The First Wife. Tara Quinn Taylor
For the moment. What’s up?”
“I have a case.”
Of course she did. It was the only reason the prosecutor would be calling me at home. If she was selling raffle tickets for her latest cause, she’d have caught me at the courthouse. Or my office.
“What kind of case?”
“It’s a strange one, Kel,” Sheila said. “Murder, but that’s not what’s weird.”
“Okay.” I grabbed the pen and pad of paper from the counter because it was closer than the one on the table. Or the one beside the couch. Besides, it had colorful spring flowers in the background. I had a feeling I was going to need some cheer for this. “Fill me in.”
I hadn’t started my career with any desire to be an expert witness. And certainly not one who was nationally registered and got calls from all over the country. That hadn’t been my goal. But our purposes in life aren’t always clear to us, are they?
“I’ve got a guy who killed his wife.”
Dead wife, I jotted.
“The weird part is, I need you to interview his wife.”
Reading what I’d just written, I said, “I’m not real successful with dead people.” I’m also not callous, but Sheila seemed to bring out the dark in me.
Or maybe it was the stuff we dealt with that did it.
“This is a different wife,” Sheila replied, her serious and detached tone unchanged. “James Todd was a bigamist. Twice, actually. I spoke with Jane Hamilton, his first wife, early this morning. Seems to be in some kind of denial. I may need you to meet with her, too.”
“He was married to three women?” What a guy.
“Yeah.”
“Doesn’t that make him a polygamist?” Like it mattered. I was just trying to take it all in. Bigamy, deceit, I wrote.
“No, just twice a bigamist. He married Lee Anne Todd, the murder victim, while he was married to Jane. Kept them both for a couple of years and then divorced Jane, apparently without either of the women being the wiser.”
“What was he doing, a test run, to see which woman he preferred?”
“Who knows?” Sheila’s disgust was obvious. “But he wasn’t satisfied with wife number two, either. He married wife number three, Marla Anderson, last year, while still married to Lee Anne. Several months ago he asked Lee Anne for a divorce. She refused. She’d been spying on him, following him. She found out about wife number three, including the fact that Marla is an heiress, and threatened to expose him unless he paid her to be quiet. We think that’s why he killed her.”
“For what? To avoid a bigamy charge? I mean, what was he looking at? A fine?”
“Technically he could have done a little jail time, but avoiding the bigamy charge wasn’t his motive. Money was. If Lee Anne exposed him, his marriage to Marla would be legally void. Marla would know that their relationship was a hoax, and all that money would no longer be his. He either had to resign himself to paying Lee Anne forever to buy her silence—and to living with the threat of exposure hanging over him—or he had to get rid of her.”
“Do you know this or is it just theory at this point?” I knew how Sheila generally operated. Theory to proof, rather than proof to theory like some of the other prosecutors I’d worked with. Either way was fine with me. I just liked to know, going in, if I was up against opinion or fact.
“A bit of both. We’ve got some substantial evidence, but a lot of it is going to rely on the character witnesses. I need you to talk to Marla. Let me know if you think she’s telling the truth about this guy. She insists he’s the gentlest man she’s ever met. Never shown any temper or violence. If you think she’s lying I might need you to testify.”
“Okay.” I was interested. Very interested.
“She’s hostile at this point.”
I wasn’t surprised. The woman was married to a liar. Was probably in love with a liar. And, for now, she was desperate to believe a liar.
“I’m assuming spousal privilege doesn’t come into play?”
“Right. At the moment, anyway. Their marriage is void, but now that he’s a widower, they can always re-marry. He’s out on bond.”
So he might still get the money anyway. If Marla Anderson believed in him long enough to marry him again. I liked it better when life was fair.
“You said you already spoke with his first wife?” I read my notes. “Jane Hamilton.”
“Yeah.”
“Does she remember him being violent?”
“She says he wasn’t, but I’ve got some suspicious domestic violence police reports….”
“Suspicious how?”
“The cops were called, but not by her.”
“Who called them?”
“The hospital.”
“Jane Hamilton was accident-prone?” I guessed. I’d seen it before. More than once.
“Apparently. Or her husband was and she just happened to be in the way each time.”
“Did the police investigate?”
“Yeah. They were concerned, but there was never enough evidence to file charges.”
“Why are you so sure he killed Lee Anne?”
“He was the last person known to be with her. His fingerprints were found in her car. Footprints found at the edge of the cliff match his shoe size. There was bruising on her back that wasn’t explained by the fall. And the way she landed, the distance out from the edge of the cliff points to her having been pushed hard rather than falling. He had motive….”
“Who’s paying for his defense?” I asked, though I’d have bet that I already knew the answer.
“Wife number three.”
I’d have won my bet.
CHAPTER ONE
“JANE, TALK TO ME.”
Jane’s heart pounded as Brad’s gaze met hers. Pressure, rising like a tidal wave from within, strangled her throat and throbbed behind her eyes.
She had enough to handle without Brad Manchester adding to the mix.
Sitting on a log in the wilderness in Illinois, part of a two-hundred-acre plot of land Brad had purchased with plans to someday build a cabin on it, Jane just wanted a couple of hours away from all the stress. The basket and water bottles, remains of their picnic lunch, still lay on the blanket spread a few feet away. Brad sat with them.
They’d left their homes in Allenville, a suburb of Chicago, only hours ago. Right now it felt like days.
The rough bark dug into the backs of her thighs through her jeans. A twig poked just behind her right ear. Strands of chocolate-brown hair hung loose from the clip holding her twisted bun. She’d sweated off most of her makeup—she never left home without it on—an hour into the day-long hike.
Her employees would look askance if they could see her now. As the editor of a new national women’s magazine, with only initial backing and the threat that if they failed they’d be left in the dust, Jane prided herself on being always professional and well put together.
She didn’t usually let her hair down.
Except when she was with Brad. He was her buddy. Safe.
Usually.
“You’ve been distracted all day,” Brad said now.
Jane nodded,