Chesterfield got out of bed and walked to a window that looked out on the Pacific. The sea was calm today, and puffy white clouds drifted across a bright blue sky. If only his boyhood mates from the slums of Manchester could see him now. The only flies in the ointment were the Bobbsey Twins, who were contesting the will he had talked Lily into writing. He loved watching them fume and rage whenever they were in his presence. Chesterfield had hired the best probate lawyers in the state, and they assured him that the will was airtight, so the irritation caused by Lily’s obnoxious brood would fade soon like a poison ivy rash.
Chesterfield put on workout gear and started a series of calisthenics that would keep him supple. In a month, he would open his magic act in Las Vegas and he needed to be in top shape. Some of the illusions he performed required a great deal of elasticity because of the narrow spaces into which he had to fit. Chesterfield loved performing magic and the adoration it brought him, so he was willing to put up with the pain his rigorous routine caused him.
An hour after he started working out, Chesterfield slipped on running shoes. He was about to go outside when the phone rang.
“Robert?” Regina Barrister asked.
“Hi, Counselor. Do you have news for me?”
“Yes, and it’s all good. I just had a call from Clint Easley. The county is not going to bring any charges against you. The official verdict is going to be that Lily’s death was an accident.”
“Which it was.”
“Her children tried to pressure the district attorney to bring murder charges, but there’s no evidence that you or anyone else was with Lily when she died.”
“Does this mean I don’t have to worry about being charged with Lily’s death or any of the Multnomah County cases?”
“There’s no statute of limitations on murder, but you’re free and clear unless new evidence causes any of the cases to be reopened.”
“I certainly made the right choice when I hired you. I’ve heard that they call you the Sorceress, and the nickname is very apt. Thank you for all you’ve done. I’m a fan for life.”
Chesterfield hung up. For a moment, he stood stock-still. Then he pumped his fist. He’d beaten the system and gotten filthy rich in the process. Life was good, he thought. No, it was great!
* * *
Regina Barrister ended the call and looked out her office window at the river and beyond to the sun reflecting off the pristine white snow that covered Mount Hood. The sight should have thrilled her. Instead, she felt as if she had to take a bath. She had a strong suspicion that Robert Chesterfield was guilty of the crimes charged in Peter Ragland’s indictments, and the possibility loomed large that Chesterfield murdered his wife.
The only positive she could take away was the fact that Robert Chesterfield was no longer part of her life.
PART THREE
VANISHING ACT
2017
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
By the time Regina finished telling Robin what she remembered about Robert Chesterfield and his case, the sun had almost set. Robin was so absorbed by Regina’s tale that she didn’t feel the chilly breeze drifting inland off the river.
“Do you think Robert Chesterfield killed his wife?” Robin asked Regina.
“The weather was terrible on the day Lily Dowd died. She could have slipped or the wind could have knocked her off the cliff. I was almost knocked off my feet several times when we walked to the place where her body was found.”
“So, you’re saying that Robert didn’t have anything to do with her death?”
“I’m saying that the police never found any evidence that Lily Dowd was murdered. If she was, there wasn’t a shred of evidence implicating Chesterfield. No jury would ever have found him guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. Dowd’s children sued Chesterfield for wrongful death in a civil case with a much lower standard of proof, and that case was dismissed for lack of evidence.”
“What about the poisoning cases?”
“Chesterfield always denied the charges, and the police never produced any evidence connecting him to the chocolates that killed Randall. It wasn’t even clear that Arthur Gentry was poisoned. If I were on a jury, I would have had a reasonable doubt.”
“I’m not asking how you would have voted if you were on a jury,” Robin said. “I asked you if you thought Robert Chesterfield murdered Sophie Randall or Arthur Gentry.”
“What does it matter what I think? I wasn’t present when the killer doctored the chocolates. I didn’t see who did that. Any opinion I have is a guess. I will tell you that Chesterfield insisted he was innocent. I will also tell you that I did not like the man, and I was glad when my representation ended.”
* * *
The next morning at work, Robin searched the internet to learn as much as she could about Robert Chesterfield. One piece of information made Robin very sad. After Chesterfield’s criminal case was dismissed, Gary Randall also sued Chesterfield for committing the civil tort of wrongful death. Randall’s case was as hopeless as the Dowd children’s suit, but he was obsessed. His lawsuit was thrown out, but he appealed—and the attorney fees drove him into bankruptcy. He committed suicide soon after.
Chesterfield’s legal troubles didn’t end with the dismissal of the wrongful death cases. The Dowd children sued to break the will. The litigation was lengthy and costly, and Chesterfield settled out of court. He ended up with the house on the coast, the Portland condo, and several million dollars, but his lifestyle was expensive and his notoriety made it impossible for him to make a living playing cards.
Fortunately for Chesterfield, the murder charges made him famous. Caesars Palace, one of the big casinos on the Strip, featured his magic show, and people flocked to Las Vegas to see it. Was Lord Chesterfield a cold-blooded murderer or a victim? Audiences filled the casino theater and drew their own conclusions.
At the height of his fame, Chesterfield had married Claire Madison, a trust fund baby who became famous on a reality television show. She was several years younger than Chesterfield. The marriage had gone through ups and downs, and according to the tabloids, the tension increased when Chesterfield’s career took a sharp downturn. Chesterfield still had an act, but he performed at lesser-known casinos.
Robin had just learned that the Sophie Randall and Arthur Gentry murders had become cold cases when Jeff Hodges knocked on her office door. Robin looked up from her computer and smiled.
“Hey, kid, have you got a moment?” Jeff Hodges asked.
“For you, always.”
Jeff returned the smile and sat down on one of Robin’s client chairs. “I researched the question you asked me about getting a patent for a magic illusion.”
“And?”
“You can, but there’s a problem. In order to get a patent, you have to explain how your gizmo works. In this case, the gizmo is the illusion, which means that anyone can find out how the trick works by reading the patent application. I assume your client wants to protect the secret of how his trick works. He’ll be defeating that purpose if he files for a patent.”
“Thanks, Jeff.”
“On a more important note,” Jeff said as he stood to leave. “There’s a new restaurant on Alberta. It’s Cajun. Are you interested?”