A waste of time thinking about it now. Gail flipped through the next few messages. Dry cleaning ready. Hearing on Thursday canceled. At the last piece of pink paper she stopped. Miriam had decorated its border with little red hearts, arrows shot through them. Anthony Q. Call when you can.
Dropping the other messages on her desk, she reached for the telephone and dialed. The answering machine picked up. "Esta es la oficina de Ferrer y Quintana. This is the office of Ferrer and Quintana. Al sonido electronico, deje su mensaje—"
"Drat." She switched lines and punched his home number. After four rings his voice told her in English, then Spanish to leave a message. She laughed aloud. "Anthony, where are you? Is this all I get, a phone call? Would you like to know how long it's been since we've seen each other? Two weeks. Call me after I'm in bed tonight, querido, and we'll make heavy breathing noises." She made a kiss into the phone, then hung up.
In a neat row on her desk were the files Miriam had set out for her to take home. Gail crammed them into her briefcase, then threw her time sheet in as well. She had been too busy to record her activities today, how many hours and tenths of hours spent on this pleading or that telephone call. She would have to reconstruct the day and invent what she could not remember.
As soon as Gail pulled into the garage, the jalousie door to the kitchen swung open. Phyllis must have heard the engine, and now waited on the second step with her arms folded just under her wide bosom. Phyllis Farrington, close to seventy, came in every afternoon, weekends if needed. Arthritis in her knees kept her from doing much housework. That didn't matter; Phyllis had a way of making Karen toe the line. Gail had told her she didn't have to wear a uniform, but Phyllis said it made her feel more professional. She wore pink today; her apron had a design of wild roses.
Gail hit the button on her dash to send the automatic door down, then got out of her car, maneuvering past a stack of cardboard boxes and assorted junk taking up half the space in the double garage. "Phyllis, I'm sorry it took me so long to get home. I had to stop for gas or I'd have stalled out halfway here."
She came down a step. "Don't go in yet. I got to tell you about Karen. The school called this afternoon, said they couldn't get you. She had herself a fight on the bus with a boy named Javier, laid him out cold."
"Oh, my God. Why?"
"He was teasing her, she said. She punched him in the stomach and he fell down and hit his head on a seat." "Is he okay?"
"The boy's all right. He woke up before they called Fire-Rescue, or else your baby would be in big trouble. They want you to go by there in the morning and talk to the principal."
Biscayne Academy was one of the best private schools in Dade County. It cost $12,000 a year in tuition, fees, books, field trips, and assorted amenities. There were no metal detectors at the door or drugs in the lockers. The students were individually tutored. They raised money for the children of Bosnia and sang songs about the Earth. And Karen had just beaten the crap out of another fourth grader.
Gail could feel the tension creeping up from her shoulders. "I should call Dr. Feldman tomorrow."
Phyllis snorted. "Dr. Feldman. Baby come out of her appointment last week, don't say two words. We get home, she say she's the child of a divorce, and that's why she can't clean up her room. I want to shake him by his skinny neck,"
A corner of Gail's briefcase nudged a can of tennis balls, and it hit the floor. The lid came off and three yellow balls rolled in different directions.
"When you going to get this stuff out of here?" Phyllis said.
"Dave said he'd take care of it by the end of the month."
"Uh-huh."
He had sailed out of Miami in July in a forty-foot sloop, leaving in the garage what wouldn't fit in the sailboat—boxes of winter clothes, a small boat trailer, tools, golf clubs, a machine to string tennis racquets, odds and ends of furniture.
"He's got a free storage shed is what he's got. You ought to give him one week to get hisself up here and find a warehouse, or you'll call Goodwill."
Gail picked up two of the balls and tossed them into a box. "I can't do that. It would be like getting rid of Dave completely, and Karen needs to feel his presence in some way. She already blames me that he left."
"Dr. Feldman tell you that?"
"Phyllis—" Gail pressed the heel of her hand into her forehead. "I can't talk about this right now."
"You better think about it, though."
"I will."
Phyllis opened the door and they went up the steps into the kitchen, Gail following Phyllis's heavy white shoes. She dropped her briefcase and purse on the kitchen counter. A piece of paper was lying there.
"What's that?"
"Roof man came by."
Gail picked up the estimate. "Twenty-five hundred dollars? For three leaks?"
"He can fix it, but he won't give you no guarantee. Says you need a new roof."
"Oh, great. Did he tell you how much?"
Phyllis pursed her lips. "About twenty thousand. That's with the same red barrel tile. Less for asphalt shingles."
"Asphalt shingles? The neighbors would kill me."
"Man's a thief." Phyllis checked her watch and untied her apron. "I got to go. The association's having a meeting tonight." Phyllis belonged to a homeowners' association in Coconut Grove. Not the chic part of the Grove, with its boutiques and sidewalk cafes, but the older black Grove, settled around the turn of the century when Phyllis Farrington's grandfather came over from the Bahamas to help build Miami.
She stashed her neatly folded apron in her big purse. "We got a crack house we want to get bulldozed. We'll go on down to City Hall with picket signs if we have to, get on the news. We won't have that trash around, no thank you."
"Go get 'em, Phyllis." Gail poured some ice water from the refrigerator and opened the cabinet for aspirin. "Where is our little angel?"
"In her room. I said go do your homework. She had her bath already. Supper too." Phyllis started toward the front door, then looked back at Gail, keys in her hand. "There's leftovers in the microwave. You don't eat, you're gonna make yourself sick, you hear?"
"Thanks, Phyllis."
She let herself out and locked the door behind her. Gail found Karen at her desk. When she came in, Karen slid a Cracked magazine under her math book.
"Doing your homework?"
"Yes." She flipped a page and twirled her pencil.
"Really. Can I see?"
"When I'm finished." Karen bounced her canvas sneakers on me legs of the chair. The toes were wearing through and the laces were gone.
Gail sat on the end of Karen's bed, which was covered with a faded dinosaur quilt. "I heard about your fight with Javier."
One shoulder rose.
"You want to tell me about it?"
Karen spun to face her, long brown hair swinging. "Javier is a major geek. All the girls hate him."
"And that's a reason to punch him out?"
She narrowed her eyes. "He said I have no boobs and I'll never have any."
"But you can't go around hitting people you don't like. Let Mrs. Johnson deal with Javier."
"She won't do anything. She only talks to him, and he laughs behind her back. Butthead."
“They want us to see the principal about this, you know."
"I hate that school," Karen said tightly. "I wish you didn't make me go there."
"It's a great school."
"It sucks."
Gail's voice rose. "Don't you dare use that kind of language in Mr. Alliston's office. You'll be a perfect lady. If he says to apologize to Javier, then you will, and nicely."
Karen picked at a small mole on her arm. Her hair hung over her face, and the light from the desk lamp shone through it.
"Did you hear me?"
"I'm not sorry," she mumbled. "I hate boys. They're all buttheads. Especially Javier. His dad is on a stupid telenovela. Javier is always saying how his dad is so-o-o famous."
Gail sat for a while with her hands on her
knees, then pushed herself up, taking a breath. "All right. We'll talk about it later. Go on and finish your homework." She lifted the math book to find the issue of Cracked "You won't need this."
"Daddy said maybe I could go to school in the Virgin Islands someday."
"Did he?"
Karen looked up at her with blue eyes surrounded by blond lashes. Like Dave's. "Not all the time, I mean. I could live here too. My friend Marisol lives in Bogota' and Miami, and she goes to school here and also to her school down there. Her parents aren't even divorced."
"Well. Lucky girl. When did your dad call?"
"Labor Day, remember?"
"That was three weeks ago."
Karen shrugged.
Gail bent to kiss her. "I'm going to see what Phyllis left in the microwave. You want to bring your homework out to the kitchen?"
She shook her head.
"Come see me when you're finished then."
Gail closed the door behind her as she left Karen's room. Damn him. Dave rarely called, but he would send Karen postcards—beaches and sleek hotels and whitewashed little towns close to the sea. What fun. Can't wait till you can come see me. You're my best girl. Such sweet lies.
You think you know someone. Married twelve years and not a clue.
Lying on the sofa in the family room, Gail heard a telephone ringing somewhere. Groggily she opened her eyes, reached toward the noise. A file slid from her lap, papers ruffling to the floor. It would be Anthony.
She brought the phone to her mouth, said hello. But the voice was unfamiliar. She struggled up. "I'm sorry, what did you say your name was?"
"Patrick Norris." There was a pause. "Gail? It's me. Patrick."
She blinked, disoriented, past and present clashing in her mind. "Patrick?"
"Don't you remember me? Now I'm embarrassed. I was sure you would."
Finally she said that yes, of course she remembered. It was just such a surprise. A long time. Since law school, at least.
"Your mother very kindly gave me your number at home. I called before and left a message with your daughter. I guess she didn't tell you."
"No." Gail tried to make out her watch. "What time is it?"
"About nine-thirty. Were you asleep?"
"Not exactly."
"I'd like to see you tomorrow morning, if that's at all possible."
She couldn't recall her schedule. "What about?"
"It has to do with my aunt, Althea Tillett. She passed away two weeks ago last Wednesday."
"Oh, yes. I'm so sorry, Patrick. She was one of my mother's best friends." Gail had thought of Patrick when she had heard about Mrs. Tillett's death, remembering he was her nephew. Her mother had told her what had happened. Irene Connor had been playing bridge at Althea Tillett's house that night. Irene had heard it from her friend Edith, who had heard it from Jessica. The police had found Mrs. Tillett at the bottom of the stairs in her living room. She had been drinking
heavily, and must have caught one of the wooden clogs she was wearing on the hem of her robe.
"I need to talk to you about her estate," Patrick said.
Gail told him she had an early meeting, but to come around ten o'clock.
"It'll be good to see you again, Gail."
"You too."
She hung up and sat staring at the telephone. Patrick Norris. After all this time. The memories came rushing back.
Chapter Two
Slipping out of a litigation department meeting that threatened to drag on, Gail glanced into the lobby to see if Patrick was there. He was. He stood in a square of sunlight, staring out at Biscayne Bay. His image reflected like a ghost in the window: beard and wire-rimmed glasses, light brown hair falling past his ears.
Clients liked to wait where Patrick stood now. They liked to watch the traffic fourteen floors below, or the boats skimming across the bay between the city and the Port of Miami. Patrick was probably contemplating the quirks of economics that gave one man a suite on the Emerald Seas and another a flattened cardboard box under the expressway.
Two months into their senior year in law school at the University of Florida, Patrick had walked out of a class on corporate taxation. The students had sat at long, curving tables, rows of them that ascended from the podium in the center. When the professor suddenly stopped speaking, Gail looked up from her notes. Patrick was out of his chair, gathering his books under his arm. Without a word he walked down the steps of the aisle and dropped the books on the floor in a neat stack at the professor's feet. He let his gaze sweep over the faces of the students in wordless judgment. Then he was gone, the side door clicking shut behind him. The professor rapped with his pen to still the murmurs. "Anybody else care to throw in the towel? No? Then let's continue. Under the Revised Code of 1976 ..."
Gail begged him not to quit, but it didn't do any good. He had been born in Miami, but headed his car in the opposite direction, winding up somewhere in the Southwest. An Indian reservation. He called her a few times. He was working at a hospice, a construction site, a diner in Gallup. He drifted to California. Gail was hired as an associate by Hartwell Black. A year or so later Patrick sent a letter from Mexico, then a string of postcards from South America, none with a return address. Then nothing. Patrick Norris gradually receded into memory, becoming another face in the photos from law school, buried with others in a drawer.
"Patrick?" When he only turned and looked blankly at her, she laughed. "It's me."
His sharply boned face softened in a broad smile. "Gail." He gave her a hug, leaving his arm around her shoulders. "It is you. All sleek and prosperous. I should have known." He ruffled her perm. "You've cut your hair. But I like it. It's nice."
She patted his chest. "Are you home for good and didn't tell me?"
"Since last winter."
"Last winter!"
"I know, I'm such a dog." He grimaced as if expecting a blow. "I moved back to Florida a couple of years ago to help on a lawsuit for the migrant workers up in Belle Glade. Now I'm counseling at a drug rehab center in Miami. Plus odd jobs here and there. Carpentry, whatnot. I'm one hell of a framer." He smiled again. "We'll trade stories sometime."
"Mine won't be as interesting as yours, I'm afraid." Gail nodded toward a walnut-paneled door past the reception desk. "Come on, I'll show you my office."
Patrick picked up a heavy mailing envelope from a chair and followed her inside. Carpeted corridors ran left and right, winding past glassed-in secretarial areas, long metal cabinets, framed lithographs, and murmured conversations. One of the partners' doors was open. Patrick slowed as he walked by, taking in a glimpse of beveled glass bookcases and thick carpet.
Gail waited until he caught up.
His voice dropped to a conspiratorial level. "We are now making our way into the belly of the legal beast."
"God. You haven't changed." She slipped an arm around his waist. Patrick was thin as a hermit. She could feel his ribs through the plain blue shirt he wore. In law school he would buy his clothes at thrift stores.
She led him into her office and closed the door. The office was full of furniture she herself had purchased, white oak with softly upholstered chairs. Pink bromeUads flowered from clay pots on the windowsills. Patrick glanced around, running his hand along the practice manuals on the bookcase. He checked the labels on the heavy accordion folders and with his knuckles lightly tapped the computer monitor on her desk. He flipped the cover of a Southern Reporter open, shut. "Looks like you've done well for yourself," he said. He focused on the framed diplomas and certificates on the wall. "Very well."
"Did you ever think of going back?" she asked.
Still reading, he shook his head. "No. I didn't belong in law school. I could never learn to argue convincingly for either side. They're so good at turning out moral ciphers." He smiled at her. "Not everybody. Not you." He came around one of the client chairs and sat down, pushing his hair off his forehead. It fell loosely from a center part.
Patrick looked at Gail a minute, then
said, "I read about your sister in the paper. Damn. I should have called."
She gave a slight shrug.
"And then Dave. I thought you two would make it"
"Who told you?"
"Your mother. I saw her at my aunt's funeral. She said you were all right" Patrick's expression said he wanted to be sure. "I'm fine. Really. The divorce was overdue." He nodded. "Irene showed me some photos of Karen."
"You remember Karen?"
"Sure. She's a great-looking girl. Tough like Mom, I bet."
"Well, she has her moments. What about you? Married?"
"No. With the kind of life I've led the past few years, it would have been impossible. Wife, kids, all that. I don't think so." His crooked smile was half hidden by the beard.
With a funny little twist in the pit of her stomach, Gail remembered how Patrick's beard had felt under her lips. Springy, soft. The first time smelling faintly of woodsmoke from a fire in his backyard. He was the only man with a beard she had ever made love to. An impulse, acted upon. A guilty-sweet little affair, like seducing a seminary student. It had happened, then it was over. She had never told Dave.
"Well." She laughed softly. "Here you are. I don't know why I didn't phone your aunt and ask about you. I could have."
"Hey, half the time she didn't know where I was." "You weren't close?" Gail thought back. "You never talked about her."
"No, we didn't have a whole lot to do with each other then. It got better. We both mellowed out, you could say." He propped one foot on his knee. He wore heavy brown sandals, and the skin of his ankle was pale and delicate, blue veins beneath. He concentrated on straightening his pant leg. "I keep imagining that if I go over to her house, Aunt Althie will still be there, telling dirty jokes and playing her stereo too loud. Whatever else you say about Aunt Althie, you've got to give her that. The woman didn't hold back."
"You wanted to talk to me about her estate. How can I help?"
Patrick handed her the heavy envelope he had brought with him. "Start with this."
Gail unbent the prongs holding the flap. She reached inside. There were several documents, each consisting of copies of typewritten pages stapled together. The words at the top of the first one read "Last Will and Testament of Althea Norris Tillett."
Suspicion of Guilt Page 2
