Kaleidoscope (6 page)

“Of course,” pointed out Pruden carefully, “she will have full control of his money now that he's dead?”

Harbinger gave him a long and thoughtful glance. “Just why are you here?” he asked. “And investigating? You're surely not implying . . . not suggesting . . . That is, according to the newspapers, John's murder has already been solved, publicized, and is virtually ready for trial.”

“Not to us,” Pruden said calmly, and took an enormous chance by saying quietly, “You could be of tremendous help to us if we could learn about Mr. Epworth's will that you drew up for him.”

Harbinger looked amused. “You know I can't allow that, it would be highly unethical.”

“Yes,” agreed Pruden, “but wouldn't it also be unethical to see an innocent child condemned?”

This startled him. “You can't be serious,” he insisted. “I began my career as a defense attorney and I certainly don't envy the lawyer appointed to defend that unfortunate possessed child. It's a watertight case.”

“We don't believe that,” Pruden told him.

Harbinger frowned. “I can't think of anything more unethical than to share information that's highly confidential.”

Pruden nodded. “That's understood. Couldn't we call it simply an exchange of important information, information that I sincerely believe John Epworth would approve, considering what's at stake?”

Harbinger sighed. “If you really think . . . All right, I'll tell you this much: John was about to make a few changes in his will. Two weeks ago an appointment was made for . . .” He glanced at his calendar. “For later this week. This Friday, when he and his wife were to meet me here to—as he put it—update his will. Minor changes, he said.”

“May we ask what changes he wanted made?” inquired Swope.

“He didn't say. He was always a very generous man, and of course very wealthy, so I assumed that he wanted to include a few charities in a new will. I think what you want to know is whether the will, made out at the time of his second marriage, left his entire fortune to his wife. It did, yes.”

“I see,” murmured Pruden.

“However,” continued Harbinger, “shortly after making that Friday appointment he asked to see me privately to discuss the changes he'd considered. He came alone, explaining that he preferred to come alone because after much thought he'd reached the decision that he wanted very
major
changes made, wanted his money divided in half. Half to his wife, and half to the Trafton Home for Disabled Children. Does this surprise you?”

Pruden didn't answer that but said, “Just how would that change in his will break down, moneywise?”

“Fifteen million to his wife, fifteen million to the home, which had become much more than a hobby for him. He seemed truly committed to helping them. Gave me the impression that he felt it was very creative and meaningful for him; the home was sadly underfunded and its buildings run-down. He spoke of the need for more hearing aids, a teacher to teach sign language, he wanted to see the playground expanded, more wheelchairs added, and he wanted the money placed in a fund to be drawn on year by year.”

“And did his wife agree to this?” asked Pruden. “He'd talked about it with her?”

Harbinger's eyes narrowed. “I had the impression that he'd tried to talk about it with her, but she was— or so I gathered—quite upset about it, and this troubled him. I think it troubled him very much. She knew, of course, of the appointment he'd made for them both this Friday and she had assumed the changes to be minor; she'd had no idea that he'd suddenly decided on such a drastic change.” He paused, and then, “This interests you?”

“Very much,” said Pruden. “You know it does. But he never changed the will, then; he deferred to his wife's anger?”

“Which is why you're here, of course,” said Harbinger. “But if it's a matter of justice . . . Actually when he came to see me that day, without his wife, he changed his will, and that will is now in my safe-deposit box. He also wanted to keep tomorrow's appointment on my calendar, from which I deduced that he'd not told his wife what he'd done, but preferred to tell her of the change—to avoid a scene, perhaps— when they arrived here on Friday. He said it meant a great deal to him to use the money he'd made as he chose, and for something
useful
.”

“He didn't like scenes,” murmured Swope.

“No man does.”

“And now he's dead,” said Pruden. “Did you entertain no . . . shall we say, no
suspicions
?”

“Under different circumstances, yes,” said Harbinger. “One would have to admit that his death arrived at a most convenient time for Joanna, but there was so much evidence, and every indication . . . that angry child leaving her fingerprints all over the apartment and fleeing, and surely you have no evidence otherwise?” He frowned. “I've been frank with you, at the risk of my integrity; now it's time you level with me.
Have
you evidence to suggest otherwise?”

“Yes and no,” Pruden told him with a frown. “That is to say, any evidence we have would never stand up in court.”

Harbinger's eyes probed them both. “Provocative but inconclusive. Do you mind telling me what
you
think might have happened?”

Pruden exchanged doubtful glances with Swope, but Harbinger, without waiting for a reply, turned to his intercom. “Miss Dotson,” he said, “no calls for the next forty minutes, if you please. I am in conference.”

The next morning Pruden and Swope were told that Mrs. Epworth could at last be interviewed. For days their approach had met with rebuffs from her doctor, but now, although she was grief-stricken, the doctor said she was no longer under sedation and could describe for them the harrowing events of the week before, and answer any questions they had about the child Jenny. She was, however, very fragile still.

Pruden said smoothly, “Of course. So far we have only the police report given on the night of the murder. If she could fill in some details we'd appreciate it. What hour would be convenient?”

It was agreed that at two o'clock that afternoon they could meet with her at her apartment, and Pruden at once put in a call to Everett Harbinger at Benson and Harbinger, and alerted Swope, who would meet him there. Pruden preferred to walk, and on his way to Sixty-ninth Street he found himself increasingly curious about this Joanna Warren Epworth. In his early days on the force, when on patrol duty and assigned to crowd control, he'd frequently seen John Epworth, and he'd liked the look of him. He'd been told that since the accident that claimed the life of his wife and child years ago, he'd given himself entirely to business and civic matters, but, as Pruden saw it, a man like that might keep hoping to find a woman to match the wife he'd lost so tragically. As the years passed and he realized the impossibleness of this, and feeling his mortality, he could easily be drawn to someone twenty years younger who flattered him, made him feel younger, and revived the nurturing qualities that he'd buried. He wondered if this second Mrs. Epworth would be what he called the second-marriage sort: flawlessly attractive—his wealth would assure that—and the type who would, as Abby Jacobs had suggested, look good at board meetings, and efficiently build a social life for him. Now Pruden would finally meet her, this woman who might just have efficiently arranged what she would believe the perfect crime.

Swope was silent when they met; he didn't like this any more than Pruden. They rang the bell, and a maid in uniform escorted them into a living room full of antiques. They gingerly chose two elegant chairs and sat, waiting.

Mrs. Epworth entered the room wearing black silk slacks and a black silk shirt, her face very pale, and Pruden noted with professional interest that she wore no makeup, and wondered if she'd sacrificed vanity to emphasize her mourning. She chose a very straight chair and smiled wanly. “I believe you want more . . . details?”

Pruden said, “We've taken the liberty of asking your lawyer to join us. He should be here at any moment.”

He had startled her. “Whatever for?” she said lightly. “Surely not some Victorian idea that I'd need
protection
.”

Lying through his teeth, Pruden said, “It's regulations, our policy at headquarters, Mrs. Epworth, that in every criminal case a lawyer must be present to protect the interest of anyone interviewed.”

But the maid was already ushering in Mr. Harbinger, and rising to greet him she lifted both arms in a dramatic and helpless gesture. “What a waste of your time, Everett,” she told him. “They think I need protection.”

Harbinger smiled. “Ah, but this also gives me the opportunity to later go over John's will with you before it's filed with probate.”

She brightened. “Oh, how very efficient of you. Do sit down, all of you,” and to Harbinger, “You have the will with you?”

Harbinger smiled charmingly. “Yes, indeed, making you a very wealthy woman . . .” Which, thought Pruden, was true enough, finding fifteen million a very nice fortune. Fumbling with his attaché case Harbinger said with sympathy, “And what are your plans now?”

Both were ignoring Pruden and Swope. Speaking directly to Harbinger she said with passion, “Oh, to get
away
.” They'd not noticed the handkerchief crumpled in one hand; she lifted it now to dab at each eye. “I can't tell you how terrible it's been, Everett. I'm worn out; I need a rest badly.”

He nodded understandingly. “A spa, perhaps?” he suggested, still groping in his attaché case.

She shook her head. “The south of France might be restful—perhaps I'll buy a villa there. I could afford that. My nerves . . . I've been under sedation for days, you know, and the doctor urges a complete change of scene, it's been such a terrible shock.” Again she dabbed at her eyes. “It's been heartrending.”

Harbinger nodded sympathetically. “You'll sell this apartment?”

She nodded, and touched her eyes again, very delicately, with the handkerchief. “It would be unbearable now.”

“Trafton will miss you,” he said politely.

“I'd keep the condominium in Manhattan, of course.” She was thoughtful a moment, and then, “How much estate tax will there be on thirty million, Everett?”

Harbinger said smoothly, “You will have to consult your accountant about that, but you mistake the amount that you'll inherit; it will be fifteen million, not thirty million.”

“Fifteen!”
she said sharply, too sharply, and covered this with a quick smile. “You have to be mistaken, the will that we made eight years ago left me thirty million.”

“The will of eight years ago, yes,” said Harbinger, “but that has been changed, you see.”

“Changed!
Changed?
” She stared at him incredulously. “I don't believe it; how can you say that? John couldn't— There were to be some adjustments made, yes, and we were to see you—tomorrow, wouldn't it be?”

“True.” Harbinger nodded. “But ten days ago your husband came alone to my office to make those so-called adjustments, to make them himself. A matter of conscience, no doubt. I believe he'd already discussed it with you, dividing his estate.”

“What?”
She gasped. “But I told him
no
—absolutely
not
, that it wouldn't be fair. You're saying that he did that in spite of— No, John would never do that to me, it's impossible.”

“I'm sure you recall what he discussed with you,” Harbinger pointed out. “He leaves fifteen million to you, fifteen to the Trafton Home for Disabled Children.”

“But that's
cruel
!” she cried. “It's not fair. That awful place with those depressing cripples?” Too angry to notice their shocked faces she said, “It's Jenny— retarded, surely—who murdered him. It's insane, she killed him, she drove that terrible dagger into him with such
force
, and to leave his money—”

Pruden interrupted to say politely, “I believe you told the police that night that you were in the kitchen; you couldn't possibly have learned with what force—”

“I mean I
heard
it,” she said, momentarily confused but defiant. “I
heard
it,” and turning to Harbinger, “How could you let my husband do this to me, change the will like that, without me there. How
could
you! I'm his
wife
.”

“As I said before, a matter of conscience?” suggested Harbinger.

“I'll sue,” she flung at him angrily, eyes glittering, no longer a bereaved widow now.

Harbinger said dryly, “I really doubt that any judge or jury would find you deprived when he'd left you fifteen million.”

She stared at him in shock, and then at Pruden and Swope. If she had expected sympathy she found none, and there was the faintest hint of her beginning to unravel. “But you can't do this,” she protested, and there were tears in her eyes.

The shock of her husband's betrayal was obviously a blow but Pruden wondered what dreams and plans for that thirty million had driven her; whatever it was, it was shattering that masklike poise and confidence. Fifteen million wasn't enough; she'd unwittingly made it obvious that she'd never shared her husband's interest in his charities, and possibly not even in her husband, John Epworth.
She's a hard woman under that
facade,
he realized,
but not hard enough,
and he shrank at what lay ahead.

“You can't do this,” she repeated, tears staining her cheeks. “John would never have done such a thing. If he was alive—”

“But he isn't alive,” said Pruden, “and Jenny didn't kill him.”