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?”
“Sounds great.”
“I’ll make a reservation for six, okay?”
“You bet.”
“See you later.”
Robin called Chesterfield and told him what Jeff had discovered.
“Thank you for your prompt response,” Chesterfield said when Robin finished explaining the problem, “but I’d decided to forgo my patent already. I apologize for not calling sooner.”
“That’s okay. Since we can’t help you, I’ll send you a refund minus our fee for the time we put in.”
“No, no. Please keep the retainer in your trust account in case I need you for another matter.”
“What would that be?”
“Nothing right now, but I may have a legal problem that’s up your alley in the near future.”
Robin decided not to press Chesterfield and they ended the call. She was curious about his unnamed problem, and she had a sneaking suspicion that it would involve criminal law.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The trip from Portland to the coast had taken Robin and Jeff through a riot of green. An occasional gap in the foliage revealed white water coursing down rivers that ran alongside the road. Once they turned south on the coast highway, they had glimpses of the Pacific, calm and sun-drenched on this balmy late afternoon in July.
“The turnoff should be on the right in a quarter of a mile,” Robin said after consulting the GPS on her phone. Robin had typed the address listed on the beautifully engraved invitation she had received two weeks ago into the navigation app. The invitation was enclosed in a cream-colored envelope. Robin’s name and address had been written in graceful calligraphy. The invitation asked her to attend the premiere of the Chamber of Death at Chesterfield’s seaside mansion.
Jeff slowed his pickup and started looking for the entrance to Chesterfield’s estate.
“There!” Robin said, pointing to a gap in the roadside foliage. Jeff turned in and drove down an unpaved road until an iron gate forced him to stop. Jeff spoke into an intercom. Moments later, the gate swung open.
“These are some digs,” Jeff said when the mansion came into view.
Robin agreed, but she noticed that the landscaping had not been kept up, and the sprawling house looked weather-beaten. A building that was at the mercy of brutal winter storms and the constant attack of wind and salt spray