Florence returned. “The cook remembered her,” she said. “Her name was Luz, but he doesn’t remember her last name,” she added, placing a piece of lemon meringue pie in front of me. “Want the raspberry sauce, too?” She held a silver sauce boat with the puréed berries in one hand and a serving spoon in the other.
“No, thanks, on the sauce,” I said. “Does he know where she is now?”
“No. Sorry. She was illegal. The cops came by one day and she took off. That’s all he knows.”
“I can’t thank you enough for taking the trouble to ask for me.”
“Not a problem. We’re a relatively small staff here, so everyone knows everyone else. Glad I could help.”
I asked for the check and paid with a credit card, watching the hostess stand until Ms. McGinnis left it momentarily unattended before I walked out of the restaurant. The likelihood was that she hadn’t seen me, and if asked, would swear that I’d never been in her restaurant tonight. But I had, and I had the credit card receipt to prove it, even if Florence decided to change careers again. Best of all, I had a lead on Martha’s alibi, although tracking her down, much less convincing her to testify, might be wicked hard, as my neighbors in Cabot Cove would say.
Chapter Eight
“This is Fred Graham in New York. We’re covering live the Las Vegas murder trial of Martha Kildare, who’s accused of having killed her millionaire businessman husband, Victor Kildare. Court TV’s own Beth Karas is standing by outside the courtroom in Las Vegas. What can we expect today, Beth?”
“Well, Fred, the prosecution has lined up a succession of witnesses, beginning with the medical examiner who examined the victim’s body. Also on today’s list is Oliver Smith, Victor Kildare’s driver and handyman, who was living at the Kildare home the day of the murder. The Kildare housekeeper, Isobel Alvarez, is scheduled to testify, and a forensic scientist from the state crime lab will be called to testify about fibers found on the wrench that was used to kill Victor Kildare. Those fibers allegedly came from a silver lamé glove of the kind used by slot machine players to keep their hands clean. The defendant’s deceased husband had given her a pair of such gloves the day they were married here in Las Vegas two years ago.”
“Just because fibers came from that type of glove, it doesn’t prove it’s the same pair of gloves the victim gave his wife, does it?”
“No, it doesn’t, Fred, and Mr. Nastasi, the defendant’s attorney, will press that point on his cross. But remember, the defendant wasn’t able to come up with her gloves. She claims they were lost.”
“Beth, there’s a bit of a celebrity aspect to the trial, isn’t there?”
“You mean the presence of the renowned mystery writer Jessica Fletcher. We had her on yesterday. She’s come here from her home in Maine to lend support to the defendant, who was a neighbor and friend for many years back in Maine.”
“Will she be a witness?”
“She’s not on the list, but anyone who’s followed her career knows that besides having written dozens of best-selling crime novels, she’s ended up solving a few real-life murders on the way. It will be interesting to see whether she takes a more active role in this case than simply that of a cheerleader for a good friend.”
“What’s going on in the courtroom right now, Beth?”
“The defense wants Oliver Smith’s criminal record introduced at trial. The prosecution is fighting that, and filed a motion last night to keep any such prior record from the jury. The attorneys are set to argue that motion out of the jury’s presence. Judge Tapansky will have to decide whether Smith’s criminal record is more prejudicial than probative when he testifies.”
“Well, you’d better get back into that courtroom, Beth. We’ll be hearing lots more from you today, I’m sure.”
I’d arrived at the Clark County Courthouse at eight-thirty that morning, hoping to catch Vince Nastasi before the proceedings began. The courtroom was empty except for the stenographer, who was setting up her equipment, and other court officials preparing for the trial. I waited in the hallway leading from the front entrance, perusing an exhibit of student artwork on the walls. Some of the drawings and paintings were remarkably sophisticated, considering the ages of the young artists; others showed a nascent talent that promised more in the future. I was pleased that a municipal building was serving as a gallery, and encouraging appreciation for the arts. Surely the youngsters were proud to have their work hanging in a public place, and I was a receptive audience.
So engrossed was I in a pencil drawing of American Indian symbols that I almost missed Nastasi when he strode down the hall.
“Oh, Mr. Nastasi, may I have a word with you?” I called to him as he blew by me. I hurried after him and tapped his shoulder.
He stopped and turned so abruptly I nearly bumped into him.
“It’s Vince,” he said, wagging a finger at me. “How are you this morning, Jessica? Ready for another day in court?”
“I’m well, thank you. I just wanted to give you this.” I dug in my purse for the receipt from my dinner the night before and handed it to him.
“What’s this?”
“I went to the Winners’ Circle last night to see Ms. McGinnis in action.”
“McGinnis? The hostess who testified?”
“Yes.”
“And you want to be reimbursed for your dinner?”
I laughed. “Of course not, Vince.” I was taken aback that he thought I would tread on our new acquaintance by charging my meal to his account. “This is simply proof that I was there. I managed to arrive, get a table, and leave without once encountering Ms. McGinnis.”
He looked at me quizzically before saying, “Yeah, well, thanks. I’ll take a look at this later.”
He pocketed the slip of yellow paper and continued heading for the courtroom. But after five steps, he stopped, turned to me, pulled my receipt from his pocket, studied it, smiled, closed the gap between us, and asked, “Are you free for lunch, Jessica?”
“Well, yes. I haven’t made any plans.”
“Come to my office during the lunch break—you remember where it is, don’t you?”
“I do. It’s just around the corner.”
“My secretary will have sandwiches for us and we can discuss this”—he waved the receipt—“further.”
“All right.”
“Are you coming to the courtroom now?”
“Yes.”
“Well, come along,” he said, putting his hand on my back and pushing me forward. “Let’s not keep Judge Tapansky waiting. He gets downright testy when people are late to his courtroom.”
Martha was already seated at the defense table when we entered. She was dressed in the same gray suit, maroon silk blouse, and low-heeled shoes she’d worn the previous day. Her makeup was fresh and almost hid the shadows beneath her eyes. She acknowledged me briefly, but kept her eyes on Nastasi until he was seated beside her, then whispered something to him I couldn’t hear.
I took a seat on the aisle behind the defense table, where I could watch Martha as well as the judge and jury. Neither Judge Tapansky nor the jury was in the courtroom yet, but there was a lot of activity in preparation for their arrival. A technician from Court TV spoke into his headset and made minor adjustments to the angle of the camera above the jury seats. There were two cameras in the courtroom, one at the rear of the room pointed at the judge and witness box, the second at a location near the jury box that would allow it to pan the room, but not to capture the faces of the jurors, a restriction on TV coverage of trials that held true in all states except Florida.
The court stenographer was still testing her tape recorder, pressing buttons and rewinding again and again. The guard who’d escorted Martha to her seat chatted amiably with the court clerk. The prosecutor, Mr. Fordice, banged his heavy briefcase down on the table to my right and sighed loudly while removing piles of manila folders and legal pads filled with notes from its roomy interior.
“All rise.”
At the announcement, the red light on the camera near the jury box came on and the Honorable Marvin Tapansky emerged from his chambers. He pulled his robe to the side and climbed the steps to his seat on the bench. He was a round man with a permanent slouch, the consequence of decades of sedentary life. His thinning hair, parted on the side, was a suspicious shade of red that didn’t match the wiry gray brows that reached out over his dark eyes.
“I have a motion here from you, Mr. Fordice,” Judge Tapansky said, looking down at his desk.
Fordice pressed on the tabletop with both hands and pushed to his feet. “Yes, Your Honor. We’re asking the court to preclude certain aspects of a witness’s background.”
“And who is this witness?” The judge sifted through several papers till he found the list of witnesses scheduled for the day.
“Mr. Oliver Smith, an assistant to Mr. Kildare, who lives on the Kildare property.”
“I’ll hear arguments.”
“Your Honor, the state believes that Mr. Smith’s background would prejudice the jury against his testimony, and we ask that it be precluded.”
“You don’t want them to know he has a criminal record, is that correct?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“And, Mr. Nastasi, I assume that’s not agreeable to you and your client.”
Nastasi stood. “Correct, Your Honor. The record of Mr. Smith’s convictions goes to his character and believability. How can we have him testify about an assault and murder without revealing that he himself has been arrested numerous times and found guilty of assault on two occasions?”
Fordice jumped in again. “Mr. Smith’s testimony will not pertain to the crime in question, Your Honor. He was not home at the time of the murder. We’re simply asking him to confirm the layout of the Kildare estate for the jury, since he lives on the property, and speak to the nature of the relationship of Mr. and Mrs. Kildare. His criminal record has no bearing on such testimony.”
“Your Honor,” Nastasi said, “my client was also away from home at the time of the murder, and she has no criminal record. We believe concealing Mr. Smith’s record will present an inaccurate picture of both Mr. Smith and Mr. Kildare, who knew of his employee’s past. We ask that the jury be allowed to hear this information.”
“We’re not talking about a career criminal here,” Fordice added. “Smith has worked for Kildare in Las Vegas for more than ten years without any trouble with the law. Any blemishes on his record predate his employment.”
“I’ve heard enough,” the judge said. “Mr. Fordice, the criminal record of a witness where a crime has been committed may be relevant to the facts of the case. It will be your responsibility to convince the jury otherwise. Mr. Smith’s record—convictions only, not arrests—is allowed. Anything else, gentlemen?”
“No. Thank you, Your Honor,” Nastasi said, sitting. Both lawyers rapidly made notes on their yellow pads.
“Are we ready for the jury?” Tapansky asked. “Yes? Bailiff, bring in the jury.”
“All rise for the jury.”
The jurors entered in single file, seven women and five men, a combination of Caucasian, Hispanic, and African American, and took their places in the jury box. The three alternates sat in seats cordoned off just outside and to the left of the jury box, but still out of range of the cameras.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” said the judge. “Sorry to keep you waiting but we had some legal housekeeping to take care of.” To Fordice: “Call your first witness.”
The opening testimony concerned the murder weapon, a plumber’s wrench, which the killer had used to strike Victor Kildare on the head. The county medical examiner confirmed that the shape of the wound on the victim’s head was consistent with the use of the wrench as a weapon. He further testified that the victim was still alive when his body hit the water; chlorinated water was found in the alveoli of the lungs and in his stomach, indicating that death had occurred following immersion. Furthermore, the large amount of blood in the pool was an indication that the heart was still beating when the victim was underwater.
A series of color photographs taken during the autopsy were vividly displayed on a large screen to support the ME’s testimony. Martha buried her head in her arms on the defense table while the pictures were displayed. I turned at the sound of a gasp and saw that Victor’s daughter, Jane, a few rows behind me, was the source. She placed her hands over her eyes so as not to view the gory photos.
An older woman kept her arm around Jane’s shoulder, eyes averted from the screen. Could this be Daria, Jane’s mother? She fit the general description I remembered from the wedding. Betsy had said she was in her fifties and “looked pretty good.” Daria, if this was Daria, was an attractive woman, whipcord thin with a physique that could be maintained only by devotion to exercise. Her long hair was darker than her daughter’s and worn loose. Her skin was very tan, emphasizing her light eyes, but with the leathery look that comes from long exposure to the sun. She wore little makeup that I could see beyond a deep red lipstick and black mascara. The woman whispered something to Jane, and they rose and left the courtroom together.
I slipped from my seat and walked up the aisle, following them into the hall.
“Excuse me, Jane,” I said, walking up to the two women. “I’m not sure if you remember me. I’m Jessica Fletcher. We met at Victor and Martha’s wedding. I want to offer my condolences. I’m so sorry about your father.”
“Yes. I remember you,” Jane said, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. “This is my mother, Daria Kildare.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Kildare?”
“Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Mrs. Fletcher is a friend of Martha’s,” Jane said to her mother, taking a step back.
The change in Daria was instant. “What do you want with us?”
“I wanted to extend my sympathies to Jane.”
“You’ve done it. Now you can leave us alone.”
“Mom, don’t.”
“I’m sorry if my presence upsets you, Mrs. Kildare, but I’m no threat to Jane.”