The Carson Springs Trilogy: Stranger in Paradise, Taste of Honey, and Wish Come True (139 page)

“Did she keep it?” Liz wanted to know. Anna shot her a dirty look, not bothering to respond.

“I ran a check to see if he had a record,” Rhonda said. “There
was
something, but it was pretty far back—an incident involving lewd behavior. I couldn’t get the details. He was given a suspended sentence, then presumably found God. He’s been clean ever since.”

“So that’s it, you just drop it?” Laura said.

“Not on your life.” Rhonda wore her steeliest look. “I’m having Barney fly out there next week.”

“Every time you look in the paper there’s a story about some celebrity stalker,” Liz said. “Look what happened to John Lennon. And remember that guy Monica got a restraining order against awhile back?”

“I think it was one of her ex-husbands,” Anna said.

“Whatever.” Liz was clearly warming to the subject. Anna remembered that she hadn’t been the only one who’d devoured
Nancy Drew
books when they were kids. “And another thing, has anyone considered the possibility that it might have been someone on staff? The gardener, or even Arcela.”

“Arcela? You can’t be serious.” It was all Anna could do not to roll her eyes. Her sister meant well, she knew; she’d even been hitting up some of the spa’s wealthier clients for donations. But she was out on a limb here—the affair must have blown a fuse in her brain. Half the time she didn’t even appear to be listening. Anna watched her sister track David with her gaze as he led a party of four to their table. She seemed on edge.

Liz brought her gaze back to Anna. “I know she doesn’t seem like the type, but maybe she’d finally had enough and just snapped.”

“You’re talking about a woman who survived the Marcos regime,” Anna reminded her.

“Speaking of which, have you seen all those shoes in Monica’s closet? There must be over a hundred pairs.” Liz’s feeble attempt at humor brought only a few pained smiles.

Anna shook her head. “I’d stake my life on Arcela.”

“You may be doing just that,” Rhonda said.

Anna looked at her. “What do you mean?”

“She’s the only one besides you who saw what went on in that house.”

Rhonda would be calling the housekeeper to the stand when they returned, but Anna couldn’t think of any reason why she should be worried. “She wouldn’t say anything to make me look bad.”

Rhonda eyed her across the table, a large woman who made no apology for her size and who in fact seemed empowered by it. “She might not mean to.” She didn’t have to explain; Anna knew all too well how the D.A. would twist her words.

It was all Anna could do to choke down her food when it came. As they were getting up to leave she spotted an old man eating alone at one of the tables in back. Well, not quite alone—there was a plate beside his with an untouched sandwich on it. Recalling Old Clem’s generosity in donating his lottery winnings, she signaled to Melodie.

“Would you send over two pieces of olallieberry pie on me?” She pressed a ten-dollar bill into Melodie’s hand and pointed to Clem, serenely oblivious to all but his invisible companion as he munched on his sandwich.

Back in the courtroom, Rhonda called her next witness. Arcela approached the stand wearing her Sunday best and clutching something Anna recognized as her rosary beads. Their eyes met, and Arcela’s slid away. Anna’s heart began to pound.

Arcela stated her name and occupation in a voice that was barely audible even though amplified by the mike. “Mrs. Aguinaldo,” Rhonda asked, smiling to put her at ease, “could you tell the court how long you’d worked for Ms. Vincent at the time of her death?”

“Four year,” Arcela squeaked.

“Did you live in?”

She nodded, a birdlike jerk of her head. “Yes.”

“So you had occasion to observe what went on in the house?”

Anna had noticed on other occasions that Arcela’s English, serviceable at best, deteriorated when she was under stress. Now she stared at Rhonda with wide, uncomprehending eyes until the question was repeated before answering, “Yes.”

“How would you describe the relationship between Ms. Vincenzi and Ms. Vincent?”

Arcela’s eyes darted to Anna, her hands twisting in her lap. “Miss Anna, she work very hard.”

“Aside from that, how did they get along?” Rhonda prodded gently.

“Miss Monica, many time she angry.”

“Why was she angry?”

After a moment of hesitation Arcela replied, “She mad because she no can walk.”

“So it wasn’t anything Ms. Vincenzi did or said?”

Arcela shook her head. “Miss Anna try hard. But Miss Monica …” Her expression hardened. “She bad person.”

“In what way?”

“All the time, she yell and scream.”

“Mrs. Aguinaldo,” Rhonda turned to look out over the gallery, “did you ever see Ms. Vincent drunk?”

Showaiter surged to his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. Irrelevant.”

“I’ll allow it.” Cartwright gave a desultory wave.

Rhonda repeated the question, and this time Arcela didn’t hesitate. “Many time, yes.”

“Do you recall a time when she was so drunk she fell out of her wheelchair and was knocked unconscious?”

Arcela nodded, clutching her rosary beads. “She go to hospital. Long time she no come back.”

“Were you aware that Ms. Vincent was in rehab?”

Arcela looked confused until Rhonda explained what rehab was, then she replied, “Miss Anna say it good thing; she get better.” She sat up straighter, her lips pressing into a tight line. “But she no better. She same mean.”

Rhonda nodded, seemingly unaware of the murmurings in the gallery. “So she continued drinking after she got out of rehab?”

Some of the fear left Arcela’s eyes. “She say to me, no tell Miss Anna. But I think Miss Anna know. I think that why she go.”

“Did you observe her drunk on the day she died?”

“Yes.” Arcela flicked another glance at Anna. Hadn’t it taken the two of them to scoop Monica up off the floor?

“It was your night off. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“So it’s possible that she’d gone
on
drinking after you left that evening?”

Showalter jumped to his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. This is pure speculation.”

The judge lowered his gaze at Rhonda. “If there’s a point to this, Ms. Talltree, I wish you’d get to it.”

“Your Honor, it’s well established that Ms. Vincent was accident prone.” Rhonda spoke calmly. “I have hospital records going back a dozen years, the most recent from April of this year. I’m suggesting that it’s entirely possible her death was the result of an accident. How do we know she didn’t
fall
into the pool?”

A ripple went through the courtroom. Anna knew it was out of left field, but hoped that Rhonda had succeeded in planting a seed of doubt. She watched her turn back to Arcela, saying with a small satisfied smile, “Thank you, Mrs. Aguinaldo. That will be all.”

Showalter approached the stand, and Anna’s heart began to race. “Mrs. Aguinaldo, how would you describe the work the defendant did for Ms. Vincent?” He was careful to maintain a slight distance, as if not wanting to appear overbearing.

“She do everything.”

Anna had to smile. It was closer to the truth than anyone realized.

“Did Ms. Vincent receive much fan mail?”

“Oh yes.” Arcela brightened. “Everybody know Miss Monica.”

“And these fans … did Ms. Vincent ever write them back?”

“Yes.”

“Personally?”

Arcela frowned, not understanding.

“Did Ms. Vincent answer those letters herself … or was that one of Ms. Vincenzi’s jobs?” Showalter rephrased it.

“Miss Anna, she write.”

“Under her own name or Ms. Vincent’s?”

Arcela looked confused. He tried again. “Did the people getting those letters know that it was Ms. Vincenzi who’d written them?”

After a moment she answered, “I don’t think … no.”

Anna had taught her the rudiments of the computer so she could e-mail her family in Manila. She’d been like a kid with a new toy. Anna would often arrive at work to find Arcela at her desk. She must have seen some of the correspondence.

Rhonda shot to her feet. “Objection. Anything my client might have done was with the full knowledge and consent of her employer.”

“Overruled,” Cartwright said.

The D.A. deftly switched gears, asking, “Mrs. Aguinaldo, you’ve stated that Ms. Vincent and Ms. Vincenzi didn’t always get along. Can you recall any specific incident?”

Something flared in Arcela’s eyes, and she momentarily forgot her shyness. “She give Miss Anna dress for party. But it wrong dress. Miss Anna, she very, very mad.”

Showalter wore the look of a shark scenting blood. “Are you referring to the party that took place the night of April sixteenth, the day before Ms. Vincent was murdered?”

“Yes.”

Anna wanted to cry out for her to stop. She was only making matters worse.

But Showalter was just getting warmed up. He cocked his head, smiling. “You told the police that you’d overheard them arguing. Is that true?”

“Yes,” she said with a small sigh of resignation, as if realizing too late that she was being led down the garden path.

“Can you tell us what was said?”

“Miss Anna, she say she quit.”

“How would you describe Ms. Vincent’s reaction to that?”

“She cry. She say Miss Anna be sorry.”

“Sorry in what way?”

Arcela darted Anna a stricken glance. “The mother, she sick. Miss Monica say she no more pay for doctor.”

Anna’s heart sank even further as Showalter swung around to face the bench. “Your Honor, may I remind you that Mrs. Vincenzi suffers from Alzheimer’s and is currently in extended care.” He turned back to Arcela. “So to the best of your knowledge, if Ms. Vincent had made good on her threat, the full burden of caring for their mother would have fallen on the defendant?”

Arcela gripped her rosary beads. “I …” She shook her head. But it was too late; the damage had been done.

Showalter turned to face the gallery, linking his hands behind his back and rocking forward on the balls of his feet. All eyes were on him as he closed in for the kill. “Mrs. Aguinaldo, where were you the night of April seventeenth?”

“With my friend Rosa.” She looked relieved. “We see movie. Jackie Chan.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Rosa like Jackie Chan.” There was a ripple of appreciative chuckles, and even Showalter smiled.

“When did you return home?”

“I stay with Rosa, come back early in the morning.”

“So you didn’t go back to the house at any time that night?”

“No.”

“In other words, if the defendant had returned to her sister’s, say to pick up some things she’d forgotten, you wouldn’t have known?”

She glanced again at Anna. “I … no.”

Now it was Showalter’s turn to look smug. “Thank you, Mrs. Aguinaldo. That will be all.”

Rhonda introduced police records going back several years, showing half a dozen incidents involving stalkers, one of which had resulted in an arrest. She argued that just as it couldn’t be ruled out that Monica’s death had been an accident, it was also possible that it was the work of a deranged fan. To which Showalter coolly responded that there was absolutely no evidence to support that theory: no prints, hairs, fibers, body fluids, or signs of forced entry. Whatever the judge was thinking, he kept it to himself.

It was a warm day made even warmer by a faulty air conditioner that did little more than stir the tepid air, and by midafternoon Anna’s blouse was clinging to her like a second skin. Even so, she used her handkerchief sparingly, almost stealthily, only dabbing at her forehead from time to time. She didn’t want to appear nervous.

She could feel the stares like knives in her back. Occasionally she sneaked a glance over her shoulder. The crowd was mostly made up of reporters, with the locals divided into two camps, those who’d been outspoken in their support and those who’d just as openly aired their suspicions.

A woman in back caught her eye, a washed-out blonde in a sleeveless denim top. She seemed to be eyeing Anna with unusual intensity … but it was probably just her imagination. Lately it had been playing tricks on her. The other day, walking down the street, she’d caught the tail end of a remark that sounded like “… she ought to be hung.” But it had turned out to be Miranda McBride instructing an employee on where she wanted a sign hung.

When the judge banged his gavel, declaring a ten-minute recess, it was like a thunderclap breaking a long heat spell. Spectators surged to their feet en masse, pushing their way toward the double doors in back. Had it not been for Marc guiding her through the lightning storm of strobe flashes and TV lights, Anna might have been swallowed up. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Hector roughly shove aside a microphone-wielding reporter while Maude delivered a swift kick to the shin of a skinny dark-haired man who’d leaped into her path.

“This way …” Laura grabbed her elbow, steering her through the teeming crush. Dead ahead was the ladies’ room. “Go on. I’ll guard the door,” she muttered, propelling her inside with a small push. The door swung shut behind Anna, and she found herself staring at a row of blessedly empty cubicles.

She slipped into the nearest one, bolting the door. The babble in the hall had faded to a muffled roar. Faintly she heard Laura shout, “Tough luck. Hold it in, for all I care!” She sank down on the toilet with a sigh. She was beyond tears, beyond praying even. What good had it done, all those hours on her knees? If God was looking out for her, He was doing a lousy job of it.

The roar momentarily grew louder, and she heard the door click shut. Someone had slipped past Laura. Anna tensed as a pair of muscular calves ending in grubby sneakers small enough to be a child’s appeared below the metal divider separating her cubicle from the one next to it.

A woman’s voice whispered, “Anna?”

A reporter? She wouldn’t put it past those buzzards. But even for them this was a new low. “What do you want?” she hissed back.

“Relax. I’m on your side.”

And I have a bridge in Brooklyn you might like to buy.
“Then why don’t you show your face?”

“It’s not important.”

Tiny hairs prickled on the back of Anna’s neck. “Who
are
you?”