Free Sleight of Hand: A Novel of Suspense (Dana Cutler) by Phillip Margolin Page B

at the Rankin, Lusk cocktail party had seen them argue. But many married couples argue without resorting to murder to settle their differences. What made the Blairs’ situation different was their prenup. Had Carrie lasted until the end of this week, it would have cost Horace Blair twenty million dollars, and twenty million dollars was an excellent motive for murder. While Carrie was bleeding out in his living room it had occurred to Benedict that no one would suspect him of killing Carrie if Horace Blair was sent to prison for murdering his wife.
    Charlie was very good at developing his own magic tricks. Plotting Horace Blair’s downfall was a lot like storyboarding a large illusion, like the one David Copperfield had created when he made the Statue of Liberty disappear. Benedict got a legal pad from his home office and started writing an outline. He’d have to get rid of the body, and he’d have to leave clues in the grave that would point to Blair. One clue would be the bullet that killed Blair’s wife. It would be found during an autopsy.
    Of course the police would need the murder weapon to make the match, and they would have to find it where it would implicate Blair. That’s why he’d asked Carrie about the key to Horace’s Bentley.
    Working on his illusion relaxed Benedict, and he was totally calm by the time it was complete. He had a good idea of where to bury Carrie. He’d had a brainstorm about a clue he could leave in the grave shortly after he’d given her the towel to stop the bleeding. Making this part of the plan work would be tricky, but tricks were a magician’s stock-in-trade. He checked his watch. It was only one a.m.—hard to believe that so little time had passed since he’d shot Blair.
    Benedict reviewed his notes. He would have to wait until the stores in the mall opened in the morning before he could start to create his illusion. Benedict took a deep breath. He felt in control of the situation. He would sweep up the shards from the vase, use the Dustbuster to vacuum the hairs from the couch, and then get a good night’s sleep.
    An hour later, when his head touched his pillow, Charles Benedict slept like a baby.

Chapter Eleven
    Horace Blair had a full head of snowy-white hair, weighed only seven pounds more than he’d weighed in college, and looked ten years younger than seventy-four, thanks to upgrades to his facial features by the finest plastic surgeons.
    Blair’s massive home, modeled after the mansion of a British earl, was the centerpiece of a magnificent estate whose rolling lawns and well-tended woods were enclosed behind a high stone wall. The mansion’s wide terraces overlooked an Olympic-size swimming pool, tennis courts, and a man-made lake.
    When he was home, Horace woke up at five every morning except Sunday and swam a mile in the indoor lap pool. After finishing his swim, he would shower, slip on a terry-cloth robe, then seat himself in a glassed-in kitchen nook. The nook looked out on a splendid garden that was pleasing to the eye even in foul weather, thanks to the efforts of an army of gardeners.
    Each morning, Blair’s personal chef would set the table in the nook with a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, half a grapefruit, a freshly baked croissant, and a cup of coffee brewed from a blend that was specially prepared for the master of the house. Stacked beside the food would be several newspapers including the Wall Street Journal , the Washington Post , and the New York Times . After breakfast, Horace would drive his Bentley to the Blair Building, where he would oversee his international business empire. Blair employed a chauffeur but enjoyed driving too much to use his services unless he needed to work on the way to the office.
    Horace’s morning routine usually soothed him, but Wednesday morning it had done nothing to alleviate the tension that had robbed him of a good night’s sleep. On Thursday his prenuptial agreement with his wife would terminate and he