Silent Witness (11 page)

Bernhardt smiled. “If we increase the pressure, and he calls Sheriff Fowler, who doesn’t appear to like me very much, I could end up in jail.” He let the smile widen, gently ironic. “Would that convince you Price is innocent?”

“What’d convince me,” she said, speaking in a calm, measured voice, “is if the police find Connie’s killer. And from what you tell me about this Sheriff Fowler, I don’t think that’s about to happen.”

Bernhardt grimaced. “On that point, we’re in agreement.”

In silence, they both drank their coffee and nibbled on their sweet rolls. Then Janice Hale returned her cup to its saucer with a decisive click of fine china.

“Tomorrow,” she announced, “I’m going to drive up there. I’m going to demand to see John. I’m going to shake Dennis up, rattle his goddam cage. If I’m right, and he’s frightened, he’ll start making mistakes.”

Bernhardt smiled, shrugged, once more spread his hands. “Maybe you’re right, Janice. Maybe you’re right.”

A
HEAD, JANICE SAW THE
entrance to the winery. In the mirror, Bernhardt’s car had disappeared. Aware of a sudden uncertainty, she slowed the car, signaled for a right turn. Ready or not, the game was about to begin.

The drive from San Francisco in Sunday sight-seeing traffic had taken more than two hours. She’d gone first; Bernhardt had followed. A careful man, Bernhardt had suggested that if they became separated on the freeway, they should meet in Saint Stephen, at the small, picturesque town square that she remembered from a previous visit. Bernhardt had given her the game plan. He would park a half mile from the winery entrance, on the county road. While she confronted Price, Bernhardt would do his best to find a gap in the wire fence surrounding both the house and the vineyards. Pine trees and scrub oak bordered the road. Concealed among the trees, Bernhardt would find a vantage point that would allow him to see the house. She’d asked him what he intended to discover, watching. As rueful as an awkward, amiable teenager, he’d smiled. He had no idea what he might discover. “You get him stirred up,” Bernhardt said, “and I’ll see which way he jumps. Hopefully.” Hearing him say it, seeing the small, self-effacing smile, she could imagine him directing theater. His method would be diffident: a quiet, aw-shucks approach. Then, slowly, the cast would come to realize that Bernhardt was a determined man. Quiet, but determined. Men like Bernhardt didn’t give up.

She turned between the two stone pillars that marked the driveway. Just ahead, the graveled driveway forked. The left fork led to the circular driveway in front of the house. As she made the turn she saw Dennis’s green Porsche 911, one of his many vanities. The Porsche was parked just beyond the flagstone walkway that led to the house’s old-fashioned, full-width front porch.

She parked behind the Porsche, set the hand brake, and got out. The weather was almost perfect, no more than eighty-five degrees, a golden August afternoon in the wine country. In fog-bound San Francisco, she’d had difficulty buying the floppy straw hat she now put on as she began walking slowly toward the house. She’d only been here twice; she’d forgotten how wonderfully substantial the house was, how comforting. It was two generous stories, with a small third floor under the eaves. The construction was generous, too: hand-hewn redwood beams and cornices, shingles that were aged by the years, not chemicals. The massive chimneys and the broad front steps that led up to the verandah were fashioned of fieldstone.

A child’s coaster lay on the grass beside the flagstone walkway. Other playthings lay closeby. Suddenly she remembered John’s face as she’d seen him last, boarding the airplane at Santa Barbara. He’d waved to her, and smiled. The wave had been wistful; the smile had been sad.

Her foot had just touched the first step when the screen door swung open to reveal Dennis. With the wide brim of the straw hat concealing her face, she was a momentary stranger to him, and his lean, improbably handsome face reflected displeasure: the decadent aristocrat, confronting an unwelcome interloper. But two steps changed the angles, and surprise now overlay his displeasure as he recognized her. Surprise, quickly displaced by eye-darting caution.

“Janice. Wh—” He broke off, stepped clear of the door, came toward her with hand outstretched. “What’re you doing here?” As he spoke, his eyes left her face, obliquely straying somewhere beyond her, in the direction of the winery. Instantly, she knew why he’d looked away. John was out there somewhere.

During the entire time driving up from San Francisco, rehearsing this scene, she hadn’t decided on an opening line. Not until now, this moment, catch-as-catch-can: “I came to talk to you, Dennis.” As she withdrew her hand from his, she realized that she’d left her purse in the unlocked Celica. Already, she was making mistakes. Should she get the purse, before they went inside? It was an elemental conflict; from earliest childhood, a woman was conditioned to always be in possession of her purse.

So she briskly excused herself, walked to the Celica, retrieved the purse. Its bulk beneath her arm was reassuring; she’d been right to get it.

As she again climbed the stone steps, she saw him posing with his left arm crooked as he consulted his watch. She’d lost the initiative, then, given him time to concoct an evasive strategy, decide on a pose.

“Janice, I’m sorry, but I’ve got to be in the city by five-thirty. I was just going to get into the shower. If you’d called—” He lifted his shoulders: Dennis’s imitation of an overbred aristocratic regretfully shrugging. Dennis’s father was an actor: an unsuccessful Hollywood bit player who was constantly on stage, chronically posing. Like father, like son. It was plain in their faces: petty poseurs, otherwise unmoored.

But now, two months after Connie’s death, Dennis’s mask was slightly askew. Dennis was afraid. Behind his second-generation actor’s face, Dennis was afraid.

“Is John here?” Inquiringly, she looked behind him, through the screen door and into the wood-paneled entry hall, even though she was sure John was somewhere nearby, outside.

As he widened his stance, using his male bulk to block her entrance to the house, Price’s answer came too quickly: “No, John’s—out. He—he’s out for the day.”

“When’ll he be back? I can wait.”

As Price drew a deep, uneven breath, his aggrieved voice rose a ragged half-octave: “Listen, Janice, You—I can’t have you just—just dropping in like this, driving up here, and just dropping in. You—you should’ve called.”

“Given you fair warning …” She held his eyes until they slid away. “Is that what you’re saying?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Pumped up by his own pompous displeasure, Price tried for a note of righteous indignation: “It’s been hard enough these last two months, without this.”

“Without what, Dennis?” She spoke quietly. “Why does it bother you so much, my being here?”

“Well, it—it’s disruptive.” He blinked. Then he nodded, as if the phrase satisfied him. “It’s very disruptive.”

“Disruptive to whom?”

“Me, that’s who. I—I’m trying to put my life back together, and you—your phone calls—they bring it all back. And I—I can’t have it.”

“Actually, Dennis—” She waited until his skittish gaze finally met hers. Then, quietly: “Actually, it’s not you I want to see. It’s John. You know that.”

“Well, that—that’s what I
mean. John.
You—whenever he sees you, or talks to you on the phone, he gets upset. He gets very upset. And the doctor says—”

“That’s bullshit, Dennis. That’s nothing but bullshit. And you know it.”

Blinking rapidly now, playing the part of an outraged Colonel Blimp, he began to bluster: “The doctor doesn’t want John reliving Connie’s death. It’s unhealthy. Very unhealthy. And, in fact, the doctor’s very concerned. He—”

“I’d like to talk to this doctor. Who is he? Is he a psychiatrist?”

“Listen, Janice, this—this is exactly what I’m talking about. You come up here, and you start—”

“I’m John’s aunt, for Christ’s sake. The three of us are Connie’s beneficiaries. You and I are all John’s got. I love him—and he loves me. We
need
each other. And if this doctor of yours doesn’t recognize that, then—then—” The words wouldn’t come. Whatever they were, they wouldn’t come. Suddenly she was drained of the anger that had taken her this far. Her throat was burning; sudden tears stung her eyes. Was she going to cry? At the thought, she realized she was shaking her head, a mute protest to whatever fate was driving her.

Seeing her falter, he raised his arm again, consulted his watch. Now he spoke with more assurance, as if to patronize her: “Listen, Janice, this isn’t getting us anywhere. You may be John’s aunt, but I’m his father. It’s my responsibility to protect him as I see fit. Any lawyer’ll tell you that, legally, you don’t have any rights where John’s concerned. And right now, for the foreseeable future anyhow, I just don’t think it would be wise for me to let you—”

“What’s the ‘forseeable future,’ Dennis?” As she said it, she felt the anger return, roughening her words. Once more, tears were stinging her eyes. “Until after Connie’s will is probated, and you have the check in your hand? Is that the forseeable future?”

The blow landed. Momentarily his mouth moved impotently; his eyes faltered. But he managed a pale, desperate anger: “So that’s it. The money. That’s what’s really bothering you, isn’t it?” As if he pitied her, he shook his head. It was a mediocre portrayal of contempt. “You’re jealous because Connie left me as much as she left you.”

“It’s not jealousy, Dennis.” She let a beat pass. Then: “It’s suspicion.”

He managed a short, harsh laugh. “Ah—now we get down to it. You think I had something to do with her death. Is that what you’re saying?”

“You were here, in the house. You had the opportunity. And God knows, you had the motive.”

“The money, you mean.”

“The money. Yes.”

As if the words triggered a fury he could hardly contain, fists clenched, face contorted, he half-turned away from her. He stood motionless for a moment, head lowered, his whole body rigid. When he spoke, still half-turned away, his voice was clotted: “I think you’d better leave, Janice. I think you’d better get off my property.”

“Your
property—” Her voice rose uncontrolled. “Who signed the check, Dennis?
Who?”

“Get out. And don’t come back.”

“I’ll get out, Dennis. But I’ll be back. Count on it. I’ll be back.”

A
S HE DREW BACK
behind the trunk of a huge pine tree, Bernhardt could picture the incongruity: middle-class Jewish intellectual, New York born and bred, actor, director, a playwright with one off-Broadway play actually produced, billing his client at forty dollars an hour while he skulked behind a pine tree. What qualified him to be here? All those summers in the Berkshires, at Camp Chippewa? Making leather bookmarks for his mother?

Across the clearing, he had a clear view of the confrontation: Janice and Dennis Price, toe to toe, having it out. Now, in pantomime, Price was pointing a furious forefinger, plainly ordering his tormentor off the property.

So far, so good.

According to the script, Janice would confront Price, stir him up, demand to see John—all of this while Bernhardt, hopefully, found a vantage point from which to watch, concealed. When Janice left, so the script went, Bernhardt would remain concealed, on stakeout. Janice, meanwhile, would return to her hotel, awaiting his call. While Price, hopefully, did something incriminating.

Even at this distance, he could see the anger in the pattern of Janice’s movements and gestures as, now, she was descending the stairs from the porch, a furious Dennis Price behind her, glowering, gesticulating. “Pull out all the stops,” Bernhardt had coached her, once more the director, exhorting his female lead. Then he’d smiled, adding, “Let’s you fight him.”

In her car again, Janice was starting the engine, leaving the scene. For once, the plan was playing out according to the script—at least in its first scene, first act.

S
TILL STANDING ON THE
porch, right hand shading his eyes, Price watched Janice’s bright red Celica stop at the county road, then turn left.

If she were going to San Francisco, directly to San Francisco, she would have turned right. Was she going to Saint Stephen? Was she staying in Saint Stephen, at a motel? Would she talk to Sheriff Fowler?

Behind him, the screen door squeaked on its hinges. Maria. He’d forgotten Maria. Standing in the open doorway, a big, solidly built Mexican woman with an impassive Inca face, she had her purse in one hand and a plastic shopping bag in the other, ready to leave. He’d promised her the evening off. And tomorrow, too.

But he couldn’t do it, couldn’t let her go. He had to find Theo, had to talk to her. But he couldn’t leave John alone, not with Janice there, not with Bernhardt surely somewhere close by. Martelli? Could he send John to Martelli’s house, as he sometimes did? No. Martelli was—what was the word? Disloyal?

“Maria, listen—” He smiled, reached for his wallet. “I know I promised you the night off. But something’s come up. A problem.
Comprende?”
As he scanned the broad, brown peasant face, he took a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet. Yes, the black eyes glinted, following the money. “I need you to stay with John, until I take care of the problem—three, four hours, maybe. It’s very important.”

Still eyeing the bill, she said, “But
mi hermana
—my sister. I meet her in Saint Stephen. At the bus station. Al, he will drive me.”

“When?”

She shrugged her wide, meaty shoulders. “Maybe in an hour. Whenever Al say, we’ll go. My sister, she’s already at the station, I think.”

As she spoke, he looked in the direction of the winery, and the vineyards beyond. Earlier in the day, an irrigation pump had failed. Martelli was working on the pump. Of course, John had tagged along—to “help.” Wherever Martelli went, John was close behind.

“Al and John are in the vineyard, working,” he said. “They aren’t back yet. But when they come back, either Al or I will meet your sister at the bus station. We’ll tell her that you have to stay here, this evening. We’ll explain that there’s a problem.”