“Did she say why she thought the framed photo was taken?”
I turn my head slowly and look at Ellie seated in the gallery next to Gregg. She’s staring at me. Gregg, too. The Crown team has chosen to not put her on the stand. I’m betting it’s because the Crown is worried she’ll sink the case—it’ll open her up to admitting she hated Martin and that she wanted to stab and kill him herself. Ellie on the stand would have given Lorrington the reasonable doubt we need.
My memory swings back to that fateful wintry night in Vancouver over two years ago. Martin and I were in trouble. Because we were under investigation in Europe for several scams, we’d moved to the States, where I began parting rich women from their money by giving spiritual readings. I soon learned faith healing was more lucrative—people will try anything and give everything to get well again when faced with death. But then I came under legal scrutiny in the US for selling my Magic Drops—a purported “cancer cure” made of water and some herbs and a few drops of peroxide, which I flogged at nearly $1,000 per tiny vial. Which is why we’d then relocated to Canada and shifted the Magic Drops sales online with various distribution centers we could keep moving around. But complaints had been filed in Canada, and an investigation opened there, too. We needed a new plan—one last big con that would enable us to retire to some island without an extradition treaty.
It was Martin’s idea for us to scope out the AGORA convention for potential marks we could lure into another one of his real estate scams. When Ellie and her father sat down next to me, it was a gift. Manna from heaven. I texted Martin, who was working another part of the hotel, and told him to start googling everything he could find on Ellie and her father. I stuck beside Ellie when she and her friend Dana moved to the bar counter. The more I heard, the more I realized she was the perfect mark. I knew it would require commitment on both our parts. A long con. Many months. But if it paid, it would pay big. Our last job. One final score, then we could lay low.
So after Dana left the bar, Martin headed Ellie off near the washroom.
We were in play.
I confess I was nervous from the outset. The role for my husband required seducing and sleeping and living with the vulnerable heiress, who was also beautiful. Gentle. Artistic. Rich. Loving. I feared—more than a little—Martin could fall for her. I stalked them so that I’d know if something started to go sideways. I followed them in my Subaru. I tracked Martin’s movements. I had Martin install spyware on her phone so I would know their location whenever they went away together. I had cams installed in the Bonny River house, hidden in the clocks. Martin didn’t know I could watch him and Ellie via an app. I was right. I was losing Martin. But it wasn’t to Ellie.
It was to Rabz.
Little did I know that it would be our mark, Ellie, who would show me that my husband had been planning another final scam—a bigger one. Double-crossing me.
Little did he know that Ellie had outed his secret to me.
THE MURDER TRIAL
Detective Corneil Tremayne is in the witness box. I don’t like him. I can’t read him. I think he has a mean streak. In earlier testimony he already outlined for the court the forensic details of the investigation, but Lorrington has called him back.
“Sergeant Corneil,” says Lorrington, “can you recap a few facts for Your Honor? The hairs found in the Velcro of the Nike ball cap—who did they belong to?”
The sergeant barely moves as he speaks. “As I mentioned earlier, they were synthetic hairs. From a wig.”
“So they did not belong to the defendant.”
“No, sir.”
“The blood on the cap?”
“It’s a DNA match to Ellie Hartley. The cap was bloodied in a prior incident and left in her garage.”
“So not my client’s blood.”
“No, sir.”
“The blood on the knife?”
“It was found to have been contributed by the deceased, Martin Cresswell-Smith. Plus, there were very small trace amounts that belonged to Ellie Hartley, also from the prior incident on their boat.”
“Were any fingerprints at the old farmhouse found to be a match to the defendant, Mrs. Sabrina Cresswell-Smith?”
“Negative.”
Lorrington nods slowly. “Was there any evidence at all that the defendant was at any time inside that house?”
“No, there is not, but she was working with a coconspirator who was inside the house.”
“You’re referring to this mystery ‘bikie’ who was seen accosting my client?”
“We believe he was working with Mrs. Cresswell-Smith. She used him to deliver contraband marked for Ellie Hartley as a way to make public her drug addiction and to pave the way to her possible death.”
Murmurs come from the gallery.
“Detective,” Lorrington booms suddenly, “you have not presented any physical evidence, any witness testimony, anything at all that actually links my client to this mystery biker. You have not presented any proof that she was instructing him. You have not even located this mystery man. Not only that, one of your key investigating officers, Constable Gregg Abbott, was sleeping with the defendant. Your other key investigator, Senior Constable Laurel Bianchi, has a history of violence, which she has confessed to in this very courtroom. She was forced out of Crime Command for physically assaulting and injuring a suspect in her custody. And she has the scar on her head to prove it. She also adopted the child who hid under the bed and witnessed
