A moment later, he came in with a can in each hand and held one toward her. She took it. Moisture beaded on the outside, and she wanted to rub it across her forehead.
He stood a moment with his back toward her, looking out the window, then turned, took three paces, and slouched in the armchair in front of the desk, legs stretched out in front of him. He took a long sip of cola. “I’ve been poking around some, trying to get a better handle on the money picture. I’ve convinced the Barrington attorney to grant us an appointment tomorrow morning.”
“Good.” She thought she’d get herself out of here, before the mayor called again. Head home. Some sleep would help too. Suddenly, she was aware that the silence seemed to have gotten heavy. She looked at Parkhurst and found him watching her. Her pulse picked up.
“Susan—”
She stood up. “What?”
He waited a beat, then also rose. He started to say something, then changed his mind and said matter-of-factly, “See you in the morning.”
She nodded curtly and waited until he left before she moved, greatly relieved he hadn’t said whatever it was he was going to say. With Dorothy’s murder and Jen’s precarious hold on life, her defenses weren’t as impenetrable as they should be. If she wasn’t careful, she was apt to do something she would, without a doubt, regret.
12
THE AIR IN Parkhurst’s Bronco was thick with ignored tension as he drove them to the attorney’s office on Monday morning. He looked darkly handsome in a blue suit Susan had never seen before.
He glanced at her with a thin-lipped smile. “Thug in disguise.”
My thoughts must be showing.
The Barrington attorney had offices in a Victorian house that had started out as someone’s family home. The grounds had well-trimmed grass, neat shrubs, and well-disciplined flowers in flower beds. Anything so mundane as parking space was delegated to the rear, where it wouldn’t be seen.
A secretary ushered them into the presence. Leland Hawkins sat behind a desk large enough to be rented out to a small family. He might glory in the past, but his tailor didn’t. The pinstriped suit was strictly today and fitted beautifully. Hawkins must be at least eighty. He was thin, with sparse white hair, patrician features, and gnarled fingers that suggested arthritis. He unhurriedly finished what he was writing before he looked up to acknowledge them. The office was weighty with dark wood paneling, substantial armchairs around a table, a dark-red carpet and drapes. It looked like something out of Dickens. She halfway expected to be offered a glass of sherry. Hawkins obviously didn’t deal with anything as messy as criminals.
He frowned his displeasure at this disruption of his orderly routine, then rose, walked around his desk, and offered a hand for Parkhurst to shake. To her, he offered a nod and a murmured “Mrs. Wren.” He fairly oozed with legal importance.
She decided wisdom lay in letting Parkhurst do the talking, and gave him a barely perceptible nod. Hawkins wasn’t a man who would take kindly to being asked questions by a mere female.
“As I informed you on the phone, there is nothing I can tell you.”
“Good of you to give us your time,” Parkhurst said. “We understand the sensitivity of the situation and would be only too appreciative of anything you might be able to tell us.”
My, my. She didn’t know Parkhurst had it in him.
“There is the matter of confidentiality.”
“We understand that, sir, and are fully aware of your concern. Perhaps you might allow us to ask a few questions?”
A laugh tickled her throat. She covered it with a cough. Hawkins glanced at her reprovingly, as though she’d done something unseemly.
“As long as you understand, we may as well sit down.” Hawkins gestured toward the armchairs and waited until Susan was seated, then pinched the crease in his trousers and lowered his bony rear to the waiting leather.
“As I informed you on the telephone”—Hawkins spoke directly to Parkhurst, what he had to say was beyond her understanding—”there is nothing I am at liberty to tell you.”
“As you, no doubt, are aware, there has been a—” Parkhurst paused.
She wondered whether he was considering sticking in an adjective like “dastardly.”
“—murder. We need to discover all we can about Dr. Barring-ton’s financial affairs.”
Hawkins frowned with the regret of a teacher at a pupil he’d thought was coming along nicely, but had just made a glaring error. “That’s precisely what I cannot talk about.”
Parkhurst nodded. “Perhaps you can explain a few things for us. Have you always been the Barrington attorney?”
“Yes, I guess I could say that. Lydia Barrington and I—” With the ponderous dignity of a turtle, Hawkins rotated his head to explain to Susan. “Lydia was Dorothy’s mother.” Slowly, his head turned back to Parkhurst. “We had known each other for a long time. I took care of all her legal matters.”
“And you knew August Barrington?”
“I did.”
“Did he have a will?”
“Since that is a matter of public record, I believe I can answer that. I drew up wills for both August and Lydia. This was when August first started having so much difficulty with his illness. The wills were drawn up leaving all they possessed to the surviving spouse. At that time they didn’t have much in the way of monetary assets. It was quite the acceptable thing to do. Later on, of course, the situation changed.”
“Changed how?”
“There were oil rights, which came to August through his family. And then August began to make a name through his art. I suggested at one point they might want to make changes in the wills, since so much more monies were involved, but Lydia felt no need.”
“Everything went to Lydia when August died. She must have made a new will after his death.”
“Certainly.” Hawkins bestowed on Parkhurst a peevish glance, as though remission of duties had been implied. “With the exception of certain bequests to charities of special interest to her, the bulk of her estate went to Dorothy, to be hers for her lifetime. At Dorothy’s death, it was to be divided equally among the siblings.”
Susan recrossed her legs. Talk about motive. It’s a wonder Dorothy survived as long as she did.
“Did none of them ever contest the will?”
Hawkins shook his head. “I did suggest to Lydia that this might be a possibility she might like to think about carefully. She wouldn’t hear of doing it any other way, and so, of course, I did exactly what my client wanted. There is one thing you must understand about the Barringtons. They are a proud family. They wouldn’t want that kind of squabble revealed to the public.”
Rather a murder than a squabble, Susan supposed.
“Even the best of families have been brought to contentiousness by an unfavorable will.”
Contentiousness?
Hawkins’ mouth twitched in a slim smile. “Lydia’s will has a forfeiture provision.”
Of course it does, Susan thought, eyeing Hawkins with new respect. Any beneficiary foolish enough to contest the will risked losing everything he or she would have received.
“The law, you see,” Hawkins droned on, “creates a presumption that the testator was competent and the will is valid. A rebuttable presumption, to be sure, but an extraordinary degree of evidence is required to overcome the presumption of validity and thus allow the will to be discredited.”
“In regard to Dorothy’s will,” Parkhurst said. “She could not legally leave any money to anyone she chose outside the family?”
“Not the estate monies, no. Her own personal monies, of course, are entirely different. With those she was free to act as she saw fit.”
“Can we assume there is nothing untoward about her will? The bulk of her estate goes to her husband?”
Hawkins tightened his thin lips. “All I can tell you is that Dorothy Barrington was a very conventional lady.”
Parkhurst thanked him for the generosity of his time, Susan gave him what s
he hoped was a ladylike smile, and the secretary ushered them out.
The sky was a uniform gray, with ominous dark masses in one corner. The air was what you’d expect in a sauna.
Parkhurst loosened his tie and shrugged off his suit coat. He opened the door of the Bronco for her, then went around to the other side, tossed his suit coat in back, and slid under the wheel. He stuck the key in the ignition, then rolled up his shirt sleeves.
“Motive aplenty there.” He twisted to look out the rear window and backed the Bronco from the slot.
“Right,” she said dryly. “All we have to figure out is which one got greedy. Or which ones teamed up. That ridiculous will was just asking for trouble. You know about August?”
“Outside of his being a genius?”
She told him what she’d learned from George. “Lydia must have been a strong woman. Had to be, with five kids and a husband in the loony bin more often than not. I wonder what he was like.”
“Dorothy was a relatively young woman. She could have lived another forty years. What good is money if you can’t get your hands on it for forty years?” He cut over to Ninth Street, then went south on Iowa toward the campus.
“We can’t rule out her husband. Taylor’s probably going to inherit whatever she had. Not peanuts. What have you found out about the financial situations?”
“Odds and ends,” Parkhurst said. “Some of it interesting. Taylor’s a trust officer at the bank. They seem to think highly of him. No complaints.”
“No hint of dipping his hand in?”
“Not that I’ve been able to find. Banks get very nervous when you start asking those kinds of questions. His salary, which might seem more than adequate to the ordinary working drudge, wasn’t enough to keep him in Mercedeses. For that, he had to rely on Dorothy. Maybe he got tired of asking, or maybe she got tired of giving.”
“What about the rest of them?”
He took Crescent Road to get across campus, passing old stone buildings: the Romanesque hall that housed the natural-history collection, the damaged Gothic-style auditorium, struck by lightning a year ago; fire had virtually destroyed the interior.
“With the exception of Ellen,” he said, “they all make a lot, and they all could use more. Ellen’s struggling along, barely keeping her gourd business alive—falling behind, letting the bills pile up, then just getting her nose above water again. I checked on her story about collapsed plumbing. It’s true, and it’s going to cost her. She doesn’t have the money.”
“Carl?”
Parkhurst pulled the Bronco into the parking lot, and they set off uphill for Karr Hall, where Marlitta’s husband was giving a lecture. Brent the Beautiful, as Parkhurst snidely referred to him.
“Carl is definitely not a happy man. Indications of friction between him and Dorothy. One interesting thing; he’s been going around looking at land.”
“What kind of land?”
“Large acreages of farmland. With all the farmers going under, there’s a lot of it out there. This has been going on for over a year, near as I can figure. I can’t see why anybody in his right mind wants to farm. Maybe he wants to start a commune, retreat from the world. Drinking a little more than Dorothy approved of.”
“Anything on Willis?” They took a path along Pauffer Lake. Two white ducks paddled serenely on the slate-gray water, rippling through the reflection of the campanile.
“Ah, the heir apparent.” Parkhurst touched her elbow to guide her up the left fork, overhung by tall trees bright green with new leaves. “Likes being looked up to. Pillar of the community. Likes playing golf. Not too swift. Lives well.”
“Needs money?”
“No more than the others. Might have gotten tired of being second fiddle and snuffed her so he could take his rightful place. As eldest son, he felt he should have been the one left in charge, gotten all the money so he could dole it out to the sibs as he felt inclined. Resentment toward his mother, and Dorothy, who didn’t always use the money the way he would have. You reckon this means money doesn’t buy happiness?”
Karr Hall, the stone weathered to a creamy color, was four-story, ivy creeping up its face, air conditioners incongruously jutting out from the odd window.
In addition to his clinical practice, Brent Wakeley gave a lecture series on human development. Busy man. Or so he claimed. Maybe he compensated for being the only doctor in the medical group whose last name wasn’t Barrington by getting adulation from students. They clamored to attend his lectures, fluttered around him in flocks.
Parkhurst held the door for her, and they trucked up to the second floor.
Brent was still lecturing when they found Room 220. They eased in and stood against the back wall. Every desk was occupied, and the students, predominantly female, gazed entranced. Like an actor, he spoke clearly, paused at crucial moments, and altered the shade of his voice for emphasis.
He had to be aware of two cops standing in the rear, but he didn’t so much as flicker a glance. “… abandonment. Physical desertion. Left all alone. It takes no great effort of imagination to realize the consequences in a child. Ah, but what about physical presence and emotional abandonment? To be abandoned by the physically present creates even more far-reaching results.”
His voice, rich and resonant, was used expertly. As he spoke, he paced back and forth in front of the class and along one side, occasionally brushing a hand through dark hair that fell appealingly over his forehead. The dramatic effect was enhanced by his clothing: black pants, turtleneck, and jacket.
The stage setting was perfect: gray sky outside two tall, narrow windows, shadowy room. He ought to be pacing around emoting to be or not to be, she thought.
“We give of our time to that which we love, be it activities or people. The impact of not having the parents’ time and attention engenders feelings of worthlessness in a child. There is something wrong with me, or else my mother or my father would want to be with me.”
He paused to let his words be absorbed and let the note-takers catch up. “The child’s identity comes from the mirroring eyes of the parent or caretaker. Children can’t learn who they are without these reflective mirrors. In the nonverbal early stages emotional interaction is crucial. Emotionally damaged parents are unable to affirm the child’s emotions. Without this affirmation he cannot thrive.
“As this child grows, he is loved for his achievements, she is loved for her performance. He or she develops in such a way as to reveal only what is expected. The result?” He paused and lowered his voice. “Disconnection with feelings.”
Susan looked at Parkhurst. He raised an eyebrow, crossed his arms, and propped a shoulder against the wall.
“This child develops a sense of emptiness, loneliness, and futility.” Wakeley strode to the front of the room, leaned back against the desk, and gripped the edges with his hands.
Susan felt like applauding. The class sat perfectly still, as enthralled as an audience when the curtain falls on Act One.
“Next class,” Wakeley said into the silence. “Denial, idealization, repression, disassociation. Survival mechanisms.”
Conversation rose as the students gathered their books and notebooks and drifted toward the door. One young woman, an armload of books clutched to her chest, went up to speak to him. He stopped popping books and notes into a briefcase and listened to her, actually listened, looked at her while she spoke, gave her his undivided attention: intoxicating to young female students. A charismatic, flamboyant man, the stuff of which romantic fantasies are made.
“Slaying dragons for the fair maiden, you think?” Parkhurst said softly. “Born too late. He’d look great with tights and a sword.”
Wakeley asked the student something. She nodded, tossed blond hair over her shoulder, and responded earnestly. Wakeley smiled, and patted her shoulder, and she tripped out, pretty young face flushed, eyes shining. Wakeley picked up his briefcase and strode toward the door, putting on a great act of being unaware of them.
“
Dr. Wakeley?” Parkhurst held out his ID. “A few questions.”
Brent Wakeley sighed, switched the briefcase to his other hand, and shoved the free hand through his forelock. “More about Dorothy, I assume.” Without waiting for a response, he said, “My office. This way.” He turned right and strode down the corridor, not bothering to check if they were following.
“The take-charge type,” Parkhurst muttered.
“Without a doubt.”
Several paces in the rear, they followed him down the corridor and down the stairs and caught up with him as he pulled keys from his pocket and unlocked a door.
“I have an appointment at the clinic in forty-five minutes,” he told them.
Susan smiled pleasantly. “I certainly hope we’ll be finished by then.”
Wakeley moved behind the gray metal desk, stood looking at them for a moment, and then sat down. The window at his back framed a large maple tree; beyond were hills crisscrossed with footpaths and buildings obscured by trees. A ray of sunshine poking through the clouds made his hair gleam blue-black like the iridescent feathers of a crow. He wasn’t as young as he liked to pretend—mid-forties, most likely, with tiny lines around the eyes and a slight softening to the chiseled jaw.
A laptop computer sat on the desk, surrounded by stacks of books and papers. File cabinet, two shabby chairs covered with a worn fabric, prints on the wall. Bookcase crammed with books, center shelf sagging under the weight.
“Please have a seat.” He gestured to the two chairs, as though the interview being conducted on his turf would be dictated by his terms.
She’d been a cop enough years to recognize bravado when she saw it. She wondered what he was trying to prove. Or hide.
“I don’t know why you’re wasting your time here,” he said. “There’s not a thing I can tell you.”
“Background information is always useful,” she murmured. She stood in front of his desk, forcing him to look up at her. He wasn’t intimidated, regarded her openly, a polite look of skepticism on his handsome face.
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