Santa Fe Rules (11 page)
“Allow a couple of days, in case we have to make changes.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll meet the plane this afternoon.”
“See you then.”
“I’ll look forward to it.”
J
ane arrived in the terminal smiling, carrying all her luggage. Wolf bundled her into the Porsche with her bags and headed north on the interstate.
“So, what have you done with my movie?”
She took a deep breath. “I took your four minutes out of the middle third.”
He looked at her, surprised. “I would have chopped little stuff throughout.”
“I know you would have, but I got this idea, and I want to see if you think it works.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I’d rather show you.”
Jane pointed the remote control at the VCR and stopped the tape. “That’s it. The rest is the same as before.”
“I’m amazed,” he said. “I wouldn’t have thought it possible.”
“I figured that by quick-cutting from Helen’s to Joe’s plot lines in the middle I could cut more than a minute out of each of the three long scenes.”
“It worked. Call the lab and tell them to print it.”
With a triumphant laugh, she leapt up and hugged him. “I
knew
you’d let me do it.”
He liked the hug. “Then why didn’t you go ahead and make the answer print?”
“Well,” she said, “there was always a chance you’d be in a bad mood and not spot my brilliance.”
“I spotted your brilliance.” He pointed at a phone across the room. “Phone the lab; use line two.”
She went to the phone, and Wolf looked idly around for something to interest him while she talked. His eye fell on the fax machine; he hadn’t read Jack’s will. Leafing through the pages, he found it simple and straightforward. Jack had gone to another lawyer to have the will drawn. Wolf knew Bob Marx well enough—they had played tennis in the old days, and Marx had a successful entertainment practice. He punched the other line and dialed Marx’s office.
“Wolf, is it really you?” Marx sounded truly uncertain.
“It is, Bob. I’m still around.”
“I heard about your television interview,” Marx said.
“Bob, Hal Berger just faxed me Jack Tinney’s will, which was in our office safe.”
“You knew his intentions, of course.”
“No, I had no idea. I drew a will for him a couple of years ago that left everything to the four ex-wives. As far as I knew, that one was still in force.”
There was a brief silence before Marx spoke again. “That was not my information,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that Jack told me he was going to tell you about it.”
“Well, he didn’t. Why did he change his will? Did he tell you that?”
“He stated his reasons in the text.”
“I read that, but it sounded like boilerplate.”
“Well, Wolf, I’m sorry you disapprove of my writing style, but Jack liked it. That was what he wanted to say.”
Wolf looked at the document again. “I’m still his executor,” he said.
“That’s right. He didn’t see any reason to change that.”
“Well, there might be some reason to change it now.”
Marx didn’t respond.
“I mean, this might not look good to some people—Jack’s being murdered in my house, and my being his beneficiary.”
“I take your point,” Marx said blandly. “How can I help?”
“I think, under the circumstances, I’d like to assign my executor’s powers to you, since you drew the will.”
“I’ll be glad to handle that as a courtesy.”
“Thank you, Bob. I’ll draw up an assignment of powers and get it to you in a day or two.”
“All right. Wolf, is there anything else I can help with? I mean, are you in need of any other legal help at the moment?” The question was heavy with meaning.
“No, Bob, but thanks for the thought.”
“Call me if you need anything.”
Wolf thanked him and hung up.
Jane was hanging up the other line. “Okay, they’ll deliver to Hal on Monday.”
“Great. And thank you for doing such a terrific job.”
“It was my pleasure.”
“Well, let’s find you a room, shall we?” He grabbed her bags and led her to the guest wing, choosing the room
farthest from the murder scene. “I hope you’ll be comfortable here,” he said, placing her bags on the bed. “The heat will be a little slow taking hold; it comes from pipes under the floor, and it has to heat the stones.”
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “I’d like to have a shower. That’ll warm me up.”
“Go ahead. I’ll book us a table for dinner somewhere.”
“Fine.”
“Dress casually; Santa Fe is like that.”
“Okay. What’s the hot dress for?”
“Oh, that’s tomorrow night; dinner with the D & D.”
“Who?”
“The Duke and Duchess of Kensington.”
“Whatever you say,” she said, shaking her head.
He left her and went back to his study. Another reading of Jack’s will provided no clues to the director’s state of mind. Jack had never mentioned the new will to him, but he had always been embarrassed about discussing personal matters.
He rang Santacafé, his favorite restaurant, and booked a table for two.
The owner, Jim Arno, greeted Wolf warmly at the door, and on the way to their table they passed three groups of people Wolf knew. Some greeted him; others waved half-heartedly. He didn’t introduce Jane to any of them.
“Friends?” Jane asked archly as they sat down at their table and picked up menus.
“That remains to be seen,” Wolf said.
“They looked surprised to see me with you,” she said.
“Fuck ’em,” Wolf said lightly. “I can recommend the smoked pheasant spring rolls or the Chinese dumplings to
start; the fish is always good, and I’m fond of the duck.”
“Surprise me,” she said.
“Seems only fair,” he replied. “You’ve been surprising me for the past two weeks.”
“Oh? How?”
“Well, you were always just the editor’s assistant before; I had no idea you were so good.”
“Why did you ask for me, then?”
“I wanted a cutter—a technician; I didn’t expect more than that.”
“I like to give people more than they expect,” she said.
“A good policy,” he replied. “Tell me, how did you become a single mother?”
“The usual way,” she said dryly.
He laughed. “That wasn’t what I meant. Why didn’t you marry the guy?”
“And compound my error? He was an out-of-work actor—still is—and it was just a roll in the hay. I was on the pill, but I guess it didn’t work.”
“Was having the baby a tough decision?”
“Not really. I had two strong feelings: one, I didn’t want to have an abortion, and two, I wanted a baby. No conflict.”
“Has it been tough?”
“Not as tough as you might think. My sister, who’s single too, has been great. She lived with me until Sara was old enough for school; otherwise, it would have been
really
tough.”
“No disadvantages to being a single mother?”
Jane shrugged. “Not many. Not much time for things other than work and Sara, I guess.”
“So you’ve been a social recluse for the past eight or nine years?”
“Well, not entirely; but I found myself turning down
invitations that were just dates. There didn’t seem to be time for anything that didn’t have more meaning.”
“Does her father see anything of Sara?”
She shook her head. “She gets a birthday card from him most years; sometimes it comes with twenty bucks inside. He’s in New York—was on a soap for a couple of years, but now he’s at liberty again.” She looked down at the tablecloth. “Actually, I prefer having him in New York; I wouldn’t want to share Sara with him. I’m too selfish. You were married once before, weren’t you?”
He nodded and told her about the accident, skipping his blackout.
“That must have been tough.”
He nodded again. “You get over these things,” he said. “In fact, I think I’m getting better at getting over them.”
She looked at him oddly but didn’t question him further.
When they got back to the house in Wilderness Gate, he said goodnight at the door to the guest wing. They didn’t touch.
E
d Eagle drove through the open gate and down the drive toward Mark Shea’s house. As directed, he turned off to the little building where Shea received patients.
As he parked the car, the door to the office opened and Shea made his goodbyes to a tall, very beautiful woman Eagle recognized immediately. He had, in fact, seen her latest film the week before and had thought her brilliant. He was struck with an unexpected reluctance to make eye contact with her, and he waited until her car drove away before he got out of his. On his way to Shea’s front door he analyzed his reaction. Was it timidity? Probably not; hardly anybody made him feel timid anymore. Tact, that’s what it was, he decided. She wouldn’t want to be seen leaving her psychiatrist’s office, so he hadn’t seen her.
“Morning, Ed; come in,” Mark Shea said, smiling and shaking his hand. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“If you’ll join me, Mark.” Eagle had known Shea since
the psychiatrist had come to Santa Fe some years before, but they were not close friends. Still, he was grateful for the occasional referral of a client—especially one like Wolf Willett—and he liked the man. He’d heard that Shea had become a cult figure in the community, drawing wealthy patients from all over the country, some of whom had taken up residence in Santa Fe to be near him. Given Shea’s charm and intelligence, this did not surprise the lawyer.
Shea poured their coffee and settled into a chair opposite Eagle.
It was much like the arrangement in his own study, Eagle reflected: cozy, friendly, and designed to draw out the visitor. “I want to talk with you about Wolf Willett, Mark,” he said. “I have his permission to do so; you can call him, if you like.”
“That won’t be necessary, Ed. Wolf has already spoken to me about it.”
“A little background: When did you first meet Wolf?”
“About three years ago, shortly after he built his house here.”
“Did he come to you at that time for treatment?”
“No. We first met at a dinner party, and he called me some weeks later.”
“What did he feel his problems were at the time?”
“He initially came to me for help in stopping smoking, and we fixed that, but Wolf felt he had difficulty forming close relationships with other people—both men and women—although he seemed to be better with women than with men. He was also going through a midlife reassessment of his existence: Did his work mean anything? Did he deserve his success? Was there any reason why anyone should love him? His concerns were typical of an intelligent, reflective, rather decent middle-aged man,
and lacking a full relationship with a woman, he was without the support that a good marriage can bring. He needed some reinforcement.”
“Is that what a psychiatrist does? Reinforce?”
Shea smiled. “There are nearly as many opinions about what a therapist’s role is as there are psychiatrists. Many regard themselves as objective observers who, merely by listening to their patients, offer them a means of sorting themselves out. I do that with some patients, but on the whole, I lean toward a more activist view.”
“What role did you take with Wolf?”
“I’m beginning to think this is more an examination of my technique than a conversation about Wolf.”
“I’m sorry, but it’s important for me to know his mind as well as a lawyer can, and it would be helpful if I understood how you worked with him.”
“Wolf came to me a very self-sufficient man who had the dual burden of running a business and propping up a rather…ah, undisciplined partner. There were times when he felt inadequate to the job—especially the second role—and one of the things he needed from me was someone to tell him that he was all right, that he was doing a good job. I offered him that support. He deserved it.”
“What other sorts of support did you offer him?”
“Mainly someone to talk with openly. I regarded Wolf then as a stable, self-aware human being who was coping well. He just didn’t seem to be enjoying his life enough. I found him relatively free of neurosis, and—”
“Relatively?”
“None of us is free of neurosis; we all have our quirks.”
“What were Wolf’s quirks?”
“He was having some moderate difficulties with impotence; he wasn’t enjoying sex much.”
“How did you treat his impotence?”
“I prescribed a drug which is gaining a reputation for effectiveness. It’s based on an old herbal remedy, and it seems to dilate the blood vessels that carry blood to the penis and cause an erection.”
“What do you mean, ‘seems’?”
“The effect may be that of a placebo—who knows? As far as I’m concerned, an effective placebo is as good as a cure.”
“Did it work for Wolf?”
“Hard to say. He met Julia about that time, and she may have had a greater effect than the drug. He was capable again, anyway, and enjoying himself.”
“What other quirks did he have?”
“The only thing of any importance was something he wouldn’t talk about for a long time, something he really would talk about only after the murders.”
“What was that?”
“His first wife, who was pregnant, was killed in an automobile accident while Wolf was driving her to the hospital for delivery.”
“Did he have guilt feelings about that?”
“Of course; who wouldn’t?”
“What effect did this guilt have on him?”
“Depression, of course, for quite a long time. And—” Shea suddenly looked grave—“something else.”
Eagle leaned forward. “What else?”
“He blacked out. He told me that after the accident the police found him in a restaurant across the street, eating a cheeseburger as if nothing had happened. He had obviously suffered an enormous emotional trauma.”
“How much time did he lose?”
“A day and a half, he says.”
“Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”
