Fatal Identity (15 page)

“Excuse me for just a minute?” He pushed back his chair and stood up. “I have to get something.”

He watched his feet as he headed back toward the house. No red mist swirled up to threaten. It took a few moments, but he found the place where they'd hung the coats. Hers was easy to recognize, since it had his gold, Christmas tree pin on the collar. He grabbed it and hurried back to the tent, handing it to her with a flourish.

“How thoughtful!” She smiled as she took the coat. “Did you think I was cold?”

He nodded. “It's drafty in here, and you're just getting over a cold. You'd better put it on.”

“Oh, I'm just fine.” She draped the coat over the back of her chair. “It's not chilly with all these heaters.”

His heart pounded with terror, as he realized that she wasn't going to wear it. His plan to cover the red had failed. Then he looked down and saw that the red mist was swirling again, around his ankles. It was
her
fault for buying the red dress. Didn't she know that red was dangerous? It was the color of blood!

Even though he tried his best to make it disappear again, the red mist rose and grew. It was hot in the tent, so hot that the whole room turned red. He jumped to his feet to turn down the heater, but the red mist knocked it over on top of her, and there was a terrible explosion.

People screamed as the Christmas tree caught fire. And then the sides of the tent began to turn fiery red. He saw her face, ugly with terror, as the Uncle tried to free her. But her red dress was caught on the heavy metal heater, and then the Uncle began to turn red, too.

He tried to help them, tried to free them, tried to lift and tug and pull, but someone shoved him, and then he was caught up in the stream of people fleeing the blazing tent. He felt the cool grass of the lawn on his scorched feet and then there was only a deep blackness.

 

 

He remembered the ride to the hospital, sirens wailing. And someone in white, with the face of an angel, who'd wheeled him down the hall to the operating room. Shock, they'd said. Shock and minor burns on his hands, and a shattered ankle. They'd used new technology to replace the shattered bones so he could walk again.

They'd held the funeral on the third day. A double casualty. Both of them were gone. He hadn't been allowed to leave the hospital, but the Uncle's boss had come to tell him it had been a beautiful service. He'd called him a hero for trying to rescue them from the inferno of the tent, and said he'd already filed a suit against the company that had catered the party. It would only be a matter of time.

The Uncle's boss had been right. The company had settled very quickly. A million dollars. That, plus his inheritance, had made him a wealthy young man.

That had been years ago. Now he looked back down at his ankle; it was as good as new, perhaps better. And the scars on his hands were long gone. Of course, the emotional scars would never heal. That was what the doctors had told him.

He knew now that the doctors had been wrong. The emotional scars had healed completely. He was fine, perfectly normal, as long as he didn't think about the red.

CHAPTER 11

Sam was having fun. He'd never been in the executive dining room at the studio before, and he was glad Marcie had invited him to join her for lunch. The restaurant looked like an upscale bistro, nicely decorated with green walls covered with white latticework, and lots of potted and hanging plants. There were white-linen-covered tables, fine china and silver, and attentive but unobtrusive waiters. The wine list was impressive, the menu was innovative, and the cuisine was on a scale with some of the best restaurants in town.

“You're gawking, Sam.”

Marcie grinned at him, and Sam looked properly abashed. “Sorry about that. But isn't that Robert DeNiro over there near that potted fuchsia?”

Marcie turned to look and then she giggled. “Don't ask me. I'm terrible at recognizing the stars. Meryl Streep stopped by the set last week to say hello, and I didn't know who she was until Jolene clued me in.”

“So, Marcie . . .” Sam turned serious. “You said you had something important to discuss?”

Marcie nodded. “I'm afraid I do. You see, Mercedes's former chauffeur is my driver now, and he has a theory about how Mercedes died. I don't know what to think, Sam. And I wanted to run it past you.”

Marcie's hands were shaking as she told Sam everything George had said. When she finished, she realized that Sam was looking at her incredulously.

“It's true, Sam. George is convinced that Mercedes's death was no accident. He told me that he's sure she was murdered.”

“Murdered!?”

Marcie held a warning finger to her lips. They were sitting at a table in the center of the restaurant, and she didn't want anyone to overhear their conversation. Jolene had warned her that everyone in the executive dining room kept an ear out for interesting tidbits. “George asked me not to mention it to anyone else except you.”

“I'm glad you told me!” Sam reached out to pat her hand. “I don't want you to take all this too seriously. Whenever anyone dies alone, there's the possibility of foul play. That's why the police came out and investigated. They brought in experts to examine the scene, and they all agreed that your sister's death was accidental. It's right there in the police report.”

Marcie nodded. “I know that. But George read a copy of the file, and he doesn't agree.”

“Calm down, Marcie.” Sam patted her hand again.

“You're getting alarmed over nothing. I sincerely doubt that George has seen the police report. You can't just go down to police headquarters and ask to read a confidential file.”

“But George has contacts on the force. And he wouldn't lie to me, Sam.”

“Wait a minute.” Sam frowned slightly. “Exactly what kind of contacts does George have?'

“Good ones. His partner's a senior detective now. He got promoted to George's old job.”

“Your driver was a senior detective?” Sam's frown deepened as Marcie nodded. “What's his name?”

“George Williams. He was in the—”

“Devonshire Division.” Sam's frown changed to a look of respect. “That puts a different light on this whole thing, Marcie. Detective Williams is a legend. The guys still talk about the wild hunch he had that led to the capture of the Doorbell Killer.”

Marcie shuddered. “I remember reading about that. The killer rang the doorbell, and when people looked out through the peephole, he shot them right through the door. They caught him just as he was about to do it again, but the poor officer who arrested him was almost—oh, Sam! That's how George got his bad leg. He told me he was chasing down a murderer, but I never dreamed he was talking about the Doorbell Killer!”

“And Detective Williams says he's got a hunch about Mercedes's death?”

Marcie nodded. “Do you think he could be right?”

“Unless he's lost his touch, and that's pretty unlikely, I'm afraid he could be.”

“Oh, dear!” Marcie shivered slightly. “George asked me to bring you over to my trailer after we finish our lunch. He wants to ask you some questions. He needs more information, and he said that sometimes people tell their lawyers some very confidential things.”

Same nodded. “That's true. Some people do confide in their lawyers. But, Marcie . . . your sister was a very private person. I really don't know that much about her personal life.”

“Then she didn't tell you about the threatening letters she got in the mail?”

Sam looked thoroughly bewildered. “What letters?”

“I'll let George tell you. He's got copies the studio gave him. I . . . I read them, Sam. And they scared me half to death!”

 

 

George and Sam were seated at the table in Marcie's Winnebago, sipping cups of coffee that Jolene had brewed for them before she'd left to join Marcie on the set. Classical music was playing softly on the stereo system, and the curtains were drawn for privacy. The air conditioner hummed softly, circulating fresh, chilled air, and although the atmosphere was cool and comfortable, Sam felt beads of sweat break out on his forehead as he finished reading the first letter.

George handed him the second, and Sam read that, too. And then the third. He looked up at George several times, but the ex-detective's face was impassive

“Well?” George faced him squarely. “Do you think I'm crazy?”

“No. But I think whoever wrote these letters is.”

“Agreed.” George gave a slight smile, acknowledging the joke.

“Of course, these letters could be nothing more than the ravings of a harmless psychotic.”

George nodded. “That's true, too. But do you know what Mercedes was wearing the night she died?”

“She'd been swimming her laps, so I assume it was a bathing suit.”

“A
red
bathing suit.”

“I didn't know that!” Sam frowned, and reached for the first letter again.
“‘Red is the color of blood'?”

“You got it. Still, that might not figure into it at all. We'd have to assume that the crazy fan was there to see her in her red bathing suit. And that means he had to get in the gates and out again without setting off the alarm. I talked to the security company. They swear that's impossible.”

“Of course, they do.” Sam nodded. “They don't want to open the door to any future lawsuits. But are they right?”

“No one makes a security system that's impenetrable, but this one comes close. And we know the system was armed when Rosa and the twins came home. She remembers she let Rick punch in the code at the gate.”

“Then the crazy fan's not a suspect?”

“Wrong.” George gave a tight little smile. “He's still on my list. For all we know, he could have come in before the security system was installed, and holed up somewhere on the grounds. Or he could have sneaked in with the gardening crew, or the bottled water man, or someone making a delivery. It's even possible he came in when Brad or Rosa drove out. Rosa told me she didn't check her rearview mirror when she drove through the gates.”

Sam nodded. “You said you have a list of suspects. Do you think someone else might have killed Mercedes?”

“It's possible, and that's why I wanted to talk to you. As Mercedes's lawyer, you have some valuable information. Who had the most to gain financially from Mercedes's death?”

Sam drew a deep breath and considered it. “Marcie. She inherited the bulk of her sister's estate. And then the twins, but that money's in a trust fund, and they don't get any actual cash until they reach twenty-one.”

“Okay.” George jotted the information down in his notebook. “Let's forget about the twins for the moment. Who inherited the most after Marcie?”

“Brad. He got everything covered under the community property laws.”

George wrote that down. “That includes the house?”

“No. The house is Marcie's. It was part of Mercedes's inheritance from Mike Lang. Since the funds were never commingled, Marcie got everything Mercedes inherited from Mike.”

“I see. And how about Rosa? Did Mercedes leave anything to her?”

“She set up a trust fund for Rosa, to pay her salary until the twins are of age. And after that, there's a lump sum settlement for her retirement.”

George jotted that down. “Rosa didn't know about the fund Mercedes had set up for her?”

“I'm sure she didn't. She told me she thought she'd be out of a job if Marcie took the twins back to Minnesota.”

“Okay. Let's concentrate on Brad. How much did he inherit?”

Sam hesitated. He knew George wasn't asking for personal reasons, but there was an issue of confidentiality at stake. George was no longer a policeman. He was a private citizen with no authority to request that kind of information.

“Come on, Sam.” George fixed him with a level gaze. “I know it's confidential, but it might make a real difference. How much?”

Sam thought it over for a moment, and then nodded. “At least two million, probably more like three. Of course, that's not in cash. Brad would have to sell off the time-share condo, the thoroughbreds, and the antique cars to liquefy his assets.”

“Could he do that?”

Sam frowned. “Not without taking a beating. Mercedes wanted him to sell their thoroughbreds last year, but Brad said they were running so far in the red, and they'd only realize a fraction of what they'd invested. He convinced her to give him one more year to make a profit.”

“And she went along with it?”

“Yes. I advised against it, but Brad had just bought Metro Golden Mare, and he was sure she'd finish in the money and turn everything around.” George looked at him expectantly, and Sam shook his head. “Unfortunately, the mare is having some physical problems, and she hasn't run at all this year. Mercedes gave me the bad news when she called on the night she died. I'm sure that's one of the reasons she decided to move the bulk of her assets to another investment firm.”

“Marcie told me that Brad was shocked when he heard what she'd done.”

“Yes.” Sam nodded. “He seemed to think Mercedes had fired him. But she hadn't, not really. She set it up so that he'd still handle the investments they'd made together.”

“The thoroughbreds and the antique cars?”

“That's correct. She moved everything else to another firm.”

George looked thoughtful. “Thoroughbreds are a risky investment, aren't they?”

“Definitely, especially if the owners bet on their own horses. That's why I advised Mercedes to cut her losses and get out of the business.”

“Do you think Brad's a gambler?”

Sam shrugged. “I really can't say one way or the other. He's always struck me as the type, but Mercedes never mentioned it.”

“Maybe she didn't know.” George jotted down a note on his pad. “How about the antique cars? They're a safe investment, aren't they?”

Sam shook his head. “Not really. Prices fluctuate, and the maintenance costs are high. The cars have to be stored in a temperature-controlled warehouse, and places like that don't come cheap. And Brad didn't buy the cars and restore them. He purchased them at premium prices, and waited for them to appreciate. That hasn't happened yet.”

“So Brad had plenty of assets, but he couldn't cash out without taking a loss. Is that what you're telling me?”

“That's it, in a nutshell.” Sam nodded. “Mercedes told me that Brad wanted to hold on until the market went up, but he needed more operating capital. And that's something he was short on.”

“You just painted me a picture of a desperate man. Do you think he was desperate enough to kill Mercedes, to get his hands on her money?”

Sam shook his head. “Absolutely not. Brad's much smarter than that. Killing Mercedes would have been like killing the goose that laid the golden egg. Her earnings were keeping his investments going. He had nothing to gain by killing her. As a matter of fact, her death put him in an even more desperate position, since the will left the bulk of her assets to Marcie.”

“Brad
knew
that Marcie would inherit the bulk of Mercedes's estate?”

“Actually . . .” Sam stopped short. “No. He didn't. Brad seemed very surprised when I read the will. He said Mercedes had told him that she'd made out a new will, leaving everything to him. I know she intended to do that. We discussed it almost a year ago. I drew up a new will, but she never came in to sign it.”

“So Brad thought he was going to inherit everything. That's motive in my book. Thanks, Sam. You've been a big help.”

“But Brad couldn't have killed Mercedes. He was at the track that night. You told me that yourself.”

George nodded. “That's true. But he could have slipped away, and returned before anyone missed him. The track's only twenty minutes or so from the house.”

“I don't believe it!” Sam shook his head. “Look, George . . . it's no secret I never liked the guy, but he's not a killer. And to do something violent, like drowning his wife? That's way out of character.”

“True. But if I've learned one thing from my years on the force, it's that a desperate man is totally unpredictable.”

“You think Brad killed Mercedes!?” Sam was clearly shocked.

“No. I don't think he's got the balls to do something like that. But it's possible he hired someone else to do it. It's not that hard to arrange a hit. All it takes is money. And you're a lawyer. You know that makes him every bit as guilty, in the eyes of the law, as the person who actually killed Mercedes.”