Suspicion of Guilt

by Barbara Parker

  Irene raised her chin. "I haven't seen you. And anyway, I didn't want to be disrespectful to Althea by being glad she left me something." She extended her arm and studied her small hand. "It would be lovely but ... I'll probably sell it. Is that awful of me? I could redo the kitchen and replace the tile on the back porch." Then her eyes welled up. "Poor Althea. I'd so much rather have her than a new porch."

  Gail hugged her. Her chin fit on top of her mother's head. "Don't. Althie would like knowing you could sit out on a new back porch and watch the water and think of her."

  "That's just what I would do." Irene laughed. "I'd fix a pitcher of martinis in her memory." She added quietly, "But if the will isn't any good, I guess the list isn't either?"

  "I'm sorry."

  Irene bit her lips, trying not to smile. "She left Jessica a chair. A very nice chair, from a palace in Venice."

  "I hope it's sturdy."

  "Now, now."

  Gail whispered, "Althea liked you better."

  "Oh, she did not." But Irene was smiling.

  It took Gail fifteen minutes to cross the Julia Turtle Causeway, find Irving Adler's house, and park under a shade tree in his front yard. She wanted to get to ex-mayor Adler before Jessica Simms finished her meeting and thought to call him. The house was a one-story stucco on a street laid out in the Fifties, more or less unchanged thanks to a waterway separating the neighborhood from a row of big hotels to the east. Across the street a crew of black men in matching green T-shirts was mowing and edging a lawn. Other than that, the neighborhood was quiet.

  On the porch Gail rang the bell and from the other side of the door came a sharp yap, then high-pitched snarls getting louder, then little thuds, as if some small animal were throwing itself against the wood.

  The inner door opened, leaving a storm door between Gail and an aged, pop-eyed toy poodle yapping through the glass. A red bow quivered in its topknot.

  "Mitzi, be quiet!" A stoop-shouldered man peered out. "Who is it?" The dog stood trembling between his feet.

  "Mr. Adler? It's Gail Connor, Irene's daughter." She spoke over the rattle of the lawnmower. "I'd like to talk to you about Althea Tillett. I'm an attorney. I represent her nephew, Patrick Norris." The sun reflected off the white paint. Gail was wearing tan slacks and a cool top, but she could feel the sweat tickling down her back.

  Adler tilted his head to get a better fix through his glasses. "Irene said her daughter was a lawyer. Is that you?"

  "Yes. May I come in?"

  He hesitated. "What's this about Althea?"

  The poodle snarled. One eye was clouded with cataract. Except where the clippers had left a patch of fur around its shoulders, puffy as a life vest, the dog's skin was a mottled bluish gray. There was a ball of fuzz over each foot and one at the end of its tail.

  "If I could just talk to you for a minute, I could clear up some of Mr. Norris's concerns." Gail gave a reassuring smile.

  After a second or two, he unlocked the storm door. The poodle rushed at Gail's toes. She wished she were wearing tennis shoes instead of sandals. "Quite a watchdog you've got there," she said, pulling her foot out of the way.

  "She won't bite you. She's a little love. She loves her papa." Adler bent over and scooped up the dog, kissing its walnut-size cranium through the furry topknot. "Mitzi was my wife's dog, but my wife is gone now."

  "I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Adler." There was a cold breeze coming through the AC vents.

  Irving Adler was wearing a warm-up suit, gray with red piping, and spotless white running shoes that seemed too big for his feet. There was a towel tucked around his neck. He led Gail into a living room with blue brocade furniture and a fireplace whose mantel held family photos in gold frames.

  "Have a seat." He pointed to the sofa. A stationary bike faced the window, a shiny model with a front wheel like a fan.

  "Did I interrupt your workout?" Gail asked.

  He waved a hand. "Hadn't started yet, don't worry about it." Adler let himself down into a chintz-covered armchair and Mitzi stood in his lap, teeth bared. "I wouldn't ride the thing at all, but my doctor says I have to. When the weather lets up, I'll walk. I went into the hospital last year." He tapped his chest. 'Triple bypass at Mount Sinai, Dr. Fishbein. He put in a pacemaker and told me to exercise and watch what I eat. You look in pretty good shape. Do you take exercise?"

  "When I have the chance."

  "Good. Live longer. You tell Irene I said hello. I saw her at the funeral. What do you want to know about Althea? I don't have much time. My niece is coming over. She's about your age."

  Gail said, "As I said, I represent Patrick Norris—"

  "Patrick. Her brother's boy. Her brother is dead."

  There was a crocheted afghan folded at the end of the sofa. Gail wished she could wrap it around herself. The house was frigid. She rubbed her arms. "You may have heard that Patrick was Althea Tillett's only relative."

  "Yes. And a bum. Excuse me if he's your client, but the man is a bum."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "I know what he is. Kids like that expect to live off the rich relatives, so they don't do anything for themselves. He's a dropout, did he tell you that?"

  Gail started again. "Patrick is afraid that Mrs. Tillett may have felt pressured into writing her will as she did. You were there at the signing, correct?"

  Adler looked at Gail through his glasses for a while, then said, "Who does he say pressured her? Nobody pressured her."

  "Maybe no one did. He wants to make sure."

  "This is very strange. Why are you asking me these things?"

  "Because you were there." Gail had the sense that she was treading water. "Weren't you?"

  Adler's neck was craned forward, his heavy lower lip drooping. "Yes. I was there. You want to know what happened, I'll tell you, no big deal. We all went to Weissman's office on Alton Road. You know Alan Weissman?"

  Gail asked, "Was Mr. Weissman present?"

  Irving Adler looked at her through his glasses. "Yes. Althea's lawyer."

  "Who else was there?"

  Mitzi's lips curled back and she growled in rapid spurts. Adler squeezed her muzzle gently with a big-knuckled hand and told her to be quiet.

  "Jessica Simms. You know Jessica? And Althea, of course. So Althea signs it, I sign as a witness, and Jessica signs after me. Done. Nobody pressured her."

  "Was there a notary?"

  "Notary? Sure. You gotta have a notary."

  "That was Carl Napolitano, I believe?" Gail asked, knowing it had been a woman. Carla.

  "Who remembers?"

  "Did he work in Mr. Weissman's office?" "I don't know, maybe."

  Gail rubbed her arms, shifting a little on the sofa to avoid the vent in the ceiling. "What day of the week was this? Do you recall?"

  "The day? Whatever it says on the will. I don't know what day."

  "Was it the weekend?"

  "Maybe. I'm retired, I don't know." He pushed the poodle's hindquarters down so she would sit. "Althea died three weeks ago. She was a hell of a girl, Althea was. A hell of a girl."

  "How long had you known her?"

  "A long rime." Adler patted the dog, and the weight of his hand bobbed its head up and down. "I met her when she married R.W. Tillett."

  "You were a friend of his?"

  "R.W. and I were in the army together. Kids. We were in Italy in 1944. I was wounded and they sent me home."

  Gail watched the poodle stretch out flat on Adler's thigh and close its eyes. "Do you know her stepchildren? Rudy and Monica?"

  "Those two. You can't tell which is which. I don't think they can either." Adler laughed, then coughed into his fist.

  "Did they get along with Althea?"

  "Aaah-h-h." He waved a hand. "She put up with them."

  "When did she ask you to be a witness?"

  "When?" Adler was concentrating. "I don't know. A day or two before it was signed, I guess."

  "Did Althea leave you anything in her will?" He shook his h
ead. "Nothing? Maybe on a list she kept in her safe deposit box?"

  "I don't know about a list."

  The telephone rang then, a blue princess phone across the room near a lounge chair strewn with the morning paper. Mitzi stiffened, threw back her head, and gave a howl like a cat with bronchitis.

  "Mitzi, hush!" Adler got up, cradling her in the crook of his arm. He crossed the room and picked up the phone. The expression on his face a few seconds later told Gail who was on the other end. Adler looked at her then walked the phone as far as the cord would reach, through an arched opening into the dining room, where an ornately carved table held a silver bowl of wax fruit.

  By the time he returned, Gail was standing.

  Framed in the archway, Adler glowered. "You'd better go."

  "I suppose that was Jessica Simms," Gail said.

  He took a breath, then another, and set the phone down on a small table. "I let you in my house and you try to trick me, asking questions about Althea. You're working for Patrick Norris, I should have known. He's a no-good bum, you can tell him I said so."

  Gail said, "I'll have to see you again, Mr. Adler. Please don't make me do it with a subpoena."

  "You ought to be ashamed of yourself. I should tell Irene. Go on now. I'm upset." He waved a hand toward the front door. "Go on." Mitzi growled and struggled to get down.

  Gail didn't move. "Mr. Adler, I'm sorry. Whatever happened, maybe you were talked into it. Tell me if that's how it was."

  His face was red. "Go on. Get out." He bent and released Mitzi. She streaked across the room toward Gail, yapping, the red bow in her topknot streaming like a battle flag.

  Gail scooted the dog away with the side of her foot. Mitzi rolled.

  With a cry, Adler started forward.

  "I didn't—" Gail shook her head and left the house. She could still hear the howling and the little thuds against the door.

  Chapter Six

  “Sweetie, hand me my sunglasses out of my purse, would you? And find that little memo book. I want you to write something down for me before I forget."

  Gail put on her sunglasses one-handed and whipped the car around the corner past the First Union building. The downtown streets were nearly empty on Saturdays.

  After leaving Irving Adler's house, she had gone back to the opera offices to pick up Karen. Now both of them were on their way to the Museum of Science, a few miles south of downtown. Her car buzzed over the metal bridge at the Hyatt Regency then came down onto Brickell Avenue with its glass office towers and shady banyan trees. Gail had the afternoon laid out: an hour for the show at the planetarium, home by one, then work a few hours before they had to get ready for dinner at Anthony's.

  Karen held up the memo book. There was a pen clipped inside.

  "Okay, write 'Norris N-o-r-r-i-s.' Then under that put 'Two hours, Simms and Adler—' That's A-d-1-"

  "Mom. I know how to spell."

  "Yes, you're very smart," Gail said. "And add 'including travel time.' " Hours for Patrick Norris were beginning to accrue. If this turned into a case, Gail would bill starting today. "Thanks."

  Karen muttered something and put back the memo book.

  Gail patted Karen's bare knee. There was still a scab on it from falling out of a tree last week. "Well. We're going to learn all about the Mayan calendar today."

  Karen cut her eyes over to Gail. "I already saw it."

  "You did? When?"

  "My class went last week. You signed the permission slip."

  "Well, we could go into the museum. They've always got a special exhibit, don't they?" Gail adjusted the vents on the air conditioning. "What is wrong with this thing?"

  She zipped around a van ahead of her—in, out, feeling like a cop in a car chase. There was still that adrenaline rush from getting thrown out of Irving Adler's house. And then returning to the opera building, expecting Jessica Simms to be lying in wait for her.

  Irene reported that Mrs. Simms had indeed come into the office in a snit, but Irene had feigned ignorance. After Mrs. Simms left, Irene pulled a dozen samples of Althea Tillett's signature from the files, most of them original memos, others copies of letters. Now they were all in a folder in the backseat. On Tuesday Gail would take them to the document examiner Anthony had recommended.

  She held her hand in front of the AC vent. "Please God, don't let it be the compressor. Roll your window down, Karen. Nothing's coming through."

  If Dave was still around he could check the freon. It was funny, Gail thought, how you miss things like that. Freon and oil changes and sprinkler heads. She tried to imagine Anthony Luis Quintana Pedrosa on his hands and knees in the backyard, fixing the sprinkler system. She had never even seen him in shorts. Cuban men of his generation didn't wear shorts, she had heard. The younger guys, sure, but anybody over forty ...

  She hung her arm out the car window and let the air rush up her sleeve. The museum would be half a mile farther ahead on South Dixie Highway.

  "You know, I haven't heard much from you about school this year. Except that you forget your lunch. But otherwise, how's it going?"

  "Okay."

  "Just okay? Are you making any new friends?"

  "No."

  A Metro bus stopped ahead, letting someone off, and Gail slowed down. "Mrs. Johnson is nice, isn't she?"

  "She's a dork."

  "Why?"

  "She just is."

  Gail hoped Karen's mood would improve by tonight. Karen and Anthony had never spent more than ten minutes in the same room together. If this kept up, they never would.

  She reached down and pulled her memo pad out of her purse. She wrote oil change, ripped out the page, and stuck a corner of it on the ashtray so she could see it. A horn blared behind her. She stepped on the gas, tires squealing on the pavement.

  At the museum, a one-story building with a dome at one end, Gail parked in the shade. The engine went quiet, and for a few moments she held her keys in her hand, listening to the birds. A gray squirrel clung to the oak tree by the front bumper, its tail twitching.

  Gail said, "Well. Here we are."

  Karen was looking into the middle distance beyond the windshield. "Yep."

  "All right, then." Gail rolled up her window and opened her door, but Karen hadn't moved. "What's the matter?"

  "Nothing."

  "Do you want to go or not?"

  "You don't want to," Karen said. "You'd rather be working at your office."

  "No, I wouldn't. Come on."

  Karen clicked the catch of her alligator purse open and shut. "You said it was boring."

  "When did I say that?"

  "You said it to Daddy, before he went away. He asked if you wanted to go with us to the museum, and I heard you say it was boring."

  Gail remembered. Dave had invited her to go along on Saturday. That was during a brief period when he felt guilty. She had told him to leave her alone, and a week later he was on his way to the Caribbean.

  She said, "Well, I must have meant the exhibit they had at the time was boring."

  Karen swung her head around, tilting her hat brim up far enough to glare at Gail. "This is the same exhibit."

  "It is?'

  "I told you last night. It's the cavemen."

  Gail looked for the banner at the entrance. It read HUMANITY AT THE DAWN OF TIME, THROUGH SEPTEMBER. "You saw it already with your dad?"

  Karen shook her head. "We went to the Seaquarium instead."

  "So do you want to see it now?"

  "I want to go home."

  "Damn it!" Gail grabbed the steering wheel so hard she felt the jolt all the way up her arms. "I'm sorry I can't be your father! I'm sorry he decided to go off and play on his damn boat, but there is nothing I can do about it!"

  Karen stared at her.

  Gail dropped her forehead onto her hands.

  The sun flashed off the windshield of a minivan parking nearby. The doors opened. A man and a woman and two kids got out. The woman unfolded a stroller and set the smaller c
hild into it, and the man swung his son onto his hip. They all headed toward the museum. Gail closed her eyes. Her throat ached.

  Before Dave left, the three of them had developed a balance, like equidistant points on a circle. Not necessarily happy, but at least they all understood where they were. Now the thing was out of whack. All the moves were wrong.

  "I'm sorry for yelling at you, Karen. It wasn't your fault."

  Karen was playing with the catch on her purse again. Her hair was in her eyes. Stringy, Gail noticed. She took off Karen's hat and combed through her hair with her fingers. Her forehead was sweaty.

  "Let's trim your bangs before we go to Anthony's tonight."

  Karen pulled her head away.

  A desultory breeze shifted the branches, making a pattern of lacy shadows on the hood. At the entrance to the museum people were going in and out. Bright colors, kids running, a cart selling snow cones. The family she had seen earlier went inside.

  "Never mind the museum. We'll come back when we feel like it."

  "Okay."

  From overhead came a raucous screech—a parrot of some kind. A twig dropped onto the roof of the car.

  "You want to go somewhere with me?"

  "Where?"

  "We're going to play detective."

  The blue eyes turned to her.

  Gail took two dollar bills out of her wallet. "Here. Buy us some snow cones while I make a phone call. Get me lemon. I don't want my mouth to turn purple."

  Over the phone, Mark Brody said it was lucky she caught him. He was just leaving for lunch.

  South Florida Forensics, owned by Brody and a partner, was located in a semi-industrial area west of the airport. Gail didn't think much of the flat-roofed, dusty building until he took her into the back and she saw the lab equipment and the shiny floors. It reminded her of college chemistry class— except that behind a soundproof steel door, there was a firing range and a stunning collection of weapons. Karen wanted to touch the MAC 10 and AK-47, which she recognized from TV. Gail had asked him to close the door.

  Now she sat at a white-surfaced work table while Brody bent over the wills and letters she had laid out. He had a lighted magnifying lens the size of a saucer supported on a goose-necked stand.