Suspicion of Guilt

by Barbara Parker

  The butler lifted an arm. "This way, miss."

  Passing the staircase along one wall, Gail stepped back, startled. Someone was watching. A face had pulled away, but the hands remained, curled around the carved balusters. Now the face reappeared. It was a boy. He wore a striped pullover, and his hair was combed neatly across his forehead.

  "Hi. What's your name?" The words came slowly through heavy lips.

  "Gail," she said.

  A wide grin nearly closed his small eyes. "I have a hamster. You want to see him?"

  The old man pivoted his head to look up, scolding gently. "Run along, Walter. You should be upstairs."

  The boy's eyes followed Gail as she passed underneath, and his face pressed at the balusters. "Bye."

  "Good-bye." She spoke to the butler, her voice low. "Who was that boy?"

  He glanced at her, then said, "He lives here." At the end of a carpeted hallway, he knocked twice at a heavy door then pushed it open. "Ms. Connor, sir." He bowed stiffly and left her there.

  "My dear Ms. Connor! Come in!" The man across the room, still seated, wore a bottle-green velvet jacket. A red paisley scarf was tucked into the open collar of his shirt. She saw in an instant why he had not risen: There were wheels on his chair.

  "Mr. Ehringer," she said. "Good evening."

  Sanford Ehringer had once been a powerful man; she could see it in the width of his shoulders, feel it when he took her hand, gripping it as eagerly as if she had been his granddaughter come to visit. "By God, aren't you lovely? And tall. A strapping young woman." He laughed. "Don't mind the familiarity. You get to be my age, you don't wait till tomorrow to say what you think."

  He was completely bald. His nose and ears drooped, as old men's-do, his lips were a slash, and tangled brows jutted over deeply set black eyes. And yet this face was not forbidding, but as welcoming as a fireplace in December, glowing with cheerfulness.

  "We'll have dinner in here," he said. "It's cozy. What do you think? All right?"

  "Certainly." Now she saw the table to one side, gleaming with china and crystal. This room must have been his library: There were bookcases, deep red leather furniture, a Persian rug on the polished wood floor. A floor lamp glowed through a shade of tasseled green silk. A bronze Art Nouveau nude crouched on a bookcase.

  "Good." He wheeled over to the sofa, where an ice bucket sat in a stand, its neck wrapped in white linen. "They'll bring dinner whenever we're ready. I've got some pretty good French stuff over here. Pouilly-fuissé I believe. Does that take your fancy?"

  Gail was still looking around. "Yes, thank you." One wall was taken up with electronic equipment: television, stereo, a personal computer, a monitor, a fax machine.

  "Russell get you here all right? No problems?"

  "None. Your house is quite hidden. I doubt I could find my way with a map."

  Ehringer chuckled. "The city just built itself around me. With that wall, sometimes I forget it's even out there."

  While he poured, she studied the paintings over the sofa. The first showed a golden-haired Victorian woman by someone named Rossetti. She looked heavenward and held a lily. The other wasn't as good: a rocky landscape, bearded men in togas, people weeping.

  "The Funeral of Pericles," he said. "Awful, isn't it? I got it in England when I was a boy."

  "You weren't born there, were you?"

  "No, I studied classics at Cambridge. No practical value at all, of course, but at the time I adored it. Still do. First loves never leave you." He wedged the bottle back into the ice. "The original Greek is virile stuff. Don't trust the translations. You do it for yourself, that's what, then it sticks."

  He offered her a glass of wine. Tendons stood out on his liver-spotted hands, and blue veins roped beneath the skin.

  "By God, if Hollywood could do half as well as Homer. Desire, betrayal, revenge, honor. Screaming horses, warriors toppling into the dust. Think of that scene from The Iliad: Achilles tying the body of Hector to his chariot by his heels, then dragging him around the city! Bring teenagers up on that, and they'll never want The Terminator" Ehringer raised his glass. "Santé. How's the wine? Passable?"

  "Excellent." She started to take another sip, then noticed the small table by the sofa. Under the glass were tiny boxes of varying sizes, each containing a beetle of some unusual type.

  Ehringer rolled closer. "Aren't they pretty? There's a list in the drawer, if you want to know the names. That green one with the horns I found in Morocco."

  Puzzled, Gail said slowly, "I've seen these."

  He looked at her over his glass, smiling.

  "I've been here before. Haven't I?"

  "Yes!" Ehringer laughed. "I thought you had forgotten. You were a little girl. You wanted to play with the beetles. I let you have some rock samples instead."

  Gail turned, looking behind her at the bookcases with their rows of volumes, books with their bindings going to dust and others on the latest topics, some in French or German, all crammed in every which way. "Who brought me here?"

  "John Strickland, your grandfather. We did some business together, and he brought you along a time or two. Way back, Johnny's father Benjamin and my dad used to go bonefishing together in the Keys. Great friends, they were. Ben showed me how to tie flies. I was only a kid then. By God, I haven't thought of that in years!" He smiled up at Gail. "So. How is Irene keeping herself these days?"

  "You remember her?"

  "I am old, my dear, not senile. Irene Strickland. Little red-haired woman. I never knew your father though. Can't recall his name."

  "Edwin Connor."

  "Edwin. Sold insurance. Yes. I never thought Irene would marry a salesman. Not to say your dad wasn't a fine man, et cetera, but Irene—well, she was quite the debutante. My own wife was a Vanderpoole, a genuine Knickerbocker. But young people today don't care about all that, do they? I'll bet you married well, though. You have that look about you."

  Gail took a sip of wine, wondering what this was leading to. "I'm divorced."

  "I believe someone told me that. Irene's daughter, and so on. And you're the one they meant. You have children?"

  "If you know so much about me already, Mr. Ehringer, then you must know the answer to that as well."

  He smiled at her. "Yes, I made inquiries, and why not? My poor attempt to renew our acquaintance after twenty-five years."

  She set her glass on the small table. "I have to say, I didn't expect to find you so amiable, particularly after what happened with Howard Odell on Friday."

  "What do you mean?" His jowls settled against the stiff shirt collar.

  As she recounted the scene with Odell at the Tillett Gallery, Ehringer's gaze seemed to rest on the roseate spoonbills above the door: one with its wide bill forever dipped to the shelf, the other with pinkish wings extended, as if it would flap across the room.

  "I didn't like Mr. Odell's threats," she said.

  Ehringer waved a hand. "You mustn't mind Howard. He takes his duties too seriously."

  "His duties are to frighten me into a settlement?"

  "In no way! He does a bang-up job raising money for the trust. I suspect he considers it a personal affront if any bequest is jeopardized. Shall I speak to him for you?" He patted her arm with fierce affection. "You are a sensitive young woman of good breeding and intelligence. If he insulted you, I apologize."

  "You and he are related, aren't you?"

  "A second cousin once removed. I'm fond of Howard, so I hope you can forgive his abruptness. He and I don't see each other often enough for me to keep up with him. I've too much to do, Gail, a thousand and one things on my mind."

  Gail said, "Mr. Ehringer. Why did you ask me here? I assume it has to do with Althea Tillett's will."

  "Oh, indulge me, Gail. We'll get to all that." He smiled at her. "For now, I would like to know you. I remember you as a child, you see. Where is this young girl, Johnny's granddaughter, who once played here on this floor? Who chased butterflies in my flower garden? The same person who
is causing such a fuss among my friends?"

  He supported his craggy cheekbone on his fingers, elbow on the padded armrest of his chair. "Who is this Antigone who would stand before the walls of the city and risk public censure? No. Not the public. The public doesn't give a damn. Let us say she risks her place among her peers. Why does she do it?"

  Gail had to laugh. "It isn't that dramatic. I'm a lawyer, I have a client, and I believe in him." "And that's all?"

  "Yes." Then she smiled. "Of course I'm getting paid for my work."

  "Handsomely too, if I know Hartwell Black and Robineau. Good for you!" Ehringer lifted his glass. "May we believe in the causes we fight for." The glass paused at his lips. "And what cause is that?"

  "Pardon?"

  "What is your cause? Rather, your client's cause. You said you believe in him. What is it that you believe in?" Ehringer leaned back a little in his chair, studying her. "Why do you fight for this client? Not to win, although you find pleasure in winning. Not for money—I believe you are motivated by higher interests. Not even for a job well done. A dog can fetch a stick, and fetch it well. What do you believe in? We must all believe in something, or else ... who are we?"

  Gail lowered her glass. "I believe in finding out the truth, Mr. Ehringer. In trying to do what is right. How can I answer? I'm not a philosopher. I haven't been to Cambridge. I haven't lived eighty-something years thinking about these things."

  "Eighty-four." He smiled. "Forgive me. I didn't mean to bully you, Gail. It's just that I so enjoy a stimulating conversation. What else can an old man do?"

  She looked straight at him for a moment. "Did you know that the police believe Althea Tillett was murdered?"

  Ehringer's expression became the dark side of a remote planet. "Yes. I know. If it's true, this was a barbarous act." His hand tightened to a fist which beat slowly on the arm of his chair.

  "You knew her well?"

  For a time Gail wondered if he had heard her. Then his face softened. "I shall always remember Althea with great fondness. If you believe passion is only for the young, you are mistaken. Love does not wither. Except among the less educated, its flame is in the heart and intellect, which grow cold only when the body is extinguished. There was one summer in 1958, on Mykonos. The Aegean was brilliant, like crystal, like ... nothing you can imagine. The sand was hot, the sky so blue and endless it would make you weep. We stayed in a small pension on a cliff—by God, what a woman!"

  For a moment he stroked the red silk scarf at his neck, his head sinking deep into his shoulders. Then he gripped the silver wheels of his chair and propelled himself to the linen-draped table. He pressed a button. "Dinner! Fresh salmon, with some sort of tropical sauce my chef has invented. Here, Gail. Hold my wine for a minute. I want to show you my backyard. See if you remember it."

  He turned a polished knob on the French doors and pulled. The humid night air fluttered the gauzy curtains. Gail could smell flowers and hear the murmur of a fountain. She followed him down an incline to the tiled terrace, which she had seen from the living room. He flipped a switch and lights came on above. Pots of orchids, bromeliads, and miniature trees crowded shelves and hung from the beams. Ehringer's wheels glinted as he pushed himself around a bentwood rocker, going deeper into his jungle of tropical plants.

  "Wasn't there a goldfish pond?" Gail asked.

  "Yes! On the other end, by the fountain." He glanced over his shoulder at her. "Do you remember the spotted white carp you fed tea biscuits to? It leaped up and scared you, and you ran to your grandmother. Remember that?"

  Gail laughed. "No, I'm glad to say." She ducked under an immense staghorn fern. "Your father built this house, didn't he?"

  "As a botanical garden," he said. "He and Mum had the house in Palm Beach and a cottage on Brickell, but they would come out here and putter. She had the kitchen done, and pretty soon they lived here, during the winter anyhow." Ehringer laughed. "Country living! Ha! You can hear the traffic now, and airplanes going over. And gunfire! There is some excitement on a Saturday night in these parts, Miss Gail!"

  The terrace was screened, and flowering vines twisted around the supporting rock columns. He unlatched a door and rolled onto an open patio. The sky was sickly brown, the anticrime lights reflecting off the clouds. Trees blocked the view fifty yards north, but she saw a glimmer. "The river is through there, isn't it?" Gail asked.

  "It is. When I was a boy," said Ehringer, "I used to swim in it. The Indians had a camp near here—a tourist trap is what it was. They'd take you for a ride in their dugout canoes. But those days are gone. I had to put up a fence. Not even a fish would swim in the Miami River now. Ha. They're too smart for that. Go somewhere else, fishies."

  "You're still here," Gail said, giving him back his glass of wine.

  "I'm not a fish!" He laughed, his mouth a dark hole in his ancient face. He downed a swallow of wine, then looked sharply at her.

  "You wonder why I stay, don't you? Why don't I get out, live somewhere clean and safe? A Greek island. Hawaii. Montana! My dear young woman! I love Miami! Europe is going under, New York is filthy and cold, and one petrifies with boredom in Palm Beach. Why not live here? The medical facilities are adequate. The air is breathable. The climate is delightful—except for our vicious summers, and thank God for those, or we really would be overcrowded!"

  Sanford Ehringer wheeled around. "Look up there. You won't remember that. I had it built in 1973."

  It was a shaft of rock that extended up beyond the roof of the house, with windows canted outward like an airport control tower. "It's air-conditioned and bulletproof. There's a telephone. I've got a videocamera to preserve my observations. I'd spend hours up there, if I had the time."

  He stared upward. "I'll tell you what I see. Miami, boiling with growth and change. Immigrants pouring in, new values. Traditions buried, others being born. I see America, fifty years from now, fin de siècle. Oh, yes. Upheavals of the social tectonic plates. The things I see! I feel like an astronaut in a space capsule."

  Above, the city lights twinkled in the dark glass.

  "You know how most people suffer," he said. "Oh, it breaks your heart. Poverty, violence, despair, perversions of every kind praised as normal! What can we do? We are only flecks of foam on the surging tide of evolution. And yet—"

  Ehringer grasped her hand, shaking it for emphasis. His fingers were hard and dry. "There is a new world coming, Gail. Already you can sense it in small ways—people getting tired of crime and sloth and the degenerates on our streets. People wanting some values back, dammit! Let's have responsibility, chastity, integrity. We want to aim for excellence again! Each of us who has the brains to think must choose: either add to the dead weight of mediocrity or reward those who can lead us out of it."

  His voice deepened, trembling with emotion. "We and people like us have preserved the seed of excellence through centuries, but it isn't only for us, Gail. It's our gift to the world! Most of us are deaf and blind, but some of us—" He held her hand against the soft velvet of his coat. "Some of us can hear the music of that far-off day."

  Before she could reply—if she could even have thought of an adequate reply—Ehringer turned his chair to face the black silhouettes of the trees.

  "If that seed can take root here, in this city poised between good and evil, then I shall die with hope that the world will not sink back into darkness for another two thousand years." His head was a pale dome. "That is why I stay. I am morally required, by whatever power God has granted me, to push us toward the light."

  Gail could only stare at him.

  Ehringer laughed. "Inside with you. Our dinner is waiting. By God, what that chef can do with crême brulée! I am being wicked, and my doctor would scold me if he found out. Hang him, this is a special event!"

  Gail held the door and let Ehringer wheel past. She shot another look at the tower, then went inside the screen.

  A rustling behind some bushes stopped her cold. In her mind she saw the dripping jaws of one of
Ehringer's dogs. She backed away. A round face peeked out. It was the boy she had seen before on the stairs. Walter. The branches closed, and she heard a soft laugh.

  "Gail! Roll me up this ramp, will you? My wheel is stuck on a rock or some damn thing."

  It was on her lips to ask Sanford Ehringer about this odd boy, but asking could get Walter into trouble.

  Dinner was on the table when they returned to the study, and three tapers burned in a silver candelabrum. Ehringer dropped a CD on the player—Schumann, he said—and instructed Gail to leave the doors open: the orchids were blooming. With some effort, he swung himself from his wheelchair into the carved and embroidered mahogany chair at the table. He said a brief grace, head bowed, then shook out his napkin.

  For a while they ate, commenting only on the food, which was—as Thomas Quinn had promised—superb. Potage germiny—cream of sorrel soup—followed by crisp romaine and watercress salad with raspberry vinaigrette. Fresh, steaming bread and sweet butter. An Asian woman in a starched apron came in as if magically summoned to clear the plates for each course and pour accompanying wine.

  Sanford Ehringer's eyes twinkled over his forkful of salmon tamarinde. "Tell me, Gail. What do you think of my crackpot social theories?"

  "Crackpot or not, I wouldn't know," she said. "It's all beyond me. These grand ideas about the tide of history and all that—"

  "Beyond you? Oh, my dear. No. By blood and education, you are among the elite."

  "I doubt that."

  "But you are! Admit it! Don't be afraid others will call you elitist. Without an elite, we would still be picking berries off trees and sleeping in caves."

  She paused over her julienned haricots verts. "I prefer to believe that societies tend to move toward equality."

  "Dear God, can it be? Another victim of mushmouth liberal hogwash. There is no equality! Don't they teach Plato in school anymore? There are people who have the capacity to advance and those who do not."

  "That's rather depressing."

  "The truth, my dear, is never depressing." He raised his glass. "It is only the truth."