Why was Runyon there? A business matter to discuss with Mrs. Vorhees. What sort of business matter? Information the agency he worked for had come by pertaining to the theft of a valuable necklace of hers. Did he know the woman? No, he’d never seen her before. Was she a client of the agency? No. The information had come into their possession through another case they were investigating. Could the case have any connection with her death? He didn’t know, couldn’t say.
After that, Runyon faded into the background while the forensics and coroner’s people went about their work. On the front seat of the Mercedes they found Margaret Vorhees’ purse, the remote control unit that operated the garage doors, and a nearly empty bottle of Irish whiskey. According to the neighbors, Mrs. Vorhees had been drinking heavily since the separation from her husband. That opened up the possibility that she’d been despondent enough to take her own life, except that the police didn’t find anything resembling a suicide note in the car or in the house. Which left the natural assumption that her death had been accidental. Alcoholic drives home from somewhere drunk, taking little nips of Irish on the way; pulls the car into the garage, presses the remote to lower the doors, then passes out with the engine still running. Stupid, tragic accident. Happens all the time.
But not this time.
It was murder, all right.
Runyon would have figured it that way even if Kenneth Beckett hadn’t put the bug in his ear. The monoxide job had a staged feel. The nearly empty whiskey bottle on the front seat was too convenient; well-bred socialites, no matter how alcoholic, were much less inclined to suck on an open bottle while driving than your average drunk. Then there were the overhead lights in the garage; if she’d been out somewhere in her Mercedes, why would she have left the lights burning? And the security system had been switched off. No wealthy woman living alone is likely to forget to arm hers when she leaves the house, no matter how much she’s had to drink.
None of the neighbors the police talked to had noticed anyone in the vicinity during the afternoon. Even if they had seen a man who’d probably been an occasional if not frequent visitor, it wouldn’t seem suspicious. And it would have been easy enough for that man to get Margaret Vorhees drunk enough to pass out, carry her through the jungley side yard to the garage, put her into the Mercedes along with the props, start the engine, set the snap lock on the side garage door, and then slip away unseen.
Frank Chaleen.
Working from a scheme designed by Cory Beckett.
It galled Runyon, believing this, to have to tell evasive half-truths to the law. But he was hamstrung. Even if he’d given Inspector Davidson Kenneth Beckett’s name, chances were the kid would be too scared or too intimidated to corroborate his story of a murder plot. And if he did corroborate it, it would be the ragged hearsay testimony of an unstable young man awaiting trial for grand theft, against the words of his sister and a prominent businessman.
Another thing: you learned to tread cautiously with the law when you were working the private sector, if you wanted to keep your license. Cops liked cooperation, but what they didn’t like were insupportable complications; Runyon was well aware of that from his time on the job in Seattle. In a case like this, the smart thing was to keep your mouth shut and let the investigating officers come to their own conclusions.
But even with the victim a prominent member of society, their investigation was likely to be superficial. Andrew Vorhees had a considerable amount of clout, and unless he had good reason to suspect foul play, he’d want the case closed quickly and with the least amount of publicity. The final verdict, in all likelihood, would be accidental death.
Which meant that unless Kenneth Beckett could be talked into testifying against his sister, she and Frank Chaleen would get away with cold-blooded murder.
16
Tamara, Runyon, and I held an early conference in her office the following morning. After hearing Jake’s account of Margaret Vorhees’ death-he’d notified us both after the police let him leave St. Francis Wood-it seemed pretty clear what Cory Beckett’s motives were; we all agreed on that. Payback for the attempted frame-up was part of it, but the primary motive had to be greed: with the present Mrs. Vorhees out of the way, Cory had a clear shot at becoming the next in line. Marrying fat cats, as Tamara pointed out, had been her deal all along.
At first consideration, it seemed incredible that the murder plan had been carried out only two days after Runyon had confronted Frank Chaleen. But the more you considered the principals and the issues involved, the less untenable it seemed. Cory Beckett was whip-smart, bold, relentless, deadly clever, a brilliant manipulator of men, and at least a borderline psychotic-certainly unbalanced enough to consider herself invincible. She would not have gone ahead if she hadn’t believed they would get away with it.
Timing was the primary reason: Margaret Vorhees had to die before her brother’s trial. Once the woman was dead, Cory could work on Andrew Vorhees, as next of kin, to use his influence with the DA’s office to drop the theft charge. Clearly she had no qualms about using Kenneth-shifting the frame to him had gotten her off the hook so she could plan her revenge-but she cared just enough not to want him to go to prison. As wicked as she was, in her own way she was still her brother’s keeper.
Margaret Vorhees’ death had been carefully manufactured. And she’d kept herself and Kenneth from being suspects if the police questioned the accident setup by inviting Vorhees to their apartment last night-perfect alibis for both of them. Chaleen was obviously putty in her hands; if he’d had had any qualms about doing the dirty work, she’d beguiled him into it the same way she’d hooked him in the first place-by using sex and the promise of a large cash payoff once she was married to Vorhees. As Tamara said, “Chaleen’s the kind of dude who can be bought. Now particularly, with his business in trouble and a string of debts piling up. Plus he’s a risk taker, like her. Willing to do whatever’s necessary for the big prize.”
If Cory suspected it was her brother who was responsible for the tip-off to Runyon, it probably wouldn’t matter all that much to her. She’d always been able to control Kenneth, the same as any other man. And she knew that he had no hard evidence to pass along; that without it, Tamara and Jake and I could not afford to take our suspicions to the police. Runyon had done the right thing last night. If I’d been in his place, I’d have kept my mouth shut as well-and hated having to do so as much as he did.
I asked Jake how he thought Kenneth would react to the news of Margaret Vorhees’ death.
“If he accuses his sister, she’ll just play innocent. The monoxide job looks like an accident-she’ll swear to him that it was, that neither she nor Chaleen had anything to do with it.”
“But he’ll know she’s lying. Is there any chance he’ll be upset enough to defy her, go to the police on his own?”
“The way I read him, no, not much. More than likely he’ll end up doing what he’s always done-giving her the benefit of the doubt.”
“Real love-hate thing there,” Tamara said.
Runyon said, “That’s what’s tearing him apart. He wants to break loose from her, but he can’t do it on his own. Took about all the courage he had to run off to Belardi’s, and he only managed that because he’s terrified of going to prison.”
“Must have some guts to reach out to you the way he has.”
“Desperate cry for help, not an act of courage.”
I said, “Sees you as an authority figure, a father confessor.”
“Pretty much, yeah.”
“You think he’ll contact you again?”
“He might if he can get away from her long enough to use a phone. Figures she took his cell away from him after bringing him back from Belardi’s.”