Misfortune

by Nancy Geary

  “We thank you for all you’ve done, and all you’ve tried to do, for us. We know it hasn’t been easy.”

  “It has been my privilege,” she managed to say. His graciousness in the face of such unfairness astounded her, and she felt at a loss for words. “I’ll still keep trying to find you a good contingent fee lawyer if you want.”

  “If it’s no trouble.”

  “No. No. Of course not. It’s the least I can do.”

  “Well then, we’ll wait to hear your recommendation. Have a good afternoon, Miss Pratt.”

  Frances replaced the receiver, swiveled her chair around to her left, and stared out through the smudged glass panes. As she pushed open the window, sounds of cars, kids laughing, a skateboard hitting the curb, floated in on the warm July breeze. Across the street, the sun beamed down on the gravel of Andrew Bryant’s driveway, making it sparkle. A red BMW convertible pulled up to the front door of the house, and Bryant got out. Poor bastard, Frances thought as she watched him disappear through his front door. A criminal prosecution is coming your way.

  Frances picked at the sugar-crusted crown of her blueberry muffin. She dreaded stepping outside the confines of her small office. The buzz of Clio’s murder seemed to be everywhere, the subject of virtually every conversation, the source of endless speculation. She couldn’t listen and wondered what had happened to all the other homicides, robberies, rapes, and home invasions that the office was supposedly trying to prosecute. Clio seemed to be the only crime that mattered.

  Frances heard a knock on the door. “I’m not here,” she called out.

  The door opened, and Meaty peered inside. “Can I bother you for a moment?” he asked tentatively.

  “Yeah.”

  Meaty stepped through the threshold and shut the door behind him. His collar was open, and he loosened the knot of his tie.

  “You look tired,” Frances said.

  “You would be too if you had Cogswell breathing down your neck every two fucking seconds.”

  Frances’s eyes fell on several sheets of paper in his hand. “What’s that?”

  Meaty shook the pages. “The ME’s final report. Clio’s cause of death is listed as toxicosis. Heart failure induced by lethal interaction of phenelzine and Dexedrine. No surprise. No different from the preliminary.”

  “Any idea how the drugs got in her?”

  “She probably ingested Dexedrine in a drink. It’s water soluble. The lab’s running tests on every used plastic cup at the Fair Lawn Country Club to check for traces. So far, we’ve found nothing. We can’t test glassware because it was run through a dishwasher before we started on this needle-in-a-haystack search. Frankly, I think it’s a waste of time. It’s a pretty efficient cleanup operation over there, and we started too late.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yeah. Forensics turned up several black hairs. One was at the table where Clio had sat shortly before she went to the ladies’ room, and two were found on her body.”

  Frances looked puzzled.

  “I mean black as in belonging to a black person, an African American, as you politically correct people say.” Meaty’s tone was sarcastic. He cocked his head to one side, trying to catch her eye. “Don’t be naive, Fanny. What black person do you know with access to Fair Lawn?”

  “I have no idea.” Frances understood his insinuations. It wouldn’t have taken a doctorate degree in sociology to figure out that the Fair Lawn Country Club was racially and ethnically exclusive. “Meaty, you’re not suggesting that because there were a few hairs, a black person killed Clio.” She tried to reflect her disapproval of such reasoning.

  “All I’m saying is we need to explore options. If someone, anyone, was out of place, I want to know why. And you should, too.”

  “Who are you looking at?”

  “We’ve collected lists of clubhouse staff and grounds crew. There’s one guy, part of kitchen cleanup. He’s black. But as far as we can tell, he wasn’t working July Fourth, although we haven’t talked to him yet.”

  “Perhaps Forensics made a mistake about the hair.”

  “Look, kiddo, I don’t purport to defend the quality of the forensic work that this department performs. They make mistakes. But apparently the characteristics of Negro and Caucasian hair are such that not even a beginner would confuse them.”

  “Have you considered the membership?”

  Meaty looked skeptical.

  “I thought private clubs had to allow minorities,” Frances said. “Although I have to tell you, your theory, if you can even call it that, is disgusting. If you had found a platinum blond hair, we wouldn’t be having this discussion.”

  “It’s not a theory. It’s just a hunch.”

  “Go to Cogswell with it, then.”

  “I already have,” Meaty said reluctantly. “He says it’s too much of a political firecracker to explore without more evidence. He’s more interested in looking good in the media than looking for suspects. I keep reminding him that we don’t have much to go on here. The bathroom had a million prints, makeup smears, used tissues, and, I admit, platinum blond hairs, most with dark roots, I might add. But none of it adds up to a lead.”

  “What about Miles?” Frances said, reminding him of their conversation the night before.

  “At best, we’ve got a motive. We haven’t found one shred of physical evidence linking him to the scene.”

  “He was at the club. His wife told me they were staying there as guests of my father and Clio.” Frances proceeded to relay her conversation with Penny Adler from the night before. “So you’ve got motive, and I’ve given you opportunity,” she said.

  Meaty cracked a smile, amused at her detective work. “Did the Adlers see your father last weekend?”

  “No. They were supposed to see him and Clio for drinks on the Fourth, but they hurried back to Manhattan instead, and Miles spent the night on the telephone arranging his business trip to Mexico City.”

  “Interesting,” Meaty remarked. “We weren’t able to locate him. All I got from his secretary was that he was out of town. You’re right. She’s discreet.”

  Annabelle Cabot gets paid to be, Frances thought. She broke off a piece of her muffin and ate it. “I’m about to leave. I’ve got an appointment in the city.” She checked her watch.

  “Who’s in charge of the club’s membership?” Meaty asked, ignoring her.

  “There’s a committee, unless things have changed recently. A friend of Dad’s, a woman named Gail Davis, used to be on it. She might still be.”

  “Could you check now? I’d appreciate it,” Meaty said. Before she could respond, he settled himself in the chair opposite Frances, apparently intending to wait. He bit at a fingernail.

  Frances called directory assistance and had the number patched in.

  “Davis Design,” answered a female voice.

  “Gail?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s Frances Pratt.”

  For the next minute or so Frances felt Meaty’s eyes staring at her as she listened to Gail’s expressions of sympathy and sorrow. “Clio was absolutely adored by everyone,” Gail said in an airy tone like an exhale. “Just a lovely person, so gracious. I can’t understand who would do this.”

  “I need to ask you a favor,” Frances interrupted.

  “What can I possibly do to help?” Gail asked in a way that made clear she had nothing of import to contribute.

  “Are you still on the Membership Committee of the Fair Lawn Country Club?”

  “Yes. I’m the secretary.”

  “I’m trying to find out what information you might have about African American members.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line. Then Gail said stiffly, “That’s a rather odd request. Might I ask why you’re interested in this information?”

  “I need to know if Fair Lawn has any black members.” Frances had no intention of disclosing Meaty’s hunch to Gail Davis.

  “We don’t,” she said matter-of-fa
ctly. “It’s not that they’re not welcome, mind you, but we’ve never gotten any qualified applicants. The financial burdens of membership are quite considerable, you know that,” she added by way of explanation.

  “Could you at least check your records?”

  “I will if you want.”

  “I’d appreciate it. Members and applicants to membership as well.”

  “You’re interested in applicants, too?”

  Frances thought she detected a hesitancy in Gail’s voice but didn’t know how to interpret it. “Yes. Thank you.” Frances gave Gail her office and home numbers before saying good-bye.

  “Well?” Meaty asked as soon as she hung up.

  “She’ll check, although there aren’t any black members.”

  “We’ll see,” Meaty mumbled as he walked out.

  A uniformed bellman met Frances at the curb as she pulled up to the Plaza hotel. He opened the driver’s-side door of her pickup truck and held out an oversize umbrella for her to step under. “Will you be staying?” he asked.

  “Just for lunch,” she replied. “At the Palm Court.”

  “You can let the maître d’ know when you’ll be needing your—” He stopped, unsure of how to refer to her truck. “Vehicle,” he announced, obviously pleased, as the word came to him. A pickup was undoubtedly a rare commodity for the Plaza’s valet service.

  “Thank you.”

  He walked Frances to the expansive awning and nodded for her to proceed up the carpeted stairs. “Through the revolving doors and straight ahead. You can’t miss it.”

  Frances didn’t need directions. The Palm Court had been one of her favorite haunts as a child growing up in Manhattan. The small, marble-topped bistro tables, wire chairs, and potted palms were separated from the rest of the opulent hotel lobby by a series of polished brass posts connected by velvet rope. A tuxedoed violinist and his piano accompanist played popular melodies and familiar show tunes. But the music and decor served merely as background to the central attraction, the multishelved display rack of desserts. Linzer torte, cheesecake with strawberries, white chocolate mousse, German chocolate cake, lemon meringue pie…each sweet temptation decorated in flowers and flourishes of frosting or whipped cream sat on its own doily-lined silver platter. It was overwhelming. Although the Palm Court served lunch, dessert was the highlight, the reason to be there.

  Frances spotted Annabelle Cabot already seated at a table in the corner. Her hair was pulled back in a bun. She wore a pale pink sweater underneath a beige fitted jacket with a gold cat pin attached to her left lapel and a matching pleated skirt. As Frances approached she looked up from the red leather day planner she was reviewing.

  “It’s so good to see you,” Belle exclaimed, rising to her feet.

  “You too. You look great, elegant as usual.”

  Belle smiled and tilted her head modestly. “For a moment, I was wondering if I had the wrong time. But here you are,” she said.

  “I’m late. Sorry.”

  “Shall we?” she said, indicating the seats. They sat down and a waiter appeared to fill their glasses with lemon water.

  “I haven’t been here for years,” Frances said, looking around. “But nothing’s changed. It still looks like a set from The Nutcracker, a home for the Sugar Plum Fairy.”

  Belle laughed.

  “Dad used to take Blair and me here. He never made us order lunch. Just let us get right down to it and have dessert. He ordered only iced coffee and a bowl of raspberries. No cream.” How vividly the memory returned, Frances thought as she spoke. She remembered the excitement of going over to the shelves of displayed desserts, examining each one, imagining the sweetness, and comparing relative quantities of frosting before making her selection. Occasionally, unable to choose, she would ask to order two. She, Blair, and her father would eat slowly, savoring their treats and discussing recent events at school, projects at home, progress on lessons. Blair did most of the talking. Even as a young child she had an uncanny ability to sustain her audience.

  “How’s your father doing?” Belle asked.

  “You would know better than me.”

  “Not really, no. I called the house several times, but Mr. Pratt apparently didn’t feel up to talking, understandably, of course. Monday I did speak briefly with Blair.”

  “I guess he’s hanging in there as best he can. It’s a shock, a shock to all of us.”

  “I’m sure.”

  The waiter returned to take their order, a smoked-salmon-andwatercress sandwich for Belle, a mocha almond tart for Frances. After he had departed Frances continued, “I suspect things will be easier for him after tomorrow. He seems quite anxious about Clio’s memorial service. I hope when that’s behind him, he can begin to grieve.”

  “Your sister told me he was concerned about preparations. He’s always been meticulous about plans, but how can one plan for this? He’s a great man, your father, a real gentleman with a heart of gold.” She dabbed at the corner of her eye with a handkerchief. “Is there anything at all I can do to help?”

  “I don’t think so, thank you. We’re all set.” Frances sat for a moment, collecting her thoughts. “There are a few things I’d like to ask you about work, if that’s okay.”

  Belle nodded.

  Frances cleared her throat. “Did Clio spend much time in the office?”

  “Mrs. Pratt? Not really, no.”

  “So she wasn’t much involved in Pratt Capital?”

  “I wouldn’t say that.” Belle sighed and seemed to search for words. “Since your father’s stroke, she’s been quite involved in the business, helping him out, you know. She reviews all the projects, or at least I think she does because I send her all the materials. I believe she speaks directly with clients and investors. She just doesn’t come into the office very often.” Belle seemed momentarily to have forgotten that Clio’s activities were now part of the past.

  “How did she get along with Miles?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t know.”

  “Did they have a lot of interaction?”

  “About a month ago, Mrs. Pratt hired an assistant, a nice young man, just graduated from Harvard Business School. He was scheduled to start work at the end of the summer. I don’t know what will happen to him now, but I believe Mrs. Pratt’s intention was to have this young man report to, and assist, her and Mr. Pratt, but work in the office here with Mr. Adler.” Belle was too smart to unintentionally evade the question.

  “What did Miles think of that?”

  “Well, I really couldn’t say. I’m not sure Mr. Adler even interviewed the young man. Perhaps he didn’t feel there was a need to take on somebody else.” Belle stopped talking as the waiter brought their food.

  “Bon appétit,” he said as he set the gold-rimmed plates in front of them. Belle picked up a crustless triangular sandwich and took a bite.

  “Look, Belle, we’ve known each other a long time, and you know that verbal delicacy is not my strong suit,” Frances said, leaning forward. “So I’ll be blunt, and I hope you can be honest with me because it’s important. I’m trying to find out who murdered Clio. I need to know everything I can about her life in order to determine who might have had a motive to kill her. You might think I would have places to start myself, but, quite frankly, there’s a lot I don’t know about her life. I haven’t wanted to bombard Dad with questions, not yet, anyway, although I’m sure the time will come for that. So what I’m asking you is whether you can think of anything at all about Clio, her involvement in Pratt Capital, her relationship with Miles, or anybody else, for that matter, anything at all that might help me. Was there anyone you can think of who was angry at her, owed her money, anything?”

  Belle shifted in her seat and fingered a loose strand of hair from the nape of her neck. Then, seeming to catch her own nervous tic, she folded her hands in her lap. She said nothing.

  “You’ve known Dad a long time. Probably better than most of us. Please, Belle, for him, if you have any information, you’
ve got to share it.”

  “I don’t want to add to his sorrow,” she said flatly.

  “You won’t. I don’t intend to trouble Dad with details of this investigation until everything is over and we have a suspect.”

  “I don’t know—” Her voice cracked, and she momentarily covered her mouth with her hands. Her fingers trembled. She clenched her fists and rested them on the edge of the table. “I don’t know whether it means anything or not, but, well, things at the office have been rather strained since Mr. Pratt’s stroke. Mr. Adler and Mrs. Pratt didn’t interact much, but when they did, it was hardly what I would call civil. At an office meeting about a month ago, the one where Mrs. Pratt announced that she was hiring an assistant, that was the worst. Mr. Adler got so incensed he left the meeting, just banged his notepad on the table and walked right out. He was carrying on in quite a way about all he had done for Pratt Capital and how this assistant was the final insult. He accused Mrs. Pratt of hiring a spy. I believe that’s what he said, or something along those lines.”

  “Did anything else happen at the meeting?”

  “There really wasn’t much to it. Mrs. Pratt wanted to institute a review procedure to ensure that she received all information on all projects under consideration at Pratt Capital. The discussion was logistical. We talked about getting materials forwarded to her at the Southampton house in a timely manner. Mrs. Pratt was planning to redecorate the offices. She had hired a firm called Davis Design, and its principal, Gail Davis, made a brief presentation. Mr. Wasserman spoke about certain changes in the accounting system, and Mr. Michaels summarized the settlement of a shareholder lawsuit where Pratt Capital was one of the defendants. We were voluntarily dismissed by the plaintiffs, so that was a bit of good news.”

  Frances listened to Belle’s perfect recall of the meeting more than a month ago. It was a testament to her steadfast attention to detail, one of the many qualities that made her a perfect secretary.

  “Was Miles still around when the meeting ended?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Did Clio speak with him?”

  Belle seemed to contemplate her sandwich as she thought of how to answer. After several moments she looked up and focused intently on Frances. “They did speak. I’m sorry to say. I left the office right after the meeting, but when I got to the lobby, I realized I’d forgotten my taxi voucher. I went back upstairs. Mrs. Pratt was in Mr. Adler’s office, and they hadn’t shut the door. They were both very angry.”