Suspicion of Malice (54 page)

Porter Cresswell sat at the wheel in one of two
high captain's chairs bolted to the deck. He wore
white pants and a blue blazer with gold buttons. Cig
arette smoke curled from an ashtray fastened to the
helm.

Anthony introduced Gail, and Porter took her
hand. His grip showed some strength, but his shoul
ders were curved, and his skin was cool and slack.
Gail saw at once that he was ill. His color was wrong,
and his belly was distended. This was the man who had banished his daughter to another state for get
ting pregnant. Gail could not put out of her mind what other damage he might have done.

She tugged out of his handshake. "I'm so sorry about the loss of your son."

"Thank you." His smile was slow, lifting one side of his mouth, exposing smoker-yellow teeth. A deep cleft divided his square chin. Hooded eyes lingered on Gail's face, then shifted to Anthony. "Claire says
you heard about Stamos. That was a real shocker.
I'm glad he's dead. Saves the state the trouble of
putting him on trial."

Gail remembered what Roger's widow had said about her father-in-law. How he had hated his own
son. How he had yelled at him, "I could kill you."

She asked, "Do you have any idea why Ted
Stamos did it? Why he killed Roger?"

Anthony glanced at her.

Porter Cresswell's ropy hands turned the wheel a fraction. "Roger was trying to take over the com
pany, and Ted wouldn't have it. That's what I think." He reached for his cigarette, tapped off the ashes, but
didn't smoke it.

A few drops of rain slid across the glass. The horizon seemed to rise and fall, and Gail stood with her
feet farther apart and held onto Anthony's arm.

He asked, "How far are we going?"

Porter glanced at the instruments. "We'll stop
about ten miles south of Elliott Key. Roger liked fish
ing down that way. He won a trophy when he was thirteen, a ninety-two-pound swordfish. I thought he'd like to go back there."

Gail exchanged a look with Anthony, who made
an almost imperceptible shrug. It had been a strange
remark, but it didn't mean Porter was crazy.

Porter glanced around when two men in their early thirties maneuvered through—Roger's friends, Gail thought. He nodded and smiled, accepting their con
dolences on his son and their compliments on his
boat. Of the son and the boat, she had no doubt
which he valued more highly.

The boat shifted, and Gail reached out for the back
of the other chair, aware that more than the ocean had unsettled her.

Porter laughed at the expression on her face.
"Don't worry, honey. This boat could ride out a hurricane. The pastor will say a few words, we'll give Roger back to his maker, and then we'll head home.
You don't get seasick, do you?" He laughed again. "Miami girl like you? Tell Claire I said to get you some Dramamine."

Gail forced herself to smile. "Thanks."

"Porter!" Duncan Cresswell came through the
door from the salon. He stopped dead, looking at Anthony. His eyes seemed too small for his heavy face. "What are you doing here, Quintana?"

"He's here because Claire invited him, and he's brought his lovely lady friend along," Porter said.

Turning his back on them, Dub Cresswell stood beside Porter's chair. "Have you looked behind us?
It's raining like hell, and it's coming this way."

"I've got radar. Of course I know. We'll run right
out from under it."

"So you say. Let's stop here and get it done with. You can't scatter ashes in a storm."

"It's not going to storm."

"We ought to stop here, Porter."

"Who's running this goddamn ship? You or me?
I'll tell you when we're stopping."

Fury reddened his brother's cheeks. He stepped
back, fists clenching. With a quick heated glance at
Gail and Anthony, he left the pilothouse.

Porter lifted his cigarette from the ashtray, rolling
it between his fingers. He saw Gail watching him
and smiled at her. "Claire won't let me smoke any
more either. Can't smoke, can't drink. I can still ap
preciate a pretty woman. If this guy can't do it for
you, come see me." He laughed. "Quintana, can't
you take a joke?"

Anthony's hand clamped onto Gail's elbow, and
he turned her toward the door on the port side. He closed it firmly behind them, and they walked aft to a point beyond view of the pilothouse windows.

Gail made a theatrical shudder. "What a reptile." She kissed Anthony on his jaw, which still was knot
ted. "Don't worry. I like you better."

He let out a breath. "Porter wasn't as crazy as that
when I first met him, I assure you."

The boat plowed steadily through the water. The wind was blowing from the other direction, and the
rain fell only in intermittent drops.

Gail took her lipstick and compact out of her small
shoulder bag. "Anthony, what if we're wrong?
Maybe Dub and Liz had nothing to do with Roger's death. What if it's Porter?" She put on her lipstick,
then looked at Anthony. "Well?"

"No. Porter wouldn't have the strength to throw
Ted Stamos off the catwalk, and he wasn't there late on Friday."

"What if Ted just
fell,
and we're following a dead
end thinking that someone pushed him?"

"Anything is possible," Anthony said glumly. "It
is possible that whoever did this is going to get away
with it. We have no proof of anything." He put an
arm around her. "Why don't we go have a drink and
forget about it? No. I'll have a drink, you can have
a club soda. No alcohol for you,
mamita."

Gail leaned against him. "Did I apologize yet for
avoiding you the last two days?"

"Is that what you were doing? I thought you had
changed your mind."

"No. I wouldn't do that. I can't." She turned her
head to kiss him, savoring the moist warmth of his
mouth, the adjacent roughness of beard under his
skin. And then he was embracing her with a ferocity
that took her breath.

He held her face and rested his forehead on hers.
"How long do you have to
think
before you stop
being so afraid?"

"When you kiss me, I can't think of anything."

"Good. Then you should let me do it more often."

The boat plunged again into a wave, and water
sprayed into the air. Gail shrieked a laugh. There was
salt on her lips.

"Let's go inside," Anthony said. Walking single
file, they made their way toward the rear deck. Coming around the corner, they felt the force of the wind.
Afternoon clouds, born over the Everglades, were pil
ing into gray masses. A few of the guests had come
outside to watch the slow-motion thunderheads in
the distance and the silent flashes of lightning. The
flag snapped and fluttered on the fly bridge.

Gail noticed Jack Pascoe in one of the chairs, sitting
with his ragged leather deck shoes crossed on the
stern. He held his fishing hat down with one hand
so it wouldn't fly off his head.

Anthony reached for the salon door, but Gail hesi
tated. "Go ahead. I want to talk to Jack Pascoe."

"Why?"

"Just a couple of questions. I'll be there in a
minute."

Anthony acquiesced with a shrug, and Gail
dragged another chair across the deck to sit beside
Pascoe.

His eyes turned toward her. "It's Ms. Connor. Did
you bring your spy camera today?"

"No, I did not. Anthony and I are here as friends
of the family."

"Oh? Did Claire let you onboard?"

Gail's temper flared. "After what you did with that
portrait, sending it back to Porter and Claire after
they gave it away, I'm surprised she let
you
onboard."

Jack Pascoe smoothed his mustache down, pressing outward with thumb and forefinger. "So am I. I showed up and apologized, and she forgave me. Por
ter is another matter. That's why I'm out here, to
avoid running into him. He said he would throw me
overboard. I hope he was kidding."

"I have a question."

"What a surprise."

Gail pressed her lips together on a quick retort, then said, "You've heard about Ted Stamos."

"Who hasn't? It's all they're talking about in
there."

"The police suspect that Ted Stamos shot Roger, but until they're sure, they could come back to Bobby Gonzalez. Otherwise, I could just let it go. When I
came to your house that day, I thought that Roger's
death and Maggie's suicide might have been connected somehow. I haven't completely discarded
that idea."

Pascoe gazed past her at the city on the horizon.
The wind was strong enough to move the curled
ends of his mustache.

Gail leaned close, not wanting to be overheard by
anyone else on deck. "Shortly after Porter became
sick, he gave Roger ten percent of the company. Why
would he do that? From what I know of Porter, he
hates to give up control. I was thinking, What if
Roger had been able to pressure his father somehow? What could he have bargained for a share of the company? What might have gotten him killed if he'd
threatened to reveal it?"

Pascoe's eyes shifted to focus on Gail.

She said, "I know who Diane's mother is. Don't worry, I'm not planning to tell her or anyone else. I
won't have to. I think one day she'll figure it out
herself. But that's only half the picture. I think you know who her father is. Or was. I think Maggie told
you everything because you were the only person
she ever really trusted."

"Ms. Connor." Pascoe tugged on one end of his
mustache. "Some things in the world are not meant
to be known, and if they are known, they are best forgotten." He returned to gazing at the black hori
zon, and Gail knew she would get nothing more
from him.

She stood up, holding onto the back of the chair. The deck was moving, and she walked with her arms
outstretched toward the salon door. She had begun
to despair of ever finding the truth. The facts seemed
to swirl, unsettled and elusive.

The door to the salon was of tinted glass, like the windows on three sides. She pushed it open, and the
low buzz of conversation entered her ears. There
were thirty or more people, seated on upholstered chairs and sofas. Anyone standing had braced himself against something steady. The carpet was thick, and fresh flowers adorned the side tables. Indirect lighting glowed on a gold-toned ceiling, and spotlights picked out one of Margaret Cresswell's origi
nals, this one in shades of blue. Ice cubes clinked in
a pitcher on the bar, and the water level shifted. Gail glanced around to find Anthony. He was talking to Claire Cresswell. Gail might have joined them if she hadn't seen Diane. She sat curled up in the corner of a sofa, cheek in her palm, watching the ocean. Her long blond hair fell over her shoulders. She looked
around and smiled when Gail bent down to give her
a hug.

"It's good to see you," Gail said. "I thought you
weren't coming."

Diane scooted over so Gail could sit down, then tugged her denim skirt back into place. "Aunt Claire
asked me to come. Family togetherness and all that.
I saw you arrive with Angela's father. Are you back
together again? Angela said you were."

Wondering how much Angela had told her, Gail
said, "We're taking it slowly."

"I hope it works out for you." Diane ducked her
head closer to Gail's. "I have some news. My mother
said I could have the portrait."

"Wonderful."

"Well, it was Aunt Claire's idea. My mother
wouldn't be so generous. Aunt Claire promised to
give her something else to replace it, one of more
value, so really, Mother should be happy."

Gail let her eyes drift over the crowd. She had
only glimpsed Elizabeth Cresswell at a distance when
Anthony had pointed her out, but she had no trouble
finding her. Dark, shoulder-length hair framed her
face, and her cheekbones were made more prominent by accents of brick-red blush. The hem of a narrow green dress came several inches above her knees. Her
legs were worth showing off.