Suspicion of Malice

by Barbara Parker

  Anthony lifted his hands. "I am sorry, but I gave my last card to your husband. I wonder if you could show me where the production supervisors are. I'd like to talk to them."

  Still looking at him, Elizabeth Cresswell leaned down to turn the key, and a moment later the golf cart jerked forward. There were four supervisors on the list that Porter had given Anthony, but only one he wanted to meet—Theodore Stamos. Liz Cresswell's lover.

  The glass-enclosed offices looked down from a catwalk thirty feet above the floor of the assembly building. Hoists in the roof carried heavy parts and equipment, and the boats were lined up end to end, two rows of them in various stages of completion. Big fans roared, moving air through the building.

  Anthony grasped the railing with both hands and leaned over. Directly under him half a dozen men in rubber gloves were moving around inside an empty hull, laying down sheets of fiberglass, adhering it tightly with resin guns and rollers. The guns were attached to long hoses that fed from a stainless steel tank. Sparks flew from a welding torch in another part of the building. A drill whined, and metal clanged. An odd chemical smell drifted up toward the catwalk.

  "I wouldn't lean on that railing. It's loose. Guess I better have it fixed."

  Anthony glanced to his left. A man in jeans and work boots stood a few feet away. The plaid shirt reminded Anthony of a cowboy, and the man's arms were heavy with muscle. Straight brown hair stuck out over his forehead, and caution showed in his eyes. He had a thin-lipped mouth bracketed by deep creases. Anthony knew the face.

  He extended his hand. "I'm Anthony Quintana. We met last weekend at the marina behind the Cresswells' condo. They've hired me to look into company records."

  "Yeah, Porter told me."

  “What is that smell?”

  Ted Stamos raised his head, testing the air. "Resin, probably. I don't smell it anymore. The chemical composition changed some years back, but used to be, men would die of acetone. That's what killed my father. Liver cancer."

  "Could we go inside your office? It's noisy out here."

  The noise receded when Stamos shut the door. The office was jammed with file cabinets and stacked with papers. In/out boxes. Lists, schedules. Machine parts whose purpose eluded Anthony. He handed Stamos his card.

  "Criminal law?"

  Anthony let go a small sigh. "Porter is afraid that Roger may have committed financial crimes here at the company. Embezzlement, kickbacks. This is probably untrue, but to erase the doubt is worth something. You worked with Roger. Perhaps you have an opinion."

  "I only build the boats," Stamos said after a moment. "How they get sold, and to who, I wouldn't know. It's not my concern. I keep my eye on the production costs, sure, but I don't know what goes on over at the main office. I don't think I can help you."

  Anthony knew he would get nothing further. He noticed on the wall behind the battered desk a framed black-and-white snapshot of a man standing in front of a power boat, hands on his hips. "Who is this?"

  "My father. Henry Stamos. He built that boat." The son leaned casually against the desk with his arms crossed.

  "Yes, I recognize the boat from a photograph in the lobby. The prototype of the first production model."

  "Sure is. He'd never worked fiberglass before, but look at it. He was raised in Tarpon Springs, and he'd only built fishing boats out of wood. The man was a genius."

  Anthony agreed that it was an impressive piece of work. He studied the small face in the photograph. The man was dead, but his tools were still in his workshop, polished and sharpened. "I'm curious about ownership of the company. The shares of stock and so on. Did your father ever own any shares?"

  "Nope. Charlie Cresswell never got around to that. He died first."

  "But he intended to make your father a part owner." Anthony looked at Stamos. "How long has Cresswell been dead?"

  Still leaning on the edge of the desk, Stamos crossed his scuffed work boots at the ankle. "About thirty years, I guess. Why?"

  Anthony allowed a shrug to indicate lack of any good reason to know this. He said, "Twenty years ago Porter transferred shares to his brother, making their interests approximately equal. Do you happen to know why this was done?"

  "No. I didn't know it was. What they do in the office doesn't concern me. You know, I need to get back to work."

  "Of course." Anthony lifted a hand. "There is one other question." He hesitated for a moment, then decided mat Ted Stamos already knew, if he had been talking to Liz Cresswell. "It's such a small world. My daughter is dating Bobby Gonzalez, who used to work in your department. Do you remember him?"

  Stamos's expression didn't change, but he took a moment to answer. "Sure, I remember Bobby."

  "And you know he's a suspect in Roger's death. Angela asked me to help him. I can't say no to her. She would never forgive me. Bobby says you stood up for him with Roger. You refused to fire Bobby when Roger told you to. He told me about his fight with Roger here in your office. He said that you came in and broke it up, correct?"

  "Yeah, that's right."

  "And that you weren't here when it started, but you heard the noise and came in. Is that so?"

  "Yeah."

  "But when I met you at the marina, Porter Cresswell said that you had seen Bobby attack Roger for firing him, and then threaten his life. Porter asked you if that was true, and you said yes. That's what you told the police as well. Who asked you to lie to them? Porter?"

  Stamos shifted, uncrossing his feet, standing up straight. He was smiling, but not as if he had found the question amusing. "The man owns the company. He said Bobby did it."

  "No. He was with my daughter at the time. He's completely innocent."

  "No kidding. Good. Glad to hear it." Stamos went over to the door and opened it so Anthony could leave. "If you don't mind, I've got some work to do."

  Around ten o'clock that night, Anthony went by the Strip Mine, a one-story concrete-block building with a flashing sign showing a pair of tetas in a martini glass.

  He ordered a drink, leaving the bartender a twenty as a tip. A little later he asked about the party of men who had come in the night of August 16, and he laid twenties on the counter until the man slipped the pile into his pocket. Anthony showed him some photos his investigator had taken with a telephoto lens.

  The bartender leaned on his elbows. "Yeah, I know Dub Cresswell. He's always in here. I remember that night because the guys he brought in were speaking French, from Quebec, and the girls got a kick out of it. Mr. Cresswell is a good customer. Don't mention I talked to you, he might not come in here no more."

  "What time did they come in that night?"

  "My shift starts at ten o'clock. They had their first round on the table already. I'm guessing nine-thirty."

  The bartender recognized Ted Stamos as well. "He always comes in when Mr. Cresswell brings a group like that, but he drinks club soda. I guess he's the designated driver or something."

  "Did Mr. Cresswell leave early?"

  "No, he stayed and signed the bill. It's a company account. Like I said, he's a good customer."

  "What about Stamos? When did he leave?"

  "He left when the rest of them did. I remember he had to help Dub get out of his chair."

  "Could either of them have gone out during the night, then returned?"

  "Oh, jeez. We're jammed on Saturdays. I can't remember. You want to talk to the parking lot attendant."

  It cost Anthony sixty dollars. "Si, por supuesto, yo recuerdo a ese hombre."

  The attendant remembered that the man had come with the others, but he had wanted to leave his Jeep Cherokee by the entrance. It had taken some explaining, because the attendant didn't speak English, and the man—Este, iverdad? The American had been forced to speak Spanish, and not well. No movar el camion. Estoy aqui en cinco minutos. Don't move the truck. I'll be back in five minutes. Ted Stamos had come out, and his rear tires had squealed taking off on the highway, heading south. He had returned a couple of hours later. About one
-thirty in the morning he and the other men had come out of the club. He had helped el gordo—the fat man—into the passenger seat and had driven away.

  "Muchas gracias," Anthony said.

  Chapter 22

  Gail's mother introduced her to Claire Cresswell in the staff lounge at the ballet. Claire had just attended a board meeting, and she had an hour or so before she was expected home.

  "We're having people over for cocktails," Claire explained, "or else I might let Porter fend for himself." They talked for a few minutes about what ballets Gail should see this season, then Irene went out and left them alone.

  Windows in the lounge gave a view of the fourth-floor terrace and the placid turquoise of the Atlantic a few city blocks to the east. Interior windows at right angles looked down into one of the practice studios with its wall of mirrors and shiny wood floor. Gail and Claire took their cups of coffee to a grouping of chairs in a corner.

  Not having met her before, Gail could not tell what marks Roger Cresswell's death had left on his mother's face, but she was arrestingly beautiful. For women with money and taste, years were irrelevant. Claire Cresswell fought back with a stunning wardrobe, elegant jewelry, and glowing makeup. Platinum hair was fastened at the nape of her long neck in a flat black bow. A deep rose silk jacket whispered against flowing trousers. Her nails were the same shade of pink, and a loose bracelet of pink amethysts clicked against the gold band of a diamond-faced watch when Claire picked up her coffee.

  "Of course I remember your mother in high school. Irene was so well liked by everyone. Has it been forty years? Can it be?" Claire lightly touched fingers to her cheek and made a mock grimace. "More than forty. Uggh."

  Gail sat at right angles, holding her cup on her knees. "I told Anthony to be here at five-thirty so we could talk first. I'm so grateful for your help. I know this is a terrible time for you, losing a son, but you may have saved Bobby's career. And Nate's too."

  "It's very kind of you to say so, Gail." Claire smiled. Her glossy lipstick matched her jacket. "Well. What's on your mind?"

  "Diane asked me to help her with a legal matter. It's about the portrait that your daughter painted. You know it's at the cottage now, don't you? And that Diane took it from her parents' house."

  "Yes. Nate told me all about it. I was so mad at Porter. I said, 'Porter, you're giving Nate his down payment back.' Porter promised he would. This might be one of those things we'll all laugh about later."

  "Diane would like to keep the portrait," Gail said. "She feels a special attachment, as you can understand. She says her parents don't care about it, except for its monetary value. Even so, she doesn't have much chance of acquiring title unless they give it up. I thought you might be willing to help, to persuade them somehow."

  Claire leaned to set down her cup. "Of course, I'd be happy to help. I can't guarantee what Liz would say, though. Does Diane want it that much? Maybe I could buy it for her. If Liz won't give it to her voluntarily, then I'll just make an offer. Is that a good idea?"

  Gail laughed, surprised. "Diane never expected this, but I'm sure she'd accept. You might just shame her mother into giving it up, since they paid nothing for it. I'm curious about something. Before Roger sold it to Jack and all this started, you and Porter owned it. Where did you get it?"

  "From Maggie."

  "Really. I asked Nate, and he said he never saw it at your house."

  "We never hung it up. Can you believe it? I meant to get it framed, but we went on vacation, and I stuck it aside and completely forgot. We have so many paintings. When did Maggie do that one? It's been a good eight years. One day we were redecorating a guest room, and there it was. We gave it to Roger and Nikki for Christmas."

  "Why not to Diane's parents?"

  "Oh. Well, we decided that since Roger didn't have any of his sister's works, it would be a nice gift."

  That was hardly an answer, but Gail went on. "Nate told me that when Maggie was fifteen, she was in love with a boy who worked at the boat yard, but you and Porter didn't approve. Maggie was so upset that she attempted suicide. Is that what happened?"

  "I'm afraid so. We don't like to talk about it. It was a terrible time for everyone."

  "Your nephew, Jack, says he and Maggie were close as children. He loved her very much, I think. He says that she was sent to a mental hospital farther up the state, and she stayed there a few months. Where was it?"

  "Outside Orlando. They got her stabilized, and then we sent her to a place in Vermont. Porter has family there. We visited, of course. I practically lived on airplanes."

  "How old was she when she went away?"

  "Sixteen. We hated to do it, but they had excellent facilities for girls her age."

  "When she attempted suicide... was she pregnant?"

  "Pregnant? No." Claire laughed, blinking heavily mascaraed lashes. "Of course she wasn't pregnant."

  "So many years later, and she's gone. It wouldn't matter now if you told me."

  "I just did. You know, I don't see the reason for these questions. How is this helping Nate? How is it helping Bobby?"

  "I'm looking for the reason Roger was killed. Perhaps it was because of something he knew." Allowing some time to gather her thoughts, Gail shifted some ballet magazines aside on the table and set down her coffee. "This is what I see. Diane told me that her mother was on vacation at Disney World when she went into early labor. That's near Orlando, where you first took Maggie. If she'd had a child, it would be twenty, the same age as Diane. Diane doesn't look like her parents. She looks more like you. She's a dancer. So were you. And there's the portrait. Maggie never painted portraits, but she painted Diane. The longing in it is overpowering. It says . . . this is my child."

  Claire Cresswell, who had been stunned into silence as Gail recited these facts, blurted out, "That is completely untrue. I hope to God you haven't repeated this to anyone else."

  "No, I haven't, not even to Anthony. I wanted to talk to you first—"

  "This has nothing to do with Roger's death. Do you find some strange satisfaction in picking through my family's past?"

  "I didn't mean to—"

  There was a knock on the door, and both women turned. One of the staff showed Anthony in. He saw them and smiled.

  Claire walked to him, lifting her hands so he could take them. "Look who's here. And aren't you just gorgeous? What a lovely suit. Did you see Nate's interview on TV this morning? Wasn't he wonderful?"

  For a second Anthony's eyes met Gail's. She made a subtle shrug. He said to Claire, "My secretary taped the interview. I was in court all day. Am I late? I hope you haven't waited long." He bent to allow Claire to brush his cheek with hers. "Come, let's sit on the couch. Gail, I think Claire left her coffee over there on the table. Would you bring it, please?"

  She said prettily, "May I get you some coffee, too?"

  "Would you? Cream, no sugar." He looked up and smiled, and she read his thoughts clearly. Give me a few minutes with Claire.

  Claire said, "The break room is down the hall to the left. And if you could bring me a fresh cup? Black is fine. Thanks."

  Gail walked down the corridor and back again, looking through the windows into the open studios. A class of little girls in one of them. Older dancers in another. Then to the break room for the coffee.

  When she returned, they were in a discussion about the lawsuit that Roger's wife had threatened. Whether to settle. Claire thought they should.

  Gail set the cups on the coffee table, feeling a nudge of annoyance that he had been able to calm this woman so quickly. Claire Cresswell was chattering like a schoolgirl. And why wouldn't she be smitten? That resonant voice, the big brown eyes, the slight frown of concern. His warm, subtle sexuality had put a blush on her cheeks. Aren't you just gorgeous?

  Claire was smiling, and her face had relaxed. Gail took that as a good omen for her own chances of not being kicked out again. She took a chair at the end of the couch, facing Anthony.

  "Porter just hates to be
pushed around, but I said, Porter, you don't want to be in litigation for years, do you? Our lawyer has him pretty much convinced it's the right thing to do, just let it go. I'm going to call Nikki and say there are no hard feelings and we're so sorry. We have to make up before Sunday, don't we?"

  "Sunday?"

  "When we go out to scatter Roger's ashes. There won't be many of us. Just the immediate family and a few friends." Claire turned to smile at Gail. "You're coming too, aren't you?"

  Gail nodded, relieved that Claire Cresswell had forgiven her.

  Anthony patted Claire's hand, then squeezed it. "Claire, I am sorry to raise such painful issues, but when Ms. Connor and I talk to the police, they will ask us certain questions. I want to have all the answers for them. You understand. There was a family dinner the night before Roger died. Some disagreements between him and Porter. Could you tell me what it was about?"

  "Roger wanted Porter to resign, and he wouldn't do it, so Roger and Dub said they'd vote him out. Porter was the angriest I have ever seen him. He threw things. It took me forever to get them calmed down."

  Anthony leaned over to put his empty cup on the table. The expensive fabric of his suit rustled softly, and Gail imagined a little cloud of cologne wafting around Claire's head. "The next night, Saturday, Porter was at the Black Point Marina after a cruise to Bimini," Anthony said.

  "No. Porter didn't go on the cruise. He just hasn't got the strength. I dropped him off at the marina and had dinner with some friends."

  "You picked him up again around nine o'clock. And then?"

  "And we went home. He was in bed by ten-thirty." Claire laughed. "Believe me, Porter's not going to go creeping around in the dark."

  "Another difficult question," Anthony said. "Ted Stamos told the police that Bobby attacked Roger without cause and threatened to kill him. This never occurred. I asked Stamos about it, and he said, indirectly, that he lied because Porter told him to. Was Stamos afraid of losing his job? Or was it simple loyalty? What do you think?"