Misfortune

by Nancy Geary

  Several of Richard and Clio’s closest friends lined up in a row by the front of the church to usher in the guests. Frances recognized a few familiar faces peppered in the crowd: Jack Von Furst at the front of the line, his hands crossed in front of him, his head down; Aurelia in a dramatic black hat with a lace veil that partially covered her face; Malcolm Morris working the crowd, shaking hands. Standing next to Annabelle Cabot, Penny Adler clutched a small quilted bag. Her chin quivered.

  Lily pushed Richard Pratt’s wheelchair. Jake held Blair around the waist, supporting her as she walked behind. Frances, alone, brought up the rear of their small procession as they made their way to the handicapped-accessible entrance at the back of the church. Frances couldn’t look up as the crowd of mourners parted to let them through. She couldn’t bear to see the sympathetic stares. She knew what people thought: The poor Pratts, the pitiful shattered family beset by tragedy once again.

  Lily negotiated Richard into the church and found him a place in front. His wheelchair filled the narrow aisle. Blair, Jake, and Frances slipped into the adjacent pew. Frances listened to the organ music and the rustle and murmur of guests as they settled in their seats. She noticed that Lily stood by the back wall in attendance.

  Blair, sitting on the aisle, leaned over and closed a button that had come undone on her father’s shirt. Then she took his hand in both of hers and proceeded to rub his fingers gently.

  The air was filled with the sweet smell of the many bouquets that the Pratts had received. These arrangements covered every inch of the floor around the altar and pulpit and effectively masked the two rose-filled urns that Frances had selected. That her only contribution to the occasion was superfluous made her sad. Her father needn’t have asked for help.

  Frances felt dazed, unable to concentrate fully on Jack Von Furst’s eulogy, the stream of prayers and hymns. She lifted her eyes and searched the crowd. Could Clio’s murderer actually be among these mourners? It was hard to imagine any of the well-coiffed, hymn-singing participants as a cold-blooded killer. As she sat, Frances tried to figure out what she actually knew about Clio’s murder, but the bits and pieces of information she had gathered seemed no more than fragments of a broken kaleidoscope. What had the police been doing? Testing paper cups and interviewing all the dozens of people who happened to gather at the Fair Lawn Country Club last Saturday. Why did she have the feeling that they were off in the wrong direction? And why did she feel a compulsion to find the killer first? She had no experience with homicide investigations and had been told specifically not to get involved. If someone, anyone, was out of place, I want to know why, and you should, too. Meaty’s words haunted her.

  Frances leaned back against the wooden pew and felt the hard seat underneath her. She wanted to forget about motives and suspects and to concentrate instead on the loss of her stepmother, but if she blocked out the investigation, she felt nothing at all.

  Afterward the mourners gathered on the lawn outside the church, intentionally loitering to give Richard time to get home and settled before the reception began. But their wait was longer than expected. Richard remained alone in the church after the service ended to say his private good-bye.

  “Fanny…”She recognized him from the way he said her name with the emphasis on the second syllable and a slight inflection. Pietro Benedetti came up behind her. As she turned to face him, he stepped forward, arms outstretched, and embraced her. Her face went into his chest. She felt his warm body and tight grip.

  “Fanny, I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” he whispered, then added knowingly, “For your father.” His arms released and she stepped back, stumbling slightly.

  Pietro looked as regal and elegant as the last time she had seen him. He had large walnut eyes, an angular nose, broad brow, and high cheekbones. The auburn highlights in his brown hair glistened in the sun. The double-breasted jacket of his gray linen suit accentuated his long, thin torso and small hips. She recognized his tie, black with gold specks, the last present she had given him. He had remembered.

  “You’re nice to come,” she managed to say. She felt beads of perspiration forming on her forehead. “Did you see Mom? I’m sure she will want to say hello.”

  “We spoke briefly before the service. She looks well.”

  “She pulled off quite an outfit for this morning’s ceremony. The hat’s really something.”

  Pietro smiled. “She always was dramatic.”

  “And you always were her biggest fan,” Frances replied. She felt disoriented. The rest of the people, the steepled church, the parked cars, and the sandy dunes whirled around her. She had the urge to move closer to Pietro and wrap his arms around her a second time.

  “You look good,” Pietro said.

  “I appreciate the lie,” Frances said, trying to sound lighthearted. She felt self-conscious and folded her arms in front of her chest as if to cover herself. What did he see as he stood staring at her? She imagined he viewed her as a thirty-eight-year-old matron, the spinster Pratt sister. He had once told her in a moment of candor that she was attractive but not beautiful, then had attempted to ameliorate the insult by telling her repeatedly that she was so special, looks didn’t matter. She had never known exactly what he meant, and the thought had plagued her throughout their relationship.

  “How’s work?” he asked.

  “Obviously Clio’s murder is the top priority. My work’s the same. Plenty of financial crime to keep me busy.”

  “And life?”

  Why was he asking questions that she didn’t want to answer? She resisted the urge to tell him there were still times that she missed him, but her stepmother’s funeral seemed neither the time nor the place for that conversation. “Good. Life’s good.” She laughed nervously. “How about you?”

  “Emanuella and I are expecting another baby. A boy this time.” His eyes twinkled. “Cristina is almost three. She’s not at all pleased about the prospect of a brother.”

  “Congratulations.” Frances’s voice was flat. A marriage and two kids. Pietro hadn’t lost any time.

  “We’re leaving soon, returning to Italy. Citibank’s finally decided to send me home. They’re transferring me to Milan. We haven’t found an apartment yet, but I’ll let you know when we get settled. You should come visit. I’d love for you to meet the kids. I honestly think you and Emanuella would hit it off. She’s a great girl.”

  “You better check with her first.”

  “I know what she’ll say.” He smiled. “I’m sorry I can’t come back to the house. I’ve got to get back to the city.” He rested his hand on her shoulder, leaned forward, and kissed her lightly on the cheek. Frances didn’t move. “Take care.”

  He turned and walked toward the curb. She watched his broad shoulders outlined against the sun as he left once and for all.

  “Come on, Fanny. Dad’s in the car,” Blair said. Then, following her sister’s gaze, she added, “It was sweet of him to come.”

  Frances’s eyes burned as she fought back tears. She put on her dark glasses and walked with her sister to the awaiting limousine.

  Frances couldn’t think of anything to say to the friends and acquaintances who filled her father’s house following the memorial service. Standing around while others reminisced about Clio made her uneasy, yet the idle, unrelated chatter that took over after a few moments seemed inappropriate. Frances tried to keep track of who wasn’t there, as if absence from their victim’s funeral could shed insight on who the killer might be. There was no sign of Henry or Louise Lewis, although Louise’s parents mingled in the crowd. Miles Adler hadn’t made it back. “He’s so sorry,” Penny apologized for him. Blair confirmed that Beverly Winters hadn’t appeared, either, although her daughter, Deirdre, had sent an overly extravagant bouquet.

  As Frances moved to the makeshift bar set up in the sunroom, she noticed a familiar face she hadn’t seen at the church. Sam stood in a corner, holding a glass of beer. He looked different to her in a starched white shirt, striped t
ie, and blue blazer, but the formality suited him. His gentle eyes fell on her as she made her way toward him.

  “What are you doing over here all alone?”

  “Well…” He paused. “I didn’t want to barge through all those people to find you. I don’t know anyone else here. I never met Clio, so it’s a little hard to make conversation under the circumstances, and I figured I’d wait until I ran into you. This is a nice enough spot, and I’ve got a very good beer.” Typical Sam. He could make the best out of any situation.

  She smiled. “I hadn’t expected you to come.”

  “That’s what friends are for.”

  Frances took a step closer, wishing for a brief moment he had chosen different words. The waves in his thick clean hair shone in the light. Standing so close to him, she could smell his oatmeal soap. She felt her eyes well with tears for the second time in as many hours. “I wish you could take me home,” she murmured. Then, embarrassed by her own directness, she felt her cheeks flush.

  “I can.”

  The image of Pietro leaving the church flashed in her mind. It was the same silhouette she had seen walking away from her seven years earlier, when she had broken off their engagement. A final lunch with few words exchanged confirmed the decision she had already made. Outside the restaurant, Pietro had kissed her quickly and turned into Central Park. She hadn’t intended to end up alone, but here she was, trying to avoid acknowledging her own loneliness while craving someone to hold her, to keep her safe. Frances wondered for a moment whether that person could ever be Sam. She tried to imagine resting her head on his chest as he ran his palm over her hair or patted her back. Maybe he could whisper a fairy tale about two semirecluses who found each other living in Orient Point, or he could talk to her about a new garden design as she listened, enjoying the sound of his voice. Temporarily these thoughts soothed her.

  “Do you want to leave?” His voice interrupted her daydream.

  She sighed audibly, collecting her thoughts. “I better stay. This is one reception I don’t think I can escape.”

  “I take it you’ll want to pass on bingo tonight.”

  “Yeah. I doubt I’ll be home in time. You go, though. Win for both of us.”

  “It wouldn’t be the same without competition from you.”

  Frances forced a chuckle.

  “Will you call me if you need anything?” Sam asked.

  “Yes.”

  He extended his hand and covered her knuckles with his wide palm.

  “Thanks, Sam.”

  “By the way, in case no one else said anything, you look really stunning…beautiful.”

  Frances laughed.

  “I mean it.” He smiled again and headed toward the door.

  As guests started to leave and the caterer set up a lunch buffet for the more intimate group, Frances slipped up the back stairs to her old bedroom overlooking the entrance to the house. The room was neat but unchanged: two white cast-iron beds with polished knobs, comforters with pink flowers and matching sheets and shams, a painted dresser, and two small armchairs upholstered in a coordinating sage green. She opened the bureau drawers, ones that had been filled with T-shirts, bathing suits, and tennis shorts. Now they were empty except for crisp lavender-scented drawer liners and several silk sachets.

  Frances pulled an armchair over to the window and sat, watching the endless line of cars snake in and out of the driveway below. She saw her mother leave, talking animatedly to Malcolm Morris, her black hat bobbing as she held on to his arm and tried to balance walking in high heels on gravel. Frances watched Malcolm help her into her car. Now he’s met the other half of my family, she thought.

  Frances wandered into her father and Clio’s room, where Clio had slept alone for the last fifteen months of her life. A large four-poster wooden bed with pineapple finials faced a marble mantel. An arrangement of dried flowers filled the unused fireplace, and a pale Aubusson rug covered most of the floor in front. On either side of the bed were round tables skirted in a gold toile with vignettes of a milkmaid and a lute player on the hills of France. The right bedside table held a gilt-framed portrait of Clio as a bride. On the left was a similar frame with a formal portrait of Richard, as well as a stack of books and a portable telephone. She stayed on her side even without him there, Frances thought.

  She found what she was looking for in the adjacent marbled bathroom. The orange plastic bottle labeled Nardil, the brand name for phenelzine, Clio’s prescription for 15 milligrams three times a day, sat on the bottom shelf of the medicine cabinet. The prescribing physician was a Dr. Prescott. The prescription had been filled at Columbia Presbyterian Pharmacy, 168th and Broadway. There would be no trace of it at any Southampton drugstore.

  Frances returned to their bedroom and sat at Clio’s bird’s-eye maple desk. One drawer held engraved stationery, stamps, and a letter opener. The other contained several invitations, a newspaper clipping from Town & Country on a small town outside of Paris, France, and a leather desk diary. Frances removed the worn diary and flipped through the pages, scanning notations for cocktail parties, charity events, meetings, reminders to buy gifts or send notes. Two entries were repeated. Every Wednesday was marked 3:00—FP at CP, each Friday noted 10:00—RC. Clio’s code. Apparently Blair hadn’t thought to give this to Meaty on Monday, along with the business documents, or else, perhaps, she hadn’t discovered it herself.

  Frances replaced the diary and closed the drawer.

  Moving back toward the bed, she felt reluctant to sit down, to disturb the sanctity of the perfectly folded sheets and smooth cover, so she leaned against one of the four posts. She dialed information and got the number for Henry Lewis.

  A woman’s voice answered.

  “Louise? It’s Frances Pratt. I don’t know if you remember me. It’s been a while.”

  “I do,” she said. Her tone was decidedly unfriendly.

  “I was wondering if I could talk to you and your husband about my stepmother, Clio. I promise to keep it brief.”

  “I don’t know what we have to say.”

  “Look, I know what happened with your Fair Lawn membership application. You must be very angry with my father.”

  “I am,” Louise said bluntly. “I wish I could excuse his bigotry, but I can’t. I don’t have much patience for it, and neither does my husband.”

  “I can appreciate that.”

  “Can you?” Louise’s polite tone was unnerving.

  “I just need a few moments of your time.”

  Frances heard a muffling sound as Louise covered the telephone. There were voices in the background, but Frances couldn’t make out what was said. Finally Louise returned to the line. “Isn’t your stepmother’s service today?”

  “Yes. That’s why I’m in Southampton.”

  “When did you want to talk?”

  “This afternoon? In an hour or so.”

  “All right. We’re on Gin Lane, the right-hand side, seven-tenths of a mile past the Beach Club. There’s a sign by the driveway. Says Lewis.”

  The living room had emptied by the time Frances descended. Penny Adler lingered at the front door, and Frances watched Blair say good-bye. She thanked her for coming and added, “You must stop by our gallery this fall. We’re expanding, thanks to Dad. Our new showroom will be open by October. It’s a terrific space for a sculptor who’s just signed with us. You really must come,” Blair said.

  Thanks to Dad, Frances thought, remembering the legal documents and architectural sketches that she had seen in her sister’s Miata. She wondered when Richard had become part of that deal.

  “I’ve got to head back to the city,” Jake Devlin said, rolling up his shirtsleeves as he came toward Frances. He had already loosened his tie. “Wish I could stay, really I do, but the gallery beckons.” He leaned forward and lightly kissed his sister-in-law’s cheek.

  “When will you be back?” Frances asked.

  “Saturday morning.”

  “Oh.” Frances paused for a moment,
then added, “I understand you’ve got an expansion under way. That must be thrilling.”

  “Yeah.” Jake nodded and looked at the floor. “Wish I could say it was my own success, but, once again, I’m thanking your father.”

  “So I hear.”

  Jake lifted his tired eyes and glanced at her curiously. “Richard’s been extremely generous to us. Always. Don’t think we take it for granted.”

  Always? Frances wondered. Or recently? She wanted to ask Jake about the specifics of the gallery’s development and Richard’s involvement, but the end of a long funeral reception seemed hardly the appropriate forum. Her inquiries would have to wait. “I’ll see you this weekend, I’m sure,” she said.

  “Great. We’ll look forward to it.” His words sounded forced.

  As Blair saw the remaining guests to the door, Frances wandered into the sunroom and found her father gazing out at the lawn.

  “How are you holding up?” she asked.

  “I can’t imagine life without her,” he said softly. “I expected her to bury me.”

  Blair appeared and sat on the floor by her father’s feet. “Everyone’s finally gone.” She rubbed his legs, as if increasing his circulation could mend his broken heart. “Quite a tribute, Daddy. There must’ve been two hundred people here at one point or another. Clio would’ve been pleased.”

  Richard smiled faintly in a crooked twist of his lips. “My girls,” he murmured. “I appreciate all you’ve done.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Blair looked up at him. “We love you. I just wish there was something more we could do.”

  Frances watched Blair’s nimble fingers massage his frail limbs. Why did her sister have such an easy time displaying affection? Her touch seemed to reassure him, and Frances noticed her father’s hunched shoulders drop slightly.

  “Fanny, I’ve been thinking,” Blair said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Maybe you should part with your ramshackle residence and move in here.”