You Bet Your Life Page 7

  “On the day Victor died, I had a luncheon date with Jane. I felt I was making a lot of progress with her. She was no longer antagonistic, and had even come close to being friendly on several occasions. Victor was so pleased with that thaw in our relationship. He wanted us to be a happy family, even though his ‘baby,’ as he always called her, was twenty-nine. And I was excited that I was close to reaching a breakthrough with her.”

  Martha went on to tell me that she’d driven to the restaurant where she and Jane had planned to meet for lunch. But Jane never showed up.

  “I left the house a little before noon. The restaurant is on the other side of the city, a forty-five-minute drive, if there’s no congestion, but of course there was. I arrived at the restaurant around one and must have been there around an hour waiting for Jane. When it became obvious she wasn’t going to show up, I decided to leave. The city’s rebuilding a part of the highway and traffic was very heavy on the way back and it took me a long time to get home. When I saw all the police cars in the driveway, I pulled in behind them. At first we thought it was an accident, that Victor must have tripped, hit his head, and fallen into the pool. Not for a second did I think that anyone had killed him.”

  “Wait a minute, Martha,” I broke in. “At the restaurant, did you have anything to eat or drink, and save the receipt?”

  “No. It’s ironic, really. The waitress was so kind. She brought me a cup of coffee while I waited, then refused to charge me for it. We got to talking. She told me she had two daughters and was working to put them through college. We spoke about children and how hard it is when they grow up. You want to mother them, but that’s not what they want from you.”

  “You told this to the police, obviously,” I said, interrupting her tale. “That would be your alibi for the time Victor was killed, wouldn’t it? I understand the medical examiner said he died approximately between noon and three in the afternoon.”

  “Of course I told them, and I told all my lawyers, too. Mr. Nastasi sent an investigator to the Winners’ Circle—that’s the name of the restaurant—to talk to the waitress. But she was gone. The manager told him they have a lot of turnover among the staff. Anyway, the woman I remembered didn’t work there anymore. She had a Spanish accent and might have been from Mexico. So maybe that’s where she went, back to Mexico.”

  “Wasn’t there anyone else who remembers seeing you there?”

  “I thought the hostess might remember me, but as you heard, she denied it. I didn’t talk with anyone other than the waitress. No, there’s no one we could find.”

  “Did Jane ever explain why she didn’t show up?” I asked.

  “She claims she didn’t know about the luncheon date. But I’d left a message for her on her mother’s answering machine the night before. Jane was staying there at the time. She swears there was no message.”

  “I thought Jane lived with you.”

  “She only stayed with us in the very beginning; then she moved out.”

  “She testified for the prosecution, didn’t she?”

  “Yes.”

  “The prosecution says you talked about having lunch with her, knowing you would use it as an alibi, but that you never intended to meet her and you never actually went to the restaurant. And of course, without a witness, there’s no proof that you were there.”

  Martha nodded.

  “Does Jane believe you killed her father? Is she looking for revenge?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Martha replied. “I’ve racked my brain trying to remember conversations we’d had. Had I misinterpreted her friendly overtures? Could she hate me so much that she’d stand me up and then deny we had a date for lunch in order to put me in this position? It doesn’t make sense.”

  I paused before asking, “Could Jane have killed her father? Was she sufficiently jealous of you, and of Victor’s attentions to you, to have done such a thing?”

  “I don’t think that’s possible. She adored him. Even her bad behavior was just to get his attention. And we’d been doing a lot of things together, the three of us. I just can’t believe she’d kill him.”

  “But what’s her alibi?” I asked. “Where was she when Victor was killed?”

  “She was visiting her mother in Henderson. Her mother swore to that.”

  “Could Jane have been setting you up, Martha? Maybe she hired someone to kill Victor, got you out of the house, and established an alibi for herself.”

  “If you’d seen her after Victor died, you wouldn’t say that. She was absolutely hysterical when she learned of his death.”

  “But, Martha, she left you hanging. Why did she do that? Did anyone ask her that question?”

  “Of course I did. And so did Nastasi when he cross-examined her on the stand. She testified that if we had an appointment, she didn’t know about it. And if she had known, she would have confirmed it. Her father had taught her that. It was a businesslike way to handle appointments.”

  “Martha, is it possible that you left the message on someone else’s machine, that you might have dialed a wrong number?”

  “I suppose anything’s possible, Jessica. All I know is that I can’t prove through any witness where I was between noon and three the day Victor was murdered.”

  “Your housekeeper discovered the body,” I said, having read that in various media accounts of the case.

  “Yes. Isobel. Poor thing. She was devoted to him. A lovely woman.”

  “Might she have heard you leaving the message for Jane the night before?”

  “She was asked and says she knew nothing about it. And I suppose I did forget to tell her about the lunch with Jane. I would have left her a note—she’d gone off to a dentist appointment that day—but I figured I’d be back before she was. Anyway, Victor was home and he knew where I was going.”

  Although no one said it, we’d been talking for some time and I had the feeling that my visiting time was close to running out. “Okay,” I said, “so we have no proof of your alibi. What else is the prosecution using against you?”

  “Mr. Nastasi told me there’s a deposition from a woman in Cabot Cove claiming she saw me hit Victor and threaten to kill him.”

  “Who gave such a deposition?”

  “Her name is Joyce Wenk.”

  I frowned as I tried to place the name.

  “Don’t you remember her, Jessica? A big woman, lived outside of town with her husband and son? The boy is slightly retarded. She always stayed very much to herself, never interacted with people in the town.”

  “I vaguely remember her, although I don’t think I was ever introduced. When would she have been with you and Victor to have seen you hit him, or threaten to kill him?”

  “Never! It never happened. I don’t even remember seeing her when Victor and I visited Cabot Cove last year.”

  “Then why—”

  Martha shook her head. “I haven’t the slightest idea. Apparently, she called the prosecutor’s office when she heard about my arrest for Victor’s murder and offered to give a deposition. Whatever she thinks she saw just isn’t so. She’s lying, Jessica, but for the life of me, I don’t know why.”

  “Have you heard from Victor’s partners at all?”

  “In here? No. I haven’t heard from anyone other than my lawyers.”

  “Were any of his business associates in town when Victor was killed?”

  “I don’t know. Tony and Henry came to the funeral, of course. And Chappy. Did you meet him? He was at the wedding but he didn’t stay for the dinner. I don’t really know any of the others. Victor was very private about his business affairs.”

  My instincts about being asked to leave became reality when a guard called out the end of visiting time.

  “Oh, Jessica,” Martha said, rising from her seat but still holding the telephone receiver. “If only you were my lawyer, I’d feel so much better.”

  “I’m not a lawyer. You know that,” I said. “But I’m here now, and I’ll help you any way I can.”

/>   Martha was led from the window, and I joined the other visitors as we were taken back to the lobby, where I retrieved my purse and passport.

  Outside, the Las Vegas heat hadn’t abated despite the waning afternoon, and I was grateful when I didn’t have to wait long for a ride. A minivan taxi stopped at the traffic light and I got in.

  “Yes, ma’am?” said the driver, an older gentleman wearing a baseball cap.

  “The Bellagio, please.”

  We hadn’t gone a block when I leaned forward and asked, “Do you know of a restaurant outside of town called the Winners’ Circle?”

  “Yes, ma’am. It’s in a small casino about a half hour, forty minutes from here.”

  “Would you take me there?”

  “Of course. It’d be my pleasure.”

  Chapter Seven

  The Winners’ Circle was located in what formerly had been a ranch house. The acreage once used for grazing and corrals had been sold off piece by piece until the original homestead stood alone in the center of a patch of dry land, surrounded by developments of new Colonials and Tudors with green lawns and blacktopped driveways. The cab made a right turn under the wooden arch that spanned the dirt road leading to the casino and restaurant, and passed rows of parked cars to let me off at the front door.

  I handed the driver the fare and looked at my watch. “Give me an hour,” I said, “and I’ll meet you right here. If I’m a little late, please wait for me.”

  “I’ll be right here,” the driver said. “Maybe get a Coke at the bar and play a little video poker while I’m waiting.”

  I climbed the steps to the porch and pulled open the front door, which was scuffed and scarred from years of service. A naturally distressed finish, I thought, one that modem decorators tried hard to duplicate. The front of the building was given over to a small casino, stocked solely with gambling machines that accepted nickels, dimes, and quarters. They lined the walls and took up two rows in front of the bar. Only about half of the machines were being playing, but the bar behind them was crowded, smoky, and noisy, the animated banter of the patrons competing with the country music on the PA system and the calliope sounds of the machines. I made my way through the casino to the hostess stand for the dining room and looked inside.

  The room was large and homey, probably an addition to the original building. The wooden boards on the walls were covered with Western scenes and memorabilia, mostly paintings of cowboys and ranch life. Horseshoes hung over every door and window. It was early for dinner and only a few tables were occupied.

  Through a pair of swinging doors, I caught a glimpse of the kitchen, enough to see the hostess who had testified that Martha had not been at the restaurant the day Victor was killed. Ms. McGinnis was having a heated argument with one of the cooks.

  “The hostess will be right out,” said a young woman in a red-checkered shirt and denim skirt, who slid a couple of menus into a pocket on the side of the stand.

  “Doesn’t sound like she wants to be interrupted,” I said, cocking my head toward the kitchen from which their raised voices could be heard.

  The young woman glanced back at the swinging doors. “I’ll seat you now,” she said, taking out a menu. “Please follow me.” She led me to a table set for two, and pulled out a high-backed chair.

  “Thank you, but I prefer to sit on this side,” I said, taking the seat opposite the one she held, from which I would have a clear view of the hostess stand.

  “Enjoy your meal,” she said, handing me the menu.

  I thanked her and opened the menu, but kept my eyes on the hostess station, waiting to see how long it would be before Ms. McGinnis returned. It was ridiculous to believe that a hostess would be at her post constantly. All kinds of situations could call her away, not the least of which was trouble in the kitchen. And would she really remember every face that came into her restaurant from eight months before? But she had been immovable on the stand, and the jury might have been persuaded that this hostess was vigilant in her duty.

  “You are just one for dinner?” a busboy asked and, at my nod, removed the second place setting from the red-checkered tablecloth. A teenager with straight black hair and a wispy attempt at a mustache, he carried the plates and silverware to a nearby cabinet, where he put them away and placed the spare napkin back on a stack he’d been folding.

  “Good evening. Would you like a drink before your dinner?” The waitress was a stocky woman in her fifties. She wore a white shirt, black slacks, and a red bandanna tied around her neck, a nod to the Western theme of the restaurant. A plastic badge on her shirt said her name was Florence.

  “An iced tea would be lovely,” I said, smiling up at her.

  “I’ll bring it right away,” she said and walked off.

  Ms. McGinnis was still absent from her post.

  I perused the menu and decided on a Mexican salad with mesquite-grilled chicken served in a tortilla basket.

  Florence placed a little doily on the plate in front of me and set my iced tea in the center. “Would you like to order now?” she asked, putting a straw next to the glass.

  “I’m thinking about the Mexican salad,” I said. “Do you recommend it?”

  “It’s very popular, especially with the ladies. The guys usually go for the barbecued ribs. That’s what we’re famous for. But they’re both good.”

  “I’ll stay with the salad,” I said, closing the menu and handing it to her. “Is this really a famous place?”

  “If it isn’t, it should be. All the locals know about us. You must be an out-of-towner.”

  I laughed. “I’m from as far out of town as you can get. I’m from Maine.”

  “I’m from Delaware, myself,” Florence said, smiling back, “only here about seven years.”

  She went to place my order, and the busboy filled my water glass and slid a basket of bread onto my table. The hostess had finally resumed her post. She glanced briefly around the room. I spread my napkin on my lap, and sipped my tea.

  Florence returned a little later with my dish, an enormous salad with chopped tomatoes, avocado, celery, olives, and cucumber, sprinkled with cheddar cheese. Strips of grilled chicken brushed with barbecue sauce were arrayed on top. I realized I was famished, having had only half a sandwich during the lunch break in the trial. I picked up my fork and dug into my salad, eating it along with a piece of the fried tortilla basket that served as the bowl. Throughout the meal, I kept tabs on Ms. McGinnis, who stepped away from the hostess stand twice more.

  “That was delicious,” I said, when Florence cleared away the remnants of my meal and put the plates and silverware on a tray.

  “I told you it was popular with the ladies. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  “You were right on the mark.”

  Florence pulled out a little metal bar, scraped the crumbs from the tablecloth, and refilled my iced tea from a pitcher.

  “Have you worked in this restaurant ever since you came to Las Vegas from Delaware?”

  “Heavens, no,” she said. “I started out as a croupier. There’s more money in that than waitressing.”

  “What made you decide to change careers?”

  “The casino I worked in got a new manager,” Florence said, making a face. “He only wanted young chippies staffing the tables, girls with big hair and big boobs, if you’ll pardon my language.” She held her arms out to the side. “Anyway, as you can see, I didn’t qualify. Plus, a lot of places have been letting people go. So when a job opened up over here, I grabbed it. Gotta pay my rent.”

  “How long ago was that?” I asked.

  “Oh, five or six months, I guess.” She must have seen the disappointment in my face. “Why do you ask?”

  “A friend of mine was here about eight months ago and talked for a long time with a waitress, a Hispanic woman who was putting her daughters through college. My friend is eager to get in touch with her again, but hasn’t been able to find her since she left her job. I thought maybe you worked with this wom
an and knew how to reach her. It’s very important.”

  “Doesn’t sound familiar to me, but I can ask in the kitchen for you.”

  “Would you do that? That would be wonderful.”

  “Sure. I don’t mind. You want any dessert while I’m in there?”

  “What’s popular with the ladies? I’ll try that.”

  Florence took an order at another table while the busboy carried the tray of used dishes back to the kitchen. Ms. McGinnis was back at her post. In the time I’d been at the restaurant, the tables around me had begun to fill up. I glanced at my watch. Fifteen minutes before I had to meet the cabdriver.

  Florence returned. “The cook remembered her,” she said. “Her name was Luz, but he doesn’t remember her last name,” she added, placing a piece of lemon meringue pie in front of me. “Want the raspberry sauce, too?” She held a silver sauce boat with the puréed berries in one hand and a serving spoon in the other.

  “No, thanks, on the sauce,” I said. “Does he know where she is now?”

  “No. Sorry. She was illegal. The cops came by one day and she took off. That’s all he knows.”

  “I can’t thank you enough for taking the trouble to ask for me.”

  “Not a problem. We’re a relatively small staff here, so everyone knows everyone else. Glad I could help.”

  I asked for the check and paid with a credit card, watching the hostess stand until Ms. McGinnis left it momentarily unattended before I walked out of the restaurant. The likelihood was that she hadn’t seen me, and if asked, would swear that I’d never been in her restaurant tonight. But I had, and I had the credit card receipt to prove it, even if Florence decided to change careers again. Best of all, I had a lead on Martha’s alibi, although tracking her down, much less convincing her to testify, might be wicked hard, as my neighbors in Cabot Cove would say.

  Chapter Eight

  “This is Fred Graham in New York. We’re covering live the Las Vegas murder trial of Martha Kildare, who’s accused of having killed her millionaire businessman husband, Victor Kildare. Court TV’s own Beth Karas is standing by outside the courtroom in Las Vegas. What can we expect today, Beth?”