Deadly Intent (9 page)

“Yes, but...”

“But what?” Claudia pressed.

“What if it was more than that? What if she was unconsciously suppressing the events of that night? Or what led to them.”

Claudia shook her head. “You’re letting that rotten stepbrother of yours get to you. You want my advice? Here it is. Call the police. What Ian is doing is called extortion That’s illegal, Abbie. Don’t let him torture you a day longer than you have to.”

Abbie wasn’t surprised at her friend’s reaction. For all her unconventional ways, Claudia had always been a strong supporter of the justice system. “I can’t go to the police until I’ve had some sound legal advice. That’s why I’m here. I need to talk to Dennis.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” Claudia picked up a cordless phone from the kitchen counter. Abbie watched her intently as she identified herself to her brother’s secretary and asked to speak to him. At the disappointed look on Claudia’s face and her next few words, Abbie’s shoulders sagged. Dennis was away on a business trip.

But Claudia’s expression brightened almost immediately. “He’ll be back tonight? Terrific. Please ask him to call me, will you, no matter how late he gets in. Thanks, Sylvia.”

Claudia hung up. “Is it all right if I give Dennis a rundown of your situation when he calls? Or do you want to do it yourself?”

“No, go ahead. I’ll fill in the blanks later.”

The gentle bong of the grandfather clock in the foyer struck once. One o’clock in the morning and Dennis Marjolis still hadn’t called. Maybe his flight had been delayed, Abbie thought, or he didn’t feel right giving her advice on something so complicated and perhaps hopeless. Abbie had just about given up on him, at least for tonight, when the phone rang.

Lunging toward the kitchen counter, she answered it on the first ring. “Hello?”

“Abbie?”

She let out a sigh of relief. ‘ ‘Dennis.” Too worried to waste time on small talk, she came straight to the point. “Were you able to make any sense out of what Claudia told you?”

“Pretty much.” The attorney paused and she could hear the rustling of papers. “Let’s take first things first, and please stop me if I start to confuse you. I do that sometimes.”

He didn’t, but it was sweet of him to say that rather than make her look stupid. “All right.”

“First, let’s take Kramer’s claim. Death-row inmates routinely confess to fictitious crimes, intending to generate enough interest to earn a stay of execution. The police are aware of such tactics and therefore would need something a little more convincing before they took Kramer’s confession seriously.”

“Would the letter my mother wrote be convincing enough?”

She heard Dennis’s sigh and guessed his answer. “That

letter is damaging evidence, Abbie. Like it or not, it shows that the desire to kill Patrick was there. Even if Irene denies ever intending to kill her husband, the prosecution will introduce that letter as proof that your mother was not only entertaining thoughts of killing her husband, but was desperate enough to carry out those thoughts.”

“Are you saying there could actually be a trial?”

“I’m afraid so. The letter, along with Kramer’s detailed statement incriminating Irene, will be enough for a prosecutor to seek a grand jury indictment against her.”

“But what about Earl’s convenient memory loss? He seems to remember everything except the name of the newspaper where my mother supposedly put that ad, the date of the ad or the wording of the ad. Doesn’t that proving he’s lying?”

“Not necessarily. Those are small details. And twenty eight years is a long time.”

This was not what Abbie had wanted to hear, but then was still an angle they hadn’t discussed. “All right,” she said. “Let’s assume the worst possible scenario—that charges are brought against my mother. What about her illness? Wouldn’t having Alzheimer’s rule out the possibility of a criminal trial?”

“Whether or not your mother is deemed to be mentally competent to stand trial will be determined by a court, after conducting a competency hearing. Irene will have to submit herself to a mental examination conducted by the State’ doctors, whose job it will be to determine whether she is capable of understanding the charges brought against her, The legal standard for mental competence to stand trial is not whether her Alzheimer’s has impaired her ability to remember past events, but whether she is capable of understanding the gravity of the charges brought against her.

If I recall, the last time you and I talked, your mother was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s?”

“She still is,” Abbie said, already knowing where he was leading to.

“So she’s alert and fairly competent most of the time?”

Abbie felt her earlier hopes drain out of her. “Yes.”

“You see the problem, don’t you, Abbie?”

Abbie leaned against the kitchen counter as images of Irene being questioned by the police and then made to stand trial for murder unfolded in her head. The wonderful life her mother had led until now would be forever shattered. It would become a succession of accusations, blaring headlines, humiliation and fear. If that didn’t kill her, a prison sentence certainly would.

“Abbie?” The attorney’s voice was filled with concern.

“Yes, I... heard you. Dennis. I’m trying to...” She felt her voice break and stopped.

“I’m sorry, Abby. I wish I could have given you more encouraging news.”

“Me too.”

“Do you have any questions? Anything that needs clarifying?’ ‘

“No. You were painfully clear.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again, and she knew he meant it. “Please call me if you need further help. Oh, and put a dollar in the mail, will you?” he added as an afterthought. “That way you’ll be guaranteed client/attorney confidentiality.”

“I’ll do that.”

Ten

Abbie sat at her kitchen table alone, her morning cup of coffee growing cold. A gusty wind had chased away the clouds, leaving the Princeton skies a cerulean blue, but the balmy weather did little to lift her sinking spirits. She had spent a restless night. Her phone conversation with Claudia’s brother had left her more depressed than she had been previously. Short of going to the police, as Claudia had suggested, and taking her chances that the truth would prevail, she saw no way out of this mess.

And what was the truth, anyway? All Abbie knew for certain was that during Irene’s two-year marriage to Patrick McGregor, her mother had been a very unhappy woman. Even now, after all this time, Abbie could still remember the violent arguments between her mother and Patrick. Hidden under the covers, Abbie had prayed for the shouting to end, while wishing her stepfather could be more like her real dad—warm and caring and fun to be with. Abbie had loved her dad. She’d loved the way he looked and smelled and laughed. She only had to close her eyes to remember the way he used to scoop her off the ground and perch her on his shoulders so she could watch the Thanksgiving Day parade, and the fun she’d had learning to ride a two wheeler on her fifth birthday, with her dad running beside her and shouting words of encouragement.

Then that terrible accident at the construction site had

happened, killing Joe DiAngelo and three other workers. Life had never been the same after that.

Abbie couldn’t blame her mother for remarrying. She was only thirty-six, with no work experience, and not at all prepared to raise a daughter on her own. When a friend had introduced her to Patrick McGregor, a widower and successful businessman, Irene hadn’t stood a chance. On their first date, Patrick had told her about his big house on El Camino Lane, and his two terrific kids who were bravely trying to cope with the death of their mother.

It hadn’t taken long for Irene to succumb to the Irishman’s charms and good looks. A few weeks later, the couple was married and Abbie had a new brother and sister, although Ian and Liz were more like the siblings from hell than the great kids Patrick had portrayed.

The truth about Patrick’s drinking hadn’t surfaced until several weeks later. It had seemed harmless at first. Some men unwound from a day’s work by reading the sports page, listening to the news or playing with their kids. Patrick drank.

Soon, however, the nightly habit grew into a problem Irene was unable to control. The arguments multiplied and their intensity escalated to such an alarming level that Irene began considering leaving her husband. One night, Abbie heard Irene on the phone, talking to her father in Kansas about Patrick’s drinking. Unfortunately, Patrick heard the conversation as well and flew into such a rage that a neighbor had come to the door and asked them to tone it down or he would call the police.

Ian was right. If the authorities decided to question their old neighbors—those who were still around—they would find plenty of reasons to suspect foul play.

So what was her option? Abbie wondered, holding back a hopeless sigh. She didn’t have a hundred thousand dollars

to give to Ian. But assuming she did, would she allow herself to be blackmailed? What if a hundred thousand dollars wasn’t enough? What if Ian came back a year from now, asking for more?

The mere thought of sinking to such a level made her sick to her stomach. Until now, her life had followed a very straight path. The values she believed in and lived by were the same ones she tried to instill in her son—integrity, respect and consideration for others, honesty, self-esteem.

If her mother was well right now and in possession of all her faculties, Abbie knew exactly what Irene would say. “We fight him, honey. Truth versus lies. Good against evil. We’ll win. You’ll see.”

But her mother was not well, and although she didn’t know it yet, she was about to be crushed by the very evil she would have defeated in better times.

Unless Abbie did something about it.

After gazing into her mug for a long time, as though seeking an answer from it, Abbie stood up and carried her cold coffee to the sink. Considering the turmoil she was feeling, her hands were remarkably steady. She was glad, because from now until this nightmare was over, she would need nerves of steel.

“I won’t let anything happen to you, Mom,” she murmured as she poured her coffee down the drain. “I promise.”

Her stride long and sure, Abbie walked toward Princeton National Bank on the north side of Palmer Square. Her decision to borrow the hundred thousand dollars hadn’t been made lightly. Although the restaurant had started to make money, an additional loan at this time meant that she had to increase her revenues. And the only way to do that

was to start opening Campagne on Sundays, at least for dinner.

Getting the loan shouldn’t be a problem. Senior loan officer Ron Meltzer, whom she considered a friend, had been instrumental in getting the board to approve Abbie’s two previous loans. She was confident he would help her again. Why shouldn’t he? She was never late with her mortgage payments, kept all her accounts at this one bank, and considering Campagne’s growing popularity, she could only be regarded as an excellent investment. The only problem was that she would have to lie to Ron about the reason for the loan.

After a short hesitation, she pushed the glass door and walked in, spotting the banker at his desk in the back.

“Abbie!” Ron Meltzer, a tall, almost bony man with rimless glasses and a friendly smile, circled his desk and came halfway across the lobby to meet her, holding out both hands. “What a lovely surprise,” he said, kissing her cheek. “The only times I get to see you these days is when Lori and I come to Campagne for dinner.” He waited until she was seated across his desk before returning to his chair. “And that’s not nearly as often as I’d like.”

“Thank you for saying that, Ron.”

“So.” He folded his arms and assumed his serious banker expression. “How can I help you today. Abbie?”

She cleared her throat, more nervous than she had realized. “I need a loan, Ron. A rather large one.”

He leaned back in his chair. “How large?”

“A hundred thousand dollars.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Did you decide to expand the restaurant? I remember you said something to that effect the last time Lori and I were there.”

“No.” Abbie shifted in her seat. “Actually, I need the money to remodel my mother’s house.”

This time, both eyebrows went up. “The house in Kingston?”

Abbie nodded.

“What kind of remodeling did you have in mind?”