Double Take
Page 46
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“He changed my mind, I’ll admit it. I saw him in action, saw how he worked, how he dealt with grieving people, how he eased them into accepting the continual presence of their dead loved ones. He spoke openly to me about how many charlatans there are in the field, that some of them would do anything to earn a buck, and if someone had the talent—the charisma, I guess, the verbal facility, and the ability to make people buy into them—then only God knew many times who was for real and who wasn’t. Grieving people, he said, were the most vulnerable people in the world. As I already told you, I still wasn’t certain until Linc.”
“But you were grieving, deeply.” She nodded.
He turned his Audi off into the Presidio to weave smoothly through the immense former army base, and came to a stop next to the cemetery. He turned to face her. “But you believed he was really in communication with your son?”
“Yes. There is no doubt in my mind at all. Don’t you want to go see Wallace?”
“We have time.” He wanted to ask her why she had no doubts, but instead, he said, “All right, why don’t you tell me what you think of Wallace Tammerlane.”
“You already know that both he and Bevlin Wagner are fond of me, that they admired August, that they’ve grieved at his loss with me. I remember when the police kept pressuring me to give them names of people who could have killed my husband—other than myself, of course—I couldn’t say Wallace or Bevlin, I simply couldn’t. They’re both my friends. But—” She stopped, turned her face away from him. “It’s okay. Take your time.”
She took a deep breath, expelled it, and turned back to face him. “The truth is, I’ve felt so helpless since August’s murder, like the police had painted a bull’s-eye right between my eyes. And then this assassin, Makepeace, came after me.” She reached out to touch his arm. “Cheney, I want you to know I’ve decided to keep practicing with my gun so I’ll get better. I’m going to keep protecting myself. And you know something? Maybe there’ll come a time when I can protect you too, when I can watch your back.”
Cheney said slowly, “Not all that many people have ever offered to watch my back. Thank you.”
Julia smiled. “You’re welcome. So what did you think of the police files on Wallace Tammerlane’s interviews?”
“There was only one interview. Not all that much there.”
Julia lowered her voice, leaned close to his right ear. “Did you know some people believe Wallace killed his wife back in Spain in the late eighties?”
He could only stare at her. “That’s a kicker. You’ve got to be kidding.”
“No, really, it’s true. I don’t believe it for a minute, of course, but I don’t know specifically what happened since it was way before my time.”
“There wasn’t anything about a murdered wife in the files. Maybe if they’d known about this they would have checked into it. Why didn’t you tell them?”
“That’s easy. August never believed Wallace was a murderer and neither do I.”
“Tell me. Don’t edit, Julia.” He covered her hand. “Look, Makepeace’s two attempts to kill you are obviously tied to Dr. Ransom’s murder. I’ve got to look at everything again, and I need all the information I can get. Don’t hold back on me, believing you need to protect anyone, okay?”
She nodded. “August said Wallace and his wife Beatrice lived in Madrid for close to seven years, moved there in the early eighties. Wallace became the psychic to all Spaniards rich and famous, even King Juan Carlos and his prissy crowd, the Spanish A-list. August said Beatrice was a lovely woman, very beautiful in an ethereal blond sort of way, but she was more like Wallace’s cipher, his companion shadow, quiet and watchful. He said he’d rarely even seen her speak to another man. She was focused entirely on Wallace.
“In 1988, Wallace took her with him to visit a client in Segovia. She jumped off the Roman aqueduct. It was ruled a suicide even though a witness reported seeing a man with her on the aqueduct. Since no one could find this man, they didn’t rule it the Spanish equivalent of death by misadventure, but rather suicide.”
“Did Tammerlane have an alibi?”
“No. He’d already left his client.”
Cheney shrugged. “Still, it seems suicide is probably exactly what happened. Was there a reason for her to kill herself?”
“August said she was unstable, that Wallace tried to hide the extent of her illness, that he tried to protect her from talk. I guess she finally broke. So, of course the rumor mill started grinding something fierce. When the Spanish media got up to full steam, even King Juan Carlos’s name was bandied around. The king wasn’t happy about it, needless to say. Wallace left the following week, accompanied his wife’s body back to Ohio.”
“But you were grieving, deeply.” She nodded.
He turned his Audi off into the Presidio to weave smoothly through the immense former army base, and came to a stop next to the cemetery. He turned to face her. “But you believed he was really in communication with your son?”
“Yes. There is no doubt in my mind at all. Don’t you want to go see Wallace?”
“We have time.” He wanted to ask her why she had no doubts, but instead, he said, “All right, why don’t you tell me what you think of Wallace Tammerlane.”
“You already know that both he and Bevlin Wagner are fond of me, that they admired August, that they’ve grieved at his loss with me. I remember when the police kept pressuring me to give them names of people who could have killed my husband—other than myself, of course—I couldn’t say Wallace or Bevlin, I simply couldn’t. They’re both my friends. But—” She stopped, turned her face away from him. “It’s okay. Take your time.”
She took a deep breath, expelled it, and turned back to face him. “The truth is, I’ve felt so helpless since August’s murder, like the police had painted a bull’s-eye right between my eyes. And then this assassin, Makepeace, came after me.” She reached out to touch his arm. “Cheney, I want you to know I’ve decided to keep practicing with my gun so I’ll get better. I’m going to keep protecting myself. And you know something? Maybe there’ll come a time when I can protect you too, when I can watch your back.”
Cheney said slowly, “Not all that many people have ever offered to watch my back. Thank you.”
Julia smiled. “You’re welcome. So what did you think of the police files on Wallace Tammerlane’s interviews?”
“There was only one interview. Not all that much there.”
Julia lowered her voice, leaned close to his right ear. “Did you know some people believe Wallace killed his wife back in Spain in the late eighties?”
He could only stare at her. “That’s a kicker. You’ve got to be kidding.”
“No, really, it’s true. I don’t believe it for a minute, of course, but I don’t know specifically what happened since it was way before my time.”
“There wasn’t anything about a murdered wife in the files. Maybe if they’d known about this they would have checked into it. Why didn’t you tell them?”
“That’s easy. August never believed Wallace was a murderer and neither do I.”
“Tell me. Don’t edit, Julia.” He covered her hand. “Look, Makepeace’s two attempts to kill you are obviously tied to Dr. Ransom’s murder. I’ve got to look at everything again, and I need all the information I can get. Don’t hold back on me, believing you need to protect anyone, okay?”
She nodded. “August said Wallace and his wife Beatrice lived in Madrid for close to seven years, moved there in the early eighties. Wallace became the psychic to all Spaniards rich and famous, even King Juan Carlos and his prissy crowd, the Spanish A-list. August said Beatrice was a lovely woman, very beautiful in an ethereal blond sort of way, but she was more like Wallace’s cipher, his companion shadow, quiet and watchful. He said he’d rarely even seen her speak to another man. She was focused entirely on Wallace.
“In 1988, Wallace took her with him to visit a client in Segovia. She jumped off the Roman aqueduct. It was ruled a suicide even though a witness reported seeing a man with her on the aqueduct. Since no one could find this man, they didn’t rule it the Spanish equivalent of death by misadventure, but rather suicide.”
“Did Tammerlane have an alibi?”
“No. He’d already left his client.”
Cheney shrugged. “Still, it seems suicide is probably exactly what happened. Was there a reason for her to kill herself?”
“August said she was unstable, that Wallace tried to hide the extent of her illness, that he tried to protect her from talk. I guess she finally broke. So, of course the rumor mill started grinding something fierce. When the Spanish media got up to full steam, even King Juan Carlos’s name was bandied around. The king wasn’t happy about it, needless to say. Wallace left the following week, accompanied his wife’s body back to Ohio.”
