Smiling, Diane softly said, "I feel that we do connect on another plane. She had a good spirit. I think that when someone with a good spirit dies, and you come into that aura, nothing bad will happen. Maybe that's why I've stayed here so long. It's like . . . she's watching over me. She sent Edward to bring me back from New York. I believe that, truly."
They were quiet for a minute. Gail could hear the hum of the air conditioner and the chain on one of the ceiling fans tapping on the housing.
"I almost forgot." Diane got up and walked to the bookcase. "Jack gave me this the other day, after I brought the portrait home. It's from a show in New York. Her last one."
Diane returned with a glossy exhibition guide from a gallery at Madison and Fifty-ninth. There was some text describing Margaret Cresswell's work, followed by full-color reproductions of her paintings. Gail turned the pages. So much black and brown, great swaths of it, pressing down on the more intense colors underneath, layer upon layer, as if pinning the heart of the thing far below the surface. Gail could see that the technique was excellent, but she felt no emotional connection. The portrait of Diane had spoken to her more clearly.
"Maggie's picture is on the last page." Standing behind her, Diane pointed, and Gail skipped ahead.
The black-and-white photograph took up the lower right-hand corner. The rest of the page contained her biography. Schools, degrees, major collections. Gail's attention returned to the artist. Margaret Cresswell had looked sideways at the camera as if it were intruding. Gail could only guess at the color of her long hair and pale eyes. Light brown and blue or gray? Gentle eyes, with faint shadows underneath. One brow a little higher than the other. No lipstick to define the small mouth, no blush to soften the sharp cheekbones. A woman who hadn't cared what people thought of her looks. Not defiance—irrelevance. Why does it matter? A man of some maturity and intelligence—a judge, say—might have found himself in the middle of a third or fourth conversation with this woman and have realized that he didn't want her to go back north. He would have persuaded her, somehow, to stay in the very place she had chosen to leave. Gail glanced at the date of the guide. Margaret Cresswell had been thirty-two years old. One year away from her death.
Gail said, "She killed herself. Do you know why?"
"They say it was clinical depression, which is the same as saying nobody knows." Diane turned her head toward the far end of the room. "There was a sofa under that window, and she took some pills and went to sleep."
"Who found her? Jack?"
"He was out of town. She left a note for her husband, and when he got home he read it and called the police, and they found her. It was too late by then."
"How sad. What did the note say?"
"It was just . . . 'Forgive me. I am at peace.'"
"‘Forgive me." Gail repeated softly. " 'I am at peace.'"
"I think she did it here because it's so quiet and peaceful. You don't notice it now but when the weather is cool, you can open all the windows and doors, and the breeze comes through, and you smell the ocean and hear the birds. It's perfect. I can turn up the music as loud as I want and not bother anybody."
Gail closed the exhibition guide. "May I keep this for a while?"
"If you want. Why are you so interested in Maggie?"
"Curiosity, I suppose."
"You feel her presence, don't you?"
With a laugh, Gail said, "No, not at all. All right, I'll tell you, and if this sounds weird, ignore it. I was thinking earlier today how odd it is that both of them—Maggie and her brother—died on this same piece of property."
Delicate blond brows lifted. "You don't think it has anything to do with Jack—"
"No, I don't mean that. I mean ... I don't know what I mean." Gail wedged the guide into her shoulder bag. "This could be a complete dead end, but it bothers me." She took a small breath, then stood up. "Well. Could I see where you found Roger?"
"If I don't have to go with you."
Diane unlatched the screen and they went onto the porch. The dog opened his eyes and raised his head.
"Look straight across the yard. See that trellis? There's a path that goes under it, and you go about fifty feet, and you'll see a fountain. Roger was on this side of it." She paused, then said, "I haven't gone in there since that morning."
Gail recalled, "You were the one who found him. How?"
"I heard Buddy barking. I was coming from Jack's house about nine o'clock in the morning. We'd been up all night talking. I'd gotten home just as people were leaving the party, and Jack asked me if I was hungry. There was plenty of food left over. So I fixed something to eat, and helped him clean up, and we just kept talking and listening to old records, and then the sun came up, and we had breakfast. I was coming this way when I heard Buddy."
That had been more information, Gail thought, than she had asked for. "Will you be here the rest of the afternoon?"
"Yes, until around five o'clock, then I'm meeting some friends. If you need anything else, just bang on the door. I'll have the music on." With some formality, Diane Cresswell extended a hand, allowed Gail to shake it briefly, then turned and went back inside.
"Gail waited until the door closed, then looked down at the dog, whose tongue hung out one side of its mouth. "You want to show me the scene of the crime?" Knowing it had been spoken to, the dog padded over to Gail, nails clicking on the porch. She scratched the top of its head. "And where were you during the murder of Roger Cresswell? Not talking, eh?"
Tags jingling, the dog trotted after her down the steps and across the yard. Gail dug her camera out of her bag and turned to take a shot of the cottage, then swung the lens due east toward the bay. Bushes partially blocked the view, but as Bobby had described, there was a seawall across the rear of the property and a boathouse toward the left.
She walked toward the palm trees, which grew at so many heights, with tangles of foliage between, that it was impossible to see into them. The fountain was completely hidden. She took a wide shot then zoomed in on the trellis. A vine wound in and out of the cross beams, dropping tendrils with blue flowers into the dim and empty space underneath. Gail heard the dog panting beside her. She said, "I don't really want to go in there unless you go with me. How about it?"
Buddy gave a sharp bark and bounded away. Camera still at her eye, Gail turned to get a shot toward the house, of which only the shingle roof and second floor were visible. She pulled back the lens for a wide view, and a man in a white Panama hat appeared in the scene, striding toward her on the keystone walkway. The dog circled around him.
She lowered the camera. The stocky man was wearing hiking shorts, a loose shirt printed with game fish, and leather deck shoes. He had an enormous blond mustache.
Teeth appeared under it. "Ms. Connor. I'm Jack Pascoe. Diane said you'd be paying a visit. You didn't knock on my door."
"I'm sorry. Should I have?"
"It would have been considerate, since this is my property, and here you are with your little spy camera, clicking away."
Gail felt a flutter in her chest. "Yes, I suppose I should have asked permission." She closed the lens cover and dropped the camera into her bag. "Well, anyway, I'm glad to meet you. I'd hoped we could talk."
"About what?"
Uncertain what he knew, but suspecting he knew everything, Gail said, "I represent Bobby Gonzalez. The police suspect him of murdering your cousin, Roger Cresswell. I'd like to see the crime scene. That's why I brought the camera. I also need some background on Roger and his family, and his friends, if you know any of them. This is confidential, of course."
"Is that what you were pumping Diane for? She said she was getting advice on that painting."
"Mr. Pascoe, I'm being civil with you, am I not? Please don't be rude."
"I guess it ticks me off what you're doing to a good friend of mine."
"You mean Nathan Harris. I'm not happy about it either. Look. If I can get Bobby out of harm's way, Nate's in the clear too."
"That's enoug
h. Nate's lawyer and I already had an extended discussion. He told me not to talk to anyone, except the cops, naturally. God forbid we get charged with obstruction."
"Oh, I see. And did Nate's lawyer happen to mention my name? As in, do not speak to this woman?"
Pascoe's smile revealed slightly crooked teeth. "A pleasure to have met you, Ms. Connor. If you don't mind, I've got a cold beer waiting in the fridge."
"One question. All right? Do you remember what Bobby was wearing that night? It's important. The police found a T-shirt in the trash outside his apartment, and it had Roger's blood on it, but from a fight two days before. The night of your party, Bobby wore a Hawaiian shirt. Do you remember it?"
Pascoe let out a breath and stared upward. The sandy mustache had some gray in it. "A green and white shirt... with pineapples. There. I've just eliminated a piece of evidence against him. Happy?"
"There is one more thing—"
"No, there isn't. It's hot out here, Ms. Connor."
"Let's stand in the shade. This is about the portrait. Diane asked me for legal advice, and I'm trying to help her."
Pascoe stared at Gail from under the brim of his hat, then exhaled. "All right. What do you want to know?"
They walked under a sea grape tree, where dried leaves the size of saucers littered the ground. Gail said, "You sold it—or gave it—to Nathan Harris. Did any money change hands? It's not an irrelevant question, Mr. Pascoe. I'm trying to establish ownership."
"Nate gave me a check for five thousand dollars on a total price of twenty. He owes me fifteen, which I may have to eat. It depends on where that painting ends up."
"I see. So you did actually sell it to him." That was disappointing, Gail thought. She would have to think of some other way for Diane to acquire the portrait. "I'm curious. You let Judge Harris have it so cheaply. Why was that?"
Pascoe was smiling at her again. "I'm a nice guy. Besides, it was for my aunt Claire."
Gail tugged one of the sea grapes from a long purple cluster. "Diane told me that the night Roger died, she saw the portrait in the study. Roger came to your house about nine-thirty, and you went into the study together to talk. Is that what you discussed? The portrait?"
Pascoe broke into a laugh. "Oh, yes, Anthony Quintana said you'd try to slip in a question like that. Just come out and ask me, Ms. Connor. Did you blow Roger away to get your hands on the portrait? No. I already owned it. He sold it to me in June."
"Where did Roger get the portrait?"
The only reply was an expansive shrug and upturning eyes. "God knows. Now off with you, I'm expecting company."
"Tell me about Margaret Cresswell," Gail said, not moving from where she stood.
"Why?"
"I'm curious about her. If I wind up defending Diane in a lawsuit over that portrait, I'd like to know about the artist. Diane said you grew up with Maggie. Is that right?"
Pascoe watched his black dog nose about under the leaves. "My parents traveled a good bit, and sometimes they'd leave me at Aunt Claire's house. Maggie was my age, so we spent time together."
"What was she like? I'd really like to know."
"Shy. Quiet. She read a lot. She drew constantly. You could see her talent even at age ten, eleven. A genius, but not in her schoolwork. She never cared about that. She created an inner life. She was the kindest person I have ever known. The sort of girl who would rescue baby birds.”
"What about Roger?"
"He'd step on the eggs."
"How old was she when she ran away?"
"You've been talking to Diane." Pascoe fanned himself with his Panama hat. "I told her that because she needs to believe it. Maggie didn't run away. She tried to hang herself from the clothes rod in her closet. She was fifteen."
"Ohhh—"
"They sent her to a mental hospital up the middle of the state in Redneckville. She spent a few months there, then they shipped her to another happy farm in Vermont. She sent me a potholder. A joke, of course. I knew then that she was okay. Porter bribed somebody to get her into Bennington College. After that, she disappeared. She was cleaning hotel rooms on Martha's Vineyard. Winters, she painted. I didn't see her for ten years."
"My God."
Pascoe curled the end of his mustache around his forefinger. "Yes. Being a Cresswell would drive anybody crazy."
"Was she?"
"Certainly unhappy. Claire and Porter will tell you that Maggie was afflicted only with an artistic temperament. Thank God I'm not a Cresswell. Having had Cresswell cousins makes me only partially nuts. Does this help you? I can't see how it would. Sorry to be a grinch, Ms. Connor." He dropped the hat back on his head, covering a bald spot. "You should be running along now."
"Why did Maggie try to kill herself at fifteen?"
"I didn't ask. Sorry.” He held out an arm toward the house as if to let her go first.
"I won't leave until I see where Roger died." Gail's hand had turned to a fist on the strap of her shoulder bag. "You don't have to escort me. I can find it on my own."
The cavalry-officer mustache lifted, but what Pascoe found humorous Gail couldn't imagine. "Okay." He indicated the direction with a nod. "Go through the trellis. The path curves a bit to the right. There's a fountain back there made of coral rock. You'll see a big brass manatee spouting water. Maggie designed it. If you've gone that far, back up. Roger was about ten feet this side of the fountain."
The timbers of the trellis had darkened with age or rot, and the vines that twisted around them had overgrown the lattice roof and climbed into the trees. Palm fronds rattled in a sudden gust of humid wind.
As Jack Pascoe walked away, he smiled over his shoulder. "Take some souvenir photos."
Chapter 17
Anthony followed Jack Pascoe's faded shirt and fraying khaki shorts through the long entrance hall that ran straight back through the house. French doors opened into a living room on one side, a study on the other. Books everywhere. Frames leaned up against walls. The oriental carpet was tattered, and upholstery sagged. Even thirty years in this country had not been sufficient to explain to Anthony why Americans from old money allowed their possessions—even their cars and their clothing—to appear so worn out.
On the screened porch, Anthony looked into the two tangled acres that made up the backyard.
"She's probably still in there, taking photos." Pascoe's mouth twitched with amusement. As if to lead the way, he reached for the door, but Anthony told him he was sure he could find it. He set off on the path that led due east toward the bay.
Five minutes ago, parking in front of Pascoe's house, he had noticed a silver Acura. His own reaction had surprised him: a pleasant buzz, a warmth in his chest like the beginnings of a laugh. This had been quickly replaced by curiosity: What was she doing here? Pascoe had supplied the answer to that.
Under the trellis the air was redolent of earth, rot, and regrowth. Plants pressed in from all sides and bent from their own weight. Red-throated bromeliads held small pools of water. Immense green and yellow leaves climbed across branches and tumbled down again, dangling in midair. Orchids clung to the trees. One of them shot out an immense spray of purple. Plants overflowed their pots, and ferns spilled across the path. Anthony's soft-soled shoes made no sound, and when he came around the final curve, Gail Connor didn't hear him.
She was pointing her camera at a brass manatee that seemed to rise up on its tail. A wall of rock formed the back of the thing, and water spurted from its mouth into a fern-draped, semicircular pond, ten feet in diameter, that glittered with bits of glass and broken pottery. Reflected sunlight dappled the trees.
The camera flashed, and Gail walked closer to the manatee, whose hippo-like face was level with her head of unruly dark blond hair. Slender arms lifted from a sleeveless shirt, and her sneakers were planted firmly on the path. A deceptively boyish figure.
Without speaking, Anthony waited for her to notice him. Finally she caught sight of him and jumped back a step, a hand at her heart. Recovering, she
tossed her hair off her face.
"Well. Look who's here. Did Jack Pascoe send out the alert? What's the meaning of telling him not to talk to me?" She was steaming. "He wanted to kick me off his property, thanks to you."
Anthony made a slight bow. "How pleasant to see you, Gail. Is your cell phone on? No, never mind why. Just look and tell me if it's on." She took it out of her shoulder bag. "Turn it on. Now, does it show a message? That's from me. I called you to say I would be here at one o'clock, and to bring your camera. You cut my head off for nothing. First the ax, then the trial. And no, I didn't tell Jack Pascoe not to talk to you. Maybe he just didn't want to."
She dropped the phone back into her bag. "Sorry."
"What abuse I take from this woman. She comes here in secret, and do I complain?"
"Okay, don't rub it in."
He walked farther into the open. The keystone path widened around the fountain, and three teak benches marked a semicircle. "What have you photographed so far?"
"The entrance, the path, the fountain." She turned and pointed. "I think Roger must have died over there. I wanted to save that for last."
Near where Anthony had stood were some broken and brown philodendron leaves, new shoots already uncurling. Any blood had been washed away by the rain. Sitting on his heels, he moved a leaf aside and saw a latex glove, likely dropped by the medical examiner.
Gail told him to move back, and while she took more photographs, he looked around. There were some small colored landscaping lights to illuminate the path and the fountain after dark. The full moon that night would have shone straight down through the opening in the trees. The killer had waited until his victim moved into this area by the fountain. Anthony glanced at the pond. An orange carp slid under the surface like a flash of blood. The level was low, and Anthony noticed a spigot connected to a garden hose.
Gail said, "Did Jack Pascoe tell you what I asked him?"
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