The Gate House

by Nelson DeMille

  Susan suggested, “Have some carrot juice.”

  “Thanks, but I already had an injection of pomegranate juice.”

  “It’s really too early for that.”

  I asked her, “Are you sure you took the shotgun from Hilton Head?”

  “Yes, and I remembered where I put it.”

  “Good. And where is that?”

  “In the attic.”

  “You said it was in the basement, Susan.”

  “Basement, attic. Same thing.”

  “Really? Okay . . . so, if I go up to the attic—”

  “I’ve already done that.” She pointed to the broom closet and said, “It’s in there.”

  “Of course.” I opened the broom closet, and leaning against the wall between a sponge mop and a broom—where long things are kept—was a gun case.

  I took the case out of the closet and removed the shotgun, then made certain it was on safety before I examined it.

  It was a twelve-gauge, double-barreled, side-by-side, Italian-made Beretta. On the walnut stock was a brass plate on which was engraved Susan Stanhope Sutter, and the nickel finish on the receiver was engraved and gold-inlayed with an elaborate floral design. If I had to guess how much this model sold for, I’d say about ten thousand dollars. Maybe it was a wedding gift from Sally Da-da, with thanks to Susan for clipping Frank Bellarosa.

  Susan straightened me out on that and said, “Dan gave that to me when I joined a local shooting club.”

  Apparently Dan didn’t know what happened to her last boyfriend.

  She suggested, “You can sell it, and get another one if you want.”

  I guess I had to decide if the shotgun had any sentimental value for her—fond memories of her and Dan blasting clay pigeons out of the sky, or vaporizing ducks in a swamp.

  She set me straight on that, too, and said, “He didn’t shoot. I did.” She added, “He golfed. And golfed.”

  I assured her, “We can keep this. It has your name on it.”

  She shrugged and went back to her magazine.

  I broke open the gun to be sure she hadn’t left shells in the chambers, and peered down the barrels, which were clean enough, but probably the whole gun could use a cleaning and oiling. I asked her, “When was the last time you fired this?”

  Without looking up from her magazine, she replied, “About two years ago.”

  I commented, “It would have been nice to have this last night.”

  She had no reply.

  I asked her, “Do you have a cleaning kit?”

  “I couldn’t find it.”

  “Shells?”

  “I’ll look for them.”

  Well, the shotgun wouldn’t have done much good last night. I said, “I’ll just go to a sporting goods store today.”

  She didn’t respond.

  I put the shotgun back in its case and said, “I think we should get a dog.”

  “I had a dog.”

  “Is he in the attic?”

  She ignored that and said, “Dogs are a lot of work. Why do you want a dog?”

  Apparently we weren’t on the same page. I said, “For security.”

  “Oh . . . well . . . all right. But let’s wait until after the funeral, and after everyone has left.” She added, “My parents don’t like dogs.”

  I was sure their pet rats didn’t either. I reminded her, “They’re probably not staying here.”

  “Would you mind if they did?”

  “I’d be surprised if they did.”

  She threw her magazine aside and said, “John, I don’t think they will react as negatively as you think they will.”

  “I will be happy to be proven wrong.”

  “Did I hear that right?”

  I had this horrifying thought that today was the first day of the rest of my life. I suggested to her, “Cut down on your Vitamin Bitch pills.”

  I walked to the refrigerator to see about breakfast, but before I opened the door she said, “For that remark, you have to eat this for breakfast.”

  I looked back over my shoulder, and Susan was lying on the table with her spread legs dangling over the edge and her teddy pulled up to her breasts. My goodness.

  Well . . . I was thinking about an English muffin, but . . .

  After my breakfast of champions, Susan, I, and the shotgun went upstairs to the bedroom, and Susan informed me, “Sophie is coming today. So why don’t we put that in your closet?”

  “All right.” I put the shotgun in my walk-in closet, resting it against the wall behind the open door. I told her where it was, then I got in the shower.

  She opened the shower door and joined me, and I scrubbed her back with a loofah sponge, then as she scrubbed my back, I said to her, “Using sex as a means of controlling me or modifying my behavior is not fair.”

  “All’s fair in love and war, John.”

  “All right. Remember you said that.”

  “Plus, it works.” She put her hand between my legs, gave John a little tweak, and got out of the shower.

  As we got dressed, she asked me, “What is the purpose of Felix Mancuso’s visit?”

  I replied, “To see if the FBI has any interest or jurisdiction in this matter.”

  She stayed silent for a moment, then said, “He doesn’t like me.”

  “It’s not personal. It’s professional.”

  She replied, “I think it’s personal.”

  It was time to dig up the dirty past, because Felix Mancuso would do that anyway, and Susan needed to be prepped for this, so I reminded her, “You killed his star witness in the FBI’s case against organized crime, and it’s not often that the FBI gets a man like Frank Bellarosa to sing.” She didn’t respond, so I continued, “Losing a witness to murder, on his watch, did not help Special Agent Mancuso’s career.”

  She stayed silent awhile, then informed me, “He was very much against allowing me to visit.”

  I knew that, but I was surprised she knew it, or that she was willing to discuss any of this. But I guess the time had come for her to unblock it. As for Felix Mancuso’s disapproval of letting Frank and Susan go at it, this was because of his own professional standards, as well as his sense of morality and propriety, and maybe his positive feelings for me, which not everyone around him shared.

  And so, to that extent, Susan was correct; it was personal. In any case, what happened was certainly not Mancuso’s fault—no one could have foreseen Susan shooting don Bellarosa—but I’d had the impression at the time that Mancuso was the fall guy. Why? Because when the shit hits the fan, the guy who said “I told you so” is usually the guy everyone else pushes in front of the shit stream.

  But rather than tell Susan that St. Felix basically thought she was a Mafia groupie and a tramp, I brought the discussion back to the professional issues and said, “Mancuso was also not thrilled that you walked free on the murder charge.”

  She surprised me by saying, “That was more the fault of his superiors.” She added, “I was ready to pay the price.”

  I looked at her, and I was certain she meant that. And she was right—it wasn’t her fault that the government took a dive on the case; the scales of justice are always tipped toward the best interests of the government, and sometimes that means burying inconvenient or embarrassing facts, and letting the guilty go free. It occurred to me that if she’d been indicted and took a plea for maybe manslaughter, she’d be getting out about now. And I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have divorced her, and that I’d have waited for her. Though I may have still taken that sail around the world.

  I finished dressing and switched to another unpleasant subject, reminding her, “The next few days are going to be stressful,” meaning not only Ethel’s wake and funeral, plus trying to avoid our own funerals, but also her parents being somewhere in this zip code. I added, “We need to . . . communicate with each other.”

  Susan nodded, then said, “I had a very sad dream about Ethel . . . she was sitting alone, crying . . . and I asked her why she
was sad. And she said to me, ‘Everyone is dead.’ So I tried to comfort her . . . but she kept crying, and I was crying, and I had this . . . overwhelming sense of being alone . . . then I said, ‘I’ll call John.’”

  She looked at me, and I could see she was on the verge of tears, so I took her in my arms and we hugged. I said to her, “You’re not alone.”

  “I know. But I was for so many years, and it didn’t feel good.”

  We went downstairs and sat in the kitchen, reading the Times and having coffee, waiting for Sophie, for Felix Mancuso, William and Charlotte Stanhope, and whomever and whatever else the day had in store for us.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Sophie, the cleaning lady, came at 8:00 A.M., and Susan’s personal trainer, an androgynous chap named Chip, arrived at 8:30. The gardeners showed up to work in the rain, UPS delivered something at 9:00, the mailman came at 9:15, and the dry cleaner came by to drop off and pick up at 9:30. It occurred to me that a Mafia hit man would have to wait his turn in the foyer.

  The phone rang all morning, and after Susan finished with her trainer, she spent some time in the office making and taking phone calls and e-mailing. A lot of this communication had to do with Ethel’s wake and funeral, and Susan spoke to Elizabeth a few times and also spoke to the funeral home, the florist, and a few limousine companies—do not use Bell Car Service—and she also got hold of the caretakers for the Stanhope cemetery. I wanted to suggest that she get two more holes dug for William and Charlotte while she was at it—but she might take that the wrong way. On that subject, I had a question for her. “What do you do when you miss your in-laws? You reload and fire again.”

  I didn’t actually ask her that question, but that did remind me to buy shotgun shells, and further reminded me to tell her, “Reserve a cottage for your parents at The Creek.”

  She replied, “Let’s first see if they want to stay with us.”

  “What time are they arriving?”

  “I told you five times—they arrive at LaGuardia at three-fifteen, and they should be here about five.” She added, “We’ll have cocktails and discuss . . . things.”

  “All right.” Where do you keep the rat poison? “What time is the viewing tonight?”

  “I also told you that. Seven to nine.” She filled me in on the daily viewing schedule, and apparently Ethel had left instructions for an extended engagement at the funeral home, so that no one had an excuse to miss her final act. Susan concluded, “The funeral Mass is Saturday at ten A.M. Do you want me to write this down?”

  “No. I have you, darling.”

  She further informed me, “This Sunday is Father’s Day. In my e-mail exchanges with my parents and the children, it appears that we’ll all be here on Sunday, so I’ve suggested dinner at home to mark the occasion.”

  Susan seemed more optimistic than I was about this reunion, but I said, “That’s very thoughtful of you.” I inquired, “Do your parents know that I’m here?”

  “They know from the children that you are back for the funeral, and that you are living in the gatehouse.”

  “Actually, I’m not.”

  “They haven’t been updated on that.”

  “Right. And they have no problem with me being here for a Father’s Day dinner?”

  “They understand that Edward and Carolyn want you to join us for Father’s Day.” She added, “I told them I was fine with that.”

  “I see. So when do we tell your parents that I’m living here and sleeping with you?”

  “When they arrive.” She explained, “It’s better to present them with a fait accompli.”

  Which, hopefully, would lead to them having a grand mal seizure, followed by me administering a coup de grace with the shotgun. “All right. Do it your way.”

  She changed the subject and inquired, “Do you think I should invite your mother, or will that be sad for her with your father gone?”

  I replied with overdone enthusiasm, “Harriet would be delighted to be included, and I look forward to having dinner with her and your parents.”

  Susan looked at me closely and asked, “Can you handle all that?”

  I replied, “The answer is martinis.”

  She had no comment on that, except to say, “I’m counting on you, John, to set a good example for Edward and Carolyn.”

  “You can count on me, sweetheart.” I honestly intended to do my best to put the fun back into dysfunctional, and I suggested, “Your father and I will sit at the opposite heads of the table and sing a duet of ‘Oh, My Papa.’”

  She still seemed skeptical for some reason, so I added, “I will honor your father on that special day, Susan, because he gave me you.”

  “That’s very sweet of you, John.” She reminded me, “We’re really doing this for Edward and Carolyn, so if you have to bite your tongue a few times, the children will respect you even more for being a big man. And if my father is not pleasant, then that is his problem.”

  “Always has been.”

  “And please do not sit there like you did at the last dinner we had together, simmering until you exploded and called him . . . whatever.”

  “An unprincipled asshole, a—”

  “All right, John. And you promised to apologize for that.”

  “I’m anxious to do that.”

  She looked at me closely and said, “John . . . it’s for the children . . . and I don’t mean their emotional well-being—I mean their financial well-being.”

  “I know exactly what you mean.” I did remind her, however, “You didn’t think your parents would financially punish their grandchildren because of us.” I couldn’t resist adding, “No one would be so vindictive.”

  She replied, “Let’s not test that assumption.”

  “I hear you.” I asked her, “Will we have the pleasure of your brother’s company for these sad and happy occasions?”

  She replied, “Peter will not be in for Ethel’s funeral. But he’ll try to make it in for Father’s Day.”

  “Wonderful. And where is Peter working these days?”

  “The Bahamas.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Surfing.”

  “Right. Well, if he starts now and catches a few good waves, he can be here by Sunday.”

  I thought that would make her angry, but she smiled and said, “The Stanhopes bring out the best of your wit.”

  You ain’t seen nothing yet, lady. I changed the subject and reminded her, “Felix Mancuso will be here shortly. I’m counting on you, Susan, to put aside any negative feelings you may have toward him, and to be helpful and pleasant.” I added, “Just as I will do with your parents.”

  “All right. Point made.” She thought for a moment, then said to me, “This is everyone’s chance to make up for the past. Or at least, let go of the past.”

  “Indeed, it is.”

  I thought about my deathbed conversation with Ethel, who I sincerely hoped had had similar conversations with everyone who visited her. We don’t all have the certainty of a long goodbye, so we often miss the chance to set things right before we stop breathing and talking.

  Alternately, we can leave letters behind for everyone, in case we didn’t get a chance to say, “Sorry I was such an asshole,” and I suspected that Ethel’s letter to me was along those lines. And if the truth be known, there were three such letters from me, sitting with my solicitor in London; one each to Edward and Carolyn, and one to Susan. The easiest letter to write is the one that begins, “If you’re reading this, it means that I am dead . . .” Maybe I should also write one to William and Charlotte: Dear Assholes . . .

  Susan asked me, “What are you thinking about?”

  “About . . . how lucky we are . . . you and I . . . and how lucky I am that you made this happen . . . and that no matter what happens next, we’ve had this time together.”

  The doorbell rang at 10:00 A.M., and I opened the door to Special Agent Felix Mancuso.

  We shook hands and exchanged greetings, and as I showed h
im into the foyer, he took off his rain hat, and I saw that his baldness hadn’t progressed much in ten years, but what was left of his hair had gone from black to salt-and-pepper. When his beat had been La Cosa Nostra, Special Agent Mancuso’s Italian-made suits were always better than theirs; but now, I noticed, his gray suit and his shirt and tie were nothing special, and he’d blend in nicely on the streets of New York as he followed terrorists around the city—or whatever he did with the Terrorist Task Force. I noticed, too, he was wearing a flag pin on his lapel, the better to blend in with everyone else in New York.

  Susan was in the kitchen, and I’d asked her to give me ten minutes with Mancuso, so I showed him into my new old office and invited him to sit in my old leather club chair. He did a quick scan of the room as I sat at my desk chair and shut off the phone ringer.

  He said to me, “This is a very nice place you have here.” He asked, “And this was your wife’s family estate?”

  “We like to say ancestral home.”

  He saw I was being droll, so he smiled.

  I informed him, “She owns only this guest cottage and ten acres. Most of the remaining acreage and the main house are now owned by Mr. Amir Nasim, who, as I mentioned, has a few problems of his own that may interest you.”

  Mr. Mancuso did not reply to that. He said, instead, “I wish you luck here. It must be nice to be home.”

  “It is, except for my Alhambra neighbor.”

  He nodded.

  As I said, he’d been here twice before—once when he’d offered me a ride home from the city after Frank Bellarosa survived the Giulio’s shooting, and once when he’d given me a ride to Alhambra to show me the result of Susan’s better aim in ending Frank’s life.

  On that subject, I needed to clear some of the air from the last time we’d spoken, and I began, “Mrs. Sutter told me that she believes you may harbor some negative feelings toward her.”

  He replied, frankly, “I did. But I’ve become more realistic since we last had occasion to interact.”

  And, I thought, probably less idealistic. Especially after he’d taken a career hit for something that was not his fault. In the end, Susan had gotten off easier than Special Agent Mancuso, proving once again that life is not fair. I said to him, “I think Mrs. Sutter can be more helpful this time.”