CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Tampa, Florida

Monday 7:00 p.m.

February 19, 2001

ARMED WITH HIS LIST of potential witnesses to contact this evening, Larry prepared to leave, promising to return early tomorrow to interview Margaret. He asked to see me for a minute, privately. We moved into the den, alone, and closed the door, leaving the others having cocktails without us.

Larry got right to the point. “I need to discuss Ron’s will with you, Willa. I’ve got to tell Margaret about it in the morning and you need to hear it first.”

“I know. I’m sorry I didn’t get to your office today, but I had just a little bit of distraction,” I said wryly. “Let’s do it now.”

“I was hoping you’d suggest that, so I brought things with me.” Larry pulled out a thin file and began to tell me about its contents. “I’ve known Ron and Margaret Wheaton for a long time.”

Larry explained that he had prepared wills for the Wheatons when he first started his practice. Then, about a year ago, when Ron was diagnosed with ALS and they knew he would die before Margaret, the Wheatons came to see him for financial planning advice.

“We drafted Ron a new will and helped them arrange their financial matters so that Margaret would inherit everything they had as simply and reasonably free of taxes as we could make it,” he said.

“I’m confused. I thought you said Ron had named me as his executor?”

Larry nodded. “About two months ago, Ron came back to see me. Alone. He said he was worried about Margaret. He was afraid that, after he died, someone would try to take advantage of her. Take her money. He wanted to restructure his estate so that Margaret would have someone else looking after her best interests.” He looked at me directly now. “Ron specifically wanted you.”

“But why? Margaret has a good head on her shoulders. She’s been handling everything very well, I think. Why would he do that?”

“That’s all he told me.” Larry had tried to talk to him further about it, especially since he knew Ron was depressed. “Ron never suggested that he might commit suicide, Willa. He wouldn’t say anything more except that he knew you would take care of Margaret.”

Larry reached into his pocket and pulled out his hand, which he held out to me, palm up. “And he left this safety deposit box key for you. He said to give it to you after he died.” Larry handed me the small envelope containing the key. “The downtown branch of AmSouth Bank. I’ve arranged it so that you can go over there and open it whenever you’re ready.”

I took the envelope from him, opened it and shook the small key out into my hand. “Okay, Larry. I’ll check it out.”

“Do it soon. Margaret probably has a few thousand dollars in her checking account and not much else. She’ll need money. And she needs to have this all resolved.”

Larry left me, bewildered, holding the key and its little cardboard envelope.

Had Ron Wheaton been worried about something in particular, or was he just being overly protective of Margaret when he changed his will? I had known that Margaret was somehow involved with Armstrong Otter before Ron died, and I didn’t like it, then or now.

Maybe Ron had known, too. If Otter had been Ron’s concern, it was not something we had to worry about any longer, now that Otter was dead.

I would go to the bank as soon as I could get there and hope that Ron had left me some explanation for his actions in that safety deposit box.

After Larry left, George and I discussed the facts as we knew them for a while longer before my growling stomach led me to suggest that we go downstairs for dinner. Dad and Suzanne joined us.

“Just what do we know about this Otter character, anyway?” Dad asked, when Suzanne left to powder her nose. After George had given him the thumbnail sketch of Otter’s credentials, I told them both about my visit to his gallery in Pass-a-Grille on Saturday.

“According to the CJ, almost everyone in South Tampa except us had dealt with Otter at one time or another,” I said.

“But I dealt with him, too, Willa,” George responded. “He was recommended to me by several of our friends. I took some of Aunt Minnie’s estate jewelry over to him for cleaning and restoration once. I thought he did a good job. That’s when I saw his studio and first became familiar with his work. Then, I bought your anniversary gift from Otter two years ago. The platinum Minaret pendant with the tourmaline and diamonds in it.”

“Really? I had no idea. Was he reasonable to deal with?”

“Well, the cost of the restoration work was not out of line, based on what I’d had done before. I can’t say the pendant was cheap, but I thought it was reasonable at the time,” George said. “Our insurance agent didn’t demur when I told him to add the pendant to our home-owner’s policy at the price I paid for it. But I’ve never had it appraised.”

“Based on my experience, maybe you should,” Dad told him. “Maybe you should have all of the jewelry Otter touched appraised.”

George’s beloved face took on an alarmed appearance. “Why would I do that? Otter had a sterling reputation. Everyone we know has bought from him at one time or another. I feel terrible about what happened to you, Jim. I even recommended him to you. I had no idea.”

I told them about the Fitzgerald House case, how Otter had sold fakes to the widow and passed them off as “Jewels of the World,” and collected a million dollars from her. I also told them about the allegations in the criminal case. I thought the civil cases might proceed against Otter’s estate, but the criminal case would now be dismissed.

After hearing about the claims against Otter, George was champing at the bit to go to his own safety deposit box and get Aunt Minnie’s old jewelry out for appraisal. Of course, the bank was closed.

George stood left to call another jeweler to schedule an appraisal appointment while Dad and I finished our coffee.

“I thought this was such a sleepy little town. In all the years I’ve worked in New York, there’s never been a murder in a place I was sleeping. What kind of a city have you moved to here, Willa?” Dad teased me, but weakly.

In truth, I was more than a little shocked myself. We have relatively little crime here in South Tampa. The police blotter is printed in the South Tampa News every week and it’s usually a few petty burglaries, one or two “throwing deadly missiles” and three or less “criminal mischiefs.”

Deaths happen all the time around here. Indeed, the second highest volume of export from the Tampa International Airport is dead bodies, after tropical fish. All those retirees who come here to live their last days in the sun return to their northern homes to be buried in the cold when they can no longer feel it. I guess the theory is that if the departed are close by, the loved ones will take better care of the graves and remember them longer.

Ron Wheaton’s death in George’s restaurant had upset me more than it seemed to upset Margaret at the time. I had to acknowledge that. She’d returned to work two days later and seemed to be almost lighthearted. I’d thought she was just putting on a brave face, but maybe she was happy that Ron had passed out of the way.

I went to a memorial service for a minister’s wife where a Dixieland Jazz Band played “When the Saints Go Marching In,” because both she and her husband felt that the best of life comes after death. I had put Margaret’s behavior down to similar feelings, particularly in light of Ron’s terminal illness.

But, what if Margaret’s actions were attributable to something else? Could Margaret have killed her husband? Or at least, could she have known Ron was planning to kill himself? I had to at least acknowledge the possibility.

Armstrong Otter’s death, from what I’d heard about it so far, could easily have been an accident. A fall, hitting his head, probably resulted in a subdural hematoma which was eventually fatal. In the Ybor City crowd Saturday night, it would have been easy for him to have been jostled to the ground, with no one ill-intentioned.

Lying undiscovered on a side street north of all the main action for several hours wasn’t outside the realm of likelihood, either. Not on such a cold and busy night. By the wee hours, most people would have tired of the struggle to stay warm and gone home.

So far as I knew now, Otter was a casualty of a few too many drinks and a few too many people on a busy and cold night.

Although Dad admitted to pushing Otter down, I wasn’t about to disclose that to Hathaway as an alternative theory of death. When Dad left Otter, he was on Seventh Avenue, not Eighteenth Street. Otter yelled back at Dad from the ground. And Otter had friends with him who would have taken care of him then. No, Dad wasn’t responsible. I wouldn’t even consider that.

If Hathaway’s investigation pointed in Dad’s direction, I’d deal with that problem when it arose. For now, I wouldn’t believe Margaret had pushed Otter to his death, either. She wasn’t physically strong enough to kill him, even if she’d wanted to.

And I was certain Margaret had been genuinely surprised and devastated by the news that Otter was dead when Hathaway told us so today.

Margaret didn’t kill Ron or Otter. No doubt about it in my mind.

Well, almost no doubt.

I had four days left to train for the Gasparilla Distance Classic. The race is one of the biggest running events in Florida, often voted the best race and among the top ten races in the United States. The Gasparilla Distance Classic Association has donated more than $2 million to local charities and sponsors other running events.

If I finished the race, Young Mothers’ Second Chance would collect $10,000 from the corporate sponsors I’d lined up. If I won, which was highly unlikely, Young Mothers’ would get $20,000. But I could place in the first five finishers and, if I did, the moms would get a five-figure check.

It was a powerful motivator to haul my butt out of a nice warm bed the next morning before daylight and pull on my running clothes. When the dogs and I got outside, I was tempted to go back upstairs for my polar fleece, but I resisted and started my run at a slow, loping pace to warm up. By the time I got to the north end of the island, I was freezing, so I stepped up the pace. One lap, I told myself, just one. I could do one lap. I’d have to do more in the classic, but I hoped it would be warmer.

I struggled through the entire run and finally made it back to the house. Harry and Bess beat me back and had plunged headlong into Hillsborough Bay. They were frolicking around in the water as if it didn’t contain ice cubes. Figuratively, of course. I had to stand around, stomping my feet and watching my breath come out in huge white puffs while they worked off their excess energy.

Margaret was up and about when I returned to the kitchen after a long, hot shower. She and George were having coffee and toast in the kitchen. It was about seven o’clock and Larry Davis would be here in a half hour. I wanted a turn at asking Margaret my own questions first.

Looking her in the eye, I told her I’d asked Larry Davis to take on her case.

“Thank you, Willa,” she said, surprising me by accepting my decision. “I’ve known Larry for years, of course. His parents were always kind to my mother. If I have to have a lawyer, I have a lot of confidence in him.”

Her comment startled me. Larry hadn’t said he didn’t know Margaret well. But I’d assumed he didn’t know her because he’d acted like he believed she was capable of murder. Which I thought preposterous. I’d assumed our difference of opinion was based on his lack of knowledge.

“I’m sure he’ll be able to make payment arrangements with you if you need them,” George told her.

Margaret’s response was another surprise. “That shouldn’t be necessary. I’ll collect Ron’s life insurance soon and then I’ll be a rich woman.” Then she said with some quiet irony, “That is, if they’ll pay it to a woman suspected of killing him.”

Which, I knew, the company would never do. Like many states, Florida law prohibits killers from profiting from their own actions. The insurance company would stop payment faster than a stock broker can say “profits.”

“Since you didn’t kill him, it shouldn’t be a problem,” I said, “You didn’t kill him, did you?”

She said, “I didn’t kill him. I wasn’t sorry that he died, though I do miss the man I spent half my life with. He’d been wasting away every day. He was weaker, he could barely walk. For Ron, it was a slow and certain, painful death.”

She stared at her coffee and tears welled. “It was so hard for him. We talked about it every day. He was still mentally sharp as ever. He remembered things better than I did. That made it worse. I think it would’ve been better if he hadn’t known how he would eventually die. Older people aren’t afraid of death usually. We just want to die in a reasonable way. There is nothing about ALS that’s reasonable. Nothing!”

She slammed the cup down on the table. Coffee splashed. She ruefully wiped the spill off the table with her napkin.

“Do you know what killed Ron?” George asked her.

“No. I guess I thought it was a heart attack. Most ALS patients die from respiratory failure, was what the doctors told us. But Ron was a long way from that. I just figured his bad heart got him. He should have had bypass surgery a couple of years ago. He was on nitroglycerine several times a day. He wasn’t a good surgical candidate. And he wanted to die of a heart attack. He always said it would be better to die quickly.” Her chin quivered at this, fresh tears glassing her eyes.

Larry Davis came in just at the tail end of her answer. He bent down to give Margaret a kiss on the cheek. “Good morning, everyone. Willa, George. Is there somewhere I can talk privately with my client?”

“Sure, Larry, but I’d like to talk to you when you’re finished. Would you stop by my office? And Margaret, you’re welcome to stay here as long as you like. Don’t feel you have to go home or come into work today,” I told her.

Margaret looked grateful and nodded without response. Larry promised to call me after his client conference. He looked at me over Margaret’s head in a way that I interpreted as meaning he had information to share. I showed them into the den, closed the door, and prepared to leave for my office, feeling even better with the choice of lawyer I’d made.

If anyone could defend Margaret with the kind of quiet competence and dignity she deserved, it was Larry. We have quite a few flamboyant criminal defense lawyers here in town who would have taken the case. Particularly if they knew Margaret had plenty of money to pay them with. But the best ones weren’t so well known or expensive. Although a criminal defense lawyer isn’t something you want to buy from a discount chain. One always needs the best money can buy. Criminal justice in this country is definitely more available to the rich than the poor. It’s not a fact we’re proud of, but there it is.