The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

  The question, of course, was this: Why did I ask Frank to tell Susan it was over, and that he was not taking her to Italy with him, and that he’d used her to recruit me as his attorney? Obviously, I did that to get Susan back—or to get back at Susan. And, of course, I had no idea that she’d snap and shoot him. Or did I?

  I always thought that Frank Bellarosa, who was a great admirer of Niccolò Machiavelli, would have appreciated my . . . well, Machiavellian solution to this problem. And I still wonder if Frank grasped what he’d done to himself in those last few seconds between him telling Susan it was over and her pulling the gun. If he had any last words, or thoughts, I hoped they were, “John, you son of a bitch!”

  Susan and I continued to face each other, and I returned to the present and looked into her eyes. She held my stare, then dropped her eyes and said to me, “I saw him earlier that day, and he told me that he was through with me, and he never loved me, and that his only interest in me was . . . fucking a society bitch . . . and . . . to make me convince you to work for him.” She took a breath and continued, “Then he told me to leave and not come back and not call him. But I went back that night . . . and we made love . . . and I thought it was all right again . . . but afterwards, he told me to leave, and I said I wouldn’t, so he said he’d call for the FBI to throw me out. I . . . couldn’t believe it, and I . . . became angry.”

  I didn’t say anything, and I didn’t take my eyes off her. She seemed very calm, the way she is when she’s on the verge of an emotional breakdown, or a blow-up. I could never tell which it was going to be. Apparently, neither could Frank, or he’d have been on his guard. He should have at least remembered the gun.

  She continued in a barely audible voice, “I told him I loved him, and that I’d given up my life for him. And he told me . . . he said, ‘Go back to John. He loves you, and I don’t.’ He said I’d be lucky if you took me back, and I should thank God if you did. And he called me . . . names . . . and told me to get out . . .”

  I stood there, unable to say anything. I did, though, think about Frank Bellarosa, and I wondered how much he had loved her, and how hard it was for him to say what he’d said to her, which, I just discovered, was more than I’d asked of him. But he owed me a very big favor for saving his life at Giulio’s, and he wanted to be able to say to me, “We are even on favors, Counselor. Nobody owes anybody anything now.” But he didn’t live long enough to tell me we were even.

  Susan moved a step closer to me, and we were only inches apart. She said, “And that’s why I killed him.” She asked me, “All right?”

  I half expected to see tears running down her cheeks, but Susan is not much of a crier, though I did see her lower lip quiver. I said to her, “All right. He’s dead.”

  We both turned and began our walk back to the house. One of us could have said something, but there was nothing left to say.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  We walked through the rose garden to the patio. Somewhere along the way, Susan had dropped the rose stem, but the other roses sat on the table and she stared at them.

  I was certain that after her confession, she expected me to leave, which I wanted to do, but I still needed to speak to her about Amir Nasim and Anthony Bellarosa, and I wanted to do that now in person, so I said to her, “I have something important to tell you.”

  She looked at me, but didn’t respond.

  I continued, “I’m sure you’d rather be alone now, but if you can sit and listen to me for about ten minutes . . .”

  She replied, “If it’s important.”

  “It is.” I suggested, “Why don’t we sit?”

  “I need a few minutes. Would you like something?”

  “Water.”

  She went into the house, and I stood at the wicker table and opened the box she’d given me. Inside, as she said, were copies of letters from Edward and Carolyn, and also a stack of family photographs. I flipped through them and noticed a few group shots that included my parents and hers.

  I recalled an advertisement I’d once seen for a company that did photo retouching; basically, this Orwellian enterprise could make unwanted people disappear from photographs, then fill in the background where they’d been. I made a mental note to contact these clever people to vaporize William and Charlotte. Unfortunately, altering a photograph does not alter a memory or history.

  I shuffled through the remaining photographs, and I noted that she had not included any risqué photographs of us. This made me think that despite Emily Post’s advice, I should not have put those nude shots of us in her envelope. I looked at the envelope on the table and was about to slip out those photos and put them into my jacket, but the screen door opened, and she came out to the patio carrying a tray with a liter of sparkling water and two glasses.

  Susan looked more composed now—and maybe relieved that her belated confession that her adultery wasn’t just lust, but also love, hadn’t made me walk away. She nodded toward the photos she’d given me and said, “Those are wonderful shots.” She added, “I have stacks of them if you’d like to go through them someday.”

  “Thank you.”

  She set the tray on the table, sat, and I sat opposite her. She poured water for me and said, “Please get right to the point.”

  “I will.” I drank my water and began, “First, I had tea with Amir Nasim, and he told me that the reason he wants to buy your house is because he wants total privacy. I believe he has issues with the concept of cultural diversity, meaning he doesn’t want an attractive unmarried woman living in the middle of his property.” I paused, then continued, “But then he told me that he had some security concerns.”

  I let that sink in, and after a few seconds Susan informed me, “His wife hinted at the same thing.”

  That surprised me, but then I realized that Nasim would use his wife to pass on that information to Susan. I offered my opinion and said, “I think he’s either post-9/11 paranoid, or he’s making that up so you’ll consider selling him this property.”

  She thought about that and asked, “What if his security concerns are real?”

  “Then he should have gone to the authorities. And he may have, though he never mentioned that to me. But if he had gone to the authorities, someone from the FBI or the local police would have called on you.” I asked, “Have they?”

  “No.”

  “And I haven’t heard from them, either. So I have to conclude that Nasim did not contact the authorities, which makes me wonder about his security concerns.”

  She considered that, then replied, “Well, you’re a lawyer, and you think like a lawyer. But he’s from a different culture, and he has a different mind-set about the police.”

  “That’s a valid point. But he’s lived here and in London long enough to know that if he goes to the police, they won’t shake him down or beat him up for annoying them.”

  She nodded, then said, “Well, even if his concerns are real, it’s his problem, not mine.”

  I informed her, “Nasim asked me to call him if I noticed anything suspicious.”

  She nodded and said, “Soheila said the same thing.”

  I offered, “Or call me.”

  She looked at me, smiled, but didn’t reply.

  It occurred to me, of course, that Amir Nasim’s concerns about being on a hit list, real or imagined, had the positive effect of raising everyone’s alert level on this property, which was a good thing in regard to the more probable threat from Anthony Bellarosa.

  Apropos of that, and recalling Ms. Post’s advice to me, I wanted to ask Susan if she had a gun. But considering what she’d done the last time she had a gun, that might be a touchy subject with her, especially if I also asked her if she knew how to use it. We actually knew the answer to that. So I’d hold off on that question for now.

  I was thinking of Anthony Bellarosa more than Amir Nasim when I said to Susan, “In any case, to play it safe, I’ll go to the police, and suggest that they call the FBI. You should do the same.” />
  She didn’t respond to that, then looked at me and said, “This is unbelievable . . . that we should even think about things like . . . foreign terrorists.”

  I informed her, in case she forgot, “The world, including this world here, has changed. So we need to think about things like this.”

  She retreated into a pensive silence, recalling, I’m sure, the world she grew up in, when the biggest outside threat was nuclear Armageddon, which was so unthinkable that no one even thought about it on a day-to-day basis. The only other foreign intrusion into our safe and secure world had been the annual Soviet invasion of the local beaches each summer, launched from the Russian-owned estate in Glen Cove. I was sure that Susan and everyone else around here were nostalgic for those days when our only contact with foreign enemies was a handful of surly Russians leaving empty vodka bottles on the public beach. Now, unfortunately, we were all thinking about 9/11, and waiting for the other shoe to drop.

  I further revealed to Susan, “Nasim said he’d pay me a ten percent commission if I could convince you to sell.”

  That brought her out of her thoughts, and she responded, “That’s unethical.”

  “Actually, it’s just good business.”

  She asked me, “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him to make it fifteen percent, and I’d tell you I saw Iranian assassins hiding in your hedgerows.”

  She smiled, then assured me, “I won’t be pressured or intimidated. This is my land, and it’s been in my family for over a hundred years. If Nasim is frightened of something here, he can move.”

  “I understand.” I also understood that she wasn’t going to pack up and leave because of Anthony Bellarosa. Nevertheless, I said, “There’s another important matter I need to discuss with you.”

  She looked at me and said, “Anthony Bellarosa.”

  This surprised me at first, then it didn’t. Susan may be crazy, but she’s not stupid. I replied, “Yes. Anthony Bellarosa.”

  She informed me, “I had heard that he lived on the Alhambra property before I made my offer to buy back my house. He didn’t figure into my plans then, and he doesn’t figure into them now.”

  “All right, but . . .” Tolkien’s famous line on that subject popped into my head, and I said to her, “It does not do to leave a live dragon out of your calculations, if you live near him.”

  She shrugged and said to me, “Unless you have something specific to tell me about the dragon, I don’t want to discuss this.” She added, “I thank you for your concern.” Then she smiled and said, “Well, I assume you are expressing concern and not some secret delight.”

  I wanted her to understand that this was serious, so I didn’t return the smile, and I said, “I am very concerned.”

  This seemed to get through to her, and she asked, “How did you find out he lived next door?”

  “He stopped by the gatehouse last Monday.”

  This news, that Anthony Bellarosa had actually been on the property, got her attention, and she asked, “Why?”

  I replied, “It was an unannounced social call. He welcomed me back to the neighborhood.”

  Susan was vacillating between not wanting to discuss this and knowing that she probably needed to hear what I had to say. So while she was trying to decide, I continued, “He wanted to speak to me about his father.”

  She didn’t reply.

  I pressed on, “He asked about you.”

  Susan looked at me, then slipped into her Lady Stanhope mode and said, “If he has anything he wants to know about me, he should ask me, not you.”

  Susan has a kind of courage, born, as I’ve indicated, of that upper-class breeding that could best be described as a mixture of haughty indifference toward physical danger, and a naïve belief, bordering on delusion, that she was not a member of the victim class. Another way to understand it is to think of Susan telling a burglar to wipe his feet before he enters. In any case, to get her nose out of the air and her feet on the ground, I said to her, “He’s like his father—he doesn’t discuss important matters with women.”

  That had the effect of annoying her, while also reminding her of how she’d created this problem. She said to me, apropos of that, “John, this is not your problem. It’s mine. I do appreciate your concern, and I’m touched, really, but unless he’s made a specific statement to you that I should know about, then you don’t need to involve yourself in—”

  “Susan. Get off your high horse.”

  She leaned back in her chair, crossed her legs, and stared off into the garden.

  I said, “To remind you, you killed his father. He will not be discussing that with you. But he did discuss it with me.” I didn’t mention my subsequent conversations with Anthony at dinner or in Oyster Bay, but I did say, “While he made no specific threats, and never will, I came away with the distinct impression that he’s looking for revenge.”

  She kept staring off at a fixed spot in the garden, probably thinking about rose blight. That’s how she handles big problems that she can’t deal with; she sublimates and thinks about small problems. That’s what she did after she murdered Frank Bellarosa—with his body sprawled out on the floor and a half dozen homicide detectives waiting to take her to jail, she was worried about her horse, and probably worried about how Anna was going to get the bloodstains off the floor.

  I decided to end this conversation, knowing that I’d done what I needed to do, and knowing, too, that anything I said after my warning would be conjecture, opinion, and advice which she didn’t want. I did say, however, “You should go to the police and give them a sworn statement . . .” In case something does happen. But I didn’t say that.

  She didn’t reply, so we sat there, then finally she asked me, “Is that all?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you.”

  I glanced at my watch and said, “I should be going.”

  She didn’t seem to hear me.

  I stood, but she didn’t, so I said, “I can let myself out.”

  Again, no reply.

  I understood that it had been an emotionally draining morning for her—and for me. Her confession to me about her real reason for killing the man she loved was enough mental trauma for one day, but then I’d brought up the subject of Amir Nasim and Iranian assassins, and next I reminded her that Frank Bellarosa’s son was in the neighborhood and asking about her. I could only imagine what was going through her mind right now.

  She helped me understand her mental anguish by asking me, “Have you learned to like lamb in England?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I was thinking of lamb for dinner, but if you still won’t eat it, then I might do veal.”

  I cleared my throat and replied, “Lamb would be fine.”

  “Good.” She looked at me, and seemed surprised that I was standing, then asked, “Where are you going?”

  “I . . . have a few things to do.” I explained, “I wanted to make my Sunday calls to the children.”

  She thought a second, then suggested, “Why don’t we call them together?”

  “Well . . .”

  “They’d like that.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t . . . surprise them. And maybe you need some time for yourself now.”

  She ignored that, poured me the last of the water and asked, “Will you come with me to visit Ethel?”

  I assumed I was supposed to sit, so I did, and replied, “I really have a lot to do.” And I didn’t want to run into Elizabeth at Fair Haven accompanied by Susan, any more than I’d wanted to run into Susan at Fair Haven accompanied by Elizabeth. And then there was my four o’clock dinner with the Bellarosas if I still wanted to show up. I thought about that, and wondered if going there was a good idea. Keep your enemies close and all that.

  I looked at Susan and saw now that she’d opened the envelope and was flipping through the photographs I’d given her. They were mostly family shots, and apparently she hadn’t come to the adults-only photos, because she said, “I like
this one of the four of us loading the boat on the dock at Seawanhaka. Who took that?”

  “I don’t recall.” I suggested, “You can look at those later. I think I should go.”

  She stopped flipping and focused on a photograph, then flipped slowly through a few more, and she smiled and said, “I wondered what happened to these.”

  I didn’t reply.

  She seemed to be enjoying the photographs, and she had a sort of naughty grin on her face, then she said, “Oh, my . . .” and pushed a photograph in front of me.

  I looked at it and saw it was a timed tripod shot of Susan and me on the rear terrace of Stanhope Hall. The Stanhopes, when they moved, had left behind some outdoor furniture on the terrace, and I remembered that Susan and I sometimes went there for sundown cocktails, and for the view, which was why we’d brought the camera and tripod.

  Well, it had been a warm summer day, and after a few cocktails, Susan had suggested a strip version of the game of rock-paper-scissors, with the loser performing oral sex on the other. That seemed like a reasonable suggestion, and a no-lose game, so we began, and Susan had a streak of bad luck and was naked within a few minutes.

  The photograph shows me standing against a column with my shorts around my ankles collecting my bet.

  Susan observed, “We can’t do that anymore.”

  I smiled and replied, “No, I don’t think Mr. Nasim would approve of cocktails on his terrace.”

  She smiled, too, and added, “Or blow jobs.”

  I realized that Susan was in a different frame of mind than she’d been five minutes before, and I hadn’t been paying attention.

  She slid a few more photos toward me, and I assured her, “I’ve seen them.”

  “Did you make copies for yourself?”