Misfortune

by Nancy Geary

  Frances felt as useless as her navy blue funeral suit curled in a ball on the floor of her cab. Maybe the police had come up with something. They couldn’t be doing worse than she. She settled herself in the driver’s seat and undid the waist button of the rayon skirt she had borrowed from her mother. The button had dug into her skin, and she had a red welt just below her navel. She looked down at her roll of white flesh. She hadn’t even had kids. What was her excuse?

  Besides Beverly, a tragic widow, who else was there? Frances hadn’t heard from Belle, which meant that Miles Adler had not returned from Mexico City. Neither had she heard from Meaty, so apparently Cogswell and company were unwilling to share the results of the search warrant they had executed at the offices of Pratt Capital. Meaty’s speculation based on a few flimsy hairs led to Henry Lewis, who couldn’t be ruled out, although it was hard to imagine someone would actually kill for membership at the Fair Lawn Country Club. But was it possible that Clio’s conduct on the Membership Committee offended others as well? Frances ran through the list of names that Gail Davis had given her: Jack Von Furst, Wallace Lovejoy, Peter Parker, George Welch. Both Henry and Beverly had mentioned Welch as the one who was the most outraged by what Clio had done. She might as well see what he had to say. She removed the Blue Book of the Hamptons from her backpack and looked him up.

  George Welch’s home on South Main Street was easy to miss, and Frances drove by the entrance several times before locating the drive. The high, thick privet camouflaged the house from view of the road, and the small driveway had no sign or mailbox to mark its entrance. An enormous U-Haul truck was parked in front. The door was ajar.

  Frances stood in the doorway, staring into the foyer. “Hello,” she called. Packed boxes and several rolled rugs were stacked against the walls. A bucket of cleaning supplies sat in the middle of the floor. Shoes, books, tennis balls, and what looked to be the miscellaneous contents of a hall closet formed a loose pile next to it. “Is anyone home?” she called again.

  “Who is it?” She heard a male voice upstairs.

  “It’s Frances Pratt. I’m from the Suffolk County District Attorney’s Office. I’m looking for Mr. Welch.”

  A round, flushed face leaned over the top of the banister. “I’ll be right down.”

  A few moments later a balding man with a boxy frame appeared. He wore khaki Bermuda shorts, a baggy polo shirt with a tear at the bottom, and Docksiders. There was perspiration on his broad forehead. He wiped his hands on a rag as he descended the stairs.

  “I’m George Welch,” he said.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you.”

  “Depending on why you’re here, I may or may not be glad for the break. I’m in the process of moving,” he explained in response to Frances’s wandering gaze. “The house is on the market, if you know anyone who might be interested.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “What can I do for you?” he prompted.

  “I’m looking into the murder of Clio Pratt. I just wanted to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind,” Frances said. “Clio was married to my father.”

  “So you’re Richard’s daughter.” George Welch eyed her suspiciously. “I can see the resemblance. Richard and I have known each other for years. We’re both Andover graduates, although he’s quite a few years ahead of me.”

  Phillips Academy, the preparatory school in Andover, Massachusetts, was her father’s alma mater. Frances hadn’t wanted to go to boarding school, despite her parents’ strong encouragement, but Blair had gone and thrived, much to her father’s delight. It was simply one more in the long list of attributes that linked Blair and Richard.

  “Small world,” Frances remarked absentmindedly. “In this community, people try their damnedest to keep it as small as possible.”

  “I need to ask you about your role on the Membership Committee of the Fair Lawn Country Club.”

  George looked at her intently, as if he hoped to read her mind by staring at a point on the bridge of her nose. “Do I need a lawyer?” he asked.

  The question startled Frances. She reminded herself that she had come because he, of all the members, had been the most upset by Clio’s decision on the Lewis application. Should she be advising him of his rights? Was it possible that his anger had overwhelmed him? Frances allowed herself to imagine the scenario. George Welch, a prep school graduate turned Southampton businessman, murdered the bigot socialite because he wanted to create a kinder, gentler Fair Lawn Country Club, one that would embrace all creeds and colors. The middle-aged man in front of her didn’t look the part of a calculating killer, although she wasn’t exactly sure what the proper look would be.

  “It’s your choice, of course, but I’ll only take a moment of your time.”

  George shifted his weight, hesitating, then shrugged. “All right. Come in. I think we can find a seat in the other room.” He led her into a small study through a maze of boxes, books, and furniture wrapped in brown paper. Two striped armchairs were pushed into one corner. “Sorry about the mess.” He gestured for her to have a seat.

  “It’s neat compared to my place, and I’m not going anywhere,” Frances said.

  George chuckled politely.

  Through the row of windows, Frances could see a gunite swimming pool. Scattered leaves floated on the surface. “You’ve got a nice place here. Why are you moving?”

  “Let’s just say things haven’t worked out exactly as I planned.” He sighed. “I’d offer you something to drink, but I’m not sure I could find you a glass in this chaos.”

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Well, what can I tell you?”

  “When did you resign from the Membership Committee of Fair Lawn?”

  George raised his eyebrows. She noticed his shoulders pull back. “From the committee? June first of this year. My resignation from the club is effective September first, although I don’t plan to set foot in that place between now and then anyway. But my wife, or rather my soon-to-be-ex-wife, wanted to stay there for August.”

  “Stay at the club?”

  “Yes. It’s convenient, and there weren’t many options this late in the summer. Hotels are booked.”

  “How long have you been a member?”

  “Probably twenty years. We bought this place in ’75 or ’76. We must’ve joined the club shortly thereafter.”

  “Did you resign because of what happened with Henry Lewis’s application?”

  George leaned forward and rested his elbows on his slightly spread knees. “I wasn’t aware that the Suffolk County District Attorney’s Office took a particular interest in the workings of a private country club.”

  “We don’t, but I understand Henry Lewis raised quite a stir with the committee. Clio Pratt didn’t want him to be accepted, and others, including yourself, did.”

  “That’s true.”

  “And I also know that you were pretty mad about that. Henry’s your friend, isn’t he?”

  “I like and respect Henry Lewis, though if we were friendly at one time, we’re not any longer.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because he blames me. He blames me for the way this society operates, for its inability to change. I’m not his enemy, but he thinks I am. He thinks I’m no different from anyone else out here.”

  “Even after you resigned?”

  “In his view, too little too late. Principles, however good or noble they are, don’t matter much in the end. Don’t you agree? What matters ultimately is the way people act.”

  “Why do you think there was such opposition to him?”

  “I think if you asked anyone, they’d come up with a reason that has nothing to do with the color of his skin. Except for Clio. I got to hand it to that woman, she was candid. Others use euphemisms. ‘He and his wife seem like loners’ or ‘We haven’t had an opportunity to get to know him’ or ‘He might bring in the wrong kind of guests.’ Sometimes people use the word tradition.You know, ‘We don’t want to change
tradition.’ Anyway, it’s all just double talk. Henry’s black. They’re white. They don’t want him on their tennis courts. As much as it infuriated me, Clio was the only honest person in the group.”

  “Why the paranoia?”

  “I’m no sociologist. But what I see is a very affluent, very insecure group of people that want to keep the rest of the world out. They’re under the misguided notion that their society can be protected from all the evil that infects the rest of the world if they can keep themselves entertained at expensive catered dinner parties making small talk about who’s marrying whom, and who’s buying which house. The problem is, they can try for a while, but they’re doomed to failure. All the money in the world won’t keep you free from disease, divorce, sadness. Just look at the young generation out here. The kids drink too much, spend their parents’ cash on recreational drugs, and then get themselves killed driving the Porsches that their parents buy them when they turn sixteen. Nobody achieves. Nobody cares about anything except having a good time. And if they’re not partying, then they don’t know what to do with themselves. Two kids I know out here killed themselves last year. What do you think the odds of that are?” George paused, reached into his back pocket, and removed a handkerchief. He wiped his forehead. “Nobody wants to examine what’s going on, the social deterioration that comes from too much money. So instead they worry about infiltration, penetration by blacks or Hispanics or Jews or whoever, those who are more successful, enlightened, attractive, or cultured than the has-beens out here. Southampton’s created its own society and proclaimed its social leaders. Nobody else is welcome.” Then, as if remembering why the conversation had arisen in the first place, George added, “Clio Pratt was exactly what I’m talking about.”

  Frances remembered seeing a needlepoint pillow in Clio’s dressing room. You can never be too thin or too rich. The Southampton motto.

  “You can’t be a lone dissident in a place like this. It’s too hard. These people are comforted by the fact that they’re all alike. They think their friends reflect on them and they want the reflection to be lily white. I can’t effect change. I can’t impose my views. I’m a pretty mainstream guy myself and I’m not out to lead a social revolution. But I can’t be a hypocrite, either. If I don’t approve of what’s going on, I shouldn’t enjoy the place myself.” George slumped back in his chair, seemingly exhausted.

  Frances waited a moment before speaking. His explanation needed silent punctuation. Then she asked, “Were you at Fair Lawn last Saturday?”

  “Yes. I’d gone to clean out my locker. I haven’t been there since.”

  “Did you see Clio that morning?”

  “No. But I was in the clubhouse when I heard the scream.”

  “What were you doing?”

  “I was filling out some paperwork at the front desk. It’s in the entranceway, just around the corner from the ladies’ powder room. As I said, I’d resigned from the Membership Committee and terminated my membership effective Labor Day. It’s pretty threatening to that place if you actually want to leave voluntarily, and the paperwork’s voluminous. I’d hoped to finish before the tournament crowd arrived. I knew it was going to be the last time I was there.”

  “Did someone assist you with the paperwork?”

  “There was a young girl behind the desk. She was answering the telephone. The manager had left the documents for me with her. The forms were self-explanatory. It was time-consuming, but I didn’t need assistance.”

  “What did you do when you heard the scream?”

  “What anyone else would, I suppose. I ran toward it. There was a woman screaming in the bathroom, and then I saw Clio on the floor in the stall. I tried to revive her, you know, I patted her face, but she didn’t move. I checked her pulse. Nothing. Jack Von Furst showed up right behind me. He left to call 911. I stayed with her, although I didn’t want to move her. When the police came, I gave them a statement. That’s about it.”

  “Have you spoken to anyone about what happened?”

  “Only the police, like I said. In all honesty, I’ve been pretty involved with my own problems recently and haven’t seen many people.”

  “What about Henry Lewis?”

  “I spoke to him after his application was turned down. It wasn’t a pleasant conversation to have, and it didn’t end well. I’ve gone over to his place several times to try to talk to him again, but his wife answers the door and says he’s not there, or he’s too busy. I’ve given up trying to understand. It’s time for me to leave.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “My current plan is to head south, the outer banks of North Carolina, I think. I’ll either find a house or get myself a sailboat that I can stay on for a while. I love to fish. For now, that’s as far as I’ve gotten. My wife’s keeping our place in Manhattan.”

  “Giving it all up?” Frances said, smiling.

  “That assumes the ‘it’ is something worth having to begin with. I’m not sure I’d agree with that characterization of the life out here.”

  Frances stood up and extended her hand. He held it for just a moment longer than was customary between strangers. “Thank you for your time,” she said.

  He smiled. “Good luck with your investigation.”

  Just outside George Welch’s drive, Frances pulled her truck over to the curb. For no apparent reason her breath came fast and furious. She tried to collect herself. Had the conversation hit a nerve? She knew the desperate, frantic sensation of needing to escape. She had been there. George Welch would run away and reinvent himself, because at the end of the day he was disgusted with himself, with what he had done with his life.

  Maybe Malcolm was right. Maybe she should have stayed out of this investigation instead of delving into the personal lives of various people whose paths had crossed Clio’s, however tangentially. Perhaps the world in which her father and his wife lived, battered souls all scrambling for acceptance, was better left uncovered. The underbelly was too raw, too vulnerable, to be exposed.

  It appeared that Richard hadn’t moved from the sunroom in twenty-four hours. He still wore the same dark suit, white shirt, and gray tie that Blair had dressed him in for Clio’s memorial service. He had dark circles under his red-rimmed eyes. In the afternoon light his skin looked bluish gray. Lily was perched on the couch nearby, a tray of tea sandwiches, cheese, and crackers on her lap. The cheese glistened with moisture. Apparently she had given up trying to coax him to eat but was reluctant to return his dinner tray to the kitchen.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t come back yesterday,” Frances said. She spoke softly as she approached so as not to startle him. Richard made no physical sign that he heard her or even recognized that she was in the room. She looked at Lily, who pursed her lips and shrugged. Lily looked equally exhausted. “I wanted to, but there are a lot of people to talk to, a lot to do in this investigation.” Her father still didn’t move. “Blair stayed with you, right?” Silence.

  “She was here until quite late,” Lily said.

  “I talked to Henry and Louise Lewis.” Frances walked around in front of her father. He remained still, staring blankly ahead. She pulled a straight-backed chair over from the far wall and sat beside him with one leg curled under her. “Louise Bancroft, and her husband. As a child, she used to play with Blair.”

  Slowly her father turned his head toward her. “They had a clubhouse in the attic.” He paused between each word.

  “I remember. The walls were taxi yellow,” she added, hoping he might smile. There was no reaction. “I need to ask you something.” She felt her pulse rise. “I hate to ask this, but I need to know why Clio didn’t want the Lewises in the Fair Lawn Country Club.”

  Richard said nothing. Lily rose and excused herself, taking the supper tray with her. She would be in the kitchen if either of them needed anything.

  “Can we talk about it?” Frances asked. “Please.”

  Richard seemed to stare past her. When he spoke, his voice sounded more strained
than usual. It was a forced sound, as if the words pained him.

  “Fair Lawn isn’t ready for a black member,” he said. “We admitted the first Catholic…1979. Southampton had changed by then. We knew that, but it was still a big step. A few years ago, the first Jew joined. There was a lot of opposition to that. We don’t want Hollywood here. We don’t want to become East Hampton.”

  Frances needed to move. She jiggled her foot.

  “The membership needs time to assimilate change.”

  Frances felt her stomach turn. She didn’t want the conversation to continue, yet she knew she needed to hear what her father had to say. Whether it ultimately helped in solving Clio’s homicide, whether Clio’s thinking had played any role in her murder, were less important than for her to listen to her father’s views. She didn’t have to agree, but she needed to hear what he had to say.

  “It was for Henry’s own good. He would be ostracized.” Richard paused and looked directly at her. “You can’t know what that’s like. Nobody can, until they’ve been there themselves.”

  It was the first time Frances had ever heard her father make even an opaque reference to his own handicap, the exclusion he felt.

  “But wasn’t that Henry Lewis’s choice to make? He wanted to join.”

  “He wants to belong. There’s a difference.” Richard ran his tongue over his dry lips. “I don’t expect you to understand. You’ve lived your life without social institutions, but they matter to some of us.”

  His accusation was unfair. Frances didn’t belong to country clubs, church congregations, or even professional organizations, but that didn’t mean she didn’t venerate institutions. Take the Supreme Court of the United States. She believed in the nobility of that as an institution, didn’t she? She believed in marriage, certainly, despite what had happened with Pietro, but she couldn’t speak in her own defense. Her father’s “us” symbolized the inclusion of some within his carefully guarded universe and the exclusion of others. She was the disappointing child. Despite her efforts, nothing would change that.