Suspicion of Malice

by Barbara Parker

  "Excuse me. Ms. Cresswell?"

  The eyes, a green that existed only in contact lenses, made a quick, dismissive inventory: thin blond woman pushing thirty-five, tailored gray dress above her knees, shoulder bag, plain gold earrings, knock-off watch. She took the business card that Gail extended.

  "My name is Gail Connor. Your office said you'd be here. Could I talk to you for a minute?"

  A small exhalation of air—such an inconvenience. "What is this in reference to?" The voice was breathy and childlike. Her glossy pink mouth seemed designed to stay open, and the gaping vee of the salon robe revealed the curves of breasts as round and firm as grapefruit.

  Gail didn't want to lie too blatantly. She would be seeing this woman again on the family yacht next weekend, the bereaved widow sprinkling her husband's earthly remains into the Atlantic. Whatever Gail said had to tie in with Anthony's cover story: He'd been hired by Claire Cresswell to look into Roger's financial dealings at the company.

  She smiled down into the big green eyes. "My law firm is looking into the pension and profit sharing plans at Cresswell Yachts. We think you may be entitled to receive your late husband's account, but many of the records are missing. I shouldn't be talking to you, but. . . well, I'm not getting a lot of cooperation from management. I was hoping to talk to you in confidence. Could I sit down?"

  “Sure.”

  Gail cleared some fashion magazines off a chair and pulled it over. "Love the nails. Are they acrylic?"

  Nikki held up a hand and twiddled her fingers. A diamond ring sparkled. "Gel coats. They work really well with French manicures. How much money was Roger supposed to get?"

  "We're not sure yet. The records are a mess. I was hoping that Roger kept duplicates at home?" Gail didn't think so. Charlene's notes said that Roger had taken some pride in the fact that he'd left his wife in the dark.

  "The estate lawyer has everything,” Nikki said, "but I could ask him to look."

  Gail scooted the chair closer. She knew that Nikki Cresswell disliked her in-laws, and hoped to use that fact. "There's one little problem. Roger's father says that your husband was taking kickbacks from suppliers. That would mean the company wouldn't owe you anything—"

  "What a liar. You want to know who was stealing? Porter's brother."

  "Duncan."

  "Right. Roger suspected, but he couldn't prove it. Dub is in charge of sales, and if anybody is getting kickbacks, it's him. Look at Dub's records—that's what you should do. Those people are all liars and cheats."

  Gail put her elbows on her knees. "You don't mean Elizabeth as well."

  "That bitch. I could tell you some things." Nikki pressed her lips together and her nostrils flared. "She's doing it with one of the men in the shop. Roger knew about it, that's why she stayed out of his way. And she called me a cheap little slut. To my face!"

  Gail kicked herself for not bringing her tape recorder to sit slowly spinning in her pocket. "Who's the guy?"

  "His name is Ted Stamos. Maybe you've met him, if you've been to the office, but he usually hangs out on the production floor. He's younger than her, and he's got a great body. I bet she pays him."

  "No, I haven't met him yet." Gail remembered what Bobby Gonzalez had said. "Didn't Ted Stamos and Roger have some trouble?"

  "Ted thinks he runs the company, just because he's worked there all his life. So did his father. You want to hear something weird? Roger told me that Ted has all his dead father's tools in this little workshop, and he goes in there at night and polishes them. He won't let anybody else in. Roger needed the room for something else, and Ted pushed him against a wall and said if he touched the tools, he'd smash his face. Roger wanted to fire him, but Porter said no. It's like, no, Roger, you can't tell me what to do." Nikki nodded slowly. "With men, it all comes down to control. Power and control, Gail. That's why Porter is cheating me out of Roger's shares. He will grab and grab till they shovel the dirt on his grave. I mean, why would he bother? He's about there already. Roger and I went to see Porter in the hospital, and he was all yellow, even his eyes. It was awful. I'm sorry, but he's such a bastard."

  "Wait," Gail said. "Porter is cheating you out of Roger's shares?"

  "Yes! He says they have some kind of company plan where wives don't get shares. I mean, isn't that illegal discrimination or something? Porter wants my shares so he can have fifty-one percent again. After he gave Roger ten percent, he only had forty-one, right? He wanted the shares back so he'd have more than Dub again, who's got forty-nine. See, Roger and Dub were going to vote Porter out of office."

  "And Porter didn't like that."

  "He went crazy, are you kidding?" Nikki gripped the arm of the chair and came in close, whispering. "There was this family dinner at his and Claire's house, and Roger told him, and he turned purple! He's screaming, 'You little fuck, you can't take my company, I'm gonna kill you.' I thought he was going to have a heart attack right there. I wish he had."

  "When? When was the dinner?"

  "The day before Roger died. A Friday. That's the last thing Roger heard from his own father; that he wished him dead. So hateful."

  A tiny, dark woman in a white smock came in and turned off the foot bath. The low-pitched humming stopped. The woman, who appeared to be of Central American Indian blood, settled herself on a stool and put a towel on her lap. "Foot, please." Nikki lifted one, dripping, and the woman patted it dry, then began working away with a pumice stone.

  "Don't worry. She doesn't speak English. You know why I'm mad? It's not the money. It's how they acted, all of them.. Liz and Dub laughing behind my back—I heard them! And Claire—Lady Perfect. I was never good enough for her. Porter called me a tramp. He threw me out of his office. He says I married Roger for his money. I did not. Roger was fun and we had a good time together. We were married four years! We had a good relationship. Roger loved me, and I loved him!"

  The pedicurist finished.with one foot, wrapped cotton in and out the toes, then fastened on a paper slipper. "Other foot, please." Nikki pulled the other one out of the water and put it on the towel on the woman's lap.

  Gail hesitated, then threw away caution. "Nikki, are you involved with Jack Pascoe?"

  Nikki stared at her foot, which the woman was rubbing briskly with cream. "No."

  "But you used to be. Didn't you?" Gail said quietly, "Okay, look. I won't lie to you. I'm trying to find out who killed your husband."

  "Are you a cop?"

  "No. I'm trying to help someone. The police think he did it. He's innocent, but I'm afraid he might wind up in jail."

  The green eyes turned. "Who?"

  "His name's Bobby Gonzalez. He's a friend of Sean Cresswell. You've probably met him."

  "Oh, sure. And I heard that, about him being a suspect, but I never believed it. He's a sweet guy."

  Gail said, "I need to find out who killed Roger. Was it Jack?"

  Nikki shook her head. "Jack was with me."

  "You were at the party. What time did you get there?"

  "A little bit before eleven. I had to drive from West Palm Beach. Jack sent me upstairs, and he stayed down there with his friends till three o'clock in the morning, and I was waiting all that time . . . waiting and waiting. Jack never cared about me. He wanted to get back at Roger. He thought Roger was the one who ruined his reputation, but Jack is a liar and a thief. He tricked Roger out of a painting that his sister did. It was worth a lot of money, and he stole it for ten thousand dollars. Go ask him. He's down the street at the Pascoe Gallery. And while you're at it, throw a brick through the window."

  The pedicurist leaned over to take some polish out of a rolling cart. She uncapped the bottle, keeping her eyes resolutely on her work.

  Gail was afraid that if she asked Nikki to meet her later, the connection would be lost. She said, "Do you think Roger came that night looking for you? Did he suspect you and Jack?"

  Nikki stared down at her hands, examining one of her glossy, white-tipped fingernails. "He knew. I didn't tell Ja
ck, but. . . Roger guessed. I called Roger that night from my friend's house in West Palm and we fought on the phone, and I said, Wow, Roger, if you don't give a damn, then maybe I'll just go have some fun at Jack's party. He called me some names. He said he would kick Jack's butt. I guess ... I wanted Roger to come get me. He came, but I wasn't there yet. He left a message on my cell phone and I didn't answer." Tears slid down Nikki's cheeks, and her mouth trembled. "I should have called back. I should have. I mean ... he probably wanted to say he loved me. You know? Maybe."

  The pedicurist nodded toward the box of tissues on the ledge behind the chair, and Gail stood up and pulled several out. "Here. I'm so sorry, Nikki."

  "Is my mascara all over?"

  "Not bad. Just a little. Look up." Gail dabbed at a spot while Nikki focused on the ceiling.

  Nikki said, "Find out who killed Roger. You find out and let me know. They're such sorry bastards. Every one of them."

  A minute later, Gail was sprinting for the legal pad in her car, trying to carry the words without spilling them out of her memory.

  After Karen was in bed, Gail read her a story. Karen's eyes closed as the last page was turned, but Gail continued to hold her for a while. She lifted Karen's hand and spread out their fingers together, right hand to left. Karen had been premature, and her hands had been tiny, like doll hands, but so soft and sweet Gail had wanted to eat them. Am I a stone? How can I love anyone this much and be a stone?

  She tucked the comforter around her daughter, turned off the light, and went to see where Irene had gone to. The kitchen was dark except for a glow over the stove. She saw a small orange dot moving on the back porch. A cigarette. Gail slid open the glass door. The tile was cool on her bare feet. Ceiling fans stirred the warm air, and insects tapped on the screen.

  "Well, hello, you." Irene exhaled smoke to the side, then ground out her cigarette in the ashtray. "Don't lecture me. I'm down to three a day." She pulled her knees up, making room on the end of the chaise. "Sit down, talk to me. How's my girl?"

  Gail lowered her cheek onto Irene's knees. After a while, her mother said, "What would you wish for, my pet, if you could have anything?"

  "To know what to do."

  "About what? Anthony?"

  "He'll ask me to marry him. As soon as he calms down, he will. Except he won't ask. He'll have everything all worked out in advance. We'll have a small, private ceremony and move into an apartment till we found a house. Maybe something near the Pedrosas so we can go over there for dinner every other night. There will be a live-in maid and someone to watch the baby while I work, but of course my career is optional."

  "Gail." Her mother's low laugh mixed with the night sounds coming through the screen.

  "What if he only wants me because of the baby?"

  "Do you really think that's the reason?"

  "I don't know. He said the child changes everything. He said that, but there was nothing about us. Nothing about what we went through. Oh, forget that, it's in the past. He can compartmentalize anything. There was nothing about . . . love. Excuse me for being so sentimental." Gail tried to laugh, but her throat was too tight.

  "You still love him."

  "I don't want to. Oh, God, I swear I don't." Gail closed her eyes. "I've never been so afraid in my life."

  Irene stroked her hair. "Can I make a confession? Your father and I weren't as happy as I let on. How we fought. I nagged Ed for not being more successful. He drank way too much, and I thought of leaving him, but my parents swore they'd cut me off if I did. We made each other miserable, and after he died, the funny thing is, no one else ever measured up. I see now I shouldn't have spared you. Marriage isn't painless. No, it's agony, but you grow, and you learn, and eventually, if you're lucky and you stick with it, you have something very special. We were getting to that place, Ed and I. And then . . . well. People give up too soon these days. You go on to the next person, and it's no better, because your old self comes right along with you."

  Gail felt a tap on her shoulder. Her mother said, "I found out what happened to Margaret Cresswell. You want to listen, or are you going to soak my knees all night?"

  She sat up and blew her nose on Irene's cocktail napkin. "Tell me."

  "This is capital-R rumor, you understand. Talk about favors. You owe me. I had to promise four seats to The Nutcracker."

  Irene resettled herself on the chaise and took a long sip of her drink. "I thought that if Claire had gone to Cushman, so had Maggie, and I was right. I know the secretary, Enid Lance, from the Garden Club. She's been at Cushman forever. She says that a week or so after Maggie dropped out of school, Claire came into the office and told the headmistress that the rumors weren't true. Maggie had not tried to kill herself, she'd had a nervous breakdown. And no, she was not expecting. Enid says Claire wanted to squash the gossip. What gossip? Maggie wasn't one of the popular girls, and when she left, they hardly noticed."

  "She was pregnant at fifteen?"

  "Who knows? Her mother went to great lengths to deny it."

  "Protesting too much," murmured Gail. "I wonder what happened to the baby."

  Irene could only shake her head.

  "Anthony will tell me not to bring it up with Claire. He'll say it's completely irrelevant."

  A little while later, Irene went inside to get ready for bed. Gail lay back on the chaise and watched the lights of boats moving across the dark water.

  She could find no rational connection between an event that may not even have happened, and Roger Cresswell's murder. Even so, the facts of Margaret Cresswell's life and death continued to weigh on Gail's mind. Maggie had been only thirty-three when she'd shut herself in the cottage and opened a bottle of pills. Forgive me. I am at peace. Even the love of a devoted husband hadn't been enough to save her. What despair had made it impossible to go on? Gail wanted to know, as if by finding out, she could save her this time.

  Chapter 20

  Anthony had been almost certain that Gail Connor would leave a message to cancel the meeting, but she arrived ten minutes early. He could see her through the glass wall of the conference room. She sat calmly, as if waiting for a trial to begin. A glance at her watch. Aligning her pen on her notebook. She wore a pearl-gray suit, and her hair was brushed back from her face. Her reflection shone in the polished rosewood surface of the table.

  Standing just outside, Anthony's own reflection came back to him, a somber, hollow-eyed ghost. He felt older, tired, and the dark suit matched his mood. She'd left her mark on his cheek, but the bruise was not visible, except to him—a tenderness at the bone.

  He had decided to have the meeting here, not in his private office. He couldn't look at his sofa without remembering her pale body stretched out on black leather. Lights off, the sliding door to the atrium open, water laughing softly on the rocks. He had stood at a distance memorizing every curve and shadow before she'd reached out a hand. Anthony. Come over here. Had her body changed? Would her breasts feel heavier, fuller? He couldn't remember how these things progressed. That he would not know how this child progressed left him close to grief.

  He shifted his folders to the other hand and opened the door. She looked around, acknowledging his presence. Walking around the table, he said that Nate Harris would arrive at six o'clock, not five, to allow time for discussion of other issues. Had she been offered something to drink? She said she didn't care for anything, thank you.

  Anthony sat down across from her and placed two folders and a leather-bound notebook on the table. "I have good news. We have a buyer for the house, and the price is more than we had expected. It cancels the debt that you say you owe me, leaving an additional profit of around fourteen thousand dollars, which we'll divide between us."

  He gave her a copy of a contract that showed the buyers as Jose R. and Beatriz S. Gomez of Miami. Totally fictitious. He didn't know where Raul had found the names. His old neighbors in Cuba, perhaps. "They want to close within two weeks."

  At some point Anthony would tell her t
he truth: He was buying the house for himself. It would be gutted, repaired, made new. A pool, maid's quarters, a play room. A good place for his children to visit— all three of them. He would not be moving to New York.

  She scanned the contract. Turned a page. "This is excellent. I didn't expect it to work out so well."

  "Nor did I." He opened the other folder, hesitated only a moment, then said, "This is a draft of an agreement for paternity and support." He slid a copy across the table. "I agree to pay your medical expenses and all costs you may incur as custodial parent. In exchange, you allow me to participate fully in the child's life. You also agree not to take the child out of this area without my permission. There are other provisions. Life insurance on myself, medical expenses and education for the child, and so on. He—or she—will speak Spanish fluently. He will know his heritage. His last name will be Quintana."

  "Not Pedrosa?" she retorted with a lift of her brows.

  Anthony stared back at her for several seconds, matching her chilly disdain. "'No. I have not seen my grandfather in two months. Ah. You seem surprised. The truth is, Gail, you were right. I was becoming too much like him. The power, the money—I told him I didn't want it. We argued. I told him to go to hell. He said the same to me. I swore on my life that I would never set foot again in that house, and I haven't." Anthony shrugged. "So. Don't worry about your child turning into a clone or a puppet of Ernesto Pedrosa or whatever the hell it was that you called me."

  She released a held breath. "I shouldn't have said that."

  "But you were right. You were also right that he contracted murder for me, but wrong to think I condone what he did. However, I cannot, as you suggested, turn him over to the police—"

  "I know you can't," she said. "He's too old. I wonder if he was even rational, when it happened. He was afraid for you, I believe that. I hope you see him again. And I don't mind if ... if you take the baby to see him. His great-grandfather."