Misfortune

by Nancy Geary

  Frances grimaced. An interrogation on her least favorite topic was not what she had in mind for the evening. Fortunately, at that moment Marco appeared in the doorway. Dinner was ready.

  It was after midnight when Frances returned home. As she entered her darkened house, she felt a huge sense of relief wash over her tired body. She hadn’t been home in over twenty-four hours, and she longed for solitude. She flopped down on her sofa. The dogs, particularly attentive after her prolonged absence, curled up next to her and licked her hands. Then they rolled over to let her scratch their velvety bellies.

  The telephone ring pierced the silence. She didn’t move, letting the answering machine pick up. “What the hell, Fanny? I’ve been calling you all day. I know you’re there, so just listen up. I’ve tried to indulge you, given the unusual situation, but you’ve gone too far. Henry Lewis is a major contributor to my campaign, and I do not appreciate your unauthorized inquiry of him. Call me back as—”

  Frances picked up the receiver.

  “I knew you were there, goddamn it!” Malcolm shouted. “Are you trying to destroy me?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You were out of line. You are out of line. How could you question Henry Lewis? How could you raise even the tiniest suspicions about him or his wife without talking to me? Did you think he wouldn’t realize what you were doing? I don’t know what kind of a half-assed investigation you’re trying to pull on the side, but you’ve gone too far, even for you.”

  “I called Louise Lewis, his wife, whom I’ve known for years. She agreed to answer some basic questions. All I was doing was following up on some theory Meaty thought was worth exploring.” Frances regretted mentioning Meaty’s name, but it was too late.

  “I know about the hair samples. Perry already told Meaty not to pursue that. For that matter, Meaty’s also been told several times not to pursue anything through you.”

  “But you couldn’t ignore something that was right in front of you?”

  “It was a baseless, racist hypothesis that had no place in my office.”

  “If more black men commit more drug-related crimes, is it racist or logical to suspect a black man first?”

  “I’m not going to have this discussion with you.”

  “Well, all I did was follow up on Meaty’s suggestion. It led to Henry Lewis. I didn’t realize that he was so important to you.”

  “You should have. That’s the point. If you gave a rat’s ass about the political office that you’re involved in, you would’ve known.”

  “Why is he interested in Suffolk County politics?”

  “Because some people care what happens in their local government. But that’s not the point. The point is that he is involved. He hosts fund-raisers. He gives money, lots of it. He gets me exposure where I don’t have much. The support of an affluent, prominent African American is extremely important to me.”

  “Malcolm, I was just doing my job.”

  “Don’t give me that shit. Your job was to stay as far away from this investigation as possible. You’re supposed to be indicting Andrew Bryant. Instead, everywhere I turn, I find out you’re right in the thick of Clio’s murder. And this latest jaunt of yours is going to cost me.”

  “Why have you cut me out of this investigation?”

  “Because you’re family. Whether you perceive yourself as that or not, to the rest of the world you and Clio were family, and you’re now supposed to be coping with her death.”

  “Well, maybe the best way I know how to cope is to find her killer.”

  “The sentiment is admirable but unacceptable. You know damn well, and Meaty does, too, that your involvement raises serious questions about the objectivity of the investigation. I won’t have you threatening the prosecution.”

  “Let me ask you one thing. Statistically, most people are murdered by someone they know. Family members are often the first suspects. Are you keeping me away because you’re suspicious of me?”

  “That’s absurd. Despite your apparent attitudes about your stepmother, I don’t think you’d stoop that low.”

  What a vote of confidence, Frances thought. But how did Malcolm know so much about her feelings toward her family? She couldn’t recall ever mentioning a word. A lucky guess, she surmised.

  “Look, either you follow directions from your superiors or—”

  “Or what?”

  “Or, or,” Malcolm stammered, “you’re fired.”

  “Well, guess what?” Frances lowered her voice. “I quit.”

  There was silence on the other end of the line. She hung up.

  Friday, July 10

  The sky was overcast and a cool wind blew. Frances focused on the thorny branches in front of her. The black spots on her roses evidenced a week of neglect. As she worked to remove the speckled leaves, she felt adrenaline run through her system, a renewal of energy that she hadn’t felt in days. She pulled her dirtied sleeves back up over her elbow, wiped a loose wisp of hair from her forehead, and continued to work.

  She tried not to think of what she had done the night before, her split-second decision to quit her job. She had abandoned the one compelling thing that shaped her self-perception. An assistant district attorney, that had been her identity for nearly thirteen years, an identity that survived even after she was no longer Pietro Benedetti’s betrothed. She had worked hard to build a Financial Crimes Unit and was proud of what she had accomplished. She couldn’t fathom a future without a secure occupation. Gardening was the one task that could distract her.

  Frances didn’t notice Sam approach.

  “Looking good,” he said.

  She turned and saw him standing beside her with two stacked plastic cups dangling out of one pocket of his misshapen cotton sweater. He held a pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice. Pulp floated on the surface of the bright orange liquid.

  “I quit my job,” Frances said.

  He didn’t react visibly. “Can I offer you some juice?”

  She nodded. Sam poured her a glass as they both settled onto the grass. Felonious and Miss Demeanor came over to sniff the citrus liquid. Felonious dug a hole beside Frances and curled up in the moist earth. Miss Demeanor lay down and rested her head on Frances’s foot. For the first time in a week, Frances felt peaceful.

  She relayed her telephone conversation of the previous night with Malcolm. “Last night was the worst, but we’ve had several not very pleasant conversations since this whole thing began. I don’t know who he’s been talking to, but he’s following the details pretty closely. He saw my involvement as a potential media nightmare. It’s a high-profile case. He’s known my dad a long time. But I get the sense that something else is going on. Something more than Clio’s murder, or something about Clio’s murder that’s triggering something else.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s talking to someone, but I don’t know who. Someone other than Meaty. Malcolm doesn’t get involved in details. He never has. He wants results. ‘Make it happen,’ that’s what he says. He doesn’t care how the case gets made. There’s this one guy he wants indicted. It’s a bogus case, one the office would call a ‘barker.’ No offense.” Frances scratched Miss Demeanor’s ear. “It’s a campaign fund violation. The defendant’s an idiot, someone with extra money who wanted to buy his way into becoming somebody among the Democratic bigwigs, but he’s not a criminal. Anyway, Malcolm’s obsessed. He won’t listen to any argument why the prosecution is a mistake. Even though the race is over, he wants an indictment to embarrass his opponent. The media buzz usually wears off by the time a case gets to trial, so whether the guy gets convicted or not never really matters. That’s how Malcolm operates.” The puzzled expression on Sam’s face made Frances realize how far off track she had wandered. “My point is that something’s up. Malcolm’s behavior is too strange.”

  “Maybe the police, the investigators, know something you don’t. Maybe Malcolm has information on suspects.”

  “Mayb
e.” Frances leaned back on her elbows and felt the grass tickle her forearms. She wondered silently who that might be, then dismissed the thought from her mind. Meaty would have told her if there was any hard information. “My departure’s probably long overdue. I’ve been there a long time, longer than most line assistants.” She looked at Sam’s face, his furrowed brow, his worried eyes. “Anyway, these guys need a lot more attention than I’ve given them recently. My garden, too.” She paused, looking around. “And there’s Dad to think of.”

  “Are you all right? For money, I mean.”

  “For a while. There must’ve been a part of me that was subconsciously heading in this direction, because I’ve actually got money saved.” She smiled. “That’s a first. It should be enough to last through year end, I think. Beyond that, who knows.” She forced her tone of voice to sound enthusiastic. “Time to move on.”

  “Do you think you’ll leave here?” Sam asked. Frances thought she noted concern in his voice.

  She looked behind him at her house. The wooden porch sagged, and several posts in the railing were missing. The shingles on the roof were beginning to come loose, falling off in bits and pieces, with only the underlying black tar paper to protect her from the elements; but otherwise the place looked sturdy. She had replaced most of the windows over the last two years with Thermopane, and the cheery yellow exterior paint masked some of the flaws in the woodwork. Most important, though, it was her home, the only place she belonged, the only place she felt she ever belonged. She wasn’t about to give it up.

  “I’m a lawyer after all. I could hang out a shingle. Go into the dreaded defense business. Who knows, enough people I prosecuted are bound to get into trouble again. They might realize my brilliance and come to me.” She winked.

  “Wouldn’t it be hard to defend people after prosecuting them for so long?”

  “Not really. It’s all a big game, or should I say a crapshoot. Look at O. J. Simpson. The guy gets away with murder, literally, and the prosecutors become millionaires off books and television appearances. Or look at that nanny case up in Boston. The au pair who murders the baby, actually gets convicted, and then walks away with no punishment. She had a fan club in England to return to. Whether I’m prosecuting or defending, either one pays the bills.”

  “Aren’t we cynical.”

  “You’re the second person who’s told me that recently.” She took a sip of orange juice. “Maybe I’ll take in boarders instead. Run a bed-and-breakfast in beautiful Orient Point,” she mused.

  “I don’t see you in the hospitality business,” Sam teased.

  “You could do the hospitality part.” Suddenly feeling awkward, Frances looked down and pulled at a blade of grass.

  “Anything to help,” Sam said softly. He reached out one hand and laid it on top of hers. She flinched—imperceptibly, she hoped— at his touch but didn’t pull away. His coarse skin felt warm.

  The telephone rang. Frances looked toward the house, wondering whether she should answer. Sam squeezed and then released her hand. “It must be Meaty,” she said. “He’s the only person who’d call at this hour. Excuse me.“ She hesitated a moment, then got up and climbed the porch steps two at a time.

  “Are you temporarily insane or totally nuts?” Meaty said.

  “News travels fast,” she muttered.

  “Call Malcolm. Tell him you’ve made a mistake. Tell him you’re under stress. Don’t be an idiot.”

  “No.” Frances’s voice was firm. “I’m done.” She was in no mood to be chastised for impulsiveness.

  “Stop that. You’re being a brat.”

  “You’re entitled to your opinion, but the only thing I’m much interested in is what you found in my father’s office. Or did you think I wouldn’t learn about the warrant you served?”

  “Frances, stop. I was going to tell you about that.”

  “Save your breath. I’ll see you around.” She hung up. The district attorney’s office could find someone else to pry into her father’s affairs. She would get to the bottom of Clio’s murder, not because Malcolm deserved another feather in his cap, but because her father deserved to know.

  Frances leaned against the kitchen counter and looked out the window. On his hands and knees, Sam was weeding around a patch of Shasta daisies to the right of the porch stairs. She watched him work, pulling out the errant shoots between his thumb and pinkie with a dexterity that made the lost fingers in between incidental. She thought of his touch and his arm around her shoulder. Had that been Monday night? So much had happened, she’d lost track of the days. But minutes earlier he had touched her again, more deliberately this second time. Despite Sam’s gentle nature, he wasn’t timid. She liked that.

  “A man on his knees. What more could a woman want?” she called out the window.

  “How about a man to cook you dinner tonight?” Sam replied without looking up from his work.

  “What are you making?”

  “Whatever your heart desires.”

  Frances smiled. Before she could answer the telephone rang again, and without thinking she reached to pick it up. It was Blair.

  “Fanny, are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Well, it’s just you never answer the phone. I’m used to leaving messages.”

  “Well, you never call this early.”

  “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

  “No.”

  “Are you all right? Your voice sounds odd.”

  Frances didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t bring herself to tell her sister that she had quit. She didn’t feel like dealing with the reaction, the questions, and the fact that Blair was certain to tell Aurelia. That, in turn, would trigger a panoply of frantic calls. The thought of listening to Aurelia’s despair, her dashed hopes to have a daughter who might be a judge, was too much for her first day of official unemployment. Even Blair, who never understood why anyone would want to be a lawyer, was sure to criticize her decision to give up a steady income. “I’m fine,” was all she could muster.

  “Well, I’m calling to invite you over tonight. Slightly different company this time. Jake had a business dinner scheduled last night with a client who’s a potential Marco collector. It got postponed and moved out here. This client wants to meet Marco, so they’re coming out together on the four o’clock Jitney. He’s single,” Blair said.

  “Marco or the client?”

  “Very funny. The client was the one I was offering.”

  “No thanks.”

  “Why do you say no before I’ve told you anything about him? He’s in his mid-forties, divorced with a ten-year-old daughter who lives with her mother in Arizona, so he only sees her a couple of times a year. He’s successful, has his own company, something to do with computers. He’s trim. He mountain climbs or rock climbs or climbs something or other, I can’t remember, but he has a sweet face.”

  “I’m not interested.”

  “Come on, Fanny. Live a little. What are you doing tonight that’s so compelling?”

  Frances looked out the window again at Sam. His face had turned red from exertion, but his weeding pace hadn’t slackened. “I’m having dinner with a friend,” she replied.

  “A friend? Bring her, too,” Blair persisted.

  “It’s not a her,” Frances said, pleased to sound mysterious.

  Frances piled the few personal belongings that she kept in her office into an empty milk crate. She had been deliberately spare in what she’d brought in over the years. That way, she always told herself, she could just walk out the door at any time. Despite the paucity of personal effects, though, Frances had collected papers, telephone messages, notes, research, and other miscellaneous junk to fill every desk drawer and file in her office. These materials now had to be sorted on the off chance that there was anything of import. Her wastebasket overflowed.

  The door opened, and Perry Cogswell’s head appeared. Without waiting for an invitation, he stepped inside and stood with his legs slightly s
pread, his hands deep in his pockets. “We’re all so sad to see you go. Couldn’t take the pressure?”

  Frances pretended to ignore him. She shuffled through a stack of papers.

  “Hard feelings about the investigation? Homicide’s awfully hard-core. Doesn’t mix too well with your background. Plus there’s the family issue in this one.”

  Frances resisted the urge to leap over her desk and knee him in the groin.

  “Well, I’m glad you’ve finally listened to what I’ve been telling you all along. Your heart’s not in this work.”

  Frances looked up. “If you’ve come to say good-bye, great. Goodbye. Now it’s been said. Shut the door behind you.”

  “I just hope you’ll think of me if you need any professional recommendations for a Wall Street firm. I’d be more than happy to oblige.”

  Frances flashed a fake smile and returned to the organizational tasks in front of her.

  Moments later she was interrupted again. “I heard you were in the building,” Malcolm Morris said.

  “You have good intelligence at work,” Frances replied.

  “Fanny, you’re making a huge mistake. Don’t do this to yourself, to your career. Let’s just forget the whole thing.” He seemed irritated.

  “All I need to know is who’s replacing me. If you don’t appoint someone fast, I’ll leave my files in a pile.”

  “Come on, Fanny.” Malcolm’s tone softened. “I’ve talked to Meaty. Maybe I made a mistake setting up the investigation the way I did. I shouldn’t have cut you out. I thought I was being considerate, giving you and your family room, but I understand now that the best thing for you is to stay engaged, involved. Cogswell and you can work it out, I’m sure. You’re both professionals. Meaty wants your help.” He looked at Frances, but she diverted her eyes, continuing to sort through the stacks of memos in front of her. “Don’t you think we both were a little strong-headed?”

  “Actually, I don’t.” Frances turned her pictures facedown in the milk crate.