Suspicion of Guilt

by Barbara Parker

  "Oh, for God's sake," She had to laugh. "What an outdated concept. Like one of those Little Havana radio hosts, calling everyone to the left of Ronald Reagan a Communist."

  "I don't care if the man is a flaming Marxist, but other people might. There could be publicity."

  Gail said, "Look. Hartwell Black is more interested in fees than in anyone's pohtical persuasion."

  "Only if you can win,"

  "Well, that depends on what I find out, doesn't it? I told Patrick I'd help him, and I will."

  For a few seconds Anthony said nothing. Then he sat back in bis chair. He smiled. "Did you sleep with him?"

  She tilted her head. The words had made no sense. "What?"

  Lifting an eyebrow, he restated them. "Did you sleep with Patrick Norris? When you were in law school?"

  "Oh, I see. If a woman feels any sense of loyalty at all for a man, it must be because she slept with him."

  "Did you?" His eyes fixed on her.

  "No, I did not."

  It was said before she could think, as quick as ducking a rock. For an instant she considered taking it back. But how would that appear to him? And what was there to tell? An event so many years ago that it didn't matter anymore? Or the reality of what they had here, now? One thing she had learned was that complete honesty between men and women was dangerous, unless you had nothing to lose.

  She whispered across the table. "You're jealous. This is incredible. You don't want me to represent Patrick because you're jealous. I've heard about Latin men, thinking they can—"

  "This is not because I am Latin! Don't make me into a stereotype."

  "Then stop acting like one. My God."

  He turned sideways in his chair and glared out the window.

  The waiter came men, asking if they wanted anything else. Only the check, Gail told him. He took their plates and went away.

  Through the rain-streaked glass she could see that the cruise ship was gone, its berth empty. In a moment Anthony would thank her for lunch and offer to escort her back to the fourteenth floor, not wanting to make her late for her clients. Impeccable manners.

  Close to despair, she slid her hand across the table to touch his wrist. "I should have been glad you care, instead of yelling at you."

  Anthony's head turned slightly. He let out a breath. "Why do we do this?"

  "I don't know." He wore a ring with a curve of jade set into it. She traced the curve with her thumb.

  "Gail."

  She raised her eyes.

  He had turned back around, and took both her hands. "There's a handwriting expert you should see. I'll have my secretary give you his phone number. He's expensive, but I think as a favor to me he'll give you a preliminary opinion."

  "Thank you." She entwined their fingers.

  He tightened his grip. "Let me take you to dinner after work tomorrow."

  "I'd love it. Oh, wait. No. I have a hearing early Wednesday."

  "This law firm takes your life."

  "Not forever," she said. "How about this weekend? Saturday. I promised to take Karen to the Museum of Science. Come with us."

  "I have a client to see in Fort Lauderdale. What about dinner on Saturday night, the three of us, at my house."

  "Karen too?"

  He shrugged. "Why not?"

  "I can't stay over," she said. "You know. Not with Karen."

  "I know."

  "But she has a birthday party to attend on Sunday afternoon."

  "Good. Come back on Sunday."

  "Very good. But I'll have to leave by four."

  He laughed softly. "Then we have whatever time there is." Standing up, he went around to pull out Gail's chair, then put his back to the room and lifted her hand from the table. She felt the moist warmth of his lips on her fingertips.

  "Anthony." She glanced past his sleeve. "What are you doing?"

  He bent close to her ear. "Esta noche, quiero que pongas tu mono donde yo quisiera poner mi boca ahora."

  Her mind worked to translate: Tonight, put your hand where I would like to put my mouth right now.

  She whispered, "You are so bad."

  Chapter Five

  Gail's mother, Irene Connor, did volunteer work for a few of the charities around Miami, including Friends of the Opera. On Saturday Gail took Karen along to the new performing arts center downtown. They stopped to look inside the auditorium. Onstage, bits of Egyptian backdrop leaned against bare walls. From the wings came the whine of a power saw. Aida would open in two weeks.

  Karen craned her neck around to see up in the ceiling, where a man crawled along a catwalk, unrolling cables. "What are they doing?"

  "Looks like they're working on the sound system."

  "Mom, I want to stay and watch." Karen faced Gail squarely, the bill of her Miami Hurricanes baseball cap low and level.

  "No, come with me. I don't think they want people watching."

  "It's okay. If anybody tries to kick me out, I'll tell them my grandmother Irene Connor works here." She pushed a seat down and sat on the edge of it.

  Gail glanced around. Two stagehands were carrying a wall painted to look like the inside of a temple. "All right. But don't run up and down the aisles or go into the balcony."

  Karen sighed. "I won't." She scooted back, the toes of her ragged sneakers touching the slanted floor. For ten years old, she had long legs. Karen would be tall one day, like Gail. She pulled her purse around so it lay in her lap. It was a small alligator handbag that she had found in a cedar chest at her grandmother's house. Irene had let her have it, perhaps in an attempt—useless, so far—to encourage some femininity in the girl. Gail remembered Irene carrying the bag years ago. Alligator purse and shoes, mink stole, gloves. The strap was short, so Karen had made a new one with a snakeskin belt, and now wore the purse crossways over her chest.

  Karen didn't say what she kept in there, and Gail had never opened it, respecting her privacy. But she wondered. Miniature unicorns with long pink manes? Dead bugs and a magnifying glass? Pictures of her father? Or things she would need to survive in the woods alone, which she could probably do as well as most adults.

  Ten years old. She did what she wanted and Gail would find out about it later. A strange child, Irene often said in a tone that carried a hint of censure for the mother who had let her get that way.

  Gail tugged on her ponytail. "Be good."

  In the administrative office, Gail's mother waggled a finger toward an upholstered bench by the window. She was on the phone, checking hotel prices for someone flying in from New York. On her desk a tiny fan whirred in a smokeless ashtray.

  Irene Strickland Connor was a petite redhead who favored colors bright enough to induce eyestrain. Today she was wearing a parrot-green pullover cinched at the hipline and matching jersey slacks. Her Yankee grandfather had come down in 1882 to hack a homestead out of scrub palmetto and eventually get rich in land sales. Her husband died before he could run through her entire trust fund. Even so, Irene was part of the right group, and she liked to do her bit for the arts. She had often said that Miami's high culture—such as it was—would disappear entirely if the three or four dozen ladies behind the scenes suddenly moved out of town.

  When Irene hung up she asked, "Where's Karen? You said you were bringing her."

  "She wants to watch what's going on in the auditorium." Gail scooted over and patted the seat. "Talk to me a minute."

  Irene took a final drag off her cigarette, then twisted it into the ashtray. "Crank the window open, will you? If Jessica catches me, I'm in deep caca."

  "Is she here?" This was someone else Gail wanted to talk to, but not necessarily today. Jessica Simms. A witness to Althea Tillett's will.

  "She should be here. There's a meeting." Irene brightened into a smile. "Hey. Why don't you girls let me take you out tonight?"

  "Ah—"

  "Nothing fancy. Miniature golf. Karen likes that." Irene laughed. "I lost two bucks to her last time we played, the little hustler."

  "Ma
ybe next weekend? We're having dinner at Anthony's house. And don't say anything, Mother, I mean it."

  "At his house? Is she ready for this?"

  Gail gave her a look.

  Irene raised her hands. "Never mind. What did you want to talk to me about?" She sat down.

  Already Gail had considered how to say enough without setting off bells and whistles. "I have a case involving a document that might have been written by Althea Tillett. I need to see a sample of her handwriting to make sure. There must be some letters or memos around the office here, something with her signature on it."

  "A case? What do you mean?"

  "I'd explain, but I can't right now. It's a matter of client confidentiality. Could you take a look without letting anyone know?"

  "Goodness, you make me feel like a spy. What is this document? Let me see it. I could tell you if she wrote it."

  "No, it has to go to a handwriting expert."

  "Darling, you're so secretive. I'm your mother. I wouldn't tell."

  Gail shook her head. "I can't discuss it. Not yet."

  "Uh-oh." Irene stood up suddenly, looking through the window. She rushed back to the desk, grabbed the ashtray, and pulled open a bottom drawer. She dropped the ashtray inside and took out a can of air freshener, laughing at herself. "I've really got to stop this. Jessica has a blue fit if she catches anybody smoking in here." Two quick sprays left the scent of roses.

  Gail looked out. A white Lincoln had stopped under the portico fifty yards farther toward the rear of the building. A man in a dark suit opened the rear door of the car. His hand went inside. He steadied himself and pulled.

  Jessica Simms, her face obscured by big round sunglasses, emerged slowly, ducking her head to keep her straw hat from catching on the door frame. As she stood up, she shook the folds of her dress, a muumuu with short, puffy sleeves. The flowered cotton could have upholstered a chaise in a lady's boudoir. Her legs, clad in off-white hose, tapered into tiny green flats. She glanced at her watch and said something to the chauffeur, who nodded and closed the limo door. Jessica Simms disappeared into the building.

  Gail waved a quick good-bye to her mother and caught up with Jessica in a corridor leading to the backstage area. "Mrs. Simms?"

  She turned slowly, all bosom and hips, a head shorter than Gail. The sunglasses were off now, perhaps stowed in one of the patch pockets of her dress. The brim of her green straw hat tilted upward. "Yes?"

  "I'm Gail Connor, Irene's daughter."

  "Indeed. The lawyer. How are you, Gail. Is Irene here?"

  "Yes, in the office. Mrs. Simms, I wonder if I could talk to you for a moment. It's about Althea Tillett."

  "Althea?" She frowned at the double doors at the end of the corridor. Beyond them a piano was playing, the notes muffled. "I have a meeting with the production staff. What about Althea?"

  In the thirty seconds it had taken to dash along the hallways, Gail had decided what approach to use with Jessica Simms. Lie.

  "Her nephew Patrick Norris came to see me this week. We knew each other in law school, and he had some questions of a legal nature. Perhaps you have met Patrick?"

  Jessica Simms's pink mouth made a little smile. "I have."

  "He asked me to look into the circumstances surrounding the signing of his aunt's will. He wonders if she might have been under a strain at the time. You were one of Althea Tillett's friends. She asked you to witness her will. You could tell me what occurred that day."

  "Does he believe that Althea was ... incompetent?'

  "He is concerned about that, yes."

  From the auditorium a tenor began to sing. Gail recognized the piece: the death scene in the final act. For a few moments Jessica Simms looked down the corridor, then shifted her eyes back to Gail. "He is concerned, is he? I would venture to say that what concerns Patrick Norris is the fact that Althea did not leave enough money to suit him."

  "Are you aware of the amount?"

  "I believe it was well over two hundred thousand dollars. Forgive my candor, but I personally would not have left him a dime. He should be grateful."

  The piano stopped. There was laughter, then piano and tenor resumed. Gail said, "What about her stepchildren? How was her relationship with Rudy and Monica Tillett?"

  Mrs. Simms smiled. "I really couldn't say."

  "She didn't talk about them?"

  "Now and then she might have. Nothing I could recollect now."

  "You're aware she left them her house and her entire art collection." "Is that so?"

  "Althea didn't discuss the contents of the will with you?"

  A steady gaze. "I only witnessed the will. I was not aware—Althea did not tell me, nor did I ask—what was contained in it."

  "Then how did you know about the bequest to Patrick?" Gail asked.

  "How? I presume it came up in conversation."

  Gail hesitated. She had too few facts to start pushing hard on Jessica Simms. "Could you tell me where the signing took place?"

  "Alan Weissman's office," Mrs. Simms said patiently. "He was Althea's attorney. Mine too, in fact. He represents many of our friends. If Althea had been under a strain, Alan would never have allowed her to sign the will." She gave Gail another smile.

  The tenor aria ended with a soaring flourish, followed by scattered applause. Then came the sound of something heavy being winched upward.

  Gail asked, "Who else was present? Besides you, Althea, and Mr. Weissman?"

  "Irving Adler. Irving was once our mayor, you know." Mrs. Simms lifted her arm to see her watch—gold with diamonds around the face. Her wrist was no more than a crease. "I really must go. They're waiting for me."

  "Do you recall what Mrs. Tillett was wearing?"

  "Wearing?"

  "Yes. What did she have on?"

  Mrs. Simms gave her a long look. "Why in the world would you care what she was wearing?"

  "Well ... it could show her state of mind." Gail had to walk alongside Jessica Simms now, because the woman was heading toward the end of the corridor.

  "Good heavens. I really don't remember. A dress, I assume. Althea always wore a nice dress when she went out."

  "Was she able to drive?" Gail leaned a shoulder on the door. "Or did you all arrive together? She didn't live far from you, did she? Perhaps you picked her up."

  "Pardon me." Mrs. Simms gripped the handle of the wide steel door and waited for Gail to move out of the way. "Please assure Mr. Norris that his aunt was perfectly sane and that if he tries to break the will on those grounds, he will be wasting his time. And yours." She opened the door and Gail could see the stage blazing with light. Jessica Simms went through, then turned back, filling the crack in the doorway, speaking in a low voice.

  "Gail, dear. You should know that Althea gave your mother a ring. Althea and I discussed it. Irene always admired her emerald dinner ring. Four carats, with a spray of diamonds. My goodness, it must be worth twenty thousand dollars. Althea said she would leave it to her."

  Gail frowned. "It isn't in the will."

  "Oh, but it is, indirectly. Althea kept a list in her safe deposit box, naming friends who would receive various items of personal property. Mr. Weissman sent out letters last week. Irene didn't tell you?"

  Gail knew it was true, about the list. People did that sometimes, keeping a list in a separate place, changing it when they wanted to, rather than redoing an entire will or making a codicil. Althea Tillett had mentioned such a list on page five. Gail had crossed her fingers, hoping her mother's name wasn't on it. She should have known better.

  Now Jessica Simms's round face drew closer. She smiled. "That was Althea's last wish, to remember her dearest friends. So you think about that the next time you talk to Patrick Norris."

  She drew back, and with a hollow clank, the door closed firmly behind her.

  "Mother?"

  When Gail came in, Irene was standing over a map of the auditorium spread out on a table, the sections colored with various shades of marker—pink, yellow, blue.
"You certainly ran out of here in a hurry."

  "And I have to go again. Could you watch Karen for a while? I won't be long." She picked up her purse from the bench by the window. "If Jessica Simms says anything, pretend to be surprised."

  "I won't have to pretend. Where are you going? But I suppose it's none of my business." Irene capped her yellow marker.

  Gail came back in. "All right. Althea's nephew Patrick came to see me. He says Rudy and Monica Tillett forged her will. I was asking Mrs. Simms about it. She was a witness. Supposedly. I need the signatures for comparison."

  "Are you sure?" Irene whispered.

  "I'm sure Jessica Simms was lying. Please don't say anything about this, Mother. I'll explain it to you later."

  Irene could only shake her head.

  Gail put the strap of her purse over her shoulder. "Did Althea ever discuss her will with you?"

  "No, never."

  "Was she on good terms with Patrick?"

  "Patrick?"

  "Her nephew."

  "I know who you mean." Irene sat down heavily. "Well, she didn't talk about him much—not to me, anyway. I heard her yelling at him on the phone once, but not as though she didn't love him. Some people express love in the oddest ways. Outsiders might not understand it. One time Althea said, 'Would you believe what that blankety-blank has done now?' The way she said it made me think she admired him for doing what he wanted, regardless of how much money she had. Althea sounded hateful sometimes, but she wasn't."

  Irene smiled. "Oh, Althea could rant and rave. But she was never petty about it, never selfish. It's hard to explain. I've never known anyone who cared so little what people thought of her. She was about to fly off to Greece all by herself and have an adventure." Irene looked into her lap. "I think about her a lot."

  Gail scooted her mother over to sit on the same chair. "Jessica said Althea left you an emerald ring. Is that true?"

  "Well ... yes."

  "You didn't tell me."