Suspicion of Guilt (23 page)

Her words were coming faster now, and she barely heard Miriam's phone buzz. "Go to the library and look in the
Miami Herald
index for Sanford Ehringer. Get me some biographical information. See if you can find out who's on the board of the Easton Charitable Trust. And another thing. Who the hell is Easton?"

Miriam nodded at the same time she put the receiver to her ear, swinging her hair to one side. "This is Miriam." She glanced at Gail, smiled. "Sure! I'll come get them." She hung up. "They're in the lobby."

Whenever Irene Connor came to Gail's office—rare indeed—she would dress for it, in due regard, she said, for Gail's position at the firm. Today she wore a dark plaid suit and black leather pumps. She sat in one of the client chairs with her sunglasses on, weeping silently.

Gail pulled the other chair a little closer and handed Irene a Kleenex. Irene raised the sunglasses far enough to dab at her eyes. "I didn't want to do this again in front of Karen. She was so sweet. She hugged me around the neck. Don't cry, Gramma. Don't cry."

"I'm so sorry," Gail took her mother's hand. "Should I have told you about Althea last week?"

"Oh, I don't want to know at all. Althea murdered. The police didn't say a
thing
to me about it when I talked to them. Oh, heaven. I wish Jessica hadn't called me."

"How did she find out?"

"Her chauffeur's son or brother—I can't remember. He's a police officer. I suppose it will be all over the news now." "I'm afraid it might."

Through the half-open door Gail could see Karen sitting cross-legged on the floor in Miriam's cubicle, her hat in her lap, rubbing at a spot on the bill with the hem of her skirt. Her alligator purse lay on the floor beside her. Her sneakers were wet with rain.

Irene turned her head toward Gail, the gray light from the window in her sunglasses. "Jessica said the police suspect Patrick Norris. That he wanted her money—"

"They think that, but it isn't true."

"I had a dickens of a time explaining to Jessica why you agreed to be his lawyer. I had to fib in a couple of places." Irene squeezed Gail's hand. "Please don't be alone with him. Just in case?"

Gail smiled. "Don't worry about Patrick. He's a lamb."

Karen was leaning back against the metal filing cabinet now, looking idly into the corridor. Miriam knelt to give her some markers and a legal pad, then watched while Karen drew something. Gail heard Miriam's voice, faintly. "You are such a good artist!"

Irene folded her sunglasses and put them in their case. "Do you think it would be all right if I talked to Irving Adler?"

Gail looked at her. "Why do you want to do that?"

"Well, I'd never interfere in your case, of course, but he is a friend. I want to tell him how sorry I am. He was devastated because Althea died, and then to go through it again because of
this.
I think Irving was in love with her, years ago. I could tell. He'd never have said it, though, with both of them married. He had too much respect for R.W. and for his own wife, then when Ruthie died—well, it was too late. Irving's not in good health, you know. I'm sure he regrets not telling Althie how he felt before—"

Irene's eyes filled up again.

"Oh, Mom." Gail put her arm around her shoulders. "She probably knew."

Irene blew her nose. "I don't blame him for loving her. Everybody did. Althie was so bright and funny. Oh, Gail. What a terrible, terrible thing."

Across the hall Miriam was cutting designs out of folded paper. The bill on Karen's cap rose. She smiled up at Miriam. Gail couldn't remember the last time she had sat with her daughter, drawing or doing anything at all, without also checking her watch.

"Gail. Do you mind if I speak to Irving?"

"No, of course I don't mind. It's good of you to want to. Tell him you loved her too."

Irene was silent for a moment, then asked, "Did Althea's death have anything to do with the forgery of that will?"

It had occurred to Gail that the forgery had been accomplished first, but it seemed unlikely. "I honestly don't know."

"What if he says anything to me about it?" Irene asked. "What if he wants to tell me what happened when the will was signed?"

Gail felt a small stirring of elation, as if the thorn-covered walls guarding the truth of Althea Tillett's will could be breached by a single question, one grieving friend to another. No lawsuits to grind away until the truth was revealed, but the halting words of an old man who—an old man whose story might not be credible, no matter how he told it.

"If he wants to talk, let him," she said. "But don't push him."

"Oh, yes. Kid gloves and cotton. I could just kick Jessica for telling him." Irene got up, clutching her handbag tightly with both hands. Gail walked her to the door. "Karen and I are going to a matinee—if we can find one where a dozen people don't get hacked to death or blown up in the first ten minutes."

She called to Karen. "Let's go, bunny, or we'll miss our movie."

"Bunny," muttered Karen. She put the strap of her alligator bag across her chest, then let Gail kiss her good-bye and promise they would go out somewhere special tonight, just the two of them. Karen and Irene disappeared past the turn in the corridor.

"Gail." It was Miriam. "Gwen called a minute ago. There's someone outside. A Mr. Quinn. He wants to see you."

"I don't know a Quinn. What's this about?"

"He has a message from Sanford Ehringer."

When Gail opened the door to the lobby, the receptionist nodded toward the windows. A man in a three-piece suit was waiting there, looking at the view. He held one hand behind his back, and the other rested on the carved handle of a furled black umbrella. His hair was soft and gray around a balding crown.

Gail crossed the lobby, her heels clicking on the marble floor.

He turned around, no recognition on his face. Perhaps he thought she was a secretary.

"Mr. Quinn? I'm Gail Connor."

He nodded. "How do you do. I am Thomas Quinn. Mr. Sanford Ehringer's personal secretary." His voice was richly, purely upper-class British.

She indicated the door through which she had come. "May I take you to my office?"

"Thank you, but that isn't necessary." From his breast pocket Quinn produced a small envelope. Gail's name had been written on it in flowing black. "Could I trouble you to read it now? Mr. Ehringer has instructed me to wait for a reply."

She lifted the flap and took out a crisp, folded sheet on which had been typed:

My dear Ms. Connor:

I beg the pleasure of your company at my home this evening for dinner. My car will pick you up at seven, unless some other hour is preferable. Please convey your response to Thomas Quinn, the bearer of this note. Forgive any inconvenience, and in return I promise, as amends, to make your visit most congenial.

Yours sincerely,

Sanford V. Ehringer.

The slashing black signature had been made with a fountain pen.

She looked at Thomas Quinn, whose brown eyes seemed fixed on some undefined point. "May I ask what this is in regard to?" What else but Althea Tillett?

The eyes moved to her. "I'm sorry, Ms. Connor, I couldn't say."

Or wouldn't. "This is awfully short notice."

"It is, rather. He regrets that this only just occurred to him. Unfortunately, Mr. Ehringer cannot delay until tomorrow or next week. He has business commitments." For the first time, Quinn smiled. "I can tell you that the chef is superbly talented. If you have a favorite dish, I shall request it for you."

Gail slid the note back into the envelope. "Does Mr. Ehringer require a written reply?"

"No. Simply tell me, and I'll give him the message."

"Well, then, Mr. Quinn. Tell him I accept."

Chapter Fourteen

At six-thirty, her hair still in hot curlers under a scarf and herself in shorts, Gail went out to the garage to check on progress there. Phyllis Farrington had arranged for two of her grandsons to come over after they finished their other jobs, and now they were busily loading a
half-ton pickup truck with the things that Dave had left. The battered blue truck was backed up to the garage, out of the rain. Painted on the doors was FARRINGTON'S FAMOUS LAWN SERV., INC. The men would hitch up the boat trailer, throw a tarp over everything, and drive to a storage facility.

Phyllis was inside doing dishes from Karen's dinner, and Karen sat in the garage on an overturned recycling bin, watching. Saturday morning, Gail had spent nearly an hour on the phone with Clarinda Campbell, M.S., M.S.W., then had called Dr. Feldman to tell him Karen would not be coming any longer, to send his final bill. Clarinda—she had insisted on first names—had encouraged emptying the garage.
You and Karen must fill it with your own identities,
she had said.
Let Karen choose a few things of her fathers for a shelf in her room, but the rest of it must go.

"Come inside, sweetie," Gail said, crouching down beside her. "Come talk to me while I get ready."

"It's just getting emptier and emptier," Karen said. "Daddy is going to be so mad."

"He'll understand. His things will be perfectly safe, better than here, with all the spiders and palmetto bugs." Gail watched Phyllis's grandsons load the tennis racquet stringer, wedge its legs down between some boxes and a brown tweed recliner. They were talking to each other, joking, and their voices echoed in the garage, the rain falling softly outside, the light fading.

Gail pulled up the other recycling bin and sat on that. "See that stain on the ceiling? We've got to get the roof fixed. And we ought to have the whole house painted, inside and out. We could even have a pool put in. I'm going to be a partner soon, you know, and we'll have all sorts of money."

"What if Daddy comes home and he doesn't recognize it anymore?"

Home,
Dave's home was a forty-foot sloop anchored off St. Croix. Gail watched one of the grandsons lay a garment bag of coats across a stack of boxes. She said, "Your dad won't forget where you live."

Karen turned her head, frowning. She had her father's level brows, his square jaw. Her arms and legs were well formed, but she was taller and more awkward than the other girls her age, and Gail had often seen her staring at herself in the mirror.

"Is Anthony going to move in here?"

Gail shook her head. "No. I wish you didn't dislike him. He's really very nice."

"I don't want him here all the time."

"He's hardly ever here, so don't worry about it, all right?"

The men were lowering the boat trailer onto the hitch now, and the safety chains rattled through the metal loops. Already the garage seemed different. Gail tried to picture Anthony's dark-blue, two-seater Cadillac convertible nestled snugly in next to her Buick.

"Are you going out with him tonight?"

Gail looked at her. "No. I told you, Karen. I'm going out on business. I don't lie to you."

"Right. An Englishman is going to pick you up in a Rolls-Royce limousine."

"I didn't say that."

"You said it might be a Rolls-Royce."

Gail closed her eyes. "God give me patience."

"You said we were going to Pizza Hut tonight too." "I'm sorry."

Karen turned back around, her forearms on her knees. "Mom. I
realize
that he's your boyfriend and all." Her hair hung down on either side of her face, and she was studying something she held in her hands. "You go over to his house a lot and spend the night."

"Oh, Karen. Not a
lot."

"Sometimes you do."

"Would you rather I didn't?"

"What I really don't like? Staying at Gramma's. I'd rather stay at Molly's. There's nothing to do at Gramma's house."

"Well, I won't be going over to Anthony's for a while."

Karen pushed her hair behind her ear. "Why?"

"Because ... when I'm there, I always think about being here."

"He could come over. You know, like have dinner or something."

A plastic tarp settled down over the truck like a tossed bedsheet, covering the pile of boxes and bags and furniture. The grandsons passed a rope in and out of the grommets and tied the tarp all the way around.

Gail put her arm around Karen and kissed her. "Yes. We could have Anthony come over for dinner. Why don't you ask him? He'd like it if you did."

"No way." Karen snorted softly. "He hates me."

"That is absolutely not true."

"It is. He wishes I weren't around."

"Why would you think that?"

"Mom. He's only nice to me because of you, and you know it."

"Well, give him a chance. You have to admit, you don't make it easy." After a minute Gail added, "He's very special to me, and I want the two of you to be friends."

Karen said, "Fine. He can come over for dinner, but you ask him to. I'll be polite, I swear."

"Swear and promise?"

She smiled. "I'll be
so
sweet it'll make him sick. I'll wear a pink dress and go like this." Karen batted her eyelashes.

"You're silly." Gail hugged her, then stood up. "I've got to go. They'll be here for me in a little while, and I'm still not ready." She saw what Karen had been holding in her hands. "What is that?"

Karen showed her: a four-inch folding knife with a curved black handle. "I found it in Daddy's tackle box."

"Well, you can't play with it," Gail said. "It's not a toy."

"God,
Mom. I'm not five years old."

"It looks very sharp." She held out her hand. "Let me have it."

"You said I could have something of Daddy's for my room."

"Well, not a knife."

"Why?"

"Because you could get hurt. Or one of your friends could. It's dangerous."

"You think I can't do anything."

"I'm not going to argue with you, Karen. Give it to me."

Karen stood up, her body rigid. "You want to throw everything away. You don't want me to have anything of his."

"Give me that, I said." Gail reached for her arm, but Karen spun away and ran across the garage and into the rain. Phyllis's grandsons watched silently from beside the truck.

"Karen!" Gail ran into the driveway, seeing a flash of yellow shirt at the comer of the house, then nothing but sodden shrubbery and water coursing off the roof. The rain bounced on her scarf and drizzled down her cheeks. She went back inside, up the two steps to the kitchen, slamming the door.