by Warren Adler
"Which accelerated the depletion of her resources."
"Dramatically."
Macintosh raised his eyebrows and rubbed his chin.
"We had advised her a few years ago to sell the house and auction the contents. She preferred to borrow against them."
"Whom did she borrow from?" Fiona asked.
"Mr. Farnsworth our former late Chairman was ... a dear friend."
"Who is holding the debt, Mr. Macintosh?"
"The bank."
"Which bank?"
"This one."
"Which means?"
"That the house and contents will have to be sold to pay off all debts before the heirs could receive anything. The bank has already set things in motion. We'll auction the contents first, meaning the interior items not claimed by her son. We're hoping we can find a single buyer who can carry the full load."
"Back to square one, Mr. Macintosh. What will be left?"
"As I told you, I think ... according to my calculations ... if we are prudent and the auction is successful ... we might come out after probate say with ... as much as." He paused and swallowed hard. "Maybe ten thousand."
"Ten thousand!" Fiona exclaimed. "I thought Deb Shipley was a wealthy woman."
"She was ... once."
"I can't believe it," Fiona said.
"That's exactly what Miss Carpenter said," Macintosh sighed, taking off his half glasses. "She was very agitated. At first I told her that it would be better if she came into the office to discuss this, but she was quite insistent and I did feel she was entitled to the information."
"And when, pray," Fiona asked. "Will this vast sum be available?"
"That would depend on how long it would take to dispose of the property, finish all the legal and accounting." He tapped his teeth, ruminating. "With a little luck six months to a year."
"Miss Carpenter committed suicide this morning," Gail said suddenly, obviously wanting to shock the man.
The ruddiness faded from Mr. Macintosh's face and his lean body seemed to fold up in the chair. His throat made a gasping sound.
"Apparently not long after she spoke to you," Gail pressed.
"It wasn't your fault, Macintosh," Fiona said with a hard look at Gail. "You were only the messenger."
"I ... I don't know what to say," he said. "I wanted to do the right thing. I hope there will be no consequences to the bank. We ... we did everything we could. Actually, we took no commission on this account. It was all a favor to Mrs. Shipley by Mr. Farnsworth's instructions, rest his soul. You see, Mr. Farnsworth was Chairman of the Board and these old ties are honored.... "He cleared his throat. "Even the examiners were lenient on this." Fiona suspected that his mention of the bank examiners was inadvertent. Obviously, he was concerned about the Bank and the sudden spotlight thrown on the finances of Mrs. Shipley.
"We're just here for information, Mr. Macintosh," Fiona said. is HisH
"Do you know how long these people worked for Mrs. Shipley?" Gail asked with a touch of indignation.
"I assume a long time," Mr. Macintosh said haltingly.
"Nearly a hundred years.... cumulatively," Gail said in what Fiona saw as a futile expression of sarcasm. "And for that, their combined legacy is apparently ten thousand dollars, if that. How wonderfully generous."
Macintosh looked at them and shook his head, obviously hoping to achieve a gesture of sadness and concern. Fiona suspected that his emotions were less skewered toward Gloria and Roy than to any consequences to the bank and, what mattered most, his job.
"Was Mrs. Shipley aware of the catastrophic condition of her financial affairs?" Fiona asked hoping to clearly imply that the bank might share some of the blame.
"Very much so," he answered nervously.
"I assume you were in charge of her account," Fiona said.
He nodded but his gestures indicated his nervousness. His bow tie seemed to ride up and down a prominent Adam's apple and a nerve palpitated in his cheek.
"I ... I kept her fully informed. As a matter of fact, she received statements regularly when her man collected her weekly cash allotments."
"That would be Roy," Gail said.
"She promised these people that they would be cared for financially in her will. Yet she knew there wouldn't be much left to share," Fiona said. It was, she knew, an irrelevant comment, but she couldn't resist.
"I'm not privy to what she told them." Macintosh said. "She always seemed an honorable and forthright woman."
"You think so?" Fiona asked.
He grew thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged and ignored the question.
"Apparently," Gail interjected. "She promised what she knew she couldn't deliver. In other words..."
"She lied to them," Fiona snapped.
Again Macintosh, ever the prudent banker, made no comment.
"How long will it be before they have to vacate the house?" Gail asked, then quickly correcting herself. "I mean Roy."
"I'm not sure," Macintosh said. "There are expenses to operating a house which could further dissipate...."
"Spare us," Fiona sighed. She felt depression breaking over her like a powerful wave. She hesitated a moment then asked: "Did you inform Gloria Carpenter of the amount she would inherit."
Macintosh flushed a deep red, deeper in color than his bowtie. He bit his lip and his cheeks seemed to sag. He swallowed deeply and his adam's apple danced in his neck.
"I ... I was indiscreet. Do you think.... that was the cause of her.... "he whispered, unable to finish the thought, closing his eyes as if he was in physical pain.
Fiona and Gail exchanged glances. Reaching into a pocket, Fiona pulled out her card and gave it to Macintosh. Turning, without another word, they headed for the door.
"I could use a drink," she said to Gail when they had gotten out of earshot. They went into a cafe a few doors from the bank.
"Scotch, soda," Fiona told the waitress, as they seated themselves at a table in a far corner.
"White wine," Gail said shooting a glance at Fiona, who had rarely seen Gail take a drink during the day.
"Now I know what Brewer meant when he called her a rascal," Fiona said.
"Poor Gloria," Gail sighed.
"I wonder what went through Gloria's mind when she discovered the truth," Fiona said. The waitress brought their drinks and Fiona quickly drained off half. Gail took a lady-like sip of her white wine and pulled a face.
"Obviously very dark thoughts," Gail said. "She must have felt used and abused. Betrayed."
"Screwed might be the operative word."
"I guess you can measure the power of the blow by the result."
Fiona finished her drink and signaled the waitress for another. Gail looked at her askance.
"You have to be Irish to understand the special relationship with booze," Fiona said, reacting to her look of rebuke. "And black Irish at that. No, not race black. Black meaning dark, mean-minded, depression prone. But don't worry. I know you'll protect me from getting too smashed. And drive me home. In the meantime let me be true to my heritage."
"Who'll report to the Captain?"
"You will."
They sat in silence for a while. It was getting near the end of the working day and the first wave of Government workers organizing a quickie drink before heading for home were scrambling into the cafe.
"Are we being too hard on the old bitch?" Fiona said over the increasing noise level. "She was getting up there, scared, facing the prospect of being alone. Broke to boot. Hating her son's wife. All she had was Gloria and Roy."
"Like darkies on the old plantation," Gail said.
"Christ Gail. No race crap please. Not now." She paused and shook her head. "Roy, if you hadn't noticed, was white."
"I was referring to the psychological state of dependency. Gloria and Roy were, in a real sense, slaves."
"They didn't think so. You heard them. They fawned over Madame. Loved her. Madame was the center of their lives."
"I stand by my characterization.
"
The waitress came and put Fiona's second drink in front of her. Fiona sipped a few swallows. Gail, more for sociability than need, took another swallow of her white wine but without pulling a face this time.
"Beware. You could get to like it," Fiona giggled.
"I hate it. But I'm the beard for your social drinking."
"If only..." Fiona said, raising her glass and taking a deep sip.
"If only what?"
"If only I could interest you in the joys of drinking and getting laid ." It was, she supposed, her way of lashing out, aiming a barb at Gail's sometimes prissy moral code.
"Could you please keep your voice down," Gail said, looking about her, offering a thin smile, amused but embarrassed.
"I was merely prescribing a panacea to your pain."
"I'll admit to the pain, but I prefer a less drastic prescription."
"Certainly not as drastic as Gloria's. Betrayed by the one person she trusted for half a century."
"That was my point earlier."
Fiona shook her head.
"No, Gail. Your subliminal point was that Gloria was gullible, believing her white Boss' promise of future emancipation. But that doesn't explain Roy."
"His skin was white, but he was just another nigger to Madame."
"Can't you close that damned spigot Gail." Fiona sighed. "Betrayal is race neutral." She raised her glass. "It is a universal affliction. Hence my need of succor." She sipped deeply. Gail pouted, then became suddenly animated.
"Was it possible that Roy knew?" she snapped. "Gloria might have told him the truth about their future reward."
"He showed no sign of knowing," Fiona muttered. "No sense of betrayal. No outrage."
"Not like Gloria."
Fiona upended her drink and signaled for another. Gail cut her a look of disapproval.
"More there than meets the eye," Fiona said, sensing the first signs of alcoholic euphoria. "Says something when a man devotes fifty years to a woman not his wife."
"Are you suggesting love unrequited?" Gail said, unable to control a sneering undercurrent of ridicule. "Hard to picture that old buzzard as a closet swain."
"Something like that," Fiona said, pausing, then looking directly into Gail's eyes. "What do you know about that?"
"I read."
"Do I detect a secret romantic?"
"I've got enough problems without your analysis."
She was beginning to sound like the old Gail. Or was it the drinks? The waitress came again and put another honey-colored glass of scotch and soda on the table.
"Powerful stuff ... love," Fiona sighed, the effects of the previous drinks crashing into her thought processes.
"Just ask little Billy," Gail said.
"As Roy pointed out. She's captured him. He's not the man he was before the onslaught of amour."
"You really think it has that power, Fi?"
They exchanged glances. Fiona could tell that this was a serious question for Gail.
"I know it."
Fiona picked up her drink and took a small swallow. Their discussion recalled her personal dilemma. Would Hal capture her, transform her? Would she be a willing captive?
For a few moments both women were lost in thought. The rising crescendo of background noises seemed to fade from Fiona's mind. The alcohol was turning her inward, making her consider alternatives to a life with Hal Perry. Would a man better than Hal come along? Surely, if she declined to marry him, that would be the end of that relationship.
She had had her share of endings. Her beloved father. Her mother. But to them there had been continuity, a memorial of the mind. Breaking with men, on the other hand, was finality. Sooner or later, at least in her vast experience, the embers died as if they needed the full heat of the interaction to keep the fires burning. A sexual fantasy began to slip into her mind, Hal in full erection, she lying on her back, her head tilted backward over the side of the bed, her lips and tongue...
"Oh my God..."
"What?" Gail asked.
"Lost in thought, sorry."
She felt the familiar body reactions, the hot flush rising on her cheeks and Gail's curious inspecting glance.
"In a practical sense," Gail said, revealing that her thoughts still were exploring Mrs. Shipley's betrayal, "She was not really broke. She still had her son who would have gladly subsidized her life style and back up his mother's promise to Gloria and Roy."
"I think she would have died first before she asked her son for money," Fiona said.
"She did."
Another idea emerged in Fiona's mind. She lifted her glass and took a deep swallow.
"What about Gloria? Couldn't she expect William to help her when it was apparent that Mrs. Shipley had left her nothing? She might have jumped the gun."
Gail shook her head vehemently.
"If you're investing Mrs. Shipley with pride, then why not Gloria? The three of them seemed to be bonded together and that includes their distrust of Madeline Newton who, at least in their mind, controlled William. No. She would never ask. Never."
"How can you be so sure Gail?"
"Pride is stronger than desperation."
"You really think so?"
"Yes," Gail replied.
"Then it follows that Gloria must have felt that death is better than life."
"That was the choice she made."
Fiona clapped her hands. The action caught the waitress's attention and Fiona signaled for another.
"Good girl. I applaud your farewell to guilt. Of course it was her choice."
"I'm not discounting the Lionel thing," Gail said. "It was certainly contributory, but not the straw that broke the camel's back."
"It's still a good bet," Fiona said, taking another deep sip. She felt her tongue start to trip over her words.
"This work does give one an insight into the dark side of human nature."
"I'll drink to that cliche," Fiona said, taking the glass being proffered by the waitress.
"I think I will, too," Gail said.
They clinked glasses.
"A good start," Fiona mumbled, winking at her partner.
CHAPTER 17
The church was filled to bursting. At first, it seemed incongruous to Fiona to observe such a turnout for the funeral of a domestic worker. Even Fiona knew it was an assumption borne of class prejudice and she was glad she hadn't couched it in those terms to Gail. It was, however, obvious that Gloria Carpenter had also devoted a lifetime of service to this church and had become one of its most beloved devotees.
"Large turnout," Fiona whispered. "Gloria must have been quite a supporter."
"Gives you some idea of the power of community and the level of respect for one of their own."
"Very impressive," Fiona agreed.
"In this part of the world," Gail explained. "People are connected, not isolated. Much of life is lived on the outside, in the streets, where people interact. The things that separate people aren't apparent in this community. Like money. Like education. Like occupation. Like, forgive me, class. When someone dies, it feels like it happened to the whole community."
There was something obviously pedantic in her explanation, but it wasn't without its inherent truth. People were dressed in their best clothes. The women and girls wore hats and gloves, the men and boys wore dark suits and white shirts with appropriate ties.
Flowers decked the podium. To one side a golden-gowned choir group stood ready to render their spirituals praising the heavenly world beyond one's life span. In this place, the ritual of mourning was definitely a community event.
Most of those present, of course, were black, although there was a sprinkling of white faces. In the front row were the immediate family, conspicuous in the blackest of deep mourning clothes, the men comforting, the women grieving under dark veils, lifted periodically so that handkerchiefs could be conveniently dabbed to eyes and noses.
Fiona picked out Loreen from her resemblance to Gloria during a brief veil lifting
. Beside her was a thin young man, who she assumed was Ben and next to him various women and children who she reckoned were Loreen's daughters and their progeny.
In a wheelchair up front was Lionel, alone and unobtrusively guarded. Fiona noted that two black plainclothesman sat nearby. Not far from where Lionel sat in his wheelchair was Haskell Fremont, a towering distinguished figure, impeccably dressed, in a charcoal striped suit with a shirt collar that stood high on his neck. His hair was slate gray, his complexion tanned. In this atmosphere he had the look of walking prosperity. There was nothing off the rack in his dress, demeanor or appearance. Poor fellow, Fiona thought with both sarcasm and glee; he had no idea that the financial pool from which he was going to extract his fee no longer existed.
Roy sat at the end of the family mourner's row, looking haggard and uncomfortable, his head bowed and his body hunched over as if he wanted to be invisible. On the podium beside the pastor, a large gray-haired man wearing a black robe, sat Governor Shipley and his wife, she looking astonishingly beautiful and radiant in her mourning "rags" with her trademark décolletage very much in evidence, a magnet for all eyes, male and female. The ubiquitous Clayton, also dressed in mourning black, stood not far from the Governor and his wife, half hidden by a floral display, but unmistakably alert and wary. Roy, his gaunt face, gray and unsmiling, sat in the rear row.
All here, Fiona thought, meaning the cast of characters and suspects. She was strangely surprised when she noted that the alleged perpetrator of Madame's murder, Martine, was incongruously missing from the assemblage. Fiona had attended many black funeral services in her lifetime, most of them connected with her work or her colleagues, but this event seemed somehow uncommonly grand as if the act of suicide was a dignified and appropriate exit of choice.
She noted, too, that from the moment the ritual began, Gail's eyes welled and remained so. Perhaps, Fiona decided, she was moved, not only by the service, but by the kinship she felt with her "brothers" and "sisters" and the guilt generated by her perceived abandonment of the real ghetto for the high style and prosperous ghetto of the gold coast.
Indeed, in this atmosphere, Fiona could better understand what had set Gail off on her racial hegira. It was not easy to contemplate the distance of the flowering leaf of the dark tree from the root, Fiona thought in a burst of philosophical epiphany.
