Suspicion of Malice (32 page)

"How sad. What did the note say?"

"It was just . . . 'Forgive me. I am at peace.'"

"‘Forgive me." Gail repeated softly. " 'I am at
peace.'"

"I think she did it here because it's so quiet and
peaceful. You don't notice it now but when the
weather is cool, you can open all the windows and
doors, and the breeze comes through, and you smell
the ocean and hear the birds. It's perfect. I can turn
up the music as loud as I want and not bother
anybody."

Gail closed the exhibition guide. "May I keep this
for a while?"

"If you want. Why are you so interested in Maggie?"

"Curiosity, I suppose."

"You feel her presence, don't you?"

With a laugh, Gail said, "No, not at all. All right,
I'll tell you, and if this sounds weird, ignore it. I was
thinking earlier today how odd it is that both of
them—Maggie and her brother—died on this same
piece of property."

Delicate blond brows lifted. "You don't think it has
anything to do with Jack—"

"No, I don't mean that. I mean
...
I don't know
what I mean." Gail wedged the guide into her shoulder bag. "This could be a complete dead end, but it bothers me." She took a small breath, then stood up.
"Well. Could I see where you found Roger?"

"If I don't have to go with you."

Diane unlatched the screen and they went onto the
porch. The dog opened his eyes and raised his head.

"Look straight across the yard. See that trellis? There's a path that goes under it, and you go about
fifty feet, and you'll see a fountain. Roger was on
this side of it." She paused, then said, "I haven't
gone in there since that morning."

Gail recalled, "You were the one who found him. How?"

"I heard Buddy barking. I was coming from Jack's house about nine o'clock in the morning. We'd been
up all night talking. I'd gotten home just as people
were leaving the party, and Jack asked me if I was hungry. There was plenty of food left over. So I fixed
something to eat, and helped him clean up, and we
just kept talking and listening to old records, and
then the sun came up, and we had breakfast. I was
coming this way when I heard Buddy."

That had been more information, Gail thought,
than she had asked for. "Will you be here the rest
of the afternoon?"

"Yes, until around five o'clock, then I'm meeting some friends. If you need anything else, just bang on the door. I'll have the music on." With some formal
ity, Diane Cresswell extended a hand, allowed Gail
to shake it briefly, then turned and went back inside.

"Gail waited until the door closed, then looked
down at the dog, whose tongue hung out one side of its mouth. "You want to show me the scene of
the crime?" Knowing it had been spoken to, the dog padded over to Gail, nails clicking on the porch. She scratched the top of its head. "And where were you during the murder of Roger Cresswell? Not talking, eh?"

Tags jingling, the dog trotted after her down the
steps and across the yard. Gail dug her camera out
of her bag and turned to take a shot of the cottage, then swung the lens due east toward the bay. Bushes
partially blocked the view, but as Bobby had de
scribed, there was a seawall across the rear of the
property and a boathouse toward the left.

She walked toward the palm trees, which grew at
so many heights, with tangles of foliage between, that it was impossible to see into them. The fountain was
completely hidden. She took a wide shot then zoomed
in on the trellis. A vine wound in and out of the
cross beams, dropping tendrils with blue flowers into the dim and empty space underneath. Gail heard the dog panting beside her. She said, "I don't really want to go in there unless you go with me. How about it?"

Buddy gave a sharp bark and bounded away.
Camera still at her eye, Gail turned to get a shot
toward the house, of which only the shingle roof and
second floor were visible. She pulled back the lens
for a wide view, and a man in a white Panama hat
appeared in the scene, striding toward her on the keystone walkway. The dog circled around him.

She lowered the camera. The stocky man was
wearing hiking shorts, a loose shirt printed with
game fish, and leather deck shoes. He had an enor
mous blond mustache.

Teeth appeared under it. "Ms. Connor. I'm Jack
Pascoe. Diane said you'd be paying a visit. You
didn't knock on my door."

"I'm sorry. Should I have?"

"It would have been considerate, since this is my property, and here you are with your little spy camera, clicking away."

Gail felt a flutter in her chest. "Yes, I suppose I should have asked permission." She closed the lens
cover and dropped the camera into her bag. "Well, anyway, I'm glad to meet you. I'd hoped we could
talk."

"About what?"

Uncertain what he knew, but suspecting he knew
everything, Gail said, "I represent Bobby Gonzalez. The police suspect him of murdering your cousin,
Roger Cresswell. I'd like to see the crime scene.
That's why I brought the camera. I also need some background on Roger and his family, and his friends,
if you know any of them. This is confidential, of
course."

"Is that what you were pumping Diane for? She
said she was getting advice on that painting."

"Mr. Pascoe, I'm being civil with you, am I not?
Please don't be rude."

"I guess it ticks me off what you're doing to a
good friend of mine."

"You mean Nathan Harris. I'm not happy about it either. Look. If I can get Bobby out of harm's way,
Nate's in the clear too."

"That's enough. Nate's lawyer and I already had
an extended discussion. He told me not to talk to anyone, except the cops, naturally. God forbid we get
charged with obstruction."

"Oh, I see. And did Nate's lawyer happen to men
tion my name? As in, do not speak to this woman?"

Pascoe's smile revealed slightly crooked teeth. "A pleasure to have met you, Ms. Connor. If you don't
mind, I've got a cold beer waiting in the fridge."

"One question. All right? Do you remember what Bobby was wearing that night? It's important. The police found a T-shirt in the trash outside his apartment, and it had Roger's blood on it, but from a fight
two days before. The night of your party, Bobby
wore a Hawaiian shirt. Do you remember it?"

Pascoe let out a breath and stared upward. The sandy mustache had some gray in it. "A green and
white shirt... with pineapples. There. I've just elimi
nated a piece of evidence against him. Happy?"

"There is one more thing—"

"No, there isn't. It's hot out here, Ms. Connor."

"Let's stand in the shade. This is about the portrait.
Diane asked me for legal advice, and I'm trying to help her."

Pascoe stared at Gail from under the brim of his
hat, then exhaled. "All right. What do you want to know?"

They walked under a sea grape tree, where dried
leaves the size of saucers littered the ground. Gail
said, "You sold it—or gave it—to Nathan Harris. Did any money change hands? It's not an irrelevant question, Mr. Pascoe. I'm trying to establish ownership."

"Nate gave me a check for five thousand dollars
on a total price of twenty. He owes me fifteen, which I may have to eat. It depends on where that painting
ends up."

"I see. So you did actually sell it to him." That
was disappointing, Gail thought. She would have to
think of some other way for Diane to acquire the
portrait. "I'm curious. You let Judge Harris have it
so cheaply. Why was that?"

Pascoe was smiling at her again. "I'm a nice guy.
Besides, it was for my aunt Claire."

Gail tugged one of the sea grapes from a long purple cluster. "Diane told me that the night Roger died, she saw the portrait in the study. Roger came to your house about nine-thirty, and you went into the study together to talk. Is that what you discussed? The portrait?"

Pascoe broke into a laugh. "Oh, yes, Anthony
Quintana said you'd try to slip in a question like
that. Just come out and ask me, Ms. Connor. Did you blow Roger away to get your hands on the portrait?
No. I already owned it. He sold it to me in June."

"Where did Roger get the portrait?"

The only reply was an expansive shrug and up
turning eyes. "God knows. Now off with you, I'm expecting company."

"Tell me about Margaret Cresswell," Gail said, not
moving from where she stood.

"Why?"

"I'm curious about her. If I wind up defending
Diane in a lawsuit over that portrait, I'd like to know
about the artist. Diane said you grew up with Maggie. Is that right?"

Pascoe watched his black dog nose about under
the leaves. "My parents traveled a good bit, and
sometimes they'd leave me at Aunt Claire's house.
Maggie was my age, so we spent time together."

"What was she like? I'd really like to know."

"Shy. Quiet. She read a lot. She drew constantly.
You could see her talent even at age ten, eleven. A
genius, but not in her schoolwork. She never cared
about that. She created an inner life. She was the kindest person I have ever known. The sort of girl
who would rescue baby birds.”

"What about Roger?"

"He'd step on the eggs."

"How old was she when she ran away?"

"You've been talking to Diane." Pascoe fanned him
self with his Panama hat. "I told her that because
she needs to believe it. Maggie didn't run away. She
tried to hang herself from the clothes rod in her
closet. She was fifteen."

"Ohhh—"

"They sent her to a mental hospital up the middle of the state in Redneckville. She spent a few months
there, then they shipped her to another happy farm
in Vermont. She sent me a potholder. A joke, of
course. I knew then that she was okay. Porter bribed somebody to get her into Bennington College. After that, she disappeared. She was cleaning hotel rooms on Martha's Vineyard. Winters, she painted. I didn't
see her for ten years."

"My God."

Pascoe curled the end of his mustache around his
forefinger. "Yes. Being a Cresswell would drive any
body crazy."

"Was she?"

"Certainly unhappy. Claire and Porter will tell you that Maggie was afflicted only with an artistic tem
perament. Thank God I'm not a Cresswell. Having
had Cresswell cousins makes me only partially nuts.
Does this help you? I can't see how it would. Sorry
to be a grinch, Ms. Connor." He dropped the hat
back on his head, covering a bald spot. "You should
be running along now."

"Why did Maggie try to kill herself at fifteen?"

"I didn't ask. Sorry.” He held out an arm toward
the house as if to let her go first.

"I won't leave until I see where Roger died." Gail's hand had turned to a fist on the strap of her shoulder
bag. "You don't have to escort me. I can find it on my own."

The cavalry-officer mustache lifted, but what Pascoe
found humorous Gail couldn't imagine. "Okay." He
indicated the direction with a nod. "Go through the
trellis. The path curves a bit to the right. There's a fountain back there made of coral rock. You'll see a
big brass manatee spouting water. Maggie designed
it. If you've gone that far, back up. Roger was about
ten feet this side of the fountain."

The timbers of the trellis had darkened with age
or rot, and the vines that twisted around them had
overgrown the lattice roof and climbed into the trees.
Palm fronds rattled in a sudden gust of humid wind.

As Jack Pascoe walked away, he smiled over his
shoulder. "Take some souvenir photos."

Chapter 17

Anthony followed Jack Pascoe's faded shirt and
fraying khaki shorts through the long entrance
hall that ran straight back through the house. French doors opened into a living room on one side, a study on the other. Books everywhere. Frames leaned up against walls. The oriental carpet was tattered, and upholstery sagged. Even thirty years in this country had not been sufficient to explain to Anthony why
Americans from old money allowed their posses
sions—even their cars and their clothing—to appear
so worn out.