to him. Been a while since he’d pulled
himself out of bed at four-thirty in the morning. When he followed her into the kitchen and smelled the freshly brewed coffee, he began to consider adopting her as his aunt. He could get used to having a home-cooked breakfast prepared for him.

“I was about to feed the Hound,” she said.

As he poured himself a cup of coffee and added cream and sugar, Jack watched Shirley open a can of tuna fish and dump the contents into a bowl. No matter what she called the animal, on some level Shirley knew her hound was a cat.

Fascinating how far parts of the human mind could happily soar with delusions while other parts remained firmly anchored in reality. Jack began to wonder what delusions he might be harboring of which he was unaware.

“There are fresh eggs and butter in the refrigerator and the frying pan is in the cabinet to the right of the stove,” Shirley directed. “I’ll slice the cantaloupe.”

Jack chuckled to himself as he headed for the fridge. Appeared one of those delusions he’d been harboring was that his breakfast was going to be prepared for him.

D
IANA WOKE
a half hour later than she’d planned. Dragging herself out of bed, she donned her sweats and walking shoes, then tied her hair into a ponytail on the top of her head. As she trudged past Mel’s room, she could see her daughter was flat on her back, still fast asleep. Diana decided to let her snooze a while longer.

From the smells wafting through the hall, Diana could tell the coffee had already been made, fresh bread was browning in the toaster, and Shirley was scrambling eggs. What a terrific aunt she had.

But when Diana entered the kitchen, she blinked, certain she was seeing things.

Over the past week, her sleep had been frequently dis
turbed with dreams of Jack. But none of them had been of him bent over a stove cooking, her mother’s flowered apron tied around his neck and waist.

“Hi,” he said. “How do you like your eggs?”

This was too much to take without a good dose of caffeine. Diana staggered over to the coffeepot, got a mug from the cupboard and filled it. Without a pause, she yanked open the refrigerator, added milk and started to gulp.

“Not a morning person,” Jack said, a damn smile on his face. “I’ll make a note.”

“Mmmph,” she managed through her drinking.

“Please, your language. We’re not alone.”

Diana followed Jack’s admonishing look to see her aunt sitting at the kitchen table. Shirley was concentrating on stuffing a fork full of egg into her mouth while rubbing the purring cat’s back with the sole of her shoe. She waved a hand in greeting. Diana’s arm came up in an automatic response.

When she saw Jack was still grinning at her, she went back for more coffee.

He put the eggs he’d been scrambling onto a plate and turned off the burner. Moving closer, he lowered his voice. “Are you always this wonderfully frazzled in the morning, or am I correct in assuming that Shirley forgot to mention I’d be the one helping you move today?”

“When did this happen?”

“Couple of nights ago. The guy who was supposed to come by in his truck hurt his back and apparently begged off. Since you were out, Shirley called and asked if I could help.”

“You have far more important things to do than to waste your day carrying boxes.”

“Waste? Hardly. This is an investment. I fully expect you to be there when next I face the chore, especially now
that I’ve gotten a look at your labeling skills. So, what will it be, poached or scrambled?”

“Coffee’s all I want.”

Taking the cup out of her fingers, he wrapped her hands around the plate of scrambled eggs. “You’re going to need all your strength if you hope to keep up with me.”

He refaced the stove and removed a couple of eggs from the carton. With an expert flip of the wrist he cracked them, dumping the contents into a mixing bowl.

Not only handsome, smart, sexy and sweet, but he could cook, too. Life was not fair.

As she walked toward the table, Diana could still feel the warmth of his hands where they’d held hers. He was right. She was going to need all her strength today.

J
ACK SAT
down on the back stairs of the house on Baby Lane, pleasantly tired after a long day of moving. The physical activity felt good and reminded him he needed to spend more time with the weight machine at the gym. The females in this family were in astonishingly good shape. Even Shirley hadn’t let up all day.

If it had been up to Jack, he would have unpacked only the essential stuff. These ladies not only had all the beds made and dishes in the kitchen cabinets, but books were placed on shelves, linens in closets and pictures hung on the clean white walls. Even the hummingbird feeders had been filled and twirled in the breeze off the porch eaves.

In less than a week Diana had accomplished what Richard hadn’t been able to bring himself to do in eleven months. She’d given this house a much-needed face-lift and turned it into a home.

Only Mel’s quiet, watchful face had brought a cloud to the day.

When the door opened, Jack turned around to see the kid coming toward him. She plopped down next to him
and rubbed her palms across the knees of her sweats as she stared up at the tiny birds fighting for position at the feeders.

He had the feeling there was something specific she’d come to say. But as the quiet stretched between them, she seemed to have trouble finding the words. Not a problem he would normally associate with this kid. Maybe she was going to tell him to get lost. Again. He sipped his soft drink and waited.

When she did finally speak, her voice held none of the combative tone she’d displayed at the wedding reception. “Shirley told me a minute ago that she was the one who asked you to help us move.”

Mel must have thought it was her mother’s idea. No wonder she’d been giving him the cold shoulder all day.

“No consulting detective could possibly turn down a request from the inestimable Sherlock Holmes to be in on the action,” Jack said.

“She doesn’t do the character right,” Mel said. “When Sir Arthur Conan Doyle wrote about Sherlock Holmes, he never once described him as wearing a deerstalker cap. Nor did he smoke a calabash pipe.”

Didn’t surprise Jack that the kid had read the stories. But it did surprise him that she showed such little affection for her great-aunt. Was it because Shirley insisted on calling her Dr. Watson?

That had to be annoying when you were nine, an age when the search for identity began to take on monumental importance. Jack could remember the rebellion he’d felt every time someone confused him with his twin while he was growing up.

“Sidney, the original illustrator of the Holmes character, drew the cap,” Jack said. “And William Gillette, one of the early actors who played Holmes, selected the pipe as
the prop that would neither interfere with his arresting profile nor perfect articulation.”

Mel shot a glance at him over her shoulder. “You seem to know a lot about Sherlock Holmes.”

“Being aware of the backgrounds and understanding the traits of popular characters played on TV or in the movies was all part of acting.”

“Why did you leave acting?”

“Because the only parts I was being offered were those of villains, and I didn’t want to be labeled a villain all my life. As fun and challenging as acting can be, I need to be seen and accepted for who I am. I suspect we all have that need.”

She tilted her head toward him curiously, but offered no comment.

Jack knew that the best way to put someone at ease was to introduce a subject that let them display their expertise. “About that paper you gave me to read,” he began.

“I know. You’ve been busy.”

“Actually what I was going to say is that I’m curious why you never entertained the possibility of an inborn factor being at core of Derek Dementer’s villainy. He did have an institutionalized psychotic twin that you must remember my playing on several occasions.”

She squinted up at him. “Derek’s behavior was antisocial in many ways, but never psychotic.”

“You feel confident of that?”

She nodded. “He selected highly competitive roles in society where his outward charm and inner ruthlessness would be rewarded. He was a successful politician, corporate CEO, even horse owner and racer. A psychotic—like his twin—was too out of touch with reality to be able to function at that high a level. Derek’s definitive character trait was his lack of conscience.”

“An inability to emotionally bond with others that left
him without remorse for his actions,” Jack said, once again awed at the kid’s mental acuity and communicative skills. “And you believe that formed out of his being rejected and neglected as a child. You made a compelling argument. I doubt the writers who created the character even considered him that thoroughly.”

Her voice reflected surprise. “You really did read my paper.”

“I told you I would. Didn’t you believe me?”

She looked down at her feet, her toes wiggling beneath the soft fabric of her tennis shoes. “Sometimes people say they’ll do something because they don’t want to hurt your feelings or simply want you to go away.”

“You get a lot of that from adults?” he asked.

She nodded. “Most adults avoid me. I make them nervous.”

“They don’t always know as much as you do, Mel. That scares them.”

“Doesn’t scare you.”

He smiled. “I grew up in a pretty smart family. Got used to feeling dumb.”

“You’re not dumb. That’s why if I know something you don’t, it doesn’t bother you.”

Jack figured anyone that astute deserved a swig of his soft drink and offered it to her. She took a healthy gulp before returning the bottle.

“You got good grades in school, didn’t you?” she asked.

“I wasn’t a natural athlete like my brothers. Had to try to excel somewhere.”

“In gym class last semester, all the other kids called me the klutzy geek freak. They never picked me for any of the teams.”

The sadness in her tone was unexpected, as was the anger that burgeoned inside him.

“Screw ’em, Mel. Those kids are nothing but ignorant brats. You only have to look at the stupid music videos and television shows they watch to know the best they can hope to grow up to be are annoying telemarketers. You’re going to grow up to be an astronaut, nuclear physicist, Nobel Prize winner—hell, absolutely anything you damn well want.”

She looked at him quietly and very seriously for a moment before she smiled. “Mom sort of told me that, too, except she left out the screw ’em part.”

Jack chuckled, a combination of relief, amusement and amazement at himself for having gotten so angry. “Sorry. I’m not used to talking to kids.”

“Me neither.”

He studied the small lift to her youthful chin, the sharp intelligence in her eyes. No, he didn’t suppose she was.

She gave him a discerning look. “Do you really want to be just friends with my mom?”

That was what she had come out here to ask him.

Her concern over losing her closeness with her mother had gotten a lot clearer to Jack during the past few minutes. She had no ties to kids her own age. Her father wasn’t in the picture. She no longer lived with her grandmother. And she hadn’t yet—and might never—bond to her wacky great-aunt. Way she saw it, her mother was all she had.

He returned her look. “No, I don’t want to be
just
friends with your mom. But I’m going to try.”

After a moment she broke off eye contact and stared down at her shoes. “Thanks.”

A profound sincerity echoed from the simple word. Jack felt oddly touched, although he could not have said why.

Some movement or sound caused him to glance around. Diana stood at the back door. How long she’d been there, he couldn’t guess.

“A somewhat thrown together—but hopefully tasty and healthy—dinner awaits the day’s intrepid workers,” she said. “Anyone hungry?”

Mel jumped to her feet, more animated than he’d seen her all day. “Starved. Coming, Jack?”

“No, thanks,” he said as he stood. “I’ll be heading for home. Call me when you get some time on Monday, Diana. There are things we need to go over on the case.”

Jack didn’t wait for a response. He headed toward the driveway where he’d parked the van. Slipping onto its seat, he started the engine, then drove away without once looking back.

Because if he had looked back, he’d see Diana and change his mind about staying. That wasn’t an option, not if he was going to keep his word to a worried little girl.

“T
HE JURY QUESTIONNAIRES ARE BACK
, Jack. Do you have time to meet with me and go over them?”

Diana waited through the pause on the other end of the line. She hadn’t seen Jack in more than a week. He’d sent over his time sheets and investigative notes by special messenger, keeping her apprised of his progress. But the only time they’d talked even by telephone was when she called.

She understood that he was trying to find the car Bruce had been driving on the day Amy died as well as the woman who was with him in the E.R.