Suspicion of Malice (45 page)

"Nope. Charlie Cresswell never got around to that.
He died first."

"But he intended to make your father a part
owner." Anthony looked at Stamos. "How long has
Cresswell been dead?"

Still leaning on the edge of the desk, Stamos
crossed his scuffed work boots at the ankle. "About
thirty years, I guess. Why?"

Anthony allowed a shrug to indicate lack of any
good reason to know this. He said, "Twenty years
ago Porter transferred shares to his brother, making their interests approximately equal. Do you happen
to know why this was done?"

"No. I didn't know it was. What they do in the
office doesn't concern me. You know, I need to get
back to work."

"Of course." Anthony lifted a hand. "There is one other question." He hesitated for a moment, then decided mat Ted Stamos already knew, if he had been talking to Liz Cresswell. "It's such a small world. My
daughter is dating Bobby Gonzalez, who used to
work in your department. Do you remember him?"

Stamos's expression didn't change, but he took a
moment to answer. "Sure, I remember Bobby."

"And you know he's a suspect in Roger's death.
Angela asked me to help him. I can't say no to her. She would never forgive me. Bobby says you stood up for him with Roger. You refused to fire Bobby when Roger told you to. He told me about his fight
with Roger here in your office. He said that you came
in and broke it up, correct?"

"Yeah, that's right."

"And that you weren't here when it started, but you heard the noise and came in. Is that so?"

"Yeah."

"But when I met you at the marina, Porter Cresswell said that you had seen Bobby attack Roger for
firing him, and then threaten his life. Porter asked you if that was true, and you said yes. That's what
you told the police as well. Who asked you to lie to them? Porter?"

Stamos shifted, uncrossing his feet, standing up straight. He was smiling, but not as if he had found the question amusing. "The man owns the company.
He said Bobby did it."

"No. He was with my daughter at the time. He's
completely innocent."

"No kidding. Good. Glad to hear it." Stamos went
over to the door and opened it so Anthony could
leave. "If you don't mind, I've got some work to do."

Around ten o'clock that night, Anthony went by the Strip Mine, a one-story concrete-block building with a flashing sign showing a pair of
tetas
in a martini
glass.

He ordered a drink, leaving the bartender a twenty
as a tip. A little later he asked about the party of
men who had come in the night of August 16, and
he laid twenties on the counter until the man slipped the pile into his pocket. Anthony showed him some
photos his investigator had taken with a telephoto
lens.

The bartender leaned on his elbows. "Yeah, I know Dub Cresswell. He's always in here. I remember that night because the guys he brought in were speaking French, from Quebec, and the girls got a kick out of
it. Mr. Cresswell is a good customer. Don't mention
I talked to you, he might not come in here no more."

"What time did they come in that night?"

"My shift starts at ten o'clock. They had their first round on the table already. I'm guessing nine-thirty."

The bartender recognized Ted Stamos as well. "He always comes in when Mr. Cresswell brings a group
like that, but he drinks club soda. I guess he's the designated driver or something."

"Did Mr. Cresswell leave early?"

"No, he stayed and signed the bill. It's a company
account. Like I said, he's a good customer."

"What about Stamos? When did he leave?"

"He left when the rest of them did. I remember he
had to help Dub get out of his chair."

"Could either of them have gone out during the
night, then returned?"

"Oh, jeez. We're jammed on Saturdays. I can't remember. You want to talk to the parking lot atten
dant."

It cost Anthony sixty dollars.
"Si, por supuesto, yo
recuerdo a ese hombre."

The attendant remembered that the man had come with the others, but he had wanted to leave his Jeep Cherokee by the entrance. It had taken some explaining, because the attendant didn't speak English,
and the man—
Este, iverdad?
The American had been
forced to speak Spanish, and not well. No
movar el
camion. Estoy aqui en cinco minutos.
Don't move the
truck. I'll be back in five minutes. Ted Stamos had
come out, and his rear tires had squealed taking off on the highway, heading south. He had returned a
couple of hours later. About one-thirty in the morn
ing he and the other men had come out of the club.
He had helped
el gordo
—the fat man—into the pas
senger seat and had driven away.

"Muchas gracias,"
Anthony said.

Chapter 22

Gail's mother introduced her to Claire Cresswell
in the staff lounge at the ballet. Claire had just
attended a board meeting, and she had an hour or
so before she was expected home.

"We're having people over for cocktails," Claire explained, "or else I might let Porter fend for himself." They talked for a few minutes about what ballets Gail should see this season, then Irene went out
and left them alone.

Windows in the lounge gave a view of the fourth-
floor terrace and the placid turquoise of the Atlantic
a few city blocks to the east. Interior windows at
right angles looked down into one of the practice
studios with its wall of mirrors and shiny wood floor. Gail and Claire took their cups of coffee to a group
ing of chairs in a corner.

Not having met her before, Gail could not tell what marks Roger Cresswell's death had left on his moth
er's face, but she was arrestingly beautiful. For
women with money and taste, years were irrelevant. Claire Cresswell fought back with a stunning wardrobe, elegant jewelry, and glowing makeup. Platinum
hair was fastened at the nape of her long neck in a
flat black bow. A deep rose silk jacket whispered
against flowing trousers. Her nails were the same
shade of pink, and a loose bracelet of pink amethysts
clicked against the gold band of a diamond-faced watch when Claire picked up her coffee.

"Of
course
I remember your mother in high school.
Irene was so well liked by everyone. Has it been
forty years? Can it be?" Claire lightly touched fingers
to her cheek and made a mock grimace. "More than forty. Uggh."

Gail sat at right angles, holding her cup on her
knees. "I told Anthony to be here at five-thirty so we could talk first. I'm so grateful for your help. I know this is a terrible time for you, losing a son, but you
may have saved Bobby's career. And Nate's too."

"It's very kind of you to say so, Gail." Claire
smiled. Her glossy lipstick matched her jacket. "Well.
What's on your mind?"

"Diane asked me to help her with a legal matter.
It's about the portrait that your daughter painted. You know it's at the cottage now, don't you? And that Diane took it from her parents' house."

"Yes. Nate told me all about it. I was so mad at Porter. I said, 'Porter, you're giving Nate his down
payment back.' Porter promised he would. This
might be one of those things we'll all laugh about
later."

"Diane would like to keep the portrait," Gail said. "She feels a special attachment, as you can understand. She says her parents don't care about it, except
for its monetary value. Even so, she doesn't have
much chance of acquiring title unless they give it up. I thought you might be willing to help, to persuade them somehow."

Claire leaned to set down her cup. "Of course, I'd
be happy to help. I can't guarantee what Liz would say, though. Does Diane want it that much? Maybe
I could buy it for her. If Liz won't give it to her
voluntarily, then I'll just make an offer. Is that a
good idea?"

Gail laughed, surprised. "Diane never expected
this, but I'm sure she'd accept. You might just shame her mother into giving it up, since they paid nothing
for it. I'm curious about something. Before Roger sold
it to Jack and all this started, you and Porter owned
it. Where did you get it?"

"From Maggie."

"Really. I asked Nate, and he said he never saw it
at your house."

"We never hung it up. Can you believe it? I meant to get it framed, but we went on vacation, and I stuck it aside and completely forgot. We have so many paintings. When did Maggie do that one? It's been a
good eight years. One day we were redecorating a
guest room, and there it was. We gave it to Roger
and Nikki for Christmas."

"Why not to Diane's parents?"

"Oh. Well, we decided that since Roger didn't have
any of his sister's works, it would be a nice gift."

That was hardly an answer, but Gail went on.
"Nate told me that when Maggie was fifteen, she
was in love with a boy who worked at the boat yard,
but you and Porter didn't approve. Maggie was so
upset that she attempted suicide. Is that what
happened?"

"I'm afraid so. We don't like to talk about it. It
was a terrible time for everyone."

"Your nephew, Jack, says he and Maggie were
close as children. He loved her very much, I think.
He says that she was sent to a mental hospital farther
up the state, and she stayed there a few months.
Where was it?"

"Outside Orlando. They got her stabilized, and then we sent her to a place in Vermont. Porter has
family there. We visited, of course. I practically lived
on airplanes."

"How old was she when she went away?"

"Sixteen. We hated to do it, but they had excellent facilities for girls her age."

"When she attempted suicide... was she pregnant?"

"Pregnant? No." Claire laughed, blinking heavily mascaraed lashes. "Of course she wasn't pregnant."

"So many years later, and she's gone. It wouldn't
matter now if you told me."

"I just did. You know, I don't see the reason for
these questions. How is this helping Nate? How is it helping Bobby?"

"I'm looking for the reason Roger was killed. Per
haps it was because of something he knew."
Allowing some time to gather her thoughts, Gail
shifted some ballet magazines aside on the table and set down her coffee. "This is what I see. Diane told me that her mother was on vacation at Disney World when she went into early labor. That's near Orlando, where you first took Maggie. If she'd had a child, it
would be twenty, the same age as Diane. Diane doesn't look like her parents. She looks more like
you. She's a dancer. So were you. And there's the portrait. Maggie never painted portraits, but she
painted Diane. The longing in it is overpowering. It
says . . . this is my child."

Claire Cresswell, who had been stunned into si
lence as Gail recited these facts, blurted out, "That is
completely untrue. I hope to God you haven't repeated this to anyone else."

"No, I haven't, not even to Anthony. I wanted to talk to you first—"

"This has
nothing
to do with Roger's death. Do you find some strange satisfaction in picking through my
family's past?"

"I didn't mean to—"

There was a knock on the door, and both women
turned. One of the staff showed Anthony in. He saw
them and smiled.

Claire walked to him, lifting her hands so he could
take them. "Look who's here. And aren't you just
gorgeous? What a lovely suit. Did you see Nate's interview on TV this morning? Wasn't he wonder
ful?"

For a second Anthony's eyes met Gail's. She made a subtle shrug. He said to Claire, "My secretary taped
the interview. I was in court all day. Am I late? I hope you haven't waited long." He bent to allow
Claire to brush his cheek with hers. "Come, let's sit
on the couch. Gail, I think Claire left her coffee over
there on the table. Would you bring it, please?"

She said prettily, "May I get you some coffee,
too?"

"Would you? Cream, no sugar." He looked up and smiled, and she read his thoughts clearly.
Give me a
few minutes with Claire.