Sleight of Hand (17 page)

That afternoon Barbara pulled off the coast highway at a motel with a Vacancy sign.

Go think, she had ordered herself. Walk on the beach, and think. She had left a message for Frank not to expect her on Sunday, she would see him after court on Monday.

"Think," she muttered to her brain. Her brain was paying very little attention.

Sunday afternoon, Barbara was sitting on a log gazing at the sky and the gray ocean.

It was as if space had doubled over and there was no clear beginning of either sea or sky, only a continuous gray expanse that began somewhere overhead and ended where waves tumbled, frothed and shot geysers of spray around black basalt columns and rocks jutting out of the water. She had checked out of her motel, and she knew she had eaten since she was not hungry. She had bathed; there were moist towels to prove that. She had left the bed a jumble of sheets and blankets, attesting to a restless night, either dream-laden or with long periods of staring into darkness.

That morning she had been jolted awake by a nightmare. Bound to stakes, both Wally and Eve were watching her. He was smiling; Eve looked terrified. Sticks and twigs were heaped to their knees and higher, and she held a burning fire stick. She had to light the fire or be consumed by the flame she held. She couldn't move and the flame in her own hand burned lower and lower. She desperately tried to fling it away but she was frozen, watching the flame. She had to light one of the pyres. Her cry of protest awakened her and she jerked out of bed in darkness. She had not even tried to sleep again.

And, she thought bleakly, she had gone around and around and around and was no nearer an exit than ever. Stephanie's story would not hold up; they would question Eve. They would learn about the bruises and see Eve exactly as Barbara had visualized her, pressed back against the railing of the bar. Criminally insane? They would demand their own evaluation, their own observation in their own hospital, and Eve would probably never leave it. She'd be labeled criminally insane, homicidal, dangerous.

In her mind's eye she saw the girl again, timid, shy, frightened, then her quick bolt out the door clutching her books. She was hardly more than a child.

Both women, she thought then, both Stephanie and Meg had lived their lives in shadowed lands, lands of self-denial, and both had seen the doors open to the sunshine, a new life, new beginning, a return to her career for Meg, a return to the land, to a little place in the country, and a life she had yearned for. And freedom from fear for Stephanie, that ever-present fear for her child. Now with her daughter's future secure, a chance to develop as an artist, to make a real life for herself, the doors were drawing closed again. A glimpse of freedom, of sunlight, then back to the shadows, deeper than ever, blacker than ever.

Eve wasn't her responsibility, she told herself harshly, as she had done many times since checking into her motel. Wally and Meg were. But he was strong, prison would not kill him. Eight, ten years would pass and he could be out again. And Meg had waited before and had used the period to launch a whole career. She could do it again, resume the career, pick up where she had left off. It wasn't as if she would be widowed, left destitute and homeless. Besides, they had had a good life. She thought of Wally's words, if found guilty, fifteen to twenty-five, and almost violently she shook her head, banishing the words again. She remembered what he had said about his old cell mate. "He told me I'd be back here just like him, old and dying."

The image of Meg's tormented face, drawn and pale, kept recurring. Could she pick up where she had left off? Begin again? She had glimpsed the sunlight beyond the newly opened doors, and she too had been plunged back into shadows, deeper, darker than ever. Could she emerge again?

Then, suddenly Barbara was thinking of her own mother, whose face had grown haggard and drawn with illness. The door had never opened for her, she thought, and shook her head again, more angrily than before. This wasn't about her mother. It had nothing to do with her. Even as she thought this, she knew it was not true. For whatever reason it was all tied together and she could not separate one from another.

Her own mother had lived in the shadowed lands without questioning why, and she had died there, never glimpsing the sunlight beyond the doors that never opened for her. She had been about Meg's age when cancer struck, Barbara realized. And the doors had closed forever.

Had she ever wondered what else she might have done? Barbara had never asked her that question, had never even thought to ask, just accepted her mother's role in life.

Had it been enough? She bit her lip.

An erratic wave raced inland and crashed, sending a spray high onto the cliffs, catching her in an icy shower. The tide had turned. It was growing dark, and now the sky and sea no longer formed a folded gray blanket, but a blacker, denser substance, still without edges, without definition, and the blackness carried a chilling misty rain and ocean spray that felt like ice particles being driven into her face, blinding her.

The rain tasted salty, like frozen tears.

Chapter 28

"Your Honor," Barbara said on Monday, "I move to dismiss all charges against my client, Wallis Lederer. We all know how impossible it is to prove or disprove a circumstantial case, and this is a blatant example. The prosecution has no motive for Mr. Lederer, there is no witness, no physical evidence, no forensics linking him to the crime scene, no smoking gun, but there is the lack of an alternate suspect, and I submit that that is insufficient grounds for bringing a charge of murder. It was simply a matter of convenience to name Mr. Lederer."

The prosecutor sputtered in anger. Warren Dodgson, fifty-eight years old, was one of the older assistant district attorneys. With a florid complexion, a bit overweight and dark hair that had a suspiciously even color without a sign of fading or graying, he tended to sputter and speak in loud, rapid, not always coherent, or complete, sentences. He had been around the block more often than she had, and he knew how to turn his anger on and off like a flashlight.

Evidently Judge Hiram Wells knew what to expect from him. "All right, counselor,"

he said patiently. "Your turn. But keep it down."

"The defendant had a powerful motive. He wanted to avoid a prison term. He was convicted and sent to prison for stealing, and he did it again, and this time, as a habitual criminal, his sentence would have been much longer. He took that boat and when he returned it, Jay Wilkins said he intended to press charges. He killed him to prevent that. As good a motive as you'll find. Home with his wife. Not even an alibi."

"Your Honor," Barbara said, "it is the defense position that there has been a double murder committed. First Connie Wilkins, then a week later her husband Jay Wilkins.

We will maintain that there is a single murderer responsible for both of those deaths, and Mr. Lederer is not that person."

This time Dodgson s anger could have been real, she thought. He gaped, then exploded, "That's the most preposterous statement I've heard in a decade. There is no, absolutely no, connection between those two deaths, and she knows that as well as I do."

"What I know is that for weeks the investigators assumed that Connie Wilkins committed suicide, and by the time that assumption was abandoned, Wallis Lederer had been arrested and charged with murder. Instead of admitting that they were mistaken, they have gone ahead with this procedure. What I also know is that Lieutenant Milton Hoggarth, the lead detective in the death of Connie Wilkins, told me in person that it is an open case, with an ongoing investigation, and that it is officially recognized as an unsolved homicide. I maintain that Jay Wilkins's death is also an unsolved homicide."

"It went on from there," she told Frank at lunch. "Back and forth. In the end, of course, the motion to dismiss was rejected. But I planted a seed in Judge Wells's mind."

"And in Dodgson's," he said. "He'll report back, word will get around." He narrowed his eyes, frowning. "You want them to charge Wilkins with her murder?"

he asked after a moment. "Is that the game plan?"

"If they do, it will make it a snap to show that the boat issue is a charade and without that, there's no case against Wally"

And that could be the best chance her case had, he knew.

"Hiram Wells is a good man," Frank said after a moment. "He's been on that bench thirty years, I'd guess. I've tried cases before his court. He's fair, and probably rankled as much as most judges are these days by having sentencing orders imposed, jury instructions dissected, just being under the microscope of the far right out for blood. He could swing either way, give you a little space, or clamp down tighter than a vault door."

"Holding pattern," she said. "We wait and see."

They left the restaurant and separated on the corner, Frank turning to go home, and Barbara to the Gormandi and Breaux shop two blocks away. She had committed herself with her court appearance that morning. And now she was on her way to cementing that commitment. She had not told Frank about Stephanie's disclosure, and she did not intend to tell him. It would not lighten her own load one bit, and would only put an equal burden on him. Let him keep his innocence, she thought derisively.

A light rain was falling, hardly enough to pay attention to and, in fact, few people were bothered. She did not have an umbrella with her, and her head was bare, but she was no different from most others on the sidewalk. Visitors, tourists, outsiders marveled at the acceptance of a little rain most Eugeneans displayed. Oblivion is the best defense seemed to be the attitude.

Few retail shops remained in downtown Eugene; most had joined the lemminglike rush to the sprawling mall across the river, but Gormandi and Breaux had stayed, as if to announce that theirs was not a shop meant to attract groups of restless teenage girls with five dollars between them, or budget-strained housewives, or casual shoppers with an hour to kill before a movie. Inside, the racks were not crowded, and each item was unique.

"Clair de Lune" was playing softly in the background when Barbara entered.

Stephanie was with two customers comparing one white blouse with another. She looked up when Barbara came in, and if she stiffened or paled or had any negative reaction, it was not visible. She nodded.

Barbara returned the nod, and began to look through a rack of tailored suits. She should shop in a place like this, she thought, dress her part for a change, but she knew she wouldn't. Shelley always said Barbara was not a shopper. She knew what she wanted, went to a store that had it, bought it and left, all as quickly as possible.

That's not shopping, Shelley often said.

A sale was concluded, the customer paid, and Stephanie carefully wrapped the purchase in tissue paper, put it in a bag, and the customer left with her companion.

Stephanie did not move from behind the counter as Barbara approached.

"I'm not going to call you," Barbara said. "And no one is going to bother Eve. You should know that."

Stephanie bowed her head a moment, then looked up. "Thank you," she said faintly, and now Barbara could see the pallor that had spread across her classic features.

Barbara nodded, turned and left the shop. Signed and sealed, she thought. Doubly committed.

Meanwhile, she had a case to prepare, one that could swing in two completely different ways, and she had to be ready for either one.

On Thursday, Hoggarth stormed into her office. He was red-faced and furious.

"What are you trying to do, Holloway?" he snapped, ignoring her motion for him to take a chair. "You know damn well that he killed her. What's this crap about a double murder?"

"Lieutenant, let me tell you a little story," she said calmly. "There was a rabbi being held hostage and his enemy said, 'If you can explain the Torah in thirty seconds I'll spare your life.' He was flourishing a great, long sword, swishing it back and forth.

The rabbi said, 'Easily done, my friend. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. All the rest is commentary' That's my philosophy, Lieutenant. All I know is the official word, which is that Connie Wilkins's death is an unsolved murder. All the rest is commentary, opinion, speculation, or call it what you will."

"I've seen you pull one fast one after another, extortion, blackmail, right under my nose, but it isn't going to work this time. You think you'll force our hand," he said in a mean low voice. "And you think wrong. We don't charge anyone without proof and we're in the process of finding the proof. Until we do, zilch."

"Very commendable," she said. "I heartily approve of your approach. I wish you had applied it to Wally Lederer, but I guess we can't have everything we wish for, can we?"

"And get this," he said, more red-faced than he had been only a second earlier,

"Dodgson is on to you and your tricks. He's going to swat you back in your cage every time you even think double murder."

"He's coming armed with a whip and chair? Oh, my. I'll be sure to wear my tiger mask. Anything else on your mind, Lieutenant? It's always nice chatting with you, but I am a bit busy these days."

He glared at her, turned and walked out stiffly.

Three weeks and counting. On Friday night she told Darren, "I won't be back until the trial is over."

'You should get away from it all now and then if only for an hour or two at a time.

You need to relax a little," he said, rubbing her back.

"Can't," she said. "Just the way it is." She was surprised by a flush of annoyance brought on by his words.

The following Tuesday Eric came to the office without calling first. "I had to tell you something," he said when Barbara went to the outer office to see him.

"Well, come on back and tell me," she said. She stopped by Shelley's door and looked in. "If you're free, Eric has something to tell us." She motioned for him to come along back to her office. Shelley followed.

Eric was nearly dancing and clearly had no intention of sitting down. "Probate okayed the handwritten codicil! Everything's going ahead now! Konig said you did it, you and Sonia. And he said you must have twisted Berman's arm. He isn't going to contest it, out of respect for the family, and he'll start liquidating Dad's estate. But Konig said we don't have to wait for that. He told Mother she could start looking for a bigger house, with space for a studio or something for Eve, whatever she needs!"

Shelley was laughing along with him, and he grabbed and hugged her and then to Barbara's surprise, he hugged her, too.

"In like a whirlwind, out like the same," Barbara said through her laughter when he rushed out. "When's the last time you saw anyone as excited as he is?"

"Maybe it's a first," Shelley said, grinning broadly. "Made my day, I'll say that." She waved and returned to her own office, and Barbara resumed her seat behind her desk.

Every day she was searching the newspapers, listening to the radio news, watching local television newscasts almost compulsively, for any indication that the police would name Jay as Connie Wilkins's murderer. There was nothing. The story had died in the media, old news, no developments; with an election approaching, an unsolved murder did not rate a column inch. She still had two cases prepared, and felt as if she were doing a balancing act on a tightrope without a safety net, ready to swing down on either side of it. Or fall flat on her face on either side, she amended.

Wally and Meg came in on Wednesday morning the week before the trial. He was as affable and relaxed as always, and she looked haunted.

"You're welcome to stay," Barbara told Meg, "but this is going to be a long grueling day. If you have shopping or something else to do..."

"I'd like to stay," Meg said. "I won't butt in or say a word, promise."

They started. There was a brief break for lunch, brought in by Maria, and they returned to it. Then Frank started his cross-examination.

Meg looked more and more strained as the day wore on, but she was true to her word and remained silent. Wally's good humor was unshakable. At five, Frank leaned back in his chair and said, "You'll do fine, Wally." Barbara seconded that.

She went to the bar and brought out wine, bourbon and water. "Now, relax, and let's just talk a few minutes," she said, although she thought if Wally relaxed any more he would start snoring.

"It's going to take longer in court," Barbara said after passing out drinks, "because there will be objections, arguments, God knows how Dodgson will play the game, and I'll show your two videos, another couple of hours, plus recesses. We'll run into two days, but basically that's it."

"They're letting you show the videos?" Wally asked. "I thought they might not."

"Well, we talked about it a while," she said. "But yes, I'll show them."

Frank suppressed a smile. What she had said that day was that Dodgson had gotten so loud that Judge Wells had come to a decision in her favor just to shut him up.

"And you don't want me to mention anything about the wet pants and sand in his shoes," Wally mused. "Any reason?"

"It's immaterial to the case I'll be building. Jay was a man worried about his wife's safety. That's the issue. We'll go along with that."

He regarded her shrewdly, nodded and sipped his drink. "I think he killed her," he said, "and somehow he was using us to cover himself."

"Whatever you think, keep it to yourself," Barbara said sharply. "You don't offer a word beyond whatever answer the question demands. No volunteering anything."

"Gotcha," he said. "You're the boss. But that's what I think. Anyway, we'll check into the hotel Sunday and be on hand bright and early Monday morning."

"In that case, come on out to the house for dinner on Sunday," Frank said. "You can tell us your stories, and I'll tell you some of mine. Deal?"

Wally grinned. "Deal."

After Wally and Meg left, Barbara said, "I'm worried about him, Dad. He's too carefree and calm. It's unnatural."

"I think he just has faith in you," Frank said. "He's a born optimist. That and his belief in you will see him through it without ruffling a feather. Wish I could say the same about Meg."

"He's the optimist and she's the realist," Barbara said. Or, she added to herself, he's the skilled performer and Meg's his audience.

That Sunday night at dinner, Wally told them one of his stories. "So there I was with three handguns on the table. Two guys came to claim theirs, but no one would come up for the last one. So a detective took it and they ran it through the FBI lab testing for matching bullets, and came up with an armed robbery, unsolved. They had been looking for that particular gun for a long time. And I had the guy on a video. They used that video in court and got a conviction." Wally leaned back in his chair smiling broadly. "I was hero of the day"

"You picked the pockets of FBI agents, detectives, sheriffs, without anyone noticing that you were stealing their guns? Good heavens!" Barbara said, awed. "And there was a ringer in the group! Incredible."

"Yep, there he was, playing cops and robbers, seems he liked to play both sides.

Sometimes a cop, sometimes a robber. He should have stayed home that night."