Palm Beach Perfidious, page 16
“No, but I’ve been to Vermont. Same thing, right?”
“Similar.” And he proceeded to tell Ott what he had learned from Bettina.
“I’d say those are two people we definitely should be checking out,” Ott said. “I mean, he sounds like a guy who’s capable of violence. Oh, hey, what were you going to tell me about Janny Hasleiter?”
Crawford nodded. “That’s the other person we need to talk to.”
“Why? What’s the story?”
“According to Waverly Bangs, she might have been the female version of Harvey Weinstein.”
“Except with… guys, you mean?”
“You got it,” Crawford said, and told Ott about Waverly Bangs suspecting that Janny Hasleiter might have been blackmailed by Antonia von Habsburg for big money.
“But maybe Waverly told you that to take the spotlight off of her,” Ott said.
“Yeah, I thought of that and could be. But Hasleiter… I’ve already put in a call to her. I mean. I’d like to try to see her before we go north.”
“Maybe if she turns out to be our killer, we can skip the trip north.”
“Yeah, maybe, but I still think the Swains look like good possibles,” Crawford said. “In any case, I’m gonna talk to Norm. Get him to authorize us going up there.”
“Is it cold up there this time of year. I mean, do I need a parka or anything?”
Crawford laughed. “It’s summer, man. Even in New Hampshire, it’s nice in the summer.”
“Want me to go with you to talk to Norm?”
“Nah, the whole thing’ll probably cost less than a thousand bucks. I think he’ll be good with that.”
How wrong he was.
THIRTY-TWO
“New Hampshire? What? You going skiing or something?” Norm asked. “I mean, you really think they got guys up there creative enough to have done this job?”
“Creative? What are you talking about? How about sadistic?”
“Well, okay, that too. You know how some guys feel about their mothers-in-law.”
Crawford shook his head. He wondered if maybe Rutledge had had a few pops at lunch. “Are you trying to be funny, Norm? I mean, I come to you with a credible perp and you’re cracking mother-in-law jokes.”
“Hey, relax, will ya. I just can’t see a guy from New Hampshire doing this job.”
“What difference does it make where he’s from? It’s all about motive.”
“So you’re saying because he’s after his mother-in-law’s money?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying. And now that I think about it, there’s a possibility that he and his wife might have taken a bunch of her very expensive jewelry. And possibly fenced it around here somewhere.”
“How do you come up with that?”
“Because they missed their flight back up north the day before her murder. Maybe intentionally. And when Ott and I went through von Habsburg’s house, we got the sense a bunch of jewelry was missing. So, my theory is, they might have gone to a few places around here and fenced it. Probably a hell of a lot more places to do it around here than in Walpole, New Hampshire.”
“What about Hartford? I’m sure they got places there.”
Crawford nodded. “Yeah, that’s a possibility.”
“So this is the best guy you’ve come up with in a whole week? No, make that eight days, now.”
“We got others, but I also have a hunch that Steve and Abby Swain might just show up in one of Antonia von Habsburg’s wills.”
“Wills… plural?”
“Yeah, there’re already two, with two different beneficiaries.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
Rutledge put his hand to his chin in an imitation of The Thinker, as if perspicacious thoughts would course through his brain now. Crawford couldn’t wait for them.
“I’m going to call Perry Jastrow, von Habsburg’s lawyer, and find out if he’s heard anything about a third will.”
“From a lawyer representing these people the Swains, you mean?”
“Yeah, exactly.”
“Let me think about this for a minute,” Rutledge said.
Crawford could practically hear the clanking.
Finally. “All right. But do you really need Ott?”
“Course I need Ott. He’s my partner.”
“Yes, I’m well aware of that. But this seems like a one-man job.”
“Norm, I need him. Okay?”
The customary Rutledge theatrical sigh came next. “All right.”
Then he had an afterthought. “I don’t s’pose this is ’cause you want to go up there for some reunion at that fancy ivy-league college of yours? Figured you needed a wingman.”
Crawford thought it was a toss-up as to who had the worse sense of humor: Rutledge or LV Wurfel.
THIRTY-THREE
The earliest flight Bettina was able to book to Hartford was one that left at eleven thirty in the morning. For Crawford and Ott, it was a pretty uneventful flight. No unruly passengers which seemed to be the “new normal” post-Covid. Bettina had rented them a car at Enterprise and they were pulling out of the lot now. Ott, who it had been decided a long time ago was the better driver of the two, was at the wheel of the Chevy Cruze. They crossed the Connecticut River and got onto Interstate 91.
“I’ll be giving you a travelogue since we’ll be approaching my old stomping grounds,” Crawford said.
“Oh, goodie. Can’t wait,” Ott said, flipping on his blinker to pass an eighteen-wheeler. “We ever get out to Cleveland, I’ll repay the favor.”
“You can point out that burning river you got out there,” Crawford said.
“Oh, yeah, the good ol’ Cuyahoga.”
“So, the Connecticut River, when we get further north, divides Vermont and New Hampshire.”
“I did not know that,” Ott said. “Okay, geography quiz: What river divides Ohio from Kentucky and West Virginia.”
“West Virginia? Ohio borders West Virginia?”
“Sure does.”
Crawford thought for a moment. “Um, I’m going with either the Allegheny or the Ohio?”
“Okay, which one?”
“The Allegheny.”
“Ahhhnn!” Ott made the Jeopardy buzzer sound. “Sorry. The Ohio.”
Crawford shook his head. “Okay, I got one for you. If the Pro Football Hall of Fame is in Canton, what’s in Springfield, Massachusetts, which we’re about to drive through in about fifteen minutes.”
“What do you mean, ‘If the Pro Football Hall of Fame is in Canton’? There’s no if about it, it is.”
Crawford laughed. “Okay, okay, it’s a figure of speech. What’s in Springfield, Mass?”
“Ah, the Bowling Hall of Fame?”
“Come on, man, don’t insult Springfield. The Basketball Hall of Fame.”
“That was my second guess.”
They rode in silence for the next ten miles. “Lotta of hills in this part of the world,” Ott said.
“Yeah, mountains, too.”
“So I’m guessing you were a skier, along with all your other athletic conquests.”
“Yup. We had this place twenty minutes away from college called the Dartmouth Skiway. Broke my leg there. Trying to impress this girl.”
“Show-off.”
There it is,” Crawford pointed as they passed through Springfield: a big white pillar with an oversized basketball and a sign that read: “Naismith Memorial Basketball Hall of Fame.”
“Maybe check it out on the way back if we got this Swain dude in the back seat in handcuffs.”
Crawford nodded. “Yeah, that would be nice. Get Rutledge off our backs.”
Crawford’s cell phone rang as they were on the outskirts of Springfield.
He looked down at the display. “Oh, good,” he said, “this is Perry Jastrow, von Habsburg’s attorney.” He clicked the green button and put it on speaker. “Thanks for getting back to me, Mr. Jastrow.”
“Sure, Charlie. What do you need to know?”
“Just one question: have you heard from Ms. von Habsburg’s daughter or attorney about yet another will?”
“No, I haven’t. Abby Swain, you mean?” Jastrow said.
“Yes, that’s her.”
“I just know about the ones naming Frank Lincoln and Esmerelda Ortega as beneficiaries. We’ve got to find out which is legit.”
“What happens if they’re both legit but have different dates on them?” Crawford asked.
“I’ve had that happen before and it’s a real mess. The probate judge makes the call and, I can guarantee you, somebody’s always pissed off and ready to sue when it’s all said and done.”
“I hear you,” Crawford said. “Well, thanks for getting back to me. Let me know if you get anything that might help me.”
“Will do.” He clicked off.
“I’m thinking we just show up on the Swains’ doorstep rather than call,” Crawford told Ott. “The usual MO.”
“Yeah, I agree. Otherwise, they could be conveniently busy or heading out of town.”
Crawford’s cell rang again. He looked down at it. “Speaking of Bettina,” he said, putting her on speaker. “Hey, Bettina, what’s up?”
“So in my never-ending quest to keep you and Mort up to speed, I have a scoop for you.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“Guess who lives in Walpole, New Hampshire?”
“Besides the Swains?”
“Yes, and your clue is the king of documentaries.”
“Ken Burns?” Ott said.
“Bingo,” said Bettina, “Very good, Mort.”
“What’s he doing in a little burg like that?” Crawford asked.
“I don’t know, but scoop number two is he’s got a restaurant there, too.”
“Called?”
“Burdick’s, and it sounds really good. Put it this way: where in Palm Beach can you get a fourteen-ounce steak for thirty-three bucks?”
“Nowhere.”
“Or there’s something called Ken’s Salad—grilled salmon, Bibb lettuce, avocado, lemon vinaigrette—twenty-three bucks.”
“Make us a reservation, will ya?” Ott said.
“One step ahead of you. Six o’clock tonight. It was either that or eight.”
“Yeah, that’s too late. Thanks, you’re a doll,” Ott said. “What’s the address?”
“47 Main Street.”
“Which may be the only street in Walpole,” said Ott.
“No,” Bettina said, “there’s at least one more because the Swains live on Prospect Hill Road. Number 33, to be exact.”
“Right,” Crawford said. “We should be arriving there in about a half hour. We’re outside of Brattleboro, Vermont, at the moment.”
“Brattleboro? That’s a real name?”
“Yup. It’s a thriving metropolis,” Crawford said.
Bettina laughed. “All right, well, let me know if you need anything else.”
“You’ve been calling that number for Janny Hasleiter I gave you, right?” Crawford asked.
“Sure have. Left four messages, but no call back.”
“Okay, try to get the number of the studio in Hollywood she works with. Or a West Coast number. She might be out there.”
“Okay, I’m on it.”
“Thanks,” Crawford said. “When do you have us leaving tomorrow, again?”
“At 3:40 p.m. out of Bradley.”
“Good deal.”
“Tell Ken, Bettina sends her regards,” she said.
THIRTY-FOUR
They drove into the driveway of the house at 33 Prospect Hill Road twenty-five minutes later. It was a large white Georgian with black shutters and a porte cochere in front. Straight ahead was a three-car garage and what appeared to be a two-story guesthouse; to the right, a pool and a vast garden.
“This is really nice,” Ott said. “I’d say the Swains are doing all right for themselves.”
Crawford pointed at a black BMW. “Yeah, no kidding. Car’s pretty new.”
Ott, car guy he was, nodded. “Last year’s Bimmer.”
They got out of the Cruze and walked up to the front door. Crawford looked down at this watch. It was 4:10 p.m.
Ott hit the buzzer and a few moments later a woman in her late twenties, with nice skin and unfashionably thick glasses, opened the door.
“Mrs. Swain?” Crawford asked.
“Yes,” she said quizzically, as if seeing two men in ties in her little town was as rare as an alligator on the back lawn.
“My name is Detective Crawford and this is my partner, Detective Ott. We’re from the Palm Beach Police Department and we’re investigating the death of your mother.”
Abby Swain nodded. “Wow, you’ve come a long way,” she said. “Want to come inside?”
“Yes, thank you,” Crawford said.
Abby turned and they followed her inside.
The living room looked like something you’d inherit from your conservative Yankee grandmother, with the exception of what looked to be some kind of contemporary shrine in the far left corner. Crawford spotted a silver statuette of a basketball player taking a shot and knew that this must be Abby’s husband’s memorial to his glory days as a star high school hoopster.
Abby pointed to two easy chairs and a sofa. “Have a seat, gentlemen.”
They did. “Is your husband at work?” Ott asked.
“Yes, he should be home shortly.”
“Does he work in Walpole?” Crawford asked.
“No, Keene. It’s about twenty minutes away.”
“Are you okay answering some questions without him here?” Ott asked.
“Oh, sure,” Abby said. “Ask away.”
“Well, first, we understand that you visited your mother a week or so ago in Palm Beach,” Crawford said. “And that you were scheduled to fly back the day before the day she was killed, but ended up flying back the following day. The day she was killed, that would be.”
A look of panic or possibly anguish cut across Abby’s face. “Yes, well, something… came up.”
“Can you tell us what that was?” Ott asked.
Abby shut her eyes. “Oh God,” she said, like that was all she wanted to say on the matter.
“Please, Mrs. Swain, it might help in our investigation. Help us find your mother’s murderer.”
“I doubt it,” she said with a deep sigh. “All right, what happened was Steve got in a fight at a restaurant. He actually was arrested and had to spend the night in the West Palm jail.”
“No offense,” Ott said, “but it must have been a pretty bad fight.”
Abby nodded and dropped her eyes to the floor. “The man he had the fight with was hurt pretty bad.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Crawford said. “So you got a flight back the next night.”
“Yes, we were lucky. It ended up that Steve just had to pay a fine. No charges were filed.”
“Did you see your mother the next day?” Ott asked.
“No, I just spoke to her on the phone as I waited to get Steve out of jail,” Abby said. “It was not easy telling her about what had happened.”
“And when did your husband get out of jail?” Crawford asked.
“Around twelve noon, after the, ah… arraignment.”
That let Swain off the hook, since the ME had pegged Antonia von Habsburg’s death at between 9:00 and 11:00 a.m.
They heard the sound of a car driving in. “Speak of the devil,” Abby said.
“Where does your husband work, Mrs. Swain?”
Abby’s eyes fell back down to the floor. “He’s a teller at a bank in Keene.”
The front door opened and they heard footsteps, then a very tall man appeared. “Entertaining again, huh, Abby?” he said.
Abby didn’t laugh as Crawford and Ott rose to their feet. “Steve, these are two detectives from Palm Beach investigating Mom’s death,” she said, pointing. “Detective Crawford and Detective Ott.”
“All that way for nothing,” Swain said, shaking Crawford’s and Ott’s hands.
“Well, we hope not,” Crawford said. “Mind if we ask you a few questions, Mr. Swain?”
“Nah, ask away,” Steve said. “If I don’t like one, I’ll just lie… JK.”
“JK?” asked Crawford.
“Just kidding.”
Crawford nodded, wanting to cut to the chase. He looked back at Abby. “Your mother, it appears, left at least two wills. One naming her son, your brother Frank as her sole heir—”
“My half-brother,” Abby corrected him.
“Okay, half-brother… and the other will names your mother’s daughter, your… half-sister Esmerelda Ortega as sole beneficiary.”
“Frank’s is bullshit,” Steve blurted.
“What?”
“He forged it. That will he came up with.”
Crawford glanced back at Abby. “Could you please explain?”
Abby sighed. “It’s kind of a long story.”
“Tell you the truth,” Crawford said, “we didn’t come all this way for short ones.”
Abby glanced at her husband. “You want to tell them?”
“No, it was your mother,” Steve said. “You got the floor, honey.”
Steve shook his head, and Abby took a deep sigh again. “Okay, well,” Abby said, “the good news, I guess, is there isn’t going to be a third will naming us as beneficiaries.”
“Can you start at the beginning, please?” Crawford asked.
“Sure, let me give you the big picture,” Abby said. “When my mother was alive she was very generous. Both to Frank and Steve and me. You probably know already that she basically paid for that church of his in Royal Palm Beach. I mean, all of it. She was also very generous to us. Bought us this house, in fact. Paid a lot of bills of ours when we were going through hard times,”—she gave Steve a quick glance—“which actually we’re still going through.”
“Come on, hon,” Steve said, “it’s not so bad. At least I got a job.”
“Yes, you do,” Abby said. “And I’m proud of you for that.”
Steve chuckled. “She’s just saying that for your benefit.”
