Misfortune

by Nancy Geary

  “What did they say?”

  “I didn’t stay long.”

  “Did you hear any of what their argument was about?”

  “Yes, but you know there’ve been several police officers that have come to the office wanting to ask me questions. I’ve said nothing. I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to be sharing information about my employers, especially information that I may have understood out of context. Your father and Mrs. Pratt, and Mr. Adler as well, have been very good to me.”

  “Please, Belle, what did you hear?”

  “All right.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice so that Frances could barely make out what she was saying. “Mr. Adler apparently wanted Mr. and Mrs. Pratt to sell him a controlling interest in the company. He thought he was entitled to it, you know, because he had kept the firm going so well since Mr. Pratt’s illness, or at least that’s what he said. Mrs. Pratt refused. She said, I remember this much, ‘Richard made you what you are. It’s you who owe him.’ Mr. Adler then got very angry. He called her names. I had to leave. It was too upsetting. Poor Mr. Pratt.” Belle’s voice was shaking.

  “This is very helpful,” Frances said, trying to sound consoling.

  “There’s more, unfortunately.” Belle reached down to her handbag on the floor beside her, opened it, and removed an envelope. She placed it on the table next to Frances. Then she took a sip of water. “That’s a copy of a letter that Mrs. Pratt gave to me. She asked me to keep it in a safe place. I have the original at home.”

  Frances tore the envelope and removed a single sheet of folded paper. The letter to Clio was dated May 30.

  Since I first walked through the doors of Pratt Capital, I’ve worked tirelessly. I knew when I came on board that Richard had built the company and took great pride in what he’d accomplished. He treated me well—like a son—compensated me fairly, and encouraged me with the knowledge that one day I would be his partner. In exchange, I helped the company grow. In the several years before Richard’s stroke, two of our most profitable deals came through me.

  As we discussed last night, none of us expected Richard’s health to fail so suddenly and so completely. Nobody was as devastated as I. I assumed that he would retire and thought that he would offer me the opportunity to buy his company from him. To my surprise, you and he decided to keep Pratt Capital operating with you at the helm. You asked me to stay in exchange for 43 percent ownership interest. I agreed. At the time, I should have foreseen the problems inherent in having the only person with the institutional knowledge and skill to effectively run Pratt Capital be the minority shareholder. I somehow thought that it would work, that we could all just get along. I was wrong.

  You have made our arrangement impossible. You have done everything in your power to undermine me. You have questioned my judgment, threatened my reputation in the financial community, and ruined the Pro-Chem deal. I warn you once and for all: Stay out of my business.

  You and I both know that with the profits I have generated over the last year, I am entitled to a majority stake in Pratt Capital. I have earned that much. I urge you to reconsider your refusal to sell me an additional 8 percent of the firm. In case you didn’t hear me, I mean what I say. If you do not honor my request, you will not like the consequences.

  The letter was signed Miles Adler.

  “I can’t believe Mr. Adler would do anything to harm Mrs. Pratt. He so adores your father. He couldn’t possibly want to hurt him,” Belle said.

  “When did Clio give you this letter?”

  “Several weeks ago. She stopped by the office briefly, unannounced, and handed it to me. As I said, she asked me to keep it in a safe place.”

  “Did you read it at the time?”

  “No. I put it in an envelope and did as she instructed. Only after I heard of her murder did I open it. I had to make a decision about what to do with it. Then I also remembered something that happened about the same time.”

  “What was that?”

  “Well, one afternoon, rather unexpectedly, Mr. Adler wanted the key to your father’s office. He had a story about why he needed it. He said that he wanted to throw a party for Mrs. Pratt and wanted personal information about her to help the party planner, information that he somehow thought might be in your father’s office. I could tell something was odd.”

  “Did you give him the key?”

  “No. But I’m quite sure he took it. He sent me on an errand to buy a present for his wife. There was no occasion for a gift, at least not that I knew, and Mr. Adler’s hardly what you would call the compulsive romantic. He wanted me out of the office. When I returned, Mr. Pratt’s office was still locked, but the key had been moved. I keep it on the right side of my desk drawer. It was in the center.”

  Frances was impressed. With her own disorganization, she would have no way of knowing whether something had been rearranged or removed altogether.

  “I should’ve taken the key with me, but, you know, at the time, I really didn’t think much of the conversation. I thought his request was peculiar, but I had no reason to be suspicious. It’s only been because of recent events that I’ve rethought that afternoon.”

  “When was this?”

  “I don’t recall the exact day. The end of May, shortly before the office meeting I mentioned.”

  “What kind of information might Miles have wanted?”

  “Your father kept meticulous files on everything. I filed materials relating to projects for him, but I know he has one cabinet with personal files as well. He took care of those himself, and no one’s touched them in the last year.”

  “What’s in them?”

  “I don’t know. I assume personal records, probably financial information, although what Mr. Adler would have wanted with any of that, I couldn’t begin to imagine.”

  “Did Clio ever use his office?”

  “No. I don’t think Mrs. Pratt could even bear to go inside it. I certainly never saw her go in. In fact, one of the reasons to redesign the office space was so that she could put in an office for herself. But Mr. Pratt’s office was to stay just as it was. It was not to be touched.”

  “Have the police gone in?”

  Belle took a sip of her lemon water, wiped her mouth, and replaced her napkin in her lap. “Yes. They came first thing this morning with a search warrant and removed several boxes of files. As far as I could tell, the police took information on current and past employees and projects, as well as some materials from Richard’s personal files. I was told I would receive an itemized inventory once the material had been logged at the station.”

  “Did they give you a copy of the warrant?”

  “Yes.” Again Belle reached into her handbag and removed a thin piece of paper, a sheet from a triplicate. She handed it to Frances.

  Frances skimmed the search warrant. Perry Cogswell had signed it. The paper indicated that the affidavit in support of the warrant came from Special Agent Robert Burke. It had been submitted to the court. Blair’s cooperation, the partnership documents, undoubtedly provided the information Meaty needed to establish probable cause.

  “What’s Miles doing in Mexico City?” Frances said, folding the search warrant and stuffing it into her pocket.

  “I didn’t know he was there until he called the office yesterday morning.”

  “Is there any project that you know of in Mexico City?”

  “The Pro-Chem deal, the one referenced in his letter. The manufacturing plant is just outside the city limits. That’s the only one I can think of.”

  “What was the deal?”

  “From what I understand—which, I remind you, is only what a secretary learns in the course of correspondence and such—it’s a nutritional supplements company. It’s quite small, run by only a handful of gentlemen, but Mr. Adler thought it had tremendous potential. He was very interested in investing in it.”

  “Clio didn’t approve?”

  “All I know is that Mr. Adler’s communications with the company, pho
ne calls, letters, faxes, stopped in late May. Since then we haven’t received anything from them, or sent anything to them, or at least nothing of which I’m aware.”

  “When do you expect Miles back?”

  “I don’t know. He didn’t say.” Belle interlaced her fingers, rested them on the edge of the table, and leaned forward. She lowered her voice. “He’s become increasingly private over the last months. He keeps his office door shut, and doesn’t tell me where he’s going or when he’ll be back when he leaves the office. It can be quite awkward, really, if clients call wanting to know when they can expect to reach him. He hired his own attorney after your father’s stroke. He won’t use Mr. Michaels anymore. He even talked about getting himself a personal secretary. It wasn’t my place to tell him that wasn’t necessary, that I’m perfectly capable of handling his workload, always have been, and certainly am now. As you might expect, things are considerably quieter without your father around.” Belle’s voice cracked. Again she covered her mouth with her hands.

  “You’ve been a huge help.”

  Belle didn’t reply. She removed a handkerchief from the pocket of her jacket and blotted again at the corners of her eyes.

  Frances signaled to the waiter for their check and insisted on paying. She stuffed Miles’s letter and the carbon copy of the search warrant into her already crowded bag. Meaty would want Belle’s off-the-record information, but these disclosures, given at considerable emotional cost, would stay with Frances, at least for now.

  Traffic leaving the city had been brutal, with cars bumper to bumper along the FDR Drive, over the Triborough Bridge, and out past Kennedy Airport. It was after four when Frances turned onto Montauk Highway. She drove straight home, not wanting to return to the office to face Meaty’s interrogation. If her prolonged absence from work was objectionable, so be it. Malcolm had told the press that she needed time to grieve. Let them think she was doing just that.

  The message light on her answering machine blinked. She pressed the button and listened to the miniature tape rewind. The first call was Gail Davis, shortly after two. “I have the information you requested,” was all she said. The second was from Malcolm Morris, whose brusque voice seemed to jump from the machine to fill the silence of her empty kitchen. “Fanny, it’s me. Your boss. Remember that I am the boss. I do not want you involved in this investigation. Period. Cogswell is in charge, and Cogswell will remain in charge. Call me.” The third was Sam, who didn’t need to identify himself. “Miss Fanny, I fed the dogs at three. There’s some turkey hash in your refrigerator, because I have the sneaking suspicion that you made no provision for supper. Also, I took the liberty of throwing away your milk. Check the expiration dates, will you? Call if you need me. Any time. I’m here.” She smiled to herself as she opened the refrigerator door to see a new quart of milk, a basket of strawberries, and a Tupperware container filled with Sam’s home cooking.

  Frances turned on the kettle and, while waiting for the water to boil, leafed through the stack of mail that had accumulated on the kitchen table over the past several days. Catalogs, bills, an invitation to a fund-raiser at Guild Hall, no doubt her name placed on the mailing list by her mother, notice of a retirement party for a state trooper she hardly knew. She longed for something new.

  The life she’d once shared with Pietro in a one-bedroom apartment just off Central Park West seemed worlds away from the quiet homogeneity of Orient Point, a community of farmers, contractors, a few heavy equipment suppliers, and the host of people employed by the ferry service to New London. It was a town where children bicycled in the street with various mutt dogs running behind them, Town Hall closed for the annual Strawberry Festival, and churches still played a major role in people’s lives. Frances liked the solitude, the fact that nobody bothered her or cared much what she did. Because she blended into the community and drew no attention to herself, she was allowed to mind her own business. Sometimes, though, she had to admit, she missed the excitement of Manhattan.

  She and Pietro had spent countless Saturdays at sidewalk restaurants, watching the crowds wander along Columbus Avenue, a couple pushing a baby stroller beside homosexual lovers in leather vests with their hands in each other’s back pockets, followed by an Asian student covered head to toe in designer clothing. Pietro puffed on unfiltered Camel cigarettes and commented on the amazing variety of New Yorkers. “You could be anything here. Nobody cares.” Frances watched his chest expand with each deep inhale, then watched the thick ribbon of smoke escape his lips.

  There were evenings, especially when they had both had a glass of wine too many, that their conversations were heated. Pietro’s ideology and hers clashed in animated discussion of the necessity of rent control in a city where soon only the rich could afford to live, of the censorship effect created by the National Endowment for the Arts’ distribution of funds. Andres Serrano, the famous piss Christ image, had been the topic of many late night debates between them. She’d thought then that the difference in worldviews of a New York University Law School graduate turned public servant and a financial analyst at Citibank could coexist.

  More than the lively New York life or intellectual banter, though, Frances missed the intimacy, the comfort of their silence. Snuggled together on their down-filled sofa, Pietro would pull her toward him and blow softly in her ear, sending a shiver down her spine. Absentmindedly he fiddled with the ends of her hair, running the long strands over his face, using them to tickle his ear. It was this connection that she cherished more than anything.

  The kettle’s whistle brought her back from her reverie. She opened a package of instant hot chocolate and watched the miniature marshmallows melt under the stream of hot water. Then she picked up the telephone and dialed Gail Davis.

  “I don’t know whether this is important,” Gail began in an official-sounding voice. “But, given your request, I thought it only appropriate to call. I certainly would want to do anything possible to help find Clio’s murderer.”

  “What is it?”

  “Louise Bancroft, you know her, don’t you? Her family has belonged to Fair Lawn for years. She married, and she and her husband recently applied to join as a family. They have two little girls, too.”

  “I knew her growing up. She’s my sister’s age.”

  “Her husband is Henry Lewis. He’s a cardiac surgeon in Manhattan. Apparently quite successful. He’s at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital. Anyway, that’s not what’s important. The reason I called you, and am telling you all this, is that he’s black. Their children are mulatto,” she said, making “mulatto” sound like a bad word.

  “Is he a member now?” Frances asked.

  “No.”

  “What happened?”

  “When a member marries, the spouse becomes what’s called a provisional member while the application of the newly constituted family is under review. Louise had been a junior member since she turned twenty-five. Henry Lewis became a provisional member last year, when they decided to pursue membership as a family. As a provisional member, he could come as a guest of Louise’s, but without restrictions on the number of times that he could use the club. It’s rather complicated, but normally the same guest cannot come more than twice a month or three times in a season. As a provisional member, these limitations don’t apply.”

  “What changed?”

  “Well,” Gail stalled. “The Lewises weren’t accepted.”

  “Why not?”

  “Now, dear, you must understand that the actions of the Membership Committee are secret. All I can tell you is that the committee abstained from voting on their application.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that the Lewises can reapply in future years, but for this season, they were not voted into membership.”

  “Can Henry remain a provisional member?”

  “No. He’s now subject to the regular rules governing guests.”

  “So Henry Lewis can only use the club as his wife’s guest three times a summ
er?”

  “That’s right. I mean, he could come as anyone’s guest, but for all intents and purposes, he’ll be Louise’s. The same thing applies to their children.”

  “What about Louise?”

  “She can remain a junior member until she’s thirty-five, another six months or so, if my recollection serves me. Then she has to either join with her family, or resign. You can’t be a junior forever.” Gail laughed nervously.

  “When did this happen?”

  “Shortly before Memorial Day. The Membership Committee met for its final vote of the season.”

  “Why were the Lewises turned down?”

  Gail paused for a moment. “It was a difficult year. Let me put it that way. The club is getting crowded. It’s simply becoming a lot harder to join.”

  “But most junior members get accepted as a family, don’t they?”

  “Most do. Yes.”

  “Who’s on the Membership Committee?”

  “Let’s see. Jack Von Furst, he’s the president. George Welch was on the committee, but he resigned.”

  “When?”

  “The beginning of June, I believe. I can check the exact date if you need it.”

  Frances looked around for a notepad. She settled for the utility company’s bill and began to scribble notes. “Was he there when the Lewis application came up for review?”

  “Oh yes. Certainly he was.”

  “How did he vote?”

  “I can’t tell you that. As I said, these things are confidential.”

  “Why did he resign?”

  “I…I don’t know exactly how to answer that. He is fond of Henry and Louise. I do think the outcome of their application upset him. I’m sure he had reasons.”

  “Who else is on the committee?” Frances prompted.