Suspicion of Malice

by Barbara Parker

  "Ah." Anthony turned. "Yes. You came to give Diane Cresswell some legal advice regarding the portrait in her cottage. You asked Jack about it."

  She moved out of sight behind the fountain. "Why didn't you mention that you were with Nate Harris when he gave it to Porter and Claire?" Gail came out from behind the wall of coral rocks brushing some twigs out of her hair.

  He shrugged. "It wasn't relevant. I don't see how it's relevant now." She had missed a leaf, and he reached out to pick it off. Her eyes followed his hand. "Why all the interest in a painting?"

  "Because Roger used to own it, and it was here in Jack's study the night Roger was killed. Jack said he bought it from Roger last June. You don't know how Roger got hold of it, do you?"

  Anthony flicked the leaf away. "Yes. I went by Jack's gallery yesterday, and we talked. I had no interest in the painting, only in asking what he and Roger had discussed in the study that night. He gave me a plate of bullshit. Supposedly Roger had dropped by to discuss buying something for his mother. Then Jack said he didn't know what to do about Nate's down payment. I asked what he was talking about, and he told me that Porter had given the portrait of Diane to her parents, and that Diane took it, and now it's in the cottage." Anthony smiled. "And you were here to talk to her about it. How things go around."

  Sunlight came through the trees and moved on Gail's hair.

  He went on, "Jack told me he would give Nate his money back, depending on what happens to the portrait. It came up in conversation that Jack bought it from Roger, and that Roger had been given the portrait by ... Porter and Claire."

  Gail laughed. "What? And Jack was sending it back to them? I bet he made money. How much did he pay Roger for it?"

  "He didn't say. It didn't seem important, so I didn't ask. Nate doesn't know yet. I'll have to tell him, and he's not going to be happy with Jack, much less to find out what Porter and Claire thought of his gift."

  "Yes, that was rude. Don't blame Claire, though. Diane says it was Porter's idea." Gail frowned slightly, then said, "Of course. Roger and Jack were arguing about the portrait. Diane told me it was in the study that night."

  "And what would that prove?" Anthony asked.

  "Look. Both Roger and his sister died on this same piece of property. He was shot; she killed herself. Don't you wonder about that? What connects them but the portrait? He owned it, she painted it. What if there's something going back to their childhood. Some secret that Roger was going to reveal, and someone—maybe Jack Pascoe—wanted to keep quiet."

  Her mind was a garden of improbable theories. "Go on. What secret?"

  She blew out a puff of air. "I don't know." In her excitement she lightly touched his forearm, and the hairs seemed to tingle. "Jack just told me something. Margaret Cresswell first tried to commit suicide at age fifteen. She tried to hang herself, and they sent her to a mental hospital. Did you know that?"

  One tragedy on another. Anthony shook his head. "No. Nate never mentioned it. I'm not sure he knows. What an unhappy woman." The burble and splash of the fountain echoed in the thick enclosure of green. Anthony went over and rested a foot on the edge. Minnows darted under some lily pads. "Let's look at the facts. Roger went into Jack's study around nine-thirty. They talked for ten minutes. Roger slammed the front door when he left. He bought a fifth of whiskey at a liquor store around ten o'clock. He came back—we don't know what time. He parked along the road a block away, and he drank. He was either killing time or building up his courage. Then he came in through the gate— sneaking in. Why does a man do that?"

  Gail walked closer. Her face shone with perspiration. "Well, why?"

  "He's looking for his wife. We know that Roger suspected Nikki of adultery. Assume he came here to look for her. Jack said she wasn't here. Roger left, but he wasn't convinced. He came back. Someone was either following or waiting for him."

  "Jack?" Gail wasn't convinced. "Why do you think he was sleeping with Nikki, of all people?"

  "Pure speculation." Anthony laughed.

  "Wait. This may be nothing, but . . . when I was talking to Diane, I asked her a simple question about finding Roger's body, and she goes into this long explanation about what time she got home, and the fact that she and Jack spent the night talking, and what they talked about.... When you hear testimony like that in a trial, what's your first thought?"

  "Someone is lying."

  "Maybe you're right about Jack and Nikki, but I don't know how we can possibly prove it."

  Anthony took his foot off the edge of the pond. "Come on. Let's see how our killer got in."

  A fence enclosed the south side of the property. The keystone walkway ended, becoming a soggy carpet of dead leaves. Anthony went first, sweeping away spider webs with a stick. They came to a rotting wood fence with vines twisting through broken boards. He found the gate and tugged on a rusting metal handle. The door opened silently. He motioned for Gail to go through, and in moving aside scraped his shoulder on the damp, fungus-black wood. "Cono." The shirt was a loosely woven Egyptian cotton with short sleeves, good for such sultry days. He brushed at the stain, only smearing it further.

  He could hear Gail chuckling softly. "Next time wear an old one." She walked past him. Such a lovely view, the seam of her shorts tucking in just so under two perfect curves. Long legs. He shoved his thoughts away.

  The unpaved street ended just to the left in a tangle of mangroves that hid any view of the water. Across the road was an overgrown vacant lot. Cars that had not fit in Pascoe's driveway the night of the murder had parked there. Gail took her photos, and they went back inside the fence.

  She asked, "Why didn't the killer just shoot him outside? Why come in here?"

  "Privacy. A car could have turned down that street with its headlights on." They walked back toward the fountain. Anthony said, "I don't believe that the killer was waiting inside. He would have had to know that Roger was coming back and at what time. Assume he followed Roger. There were two bullets in Roger's chest, which means that Roger turned around to see who was behind him. The police report indicates visible gunpowder on his shirt. The killer came close, possibly within a few feet, while Roger stood and waited. Why?"

  "Because of the gun."

  "No. Because Roger knew him."

  Reaching the fountain, Anthony reconstructed the scene. "The killer calls Roger's name. Roger turns. He knows the voice and wonders why this person is here. He lets him get close. Then the gun comes out. The killer fires twice, directly into Roger's chest." Anthony touched his own chest. "Confused, Roger pulls away. A third shot hits him here in the upper arm at an angle as he turns. Now he runs. A fourth goes into his back. Blood is found on the path here . . . and here."

  Walking slowly, Anthony pointed. "Roger falls. He instinctively lifts his hands to protect himself. A bullet goes through his wrist and into the ground. The killer stands over him, aims carefully, and— Two bullets through the left eye. The skull is cracked, and blood soaks the ground. The killer takes Roger's wallet, his Rolex—"

  A faint moan made Anthony turn around. Gail was sitting on one of the benches, her head level with her knees. "Gail!" A few quick paces took him there, and he lifted her by the shoulders.

  Her lips were bloodless. "I'm fine. Just ... a little too much detail, I guess."

  "Ay, Dios, I'm sorry." He looked around, remembering the spigot for the fountain. Taking out his handkerchief, he sprinted over and turned the handle. It came on with a rush and splashed mud on his linen trousers. Ignoring that, he took the wet cloth back to Gail and pressed it to her forehead. "Turn this way, corazon."

  A split-second after the accidental endearment slipped out, Gail took the handkerchief and shifted away from him on the bench. Anthony stared at the fossilized shells in the keystone pavement, gritting his teeth.

  "Thank you," Gail said. She folded the handkerchief neatly on her bare thigh. "I'll wash this and get it back to you."

  "Are you going to mail it?" he retorted.

  She gave him
a look. "You can pick it up at my office tomorrow."

  He recovered his manners. "You're feeling better now?"

  "I'm fine." She took a breath. "Thank you. Really." She stood up and reached into her bag for a fresh roll of film. "Let's go, it's hot in here.”

  He was aware once again of that odd sense of dislocation, of time having slipped backward. This place was so quiet. A bird, the whisper of leaves. The sun dappling the path at their feet. She had worn those same sneakers when they'd walked together twenty times—five miles—around the deck of the Sovereign of the Seas last winter. He slowly raised his eyes. Up the curves of her legs, over her sharp-boned knees, snagging for a moment on her shorts. Cuffed hems, which had caught the sand on the beach at Captiva Island, Gail leaning back against his chest as they'd watched the sunset. Six months ago—or six days, it was all the same—he had unbuttoned that same shirt, such damnably small buttons, which now rose and fell on the curve of her breast.

  His eyes lifted to her face. "Gail, I regret—so much—what happened to us."

  She stared back at him, then looked down at her camera, which hummed as the film was pulled back into the cannister. She shook it into her palm and dropped in another. "No regrets. We're lucky to have found out in time, aren't we? I'm sure you feel the same way." The back of the camera closed with a sharp click. "Things have worked out quite well, actually. It looks like I'll be moving to the Virgin Islands. Dave and I think it would be better for Karen, having both her parents in the same time zone, so really, you shouldn't regret a thing."

  Gail swung her bag onto her shoulder and walked toward the trellis.

  Anthony stared into the unfocused tangle of greenery. Dimly, from deep underground, he heard bars rattling and howls, and he knew that if he opened his mouth, it would be the creature's voice, not his own. Anthony took a few slow breaths, then got up from the bench and followed the path.

  She was waiting around the curve. She glanced at him as if to assure herself that he posed no danger. "I want to take some pictures of the seawall before I leave. Do you know where Nate and Bobby were sitting?"

  How cold-blooded she was. Anthony's body ached from the effort of maintaining his composure. He had to repeat her question to himself before remembering the answer. "No, I don't. Why do you want the seawall?"

  "I take pictures of everything."

  They walked from under the trellis into the sun. Jack Pascoe's back porch was empty, a pair of ceiling fans slowly revolving. Anthony heard music, and realized it came from the small white house across the yard. A black dog lay on the front porch asleep under a swing. It lifted its head and watched them.

  The path went into the shade of some sea grape trees, and their feet rustled through fallen leaves. Branches swayed, and Anthony felt the cool relief of wind on his face. He listened to Gail planning how she could speak to Roger's widow, what she might ask, and whether to do it before the family went out on the boat next weekend to scatter the ashes. She talked without a glance at the man beside her. Anthony allowed himself to ponder what Gail had told him back there by the fountain. Leaving for the Virgin Islands. Abandoning her law practice, her mother, her friends, her relatives, and her way of life to travel 1,500 miles to be with a man she had ceased to love. There was Karen, of course, but Anthony did not believe that any woman, had she a choice, would go to such extremes, even for her daughter. Round-trip airfare was less trouble.

  Mentirosa. What games she played.

  The wind tossed her hair. She wore no makeup today, but there was a pink glow on her face. She carried her small chin up, which had the effect of tilting her lashes slightly downward. Hiding from him.

  They walked to the seawall. While Gail took photographs, Anthony sat on a bench in the shade of the boathouse, a wooden structure built over the shallows of the bay. A small power boat was up on hoists under the roof. Key Biscayne lay to the northeast, Elliot Key just south of it. Mangroves at Pascoe's property line hid the skyscrapers downtown. This spot could have been fifty miles away from the city. Water splashed softly against the pilings.

  Anthony stretched out his arms along the back of the bench and put his ankle on the opposite knee. The warm buzz in his chest had returned. From ten yards away Gail turned toward him. "I'd like a shot of the boathouse. Do you want to move?" He smiled and shook his head, then waved at her as she looked through the viewfinder.

  Gail closed her camera. "All right. I think that's everything."

  "Come sit down for a minute. It's shady and cool here."

  "No, I really have to go. Karen's waiting."

  But she didn't go. She stood there looking at him. He said, "How is Karen? I am sorry not to see her anymore. May I say that without making you angry?"

  He could see her let out a breath, then smile. Hang her head a little. "Yes, you may. Karen is wonderful, beautiful. She had a good time over the summer, and she's very glad to be home."

  Ah-ha. This woman wasn't going to the Virgin Islands. Anthony raised his brows. "And your mother? Is Irene well? You must give her my regards."

  "I meant to tell you." Gail stepped from the seawall to the dock, then under the eaves of the boat-house. She sat on the other end of the bench. "My mother has turned into a spy. She asked her friends about the Cresswells, and . . . well, I don't have any specifics, but you're right, what you said on that tape. They pretend to be close, but it's all an act."

  Anthony let himself look at her. He smiled. "You can write me a memo," he said. "Ah. By the way, what did Bobby Gonzalez say about his alibi? Did you talk to him?"

  It took her a second to reply. "Let's save that for tomorrow, when you see him at my office."

  He continued to look at her, and her eyes became unfocused, then slid away from him. "You know, Gail, I can tell when something is going on. What is it this time?"

  "Nothing is going on. We'll discuss it tomorrow."

  She began to stand, but he held onto the strap of her shoulder bag. "Before I put one more hour of my time into helping that young jackass, I want to know where the hell he was when Roger Cresswell was shot to death." He looked directly at her, lifting his brows. "Where?"

  "He was with a friend. We can discuss it later."

  Anthony made a few little tugs on the strap. "What friend? We're working for the same thing, no? Why are you keeping secrets?"

  She sighed. Deeply. Regretfully. "I'm so sorry about this."

  It took him a few seconds before the impossible answer came to him. "Not . . . my daughter."

  "Yes. Angela was supposed to have talked to you already. I see she didn't. Bobby's car wasn't working. She dropped him off here at eight o'clock and picked him up again about a quarter till twelve. All the times are the same, but he was with Angela, not Sean. They were together till about three in the morning, when she left him at his apartment on South Beach."

  Anthony held up his hands. "No, no, I was at home that night. She was upstairs in bed by ten-thirty. She couldn't have left. There's an alarm system."

  "Girls that age can be very resourceful."

  "Cono cara'o."

  "Bobby wanted to keep you from finding out, so, he gave the police Sean's name as an alibi. It was foolish, but he did it for Angela."

  "She told me—she promised—that she would stay away from him! How long have you known about this?"

  "Two days. Bobby wanted to give Angela a chance to tell you herself. It was Angela who asked me to help Bobby. That was about a week and a half ago."

  "iPor que no me— Why didn't you tell me?"

  "Because I don't snitch on my friends."

  "He barely graduated from high school! He's been arrested and he smokes pot. Do you think I want my daughter with someone like that? Do you approve of this?"

  "Stop screaming at me, Anthony. If you so much as mention this to my client, I will throw you out of my office."

  "Voy a matar al hijo de puta."

  "Oh, shut up. You're not going to kill anybody. Bobby is a decent young man, and Angela is in love w
ith him. Deal with it."

  A thought rocketed through his brain. "Have they . . . ?"

  "How should I know?"

  "You think this is funny, don't you?"

  "I think you're being ridiculous."

  Anthony opened his mouth to say something more, but could see there was no use in it. He put his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands and stared down at the rough boards of the dock. How had he failed his daughter? What secret life did she lead? What other lies was she guarding?

  "I knew I would lose her someday, but not so soon. Not like this."

  "Anthony. You haven't lost her." A sigh came from the woman beside him. "She's a normal teenage girl with a boyfriend you don't happen to like. This is so unbelievably typical"

  "Wait until Karen does it, then tell me it's typical."

  "Good Lord."

  "What do I say to her? That it's okay?"

  "Just say .. . that you love her and you hope she'll be responsible." Gail followed that inadequate advice with a little shrug.

  Anthony pushed his hair back with both hands. "Yes. You're right." He let out a breath. "This won't be easy, but... I’ll talk to her. I will be ... gentle. Like a saint."

  Gail's laughter rippled like a light puff of wind on the water. "I think the heat is affecting your brain." She glanced at her watch. "I really have to go."

  He stood up. "I'll walk with you to your car."

  Her eyes went to his face, then away. She turned around and stepped off the dock and into the yard. He caught up. She reached into her bag and took out her sunglasses. "Did you ask Nate about smoking grass with Bobby?"

  "Gail, listen to me. When you talk to Nate this week, stay away from that. It's not relevant."

  "Are you setting limits on my questions?”

  "I wouldn't put it that way."

  "I would."

  "Ay, que pena. Listen to me. Nate didn't follow Bobby from the house. Nate was sitting alone on the porch of the cottage having a drink. He was thinking of his wife and how she died. Nate saw someone walk to the seawall, he was curious, so he went to see who it was. That is all. And about the marijuana . . . Nate is embarrassed. He has no explanation, not much recollection, and as it isn't relevant, don't bring it up. I will not allow him to answer."