Santa Fe Dead

“Yes.”

“For the record, you are represented by counsel, Mr. Ed Eagle.”

“Yes.”

“Are you acquainted with the decedent? The dead man?”

“Yes, he is my ex-husband. We were divorced about ten months ago.”

“Can you give me his name, age and occupation?”

“His name is Rodney Spearman, he’s…” She thought for a moment. “He’s forty-five, and he’s a film producer at Centurion Studios.”

The questioning continued for ten minutes, until the crime scene team arrived and were briefed, and then it began again. When the detectives had finished questioning Susannah, Eagle took her into the bedroom and made her lie down.

“I don’t need to lie down,” she protested.

“Yes, you do, and the detectives want to question me alone.”

“Oh, all right.” She stretched out on the bed, and Eagle went back into the living room and sat down. The detectives questioned him closely. Shortly, the crime scene investigator walked over.

“Lieutenant, you want my preliminary report?”

“Yes, please.”

“Cause of death, gunshot wound to the heart; time of death, approximately half an hour ago. We have the weapon, a.45-caliber, semiautomatic pistol.” He held up a plastic bag containing Eagle’s gun. “One shot fired, range three to four feet. A.38 revolver was on the floor beside the decedent in a position consistent with it being in his hand when he was shot. I’ll need to examine the woman’s hands for gunshot residue.”

Eagle went into the bedroom and got Susannah, explaining what was to be done. She sat at the dining room table with the investigator. When he was done, she got up and went back into the bedroom.

Rivera held up the gun. “Mr. Eagle, you said this is yours?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Do you live in this apartment with Ms. Wilde?”

“No.”

“Do you have a license for this weapon in Los Angeles?”

Eagle produced his carry license.

“Where do you reside?”

“In Santa Fe, New Mexico.” Eagle gave them the address.

“How did you obtain this license?”

“I filled out an application and sent it to Chief Sams.”

“I see you’ve had it for some years,” Rivera said, checking the date on the license, then returning it to Eagle. “It’s an interesting gun,” he said. “Tell me about it.”

“It was made by a gunsmith named Terry Tussey, who lives and works in High City, Nevada. One of his specialties is making small, lightweight.45s.”

“Ah, yes. I’ve seen photographs of his work. How much does it weigh?”

“Twenty-one ounces, empty. I would be grateful if you would return it to me as soon as your investigation will allow; it’s an expensive weapon, and I don’t want to lose it.”

“I’ll see that you get it back as soon as it’s released.” Rivera handed the gun to Riley. “All right, Mr. Eagle. Our preliminary investigative conclusion is that this was a legal shooting, so we won’t be arresting Ms. Wilde, unless evidence to the contrary emerges.”

“Thank you. I should tell you that Ms. Wilde and I plan to fly to Santa Fe tomorrow, where we both have residences.” He handed Rivera his card. “You are welcome to speak with her by telephone, through me. If you require her presence in Los Angeles, I’ll bring her back within twenty-four hours of the request. In the meantime, anything you can legally do to keep her name out of the press would be very much appreciated.”

“I can’t make any promises, but I’ll do what I can. Mr. Eagle, do you always travel armed?”

“I always have a weapon in my luggage, and sometimes I wear it. I fly my own airplane, so I don’t have to deal with airport security.”

“Did you have some particular reason to be wearing it on this trip?”

“Yes, I think my ex-wife wants to kill me.”

“I read about the trial,” Rivera said. “It seems that, between you and Ms. Wilde, you have an abundance of murderous ex-spouses.”

“An overabundance,” Eagle said, “until today.”

The body was removed, and Eagle saw the two detectives out. The bloodstain on the carpet was the only evidence of what had occurred.

Eagle went into the bedroom to check on Susannah. She was lying on the bed, sound asleep.

5

BARBARA EAGLE/ELEANOR WRIGHT regarded her new auburn-colored, artfully streaked hairdo in the salon mirror and nodded. Even if she was no longer wanted by the police, she thought it a good idea to have a different look. Half the country had watched her trial on Court TV and the evening news, and she had no wish to be recognized. It was time to learn whether she would be.

She left the salon, went into the very chic El Rancho shop and tried on bikinis, selecting two, along with some suntan lotion. Her new, slimmer figure was shown to great advantage by the tiny swimsuits. She went back to her suite, got into a bikini, grabbed a robe and headed for the pool. It was nearly lunchtime, and she was getting hungry.

She selected a chaise at poolside, and a waitress materialized a second or two later. “May I bring you something, Mrs. Wright, or would you prefer to choose from our low-fat buffet?” she asked, indicating the setup at the end of the pool.

“Thank you,” Barbara replied. “I’d like a turkey club sandwich on rye toast with real, honest-to-God bacon and mayonnaise and a Bloody Mary.”

“Of course, ma’am, but I’m afraid it will be a virgin Mary, since we don’t serve alcohol.”

“All right, all right,” she said, and the young woman vanished.

There were some magazines on the table next to her chaise, and she had begun leafing through a Vanity Fair when she saw a man come from the direction of the rooms and drop his robe on a chaise two down from hers. He appeared to be in his late forties, but his hair was almost entirely gray; he was tanned and fit-looking, with a flat belly and well-developed musculature.

Barbara pointed her eyes at the magazine and used her peripheral vision. The man walked past her to the diving board, stretched a little, then performed a perfectly executed dive into the pool. He surfaced and began swimming laps, moving easily and gracefully through the water.

The waitress arrived with her sandwich and began setting up the table beside Barbara.

“Who is the gentleman in the pool?” Barbara asked.

“Oh, that’s Mr. Walter Keeler,” the young woman replied. “He was widowed recently and has been with us for the last month or so, resting and toning up.”

It’s working, Barbara said to herself. “What does he do?” she asked.

“I believe he sold his company not long ago-some sort of electronics, I think.”

“Thank you, dear,” Barbara said, signing the check and adding a crisp twenty from her purse.

“Oh, thank you, ma’am,” the young woman said. “May I get you anything else?”

Barbara wanted to say Yes, get me Mr. Walter Keeler, but she restrained herself. “No, thank you, dear.” She busied herself applying suntan lotion, while surreptitiously following Keeler’s progress with his laps. He must have swum fifty, she thought, because she had finished her club sandwich by the time he got out of the pool.

He looked toward her as he passed, smiling and nodding. She rewarded him with a small smile, then went back to her magazine.