Robin dragged a lawn chair to a spot next to Regina and they sat in silence for a while. Watching the river was restful and a good break from the hectic pace of Robin’s practice.
“I had an interesting visitor today,” Robin said after a while. “An old client of yours.”
Regina didn’t say anything. Robin had gotten used to that. She suspected that Regina was afraid to engage in a conversation because she was terrified that she wouldn’t be able to remember something that she should know.
“His name is Robert Chesterfield. He’s British and he’s a magician. He wanted me to secure a patent for a magic illusion he’s going to perform in Las Vegas. When he came to the office, he asked for you. He told me that you represented him in a case more than twenty years ago.”
When Regina didn’t respond, Robin forged on.
“I asked Mary Stendahl, your secretary, about him.”
Robin told Regina Mary’s position with the firm and her relationship to Regina so Regina wouldn’t worry if she had no idea whom Robin was talking about.
“Mary said it was a murder case, maybe two murders, but she doesn’t remember a lot about it. I was hoping you could fill me in.”
Regina stared at the river for so long that Robin wasn’t certain she was going to answer. Then she said, “I remember the case.”
PART TWO
EVIDENCE OF OTHER CRIMES
1997–1998
CHAPTER FOUR
If you were casting a movie and needed someone to play a British lord, you would give Robert Chesterfield the part before he’d read a line. Chesterfield stood ramrod-straight like a graduate of the Royal Military Academy at Sandhurst, which he sometimes claimed he had attended. He had curly blond hair that always looked windblown, teeth so white they belonged in a toothpaste commercial, and the ruddy complexion of a man who rowed on the Thames and hunted quail. Then there was his Oxbridge accent, which made him sound like an upper-class Brit.
Chesterfield was always cheery. And why wouldn’t he be? After moving from London to Portland, he had wooed and wed Lily Dowd, who was plain, plump, a tad slow, twelve years his senior, and the heir to a grocery chain fortune. Chesterfield thought of his wife as Dowdy Dowd, though he never called her that to her face. A master of sexual techniques, Chesterfield knew that frequent orgasms and praise for his spouse’s beauty—no matter how unbelievable—translated into XK-Es, country club memberships, a seaside mansion with servants, and entrée into Oregon society.
While Chesterfield cut an imposing figure, Samuel Moser, the manager of the Westmont Country Club, did not. Sam was of medium height, balding, and overweight. Unlike Chesterfield, who always looked like he was modeling for a men’s fashion magazine, Moser dressed in the dull gray suits, plain white shirts, and drab ties that made him look like the accountant he’d been before securing his position at Oregon’s most prestigious country club.
As soon as Moser left the meeting with the club’s board of directors, he told the valets to notify him when Chesterfield arrived. Four minutes after Chesterfield brought his classic Jaguar XK-E to a halt at the club’s porticoed entrance, Moser waylaid him beneath the crystal chandelier that illuminated the lobby.
“Mr. Chesterfield, may I have a moment of your time?”
“Of course, Sam.”
“Why don’t we step into my office,” Moser said.
“My, this sounds ominous,” Chesterfield answered with a smile.
Moser led Chesterfield down a carpeted, wood-paneled hall without saying another word. When they entered the anteroom of his office, Moser saw Chesterfield cast a quick glance at his secretary’s desk. Sophie Randall was not seated at it. Moser had told her what he planned to do, and he knew that she would not want to be anywhere near Chesterfield when he did it.
When they were seated with the door closed, Moser folded his hands on his desk and stared at Chesterfield. “I noticed that you looked at Mrs. Randall’s desk when you walked by it.”
Chesterfield smiled again. “I did. She’s an attractive woman, and the sight of a pretty woman always brightens my day.”
“You do know that she’s married?”
“Yes.”
“Then why did you make a pass at her?”
“Me? I never did.”
“That’s not what she says. She said your request was quite graphic. She was very upset.”
Chesterfield flashed a self-satisfied smile. “I think Mrs. Randall has been engaging in wishful thinking.”
“I’ve had similar complaints about lewd language and unwanted sexual advances from the female staff and the wives of club members.”
Chesterfield looked offended. “You’re kidding!”
“Unfortunately, I am not. I’ve also had complaints about cheating at cards. We do not tolerate any of that at the Westmont.”
“Where is this going, Moser?”
“Nowhere, if you cease your behavior.”
Chesterfield leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “And if I don’t cease this alleged behavior?”
“Then I shall bring the complaints to the attention of the membership committee.”
Chesterfield studied Moser for a moment. Then he laughed. “Really, Sam, old boy?” He laughed again. “Do you think the committee is going to expel the husband of the wealthiest member of the Westmont because of the complaints of a secretary?”
“I believe that they will take her complaints and the other complaints quite seriously considering their source, the sheer number, and your reputation.”
Chesterfield leaned forward and jettisoned all pretense of civility. “Listen to me, you little shit. Fuck with me and you’ll be the one who’s out on his ass.”
Moser stared back, unfazed. “This is exactly the type of behavior that we do not tolerate at the Westmont, sir. Continue along this path, and you will no longer be welcome here.”
Chesterfield stood up so quickly that his chair almost toppled over. “We’ll see who’s not here, Sammy boy,” he shot back before stomping out of the office.
Moser closed his eyes and took a deep breath to calm himself. Then he picked up his phone and dialed Landon Crawford.
* * *
Retired Federal Judge Landon Crawford was still an imposing figure at seventy-three. He had been six two when he played linebacker for Harvard. Age had taken away several inches and he’d lost a little muscle mass, but his chest and shoulders were still thick, and his hair, though gray, was mostly there. More important, he continued to project the force of personality that had cowed opposing linemen and recalcitrant attorneys.
The judge sat in his favorite spot at a corner of the terrace that overlooked the eighteenth hole. In the distance, maple trees, birches, and evergreens shaded the lush green fairways. It was an idyllic setting, but Crawford was certain that his peace would soon be disrupted. Everyone knew where he held court, and ten minutes after Crawford ended the call with Sam Moser, Robert Chesterfield walked onto the terrace, looked around, and spotted the board chair.
“Landon, we have to talk,” Chesterfield said as he sat opposite Crawford.