Imperfect Strangers

CHAPTER 31

Sandy rapped sharply on the desk with a paperweight, calling the meeting to order. Some three-quarters of the building's occupants were seated around the living room of his apartment, some of them on the floor. The building's entire staff, excepting one man who was minding the main entrance, was lined up against a wall.

"Thank you all for coming on short notice," Sandy said to the room. "I don't think we've had an extraordinary meeting of the residents in many years, but we have something very important before us this evening. As many of you already know, Thomas Wills, our custodian, has been arrested and charged with the murder of my wife, Joan."

There was a buzz around the room while those who knew confirmed this for those who did not.

"Now," Sandy continued, "I don't think that any of us here could possibly believe that of Thomas. He has been our loyal employee for nineteen years, doing whatever we've asked of him, cheerfully and well. I don't think there's a violent bone in his body. So what I hope you each will do is to add your signature to mine on the following letter, addressed to the district attorney." Sandy read aloud:

Dear Sir,

We, the residents of Fifteen-fifteen Fifth Avenue, and the employers of Thomas Wills, wish to express our disbelief that Mr. Wills could have had anything to do with the crime with which he is charged. We have known Mr. Wills for many years and have always found him to be a gentle, honest, and religious man, the sort who would not harm anyone. We urgently request that Mr. Wills be granted reasonable bail, and we pledge that he will be welcome to resume his duties in our building.

Sandy looked out into the room at blank faces. No one said anything.

"Well?" Sandy asked.

An elderly man on one of the sofas raised his hand.

"Martin?"

"Sandy," the man said, "I feel pretty much the same way you do about Thomas, but I think that before I sign such a letter I'd like to know the evidence against him."

"The police have told me that their evidence consists of, one, the fact that Thomas had a key to the basement, and thus, access; two, that Thomas's fingerprints were found on the doorjamb of my storage room; and three, that Thomas served prison time more than twenty years ago for killing another man in a barroom brawl." He paused and let that sink in. "Now, of course, Thomas had a key to the basement; he spent a lot of time there; also of course, his fingerprints would have legitimately been on the doorjamb of my storage room and, probably, on yours as well. God knows he's been in and out of that room a hundred times, carrying things for us. Finally, the news of his previous conviction came as a surprise to me, but the lawyer I have engaged to represent him says that, in all likelihood, Thomas acted in self-defense, but was inadequately represented at his trial. Certainly, in all the years he has worked for us, Thomas's behavior has always been law abiding, not to mention kind and gentle. He is a pillar of his church." Sandy stopped and waited again.

A middle-aged woman raised her hand.

"Mrs. Jacobson?" Sandy said.

"Mr. Kinsolving," she said, "I've lived in the building for only three years, a shorter time than you and the others. I've had little or no contact with Mr. Wills, but I wonder if we're going to be comfortable with having a man in the building who has been charged with murder?"

It was time to bully these people, Sandy thought. "Mrs. Jacobson, if you have even the slightest doubt of Thomas's innocence in this matter, then you should not sign this letter. I would like to say, though, that I am the injured party here; it was my wife who was brutally murdered, and my driver who was attacked. And I will not entertain for one moment the possibility that Thomas Wills harmed either of them. Now, I think we all know what the problem is; those of you who feel comfortable doing so may sign the letter along with me. As to the others, I thank you for your kind attention."

Sandy stood at the desk and glared at his audience, practically daring them not to sign. Then one by one, each of those present, including the recalcitrant Mrs. Jacobson, signed the letter and went home.

Sandy was in his office early on Monday morning. As soon as his secretary came in he gave her the residents' letter and asked her to messenger it to Murray Hirsch. That done, he called his travel agent and asked her to arrange air passage to London for himself and Cara, then faxed the Connaught for reservations for Angus and his girl. Then he called Sam Warren.

"Sam, I'm going to be out of the country, in London, for a week or so. Is there anything we can't handle by fax and phone during that time?"

"Nothing, Sandy. We won't have the closing documents on the vineyard until the end of next week at the earliest."

"Did my son, Angus, come to see you about an account?"

"He did, and I've opened one for him. I've also arranged for a Platinum American Express card for him, which will be FedExed to him in London, and I've alerted our European network of associate banks, in the event he needs any assistance while he's traveling."

"Perfect. You can reach me at the London shop from tomorrow." He gave the banker the phone and fax numbers.

"Have a good trip," Warren said.

Sandy hung up and turned to business. He worked steadily through the morning, approving buys of wine in France, California, Australia, and Chile, answering correspondence and talking with employees. Shortly after eleven o'clock he received a phone call from Murray Hirsch.

"Yes, Murray, how did the bail hearing go? Did you receive the letter in time?"

"Mr. Kinsolving, are you sitting down?"

"Yes."

"Thomas Wills hanged himself in his cell late last night."

Sandy's heart nearly failed. "How is that possible?" he asked weakly.

"It's possible, believe me; happens all the time. I feel a little responsible myself. Knowing the distress he was in I should have asked for a suicide watch on his cell."

"I don't see how you could have anticipated this," Sandy said. "You certainly aren't to blame." He knew exactly who was to blame. He himself was. No, he reminded himself, Peter Martindale was to blame.

"There's something else," Hirsch said, "good news, of a kind."

"What do you mean, 'good news'?"

"Thomas was guilty of your wife's murder."

"What?"

"He left a note in his cell, confessing to the murder, taking full responsibility."

"Why the hell would he have done that?" Sandy demanded.

"A guilty conscience, I presume. God knows, I thought he was innocent, and I know you did."

"Oh, Jesus, how could this have happened?" Sandy asked aloud.

"Mr. Kinsolving, I assure you, this happens regularly. Some people in jail are hardened criminals; others just can't face the guilt associated with their acts."

Sandy took a few deep breaths. "What do we do now?" he asked helplessly.

"There's not much we can do, actually," Hirsch replied. "Mr. Wills had no family; apparently, his church was his family. I suppose I should get in touch with his pastor and ask him to make arrangements for claiming the body and effecting interment."

"Yes," Sandy said wearily, "I suppose that's the thing to do. I'm leaving the country on business tomorrow, and I'd appreciate it if you would handle whatever needs to be done."

"I'll be glad to do that," Hirsch said. "And Mr. Kinsolving, there will be no fee for my representation of Mr. Wills."

"Thank you, Murray. Please tell his pastor that I'll pay the costs involved, and, " he thought for a moment, "and tell him that I'll be making a twenty-five-thousand-dollar donation to the church in Thomas's memory."

"That's very kind of you, Mr. Kinsolving."

"Please get in touch with my banker and tell him to whom the check should go." He gave Hirsch Sam Warren's number."

"I'll do that, Mr. Kinsolving. I'm sorry this has turned out the way it has."

"Thank you, Murray." Sandy hung up and slumped over his desk. Would this never end? Would Peter Martindale's insane behavior keep having repercussions in his life and in those of other innocent people? He sat there, immobile, for the remainder of the morning.