“I don’t mind at all,” I said, “but why is it important?”
“Isobel’s vacation time is coming up. She goes back to Guadalajara every year. I don’t know when she’s planning to leave, but I hesitate to leave the house unoccupied, even with Oliver on the property, especially since everyone knows I’m in jail. I’ll be happy to pay for a car and driver so you won’t be dependent on cabs all the time.”
“That’s not really necessary.”
“Yes, it is. If I’m taking advantage of your good nature, and taking you away from the luxury and convenience of the Bellagio, that’s the least I can do.”
“Martha, staying in your beautiful home is not a hardship. I’ll be happy to accommodate you. In fact, it may even give me some ideas of what to investigate. Do you mind if I snoop around?”
Martha smiled for the first time in a long time. “Feel free to snoop away,” she said. “Thanks so much, Jessica. You’ve put my mind at ease, and Isobel will be grateful as well.”
Fordice had advised Nastasi that the phone company representative would be his next witness following the cross-examination of Jenkins. On top of the computer printout was a copy of what the representative had given in a pretrial deposition. The prosecution’s focus seemed to be that there was no record of a call from Martha to the house or to Jane’s mother, Daria, or to Jane’s boyfriend’s apartment during the period in which Victor had been murdered.
I hadn’t been in Las Vegas for the beginning of the trial, but I’d read that Fordice had stressed during his opening statement that any reasonable person who’s been stood up at a restaurant for a lunch date would make calls to try to determine the whereabouts of the absent person.
“The judge will instruct you to take your common sense back into the jury room when you begin your deliberations, and I urge you to do that, too,” he had said in the opening argument. “Common sense tells us that the defendant, if she’d been at that restaurant as she claims, would have attempted to find out what had happened to Jane Kildare. Martha Kildare admitted to the police that she had had her cell phone with her. Why didn’t she use it? Because she had no reason to call Jane. She didn’t have a date with her, they weren’t supposed to meet. In fact Martha Kildare had no need to call Jane because she never went anywhere near that restaurant. She was at home during those hours, at home killing her husband, murdering Victor Kildare.”
“They’re going to try to prove a negative,” I commented to Martha.
“That’s all they can do with the phone record,” Nastasi said, turning from us and making notes on a legal pad.
“I hate those dam cell phones,” Martha muttered. “Victor almost lived on his; he was forever on the phone. I carried mine because he insisted, but I kept forgetting to charge it. When I wanted to use it, the battery was dead.”
“I see here that Victor made a series of calls on his cell phone prior to his death,” I said, “including the last one to his ex-wife, Cindy.”
Nastasi stopped writing. “Yeah, and she claims he called to suggest they try to get together again. According to the third Mrs. Kildare, he told her he wanted out of the marriage to Martha and to remarry Cindy.”
“That’s absurd,” Martha said. “She’d called the day before asking if Oliver could help her move furniture. Maybe she left a message about that and he was calling her back.”
“The prosecution is using it to make the point that the marriage was in tatters, and that Martha killed Victor to avoid a divorce.”
Martha shook her head as she sat back and closed her eyes.
I looked at the list of phone calls on the day Victor died. “How do we know all these calls were made by him? Could he have had a visitor, someone who asked to use his phone or someone who used his phone after he was dead?”
Martha opened her eyes, and Nastasi stopped writing.
“Did the police have Victor’s cell phone checked for fingerprints?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t treading where I shouldn’t.
“No,” Nastasi said. “Too late for that now. Another example of sloppy police work.”
It occurred to me that it might also represent sloppy legal work, not having insisted that the phone be forensically examined. But Nastasi had come to the case late. By the time Martha had hired him, all the police tests had been completed. I didn’t say anything. Instead, I asked, “What about Jane’s calls that day? I don’t see them here.”
Nastasi turned to Dean Brown. “Subpoena those records, Dean.”
Brown left the table.
“You’re on a roll, Jessica,” Nastasi said. “Keep going.”
The judge’s entrance spared me from having to admit I had nothing else to offer.
Chapter Twelve
“This is Beth Karas. I’m standing outside the Clark County Courthouse, where prosecutor Shelby Fordice surprised observers this morning by having a witness try on the infamous silver lamé gloves alleged to have been worn by the killer of wealthy Las Vegas businessman Victor Kildare.”
“Echoes of the O. J. Simpson trial, right, Beth?”
“Right, Sheila, and just as in that case, the glove didn’t fit. Store owner Matt Jenkins, who sold a pair of silver lamé slots gloves to Kildare as a wedding gift for his wife, couldn’t get his hand into the glove.”
“Jenkins is no dainty fellow, but what does this mean for the trial?”
“Much less than it did in the Simpson case, Jenkins is not the accused. And we already know the gloves will fit the defendant, Martha Kildare, and that she had a pair identical to the ones in court, if those aren’t actually hers. Forensics showed these gloves were worn by the killer, but Fordice still has to prove that Martha Kildare was the one wearing them.”
“Any other developments, Beth?”
“The rest of the morning was taken up with a phone company representative, who verified that the defendant hadn’t used her cell phone during the hours the murder took place. In fact, there were no calls at all recorded for that phone on that date.”
“Why was that important?”
“You’ll remember that the defense claims Jane, Victor Kildare’s daughter, was supposed to meet her stepmother for lunch but never showed up. The prosecution argues that anyone who was stood up would call to find out what happened. Defense attorney Nastasi did a good job of establishing during his cross-examination that Martha Kildare might have used a pay phone to try to find out what happened to Jane, but that the one at the restaurant wasn’t working.”
“Had the prosecution subpoenaed phone records from the restaurant?”
“No, but Nastasi had, and the records showed the phone was out of order on that date. Of course, Nastasi’s goal is to raise a reasonable doubt about his client’s guilt in the mind of at least one juror.”
“One for us and one for them,” Nastasi said, as he, Dean Brown, and I walked back to Nastasi’s law office for lunch.
It was to be another shortened day in court. Judge Tapansky had announced that all Las Vegas courts were closing at noon to allow judges to attend the funeral of a colleague.
In Nastasi’s conference room, Evelyn had again arranged for a tray of sandwiches and assorted sodas to be delivered. “The subpoena for Jane Kildare’s phone records is being prepared,” she said as we took seats around the table.
“Good,” said Nastasi. He said to me, “Another example of the state rushing to judgment, Jessica. They subpoenaed only phone records for the victim and the person they decided had killed him. Glad you suggested getting Jane’s records.”
“Thank you. What’s next?”
Nastasi laughed. “For you? I thought you might like to spend the afternoon playing tourist.”
“Not on your life. Now that I’m a member of this team, I expect to play an active role.”
“Okay,” Nastasi said, leaning back and clasping his hands behind his head, “how about telling me about this woman in your hometown who claims she saw Martha hit Victor and threaten to kill him. Name’s Joyce Wenk.”
“I really know very little about her, except that it’s doubtful she would be attending a social gathering with Martha and Victor. Martha says Mrs. Wenk is a recluse, lives outside of Cabot Cove with her husband and a mildly retarded son. I can make some calls.”
“Good. Do that. You can use the phones here, if you like. What else can you do?”
“I think it’s time I paid a call on Victor’s ex-wives, Daria and Bunny.”
“Both had alibis for the time of the murder.”
“Everyone seems to have had an alibi,” I said, “but if I can convince them to talk with me, they may give me an insight into the man they married, and who his enemies might have been.”
“I like that. Any chance you can give me a write-up on your interviews?”
“I didn’t bring my computer with me, but if you can manage to decipher my handwriting, I’ll try to put it all down for you.”
Nastasi slid a yellow legal pad across the table in my direction. “If you can manage to write it, I’ll manage to read it.”
“Any other interviews planned?” Nastasi asked me.
“I thought I’d also look up a woman who was at Martha and Victor’s wedding, Betsy Cavendish.”
“Why?”
“No special reason, but she was Martha’s good friend out here in Las Vegas. I’m surprised she hasn’t been in the courtroom. I’d just like to see how she is.”
“Go to it,” Nastasi said.
“Will we meet again later today?” I asked.
“No. I’m going to the funeral, too, and I have a dinner commitment with family and friends. I’ll see you in court tomorrow morning.”
I decided to make my telephone calls from the comfort of my suite at the Bellagio. With no end to the heat wave in sight, I wanted to change from the suit I wore to court into something more lightweight. I telephoned Seth as soon as I got in, hoping I could still catch him despite the time difference. He was in, and I was put on hold while he finished up with a patient.
“Working late today, I see,” I said when he came on the line. “I thought you were planning to take afternoons off this summer for golf.”
“Played yesterday, matter of fact,” he said.
“How did you do?”
“Was afraid you’d ask that.”
“That bad, huh?” I said, laughing.
“Tiger Woods is in no danger from me. In fact, I’m beginnin’ to wonder what the attraction is to chasin’ a little white ball around the lawn.”
“So it was not your best game. You’ll improve, Seth. You just need more practice.”
“That’s what I keep telling myself, but it’s a humbling experience, especially when Margaret Kenney’s youngest has a better score than mine. I brought that boy into the world. He should have more respect than to beat his doctor in a golf game. Anyway, you didn’t call to hear about my golfing woes, and I want to know how Martha’s doing. Knew she never shoulda married that guy.” I could visualize Seth shaking his head.
“She’s all right,” I said, “but the prosecution is piling up a lot of circumstantial evidence against her. They have a deposition from Joyce Wenk, swearing that during their visit to Cabot Cove last year, Martha hit Victor and threatened to kill him. I don’t know her. Do you?”
“I know the family, but haven’t seen them for a long time. They don’t come into town all that often.”
“What can you tell me about Mrs. Wenk?”
“There’s not much to tell about her. She’s married to Larry Wenk. He used to work over at the mill in Twin Harbors. Not sure if he still does. One child, a son, who’s a little slow. I tried to get him in a special program some years back and she vetoed it. Home-schools the boy. They keep pretty much to themselves.”
“Is that all?”
“That’s all that comes to mind, but I’ll ask around and see if anyone knows more.”
“I’d appreciate it,” I said. “Martha says she doesn’t remember seeing Joyce Wenk when they were in Cabot Cove, and absolutely never raised a hand to Victor.”
“Can’t see Martha being violent. It’s not in her nature.”
“You know that and I know that, but we have a jury to convince. Here’s where you can reach me.” I gave Seth the telephone number of the hotel and my room number, as well as Vince Nastasi’s office number. “I’ll be moving to Martha’s house tomorrow. You have that number.”
“I don’t like that idea one bit.”
“Why, Seth?”
“A murder took place in that house, Jess.”
“The housekeeper has been living there all this time,” I said. Not wanting to get into a debate with Seth, I didn’t mention that she might be leaving soon. “And Victor’s bodyguard lives on the property,” I added. “So I think I’ll be quite safe.”
“It would give me the willies living there, I tell you that.”
We spoke for a few more minutes and then rang off.
After changing into a cotton shirtwaist, I pulled out the Las Vegas telephone directory and looked up the numbers and addresses I needed, jotting them on a pad the Bellagio provided. Bunny Kildare was out and I left a voice message for her. There was no answer at Daria’s house either, but considering our last encounter, I decided that personal contact would increase my chances of getting an interview. I hung up before an answering machine picked up. My third call was more successful.
“Of course I remember you, Jessie,” Betsy Cavendish said when I reached her at home. “I’ve been following the trial on TV, saw you there, too. Told my friend Winnie, ‘There’s that mystery writer I met at Martha’s wedding.’ Poor Martha. Who would believe that lovely girl could hurt a flea? It’s just a damn shame. If I could walk, I’d be in the courtroom, too. She needs all the support she can get. Thank goodness you’re there. That Fordice character has it in for her, I can tell.”
When I was able to get in a question or two, I learned that Betsy had fallen and broken her hip. She was recuperating from a hip replacement operation and confined to her apartment. She eagerly accepted my suggestion that I come to visit her, and after stopping at the Bellagio’s flower shop, I took a cab to her apartment house.
Betsy’s friend Winnie answered the door. She was the opposite of Betsy in every detail, tall where Betsy was short, round where Betsy was thin, and taciturn, an adjective that never could be applied to Betsy. I introduced myself, and after greeting Betsy, who was propped up on the sofa with a blanket wrapped around her—the apartment air-conditioning was turned to high—gave Winnie the flowers I’d brought. She took them without a word and disappeared into the kitchen.