03.She.Wanted.It.All.2005 (19 page)

The phone rang at Tracey’s house on the night of September 12. “You need to come over right away!” Celeste screamed. “Steve’s passed out. I need your help.”

When Tracey arrived, Steve was in a kitchen chair, unconscious.

“I drugged him,” Celeste said. “Help me get him out of the chair.”

Tracey grabbed him under one arm and Celeste under the other, then they angled the chair beneath him, until he fell to the floor.

“Oh, God,” Tracey said. “What do we do now?”

“Wait,” Celeste said.

She left and moments later returned with a plastic kitchen garbage bag and a towel. She then wrapped the towel around his neck and pulled the garbage bag over his head, cinching it shut.

“I saw this on television,” she said. “Now the bag won’t leave marks.”

On the floor, Steve moved slightly, and the bag went in and out with each breath.

Suddenly, Celeste handed the bag straps to Tracey.

“Hold these,” she said.

Tracey did, and Steve’s breathing continued. She thought:
I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to do this.
When Steve moved again, Tracey dropped the bag. “I can’t do this,” she said, horrified. “I just can’t.”

“I can’t, either,” Celeste said, pulling the bag from his head. “I’ll call an ambulance.”

After Celeste called 911, she dialed Kristina’s cell phone. “Steve’s had a seizure. I’ve called EMS,” she said.

“Do you want me to come get you?”

“No, go to the hospital. Tracey’s here. She’ll take me.”

But as soon as she hung up, Celeste changed her mind. “You should leave,” she told Tracey. She dialed Kristina again. “Come get me,” she said.

At North Austin Medical Center, Steve’s blood alcohol level was high, .168, and his oxygen level was dangerously
low. A social worker was called in to talk to him about his drinking, but he insisted he hadn’t had more than two or three vodkas, not enough to cause such high blood levels. The social worker noted on his chart that Steve was not facing his drinking problem.

Two days later, at 2:00
P.M
., a nurse called Celeste and said Steve was ready to be discharged. “I’m not going to be home today. I have plans,” Celeste answered. “Why don’t you keep him another day?”

“Your husband is fine. He doesn’t need to be here,” the nurse said. “He has to check out today, but you can wait until seven tonight, if you need to.”

“Okay,” Celeste said. “I’ll be there at seven.”

Steve took the news without complaint. For another five hours he stayed at the hospital, waiting for Celeste to arrive to take him home.

The morning after his release, it happened again. This time the maid screamed and Kristina came running. Steve was unconscious, facedown at the kitchen table with his eyes open. When Kristina shook him, he didn’t respond.

Celeste and the girls lowered him onto the floor and called EMS for a second time in three days. At the hospital, Steve was prodded and examined, but the doctors found no reason for his fainting spells. They did, however, chronicle his declining health in his chart: bronchitis, high blood pressure, an enlarged heart, sleep apnea, and abnormal blood chemistry from the high doses of alcohol damaging his kidneys. Celeste was right. Eventually, the Everclear would kill him.

That week, Celeste brought in the final payment for the approaching trip to Europe, a check for $40,788, to Tramex Travel. Included was the money for the cancellation insurance. Stacy was surprised, wondering what had changed Steve’s mind. He’d been so adamant about not wanting the
policy, she’d given up hope that he would relent. Later, she’d wonder if he even knew, or if Celeste had been the one who bought the insurance, because she knew they’d never board the flight to Paris.

Despite all that happened to him, Steve worried more about his home life and Celeste than his health. When David Kuperman, his attorney, dropped in to see him at the hospital, he was morose, saying the marriage “wasn’t working out.”

“Do you want to call the divorce attorney?” Kuperman asked. “The one you used when you filed against Celeste in 1995?”

“I’ll think about it,” he told him.

Days after he was released from the hospital for the second time, he called Celeste’s therapist, Dr. Michele Hauser, and complained about Celeste’s behavior. She was tired all the time, seeing three to five doctors a week, everyone from an internist to a dermatologist. “She acts guilty, and she’s spending money like crazy,” he told Hauser. “When she’s angry she screams.”

There was more. Steve had found Celeste’s stash of credit cards, four with aliases, including Celeste Martinez. “She doesn’t include me in her plans,” Steve said. “She does things with other people and doesn’t tell me.”

Still, Celeste had a hold on Steve he couldn’t shake. Like the others before him, he found it impossible to leave her. When Steve finally talked to Kuperman again about a divorce, he told him he’d decided not to pursue anything, at least not yet.

Later, Tracey would say that it simply came up in conversation, and Celeste latched onto it as if fascinated. “I have my shotgun back,” she told her.

For months one of Tracey’s friends had kept the gun for her, because Tracey feared she might use it on herself during a weak moment. Finally, she felt stable enough to have it home. The shotgun was the .20 gauge Franchi her father gave her in the late sixties. A lightweight weapon, it had
Tracey Tarlton
etched on the stock.

Five days before Celeste and Steve were scheduled to leave for Europe, on Wednesday, September 29, Celeste brought the shotgun up again.

“I can’t go with Steve,” she said. “If I go, I won’t come back. I don’t know how to get away from him. He’ll hunt me down. And if I stay, he’ll see that I don’t survive.”

As Tracey listened, Celeste told her that Steve ridiculed her and pushed her to kill herself, telling her she was “too stupid to bail water.”

“I want you to shoot him,” she said, putting her arms around Tracey and kissing her.

“No,” Tracey said, pulling away. “I can’t do that.”

Celeste covered her face and sobbed: “Then you might as well say good-bye to me. If I leave on that trip, I’ll never come back. Go get your gun, and I’ll use it on myself. I’ll do it quickly, before I change my mind. Then, at least he won’t ever touch me again.”

Inside, Tracey fought a vicious battle. She didn’t want to kill anyone, and it was Celeste’s problem, not hers. Yet she felt she couldn’t stand by and let Steve drive her lover to suicide. If she told her no, Celeste could do as she threatened, and kill herself that very night, driving off a freeway or finding a gun and pulling the trigger. She believed Celeste was powerless with Steve and desperate.

“I have no one else to turn to,” Celeste pleaded.

“Fine,” Tracey said. “I’ll do it.”

Smiling, Celeste took Tracey’s face in her hands and kissed her hard on the lips.

Later, in a strange way, it would all make sense to Tracey. All her life she’d searched for the reason she’d been born. “I always felt unnecessary,” she says. “I thought finally I’d found something I was necessary for. I had a purpose. I had to kill Steve to save Celeste’s life.”

“J
ennifer, why don’t you, Christopher, and Amy
stay at the lake house this Friday night?” Celeste said, during hamburgers. “That would be fun, wouldn’t it?”

“Sure,” Jen said, startled.

Celeste had first learned that the twins’ boyfriends slept over earlier that year. At the time, she’d been furious—not because Jennifer was sexually active, but that Kristina was. She’d been so upset, she went to the teenager’s next session with Peggy Farley, the therapist Kristina began seeing that spring. At the session, Farley attempted to calm Celeste, explaining that Kristina and Justin had been close for a very long time. “Don’t you remember the first time you felt like that about a boy?” Farley asked.

“The first time I had sex, I was a little girl, and my father was raping me,” Celeste screamed back. From that point on the session became less about Kristina than Farley calming Celeste’s hysteria.

Soon, Celeste became comfortable with the fact that the girls had boyfriends and that both Christopher and Justin often
stayed overnight in their rooms on the weekends. In fact, she’d goaded them, threatening to switch their birth-control pills for aspirins to trick them into getting pregnant. Celeste wanted a baby, she said, a new child now that they were grown. She didn’t care who had it for her, Kristina and Justin, or Jennifer with Christopher; she even tried to convince Amy to have a child with Jimmy. At times she offered money, up to a million dollars. “We ignored her,” says Justin. “We did that with a lot of things.”

Still, Celeste rarely agreed to let the teens stay at the lake house alone, especially if Jennifer was the one who asked. All the teens knew that Celeste held a grudge over the years Jen had chosen Craig over her. “If I asked, she’d let us go,” Christopher says. “But if Jen asked, the answer was almost always no.”

Although it seemed odd, Jennifer didn’t dwell on her mother’s offer of the lake house. She was pleased. With Christopher attending college in San Angelo, Texas, four and a half hours away by car, they saw each other only on weekends.

“That’d be great,” Jen said, meaning it.

That settled, Celeste turned her attention to Kristina, saying, “On Friday night I want you home by midnight. And Justin can’t sleep over. I’ll need your help.”

“Why?” Kristina asked, less happy than her sister at her mother’s plans.

“Because I said so.”

Disappointed, Kristina didn’t ask anything else. If Celeste needed her help, she assumed it was to pack for the trip. They’d all noticed that Steve was packed and ready to go, but Celeste had yet to start a single suitcase. Even Justin had offered to help her a couple of days earlier. Celeste had turned him down, saying there was plenty of time. What they didn’t know was that while Steve had written “Leave
for Europe” on the coming Sunday in the family planner, Celeste had made no such entry on her personal calendar.

“Okay,” Kristina said. “We’re going out to dinner with Justin’s parents. Then I’ll come home.”

“Good,” Celeste said. “Then it’s all settled.”

The following day, Thursday, Celeste called Tracey often, finalizing plans. “Steve will be gone tomorrow,” she said. “You can come over and walk through the house. I’ve got it all figured out. Are you doing what we planned tonight?”

“Yeah,” Tracey said.

Although they had plans to see Lily Tomlin perform, the tickets would never be used. Instead, Tracey’s job was to make sure she and her shotgun were prepared.

As instructed, after work Tracey drove northeast of Austin, to a shooting range. She pulled her .20 gauge out of its beige case with brown trim and motioned for the attendant. Moments later skeet arched overhead. Tracey concentrated, pulling back the trigger and watching them shatter in midair. The entire time, as she worked her way through a full circuit, she thought about what she’d be doing. She’d stopped hunting years ago because she didn’t like killing animals. Now, she was preparing to kill a human being.

“How’s the shotgun working?” Celeste asked when she called that night.

“Fine,” Tracey said. “No problem.”

“I’ll call tomorrow,” she said. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Tracey said, but in her stomach she had a sinking feeling. She knew that no matter what happened, the next few days would change their lives, forever. Celeste said that after the murder they’d have to remain apart until the investigation was over. “Then we’ll live together, at the lake house, you and me.”

Tracey didn’t believe it. She sensed that the fallout would be so great they’d never survive it. Still, she felt she had to
do it. She’d agreed. And if she didn’t follow through, she was convinced Celeste would take her own life. If it went bad, she’d asked Celeste for three things: that she’d find someone to care for her animals, pay for her attorney, and put fifty dollars a month in her prison account, to pay for extras. Celeste readily agreed.

“But you won’t be caught. You won’t even be a suspect,” Celeste said. “I’ve read so many books on things like this, watched so many movies, I know what I’m doing. Wait and see.”

So that night, Tracey sat alone, drinking beer, and trying not to think about what lay ahead of them both the following day.

Friday morning, October 1, two days before Steve and Celeste were scheduled to embark on their trip to Europe, Tracey left for work at BookPeople, just like every other morning. Kristina drove to her mail-room job and Jennifer to work at Anita’s office. Throughout the morning, Celeste called Tracey at the store, often unable to reach her. She dialed and then redialed. Sometime in the early afternoon Tracey answered.

“He’s leaving,” Celeste whispered. “Come over now.”

When Tracey drove up to the Toro Canyon house, she parked in the circular driveway in the front. Celeste was waiting for her.

“Okay, now tonight, you park right here,” she said, pointing to a bend sheltered by trees. “Then walk around the house and come in through the bedroom.”

Celeste led Tracey past the grand leaded-glass doors on the front of the house to a path that curved around the left side. She opened a gate and they entered a small patio. “He’ll be in there,” she said.

She slid back the door and brought Tracey into the bedroom.
“Now wear all black, your black sweater, black jeans, tennis shoes, and a cap, so no one will see you. And don’t drink. You don’t want to make any mistakes.”

As Celeste had it planned, Tracey would enter under cover of darkness, stand at the foot of the bed, point the gun at Steve, who would be sleeping, and pull the trigger.

“The shotgun will drop a shell,” said Tracey.

“Look for it. If you don’t find it, just leave. I’ll pick it up,” Celeste told her.

“What about the noise and the kids?”

“I’ve already taken care of that.” Although she’d told Kristina to stay home, Celeste assured Tracey that she would be at Justin’s house that night. Perhaps Celeste wanted Kristina as a witness to talk to the police when questioning began. After all, of the twins, Kristina not only slept soundly, but was the one Celeste could count on to do as she was told. She told Tracey that the other teens would be at the lake house, as they’d planned, and that she’d take the dogs, her cocker Nikki and Steve’s Meagan, into Kristina’s bedroom with her.

Celeste then gave Tracey vinyl gloves and a sheet of plastic to cover the seat of her car. After the shooting, Tracey was to drive to a convenience store on South First Street, to discard them in a Dumpster. “I’ve checked it out, and the Dumpster isn’t visible from the store,” she said. “You ought to be able to throw them away without the clerk seeing.”

Tracey was then to return home, wash her clothing, clean her gun and put it away.

“By tomorrow morning, it’ll all be over,” Celeste said.

“If all goes well.”

“It will,” Celeste said. “Then we’ll be together, you and me, without any worries.”

“I hope so,” Tracey said.

“I’ll call you tonight to let you know for sure he’s in bed,
that he hasn’t passed out in the closet,” she said. “He does that sometimes.”

Then Celeste had one more request. “When you shoot Steve, shoot him in the stomach,” she said.

Tracey was alarmed. “If I shoot him in the stomach, he’ll linger.”

“I don’t want blood all over the wall. I don’t want to redecorate.” Anxiety churned inside Tracey as Celeste said, “I’ve read about this in books. He’ll bleed to death.”

Steve came home later that afternoon after picking up the finalized itinerary for the trip and $1,000 in cash to leave with the twins for incidentals while they were gone. When Christopher arrived from San Angelo, they sat and talked. Steve was excited about the adventure of the month abroad, talking about all he and Celeste would do and see. Christopher enjoyed hearing details of the plans, including descriptions of the small villages with cobblestone streets they’d visit.

“So, what are you and Jennifer doing tonight?” Steve asked.

“We’re going with Amy to the lake house,” Christopher said. Steve didn’t look pleased, and Christopher realized he probably shouldn’t have answered as he did. Steve didn’t know the boys slept over in the girls’ rooms, and he wouldn’t have approved. They came and went by a back entrance, without his seeing. Still, Steve didn’t object.

By seven-thirty that evening Christopher, Amy, and Jennifer were on their way to the lake house at least a forty-five-minute drive, unless they went with Celeste, who drove so fast she could make it in half an hour. In Austin, Kristina and Justin were meeting his parents for dinner.

A few hours later, around ten, the phone rang at the lake house. “I’m going to bring Meagan over,” Celeste said. “Steve’s drunk and he’s being mean, hitting her.”

“Okay,” Christopher said. When he hung up, he told Jennifer and Amy about the conversation.

“That’s really strange. I’ve never seen Steve hit Meagan,” Jennifer said. The others agreed. They’d never seen Steve abuse the dog in any way.

Just before eleven, Celeste arrived at the lake house with Nikki and Meagan.

“Steve’s in a really bad mood. She’s better off here with all of you,” Celeste said. The teens all looked at each other. Celeste seemed even more manic than usual, walking hurriedly about the house, constantly looking at her watch. She talked just briefly, then called Kristina on the telephone.

“Will you be home by midnight?” Celeste asked.

“Yes,” she said. “I’ll be there.”

“Good,” Celeste said. “I’ll see you at the house.”

Quickly, Celeste turned and left, taking Nikki and leaving Meagan with the teens.

As soon as she was gone, Christopher said to the girls, “She’s acting really strange.”

“I’m surprised she took Meagan in the car,” Amy said. “Meagan hates going in the car. Her legs just shake.”

“Maybe it’s just the whole thing about the trip,” Jennifer said. “She’s just dreading it.”

After eleven, Justin and Kristina pulled into the driveway at Toro Canyon and went inside. It was dark. “Mom,” Kristina called out. Celeste didn’t answer.

Looking for her, Kristina walked into the master bedroom and saw Steve sleeping in bed, wearing his oxygen machine for his sleep apnea. He seemed peaceful, and she didn’t notice that Meagan, who habitually slept at the foot of the bed, was missing.

“My mom’s not here,” Kristina told Justin. Then she
picked up the phone and called the lake house. Jennifer answered. “Where’s our mom?”

“She should be home soon. She left here a while ago,” Jennifer answered.

“Okay,” Kristina said, and hung up.

Meanwhile, Celeste walked into Tracey’s house on Wilson. Tracey hadn’t been expecting her.

“Are you going to do it?” she asked.

“I’m ready,” Tracey said.

Celeste was in an anxious mood as she paced around the house. “Kristina’s home, but I’ll have her in the bedroom with me,” Celeste said. “And I dropped Meagan at the lake house. She’s protective of Steve, and I don’t want her there when you shoot him.”

Tracey’s mind was reeling. First, she didn’t like Kristina being home, despite Celeste’s assurances that she was a sound sleeper and wouldn’t wake. But it was the comment about Meagan that Tracey found confusing. Celeste had told her repeatedly that Steve beat the dog. Why would a dog be protective of an owner that abused it? She asked, and for a moment Celeste faltered. Then she said, “Meagan’s a barker. She barks at any noise. I just didn’t want her to wake the neighbors.”

That made more sense to Tracey. Especially when Celeste explained that she’d decided the neighbors could be a problem. In fact, she’d made some changes. The Dennisons directly next door investigated when they heard noises in the night. “If you drive up the front, they’ll see you,” Celeste said. Instead, Tracey was to back up to the workers’ entrance to the house, off Westlake Drive, park near Kristina’s room, and walk around the pool to enter the house through the patio door near the master bedroom.

“I’ll be so close to her bedroom, Kristina will hear me,” Tracey said.

“Don’t worry about Kristina,” Celeste said. “I’ll take care of her.”

“I don’t know the house, and I’ve never come that way,” Tracey argued. “This isn’t a good idea.”

“It is,” Celeste said. Then she went on to say that she’d have the doors unlocked and the burglar alarm off. She’d also make sure the back gate was open.

Tracey wasn’t sure.

“I’ve also set up a motive for the shooting,” Celeste said, explaining that she’d staged a robbery by rifling through the master bath. She’d taken Steve’s wallet, ring, and money clip. “I kept the cash out of his money clip but threw the rest in the lake.”

Tracey felt physically ill.

“You’re the only one I can count on,” Celeste said. “If you don’t kill him, I’ll die.” Tracey nodded.

“Steve’s passed out in the bed,” she said, putting her arms around Tracey’s shoulders and kissing her. “Just remember, you’re saving my life.”

At the Toro Canyon house, Kristina walked Justin to the front door. It was just after midnight, and Celeste wasn’t home. When he arrived at his house, he called. It was twelve-fifteen and Celeste still wasn’t there. Kristina had called her cell phone, but Celeste hadn’t answered.