03.She.Wanted.It.All.2005 (25 page)

“Steve changed the will,” Celeste crowed when she met with Tracey. “It’s all mine.”

She arrived at the park that day in an expensive suit and sat smoking on the picnic table, looking out at the creek and the sun filtering through the bare tree limbs. Ahead of her
waited all the wealth she’d dreamed of. All that stood in her way was Steve. That she didn’t understand the trust, and that the changes hadn’t given her access to his wealth, eluded her. As Celeste explained it to Tracey, the addendum meant she was the sole beneficiary to the estate and all of Steve’s millions.

“Steve’s such a sweetheart. I can’t stand to watch him in so much pain,” she said.

Celeste’s words stung Tracey. “I thought you hated him,” she said. “I thought you couldn’t stand to have him touch you. Now, because he changed his will, he’s a great guy.”

“I just hate to see him in so much pain,” she said.

It would turn out that her change of heart was short-lived. Early the following week, Celeste showed up at the park in her old humor, complaining bitterly about her husband. “I wish he’d just die,” she said, “just fucking die and leave me the hell alone.”

That winter, Celeste seemed intent on purging the house and her two storage areas of old papers and documents. Perhaps she worried about the secrets they held. Yet, she wasn’t interested in doing the work herself. She had her little “niglets” for that.

“Just get rid of everything,” she said. “I want it all gone.”

They did as they were told, but they did something she hadn’t counted on; they looked through what they were throwing out. As they pawed through boxes of papers, Jennifer and Christopher discovered four cards from Tracey to Celeste, and the three journals Celeste had kept at Timberlawn. In the cards, Tracey yearned for Celeste, talking about her beautiful body and how she wanted to run her hands over it. Black and white composition books, the journals
were filled with page after page of Celeste’s writing, notes from classes and accusatory letters to her mother and father, assignments from the psychiatrists at St. David’s and Timberlawn. Also, scattered throughout, were notes from Tracey.

“Look at that,” Jennifer said, pointing to one note after another.

“You have a lot of anger that you are not in touch with … TRY.

“I told Dr. Miller that I have no sexual interest in you, so I lied, but you should too … We need to go outpatient… QUICK.

“Celeste I believe you, Tracey.”

From the beginning, the first night of the shooting, Jennifer and Christopher had both believed Celeste was involved. Now they held in their hands writings that tied her romantically to Tracey. They didn’t know what to do, but sensed they could one day be important. That afternoon, Christopher slipped the journals and cards under his car seat and carted them off to his apartment for safe keeping.

“Should we tell Kristina?” he asked.

Jen shook her head no. Anything Celeste asked, Kristina would do. Jennifer believed Celeste was more than capable of murder, that she’d already tried to murder Steve. What stopped Celeste from coming after them? “If we tell her, it could put all of us in danger.”

Justin and Kristina made a similar discovery in the attic and out in the garage storage area, where Celeste put them to work. They found the family planner from the house, Celeste’s secret calendar, and photos of Tracey and Celeste together at St. David’s, with Tracey’s arm draped over Celeste’s shoulders.

“What do you think these mean?” Justin asked.

“It means Tracey was telling the truth. That they were lovers,” Kristina answered.

“Nothing more?”

Kristina believed in Celeste so much, she’d protected her for so long, she just couldn’t let herself think any more than that Tracey loved Celeste and had shot Steve out of jealousy. So she didn’t answer. As he’d done with his own suspicions since the night of the shooting, Justin tucked the calendars and the photos away where he would be prepared to share them with Kristina if and when she was finally ready.

The holidays approached, and Kristina thought little of it when Celeste gave her a credit card and asked her to pick up an order she’d placed at a James Avery jewelry store. One of the items, she said, was a ring that she was buying for Jim Madigan to give his wife Dawn. At the store, amid the display cases of gold and silver, Kristina walked around, choosing gifts for friends and writing the item numbers on a slip of white paper. She jotted down the number of the ring and went to look at it. When she found it, it was the Simplicity Wedding Band, a simple gold and silver ring, identical to one Christopher had given Jennifer in October for their one year anniversary.

Dawn has a wedding ring,
Kristina thought.
Why would Jim give her that?

By December 7, Steve had had seven operations in two months, from the original surgery, through installing and removing the tracheotomy and laying in the skin grafts. His wounds slowly healed, until seventy percent were covered by new skin. With so much progress, Dr. Coscia discharged him to HealthSouth, a rehab facility next door to Brackenridge. Its proximity gave the doctor the opportunity to look in on Steve and monitor his recovery.

That month, Dr. Coscia rarely saw Celeste when he visited Steve’s room. Celeste hated to go, complaining it interrupted her day. Perhaps Steve complained, again pushing her to tell him what she wanted, to be with him or to be apart. Days before Christmas, they battled in his room, Celeste screaming and shouting, taking a key and pressing it against her skin, threatening to cut her wrists.

That night at home, she screamed at Kristina. Grabbing a framed photo, she threw it against the wall, and pulled out a shard of glass. “You know what your father looked like when he blew his brains out,” she taunted, pressing the glass against her wrist. “His face, his whole head, was gone. I read the autopsy. His whole face was nothing but a big hole.”

“Stop it,” Kristina shouted, crying.

“What do you care? You’re Kristina Beard now,” Celeste screamed sarcastically.

Shaking, Kristina ran outside and dialed 911 on her cell phone. She watched her mother through the window as Celeste paced manically through the house. Within minutes two deputies arrived to handcuff Celeste and transport her to St. David’s. All the way to the car, Celeste cursed at Kristina and called her names. That night, at Justin’s parents’ house, Steve called Kristina on her cell phone.

“Don’t listen to what your mother says when she’s like this. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. She’s sick,” he said. “She doesn’t mean those things.”

The following morning Celeste’s therapist, Dr. Hauser, signed her release papers. When Celeste saw Kristina at home, she acted like nothing had happened.

In the park, days after Christmas, Celeste handed Tracey a small box wrapped in silky white paper with a silver James Avery gift tag. Tracey opened it, and inside was the Simplicity
Wedding Band that Celeste had asked Kristina to pick up, gold with silver edges.

“This ring means that I love you and that we’re supposed to be together,” Celeste told her, slipping it on her finger. “Remember, you belong to me.”

For once, Tracey didn’t worry who might see, and they kissed openly in the park. Afterward, Celeste glanced about nervously. “Do you think anyone saw us?” she asked.

Hurt that at such a time she’d be worried, Tracey said, “I don’t think so.”

“That Justin is such a snake. I wouldn’t put it past him to be following me,” she said. “I don’t know what he knows about all this, but he knows something.”

The check Jimmy Martinez expected from Bank of America for the security work he’d done at the house arrived just after the first of the year. Instead of being for the amount of the invoice, $8,000, it was made out for $74,499.38. Jimmy called Celeste and said there’d been a mistake. She had a simple solution. “Sign the check over to me and I’ll give you one to replace it,” she said.

Jimmy did, and Celeste wrote him a check for his work plus a $1,000 tip.

Another check came in that month. Stacy Sadler, the travel agent, received the refund on the trip to Europe. Looking at it in her hand, Stacy thought about Steve and all the rumors that Celeste was involved in the shooting. She decided she couldn’t just hand the money over to her. It didn’t seem right. So she walked a few doors down from the travel agency to the PakMail store where she knew Steve had a personal mailbox. She handed the envelope to the owner and asked, “Would you put this in Mr. Beard’s box for me?”

“Sure,” he said, looking at the envelope. “It’s all taken care of.”

She didn’t know that Celeste had Steve’s key. Just after the first of the year, on January 11, Celeste deposited that $50,124 check, along with the $74,499.38 check made out to Jimmy, into her bank account.

At HealthSouth the social workers discussed Steve’s discharge needs. His skin grafts were healing slowly and needed special care, to be kept clean and checked for infection. His ileostomy needed to be changed daily. The risk of infection was high, and in his weakened state, any infection could prove fatal. “You really need to hire a nursing service,” they told Celeste. “You’re not equipped to handle this type of care.”

Celeste, who didn’t even like to brush her own hair, refused. “I want to do this myself,” she told them.

Justin brought brochures on home nursing services, but she wouldn’t read them.

“No,” she said. “I want to take care of Steve myself.”

At the park, Tracey begged her not to do anything to hurt him, fearing his death would raise the stakes and the charge against her to murder.

“It’ll be easy,” Celeste said. “I just won’t wash my hands.”

The morning of January 18, Celeste called Donna Goodson, the receptionist at Studio 29. A statuesque redhead with a wild side to match Celeste’s, Donna had listened in for months to her diatribes against Steve as she dished with Joseph, her stylist. “I can’t believe he didn’t die,” Donna heard Celeste say one day. Others at the salon talked well of Steve, but listening to Celeste, Donna thought he sounded like the vilest of men.

This day, Celeste called with a request: “Steve will be getting
out this afternoon. I want to bring him in for a haircut, pedicure, and manicure.”

“Sure, I’ll juggle things and make room,” Donna said. When she worked things out, it required Celeste giving up her nail appointment and rescheduling it for two days later. Celeste sounded miffed, but she agreed.

That afternoon, Celeste signed Steve out of HealthSouth and, with the physical therapist, helped him from his wheelchair into her Cadillac. At Davenport Village, Justin and Christopher helped him back into his wheelchair. Moments later, although she’d pledged to be his nurse, Celeste left. Instead, Kristina and the two boys pushed Steve around the shopping center. It was the first time he’d seen the completed Davenport II, and he grinned proudly at the sprawling two-story shopping center.

“Look at that,” he said. “Look what I built.”

He stopped in at PakMail and said hello to the owner. Then they made their way to Studio 29 for his haircut. At the salon, every task proved painful for Steve. Getting in and out of the stylist’s chair, bending his head back for a shampoo, even putting his feet on a stool for the pedicure, brought pain. The stylist hurried him through, and Kristina and the boys helped Steve into her car. For the first time in nearly four months he drove into the long, tree-shaded driveway at Toro Canyon. He was home. But he couldn’t get inside.

The carpenter had been there for months working on projects for Celeste, including new bookshelves, but she hadn’t gotten around to ramps for the stairs until the day Steve came home. When he arrived, the ramps weren’t done.

Justin and Christopher couldn’t wheel him into the front of the house with the three flights of stairs, so they rolled him around to the back. There, too, there were stairs without ramps. Finally Justin, Christopher, and the carpenter all
hoisted him up to the landing and wheeled him into the living room. Inside the house, the railings had been installed, but again they encountered an obstacle, this time the stairs to the master bedroom wing. Steve stood up and, with Justin helping, tried to walk up the stairs. His abdomen covered with scar tissue, with each step he grimaced in pain.

It took half an hour from the time he pulled into the driveway until Justin wheeled Steve into the master bedroom, and he and Christopher helped him into the four-poster bed. The last time he’d laid there was the night he was shot, but that didn’t appear to dull the excitement for Steve. He looked elated to be home.

Kristina kissed him good-bye, and she and Justin ran off to a photography class. Soon, Christopher left. By then Jennifer had arrived from work, and she climbed on the bed beside him. With Meagan on the floor at his feet and his new puppy, Kaci, on the bed between them, they watched
20/20
and talked. Steve looked exhausted but happy. When he fell asleep, Jennifer put on his oxygen machine, covered him with a blanket, kissed him on the forehead, and tiptoed off to bed.

Celeste still hadn’t come home.

“I can’t keep my nail appointment. Steve’s dying,” Celeste told Donna Goodson at Studio 29 on the phone the next morning. “I don’t want him to die in the house, so I’m taking him back to the hospital.”

“Don’t worry,” Donna said, amazed that she’d bothered to call with Steve so ill.

That morning Celeste had taken Steve to HealthSouth for a physical therapy session. She complained the entire time, saying they’d discharged him too soon.

“I don’t want to come back here,” Steve told her. “I want to stay at home.”

“He can’t even go to the bathroom. It took two of us to help him last night.”

“I did things here,” he said. “I did things in rehab. I can do it.”

Ignoring what Steve wanted, Celeste called Dr. Coscia. “I want him readmitted,” she said. “He’s complaining of chest pains and he’s not talking right. He’s confused.”

At Brackenridge Hospital just after 8:00
A.M
., the physician on duty examined Steve, who complained of chest pains. Noting no indication of a heart problem, he examined a rash on Steve’s groin. Diagnosing it as a yeast infection, he saw no reason to admit him. Hospitals can be dangerous places, with infection a high possibility. Steve, he said, would be better off at home. But when Dr. Coscia examined Steve, he overruled him.