Suspicion of Malice (4 page)

Anthony made a small laugh. "What's the total
price?"

"Twenty."

"Alaba'o.
You're a generous man."

"Oh, it's a steal, I swear to you. It would cost fifty in a Chelsea gallery. Jack let me have it for less be
cause he wanted to make sure it went to Claire and Porter. It was Maggie's only portrait, after all."

Anthony waited. "I don't see the problem, Nate. Unless the painting is hot."

"No, no, nothing like that. Jack just told me back there that the police asked him for a list of his guests.
I wasn't on it."

"Why not?"

"Jack. Oh, God. He was trying to do me a favor.
You see, Jack had a fairly offbeat collection of ac
quaintances at his house last night. He didn't want
my name to be found among them."

"Nate, I wouldn't describe you as offbeat."

"No, I'm the most boring of the lot."

"What kind of offbeat acquaintances are we talk
ing about?"

"Aside from Jack's sailing buddies and their girl
friends, there was a poet who got drunk and made
up limericks about his erection. A Brazilian samba dancer who turned out to be a guy—Jack's little joke.
And a couple of musicians from the blues bar Jack goes to. Jack assured me that no one would even
remember my face." Nate smiled. "This could be true. It wasn't a group that had much interest in
judges."

"Nor a crowd that judges would normally hang
out with. Particularly a judge who wants a federal
appointment."

"Correct." Nate's mouth twitched, either from
nerves or a bizarre sense of hilarity.

"Did you see Roger Cresswell last night?" An
thony asked.

"I saw him with Jack around . . . nine-thirty? They
were going into Jack's study. Roger wasn't there
long, maybe ten minutes. I was in the living room at
the time watching people dance and looking through Jack's old record collection."

"Did you speak to Roger?"

"I did. I said, 'Hello, Roger,' but he didn't make
eye contact, so I'm not sure he heard me. He went
right out the front door and slammed it. I asked Jack. He said, 'Oh, it's the usual shit.' You see, Roger and
Jack have a problem about Claire. Jack's her only
other relative, and Roger thinks Jack is after Claire's
money. I don't believe that and I never have." Nate
added, "I guess I should say ... they
had
a problem."

Anthony asked if Nate had heard the men
shouting.

"No, nothing. Jack didn't seem angry. It's been
going on for years."

"How long did you stay at Jack's?"

"I arrived about eight o'clock and left about
midnight."

"It doesn't take four hours to put a down payment
on a painting."

"True, but . . . Jack throws the most interesting
parties. It's hard to pull yourself away. Try not to
watch a drag queen giving samba lessons. But generally, I listened to music and watched the other guests.
I had a few drinks—maybe more than I should
have."

"Apparently. So you bought a painting, you saw
Roger Cresswell come and go, you got drunk, and
you learned the samba from a Brazilian transvestite. And if all this came out, the consequences for your nomination to the federal bench would he cataclysmic. Nate, if you're not leaving the circuit court, I won't run for that vacancy after all." Anthony raised his hand, forefinger upward. "But wait. Jack Pascoe
says not to worry. No one will ever know you
were there."

Nate smiled slightly. "I didn't actually learn the
samba. Yes, Anthony, I am aware of my legal duty.
I should call the homicide division and offer to make
a statement. No. I should tell
Jack
to call so they won't charge him with obstruction of justice."

"Nate, your integrity is commendable." Anthony mimed a telephone at his ear. " 'Hello, detective, this
is Jack Pascoe. You know—this is so crazy!—it com
pletely slipped my mind that Judge Nathan Harris
was at my party last night!' "

Nate chuckled, then laughed. "We'll hear it on the news. 'Federal nomination withdrawn. Noted criminal court judge and transvestite samba dancer attend
wild orgy the night before heir to yacht fortune is
found shot to death.'" His laughter trailed off.
"Roger Cresswell dead, his mother and father in
pieces, and all I can think of is how to save my
own ass."

"Don't beat yourself up," Anthony said. "It's a normal reaction."

"I've never been afraid of anything, but I'm afraid
people will think I told Jack to lie. I didn't, but they'll think so. I want to be on the federal bench. I deserve
it. God help me, I do, but if this gets out, I'm
finished."

"We'll try not to let that happen."

"Do you have any suggestions?
Are
there any?"

"We'll talk about it," Anthony said. "Let's get out
of here. You're buying me lunch."

Chapter 3

For a pickup performance, midweek, and with most of the principal dancers still away for the summer,
the theater was unusually full. One of the women made that observation as the lights dimmed.

Gail Connor glanced to her right. Her mother was leaning around Betty to hear what Verna was saying.

"It's because of the murder. They're all here to see
Diane Cresswell."
"We
bought our tickets a week
ago," Irene corrected. Betty whispered, "She found the body, you know. Her own cousin! Imagine dancing the night of the funeral." "Are Roger's parents here?" "Oh, I shouldn't think so. Claire was just devastated." "I heard they didn't get along with Roger's
wife." "It's no surprise to me. Have you met her?"

"Shhhhh."
The command hissed from the row be
hind them, and the women quickly faced forward.

Canned tango music swelled from the speakers,
and red velvet curtains parted on a barroom in 1930s Argentina. The men were in white shirts and black
pants, the women in low-cut chiffon dresses, their
hair held back in tight buns. When the blond ballerina in sequinned red twirled toward the men, Irene tapped Gail's wrist. Gail took this to mean that the
dancer was Diane Cresswell. She tilted her head to
see around the person in front of her.

The Cresswell name had been in the news since
Sunday. Occupied with work, Gail had not paid
much attention, but each morning her mother,
dressed in a parrot-green robe and slippers, would read aloud from the newspaper, pausing to stir the
eggs or butter the toast. The heir to a yacht-building
fortune found in his cousin's backyard with seven
bullet holes in his body. No suspects, few clues. Wal
let and Rolex missing. The widow away for the
weekend. A wild party the night of the murder. But who in attendance had wanted to kill Roger Cresswell? Or had it been a random robbery? The police
wouldn't speculate. A frightened neighborhood had hired armed patrols.

Gail would sit there at the table, not to hurt her
mother's feelings, but more often than not she would
only pick at her food.
That's fresh-squeezed juice, don't you like it? You have to eat. I'll make you a boiled egg, then. Or milk toast with cinnamon. You'll make yourself sick on just tea.

Strange, living at home again at thirty-four. Home. That concept had been rather fuzzy lately. The house
she'd lived in with her fiancé—
former
fiancé—was
empty and on the market. Before that, she'd been
married, living with her husband and their daughter. Dave now managed a marina in the Virgin Islands,
and Karen was visiting him for the summer. When she came back, where would home be? Gail wanted
to find a house in a good neighborhood, but it would
have to wait until her savings account recovered.

Sweat tickled the back of Gail's neck. The air was too heavy, too warm. She fanned herself slowly with the program, wondering if she could last till inter
mission.

At last the music ended, and applause swept
through the audience. The dancers came forward,
each man leading his partner by the hand, each
woman making a low, graceful bow, costume glittering. Someone in the front rushed forward with five cellophaned bouquets of roses and tossed them awk
wardly onstage. In the center, Diane Cresswell picked
hers up, blew a kiss, and curtsied.

Gail stopped applauding, afraid to jostle the bubble that threatened to burst into nausea. If she were very still and breathed slowly it might go away. The curtains closed. The house lights came up slightly, and Irene held the program in front of her mouth. "Gail.
Five rows ahead. The couple on the aisle. She's chair
man of the Heart Fund. At intermission I might go
speak to them. Want to come along?"

"I don't know them."

"I do. They're good contacts for you to have. I
could introduce you."

"Not tonight."

The lights dimmed, and bright, lively music lilted
from the speakers. A moment later the curtains
opened on a painted olive tree and a hanging bit of
tile roof. Two dancers came out dressed as Italian
peasants, the girl in a short striped tutu, the man in
a loose white shirt and black tights to the knee. Rib
bons decorated their tambourines. They smiled at
each other coyly, like lovers. Their feet were blurs.

Elbow on the arm rest, Gail leaned her forehead
onto her fist.

The young man leaped into the wings, leaving the girl to her solo. Her striped tutu bobbed and dipped,
and she pirouetted around and around. The ribbons
on her lacy white hat swung out behind her. A minute later the man soared back into view. A series of
spinning leaps took him across the stage.

The music pounded straight into Gail's head. Her
skin was cold and damp, and her stomach had
climbed to the back of her throat. Fumbling for her
purse, she whispered, "Mom, let me out." She stum
bled over Betty's foot and nearly fell on Verna. Glares
and huffed exhalations came from people farther
along the row. "Sorry," she murmured. "Excuse
me." She hurried up the aisle, through a black velvet
curtain, past the disapproving frown of the usher,
then across the lobby and into the ladies' room. She
threw up in the nearest stall.

A minute later heels tapped across the tiles. Gail guessed who it was before seeing a confirming flash of red hair through the space in the door. She flushed
the toilet, patted her mouth with a tissue, and un
wrapped a breath mint.

"Gail? Honey?"

When she came out, her mother was standing
there. "Were you sick?"

"I had to go to the bathroom." She washed her hands. "Go on back. I'm fine."

"No, it's a short dance, and the second intermis
sion is coming." Her mother watched her in the mirror, worried.

Gail uncapped her lipstick. "I know, I look like
hell."

"A little pale, that's all." Irene drew a yellow silk scarf through her fingers. "Do you want to leave,
darling? I could take a cab home with you. They won't mind."

"I'm sure they'd understand." Gail tossed her lipstick into her purse. "They know all about it, don't
they? You gossip about everything. Were they
shocked?"

"Shame on you for such an attitude. I didn't have
to tell them. They aren't blind. They care very much for you."

Gail leaned on her hands, bowing her head. "I know. I'm sorry."

The door creaked on its big metal springs, and an
elderly lady thumped in on a walker, accompanied by a younger .woman carrying her bag. Applause from the theater faded as the door swung shut. It
opened again, and more women came in, filling the
room with their chatter.

Irene picked up her purse. "Well. I'm going to find Betty and Verna. Coming?"

"In a minute." Brush in hand, Gail watched her
mother march out, quick little steps in her patent leather pumps. Gail wanted to scream, to get out of
here, to walk on Lincoln Road until the performance
was over. Of
course
they knew. What a juicy piece of
information. They were just too polite to bring it up
in front of her. They were talking about her right
now.