Death by Surprise (Carolyn Hart Classics) (17 page)

“Kenneth, didn’t you see that you would someday have to tell Megan? With someone like Francine, how could you trust her not to come back for more?”

My words trailed off. That would be the DA’s question.
Are you trying to tell the jury, Mr. Carlisle, that you were so naive you thought you could pay off Miss Boutelle and forever buy her silence? Instead, didn’t you decide to make sure she would never tell anyone?

Kenneth wasn’t listening to me. He was intent upon his own thoughts. “I had to pay Francine. I had to shut her up.” His hands once again gripped the table, such big powerful hands. “I couldn’t let Megan find out like that. To have a cheap bitch like Francine tell her, that would be the greatest insult of all.”

I listened but I couldn’t force my eyes away from Kenneth’s hands. He looked down at them too and abruptly he let go of the table edge. Then he looked up at me. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, nothing at all.”

He knew. “It’s all right,” he said harshly, “you can relax. Francine wasn’t strangled by hands.”

I looked at him, appalled. How could he know that?

I must have stopped breathing for an instant.

“Jesus, K.C.” he exclaimed, “don’t look at me like that.”

“But Kenneth,” I asked huskily, “how do you know?”

“It’s all right,” he said wearily, “I was going to tell you. I know how she died. I was there.”

“You were there when she was killed?”

“Oh God no, I didn’t mean that. No. I found her dead.”

It had happened much as with me but with several differences. Critical differences. Differences that could convict Kenneth of murder.

“I was supposed to bring the fifty thousand at seven o’clock. I left the office around six-thirty, I was too restless to sit there and wait. I drove around, down to the beach, then, finally, over to Francine’s apartment. I got there a little early. About five to seven.”

His ring had not been answered or his knock. Kenneth almost said to hell with it, almost went home.

“But I kept thinking, she’s probably just gone to run an errand. If I don’t give her the money, she’ll call Megan. I knocked again, hard and gave the knob a little twist. The door opened and I decided to go in and wait for her.”

So he found her.

“It was . . . sickening. I kept staring at her face. It was awful.”

I knew that. I had seen her, too, her face blotched and swollen, the tongue protruding.

“I looked down,” and there was growing horror in his voice, “I looked at her throat and I could see how she was strangled and I couldn’t believe it. I thought I was losing my mind.”

I waited and I could swear his horror was genuine.

“She was strangled with my scarf. With the white silk scarf Megan gave me for Christmas last year.”

“Oh Kenneth . . .”

I started to say that was impossible but I knew from his face that it was true.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

He nodded heavily. “It was custom made. My initials are in the lower right hand corner in gold thread. I know it’s crazy, but it’s true. It’s my scarf and I swear to God that I didn’t kill her.”

I stared at him in growing shock for there had been no scarf when I found her.

“Kenneth, oh my God, did you take the scarf?”

“Yes.”

I had a sudden dreadful picture of Kenneth bending over that inert sprawled body, desperately working on the soft silk, trying to get it loose from that swollen neck. It was his breathing, frantic with haste and fear, we heard on the recorder.

“Oh Kenneth, you shouldn’t have done that.” Because I could see no way that anyone, Farris or a jury, would ever believe Kenneth was innocent.

“I know. But if I’d left it . . . hell, there wasn’t any way anybody would believe me then, either. I couldn’t leave it there. I was sure it would convict me. I kept trying to get it off and it was awful. My hands kept touching her skin and she was still warm. I thought I was going to be sick. I had to yank it finally . . . and her hair shook . . .”

But taking the scarf hadn’t helped him. It had made it worse.

“Ferris found the scarf in your trunk?”

“Yeah.”

I stared at Kenneth.

“I didn’t do it. I know it looks bad, but I didn’t do it.”

It didn’t look bad. It looked impossible. How had that scarf come into the possession of the murderer?

“Had you ever been to her apartment before?”

“Never.”

“Had she ever come to your office?”

“Yes, but just once. That first visit, about six weeks ago.” He shook his head. “That won’t help. I had the scarf Monday.”

On Monday and this was Wednesday night. No, actually now it was early Thursday morning.

Kenneth frowned in concentration. “That’s the last day I remember seeing it. It was foggy Monday morning. Megan got my all-weather coat out of the closet and pulled the scarf down from a hook.”

He had had a touch of a sore throat. Megan had looped the scarf around his neck, tucked it inside his coat. To keep him warm. “You have a lot of speeches to make, Kenneth. You can’t afford to get sick.” He had laughed. He’d no intention of getting sick. The campaign was taking shape and he felt confident now he could beat Greg Garrison. He didn’t need the scarf but he took it because Megan wanted him to.

“Monday was the last day you wore it?”

Kenneth nodded.

Monday. That was the day we met at Kenneth’s office to dissolve the Cochran-Carlisle trust and at Grace’s that evening to discuss how we could face down Francine Boutelle.

It was cold in that dingy, ill-lighted room on the third floor of the La Luz County Jail, but the chill of the room didn’t account for the icy tingle in my mind.

Kenneth and I both understood the implication.

“When did you miss it on Monday?”

“I wore it to the office. I didn’t go out for lunch because I was too busy getting ready for the meeting. I had a sandwich at my desk. That evening, Megan met me at the office and we drove to Grace’s. I know I didn’t wear it, but it could have been in my coat pocket. I usually fold it and stuff it in my coat pocket. It was fairly warm when we left the office so I didn’t think of it. That night, when we started home from your mother’s, there was a cold breeze. I remember standing in the foyer and reaching into the pocket of my coat. It wasn’t there. I was kind of surprised but I thought it must have dropped out onto the floor of the coat closet at the office. I didn’t think of it again. Until tonight.”

The scarf could have been taken from Kenneth’s coat pocket by anyone at his office or by anyone at Grace’s. That number included, of course, quite a few people with no love for Francine Boutelle.

The scarf made all the difference. To Chief Farris, it proved Kenneth’s guilt. To me, it suggested that someone had decided in advance to kill Francine. Someone who thought ahead. Someone with very little regard for Kenneth.

I could have taken the scarf. So could Travis or Edmond, Priscilla or Grace. So could Edmond’s wife, Sue, or Travis’ wife, Lorraine.

A white silk scarf. The unnecessary accoutrement of a rich man. A white silk circle around the Carlisle family.

I should have expected it, but the circus atmosphere in the corridor outside the courtroom next morning caught me by surprise. TV and still cameramen jostled for the best shot. Local, state, and wire reporters surrounded Kenneth and me and Kenneth’s police escort when we stepped off the elevator on our way to the arraignment.

“Hey, Carlisle, look this way.”

“C’mon, man, hold your head up, that’s a way.”

“Did you kill her, Carlisle?”

“What’s the word on the race, Carlisle? Will you be stepping down as the nominee?”

“Hey, Carlisle, was Boutelle your girlfriend? What’s the story, man?”

For a man accustomed to deference, it must have been difficult. Kenneth stopped at the doorway to the courtroom and held up his hand. In an instant it was quiet, the portable mikes held up.

“I intend to plead not guilty. If I am released on bail, I will hold a news conference this afternoon. If I am denied bail, I will release a statement through my attorney.”

Then he pushed on into the courtroom.

For a man with his back to the wall, it wasn’t a bad effort. I was busy thinking about the promised statement as we walked to the defense table. I had drafted a lot of documents in my five years of practice, but I didn’t have any idea how to draft a statement to the press.

Judge Foley drew the arraignment. He was an old friend of Dad’s but he looked down at us with no change of expression when I stood to speak for the defendant. I really didn’t know what to expect. Sometimes a murder defendant is released on bail. It depends a lot upon the judge, the defendant and the circumstances of the crime. Nobody is going to let loose an axe murderer or sex deviate. On the other hand, if the defendant is a stable member of the community and isn’t considered a danger to the public, bail will be set.

Judge Foley accepted the charge, received Kenneth’s plea of not guilty, listened to the assistant DA’s request for a half-million dollar bond. I immediately requested a reduction. Judge Foley impassively studied the notes he had made then, brusquely, set bail at $100,000 and bound Kenneth over for trial on the next docket. I had already made arrangements with a bail bondsman should bail be granted.

On the way out of the courtroom, the reporters surrounded us and it was bedlam again. I felt an instant of panic, then a strong hand gripped my elbow.

“This way, K.C. I have a car waiting downstairs.”

Harry Nichols shouldered us through the crowd.

An angry reporter yelled, “Hey, Nichols, what do you think you’re doing? Setting up some kind of exclusive for
The Beacon?
Carlisle will regret it if . . .”

“You’ve got your story for now,” Nichols replied brusquely. “The same story I’ve got. Carlisle’s pleaded not guilty and he’ll hold a news conference this afternoon.”

I realized that Harry must have been near at hand during the turmoil when Kenneth spoke out before we entered the courtroom. Now Harry held the reporters and photographers at bay while we hurried into the small private elevator used by the judges. It was only a moment’s respite, though. Some of the harder and leaner media types were waiting for us at ground level, but Harry knew how to handle them.

“Four o’clock, folks. At Carlisle’s office.”

A black Mercedes with a chauffeur waited, motor running. Harry opened the front door for Kenneth, and he and I slid into the back seat.

As the car pulled away, Kenneth looked back at us, bewildered.

“You’re Harry Nichols, aren’t you?” Kenneth asked.

“Right.”

Kenneth looked wary and totally puzzled. “You’ve always gone out of your way to fight me.”

Harry nodded, his face forbidding. “Right. I may do so in the future. But I’ve done some checking, Mr. Carlisle, on Francine Boutelle. She worked for an LA paper at one time. She was fired because she tried to get money for not running a story. I don’t like that. I like a lot less the idea that she was setting up
The Beacon
with her letter to me. Nobody determines what
The Beacon
will run except me.” Harry looked at me. “I’ve seen the way your cousin has come to your defense. I don’t know whether you are guilty or innocent, but I like loyalty.” Harry smiled and he looked years younger and quite charming. “Besides, if this all washes out and you’re exonerated,
The Beacon
will probably profit from an exclusive interview.”

Kenneth managed a slight smile at that. “Believe me, I’ll be glad to give you one, under those circumstances.” He looked out of the front window. “Where are we going?”

“I’ve asked Ed to take us to your house. Is that all right?” Nichols asked.

“Yes,” Kenneth said wearily. “Yes. I’d like to go home.”

When we reached Kenneth’s drive and pulled into it, the front door opened. Megan stood on the steps, waiting.

Kenneth opened the door and was out before the car stopped. Then he stopped and looked up toward Megan.

“Kenneth,” she cried, “oh Kenneth,” and she ran down the steps and into his arms.

“Go on,” Harry told the chauffeur and the Mercedes glided quietly out of the drive.

We sat back against the soft comfortable upholstery. I was suddenly tired, so tired.

“Poor devil,” Harry said abruptly.

The tone of pity in his voice frightened me.

Harry looked at me soberly. “He hasn’t got a chance, K.C.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Farris has some solid evidence. I don’t know what it is, but the rumor is out that it’s solid gold.”

The scarf, of course.

“I know what it is.”

I told him and suddenly the pity in his eyes was for me. “Jesus, K.C.”

“He didn’t do it. I don’t care how it looks, Harry. To me that scarf proves the crime was premeditated.” I told him when Kenneth had last seen the scarf and who could have had access to it.

I could tell that Harry thought I was grasping at straws.

“I’m afraid the scarf can’t be explained away, but you could be right. You could be. Anyway, I’ve picked up some information that might be helpful to you. I thought we might stop for lunch at El Pajarito and I’ll tell you what I’ve found out.”