Easter Bunny Murder (16 page)

“I've wondered about that myself,” said Lucy.

“I sure hope the jury doesn't think like that,” said Rachel, sounding indignant. “Not after all the work Bob's done, trying to sort things out.”

“Don't worry—the DA's got a strong case for elder abuse. And nothing excuses Vicky's and Henry's behavior. Remind the old fright of that,” said Lucy.

“She heard you,” said Rachel.

“I meant her to,” said Lucy, laughing.

Turning to Fran, she gave her the results of her inquiry. “The only name that came up was Juliette's and there's some doubt that even she is still in the will.”

“Well, this would be a first for me,” said Fran.

“What would?” asked Lucy.

“Getting hired by the guilty party.”

“Actually,” said Lucy, speaking slowly. “It would be a smart move, wouldn't it? If Juliette did murder her parents, what better way to divert suspicion? Maybe she's playing a role here—the grieving, distraught daughter—in hopes of casting suspicion on Vicky and Henry. She's the innocent, sweet young thing and they're the evil, conniving, greedy relations.”

Fran gave her a look. “You have a mind like a sewer,” she said.

“It's from living in a small town,” said Lucy. “You wouldn't believe what goes on here.”

“I'm getting the feeling it's a real nest of vipers,” said Fran with a shudder. “And people think all the crime takes place in the big city. I'm going to be glad to get back to the city!”

As they drove along, Lucy thought about an interview she'd done for the feature story on elder abuse she wrote while she was in Florida. She'd gone to the local senior center, where she spoke with a friendly caseworker who had been only too happy to vent her frustration. Eloise Walker was in her fifties, with a mop of curly gray hair, sharp blue eyes that didn't miss a thing, and a reassuring smile.

“To state the obvious, we have a lot of retirees here in Florida,” Eloise had told her. “There was quite a flood when the economy was good, back in the nineties, but now those folks who came here to play golf and watch birds are getting very old and frail. Most of them don't have any family locally and they're sitting ducks for swindlers.”

“What is the state doing?” Lucy had asked.

“Oh, the legislature passes laws and the police set up special units to investigate elder abuse and we hold seminars to inform seniors, but the truth is that a lot of it is closing the barn door after the cows have gotten out. No sooner do we identify one scam—say, fake home health aides or phony reverse mortgage schemes—than the crooks come up with a new one. The latest involves going after folks who die intestate—who don't have wills.”

“How does that work? Wouldn't the money go to the state?” Lucy had asked.

“Yeah, but what these crooks do is they find people who've died and have no heirs, then they produce fake birth certificates and present themselves as long lost relatives so they can claim an inheritance.”

“Isn't that awfully complicated? And it must be a lot of work,” Lucy had said. “And isn't it easy to check the validity of the birth certificates?”

“Not if you happen to have a girlfriend working in the county records office,” Eloise had replied.

“I didn't think of that,” Lucy had admitted.

“My point exactly,” Eloise had said. “The crooks are way ahead of us.”

Lucy was called back to the present when Fran pulled up in front of the
Pennysaver
office and braked. “You got awfully quiet there,” said Fran. “Penny for your thoughts.”

“Oh, sorry,” said Lucy. “My mind was drifting.”

“You know,” said Fran, “I find that very helpful. When I get stymied on a case, I let it go and think of something else. Nine times out of ten, the answer just sort of pops up.”

Lucy found herself smiling. “I don't think my boss will go for that, but it's worth trying.”

“Well, thanks for your help, Lucy,” said Fran, checking her watch. “I've got those interviews at Pine Point and I'm heading back to the city tonight. If you get any bright ideas, let me know.”

“I will,” promised Lucy. “But don't get your hopes up.”

Chapter Sixteen

O
ver the weekend, Lucy took Fran's advice and refused to think about Van's and Maxine's deaths. Instead, she kept busy, taking the girls shopping at the outlet mall for summer clothes and working in the garden, where the weeds were threatening to get the upper hand. On Sunday evening, she admitted the experiment was a failure. Her subconscious had failed to come up with a solution, but she had made some awfully good buys at the outlet mall and the garden was free of weeds.

Dinner was over, the dishwasher was humming, and Lucy took a second cup of decaf into the family room and settled herself in front of the TV. Flipping channels, looking for something other than sports, she checked the cable news channel. There she found a favorite anchor person, Lynette Oakley, reporting that Vicky and Henry's trial was scheduled to begin on Monday.

Lucy watched as the station played a tape of District Attorney Phil Aucoin, who was outlining the charges against them, which included elder abuse, fraud, and embezzlement. This was followed by a clip of the Allens' attorney, famous defense lawyer Howard Zuzick, who had little to say except that he was confident his clients would be acquitted.

Lucy expected that would be that, and the coverage would switch to the region's other big story—the continuing saga of unreliable electric service—when Bob Goodman's familiar face filled the screen. “At the center of this upcoming trial is aged millionaire Vivian Van Vorst. How is she doing?” asked the off-screen reporter.

Bob smiled and nodded. “I'm happy to say that Mrs. Van Vorst is doing much better and her health has improved considerably now that the Allens are no longer in charge of her care.”

Footage then began to roll showing VV in her wheelchair, wearing a big sun hat and sunglasses and with a blanket covering her legs, being pushed about in her garden by the beautiful Juliette, who was wearing a floaty chiffon dress. The two were accompanied by Sylvia and another nurse, as well as a couple of polite young children carrying balloons who appeared to have stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad. Juliette parked the wheelchair in front of a particularly gorgeous rosebush and bent a bough down so VV could smell the flowers' scent. After inhaling deeply, she raised her head and smiled, waving to the camera.

Points to Bob, thought Lucy, who hadn't imagined he was this savvy about public relations. Which, she realized, he wasn't. It was Juliette, the top model, who had arranged this little vignette. Those kids probably were professional models, hired for the day. The clothes, even the blanket on VV's scrawny old legs, were all color coordinated and presented a carefully orchestrated picture of an old woman enjoying a perfect spring day in her garden. This is what VV's final days should be like, Juliette was saying, and this is what Vicky and Henry tried to take away from her. Lucy thought it was a smart move and would certainly affect public opinion; she wondered, however, if it would have any effect on the trial. The jurors who were eventually chosen might or might not have seen it, and those who had would certainly be ordered by the judge to disregard it. On the other hand, the video clip made an impression that would be difficult to forget.

 

The trial began, as scheduled, on Monday, in the superior courthouse in Gilead. The courtroom, which dated from 1887, had recently been restored. The walls were freshly painted in cream with dark green and maroon borders, the oak paneling had been cleaned and refinished, and the massive gas-lit chandelier that hung from an ornate plaster medallion in the center of the ceiling had been restored and electrified.

Nobody was looking at the interior decor, however. All eyes in the crowded courtroom were on Vicky and Henry Allen, seated at the defendant's table. Henry was dressed in a sober gray suit, impeccably groomed as ever, looking as if he might be in a pew at church rather than in a Maine courtroom. Vicky looked as if she'd strayed out of a ladies luncheon, in a pale blue suit with her light brown hair tied at the nape of her neck with a black grosgrain ribbon. She sat with her knees together, a ladylike purse perched on her lap. Their lawyer, Howard Zuzick, by contrast, was wearing a loud tie, printed with wild cats, and his wiry gray hair sprung out from his head in every direction. He was accompanied by a young woman lawyer who was busy arranging numerous folders stuffed with papers.

Phil Aucoin sat at the other table, along with a couple of young assistant district attorneys. They conferred together in low voices, glancing occasionally at the defendants and at the judge's vacant bench. A group of family members were seated in the first row of seats outside the bar, including Juliette, Little Viv, Andrew Duff, and Peter Reilly. Juliette was dressed in a simple but stunning sleeveless gray sheath and seemed oblivious to the media attention she was receiving. Most of the photographers in the courtroom couldn't resist focusing on her, but she was only interested in supporting her grandmother, Little Viv, who clung to her hand and was quite white with terror. Andrew, who was sitting on her other side, also offered support to his ex-wife, occasionally murmuring in her ear and patting her shoulder. Peter Reilly had the aisle seat, and, of the four, he was the calmest, seemingly at ease as he waited for the trial to begin.

Promptly at ten, the bailiff announced that Judge Anthony Featherstone was presiding and all should rise. Judge Featherstone had only been on the job a few months and Lucy had never covered one of his trials before, but he looked like a no-nonsense sort who entered the courtroom briskly and got straight to business.

Judge Featherstone soon revealed he had no tolerance for courtroom theatrics, and jury selection proceeded smoothly once he warned Attorney Zuzick that he was close to being declared in contempt of court when he accused a potential juror of reverse racism. From then on, it was smooth sailing; twelve jurors and two alternates were seated and court recessed for lunch.

Lucy was sitting next to Deb Hildreth from the Gilead Enterprise, who suggested an out-of-the-way café where they could get something to eat, avoiding the crowd. When they arrived at Pizza'n'More, they found Pete Withers from the
Portland Press
and Bob Mayes, the stringer for the
Globe
, already seated and enjoying bottles of beer and pizza slices.

“Join us!” yelled Pete, when Lucy and Deb finished ordering their salads at the counter and picked their diet teas from the cooler.

“Beer? Really?” said Deb, sliding onto the padded Leatherette bench beside Bob.

“It's a journalistic tradition,” said Pete, shoving over to make room for Lucy.

“Anybody taking bets?” asked Lucy, who loved hanging out with her local press colleagues and rarely got the chance. “That's another journalistic tradition.”

“Long odds,” said Bob. “I'd say twenty-to-one, in favor of Aucoin.”

“Yeah,” agreed Deb, unscrewing the cap from her bottle of iced tea. “Vicky and Henry are going to need those stiff upper lips of theirs.”

 

When court resumed, Phil Aucoin refrained from delivering a lengthy opening statement, limiting himself to outlining the charges against Vicky and Henry—which included embezzlement, fraud, and elder abuse—and promising the jurors he would prove each one beyond a reasonable doubt. He then called his first witness, Little Viv.

Receiving an encouraging squeeze of the hand from her granddaughter, Juliette, she rose and stepped through the gate, which the bailiff held open for her. She appeared as sweet and vague as ever; even her walk was tentative as she almost seemed to be avoiding the witness chair. When she finally reached it, she perched on the edge, then popped up and raised the wrong hand to take the oath. She blushed furiously when the bailiff corrected her, then stammered as she promised to “tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God.” Seated once again, she leaned forward and waited for Aucoin's questions, her eyes open wide.

“Please state your name,” he said, in a gentle voice.

“Vivian Van Vorst Duff,” she replied in a whisper.

“And you are the mother of one of the defendants, Victoria Allen?”

“Yes.”

“And the daughter of Vivian Van Vorst?”

“That's correct.”

“Can you describe for me what life was like at Pine Point, when you were growing up there?”

Obviously relieved that she was not going to have to face any unpleasant truths, at least not yet, Little Viv smiled. “Oh, it was lovely. Mother was known for her gracious hospitality and her beautiful home. We were only there in the summers when I was young, but I remember the gardens were beautiful. We spent long, lovely days sailing and having picnics. There were always lots of people, lots of guests. It was like a dream, really.”

“You married your first husband, Andrew Duff, in 1964. Did you spend much time at Pine Point after that?”

“Oh, yes. We'd go every summer. Well, Andrew had to work, but he came up most weekends. I brought the children, Van and Vicky. They loved it at Pine Point. There was always a lively crowd, plenty of tennis and parties. Their birthdays were in the summer and Mumsy always gave them the most wonderful parties, with pony rides and music.” She sighed. “And she always gave them the most lovely gifts. One year it was a Gypsy wagon to use as a playhouse, another time it was a tiny little Chris-Craft for Van to putter around in.”

“Did things change after your marriage to Andrew Duff ended?”

Little Viv pressed her lips together. “Well, Andrew didn't come anymore, but the kids and I did. It really wasn't very different for them. I had a generous settlement from Andrew and Mumsy helped out if I needed a bit more. It was important to her that the kids went to good schools. She wanted to make sure that their lifestyle didn't change.”

“So your mother helped with tuition, things like that?”

“She gave me an allowance while the kids were dependents.”

“Do you remember how much that was?”

“In dollars?” asked Little Viv, looking a bit affronted. She was of a generation that declined to discuss money.

“Yes. An approximate figure will do.”

“I don't really remember. Mr. Harrison took care of money things for me.”

“Who is Mr. Harrison?”

“At the bank. If I needed money, I called him.”

“Did he ever say you didn't have enough money, that your funds were low?”

“No.” She paused. “But I wasn't extravagant. We lived simply.”

Aucoin went to the table, where his assistant handed him a couple of sheets of paper. “I have here your income tax statements from 1980, that would be when Vicky was twelve. It shows a gift from your mother of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, is that about right?”

Vicky blinked a few times. “If it's on the tax form, it must be.”

That caused a little laughter from the assembled company, and a few smirks from the jurors.

“Can you describe your daughter's lifestyle at this time?”

“When Vicky was twelve, we lived in Milton, near Boston. She went to Milton Country Day, of course. She had ballet lessons—she was keen on ballet—and she also took riding lessons. She was having a bit of trouble with French, so Madame Robert came to the house for tutoring and conversation.”

“And much of this was possible because of the funds provided by her grandmother, Vivian Van Vorst?”

Little Viv looked uncertain. “I guess so. As I mentioned, I didn't really pay attention to the financial aspect of things. I depended on Mr. Harrison to do that.”

“So, unlike most of us, who have to pay attention to our finances, perhaps living within a certain budget, you simply had to ask and Mr. Harrison provided whatever amount you needed?”

Little Viv smiled; at last her interrogator understood. “That's right.”

“What if Mr. Harrison discovered you needed more money than you had on hand in your bank account? What would he do then?”

“He'd ask Mumsy,” replied Little Viv as if the answer were obvious.

“Did your mother ever turn you down? Did she ever deny such a request?”

“Not that I'm aware of.”

“Thank you,” said Aucoin, indulging in a sharklike smile. “That's all.”

Little Viv started to get up, but the judge cautioned her. “The defense may have some questions for you.”

“No questions at this time,” said Zuzick without expression.

Visibly relieved, Little Viv practically ran back to her seat, where Juliette embraced her in a quick hug.

Vicky, however, looked distinctly uncomfortable. She'd seen the handwriting on the wall. She understood that Aucoin had portrayed her as a privileged child who had been pampered by an indulgent grandmother. It was inevitable that VV's generosity would be compared to her own stinginess when it came time to provide care for her aged grandmother.

She was also worldly enough to know that most people, including the jurors, did not have the option of calling a Mr. Harrison whenever they needed a quarter million dollars.

As for Henry, he busied himself taking notes on a yellow legal pad, and Lucy wondered if he was pretending to himself that he had a measure of control over his fate and was not at the mercy of the twelve citizens seated in the jury box.

Willis was called next, and Lucy saw Vicky visibly sink into her seat as he took the oath.

“Mr. Willis,” began Aucoin, “you were employed by Mrs. Van Vorst as her butler for over thirty years?”

“I began working for Mrs. Van Vorst in 1975,” he said.

“Are you still employed by her?”

“Yes.”

“So you have worked this entire period since 1975 without interruption?”