Suspicion of Betrayal

by Barbara Parker

  Gail continued to look at her. "You think I'm making a mistake to marry him."

  "I never said such a thing."

  "But you think it, don't you?"

  "I do not. Anthony is attractive, intelligent, charming. I would never question your choice of whom you should marry."

  "Yes, you would. What was the first thing out of your mouth when I told you what happened with Dave? You said it was a shame he and I got divorced."

  "But you did, didn't you? Time has moved on, and a person just can't dwell on what-ifs." Irene took a sip of tea. "Never mind what I said. I guess I feel sorry for Dave Metzger."

  "Why?"

  "Because he always seemed to need you so much."

  "Now, there's a good reason to stay married."

  Irene stood up. "I think it's time to do some yard work."

  "Oh, Mom, I didn't mean to snap at you."

  "Well, you have a lot on your mind."

  "That's no excuse." Gail meekly collected the glasses and pitcher and followed Irene down the steps to the yard. At the same moment she wondered where Karen had gone, she saw Irene walk toward the edge of the property, looking upward into the ficus tree. No grass grew in its heavy shade, and dark, tangled strands of air roots hung to the ground. The multiple trunks at the center made hiding places for lizards, cats, and children.

  Irene called out, "Come down, jungle girl. Help your mother and me plant the alamanda."

  A voice came back. "I'm busy."

  "Of course you are." Irene smiled upward. "Busy being ten years old."

  "Eleven. Almost."

  "You want some company?" That brought a giggle. Irene put her little fists on her hips. "I bet I could climb that old tree."

  "Okay. You can come up."

  "Well, let me do some work first, then you can show me the secret passage." When Irene came back, Gail hugged her tightly. "My goodness, what's that for?"

  Gail's eyes stung. "Because I love you. Because you're so good."

  "Oh, hush."

  The alamanda bush sat in its black plastic container in the driveway, where Irene had unloaded it from the trunk of the enormous burgundy red Chrysler she'd owned for ten years. She had to sit on a pillow to drive it. Opening the trunk, Irene took out her shovel, a spade, and a small plastic bag of fertilizer. Gail carried the plant to the bare spot in the yard where the roofers had ruined its predecessor. She wondered how in hell her mother had managed to heft the thing into her car.

  The shovel was a short, slender one made to fit a woman's hands. Gail stepped hard on it, driving the point into the grass, then levered the dirt out and threw it to one side. She had worn her old sneakers. Already she could feel the sun burning her back, bare except for the thin strap of her swimsuit.

  Irene reached into the front seat for her sun hat. "Do you need this, Gail?"

  "No, I need a tan. I look like a mushroom."

  Irene set the hat on her own head, then pulled on a pair of green gardening gloves. "What should I wear on Saturday?"

  "Saturday?"

  "To that Cuban dress shop."

  "It isn't strictly Cuban, Mother. It's just—" Gail pounded the rocky ground with the shovel. "Just hor-rendously expensive. What should you wear? How about what you have on? The gloves go nicely with the parrot earrings."

  "Are you making fun of me?"

  "No, I just don't want you to feel intimidated by the Pedrosas."

  "Me?"

  Gail looked at her mother. "You're right. I'm the one they're after. They think I don't know how to dress. They want the bride to look as good as the groom, which is going to be a stretch."

  "Gail, you're lovely."

  "Compared to Elena, Xiomara, and the rest of his cousins, I have no butt, no boobs, and legs like sticks." She threw another shovelful of dirt to one side.

  "Anthony thinks you're beautiful. He told me so."

  "He makes me feel that way." Gail smiled.

  A shiny black Land Rover approached, scattering leaves, and Gail lifted a hand. The woman inside didn't notice—or pretended not to. The vehicle turned between the coral rock columns on the property across the street.

  "Who's she?"

  "Peggy Cunningham, the queen of Clematis Street. Not the friendliest person in the world."

  "Cunningham." The big daisy on Irene's hat still pointed toward the other side of the road. "Is her husband Bennett Cunningham? I believe I know his sister, Margie. She's in the Opera Guild."

  "Peggy doesn't like me. I yelled at her son." Gail drove the shovel against the rocks, felt one give, and wedged in the point to lift it out. "I must be getting quite a reputation around the neighborhood. What should I do, go over there with a plate of cookies and apologize?"

  "As long as they're homemade," Irene said.

  "Sure. I have time for that." Breathing hard, Gail dropped the shovel and pointed at the hole. "Come on. That's deep enough, isn't it?"

  Irene peered into it. "My father always told me, if you have a five-dollar plant, dig a ten-dollar hole. Take those rocks out."

  On her knees, Gail chopped at the rocks with the spade, then started to pick them out of the hole.

  "No, I'll do it," her mother said. "You don't have gloves on. You'll ruin your nails." She tossed the pitted white rocks into the grass. "Darling? This is just a thought. What if you wait awhile to get married? Six months, a year. If it was better for Karen—"

  Gail sat back on her heels. "Anthony and I have talked about it, but we don't know for sure that Karen would be better off. We just don't know."

  "Here." Irene kicked the pot a few times to loosen the dirt, then with an umphh of effort she lifted the plant by the trunk and set it into the hole, yellow flowers bobbing.

  On her knees, Gail cleared away some dirt with the spade so the plant would sit level. "Karen told me last week—we were on our way to Dave's place—she said, T wish you and my dad and I could all be together again.' Then she said she knew it couldn't happen. You see? She doesn't want to make me unhappy."

  A small hand patted her hair, then smoothed it down. Irene said, "Honey, I'd be glad to talk to her. You just say when."

  "Would you? You'd get a lot further than Dr. Fischman."

  Irene had brought over the plastic bag with organic fertilizer, which she poured around the roots, a rich, loamy smell. Gail scraped the dirt back in with the spade, then stood up to tamp it down tight.

  "Mom, what you said before . . . I'm not hard and uncompromising with Anthony. I wasn't like that with Dave. I don't think I was. I didn't drive him away."

  "Oh, darling—"

  "You know what Anthony said?" She laughed and wiped a knuckle under her nose. "He said he loves me because I'm such a challenge. But he's ten times stronger than Dave ever was. All right, maybe I should be more . . . what? I don't know what."

  "Come on, let's go inside. You get cleaned up, and I’ll fix us a real drink."

  They put the shovel and spade back into the trunk, and Irene tossed in her gloves and straw hat. Gail took the plastic container out to the street and set it on the pile of trash that the city was supposed to have picked up last week but hadn't for some reason or other. "For you, Peggy," she said.

  It was probably Irene closing the front door, going inside, that made Gail notice the mailbox beside it. White paper showed through the decorative hole in the black metal. The letter carrier had come while they were in the backyard. Gail lifted out what was inside, and the lid clanked back down.

  She shoved the door shut with her foot and shuffled through the mail as she crossed the living room. An advertising circular on cheap newsprint, a catalog from Macy's, another from a cruise line. The electric bill. Visa. A letter from her cousin in Atlanta. And another letter with a Miami postmark but no return address. A plain white envelope with Gail's name and address written in block print, slightly crooked and off-center.

  Her mother called out from the kitchen, asking if she had any vodka.

  Gail felt a sickening rush of adrenaline
surge through her. The envelope was light, not much inside. With the other mail clamped under her arm, she slid a finger under the flap. The paper tore. She noticed that her hands left smudges of dirt.

  "Gail, did you hear me?"

  "Yes. Just a second."

  Through the opening she could see a sheet of white paper folded into thirds. She set down the other mail on the table by the stairs and withdrew the paper from the envelope. She unfolded it, a color copy of a photograph. Trees, a glimpse of blue sky. Gail recognized the playground at Biscayne Academy. There were a half dozen children, but the camera had centered on one of them.

  Gail knew who she was before the details became clear. Light brown hair in a ponytail. Long, thin legs.

  A pistol, crudely drawn in black marker, pointed at her, aiming right to left. The trajectory of a bullet was shown by thin lines. The bullet went through her head and came out the other side in a red explosion of bone and blood.

  Gail's legs went weak, and she grabbed the finial post on the stairs for support. She heard the moan escaping her throat, and a few seconds later her mother's quick footsteps.

  "Gail! What happened? What is that?" Irene pulled the paper out of her hands. "Oh. Oh, my God."

  "Where is Karen?"

  "I—I don't know. In the backyard—"

  Gail rushed past Irene, through the hall, then the kitchen, finally throwing open the back door. The swing set was empty. There were no feet dangling from the branches of the ficus tree.

  "Karen!"

  She was by the seawall with another girl. Lindsay Cunningham. They turned around, and Karen called back, "What?"

  Irene held onto Gail's arm. "Don't frighten her. She's all right."

  Gail swallowed and moistened her lips. With a hand cupped at her mouth, she shouted, "Just checking! Stay in the yard, okay?"

  They went back inside. Irene's eyes were enormous. "Let's call the police. Call Anthony."

  "Yes, but first I want to call Dave. He has to know about this." Gail pulled her telephone from her pocket. She misdialed twice before getting the Island Club.

  A mail's voice on the other end told her that Mr. Metzger was expected back soon. Gail said to beep him, find him, tell him to call his ex-wife. It was important, regarding his daughter.

  Irene had dropped the photograph and envelope on the kitchen table. Gail stared at the picture, still not believing what she saw. She turned the envelope over. Nothing on the back. Then she read the address again as if this time it would offer an explanation. There was none. She slammed her hands down on the table until her palms stung.

  Anthony arrived within fifteen minutes, leaving a client in mid-conference. Gail told him that the police refused to come. The detectives who had taken the complaint about the car were not available, and no one would do anything.

  With a hand firmly around Gail's wrist, Anthony asked Irene if she would keep an eye on Karen. Keep her busy for a while, and tell her nothing at this point. Then he took Gail upstairs and told her to get changed while he made some phone calls. Gail took a fast shower and listened to him talk to the police while she grabbed a denim dress off a hanger and stepped into her shoes.

  Anthony held the receiver an inch over the telephone before letting it drop. "They say to come in and make a report." He looked at Gail. "I expected that."

  She nodded.

  "We can go now if you like."

  "Yes. How's my hair? I should brush it." She hurried into the bathroom.

  Anthony leaned on the door frame, arms crossed. "We are not going to get into a panic. That's probably what he wants, to frighten you. If he wanted to harm you or Karen, he would have done it already." When the phone rang again, Anthony went to answer it. Gail lowered her brush. He said, "No, nothing is wrong with Karen. She's all right. ... I'll let you speak to Gail."

  She came out of the bathroom, and Anthony extended the receiver in her direction, nodding when she mouthed the name Dave. She sat on the edge of the bed while Anthony paced slowly, hands resting lightly on his hips, suit jacket pushed back.

  Gail told Dave what had happened. Assured him again that Karen wasn't hurt. Explained that the phone calls and the damage to her car could be—had to be—related to this. Yes, she had called the police. She and Anthony were leaving right away.

  She wished suddenly that Anthony was not in the room. She asked Dave, "Do you want to meet us there?" Not if Quintana is going, he replied, then said he wanted to come pick up Karen. "You don't have to. Mother is here. She's safe. I wouldn't leave her for a minute if I didn't think so."

  When could he see the photograph?

  "Anytime you like. I could bring it with me when I drop Karen off on Saturday. Dave, don't tell her anything. Not yet. Not till we decide what to do."

  When Gail finally hung up, Anthony stopped pacing. "Is he coming with us?"

  "No."

  Standing directly over her, Anthony said, "Did he want to take her to his apartment?"

  "I told him Mother is watching her."

  "I'm going to move in. I don't believe that you or Karen is in any great danger, but even so, I need to be here."

  "Maybe she should stay at Dave's. If . . . whoever is doing this is directing it at me, then maybe she should stay with him. What do you think?"

  He made a soft laugh, barely audible. "That the timing is awfully convenient."

  Gail stared up at him. "You think Dave sent that photograph?"

  "I wouldn't rule it out."

  "Oh, for God's sake! He would never do something so hideous. To his own daughter?"

  "No. To you. To make you afraid—"

  "That's insane."

  He shook his head as if refusing to follow the argument further. "Fifteen years of criminal law—it makes you think the worst of anyone. Hidden motives. Lies." Anthony sat down and put his arm around her. "Gail, I don't know who sent that picture to you. What I do think is that it was meant to frighten you. A person who wants to kill doesn't usually spend his time telling you about it first."

  "That's what one of the detectives told me. The younger one, Novick."

  "You see?" He lifted her fingers to his lips. "It's going to be all right."

  "What if it isn't? What if somebody wants to hurt Karen? Maybe that's what he wants. To hurt her to get to me."

  "That won't happen. I won't allow it."

  "Don't let him do anything to her. Please. I would die if anything happened to Karen!"

  "Niña, don't." Anthony held her face. "Look at me. When I say something, you know that I mean it. Don't you? I love you, Gail. Nothing will happen to Karen. Or to you. I promise you this on my life."

  TWELVE

  Lola Benitez Couture. The gold script flowed across the red canvas awning that jutted over the sidewalk of Miracle Mile, between Mayor's Jewelers and Armani. With the heavy, polished brass door whispering shut on the traffic and heat outside, the shop seemed as secure as a bank vault.

  Gail led Karen into a fantasy of crystal and gilt. Everything sparkled. Ultra-luxe career attire, evening wear along the opposite wall. Toward the back, traditional wedding gowns. In the center, beveled glass cases displayed jewel-like scarves and wispy lingerie.

  There were a dozen women in the store, but Gail didn't see her mother, or Digna Pedrosa, or Elena—

  "Mom, you're going to look stupid in a bride's dress."

  "Who said I was going to wear one?"

  Karen hadn't wanted to come along, but Gail had insisted. She was cautious but not fearful. Nothing had arrived in the mail yesterday, and there had been no odd numbers on caller-ID. At police headquarters Thursday evening, Detective Ladue had given the impression that the city had worse crimes to attend to. Yesterday Anthony had brought over three suitcases, a garment bag, and several boxes of personal papers. When Gail told Karen he was moving in, Karen had gone to her room and slammed the door. Gail decided against sending her to Dave's, reasoning that her own house was more secure, on a cul-de-sac where a strange person or car would be notice
d. The counselors at Karen's day camp had been alerted to watch out for anyone taking photographs of the children. Short of hiring a bodyguard, there was nothing more she could do.

  Gail waded across some thick carpet to look at a raw silk jacket with feathers around the collar and cuffs. "Look, sweetie, isn't this gorgeous?"

  "No." Karen crossed her arms over her striped polyester top, which hung loose outside baggy jeans. To complete this display of rotten temper, she had worn her oldest, rattiest sneakers. It had taken threats of being grounded again to make Karen brush her hair.

  Gail was on the point of dragging her back outside for a lecture when someone called their names. "There you are!" Anthony's cousin Elena, arms out, came toward them in a stunning white linen dress and high-heeled sandals that showed off her red-painted toenails. "We just got here," Elena said. "Your mother is this way. Come on." She took them to the back, where a hall led to the fitting rooms.

  "I found them!" she gaily announced.

  This room was not a cramped little closet, but a space big enough to hold two cushy armchairs and a sofa. Digna Pedrosa sat with Xiomara and Betty, and Irene waved from one of the chairs. There was a table with a doilied tray of pastries and gold-rimmed cups for tea and espresso. Gail made her way around the room with kisses for everyone. No one here—except for Irene—knew about the photograph. Anthony had suggested it stay this way for now. If his relatives knew—especially the women—they were likely to throw themselves into a frenzy of worry.

  Karen suffered through being asked if she liked the store, and wasn't it lovely, and wasn't she going to have fun helping her mother pick out a dress. Finally she slunk to a corner, where she sat on the carpet and put her forehead on crossed arms. Irene lifted her brows in that direction, and Gail answered with a tight smile.

  A wheeled rack was waiting with a dozen dresses. The fitter was called, an ancient woman with a pincushion attached to her bosom. She took Gail behind a curtain, and Gail hung up her dress. The fitter deftly took her measurements and, in answer to Gail's inquiry, said in fractured English that she had been working for the Benitez family since she was a girl. The original store had been on Paseo del Prado.