"This is hardly funny," she said.
"But my dear, to find a young person today who believes such activities are shocking! I am not shocked, far from it. If people wish to be amused, leave them alone. You can't stop them, you can only observe. This darker side of our human natures is bred into the bone. We haven't evolved from it yet, and I doubt we ever shall. Read Freud. Read erotic literature in the original Latin, if you want your eyes opened Peruse the Marquis de Sade."
Ehringer's chuckles faded into a long sigh. "No, Althea did not suddenly find out about these dirty businesses, as you put it, and fly into a rage. She'd known for years."
Now his face was as serene as a Buddha. "My advice to you, Gail, is that you look in simpler places for the answers to your puzzles. Yesterday my secretary, Mr. Quinn, spoke personally to the Dade County Medical Examiner, at my request. Irving Adler died of a heart attack, not poison or voodoo. And as for Larry Black—" His heavy head moved slowly back and forth. "Under the sunshine and frolic, my dear, this is a dangerous city."
"What about Althea?" Gail asked sharply. "Give me another easy answer. What happened to her?"
The light from the desk lamp behind him formed a crescent on his hairless head. "Haven't you forgotten someone on your list of suspects? Your client? The man with a hidden streak of violence, the man with a key to Althea's house? Yes, I keep my eye on that case. The police will establish the truth sooner or later. If Althea told Rudy she had destroyed her will, why not tell her nephew? He didn't kill her for a quarter of a million dollars, but for twenty-five!"
Ehringer rolled across his study to the door. "Forgive me if we cut this meeting short. I have heard enough nonsense for a month. You have been duped. Patrick Norris! Damn his perfidious soul."
"He didn't kill her," Gail said.
The chair stopped so quickly the wheels skidded on the floor. He turned it around. "How can you be sure? You haven't seen the man since you were students together."
Gail was frozen for a moment by his icy stare. "It doesn't matter. I know what he's like." When Ehringer continued to look at her, she said, "I know him. That's all."
"You're such a clever woman. You know him." Sanford Ehringer smiled. "Before you go, Gail, let me enlighten you. The S in Easton. It wasn't Fauntroy Simms. He came in later, after the Second World War. The S was Strickland—your great-grandfather Benjamin."
"I don't believe that," Gail said. "My mother would have told me."
He gave an expansive shrug. "Would she? In the short history of this city, the Stricklands walk among the gods. Why, they're right up there with Henry Flagler and Julia Tuttle. How painful to think that one's ancestors belched and farted, like everybody else. Benjamin Strickland was kicked off the board of the Easton Trust in 1942 for indiscretions with the mayor's wife. His son John—your grandpa and my friend—gambled on more than real estate. Rich one day, poor the next. In and out of scrapes with some Italian gentlemen from New York. A dusky mistress in Overtown—well, never mind that."
Gazing across the study at the leather armchair, Ehringer said, "He sat right there, begging me for help. Goodness, this is déjà-vu. You came with him, a little girl, and you played on my carpet while your granddaddy signed a personal note. I lent Johnny half a million dollars. He died of a stroke a month thereafter. I tore up the paper. What could I do? Have your grandma thrown out into the snow?"
Still smiling, Ehringer rolled toward the heavy wooden door. "So, Gail. Meet Mr. Easton. You are not as far removed from him as you may think. Good afternoon."
Chapter Twenty-Seven
After Lauren Sontag's divorce two years ago, she had bought a top-floor condo with a view of Coconut Grove. Gail had been there a few times, so she had no difficulty finding the building. She gave her name to the security guard downstairs, and he phoned up.
Lauren Sontag was in a white satin robe, barefoot. She held on to the door for a second, then smiled. "Well. Look who's here."
"I called your office. They said you were working at home today."
Lauren's blond hair hung straight around her face, and her skin was gray without makeup. "Come in and sit down. Or something."
"You're not feeling well?" Gail asked.
"I'm on a little vacation. Look. Still in my jammies. Can I fix you a drink?" She held up a short, heavy glass, clinking with ice cubes in pale amber liquid.
"No, thanks."
The apartment wrapped around a corner of the building, a curve of terrace outside with a view south and west. The color scheme was ivory and pastel, with a good collection of minimalist paintings on the walls and lots of windows. Now the curtains were closed, and the air was still and heavy, as if the oxygen were running out.
Lauren's high-arched feet sank into the carpet, and the hem of her robe fluttered behind her. "Let me guess. You came to talk about Althea Tillett's will."
"Yes, I did."
"I thought you would, sooner or later." She veered into the tiled kitchen. Dishes were stacked in the sink.
Gail stood by the door. "I don't know if you heard or not, but Larry Black is in the hospital."
The ice dispenser dropped some cubes into Lauren's glass. "Hospital?"
"He was beaten nearly to death yesterday, and robbed. They don't know who did it. It's bad. He'll live ... at least they say he will."
"Oh, God. Don't tell me that. It's too depressing." A sliver of ice hit the floor. Lauren poured more scotch. "Did I ever meet Larry?"
"At the cocktail party at Hartwell Black last Christmas—"
"I remember. Larry's a nice guy. A little prissy, but he's all right. You and Larry paid a visit to Alan last week. I should have been there to join the fray." She tasted her drink. "He didn't want me there. Alan didn't, I mean."
Lauren snapped off the kitchen light and Gail followed her through the dining area. There was a divider that marked the living room. On the end of it, lit by a tiny spotlight in the ceiling, was the upturned face of a young woman, lifelike in its details. Realistic red roses tumbled from her wild black curls. Her eyes were closed as if in pain or passion, and the lips were slightly parted. The skin seemed to glow.
Lauren gestured with her scotch. "Monica did that."
"Yes. I thought I recognized the style," Gail said. There were words along her cheek, as if the swirling black letters were wayward strands of hair: I made a garland for her head, and bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She look'd at me as she did love, And made sweet moan.
"It's very good," Gail said.
"You want it?" Lauren patted the top of the sculpture's head. "It doesn't fit my decor." She crossed the living room and picked up her cigarettes from the coffee table, then reached into a pocket of her robe for her gold lighter. She wore no bra, and her breasts moved under the white satin. "What about the will?" The lighter flamed, then clicked shut.
Gail dropped her purse on the sectional sofa. Beside it lay three pairs of shoes, as if Lauren had stepped out of them on three successive days. "One of the witnesses passed away last night. Irving Adler."
"Alan called me. He said it was on the news this morning."
"I was there," Gail said. "Not when it happened, but just after. My mother and I went to his house. Irving had called her earlier in the day. He told her the will was forged."
Lauren drew in smoke. "What else did he tell her?"
"No details. I saw Jessica Simms a little while ago. She'll break before this gets to trial. And the notary was in New Jersey on August the third, the date you said you got her to sign the will. Lauren, it's all going to come out. I wanted you to know this. You should decide what to do. You and Alan."
Lauren sat on a white leather ottoman and crossed her legs, pulling her robe closed. "Are you feeling sorry, Gail?"
"What?"
"Sorry for what you did in Alan's office. You used me to get to him."
"I am sorry. Truly."
One arm resting languidly across her knee, Lauren smoked her cigarette.
Gail said, "I know how y
ou feel about Alan, but you shouldn't sacrifice yourself for him."
Lauren turned her eyes toward Gail.
Gail said, 'Tell him to go to the probate judge before it's too late. Alan knows the judge. They're friends. This can be handled without publicity."
A long moment passed, then Lauren slowly smiled. "You think we're lovers."
"I know he's in love with you."
"Poor Alan."
"And you care for him," Gail said.
"So I should tell him to go to the judge. What a neat way to win your case."
"No. I'm trying to help you. You didn't do anything except find the notary."
Lauren leaned to tap ashes into a coffee cup. "Alan told me she fell off her balcony last week."
"Yes. They say it was an accident. I'm not sure."
"Well, I didn't push her."
"I know that, Lauren. Look. Tell Alan to take responsibility for what he did. He doesn't have to bring you into it. Whoever else was involved—" Gail waited, then said, "It's going to blow up, Lauren. I'm not sure how yet, but it will. Get out if you can."
A long moment passed. Lauren drew on her cigarette. "Is it true, about Irving and Jessica, what they said? Maybe it's a lie. Maybe you're lying to me."
"Oh, God."
"Or maybe you're a real pal after all. Maybe. Trying to save me from"—she circled a hand in the air—"something. Don't worry about the election. I withdrew my name yesterday. I'm off the ballot."
"You didn't have to do that."
"Doesn't matter."
"I'm sorry. I hate this. What do you want, Lauren? I can't drop the case. I was working on a settlement, but I don't see the point of settling anymore. Not when I can prove the will was forged."
A haze of smoke drifted around Lauren's head.
"Can I open a window?" Gail asked. "It's warm in here."
"I'll do it." At the sliding door Lauren fumbled with the lock. A wind came through and lifted the hair at her cheek and pressed the satin robe against her thighs. She stood motionless for a moment, holding back the curtain. "Look, the sun's finally out." She laughed. "Is it nearly sundown already? Or is the sun on the wrong side of the sky?"
Gail pressed her fingertips into her forehead. "Fine. Forget going to the judge. When it comes up for trial, I won't put you on the stand. After I finish with Alan, I won't need you."
Lauren let the curtain fall and the room dimmed. Laughing softly, she walked back to where Gail sat and hugged her around the neck with one arm. "You're sweet. You are."
"And you're drunk, Lauren. I shouldn't be discussing this with you at all."
Lauren rested her cheek for a moment on the top of Gail's head. "I can't do what you want. I can't."
"Don't lie for him!"
She laughed, sinking onto the ottoman again. "You don't see it, do you? Sweet dunce. It wasn't Alan. It was me."
"You."
"He's bleeding already. He's bleeding and he doesn't know I did it to him."
Gail took a long breath. "What did you do?"
"I was very bad." She smiled, pushing a hand back through her hair. "Alan says he remembers Althea coming to the office on August third. She did come in, but for something else. I was there. Alan was asleep with a hangover, as I told you. That was true. I had to wake him up. But there was no will. He thinks he did her will, but he doesn't remember. He thinks he screwed it up because he was drunk. He thinks I've been trying to cover for him."
Gail waited, knowing what was coming next.
"After Althea died—five days after—I rewrote her will on our word processor and Rudy signed Althea's name. Then I took it to Jessica's house. Irving was there. They signed as witnesses. That's what I did."
"And the notary?"
"Rudy knew Carla Napolitano from some business or other. He paid her five thousand dollars. That was awfully generous of him." Lauren rested her face in her hand, and the cigarette smoke curled upward.
"What are you going to do?" Gail asked.
"I do not fucking know."
"You have to tell Alan."
She nodded.
After a minute, Gail said, "Can I help?"
"No."
They sat without speaking for a while. "How did Jessica and Irving get into this?"
"Rudy talked to them. They knew each other."
"Knew them how?"
"He just knew them. I don't know." Lauren leaned over to crush out her cigarette. "I am sure Patrick Norris is a wonderful guy, if you have him for a client, Gail, but really. To give him all that money. And the Tillett house too. Althea said she would leave it to Rudy and Monica. Rudy told me they talked about it before she died."
Gail said, "Did she tell him she had destroyed her will?"
"No. I wish she had. He and Monica went looking for it, and it wasn't there. God, they were frantic! Then the housekeeper said Althea had burned it. So they had to turn around and tell her 'No, no, we found it, it's here.' She believed them."
Lauren laughed, then picked up her glass and stared down into it. The ice cubes slid. "Rudy told me Althea asked him to make a list of their mother's things. She said he and Monica could take them, then she would change her will and leave them the house. But she never made a new will. Althea." Lauren laughed again. "God save us from clients like Althea."
"And so Rudy did the will for her. With your help."
Lauren leaned forward on crossed arms as though she ached. "It was the right thing, wasn't it? I told myself that. I'm a lawyer. I could make something happen that should have happened. Make it come out right. Don't throw stones. You would have lied to save my sorry ass."
Gail asked, "Why did you do it?"
Lauren looked toward the sliver of light that fell in through the curtains at the open door.
"Lauren?"
"Stupidest reason in the world. I was in love."
The ways of love. Very strange. Rudy Tillett was not what he had seemed either. Then Gail said, "Do you think it's possible that Rudy could have killed Althea when he found out she had changed her mind?"
Lauren's eyes fell closed, the short blond lashes and fragile, fatigue-pink lids. "I have considered that. He first mentioned forgery a month before she died. He wanted to know whether she kept her wills in our office, and I said no. And he said what if. What if. It would be so easy. And then—she tripped and fell down her stairs. I didn't think about it, until the police said someone had pushed her." Lauren pressed her forehead into her hands and softly moaned. "I didn't want to ask him. I didn't want to know."
"You were too much in love with him."
The slender hands came down from her face. "Rudy?"
"You said—"
A soft laugh. "No. Not Rudy."
It took Gail a moment. Then she understood.
Still smiling, Lauren leaned to brush a bit of carpet fuzz off her foot. "Oh, you didn't suspect I was one of those, did you?'
Gail let out a breath. "No, but—I don't care."
"What a surprise. Even to me. Perfectly normal life— husband, a child, a career. Friends. But it's so empty. It feels so ... flat. As if you're walking around dead, or in a dream, pretending. And then suddenly, suddenly—you're alive. Everything you touch or taste or hear, it's alive and real and so are you. And you know it could kill you, but you can't stop. Your husband suspected an affair, but never this, and he's oh-so-nice about it, and you part so amicably. Then he tells your daughter you are sick, twisted, and she can't bear to be around you anymore.
"My short, happy life." Lauren lifted her eyes. "Have you ever loved so deeply that if that person walked out of your life, you would want to die? Have you?"
Gail said, "I don't know."
"You would know. You would know that, if it happened."
Lauren's lips trembled, and she bit them fiercely. "Monica isn't the type to sneak around, but she did, for me. For a while. Then she got tired of it. Last year we were together again, and it was lovely for a few weeks. Then we split up, then back together. I have never bee
n so wretched. She asked me to do this for her. I did it."
"She used you."
"Maybe. I don't want to think that. Rudy talked her into it. She does whatever he tells her. In the end, I couldn't compete. Not that it matters. So. That's that." She shook another cigarette out of the pack.
"Is it over?" Gail asked.
"It? Is it over?" Lauren smiled. "I am forty-two years old and I am walking around with a gaping, bleeding hole in my chest."
Gail took her hand and held it tightly. "Lauren. People go through these things."
"Yes. It's a fad, in fact. Everybody's doing it now. It's in, it's cool." She pulled her hand away.
"That's not what I meant," Gail said. "People have tragic love affairs. They survive them."
Lauren only looked at her.
'Talk to your daughter. She's old enough to understand. You aren't alone. There are groups, people you could—"
"Gail, why don't you just go?"
After a few seconds Gail stood up, her head ringing with confusion. 'Tell me you won't do anything stupid."
"What, kill myself? No. I've already done that."
Gail stood by her car for a while in the parking lot watching the sun turn into an orange flare in the tangled branches of a black olive tree. She drove a few blocks and parked on the street across from the Mayfair Hotel and went inside and got some quarters at the cashier's desk.
The pay phone was in a quiet, paneled nook off the lobby, with an upholstered chair. Classical music was playing. She called Phyllis and said she would be home soon.
For a minute or so she sat with her eyes closed. She lifted a quarter to the slot and dropped it in, then dialed.
After four rings, Anthony's answering machine came on.
She started to hang up, but didn't, and said, "This is Gail. I'd like to talk to you, so ... please call me."
She hung up.
Then dialed again, waiting through the same message.
"Anthony, it's me. Gail. I guess you know that. Anyway. This morning ... I'm sure you are monumentally angry. Which I don't blame you for. You probably don't want to talk to me at all. If you were home—I'm glad you're not, in a way, because you can't hang up, can you?"
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