You Bet Your Life (26 page)

Finally, I reviewed my notes from my strange encounter with Chappy. If Victor had crossed the mob, the list of suspects could widen appreciably.

Following dinner, I took my notes to the bedroom, tucked than into a tote bag, propped it next to my handbag, and set out my clothes for the next day. As I closed the mirrored closet door, I caught sight of the sea captain’s chest across the room. I’d left a pile of books there, thinking it would be pleasant to sit in the corner chaise some evening and read. The thought was appealing. I crossed to the chest and perused the titles. On the bottom of the stack was Betsy’s green scrapbook. I’d forgotten I had it. What a funny lady she was, attending the weddings of strangers and keeping an album of the happy couples. I pulled out the book and sat down on the chaise. I wondered if my agent would think I’d lost my mind if I proposed that he seek a publisher for this book. But there was something compelling about the faces and the costumes, something lovely and loving in having recorded these special moments.

I remembered my own wedding.
Did Frank and I ever look this young?
I wondered as I examined a picture of newlyweds barely out of their teens. Another couple was decidedly past the first blush of youth, well into their eighties, I guessed. I laughed at one pair who’d decided to reverse the traditional attire; she was in a tuxedo and he wore a bridal gown.

I turned the page, and then another, and was halfway through the scrapbook when I came upon a photo that ended my leisure. I slipped the picture from its corner moorings, retrieved my handbag, and brought them both over to the bedside lamp. I groped around in my bag until I found the magnifying glass I always carry. Did I really recognize these faces? What an odd combination. If they were who I thought they were, I had another piece of the puzzle to present at the strategy meeting.

“Good morning. This is Sheila Stainback in the Court TV studios in New York. We’re starting another week in the Las Vegas murder trial of Martha Kildare, accused of killing her husband, wealthy financier Victor Kildare. Our own Beth Karas has been covering the trial, and she’s standing by outside the Clark Count Courthouse. What can we expect to see this week, Beth?”

There may be some big breaks in the case this week, Sheila. We know Prosecutor Shelby Fordice has one more surprise up his sleeve before the prosecution rests. But there are no proceedings today. Judge Marvin Tapansky granted the defense a one-day continuance to prepare for a new witness being brought in by Fordice.”

“And who is this person.”

“Her name is Harriet Elmsley. She shared a jail cell with Martha Kildare about a month ago and is expected to testify that the defendant admitted bludgeoning her husband during a heated argument, and pushing him into their swimming pool, where his body was later found.”

“Jailhouse confessions are always dramatic, Beth, but not always trustworthy. What about this witness?”

“As far as the defense is concerned, she’s not to be believed at all. We have with us this morning a member of the defense team, famed mystery writer J. B. Fletcher, also known as Jessica Fletcher. She’s a close friend of the defendant, and last week signed on as an official member of the defense team. Good morning, Jessica, and thanks for joining us.”

“Good morning, Beth.”

“Jessica, having to deal with a last-minute witness must put quite a strain on the defense. Can you tell us how lead attorney Vince Nastasi plans to handle the testimony of Harriet Elmsley?”

“Well, I can’t speak for Vince Nastasi, except to say he’s working on those plans as we speak. Obviously we need to find out everything we can about the witness and what other motivations she may have for testifying against Martha Kildare.”

“What do you mean by other motivations?”

“This witness is under indictment for a crime. We’re certainly not accusing her of anything, but it’s not unreasonable for us to look into what the prosecution may have promised in exchange for her testimony.”

“A quid pro quo is fairly standard procedure when a witness under indictment is asked to testify about a crime.”

“It may be standard to offer immunity, or a reduced charge, when the witness is part of the same case as the defendant. Here the cases are unrelated.”

“So are you saying, Jessica, that in unrelated cases, there’s a very fine line between rewarding a witness and bribing a witness?”

“I don’t know that I’d put it exactly like that, Beth, but we think the jury deserves to know what the witness gains by testifying.”

“Can you tell us what other avenues the defense is pursuing?”

“Each of us on the defense team has an assignment.”

“What’s your assignment?”

“I’m trying to find other witnesses who were in jail at the same time as Martha Kildare and Harriet Elmsley.”

“Are you looking for anyone in particular?”

“As a matter of fact, I am. Her name is Terry, but in the interests of protecting her privacy, I won’t reveal her last name. We believe Elmsley may have confided in her and we’re eager to find out what she said. We’re hoping Terry is brave enough to come forward at this time. It could mean saving a woman’s life. Terry, I hope you get this message. I’d also like to add that we would welcome speaking to others who were in the Clark County Detention Center during the last month and who also may be able to contribute useful information.”

“Sounds like a lot of work to accomplish in just one day, Jessica. We’ll look forward to seeing what Vincent Nastasi and the defense team come up with when the trial resumes tomorrow. Thank you so much for coming on the air this morning. Back to you, Sheila, in New York.”

 

“That was great,” said the producer. “I hope you’ll join us again.”

My Court TV appearance had been the idea of Vince Nastasi, who encouraged me to go on television to announce our interest in potential witnesses. I’d told him about Terry B. at our morning strategy session, and he’d sent his investigator over to the jail to get her last known address, but said he doubted she’d still be there. I’d also given Vince the intriguing photograph from Betsy’s album, and we’d gone over plans for the defense once the prosecution rested, which we expected to occur the next day.

“Thank you. I appreciate your accommodating me on such short notice.”

“Not a problem. There’s a lot of interest in this case, and we’re eager to get the inside view from both the prosecution and the defense. Mr. Fordice is coming on later today.”

“I’ll have to remember to watch.”

We shook hands and the producer climbed into a trailer parked in front of the courthouse. There were several vehicles serving the television network, including one with a telescoping antenna that housed an on-site control room, which beamed the signal off a satellite back to the New York studio. Lined up along the curb was a series of rough folding tables. On one, covered with a cloth, a local catering facility had set out an elaborate buffet for the production crew. Another held what looked like miles of black wire, different-sized lights, filters, and assorted pieces of equipment, including a small pile of old-fashioned clothespins, one of which had been used to clip the wire from my microphone to the back of my jacket.

A young technician walked up to me. “Mrs. Fletcher? There’s a call for you. You can use that phone over there.”

“Thank you,” I said, unhooking the microphone that was attached to my lapel and pulling the wires from under my suit jacket. I handed the microphone and clothespin to the technician and went to the telephone.

“Hello. This is Jessica Fletcher.”

“I understand you’re looking for me.”

“Who is this, please?”

“It’s Terry. I just saw you on TV saying you’re looking for me.”

“I’m so grateful you called.” I said. “I’d really like to meet with you and speak in person.”

“Well, maybe.”

“Maybe what?”

“Maybe I’ll meet with you. What do I get?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What do I get if I talk to you? Is there a reward or something?”

“No, there’s no reward.”

“I’m not coming all the way downtown for nothing. I got to borrow bus money just to get there.”

“I’ll be happy to reimburse you for your travel expenses,” I said. “You can take a cab and I’ll pay the fare when you arrive.”

“That’s not enough. I’m looking for more.”

“Terry? Right?”

“Yeah, I’m Terry.”

“May I ask your last name?”

“What is this, some kind of game?”

“I’d just like to be sure I’m talking to the right Terry.”

There was a click as the person on the other end of the telephone disconnected. I sighed. Vince had warned me: “You’ll get every nut who’s down on her luck claiming to be Terry, and she’ll tell you whatever you want to hear so long as you promise to pay for it.”

I walked back to Nastasi’s office, disappointed but not disheartened. We were making progress, just not as fast as I wanted. Vince had asked to meet with Judge Tapansky in his chambers Tuesday morning, hoping to introduce into evidence a fax from Joyce Wenk recanting her deposition. After I’d told him what Seth had discovered, Vince had called a colleague in Bangor, Maine, who’d dispatched an investigator to Cabot Cove to get Mrs. Wenk’s retraction on paper.

“Are we sure she’ll cooperate?” I’d asked. “She may be afraid she’ll be accused of perjury if she admits that she lied.”

“We won’t ask her to say she lied,” Nastasi had said. “We’ll simply show her the value of being ‘mistaken.’ She can say she must have been mistaken, and that she recants the statements she made on tape, and in the deposition she signed earlier.”

“And that will be enough?”

“It should be. As long as we have her signature attesting to the fact that she was mistaken and no longer stands behind her previous statement, the judge should rule against the prosecution’s entering the original statement into evidence. And the jury will never hear the accusation. That’s the key. Once they hear something, you can’t expunge it from their minds, even if they later learn it was untrue. It’s better to quash it before it comes out.”

When I returned to the office, Evelyn handed me three pink message slips, all from women claiming to be the Terry I was looking for. I settled in the conference room and started returning the calls. The first two callers were eliminated easily when they gave me last names that sounded nothing like Bencher. In addition, one couldn’t remember when she’d supposedly been in the Clark County Detention Center, and the other forgot Harriet’s name. The third caller was more promising. While she refused to give her last name, she was willing to meet with me if I provided lunch and her carfare downtown. I agreed, and she said she’d come as soon as she could.

While I waited for Terry to arrive, I spent the time reviewing everything I knew about the case, including what Martha had told me about Terry B. and Harriet Elmsley. At noon, Evelyn knocked on the conference room door.

“Do you mind if I set up for lunch now, Jessica?”

“Not at all,” I said. “Can I give you a hand?”

“You can get the paper cups out of the cabinet behind you, if you like.”

“Oh, Evelyn, I should have told you,” I said, pulling open one door after another till I found a long tube of stacked paper cups. “We may have an extra mouth to feed today.”

“Don’t worry about it. I always order more than enough.”

A young man carried in a cellophane-wrapped tray of sandwiches and salads, and a shopping bag filled with sodas and teas, and set them on the table.

“I think your customer is already in the waiting room,” Evelyn said, signing the slip of paper the deliveryman handed her.

I walked into the reception room and my heart fell. A painfully thin woman sat on the couch, nervously chewing on her cheek. “Terry” had short-cropped hair, not the long tresses the women in jail loved to play with, and though it was obvious she’d made an effort to neaten herself up, her clothing was threadbare and soiled.

“My name is Jessica Fletcher,” I said, extending my hand to her. “Would you like to have lunch while we talk?”

She wiped her hand on her side before she accepted mine, and followed me to the conference room. Her eyes lit up when she saw the tray of sandwiches.

“Why don’t you sit down, Terry. Terry?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Thanks.”

I opened the cellophane, filled a plate with a selection of paper-covered sandwiches, and set it before her. “Would you like soda or iced tea?” I asked.

“Tea, please.”

I poured her a glass of tea, and put the can beside it.

“You said you’d pay my carfare, too. I’m not talking till I get my carfare.”

“Will ten dollars cover it?” I asked, handing her an envelope I’d prepared in advance.

She nodded vigorously, her mouth already full.

Evelyn poked her head into the conference room. “Jessica, may I see you a minute, please?”

“I’ll be right back,” I told my visitor.

“Jessica, the guys are ready to come in for lunch. Can we put your guest in the library instead?” Evelyn asked.

“I don’t think she’ll mind,” I said.

We moved “Terry” into the law library, and I left her in peace while she devoured two sandwiches, the other two I’d given her already stuffed away in her pocket.

“Would you like to talk now?” I I asked, taking the seat opposite her.

“You know,” she said, finishing up the last drop of tea, and wiping her mouth on a napkin, “you’re a nice lady.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Most people don’t ever want to shake the hand of someone like me. You didn’t even flinch. And I know you know I’m not the person you’re looking for.”

“I thought not.”

“But you let me have lunch and carfare anyway.”

I smiled and shrugged.

“You’re good in my book, Jessica Fletcher. If I can ever help you, you just call on me. I’m not Terry, but I’ve had CCDC stenciled on my back plenty of times. I’ll ask around for you. Maybe I can find her.”