Suspicion of Malice (33 page)

On the screened porch, Anthony looked into the
two tangled acres that made up the backyard.

"She's probably still in there, taking photos."
Pascoe's mouth twitched with amusement. As if to lead the way, he reached for the door, but Anthony told him he was sure he could find it. He set off on
the path that led due east toward the bay.

Five minutes ago, parking in front of Pascoe's
house, he had noticed a silver Acura. His own reac
tion had surprised him: a pleasant buzz, a warmth
in his chest like the beginnings of a laugh. This had
been quickly replaced by curiosity: What was she doing here? Pascoe had supplied the answer to that.

Under the trellis the air was redolent of earth, rot,
and regrowth. Plants pressed in from all sides and
bent from their own weight. Red-throated bromeliads held small pools of water. Immense green and yellow
leaves climbed across branches and tumbled down
again, dangling in midair. Orchids clung to the trees. One of them shot out an immense spray of purple. Plants overflowed their pots, and ferns spilled across the path. Anthony's soft-soled shoes made no sound, and when he came around the final curve, Gail Con
nor didn't hear him.

She was pointing her camera at a brass manatee
that seemed to rise up on its tail. A wall of rock
formed the back of the thing, and water spurted from its mouth into a fern-draped, semicircular pond, ten feet in diameter, that glittered with bits of glass and broken pottery. Reflected sunlight dappled the trees.

The camera flashed, and Gail walked closer to the manatee, whose hippo-like face was level with her head of unruly dark blond hair. Slender arms lifted
from a sleeveless shirt, and her sneakers were
planted firmly on the path. A deceptively boyish
figure.

Without speaking, Anthony waited for her to no
tice him. Finally she caught sight of him and jumped
back a step, a hand at her heart. Recovering, she
tossed her hair off her face.

"Well. Look who's here. Did Jack Pascoe send out
the alert? What's the meaning of telling him not to talk to me?" She was steaming. "He wanted to kick
me off his property, thanks to you."

Anthony made a slight bow. "How pleasant to see
you, Gail. Is your cell phone on? No, never mind
why. Just look and tell me if it's on." She took it out
of her shoulder bag. "Turn it on. Now, does it show
a message? That's from me. I called you to say I
would be here at one o'clock, and to bring your cam
era. You cut my head off for nothing. First the ax, then the trial. And no, I didn't tell Jack Pascoe not to talk to you. Maybe he just didn't want to."

She dropped the phone back into her bag. "Sorry."

"What abuse I take from this woman. She comes
here in secret, and do I complain?"

"Okay, don't rub it in."

He walked farther into the open. The keystone
path widened around the fountain, and three teak
benches marked a semicircle. "What have you photo
graphed so far?"

"The entrance, the path, the fountain." She turned
and pointed. "I think Roger must have died over there. I wanted to save that for last."

Near where Anthony had stood were some broken and brown philodendron leaves, new shoots already uncurling. Any blood had been washed away by the rain. Sitting on his heels, he moved a leaf aside and
saw a latex glove, likely dropped by the medical
examiner.

Gail told him to move back, and while she took more photographs, he looked around. There were
some small colored landscaping lights to illuminate
the path and the fountain after dark. The full moon that night would have shone straight down through
the opening in the trees. The killer had waited until his victim moved into this area by the fountain. An
thony glanced at the pond. An orange carp slid
under the surface like a flash of blood. The level was low, and Anthony noticed a spigot connected to a garden hose.

Gail said, "Did Jack Pascoe tell you what I asked him?"

"Ah." Anthony turned. "Yes. You came to give
Diane Cresswell some legal advice regarding the por
trait in her cottage. You asked Jack about it."

She moved out of sight behind the fountain. "Why
didn't you mention that you were with Nate Harris
when he gave it to Porter and Claire?" Gail came out from behind the wall of coral rocks brushing some
twigs out of her hair.

He shrugged. "It wasn't relevant. I don't see how it's relevant now." She had missed a leaf, and he
reached out to pick it off. Her eyes followed his
hand. "Why all the interest in a painting?"

"Because Roger used to own it, and it was here in Jack's study the night Roger was killed. Jack said he bought it from Roger last June. You don't know how
Roger got hold of it, do you?"

Anthony flicked the leaf away. "Yes. I went by
Jack's gallery yesterday, and we talked. I had no in
terest in the painting, only in asking what he and Roger
had discussed in the study that night. He gave me a
plate of bullshit. Supposedly Roger had dropped by to
discuss buying something for his mother. Then Jack said he didn't know what to do about Nate's down payment. I asked what he was talking about, and he told me that Porter had given the portrait of Diane to
her parents, and that Diane took it, and now it's in the cottage." Anthony smiled. "And you were here to talk to her about it. How things go around."

Sunlight came through the trees and moved on
Gail's hair.

He went on, "Jack told me he would give Nate
his money back, depending on what happens to the
portrait. It came up in conversation that Jack bought
it from Roger, and that Roger had been given the
portrait by
...
Porter and Claire."

Gail laughed. "What? And Jack was sending it
back
to them? I bet he made money. How much did he
pay Roger for it?"

"He didn't say. It didn't seem important, so I didn't ask. Nate doesn't know yet. I'll have to tell
him, and he's not going to be happy with Jack, much
less to find out what Porter and Claire thought of
his gift."

"Yes, that was rude. Don't blame Claire, though.
Diane says it was Porter's idea." Gail frowned
slightly, then said, "Of course. Roger and Jack were
arguing about the portrait. Diane told me it was in
the study that night."

"And what would that prove?" Anthony asked.

"Look. Both Roger and his sister died on this same
piece of property. He was shot; she killed herself. Don't you wonder about that? What connects them
but the portrait? He owned it, she painted it. What
if there's something going back to their childhood.
Some secret that Roger was going to reveal, and
someone—maybe Jack Pascoe—wanted to keep quiet."

Her mind was a garden of improbable theories.
"Go on. What secret?"

She blew out a puff of air. "I don't know." In her excitement she lightly touched his forearm, and the hairs seemed to tingle. "Jack just told me something.
Margaret Cresswell first tried to commit suicide at age fifteen. She tried to hang herself, and they sent
her to a mental hospital. Did you know that?"

One tragedy on another. Anthony shook his head.
"No. Nate never mentioned it. I'm not sure he
knows. What an unhappy woman." The burble and splash of the fountain echoed in the thick enclosure
of green. Anthony went over and rested a foot on the edge. Minnows darted under some lily pads.
"Let's look at the facts. Roger went into Jack's study
around nine-thirty. They talked for ten minutes. Roger slammed the front door when he left. He bought a fifth of whiskey at a liquor store around ten o'clock. He came back—we don't know what
time. He parked along the road a block away, and
he drank. He was either killing time or building up
his courage. Then he came in through the gate—
sneaking in. Why does a man do that?"

Gail walked closer. Her face shone with perspira
tion. "Well, why?"

"He's looking for his wife. We know that Roger
suspected Nikki of adultery. Assume he came here
to look for her. Jack said she wasn't here. Roger left,
but he wasn't convinced. He came back. Someone was either following or waiting for him."

"Jack?" Gail wasn't convinced. "Why do you think
he was sleeping with Nikki, of all people?"

"Pure speculation." Anthony laughed.

"Wait. This may be nothing, but . . . when I was talking to Diane, I asked her a simple question about
finding Roger's body, and she goes into this long explanation about what time she got home, and the fact that she and Jack spent the night talking, and
what they talked about.... When you hear testimony
like that in a trial, what's your first thought?"

"Someone is lying."

"Maybe you're right about Jack and Nikki, but I
don't know how we can possibly prove it."

Anthony took his foot off the edge of the pond.
"Come on. Let's see how our killer got in."

A fence enclosed the south side of the property.
The keystone walkway ended, becoming a soggy car
pet of dead leaves. Anthony went first, sweeping
away spider webs with a stick. They came to a rot
ting wood fence with vines twisting through broken
boards. He found the gate and tugged on a rusting
metal handle. The door opened silently. He motioned
for Gail to go through, and in moving aside scraped
his shoulder on the damp, fungus-black wood.
"Cono."
The shirt was a loosely woven Egyptian cotton with short sleeves, good for such sultry days. He
brushed at the stain, only smearing it further.

He could hear Gail chuckling softly. "Next time
wear an old one." She walked past him. Such a
lovely view, the seam of her shorts tucking in just so under two perfect curves. Long legs. He shoved his
thoughts away.

The unpaved street ended just to the left in a tangle of mangroves that hid any view of the water. Across the road was an overgrown vacant lot. Cars that had not fit in Pascoe's driveway the night of the murder
had parked there. Gail took her photos, and they
went back inside the fence.

She asked, "Why didn't the killer just shoot him
outside? Why come in here?"

"Privacy. A car could have turned down that street
with its headlights on." They walked back toward
the fountain. Anthony said, "I don't believe that the
killer was waiting inside. He would have had to
know that Roger was coming back and at what time.
Assume he followed Roger. There were two bullets in Roger's chest, which means that Roger turned
around to see who was behind him. The police report indicates visible gunpowder on his shirt. The killer came close, possibly within a few feet, while Roger
stood and waited. Why?"

"Because of the gun."

"No. Because Roger knew him."

Reaching the fountain, Anthony reconstructed the
scene. "The killer calls Roger's name. Roger turns.
He knows the voice and wonders why this person is here. He lets him get close. Then the gun comes out.
The killer fires twice, directly into Roger's chest." An
thony touched his own chest. "Confused, Roger pulls
away. A third shot hits him here in the upper arm
at an angle as he turns. Now he runs. A fourth goes
into his back. Blood is found on the path here . . .
and here."

Walking slowly, Anthony pointed. "Roger falls. He instinctively lifts his hands to protect himself. A bul
let goes through his wrist and into the ground. The
killer stands over him, aims carefully, and— Two bullets through the left eye. The skull is cracked, and blood soaks the ground. The killer takes Roger's wallet, his Rolex—"

A faint moan made Anthony turn around. Gail was sitting on one of the benches, her head level with her knees. "Gail!" A few quick paces took him there, and
he lifted her by the shoulders.

Her lips were bloodless. "I'm fine. Just
...
a little
too much detail, I guess."

"Ay, Dios,
I'm sorry." He looked around, remem
bering the spigot for the fountain. Taking out his handkerchief, he sprinted over and turned the handle. It came on with a rush and splashed mud on his linen trousers. Ignoring that, he took the wet cloth
back to Gail and pressed it to her forehead. "Turn
this way,
corazon."