“Not only that, she had the presence of mind not to call Thomas from her cell phone, but to find a pay phone somewhere so there’d be no record of the call. Then, she started calling John and the Westin once she got home, to back up her story that she’d forgotten her cell phone when she went out to run errands,” I say. I’m still puzzled by a few points. “But here’s something I don’t get. If you took John’s cell phone with you, how did he have it on him when he was discovered on Saturday?” I ask.
Deborah smiled. “If I were to have planned it the way you’re describing, I would have had to have taken the room key as well. To return and put the phone back in John’s pocket.”
“But what if MJ had simply found John dead, and called 911?” I ask. “You wouldn’t have been able to put the phone back during all the fuss and bother.”
“Again, if I were in charge of such an operation, I would have contingency plan upon contingency plan,” says Deborah. “I would have bought an iPhone the same model as John’s phone, and left that with him at the Westin. If I were prevented from getting back into his room to put back his real phone later because emergency responders were there, the police would find the substitute phone and assume it was his.”
“That was risky, though.”
“Yes, as it would have a different phone number assigned to it. But if John had simply died and MJ had found him dead, it would have been ruled a heart attack, no questions asked. There would have been no need to examine the phone or search phone records.”
“So you drove by the Westin on your way home at 9 PM. Seeing that all was quiet, you slipped into John’s room and swapped out the phones.”
“That sounds plausible.”
“Only you forgot to leave the key,” I say.
“The perpetrator of this scheme certainly forgot to leave the key,” Deborah agrees calmly. She uncrosses her legs. I almost expect her to yawn, she appears so disengaged. “You haven’t told me my motive yet,” she says.
“You had two motives,” I say. “First, you didn’t want to lose your status as Mrs. John Taylor. You’d have had to suffer through what would be the ultimate shame—for you, anyway—a public divorce.”
“Interesting,” says Deborah. “And my second motive?”
“Simple, unadulterated greed,” I say. “You didn’t want the money to dry up. You knew that Claire Fanning and John wanted to start a purely pro bono clinic. That John wouldn’t be able to pay the type of alimony that would keep you in your current lifestyle. And then you thought of that tempting ten-million-dollar life insurance policy.”
“You’ll never prove this,” says Deborah. “Never. It seems to be, as you said, nearly the perfect crime. And if John had died right away, before MJ arrived, it would have been perfect, since without the trauma marks the police wouldn’t have suspected a wrongful death. MJ would simply have found John dead of a heart attack. End of story.”
“But I don’t think that’s necessarily the important part,” I say.
“How do you figure that?” Deborah asks.
“You’re not exactly walking away from this with a sweet deal,” I say. “You’ve lost your husband. From what you say, you’ve lost your family as well. And your social standing in the community will never be the same. In fact, you’ve lost all round. And one of the things that really gets to me is that you took the life of a good man. A flawed man, yes, but a good one nevertheless.”
Deborah makes an ugly noise, so ugly I can’t be sure it came from her.
“But what really hurts about this case is poor MJ,” I say. “She suffered the most. She had a conscience. She wouldn’t have gotten any enjoyment from her house or garden after John’s death. She was doomed from the minute she walked into that hotel room. You let her think she killed another human being, and for that, if nothing else, you deserve to be punished.”
“She took my husband from me,” says Deborah. “It all started with her.”
“The polygamy thing was your idea,” I say. “MJ was an innocent bystander.”
Deborah shrugs. “I have no pity for her.”
I am done. No more to say. I get up and leave Deborah sitting silently.
Once outside the house I pull my phone out of my pocket and click the record audio button to off. Even if it’s not admissible in court, Susan and Grady will be most interested.
70
Samantha
LATE AGAIN. I LET MYSELF softly into the house, tiptoe around as I get a glass of water from the kitchen, and head for the bedroom. But here I stop. The bedroom door is open—Peter always closes it when he goes to sleep, he claims it reduces road noise although I’ve never noticed a difference. The bed is still made, is empty. Where could Peter be? He’s never out past 10 PM on a weekday—at least, not without me.