Suspicion of Malice (14 page)

For a while she watched the dancers, then said, "Bobby's going to have a good career, if he can sur
vive long enough."

In the corridor behind them Gail heard voices and
the thumps of heavy shoes and dance bags hitting
the floor. The teacher glanced at her watch, then excused herself. Time to start class.

She paused with a hand on Gail's shoulder. "Take care of him, will you?"

Chapter 8

Through the glass wall of his office, Jack saw Nikki
come into the gallery. Her black linen dress
showed a good bit of bare leg, but the color was
right for a widow. Likewise the dark glasses. Then
she pushed them into her wavy red hair, spoiling
the effect.

This was Tuesday, and Jack hadn't seen her since
the funeral last week. He hadn't phoned. He hadn't wanted to hear that breathy little voice:
Hi. What's
up?

Jack turned to Diane, who had not noticed his
lapse of attention. She was still studying the portrait of herself, which he had propped on a shelf. A young
girl in tutu and pointe shoes waited to go onstage.
Her pubescent body shone in blue light against the enveloping blackness of backdrop and curtain. Her face repeated the curves of Diane's face, the small
mouth, and upturned nose, and they both had corn-
silk hair.

Staring at this painting, Jack wondered what in hell
he should do. He had bought it from Roger Cress
well, then had sold it to Nathan Harris as a gift for Claire and Porter. Then Porter, outrageously ungrate
ful, had given it to Dub and Elizabeth. Diane had
taken it—rescued it—from her Philistine parents, and here it was again. Diane wanted to sell it. It made his
head spin. Jack supposed he should start by sending
Nate's down payment back.

"I could find a buyer," Jack said, "but without proof you own it, you'll take a hell of a discount."

"How much do you think I could get for it?"

Jack wound one end of his mustache around his finger and contemplated the shadow market for art,
which he preferred to stay out of. "Ten thousand, no questions asked. As much as fifty to a serious collec
tor of Margaret Cresswells."

Diane's voice became wistful. "I'd like to keep it, but I need to live closer to the ballet. It would be so
great to have a condo where I could see the ocean."

"You will,” Jack said. "It's time you had your
own place."

"I'd miss you and Buddy. I'd miss the cottage. I
love it there."

"It's always yours to come back to." He smiled at
her. "My advice is, talk to your parents. Grovel if
you have to. Maybe your mother is simply trying to
show you who's boss."

"She doesn't even like it! I heard her tell Dad it's
dark and depressing. She just wants it to show off
to her friends. She says if I don't bring it back, she'll
call the police. Why does she hate me so much? What
have I done that's so terrible?"

"Nothing,
ma petite.
She's jealous. You're Princess
Aurora."

Diane reached out to slide her fingers along the
edge of the frame. "I remember one day Maggie was visiting from . . . oh, God, wherever she was living
then, and she wanted to see me dance. I took her to
a dress rehearsal, and this is what I was wearing that
day, a white tutu. She got it so perfect, even the
pearls. I never knew how good she was." Diane
made a little cry. "Jack! How could I even think of
selling this? She meant me to have it. I know she did."

"Tell you what. You work on ownership. Maybe
you should ask a lawyer for some legal advice. Meanwhile, I'll take some photos in case you change your mind." He took his camera out of a drawer. If Dub and Liz loosened their tentacles on this portrait,
Jack would send slides to potential buyers and scan
a print for his website. "You can always say no,"
he added.

Shifting out of the way, Diane glanced into the
gallery. "Guess who's here."

"I saw her come in."

Diane's voice dropped to a whisper. "You're crazy
for being with her, Jack."

"It's over, pumpkin." He focused and pressed
the shutter.

"Thank God." Diane turned her back on the door.
"The police talked to me again. They think you and
I are lovers."

"And you told them—"

"I said that's ridiculous, we were just staying up
late talking, and I wouldn't lie for you anyway."

"Good girl." Jack came in closer on the portrait
and took one more. "Let me take this home, all right?
You don't want to leave it in your car."

"Thanks. Listen, do you have a friend named
Alan? Last week Bobby said he'd met someone
named Alan at your party, but he didn't know his
last name."

"Alan? I haven't the foggiest. Bobby must have gotten it wrong. Or maybe this guy came to the party
and I didn't see him."

"Maybe so. Don't say I asked you, okay? Bobby
got a lawyer, and he's not supposed to be talking
about the case." Diane picked up her bag. "I'd better get to rehearsal." She kissed him on the cheek and
tugged at his mustache. "Love you."

"Love you too, kid."

She walked, in her graceful, splay-footed way, out of his office. Her baggy jeans hung over thick-soled
sneakers. When she passed Nikki, the two women glanced at each other but neither spoke.

Nikki held onto the door, swinging around, lean
ing in. "Hi. What's up?"

"You tell me." Jack hit the button on the camera
to rewind the film.

"Well. Mr. Friendly. Why was Diane here?"

"No reason. Passing through town, paying her
respects."

Nikki glanced through the door to make sure
Jack's assistant was out of earshot. "Is she still okay
with . . . everything?"

"She's fine. I told you not to worry."

"I can't help it." Nikki's glossy pink lips parted.
The two front teeth were slightly longer than the oth
ers, and when Jack had first met her, he'd thought
of a rabbit. Fluffy hair, white bunny-teeth—and a centerfold body.

Jack put his camera away. "How's your friend in West Palm holding up?"

"Oh, she's been great. We're used to covering for
each other."

"She cheats on her husband too?"

"Ha-ha." Nikki had a habit of moistening her lips.
"I left three messages. Why didn't you call me?"

"Perhaps I am wrong," he said, "but a period of grief for a widow is usually customary."

"Jack, I have to talk to you. Don't worry, I'll keep
my hands to myself."

Letting out a breath, Jack walked past her into the gallery. He told his assistant to come back in half an hour. He locked the door and turned over the CLOSED sign, resetting the hands on the little clock. Through the windows he could see the surf shop and a Cozzoli's Pizza. There had never been more than one or two serious galleries in Coconut Grove, and they had
departed years ago.

Nikki's narrow black heels tapped on the slate
floor, and a tasseled purse bounced at her hip.
"Wow. Every time I come in here, you've got new
things. It looks nice.”

A remark like that made Jack's jaw clench. Had
she been sincere or sarcastic? He preferred sarcasm. Sincerity meant that Nikki was too stupid to see that
the pieces in this gallery were, for the most part,
crap.

He sold uninspired abstracts one might find at an
outdoor art show, assembly-line watercolors of
beaches and tropical fruit, prints of Key West cottages with a cat on the porch. Buy any of these, an
other would appear from the storeroom. He carried
the usual cartoonish Romero Britto pieces so beloved
by tourists. There were oil paintings of pears that resembled freckled yellow butts, and the obligatory thatch-hut-and-palm-tree landscapes for the Cubans. In the office was a third-rate Picasso that somebody,
sooner or later, would purchase to say they had a
Picasso.

Until a year or so ago, Jack had owned a gallery in Coral Gables, where he'd shown high-quality pieces acquired from private collectors. He'd been a consul
tant for banks and corporations. He'd done apprais
als for the Miami Art Museum. Clients had sent him to New York for auctions. Purchasers of yachts from
the Cresswell boat yard had turned to Jack Pascoe
for help in choosing the perfect DeKooning or Kline
for the stateroom. And then disaster.

At Aunt Claire's last birthday party, Roger got stinking drunk. She scolded her son and compared
him to Jack, his older, more sensible cousin. When Jack left the party, Roger was waiting for him in the parking lot. He'd accused him of sucking up to his
parents, of using them to find clients, of drooling
over their money. Jack had pushed him into a hedge
and kept walking. Still drunk, Roger had lurched
after him.
You're dead, Jack-O.
Jack-O had told him to
go fuck himself.

The disaster began shortly thereafter. How had Roger done it? He'd known Jack's clients because
Jack had talked too much. It would have been easy—
a few words to a certain society figure. A hint
dropped to the president of this or that bank. One
client withdrew her collection of Bonnard litho
graphs. Then a curator for a Texas museum, looking for a choice Wifredo Lam, had told him they'd de
cided to buy it elsewhere. A friend told Jack he'd
heard rumors of bad-faith dealing, of fraud, of kick
backs from major galleries in New York and Chicago.
Jack lost his corporate clients. Within three months
his phone stopped ringing, and no one would take
his calls.

Jack's reputation was trashed, and without proof
of Roger's perfidy, there had not been one damned
thing Jack could do except keep smiling, bide his time, and wait for the right moment.

The infuriating thing was, Jack had made money
here, across the street from a pizza parlor, next door
to a T-shirt shop. He'd made lots of money, more
than in Coral Gables. And with each fat bank deposit,
his stomach churned.

Nailing Roger's fluffy little snookums had helped,
but not much.

She had walked into an area near the front of the
gallery where pieces of any value were displayed.
Smash-proof plate glass windows extended from
floor to ceiling. The portrait of Diane had hung there for several weeks. People would stop on the sidewalk
and gaze at it, forgetting to lick their ice cream cones.
Mothers would pause with children tugging on their
hands. The luminous beauty of that painting had
even caught the attention of mouth-breathing college
students heading for happy hour at the Irish pub.

That particular spot on the wall was empty now, and Nikki asked, "Why do you have the picture of
the ballerina in your office?"

Jack spread his hands palms up. "Why not?"

"Do you have a buyer?"

Seeing no reason to explain the portrait's circuitous
journey during the last two weeks, Jack simply
said, "No."

Nikki laughed softly and bounced her little purse
on her knees. "Don't take this the wrong way, Jack,
but I'd really like to move it to some other gallery.
One that's a little more . . . high class?"

"What?"

"Well, it's been here a long time, and you haven't
sold it, and I need the money."

Jack squinted at her. "What are you talking
about?"

"You were selling it for Roger, and I need the money, Jack. I just came from the probate lawyer,
and I'm broke. Roger let his life insurance lapse, he took out loans on his stocks, and there's hardly any
thing left in the bank! Oh, sure, there's his interest
in Cresswell Yachts, but it's going to take
forever
to
sell."

"Ahh." Comprehension. Jack patted her shoulder. "Nikki, I am sorry. Honest to goodness I am. The
painting wasn't here on consignment. I bought it."

Nikki blinked. "How much?"