Claire took her time. "I'm sure Porter didn't ask Ted to lie. Ted misunderstood. But it's true that Ted and Roger didn't like each other. It goes back some years. Ted had a crush on my daughter when they were kids. Roger knew about it, and he'd promised not to say anything, but he told Porter on them, and Porter threw Ted off our property. Ted and Roger never liked each other from that moment on. Remember what I told you before? No one in the family could have killed Roger."
Gail could read Anthony's thoughts. It was comfortable for Claire to blame Ted Stamos for murder. Anthony said, "Not liking someone isn't a motive I would suggest to a homicide detective. Let me ask you about the corporation. You recall that yesterday I asked Porter about the shares, and he said that about twenty years ago, he gave Dub additional shares of the business, up to forty-nine percent. Why did he do that? Does Dub have some hold on him? I am thinking of blackmail, and perhaps Roger found out—"
"No!" Claire protested with a laugh. "They're brothers. It was just the fair thing to do. Dub had been working so hard, and he wanted some compensation for it. It doesn't mean anything. Porter still has the controlling interest. It was for appearances."
Anthony nodded, apparently letting it go.
Gail leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped. "Was it for Diane?" In the corner of her vision she could see the flicker of surprise on Anthony's face. "Was it because Porter wanted them to take Maggie's child?"
Anthony was openly staring.
Claire Cresswell's face paled as if someone had struck her.
Gail said, "Claire, it's true, isn't it? Porter promised his brother more shares of the company if he and Liz would adopt the baby." This was the only reason that made sense to Gail. She had guessed, but Claire's reaction had just confirmed it. "Please, Claire. This could be the reason Roger died. Did he know? Was he going to tell?"
The facade began to crumble. Lips pressed together, then trembled. Eyes shone with sudden tears. "He couldn't have known."
"Are you sure? Claire, he was old enough to see what was going on. Maggie might have said something."
"Maggie never told anyone. She hid it. Even from me." Claire's voice became husky. "We didn't know until . . . she tried to kill herself. The maid found her, and we called an ambulance, and at the hospital the doctor told us. Porter wanted it aborted, but it was too late. They wouldn't. We had to decide what to do. We couldn't let Maggie keep it. She was only fifteen. Her life would have been ruined. Something shameful like that? All the gossip, the whispering—" Sharply Claire said, "You think it shouldn't have mattered, but you weren't there. It was awful for all of us."
Gail thought for a moment of backing away from a topic so clearly painful to this woman, but she said, "So you decided to keep the child in the family by giving it to your in-laws."
"Porter decided. I wanted to put the baby up for adoption, but Porter wouldn't allow it. He said . . . hell no. 'Hell no. It's my flesh and blood.’ He decided the baby would live with Dub and Lizzie. A little sister for Patty. So we drove Maggie up to Orlando. I have a cousin there. Liz came up and stayed until it was over. She doesn't have family, so it wasn't hard to do. We had a private doctor, and he put Dub and Liz's name on the birth certificate.
"Porter told Maggie to sign the consent. He said the baby was going to be adopted by a nice couple in another state, and she shouldn't talk about it again, ever. He said, 'What you did was bad, but it's behind you. Don't think about it anymore.’ Porter had to go back to work, but I stayed with her. After the baby was born, Porter and I took her to his cousins in Vermont, and they put her in a hospital there. The doctors were wonderful. It was the only solution. It's the only thing we could have done. She got better. We sent her to school up there. She became an artist, and she was famous. Her paintings are in museums. She was on the cover of Art in America—"
Claire's exhalation turned to a sob, and she pressed her fist against her mouth. Anthony gave her his handkerchief.
After a minute, Gail leaned closer and said softly, "Claire? Who was Diane's father? Did Maggie tell you?"
Taking some time to answer, Claire pressed the handkerchief to the corners of her eyes. "No. Maggie kept so much from me. Porter said to let it be. I didn't press her to talk about it."
"Did she ever find out about Diane? Did she guess?"
"She must have." Claire took a shaky breath. "Eight years ago Maggie spent the winter with friends in Key West, and she came through Miami. That's when she painted the portrait. I'm sure she knew. Before she went back north, she gave it to us. She came to the house and set it on a chair for us to look at, and she didn't say anything, and nobody said anything, and Porter walked into another room and closed the door. When she was gone, he came out and said . . . 'Put that thing away.'"
Claire's mouth trembled. "I didn't see Maggie for four years. Oh, we'd write, and there were some phone calls, but she never visited. Then she met Nate, and they got married. He was so kind to her. He didn't know any of this, but he tried to patch things up. He kept after her, and we started visiting again. She even saw Porter a few times. We spent Christmas together.
"A week before she died, Nate said, 'Maggie, go visit your mother, go see the new gallery.' We'd moved to the condo by then. She came over, and we had a nice lunch, just the two of us. Porter was at the office. And afterwards Maggie got up and walked around the house, and she asked me, 'Mama, where's the portrait that I gave you? Where is it? I don't see it anywhere.' I didn't remember what she was talking about. I didn't remember at first. She tore the house apart looking everywhere, and I was running after her, crying, begging her to stop. She found it in a box under the bed in the guest bedroom. I tried to tell her. I said, 'Your daddy wanted me to give it away, but I didn't, I kept it.’ I said, 'Maggie, I'll have it framed and hung in the gallery, I will. I promise.' She didn't say anything more. She pushed the portrait back under the bed and she left.
"We spoke on the phone a couple of times that week. I wanted to say something, but she didn't sound upset. I thought everything was all right. A few nights later Nate came over and told us she was gone. She'd killed herself in the cottage with her sleeping pills. After the funeral, I didn't think about it anymore. I put all those thoughts away in a box. Never looked, not for three years. It was Porter's idea to give the portrait to Roger. He didn't care who had it. He just wanted it out of the house. Then Nate bought the portrait. It wasn't a mistake. Jack sent it back to us because somehow he knew. Or he guessed. He loved Maggie so, and he blames us for what happened to her. He hates us. Maybe he should."
Claire clutched the handkerchief in her fist. Mascara was splotched around her eyes. Breathing deeply, she gazed out the window. "Diane should have her portrait. I'll talk to Liz. I'm sure, very sure, I can persuade her. I may talk to Diane someday. Maybe after Porter is gone. He would be so furious if he knew I'd told you."
Anthony said, "You can rely on our discretion. No one will know."
"Thank you. Oh, my. What time is it? I should go. It's late, and we have some people coming over for cocktails." Claire stood up, tottering a little, and Anthony steadied her with a hand on her arm. Her lipstick was gone, and her face sagged. "It's been lovely seeing you both again. Don't forget Sunday."
They walked her out of the lounge and across the hall to the elevator. She took gold-framed sunglasses out of her purse and put them on. She waved goodbye as the door slid shut.
Gail stared into the brushed metal surface. "Oh, my God."
Turning her toward the lounge, Anthony said quietly, "Let's talk for a few minutes." He closed the door. "Why did you suggest that Roger was killed because of what he knew? It's doubtful he knew anything."
"I suggested it to see what would come next."
"It worked," Anthony said.
"Then why do I feel so rotten?" Gail wandered to the windows looking down into the studio. Dancers had come into the room. Some stretched their legs, others practiced their steps. They wore the same patched or faded clothing that Gail had see
n the last time she'd been here, with Bobby Gonzalez.
Standing beside her, Anthony said, "It does seem clear, however, that Ted Stamos is Diane's father."
"Does it?"
"Who else could it be? Based on what Jack Pascoe told you about Maggie, I don't think she was promiscuous."
Gail was silent for a while, then said, "Claire was so evasive. And didn't you pick up on that hideous undercurrent of shame? Porter told Maggie what she did was 'bad,' and Claire was afraid of gossip."
"Ah. You think Jack was the father. He was Maggie's cousin. There's the shame you noticed. This explains why he sent the portrait to Porter and Claire, no? He used Nate to make a point."
"I wasn't thinking of Jack/' Gail said. "He loved her, but not like that."
"Who, then?"
"Porter."
Anthony made a short laugh of disbelief. "No."
"Think about it. Porter refused to put the baby up for adoption because it was his flesh and blood."
"But that's true. Diane is his granddaughter."
"But look at what he did with the portrait. He walked out of the room when Maggie brought it to them. 'Nobody said anything/ Why not? What were they so ashamed of?"
Anthony shook his head. "I don't know. Ted Stamos is more likely."
"You're probably right," Gail said. She leaned heavily against the edge of the window. "Why did he kill Roger?"
For a minute Anthony looked at the dancers below them. "For money. Let's say his relationship to Diane is irrelevant. If Nikki was right in what she told you, Roger knew that Dub was embezzling from the company. Say that Dub paid Ted Stamos to get rid of Roger. Or we could assume that Porter paid Ted to do it. Porter thought his son had betrayed him. Or Ted did it for Elizabeth because he's in love with her, and Roger was threatening her position."
Gail watched the dancers working in the studio below. One of the male dancers made a leap, twisted, and came down without a wobble. He did it again, not as steadily. "Imagine taking a child to get a bigger share of the company. What greed. God, I feel sorry for Diane. How could Claire have looked the other way all these years?"
There was no music. The voices were muffled, and the only noise was the occasional thump of a foot coming down on the wooden floor. One girl held onto the barre and raised her leg past her shoulder, then leaned slowly into an arabesque. Another watched herself in the mirror. On pointe, then down, then up, plie, releve, plie . . .
Anthony touched Gail's arm. "Look. It's Angela."
"Where? Oh. I see."
She was the girl in the pink leotard and tights. Her long hair was pinned into a bun at the back of her head, and she wore a hip-length wrap skirt tied at her waist. She stood at the barre, arm raised, back perfectly straight, leg moving quickly in and out and in.
"She's auditioning tonight for The Nutcracker/' Anthony said, moving back from the window a little. "Can they see us up here? I don't want to embarrass her."
Angela turned the other way and saw someone across the room. A black-haired male dancer came into view. Bobby Gonzalez was beautifully masculine, even in tights and an old T-shirt with a hole in it. It hung off his broad shoulders. He walked around Angela, holding her hand while she balanced on pointe as delicately as a porcelain doll. Then she pirouetted, and the little skirt fluttered at her hips. As if showing off, Bobby ran and vaulted himself into the air, legs perfectly extended in front and behind, arms open to the sides, hair flying. He landed, spun, and dropped to one knee, a hand on his hip, the other arm in a flourish.
"Bravo," Anthony said.
Rising, Bobby did a quick turn on one foot, steadied himself, then walked with Angela toward the front of the room and gradually out of view.
Gail continued to stare, unseeing, into the studio for another minute, then another. No one spoke. Her chest had become constricted, leaving her short of breath. She was afraid she would start to cry if she didn't leave quickly. Her legs stiffly carried her to the purse she had left on the table.
She managed to say, "Do we have enough to take to Frank Britton?"
"We should go with the family on Sunday," Anthony said. "Maybe we'll push it a little and see what kind of response we get. After that, we'll see Britton."
"He'll leave Bobby alone, won't he?" Gail asked.
"I think so. He'll have other leads to pursue."
"Then we've done it." Gail looked at her watch. "Past six. I should go." She took a breath. Then another. The things in the room blurred out of focus. Of Anthony she saw only his shoes, the legs of his trousers, and a hand at his side.
"What is going to happen to us, Gail?"
She shook her head. "I don't know. We should try to be friends, I suppose."
He laughed. "Ay, mi Dios. Is that what you want? Yes, friends. We'll be civil to each other. For the good of the child, no? I will tell you this now. I can't be your friend, like Dave. I can't walk away and forget it. That's what Nate suggested. 'Let her go. If it was meant to be, it will.' I'm not like Nate. What do you want me to do? I can't forget you. I can't have you. You will marry again someday, but the thought of you with another man—to think of my son or my daughter in another man's house—I would go insane."
She looked at him. His eyes were black and hollow, as if he had been consumed from inside, and nothing was left but ashes.
"No. I won't marry again," she said.
"Why? You're a beautiful woman. You won't stay single for long."
"Because . . . you'd always be there. In one way or another, you would be there. In my bones, my blood. In this child."
"I'm not a good man, Gail. Don't think I am."
"Please don't say that." She placed her fingers lightly on his cheekbone. The skin seemed tight and fevered. "You are. I didn't see it."
His eyes closed. He took her hand and pressed it to his lips.
Chapter 23
The faint whisper of waves came through the sliding door. They had left it open a little, and the curtain belled inward, gauzy white. Warm, salt-laden air drifted into the room, carrying the smell of the ocean ten floors below.
Exhausted, sated, but unable to sleep, Gail had watched daylight fade, watched stars appear, barely visible in tine wash of light from the moon. The things in the room had become shadows—the armoire, the sofa and chairs, the lamps, Anthony's suit on the chaise by the windows. The entire east wall was windows, and the curtains were drawn, except for that one place they had slid the door open.
Anthony's hair looked black on the pillow. One arm was below her breasts, and the other hung off the side of the bed. He lay as if he had run for miles, then collapsed facedown. She could hear him breathing, slow and deep.
Their bodies touched at chest, hips, thighs. There was just enough light to see the long curve of his back. The sheet was down there somewhere, and the air conditioner was almost too cool, but Gail couldn't bear to move. She wound a strand of his hair around her finger. It was still damp, smelling of the herbal shampoo they had found on the marble vanity in the bathroom. Two kinds of shampoo. Stacks of towels. A basket of lotions. Two soft terry robes in the closet, both of which now lay in a heap on the floor.
The first time—before they had filled up the immense bathtub and floated around in the perfumed water—the first time had been excruciatingly slow. Finally she'd had to tell him she wouldn't break, nothing would happen, for God's sake, do it, please—
How cool she had once been. How perfectly balanced, protected by layers of pretense, manners, and professional caution, like calluses. Not anymore. She was a greedy slut. Hands and mouth all over him. In bed their bodies had still been slick from bath oil, and she had crawled on top of him, Anthony groaning in pleasure. She'd finally straddled him, bearing down so hard she felt him probing the mouth of her womb, and her body had flamed. Not a polite and bloodless love.
The mattress was soft and deep. Pillows like clouds. Gail would see a client in the morning, and Anthony would be back at Cresswell Yachts, but all that was years away. She had called he
r mother last night to say where she was, and with whom, and she might be late. . . . Her mother had said if she came home before dawn, she was an idiot.
What would Karen think of this? Gail wasn't sure what she herself thought of it. In the space of a few hours the world had shuddered to a stop, creaking on its axis, then had slowly begun to revolve in the other direction.
In the staff lounge at the ballet he had kissed her hand. She had felt the heat in his mouth, and if he had thrown her to the carpet she would have let him do it. He had simply suggested they go somewhere else. Quickly. Even in this extreme state, Anthony had chosen well. No noisy Art Deco relic but a suite at the Fontainebleau. The heavy door had thudded shut. They had stared at each other as if neither had the least idea how this had happened. She remembered being horribly frightened. Then he had kissed her. Held her face and kissed her so gently she had started to cry. His hands had been cold. In bed it had taken awhile to get warm. And then the fire had caught.
In the bathroom mirror she had seen fingertip-shaped bruises on her butt, bite marks on his neck. Then starting all over again in the bathtub, sloshing the water onto the floor. Then back to bed, and she would have been content to lie snuggled against him, but he had wanted more and, she discovered, she did too.
The sun had finally gone down, and it had become dark as he slept.
She lightly stroked her fingers on his temple. His beeper went off, a vibrating buzz on the nightstand. He stirred, took a breath. A deep sound in his throat. The one eye she could see came open halfway. Then he dragged himself up and looked at the clock. "Nine-fifteen? You shouldn't have let me sleep so long."
"I needed the rest," she said.
With a soft chuckle, he kissed the corners of her mouth. Stroked his hand over her breasts, moving down to kiss each one, biting softly, then doing wonderful things with his lips and tongue.
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