Airtight Alibi
When Christa Davidson, a shapely, beautiful young woman with hopes of one day becoming a high fashion model, married multimillionaire publishing magnate Reginald Wright, no one believed it was for love. Not even the groom himself thought his new bride was anything other than an opportunistic woman marrying a much older man for his wealth. Not that it bothered him, for he thought love was vastly overrated.
When he was a young man fresh out of Harvard Business School, Reginald met a Boston-born socialite with ambitions of becoming a writer. As the heir to one of the world's largest publishing companies in the world, he was in the position of being able to help the woman achieve her goal. The two eventually fell in love. Both their families pushed the couple into marriage, and before long a child and heir was on the way.
Life for Reginald Wright was good; he had an attractive, educated, well-bred wife; a healthy son; a home that was worthy of a spread in Architectural Digest; and a key position in the family business. His wife, however, had exchanged her dreams of becoming a bestselling author for marriage and motherhood, only to find them both unsatisfying. It wasn't long before the unhappy woman began to drink, and understandably her abuse of alcohol led to a rift with her husband. After many arguments, the couple was on the verge of divorce, but the unhappy wife and mother died in a car accident before the papers were filed.
Reginald's second wife was a much more sensible individual, a rather plain, shy girl who loved being a stepmother to her husband's son, Charlton. While Reginald felt no great love for his new wife, he did admire and respect her. The couple was happily married for over thirty years when the unfortunate woman succumbed to breast cancer.
After the death of his second wife, the widower remained single for close to a decade. Then one night, he met Christa Davidson at a cocktail party in New York thrown by a recent Pulitzer Prize winner. After their first brief meeting, the would-be model pursued the wealthy Boston publisher with a single-minded determination that bordered on obsession. Her blatant attempts at seduction amused him as well as flattered his ego.
When Christa and Reginald were married eight months later, the groom's son—now a grown man—was furious.
"She's nothing but a gold digger," Charlton bellowed.
"Don't you think I already know that?" Reginald gently countered, feeling no compulsion to come to his young wife's defense. "I wasn't born yesterday, you know."
"Then why did you have to go and marry her?"
"Why not? I've been alone far too long now. I want someone to share my life with."
"But why her?"
"Why not her? I'm not looking for a soul mate, nor do I want any more children. And I don't need a cook or a housekeeper."
"But marrying a woman young enough to be your granddaughter! What will people think?"
"Stop being such a damned Puritan! Lots of men my age marry younger women. Besides, I rather like the idea of having a trophy wife," Reginald added with a laugh.
To everyone's surprise—even her elderly husband's—Christa proved to be a faithful and devoted wife. When their fifth wedding anniversary neared, Reginald presented her with a round-trip ticket to Paris.
"I thought you might enjoy a little shopping spree in the French fashion houses," he said and handed her an American Express Centurion card.
"Aren't you coming with me?" Christa asked with disappointment.
"I'm afraid I can't, my dear. I'm needed here to negotiate the purchase of that Internet company we're buying."
"Then why don't we go after the deal is closed?" she suggested.
"And have you missed the introduction of the new fall line?"
Christa smiled sheepishly.
"I wouldn't want to do that."
Two days later the chauffeur put Christa's luggage in the trunk of the limo, and Reginald walked his wife to the car.
"I'm going to miss you," she said, her eyes misted with unshed tears.
"It will only be for a few weeks. You'll be home before you know it," he replied and then kissed her goodbye.
* * *
When Charlton Wright received a visit from Detective Michael O'Keefe of the Boston Police Department, he was devastated, but not entirely surprised.
"Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm your father?" O'Keefe asked the late publisher's grieving son.
"I should think the answer to that question is obvious, Detective. He was a seventy-eight-year-old multimillionaire married to a beautiful, twenty-eight-year-old woman."
"And you think your stepmother ...."
"I'd prefer it if you didn't call her that," Charlton interrupted O'Keefe.
"I'm sorry. Do you believe your father's wife had a reason for wanting him dead?"
"A reason? Try nine-hundred-and-fifty-seven million reasons."
"Greed is a strong motive for murder, I'll give you that," the detective humored the bitter man. "But it's not the only one, and I'm sure Mrs. Wright is not the only person who will benefit from your father's death."
"Have you questioned Christa yet?" Charlton asked, refusing to believe that O'Keefe might consider him a person of interest in the case. "What does she have to say for herself?"
"I'm afraid your step—eh, Mrs. Wright is in Paris at the moment. We sent word to her of your father's death."
"His murder you mean."
"Yes. She is going to take the next plane back to Boston."
Since Christa had been in Paris at the time, she couldn't have murdered Reginald Wright herself, Charlton realized, but she could easily have hired someone to do it for her.
* * *
Charlton and his wife arrived at the funeral home shortly after Christa had. The widow, modestly attired in a simple—albeit extremely expensive—black dress, greeted them warmly. Her stepson was civil, but reserved. He didn't embrace her, offer his condolences or try to comfort her in any way. In his eyes, she was clearly a murderer.
After the memorial service ended, friends and family went back to the Wright house where Christa had a catered buffet waiting. Dozens of mourners crowded the rooms of the immense mansion, but the dead man's son was noticeably absent. Rather than attend the post-funeral luncheon, Charlton had gone to Boston to check up on the progress of the police investigation.
"I'm afraid our forensics team hasn't been able to uncover any evidence that could lead to the identity of the killer," Detective O'Keefe admitted.
"We already know who the killer is," Charlton insisted.
"Mr. Wright, I must caution you not to make accusations against your father's wife. She has an ironclad alibi."
"She wouldn't be the first murderer who hired someone to do her dirty work."
"That's true, but there is no proof she was involved in any way."
Charlton didn't need proof. He instinctively knew that in some way Christa was involved in the murder of his father.
* * *
Not long after the funeral, the family met at the attorney's office for the reading of the will. Several relatives and loyal employees received bequests in varying amounts of money. There were also several generous endowments to the late Reginald Wright's favorite charities. The remainder of the estate, more than eight hundred and fifty million dollars, was to be divided between Charlton's son and his widow. Although Charlton got the lion's share, he still deeply resented the large sum bequeathed to Christa Davidson.
The enraged young man couldn't hold his tongue any longer. As the family shuffled out of the lawyer's office, he confronted his father's widow.
"I hope you're satisfied," he said. "You've got his money at last."
In a strained voice, Christa replied, "I'm sorry you never understood my feelings for your father. His wealth had nothing to do with it. He was a wonderful man, and I loved him."
Charlton would have continued to berate his father's widow had his wife not silenced him.
"This isn't the time or place," she said.
"No," he agreed. "But the day will come. I have no doubt of that."
* * *
Six months after the death of her husband, Christa Davidson Wright announced that she was leaving New England and moving to France. Charlton immediately went to the police.
"That woman killed my father. How can you let her leave the country?"
Detective O'Keefe sighed with a mixture of annoyance and frustration.
"We've been through this before. Your father's widow has an airtight alibi. She was more than three thousand miles away, surrounded by a room full of witnesses at the time of the murder. You have to face the facts. Even if she did hire someone to murder your father, we would have the devil of a time proving it. And in the unlikely event she went to trial, it might come down to being her word against the killer's."
Charlton stormed out of the station, saying, "No wonder crime is on the rise! Just look at the attitude of our police department!"
* * *
As Christa entered the foyer of her lavish Paris condominium, she was startled to hear a voice come from the darkness of the living room.
"It's about time you got home."
She turned on the lights and saw a young woman sitting on the couch.
"You scared me half to death!" Christa cried. "What are you doing here, anyway?"
"I came for a visit. I wanted to see your new home," the visitor replied.
"I don't think it's such a good idea for you to be here."
Jeannie Ryerson reached into her Chanel purse, took out a cigarette and lit it with a gold Tiffany lighter.
"You're not much of a hostess. You haven't even asked me if I'd like a drink."
Christa went to the bar and poured a glass of champagne.
"Here's your drink, and there's the door," she said impolitely.
Jeannie laughed and asked, "Is that any way to talk to your only sister? The last time we were together you were a lot nicer to me."
"All right, get to the point," Christa said impatiently. "What do you want?"
"I saw your picture in the newspaper the other day, and I thought: this doesn't seem fair, does it? My sister has a great deal of money and is well on her way to being a famous socialite. What's next, Sis, a gorgeous new man in your life?"
"You got your money," Christa pointed out. "That was quite a tidy sum considering all you had to do was take a vacation in Paris."
"And pretend to be you, my dear sister. Don't forget that."
"And I suppose now you've come to me for more money."
"How perceptive you are!"
Jeannie seemed to be enjoying her little game of cat and mouse.
"And if I don't pay, what then? Do you intend to go to the police and tell them you were an accessory to murder?"
"No exactly."
"I thought not."
Christa poured herself a drink and sat on the couch opposite her twin sister.
"You underestimate me," Jeannie said. "But then you always did."
"Here we go again!" Christa groaned. "Can't we put aside this childish sibling rivalry for once and for all? Do you think by blackmailing me you can finally get the better of me?"
"Don't worry. I'm not a blackmailer. I have no intention of telling anyone that you're really Mae Ryerson from Humboldt, Iowa and that you paid your identical twin sister to impersonate you so that you would have an alibi when you murdered your rich husband."
Hearing her sister spell out the details of their arrangement worried Christa. Could Jeannie be wearing a wire? Was she setting her sister up for the police?
"Don't worry. Your secret is safe with me," Jeannie continued. "Believe me; I don't ever want anyone to know that Christa Davidson Wright has an identical twin."
Suddenly Jeannie lunged at her sister. There was a brief struggle, but Christa was no match for her more athletic sister who strangled her with a silk scarf she'd purchased in Paris six months earlier while pretending to be Mrs. Reginald Wright. Afterward, Jeannie sat back down in her chair and finished her drink. Then with a smile of satisfaction, she raised her glass to her sister's dead body.
"I congratulate you on your plan," she said. "But did you really think I would stick my neck out for a mere hundred thousand dollars and then keep a low profile while you enjoyed all your ill-gotten gains? No, my dear sister, I intended all along to make a full-time job of impersonating you. Looks like after all these years I finally got the better of you!"
* * *
The morning started out as every other morning had. When Charlton sat down to his scrambled eggs, toast, coffee and orange juice, he had no idea it was to be one of the most eventful and satisfying days of his life.
"Here's your paper, sir," Gerald, the butler, announced as he handed his employer a copy of The Boston Globe.
Charlton was stunned to see his father's widow prominently featured on the front page of the city and region section. His heart raced as he read that Mrs. Reginald Wright had returned from Paris and planned on taking up residence in Los Angeles.
"I can't believe she has the audacity to come back to this country!" he cried, slamming the newspaper down on the table.
Frustrated, he left his breakfast half-eaten on the table and went to work. As he opened the door to his private office, he saw someone sitting in one of his visitor's chairs. In the dim light, he could not determine the person's identity.
"Excuse me," he said not too politely. "Do you have an appointment?"
"No, Charlton, I don't."
"Christa!" he exclaimed with disbelief.
Charlton's hand was shaking as he walked to his desk and sat down. When he got a good look at the woman sitting across from him, he noticed that there was something different about his father's widow. She was still extraordinarily beautiful, but the seductive manner and the mischievous twinkle in her eye were gone.
"I'm really not surprised that you can't tell the difference between us," she said in a low monotone. "My sister and I are identical in every way."
"Sister? What sister? I don't understand."
"I'm not Christa; I'm her twin sister, Jeannie."
Charlton stared at the woman. Was she telling the truth, or was this some scheme to get more money out of his father's estate?
"Actually, the woman who married your father was not Christa Davidson from New York City. She was Mae Ryerson; she changed her name when she left Iowa."
"Why are you telling me this?"
The twinkle briefly returned to her eye, but just as quickly it vanished.
"To clear my conscience," she said. "You see, I played a part in your father's death."
Charlton's hand started to shake.
"Did you kill him?"
"No, I went to Paris and pretended to be Christa while she remained here in Boston and killed her husband."
"I want you to repeat what you've told me to the police," Charlton said, reaching for the phone.
"I can't do that, but I will give you enough information so the police can link my sister to the murder."
* * *
When Jeannie Ryerson was arrested for the murder of Reginald Wright, she found herself in a lose-lose situation. She could either be tried as Christa Davidson Wright for a murder she didn't commit or confess her true identity and be tried for the murder of her sister. Either way, she would probably go to jail for the remainder of her life.
Not long after being sent to the Framingham Correctional Institution to await her trial, Jeannie was visited by Charlton Wright.
"I swear that justice will be served and that you'll pay for murdering my father," he announced with conviction.
"My lawyer said that it was you who told the police where they could find the murder weapon. How did you know where it was?" she asked.
Charlton smiled with triumph.
"It appears your airtight alibi had a leak."
"What are you talking about?"
"Your sister told me everything."
The prisoner stared at him. Was he insane? Christa was dead, and her body was buried in an unmarked grave in a heavily wooded area in France.
"You couldn't possibly have spoken to her."
"But I did. She came to my office and confessed her role in the murder."
"My sister couldn't have told you anything because she's ...."
Jeannie stopped. On the slim chance that she was acquitted, she wanted to remain Mrs. Reginald Wright and enjoy the millions that went with the name.
"Jeannie came to see me the day you returned from Europe. She told me the whole diabolical plan—how she went to Paris while you stayed here and murdered my father."
"Where is she now?"
"I have no idea. She seems to have disappeared, but don't worry. The police will find her, and you two can hold a family reunion behind bars."
"I doubt that very much," Jeannie said, sadly realizing that even in death Christa had gotten the better of her.
Salem flew to Paris to look at the new fall line. He learned that basic black with a touch of red will be all the rage this year.
