Suspicion of Guilt (37 page)

"Is that important?"

"Larry told me that some of the current members of the Easton Trust are clients. He wouldn't say who they are." She would ask him about that tomorrow. She had wanted to talk to him this afternoon, to tell him what had happened with Howard Odell, but Larry had still been out of the office. The light turned green and she stepped on the gas.

Now she could guess why Ehringer had not told her the names of the founders. The current members had the same names. The originals had been a tight group of friends. As they died off, wouldn't they have passed their membership along? Grandfather to son to grandson.

"Slow down!" Irene said.

Gail put on her brakes. "Okay, we've got E, O, and maybe S. Who else?"

"Adler," Irene announced. "Irving's uncle—I can't remember his name—was the Ehringers' attorney in New York. What was his ... Jacob. Jacob Adler." She clapped her hands together. 'This is fun. Jacob Adler spent the winters here. I remember seeing him play the cello at a party at the Ehringers' home. My goodness, that must have been thirty years ago. He played the cello and Sanford played the violin."

"A is for Adler, then. Karen, stop kicking the back of my seat. Is Irving on the current board of the Easton Trust?"

"I have no idea," Irene said.

"I'll ask him. What about T for Tillett? Larry suggested Althea was a member."

"Althea wasn't a Tillett. She was a Norris."

"The letter N is in Easton too. Was her family prominent in the Thirties, before she was born?"

"Oh my, no. Althea got where she was on her own efforts. Her father was an engineer on the Seaboard Railroad and her mother died young. Althea worked very hard in the hotel business and spent every dime she earned on herself. Beautiful clothes, a nice car, going to the right society events. She met R.W. Tillett at the opera. He often went alone because the first Mrs. Tillett was so ill. I think Althea had an affair with him before his wife finally died. They were married just a few months after that."

"A woman who knew what she wanted. She went to Greece with Sanford Ehringer in 1958. He told me so."

"Yes." Irene sighed. "I wish I'd have had the nerve."

Gail looked at her. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing." Headlights swept into the car, passing over Irene's face.

"Mother ..."

Glancing toward the backseat, she whispered, "He asked me to go with him to Italy. I chickened out. My father would have disowned me."

"You're making that up!"

Irene's mouth turned down. "I was considered very pretty when I was young."

"You're still pretty. It's never too late," Gail said. "He's a bachelor now."

"The man is in his eighties." She pointed. "Take the next left up here." Gail put on her blinker. Irene said, "Don't mention this, but Irving and Althea ... before she married R.W. He told me when I was there last week."

"No. I thought Irving was married."

"He was." Irene made a sigh. "Some people stumble into these things like falling through a trapdoor. He says he was ready to leave his wife, but Althea called it off. It was for the best. He never forgot her, though. Then to learn she was murdered. Such a blow."

Karen's head appeared between the seats. "Who got murdered?"

"No one you know, sweetie," Gail said.

Irene turned around and took Karen's hand. "One of my dearest friends. Her name was Althea Tillett. Someone broke her neck and threw her down the stairs in her own house."

"Mother, please!"

"Good lord, they see thousands of murders on television by the time they're her age."

"Those aren't real!" Gail reached over to cup Karen's cheek. "Someone came into her house, but they won't come into ours."

"I think we ought to buy a gun. Molly's dad has an Uzi."

"Ryan Perlmutter does not have an Uzi."

"She said he does."

"That's a fib. Sit down. We're almost there." Gail turned at the next corner. "Is this affair what Irving has on his conscience?"

"I doubt it," Irene said. "I'm sure he treasures that memory. Neither of them were kids, but Althea had such ...
fire.
You could never accuse Althea of being shy. She didn't wait for life to come to her; she went out and took it. Not like me. I was too timid. Someday my prince will come, all that sort of nonsense. I tell you, Gail, it ruins you for real men. You expect them all to be heroes, and they aren't, bless their hearts."

"Very true," Gail said.

"I never raised you girls to believe in fantasy, I hope."

"No, Mother. I think it's in the air. We can't help ourselves."

Gail slowed down. The street looked different at night. Quiet. Pulling itself in like a black drawstring bag. There was a wind, a cold front moving through, and the light from the street lamps shifted and danced in the branches of the trees.

Irving Adler's living room curtains were drawn, but the lights were on, glowing through the folds in the fabric. Gail pulled the car into his driveway and turned off the engine.

"Karen, I want you to be very polite with Mr. Adler. You hear me?"

She nodded, looking at the house.

"He's an elderly gentleman, and he's very sad about his friend dying. We must be very respectful. Okay?"

"Okay."

Irene closed her door. "This yard is so dark. He should have put the porch light on. Watch where you're stepping, girls."

Shifting Karen's alligator purse to one side, Gail brushed some crumbs off her Miami Hurricanes sweatshirt. She had refused to let Karen wear the hat. Gail still had her suit on, not a minute to change to anything else.

They walked up the three steps to the front porch and Irene rang the bell. Gail waited for Adler's poodle to throw herself against the inner door, yapping and snarling.

The storm door rattled slightly in a gust of wind, and their dark images trembled in the glass.

Irene pressed the button again, and the same long tones sounded from inside the house. She opened the storm door and rapped loudly with her knuckles on the little fan-shaped window level with the top of her head. "Irving? It's me, Irene." She moved aside and said, "What can you see through here?"

Gail stood on tiptoes. "Nothing. His entrance hall." Irene reached past her and tried the door. Locked. "Should we go around back?" Gail asked.

"No." Irene's chest rose and fell and she laid her hands on Karen's shoulders. "Stay here with your mama. I'm going next door to use the telephone."

A patrol car arrived first, and the officers tried knocking again, then calling out, before they broke a pane of glass in the kitchen door and reached through to turn the deadbolt.

The rescue van came, lights circling around the yard, flashing across the house. The paramedics went through the front door with their equipment. Gail had made Karen sit in the car. Now Irene appeared in the open doorway. She leaned on the white wrought-iron railing to come down off the porch.

Gail knew the answer before she went to put her arms around her. "Oh, Mom. He's gone?"

"Yes. His heart, they think."

"Oh, my God. If we had come—"

"He's been dead for a while." She took a tissue from her purse. Her voice trembled. "They tried to find a pulse and they said he was cold. I saw his face. It didn't look like Irving. It didn't."

Gail hugged her.

A neighbor woman called out from the next yard, "What happened? Is Irving all right?" Someone else called from across the street. Irene wiped her eyes, then went to tell them.

Gail looked around. "Karen, stay in the car. I'll be back."

"Mom, is he dead?"

"His heart gave out, sweetie. He was a very old man, and I'm sure he went peacefully. You know this happens."

"Can I see?"

"No. Stay with your gramma."

Gail went inside the house. The kitchen was noisy and crowded with men in uniforms. One officer was on his two-way radio; the other was watching the paramedics pack up. A chair was overturned, and Irving Adler lay beside it as if he had fallen asleep there, his legs pointed toward the dining room. She could see the spotless soles of his running shoes, his thin ankles, the pressed creases in his trousers, and one upturned hand. It was a neat kitchen, and the floor was shiny blue. A pot was on the stove. The table was set. Saltines formed a white wreath around a bowl of noodle soup.

Gail went to the open door to breathe some air. The swimming pool shimmered in the light from the kitchen. She could faintly hear a television playing in the house next door. The yard was dark, circled by a wood fence.

One of the officers came over and asked what she wanted. She told him who she was. Her mother, Mr. Adler's friend, might know how to reach his family.

The officer nodded. "We'll ask her." He lifted an arm toward the dining room, a suggestion that she should leave.

Gail said, "Did he die of a heart attack?"

"Apparently. Can I get you to wait outside?"

"Tonight Mr. Adler was going to tell me who forged a will. It's an estate worth several million dollars. Althea Tillett. Do you know the name?"

The cop looked at her awhile. He was young, with large brown eyes and a straight part in his black hair. He turned his head toward the other officer and said to call investigations back and tell them to hurry up.

Detective Gary Davis arrived ten minutes later. He went into the kitchen while Gail waited in the living room with Irene and Karen. Karen wanted to see the body, but Gail said no. She nearly told Irene to go on home and take Karen with her, but Irene didn't look as if she was in any condition to drive. Awhile later an ambulance arrived—no lights or siren—and took Irving away. Irene had called several of their friends, and Irving's son was on his way over.

Davis asked the younger man to check all the windows and sent the blond officer outside with a flashlight. Karen asked if she could watch. Gail said no, but Davis said it was okay with him, as long as she didn't get in the way.

He sat on the edge of Irving Adler's chintz-covered armchair. He said, "Here's what I think, Ms. Connor. You tell me the man had a triple bypass last year. I don't see any marks on him, no signs of struggle. Doors were locked. It looks like a plain ol' heart attack to me."

"I just thought ..." Gail's words trailed off with a motion of her hand.

"No, it's good to ask. Tough luck about your case, though, him being a witness and all."

"Oh, well." Gail touched Irene's arm and spoke quietly. "Mother, are you ready to go home?" Irene nodded, red-eyed and subdued. Gail stood up, then asked, "Detective, do you know anything more about Carla Napohtano? Did she fall? Or what?"

"Far as I know, it was an accident. There was a half-empty bottle of Southern Comfort on the patio, and the M.E. says she had a blood alcohol level of one point six. It would help if you could tell me anything you know."

Gail felt utterly drained. "Let me call tomorrow. There isn't much more to tell you."

"Tell me now, then."

Irene sat back down. Gail told him what Howard Odell had said about Carla. She asked, "Was she ever on drugs? Did the autopsy show anything?"

"The M.E. didn't find evidence of current drug use," Davis said. "I don't know her history. According to her neighbors, she led a pretty quiet life."

"Carla told me she kept books, as well as making travel arrangements."

"Right. The manager confirmed that. Frankie Delgado."

Gail glanced at her mother, then looked back at Davis. She hadn't told her about impersonating a hooker. "I believe I may have mentioned Mr. Delgado to you before."

"I believe you did."

"Did you ask him where he was last Thursday night, by any chance? When Ms. Napolitano had her accident?"

"Sure did. A private party at Tony Roma's, which I confirmed with the maitre d'." Davis smiled. "You practicing to be an investigator?"

"I'm not doing any worse than your department. You still suspect Patrick Norris." Gail picked up her purse from the coffee table. "If you're going back to headquarters tonight, could I call you? I need the address and phone number of Mrs. Tillett's housekeeper."

He scratched the side of his face. "I gave it to Quintana already."

"Yes, but he's in trial and I can't reach him."

"What are you gonna do?"

"Talk to her."

"No. Uh-uh. In fact, you tell Quintana I said nobody talks to Rosa Portales. I want to interview her again myself, in light of what you told me about the will. Maybe I missed something."

"Detective Davis, she may be important to my case."

"Mine too. And I'm talking about a homicide."

"You can't forbid me to interview witnesses on a civil case. I'm certainly not going out of mere curiosity—"

He held a finger in her face. "I don't want to hear you've been to see Rosa Portales until you clear it with me. I might want to reinstitute some paperwork from an incident over at Mrs. Tillett's house. You understand what I'm saying?"

A long, piercing wail, as of a child in pain, came from deeper in the house. Gail gasped, then dropped her purse and raced across the dining room, colliding with Karen at the doorway to the kitchen.

"Mommeeeee!" There was a smear of blood on her sweatshirt.

"What is it?" Gail grabbed her by the arms. "Karen! Oh, my God! Are you all right?"

"Noooooo! Please!"

"What's going on?" Davis shouted.

"The dog! It's hurt! Mom, it's bleeding! You have to take it to a vet!"

Irene came around Detective Davis. "Do you mean Mitzi? Gail, I haven't seen that dog since we got here."

"She was in the trash! I heard a noise and I lifted the lid and she was crying!" Karen squeezed her eyes shut and drummed her feet, quick little steps in her torn canvas sneakers. "I dropped her. I didn't mean to!"

"Where is she, Karen?" Irene asked.

Karen spun around and ran for the door. The floodlights were on in the backyard now, a spotlight pointing in each direction from the corner of the roof, and the yard was a contrast of white and deep shadow. The young officer with the black hair pointed to the grass beside a garbage can filled nearly to the top with plastic bags. "It's a puppy or something."