Requiem for a Realtor (16 page)

“Grandchildren?” Schwartz asked.

“Not this grandmother,” Mrs. Maguire said. “I've done my bit.”

“You had seven?”

“That lived.”

Charley grew restive. Widows outnumbered widowers two to one at the center, but he didn't want a lot of woman talk. “Let's play cards.”

“Are you thinking of learning how?”

“Ouch.”

After another hand, Edna excused herself and went upstairs to her office, once the principal's suite. It was there that Father Dowling found her half an hour later.

“How's Earl doing?”

“He's got a job! With UPS. Father, we can't begin to tell you…”

He stopped her, as she knew he would. Of course, she had told him again and again how grateful she was, how grateful they all were, for what he had done that had brought Earl once more back home. It had been difficult at first. However much the children liked having a father in the house, after years of having a single parent it was hard for them to act naturally. And Earl had been restless while he interviewed at various places. His background was not an asset, but, of course, he had to mention it. The parole officer helped, but his help only underscored the fact that Earl had spent years at Joliet, and for manslaughter.

There had been times when Edna had been really angry with Earl for taking responsibility for Sylvia Lowry's death. But she had come to understand the way he thought of it. It was the same stubbornness that made him be front and center with his conviction, and the fact that he was on parole. There were some who could admire his conscientiousness, and Edna despite herself was one of them, but not many potential employers were eager to have an ex-convict on their payroll. Finally he had found a job, and one just suited to him.

“If only I didn't have to wear this damned uniform.”

“Earl, it doesn't look like a uniform.”

“Doesn't it? It feels like one.”

The uniformed guards at Joliet were the enemy, of course, and Earl had adopted the common attitude toward them. But all that was past now, thank God, and they would never forget Father Dowling's role in Earl's release.

“Earl will do fine.”

“I know.” She had been fiercely loyal to him during the awful years of his absence, and she was not likely to change now that he was free.

“Is there much talk among the old people about what happened to Stanley Collins?”

“Many of them knew his parents.”

“Strange case. Apparently it wasn't a hit-and-run.”

Captain Keegan was a good friend of the pastor's and now that Earl was home Edna was prepared to think differently about him. For years she had resented the fact that the police hadn't dismissed Earl's confession and saved him from himself, but she knew that was foolish.

“He left a lot of money to his son, but it was being held back until he was fifty.”

“Fifty!”

“His father didn't think Stanley would be grown up until then, I guess.”

“And now he'll never get it.”

“But someone will.”

“His widow.”

“She is a great favorite of David Jameson.”

Edna made a face. “Do you know he asked me if he could spend time here, be a sort of counselor to the old people? He said it was to try his vocation.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“That you were all the counselor they need. What's wrong with him?”

“He thinks he should have been a priest.”

“What religion?”

Father Dowling laughed.

“Shame on me, Father. I've been playing cards at a table with Charley Schwartz.”

“Good old Charley.”

“You should hear him on Jameson.”

“Oh.”

“Jameson told him he needed a root canal and Charley said he would get a second opinion before undergoing anything that serious. The other dentist told him it wasn't necessary. Now whenever Jameson is mentioned, he goes, ‘Quack, quack.'”

“Maybe the second dentist was wrong.”

“He pulled out all Charley's teeth and sold him a new set.”

“Did he get a second opinion before doing that?”

“I didn't ask.”

“Dr. Jameson is no quack, I'm sure of that.”

“Bridget certainly thinks the world of him. If I ever relent and let him work on me it will be for her sake.”

21

Tuttle let a decent interval go by after the funeral before he called on Phyllis Collins—twenty-four hours. For a while it looked like she wouldn't let him in, and they spoke through the screen door, but Tuttle was inured to disdain.

“That was great advice you gave about going to Amos Cadbury. I was never so embarrassed in my life.” So Stanley had told her of that.

“Well, everything has changed now.”

Through the mesh of the screen she looked the way photographs in the newspaper once had looked, an arrangement of dots. She undid the hook and opened the door. Tuttle swept off his tweed hat as he entered but put it on again when he was inside.

“What has changed?”

But the way she asked, he figured she already knew. “You are your husband's heir.”

“I don't think he had a will.”

“It doesn't matter. By state law, you get everything.”

“All his debts.”

“Was he in debt?”

“That's what his partner, George Sawyer, tells me.”

Tuttle frowned. “How much?”

“God only knows.”

Tuttle ran a stubby finger along the brim of his cap. “Whatever it is, you can afford it. But we'll have to drive a hard bargain with Sawyer.”

She accepted the “we” and Tuttle grew bolder.

“I want your authorization to consult with Amos Cadbury. He is the trustee, but with the death of Stanley, the proviso of waiting until his fiftieth birthday is moot.”

“‘Moot'?”

“Mrs. Collins, he will never see fifty now.”

She gave a little cry. Well, after all, she was a widow, no matter how choppy her marriage had been.

“How did you learn about the will in the first place?”

Tuttle considered before he answered. He might have chalked it up to simple legal curiosity, but complete candor did not seem called for.

“Your brother, Bob.”

“Oh, my God. I told him about it in a weak moment. He had heard about Stanley's playing around and told me I should divorce the sonofabitch.”

It seemed a direct quote. And Tuttle could imagine Bob Oliver saying it. Bob had been in real estate himself, in a small way, handling properties that went on the market for failure to pay taxes and then selling them to young couples as opportunities for restoration. He had made a career out of envying Stanley until he switched to journalism.

Tuttle had said to him, “He's not as prosperous as you think, Bob.” Tuttle had asked around. He already knew about George Sawyer's grousing about his partner:

“The sonofabitch will come into a fortune when he's fifty.”

Tuttle had heard enough stories of this kind to be skeptical, but he had checked it out and found that Bob was right. He took Bob to show him the will. So Tuttle approached Stanley and got his okay to see what he could do with Amos Cadbury. And Stanley had told his wife, probably playing it as a trump during a domestic quarrel. She had checked with Tuttle and that had led to her own visit to Cadbury. She had taken her dentist along, probably figuring it would be like pulling teeth to get anything out of Amos. But, as Tuttle had told Phyllis Collins, everything had changed now that her husband was dead. It was the way he had died that made Tuttle especially anxious to see Phyllis Collins face-to-face.

“Is that coffee you're drinking?”

“It's from this morning.”

“No problem.”

She went into the kitchen and came back with a mug. It was pretty bad. But then the coffee Hazel brewed had spoiled Tuttle.

“Have the police been here yet?”

“They came to tell me about Stanley.”

“They'll be back. Your husband was killed with his own car. Whoever did it returned the car to the lot. And took the keys.”

She said nothing, looking at him.

“The dark lining to your silver cloud is that it seems to give you a motive for getting rid of your husband.”

She rose to her feet in anger. “What a dreadful thing to say!”

“Mrs. Collins, I am merely acquainting you with the suspicious police mind. As your lawyer, I have an obligation to prepare you for these things.”

She sat. “That is the silliest thing I ever heard.”

“Of course it is. That is why you must be ready to tell them—when they ask, don't volunteer it—where you were when your husband was struck by the car.”

“I was in bed.”

“I know.”

“How do you know?”

“The manager of the Frosinone Hotel is a friend of mine.”

“Why, you sneaky little man.”

Tuttle held up his left hand. He held the mug of coffee in his right. “If the police learn that you and Dr. Jameson spent the night at the Frosinone that will be an airtight alibi.”

“I can't have that public knowledge!”

“Perhaps it won't come out. Just say that you were in bed at that time.”

“But what if they find out?”

“The manager of the Frosinone is not likely to volunteer that kind of information to the police. Did Jameson pick the hotel?”

“I really don't want to talk about this.”

“Whatever you say to me is protected by the lawyer-client privilege.”

“That doesn't make it any easier.”

“Imagine if I hadn't mentioned this, and the police learned of it and put it to you as a question, and you were wholly unprepared.”

She moaned at the thought.

“You haven't any idea where your husbands keys are, do you?”

“No!”

“Sometimes wives and husbands have a spare set of keys to their spouse's car.”

Her eyes widened. Her purse was on the table beside her. She grabbed it, opened it, and began to search. Her groping hand stopped, and she looked at him.

“Found them?”

She brought them forth. “I didn't know they were there.”

“Better let me keep those for you.”

She flung them at him as if they burned her hand. He quickly doffed his hat and caught them in that. He transferred them to a jacket pocket and rose. From his hat he fished a calling card.

“If the police talk to you, if they come here, and if things get rough, just shut up and call this number.”

“You're frightening me.”

“Lady, I am trying to protect you.” He had his tweed hat on his head again. He smiled. “Think of the bright side. You are about to come into a fortune.”

22

“How you holding up?” Bob Oliver asked his sister.

“I still can't believe it.”

“May he rest in peace.”

Phyllis looked at him sharply.

“I mean it. If nothing else he left you rich.”

“Is that why you're here?”

How to put it? Her infidelity seemed less serious now, reduced from adultery to fornication after the fact. Ever since his conversation with Primo Verdi, Bob had wondered if Phyllis's fooling around with Jameson could become an obstacle to her getting Stanley's money. It was just because that didn't make sense that it bothered him. The intricacies of the law were at war with common sense. The closest thing to an heir beside Phyllis was himself. But if Verdi told Tuttle, and Tuttle talked, and George Sawyer heard of it, God only knew what complications might arise. George Sawyer, it emerged, stood to make a packet on an insurance policy that the firm had on Stanley. In death, Stanley was becoming a real Santa Claus.

“You and Jameson going to get married?”

She smiled coyly. “I am eligible.”

“More than eligible, with all that money.”

“David has plenty of money of his own.”

“So why did he take you to the Frosinone?”

A lie was forming on her lips when she thought better of it. She looked disgusted. “Was it Tuttle who told you?”

“Tuttle!”

“He's a friend of the manager.”

“Phyllis, that could be your alibi.”

“My alibi! That's what Tuttle said.”

“Why in hell are you talking with Tuttle?”

“He's my lawyer.”

“Tuttle is the laughingstock of the bar.”

“David trusts him.”

“David is an idiot.”

“I'll tell him you said so.”

He thought a minute. “Maybe it's better so many know of your night at the Frosinone. The police will hear of it and that lets you off the hook.”

“That's nonsense. No one would suspect me of such a thing.”

“You don't know the police mind.”

“I know my own.”

“When do you get the money?”

“Is that all you can think of?”

“How much is it?”

She looked at him narrowly. “What's it to you?”

“Well, as you said, Jameson has a pile. I don't.”

Her laugh was not encouraging. Even more disturbing was the fact that she was consulting Tuttle. Bob decided to have a talk with the little lawyer.

He wasn't in the press room at the courthouse. The woman who answered the phone at his office sounded like a lady wrestler.

“I am the brother of Mrs. Collins.”

“She is a client of ours.”

“So she tells me. Could I speak to Tuttle?”

“I could have him phone you.”

“He's not there?”

He was in the dining room of the Frosinone, with Peanuts Pianone, so Bob postponed talking to the lawyer. When he did, he asked him if brothers were their sisters' heirs.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Something happening to the sister.”

Bob wished he had asked someone else.

23

“Of course I know the Rendezvous,” George Sawyer said in reply to Cy Horvath's question. “It's a favorite spot of mine.”