After meeting with the judge and Mahoney at two, Barbara told Frank, “He’s waffling. He hasn’t decided yet, but he will before closing statements. I think he’s leaning toward striking the picture.” She didn’t add that Judge Laughton had also said that one more such stunt from her, and she would sit the rest of the trial out in jail for contempt of court.
Frank had expected as much, but the jury had seen it and they would remember, no matter what the judge told them to consider in their deliberations.
Nora Wenzel was called to the stand. The whole family was in court again, all neat and clean and sober-faced. Elena Wenzel, Luther’s wife, attended that afternoon. She was tall and slender with hair the color of ripe wheat and blue eyes, and a minimum of makeup. She looked like the perfect wife for a rising young executive. Barbara thought fleetingly that they had missed a bet, they should have brought their two-year-old toddler with them to round out the picture of a wholesome family.
Nora’s pale raw silk suit with a matching blouse, and a single strand of pearls, seemed to whisper good taste and money, but she still had on too much makeup. She was sworn in and gave some brief background. She had been with the company from its start and was a corporate director along with her husband. Her voice, not as sultry as it had been in Barbara’s office, sounded refined, elegant and cool. She looked Barbara over when she stood up and did not look directly at her again as she testified. She looked and sounded a little bored.
“So you were aware of the various Wenzel Corporation enterprises. Is that correct?” Barbara asked.
“Yes, I was and still am.”
“Were you aware that the Cascadia Motel, restaurant and lounge had been having financial difficulties in the past few years?”
“I was.”
“Were you aware of the complaint lodged by Ms. Frederick about the behavior of Mr. Joe Wenzel?”
“Yes. My husband and I talked about it, certainly.”
Barbara asked her to relate what they did subsequently, and she repeated Larry’s story almost word for word.
“How long did you stay in the lounge that night and listen to Ms. Frederick play?”
“We left when she took her break. We had seen quite enough. Just another showgirl who had caught Joe’s eye.”
“You both decided your interest in the matter was solely a business concern. Is that correct?”
“Yes. Joe’s romantic affairs were none of our business.”
“Do you know if your husband talked to his brother about the matter?”
“Yes. He told me he had talked to Joe.”
“When did he talk to his brother?”
“I don’t remember.”
“When did he tell you he had done so?”
“I don’t remember. That was not a pressing issue.”
“Were you in San Francisco the week of July twenty-ninth to August third?”
“Probably about then.”
“On July thirty did you visit a wig shop?”
“No.”
“Did you buy a wig while you were in San Francisco?”
“No.”
“When did you buy a wig, Mrs. Wenzel?”
“In September, right after Labor Day.”
“Where did you buy it?”
“A shop in Portland. I don’t recall the name of it.”
“Did you retain a receipt?”
“No.”
Barbara picked up the wig from the exhibit table. “Was the wig you bought like this one?”
“It looked like that.”
“Did you have a fitting, need an adjustment made to the one you bought?”
“No. I just tried it on and bought it.”
Barbara regarded her for a moment, then asked, “How much did you pay for the wig you bought?”
“Four hundred dollars. I paid cash.”
“I see. How much after Labor Day would you say it was when you bought your wig?”
“Just a day or two. I don’t remember exactly.”
“How did it happen that you bought a wig at that time, Mrs. Wenzel?”
Nora had not for a moment lacked self-confidence, but she looked almost triumphant when she said, “I was on a planning committee to stage a Halloween masquerade party to raise money for the homeless. I saw the wig in the shop window and decided on the spur of the moment to buy it and dress as Cleopatra for the party.”
Barbara returned to her table, leaned over and whispered to Frank, “Get Sylvia.” He stood up and walked out. She turned back to Nora.
“Did you already have a picture of how you wanted the hair to be arranged when you bought the wig?”
“No. I had to hunt for a suitable picture. I hadn’t thought of it before.”
“Did you obliterate the serial number in the wig you bought?”
“No. I never saw a number in it. The previous owner might have done so. I don’t know.”
The triumphant gleam had come back to her eyes. Another gotcha, Barbara thought. “Do you mean that the wig you bought was a used wig?” She looked Nora over and raised her eyebrows.
“Yes. For my purposes it didn’t matter.”
“Where is that wig now?”
“I threw it in the trash after the party.”
Barbara looked from Nora to the jurors, who were remaining impassive, and shrugged slightly. Not a person on that jury could have bought such a wig and then just tossed it.
“Were you on friendly terms with your brother-in-law?” she asked Nora, keeping her voice noncommittal.
“Relatively friendly.”
“Did you meet him for lunch, or have him to dinner, invite him to parties, things of that sort?”
“No. It was a friendly business relationship.”
“On Friday, August ninth, who arranged for Joe Wenzel to meet you at the garage and drive you home?”
“My husband suggested it.”
“Does the garage provide a courtesy car for its customers?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do both of your sons work at the same office complex where you have an office?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you ask one of your sons to drive you home that day?”
“My son Luther was out with a prospective client all afternoon and my other son was at a meeting.” She seemed bored again.
“Did you know that your husband would be out all day?”
“We thought he would be home by the time I got there.”
“Did Joe Wenzel come into the garage when he met you there?”
“No. He drove to the curb and blew the horn. I was ready to leave and went out to the car.”
“What kind of car was he driving?”
“A black Lexus.”
“And you had no trouble recognizing it?”
“No.”
“Was that a company car?”
“Yes.”
“Does your husband drive a black Lexus also?”
“Sometimes he does on company business.”
“When you got to the car did you notice that Joe Wenzel had been drinking?”
“Not until I got inside.”
“Did that alarm you? To be driving with someone who had been drinking enough for it to be noticeable?”
She hesitated a moment, then said, “Yes. But I was already in and he was already driving.”
“Was he using vulgar language that day?”
“Yes. He always did when he was drinking.”
“Why didn’t you sign the check and hand it to him and take a taxi home?”
“I didn’t think of it. And Larry wanted to talk to him.”
“Mrs. Wenzel, your husband testified that he didn’t talk to his brother when he had been drinking. Are you saying now that he would have talked to him that day?”
She hesitated again, longer this time. “I didn’t know he had been drinking until I got in the car. We didn’t expect him to start drinking so early in the day.”
Barbara had been aware that Frank had returned, and now she went to the table to ask if he had reached Sylvia. “Another half hour,” he said. “She’ll be here with her engagement book.” It was three-thirty.
Then, addressing Nora again, she asked, “Did you ever use the room at the motel reserved for your family?”
“No. I never was in it.”
“Do you have a key for it?”
Mahoney objected and was sustained. Judge Laughton looked impatient, as if he wanted a bit of refreshment.
“Did you call your brother-in-law on Saturday?” Barbara asked. Nora’s eyes narrowed and her mouth tightened. Bull’s-eye, Barbara thought.
“No. I didn’t.”
“Did you know that Joe Wenzel owned a handgun?” she asked.
“I know he used to. I didn’t know he still did.”
“Were your sons on friendly terms with their uncle?”
Her eyes narrowed again. “Yes, they were.”
“They didn’t object or resent it that he was on a large salary and did little or no work for the company?”
“Objection!” Mahoney yelled.
“Sustained. Move on, Counselor,” Judge Laughton said to Barbara.
She shrugged. “No further questions at this time.”
When she sat down, Shelley showed her a note that had just one word: Botox. She grinned, then looked up to see Nora watching her the way a snake might watch a mouse. She smiled at Nora who turned away quickly. Barbara wrote her own note and passed it to Frank. Bailey, where was Luther that day?
Mahoney’s questions were harmless. He had Nora repeat some of her statements and go into a few more details about the committee that had organized the masquerade party.
When Nora was excused, she looked as if she had won a fierce competition, and Barbara asked permission to approach the bench.
“Your Honor,” she said, “I would like a short recess at this time. I have one more witness for today, one not on my witness list. She should be here any minute.”
“I object,” Mahoney said. “It’s too late in the game to be bringing in undisclosed witnesses without time to examine their statements.”
“It’s Mrs. Sylvia Fenton,” Barbara said. “Just to clarify some facts about the committee for that masquerade party.”
“Will she be brief?” the judge asked.
“Yes. Just that one point about the committee and the timing.”
She looked at Mahoney. “Fair’s fair,” she said. “You brought in an undisclosed witness earlier. Remember?”
Laughton shook his head at her. “Enough. We’ll have a recess and then call her.”
Sylvia could enter her magic closet and emerge as a scrubwoman, Peter Pan, a can-can dancer, Florence Nightingale, or whatever else was demanded. She was older than sixty and probably younger than eighty, but where she fitted in between Frank had never been able to guess. He had seen her in jeans and a plaid flannel shirt, as well as a slinky black evening gown, and she wore whatever it was with a certain elan. That day she appeared to be either the queen mother, or else the grandmother on her way to church with a turkey in the oven and pumpkin pie cooling on the counter. She wore a shapeless gray suit, a gray hat with a pink flower, fawn gray gloves, sensible low black shoes and black hose. What hair showed from under the hat was snow-white, although without the wig she might reveal lime-green hair, or sky-blue, or even be bald.
When she took the witness stand, she inclined her head respectfully toward the judge, bowed slightly more toward the jury and nodded at Mahoney, then folded her hands before her and regarded Barbara with interest. She did not acknowledge Frank with so much as a glance.
“Mrs. Fenton,” Barbara said, “will you please tell the court some of the charitable committees and causes you have been involved with over the past few years.”
It was an impressive list: Food for Lane County, Women-space, Friends of the Library, Literacy Forum, Oasis for the Elderly, the Red Cross…She served either as a committee member, a director or the chair. Her voice was clear and the words articulated in a way that suggested her past as an actress at one time. She had presence, Frank thought, listening.
“This past fall, for Halloween, did you organize a new fund-raising endeavor?” Barbara asked.
“Yes, I did. It was to raise money for the homeless.”
“Please tell the court how that came about.”
“In mid-September it occurred to me that with so many ongoing projects to raise money for the neediest among us, there was a certain lassitude setting in, a certain reluctance to subscribe to yet another cause. There are so many requests that one becomes weary of being asked over and over. Yet, with winter approaching, I worried about the homeless whose needs are so very great. I began to think of a way to interest others with the thought that once one becomes involved, that involvement often is continuing. And I thought of a masquerade party, an event that would provide entertainment and also raise money. I wanted a steering committee to help organize it, and since time was running short, I knew I could not delay. In the following few days I began calling on others to contribute time and effort, and I invited seven women to a luncheon at which time we put together the final plans.”
“When did you have the luncheon meeting?” Barbara asked.
Sylvia reached into her purse and brought out a red-leather bound notebook. “I have it noted in my engagement calendar,” she said, and flipped through it. “Yes. Here it is. Our first meeting was on September 23, a Monday.”
“Was Mrs. Nora Wenzel among the women at that luncheon?”
“Yes, she was.”
“Did you make a note of when you contacted her about it?”
Sylvia looked at the notebook again, then nodded. “Yes. I called on her at her office on Friday, September 20, at four in the afternoon.”
“At that time did you tell her that you were planning the masquerade party?”
“No. I wanted to save that for the luncheon when I could get comments from everyone. I said I was organizing a fund-raiser to help the homeless, and I promised that it would not involve biweekly or monthly meetings, that it was to be a onetime event. Later, after we realized how successful it was, we decided to make it an annual affair.”
“At that luncheon was the idea of the masquerade received with enthusiasm?”
“My goodness, yes. Everyone loved the idea.”
“Did the women discuss how they would dress for it?”
“Some of us did. One woman said she had always wanted to be Marie Antoinette and this was her chance. I said I would be Medusa. Everyone was enjoying thinking of costumes and talking about them.”
“Did Nora Wenzel mention her costume?”
“Yes. She said she would be Cleopatra. I remember that Alice Bernhan said if the rains started early she could arrive by boat.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Fenton,” Barbara said. “No further questions.” Sylvia inclined her head in a little bow and turned her bright gaze toward Mahoney.
“Mrs. Fenton,” he asked, “did you talk about this idea with anyone when you first thought of it?”
“Yes. I talked with my husband. He thought it a splendid idea.”
“Do you know if he discussed it with anyone else?”
She smiled slightly. “My husband never discusses anything with anyone,” she said. One or two of the jurors smiled as if they knew all about such husbands.
“Do you have a secretary?” Mahoney asked.
“Yes.”
“Did you discuss the party idea with her?”
“Of course I did. She helped with the names and telephone numbers, and she saw to the invitations.”
“Did you talk it over with her before mid-September?”
“Before I even thought of it? Of course not.”
“Is it possible that with such a novel party idea, she might have mentioned it to others?”
“Absolutely not. She is my confidential secretary. She has been with me for twenty-seven years.”
“Since the party was not going to be a secret, isn’t it possible that she might have spoken of it without breaking a confidence?”
“Sir,” Sylvia said, drawing herself up straighter, “a confidential secretary never discusses an employer’s business. She would cut out her tongue before she would mention a thing that is said between us.”
And that was the queen mother asserting herself, Frank thought, and doing a damn fine job of it, too. She looked haughty and as regal as hell.
Mahoney shook his head and made a slight waving of the hand gesture, as if to say he knew better, but he sat down with no more questions.
When they left the courtroom, the Wenzels were being photographed and asked questions by half a dozen reporters. One of them broke away and approached Barbara. “What are you suggesting with that business about the wig?” He motioned to a photographer who began to snap their pictures. Carrie ducked her head.
“Sorry,” Barbara said, and drew her finger across her lips as she stepped between the photographer and Carrie. “No comment. Judge’s orders.”
“They’re giving a regular press conference. Don’t you want to answer them?”
“Can’t,” she said and moved on. None of the Wenzels paid any attention to her group as they headed for the stairs.