“So Cindy seduced Oliver with the promise of status and respect?”
“She played on his sympathy and his ego. Here was a beautiful woman who offered him what he’d always wanted, and with herself as the prize. There was a steep price to pay—turning his back on Victor and setting up Martha—but it was worth it to him. He fell for it.”
“And Cindy made sure Henry couldn’t double-cross her by insisting that they get married?”
“Exactly. With Victor dead and Martha convicted, Cindy would have been able to step out of the shadow and reveal herself as Henry’s wife. She would have been as wealthy as she’d been when she was Victor’s wife, but with a man who wouldn’t dare divorce her. She must have figured they could buy off Oliver, counting on the idea that he would never admit to being part of a murder conspiracy.”
“So was it greed that motivated Henry? Was he seduced by Victor’s millions?”
“Greed, and a little bit of revenge. Henry needed cash to support his gambling habit. But even more, he resented all the money the partners made while he slaved away in the background. He got rid of Victor, and something tells me Tony might have been his next victim.”
“You really seem to know what makes people tick,” Nastasi said. “I suppose you get that from creating all the characters in your books.”
I laughed. “I guess that helps,” I said.
“You know, of course, that Henry and Cindy’s marriage is going to make it difficult for the prosecution, since a wife can’t testify against her husband, and vice versa.”
“Isn’t it nice that Shelby Fordice will have Oliver Smith to guide them through the conspiracy?”
“Yes, it is. I’m going to take off now. Please bring Martha by the office tomorrow and we can clean things up.”
“Where are you going?”
“I want to make sure she’s properly released from jail. She’ll have to go back with the guard to sign out and collect her belongings. You can pick her up in about an hour.”
Martha had walked around the wooden divider separating the front of the courtroom from the observers’ seats to greet Betsy and Winnie and a mob of well-wishers, including Bunny Kildare.
“Mrs. Fletcher?”
I turned to see Jane standing at the side of the table.
“Would you please tell Martha congratulations for me?” she said.
Daria stood at the back of the room with her arms crossed and an irritated expression on her face.
“You can tell her yourself,” I said. “She’s just over there.”
“I don’t think she wants to talk to me right now.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. She would much rather hear congratulations from you in person. She’s very fond of you, even though you testified against her.”
“I never got that message about lunch from Martha. I swear it. I wouldn’t have stood her up.”
“What do you think happened to the message?”
Jane looked back at her mother. Daria scowled, pulled open the courtroom door, and disappeared into the hall.
The young woman turned and gazed uncertainly at the group surrounding Martha. She took a deep breath and let it out. “Thank you,” she said to me, and walked toward them. She waited until Martha noticed her. Martha opened her arms to Jane, and the younger woman walked gratefully into them.
“So all’s well that ends well,” Tony McKay said over my shoulder. “Congratulations, Jessica Fletcher. Fine work.”
“Thank you,” I said, gathering my papers on the defense table.
“Perhaps we can have that dinner now that your schedule looks as if it will be a bit freer.”
“I don’t think so, Tony.”
“Why not?”
“I have other obligations.”
“Do I detect a little antagonism here?”
“Perhaps. I’m not happy that you lied to me.”
“About Henry?”
“Yes. I think you knew he was on the early plane. He would have told his sister, Pearl, and it would have been evident from the boarding card you said she checked in his travel records.”
“You really are a good sleuth, aren’t you? Sorry about that. I had no idea Henry was the killer; please believe me. I was merely protecting my business interests. Trying to keep the police from probing where they didn’t belong.”
“It seems you share that goal with Chappy Ciappino. He didn’t want anyone looking into his business arrangements either. But after the police finish charging him with attempted bribery, I don’t imagine there will be much they don’t know.”
“Dreadful fellow. Can’t say I’ll be sorry to see him go away for a while, but it’s going to be hell running the show all alone now.”
“You’ve been in business many years now. You’ll manage, I’m sure.”
“I always had strong partners to share the load. Victor was the brain behind the business, and Henry, the little bugger, was a masterful manager.” Tony eyed Martha as she hugged Betsy good-bye. “Maybe I can convince the lovely widow to become a businesswoman. Do you think she has any skills in that direction?”
“You’ll have to ask her,” I said.
“I think I shall,” he said as he walked away.
I hoped fervently that Martha would choose to hire a business consultant rather than trust Tony to manage her half of their joint affairs.
“Oh, Jessica, I’m thrilled and giddy and so grateful to you for everything you’ve done,” said Martha several minutes later when the crowd in the courtroom had thinned and she returned to what had been the defense table. “I can’t wait to sleep in my own bed, and take you around town and treat you—and me—to some of the shows, and a good restaurant, and Betsy is already planning to pull me into a casino. And you know, I think I’m going to buy a little house in Cabot Cove so I can come visit anytime I want.” She laughed. “It feels so strange to be making plans. I haven’t thought beyond the minute ever since I was arrested.”
“You have all the time in the world now to make plans,” I said. “And you can do anything that takes your fancy. You’re a wealthy woman now.”
“Oh, my sweet, generous Victor,” she said. “If only he could be here with me to enjoy this moment. I miss him so much.”
“I know.”
“You do know, of course you do.”
A guard was waiting to escort her back to the jail, this time without handcuffs and manacles. I gave Martha another hug, promised to pick her up shortly, and watched as she walked away, a soon-to-be-free woman.
I never dreamed two years ago at Martha and Victor’s beautiful wedding that I would be back in Las Vegas helping to defend her against a murder charge. It had been an unforgettable experience. But it was time to go home to Cabot Cove.
As for Martha, after months in jail, she was eager to sample life again, to explore the pleasures and entertainment the city had to offer. I could understand its appeal. Las Vegas, with all its glitter and glamour and flashing lights, was a twenty-four-hour party, a perpetual celebration. Martha was still relatively young, certainly beautiful, and now a very rich woman. I hoped she could make a life for herself and find happiness beyond amusement, beyond material possessions. I hoped she could gather friends and family around her for years to come, and share the most important part of life—love.
Chapter Twenty-two
“I’m Rikid Klieman.”
“And I’m Eddie Hayes. You know, Rikki. Court TV has covered hundreds of trials over the years, and you and I have personally been involved in plenty of them as attorneys. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen one end as dramatically as the murder trial of Martha Kildare. Perry Mason couldn’t have done better.”
“It looked for a while that the system might have failed and that an innocent woman could have been convicted. Mrs. Kildare has a lot of people to thank, including Jessica Fletcher, who stepped out of her familiar role as a famous mystery writer and dug up the evidence that freed her.”
“Maybe Mrs. Fletcher should consider becoming a lawyer.”
“I’m sure she’d make a good one. We’ll be back for more discussion about the Kildare murder trial with today’s guest legal experts after this commercial break. And don’t forget that tomorrow we’ll begin coverage of the sensational murder trial in Florida of a man charged with murdering his wife
and
his mistress.”
“Stay tuned.”
Here’s a preview of
Majoring in Murder
A Murder, She Wrote mystery,
available from Signet
I’d never seen a green sky before. The color was not the green you picture when you think of grass and trees. It wasn’t mint green or hospital green or even olive green. It was more like the color of the ocean when it pushes into the bay and up the river, when the bottom is murky and an oar dipped in the water roils up the particles of silt into a muddy cloud. It was that color green.
I climbed the steps of the Hart Building, debating whether to return to my apartment or go inside and wait out the approaching storm. The quad, usually alive with students, was eerily empty. Only the soft rumble of thunder, and the rustle of dry oak leaves tumbling over themselves across the square, broke the silence.
“I don’t like the looks of this, Mrs. Fletcher.” Professor Wesley Newmark, chairman of the English department stood on the top step and studied the darkening sky. The wind elevated the few strands of sandy hair he’d carefully combed over his bald pate.
I followed his gaze. “What do you see?” I asked.
He squinted at me as a gust of wind spit droplets on the lenses of his glasses. He pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his gray tweed jacket with leather elbow patches. “You’d better get inside. If the alarm goes off, take shelter in the basement,” he said, wiping his glasses and replacing them on his nose. “I’ve got to get to my appointment. I’m late already.” He started down the steps, hugging his bulging, battered leather briefcase with both arms to keep the wind from catching it.
“Where are you going?” I called out, but the wind must have carried my voice in another direction. He didn’t answer, or if he did, I didn’t hear him. He hurried down the stairs, ran across the quadrangle in the direction of Kammerer House, where the English department had its offices.
I opened the door to the Hart Building. It was Saturday morning and most classes had finished for the week. Outside my classroom, I glanced at a television monitor mounted on the wall. A message flashed on the screen: “Tornado Watch Till 4 P.M. This Afternoon.”
Oh my.
I’d come to Schoolman College to teach a course on writing murder mysteries. Harriet Schoolman Bennett, dean of students and the granddaughter of the founder, was an old friend. We’d served together on the mayor’s committee to combat illiteracy when I’d taught at Manhattan University in New York City and she’d been earning her Ph.D. at Columbia. That was before Schoolman suffered the financial consequences of declining enrollment, and Harriet had come home to rescue what she’d wryly called “the family business.”
Schoolman was a small liberal arts college in a state that boasted large universities. Situated midway between Purdue and Notre Dame, it struggled in the shadow of its larger and more sophisticated rivals. Recently, however, its fortunes had begun turning around, thanks to its writing curriculum. Harriet had instituted the program five years ago to gain much-needed publicity and shore up the student base. Contacting her connections in the academic world and buttonholing old friends to help out, she’d attracted a series of bestselling authors to come to Indiana to teach. My course was entitled “The Mystery Genre in Publishing Today,” and Harriet had promised that I’d find the bucolic college campus a stimulating environment, both for teaching and for working on my own manuscript.
However, a tornado was not the kind of stimulation I’d had in mind when I’d agreed to come for the fall term.
My classroom offered a quiet sanctuary in which to work on the curriculum; at least it would have if my thoughts hadn’t kept drifting to the impending storm. Outside my window, the rain had stopped, but a charcoal gray sky promised more to come. I packed up my papers, mentally calculating how long it would take to reach my apartment, hurried down the empty hall, pushed open the doors, and stepped outside.
A pinging noise and the sharp feel of hail hitting my scalp made me shrink back under the narrow overhang and raise my briefcase over my head. I watched fascinated as hailstones the size of golf balls bounced down the stairs and rolled onto the path. Across the quad, between two buildings, was a small parking lot, and I heard the hail striking the hoods of the cars. The unmusical percussion jarred me from my reverie.
The door opened behind me, and Frank, a maintenance man at the college, grabbed my elbow.
“Professor Fletcher, you can’t stay out here,” he said, tugging me back into the building. “Everyone’s already in the shelter. Come quickly. There’s not a lot of time. I’ll take you to the—”
A series of short horn blasts interrupted his instructions. Spurred by the alarm, I ran after him down the deserted hall to the emergency staircase. The thunder was louder now. Or was it the wind? I was having trouble distinguishing the source of the sound. The loud roar was deafening, punctuated by the clatter of breaking glass and crashing debris. I felt the building shake, and the hairs rose on the back of my neck.
We raced down the flight of stairs to the ground level and through an open door into a concrete bunker illuminated by bare light bulbs screwed into wall fixtures. At least a dozen people were huddled on benches or sitting on the floor.
“Oh good, you found her,” someone called out. “What about Professor Newmark?”
“Couldn’t locate him,” Frank called back, as he and another man hauled the iron door closed and shot three dead-bolts just as something massive slammed into the metal from the other side.
I felt a hand on my arm and turned.