"You can imagine what they think. Where he had been, what he was doing!" Her voice was tight.
"Don't. Don't even think about that now." Gail leaned against the wall beside her, their shoulders pressed together. "Dee-Dee, you know the case I'm doing on Althea Tillett's estate?" When she nodded, Gail said, "The housekeeper told me this morning that Althea went to see Larry the day she died. Did he tell you about this?"
Dee-Dee shook her head. "Oh, Gail. I can't think."
"I wouldn't ask you now, but it might be important."
"How? Does it relate to what happened to Larry?" Her eyes shifted back and forth, meeting Gail's.
"It might. I don't know yet."
Dee-Dee reached around the edge of the laundry cart and stole a washcloth to blow her nose on. She laughed. "What was the question?"
"What Althea and Larry talked about."
"I didn't even know he saw her. He didn't mention it to me.
A nurse walked by, her shoes squeaking on the polished floor. "Something's been going on with him lately," Gail said. "Ever since the firm took the Norris case, he's been jumpy as hell."
"I've noticed. It isn't like him."
"Has Larry ever talked to you about the Easton Charitable Trust?"
"Not particularly. Larry's into so many clubs and organizations."
"He's a member of the Easton Trust? He said he wasn't."
Dee-Dee smiled tiredly. "They're so silly. He says they don't like people begging them for handouts, so they keep it quiet."
"Althea Tillett was a member, wasn't she?"
"Yes. Maybe that's what they talked about," said Dee-Dee. "I don't know what else it could have been. Not church business. Althea rarely attended. And she wasn't a client of his."
Gail asked, "Who else is in it? Do you know?"
"Some of them. Howard Odell runs it. And Sanford Ehringer—have you ever met him?"
"I've met him. He's the chairman."
"Isn't he a character? Who else? Judge Joe Herran. And Kevin McCarr with the Downtown Development Council. He's one of Larry's clients. And Leland Spencer with First Miami Bank. And that fat woman with the opera. God, what's her name?"
"Jessica Simms," Gail said. "What about Irving Adler?"
"Yes, him too," Dee-Dee said.
"How did Larry become a member?"
"My dad got him interested. Dad died a few years ago."
"What was his name?"
"Herbert Nash."
"And your grandfather?" When Dee-Dee looked at her curiously, Gail said, "Was he one of the original founders in 1937?"
Dee-Dee said, "I never heard that, but... My grandfather, Walton Nash, was a friend of Samuel Ehringer's, Sanford's father." She pushed a stray lock of hair behind one ear. "Althea Tillett's husband R.W. was in it, and his father Wade Tillett before him. R.W. was related by marriage to Judge Herran. They all seem to know each other."
"How many are there?"
"Now? The board has about a dozen members, I think, but they rotate. Maybe twenty in all. I don't know. Larry and I haven't talked much about it. He never goes to meetings. In fact, there aren't many meetings anymore. I thought that Easton was just about extinct." Dee-Dee wiped her nose, then took a heavy breath as if she had just climbed a flight of stairs. "The Easton Trust used to be a power in Miami, years ago. I think some of them pretend it still is. Hardly anybody donates big money anymore, only the diehards."
"Like Althea."
"Yes. Like Althea." Her voice was dull with exhaustion. "Gail, what is this about?" Gail shook her head. "Nothing. Come on, you've got some people who want to see you." She said she would get in touch in a day or so, when Larry was out of danger. They walked the rest of the way down the hall, then Dee-Dee was surrounded by friends waiting there to hear good news.
Going back toward the elevator Gail passed the wide door to intensive care and let her fingers trail across it. If only she had made Larry tell her what was going on. She had seen his anxiety and had let it go, minding her manners. She should have shaken him by the lapels. Damn it, what is the matter with you? I'm your friend. Tell me.
Her stomach floated as the elevator dropped to the ground floor. He had not told her about his visit to Althea Tillett. He had lied to her about the Easton Trust. When she had told him Althea had been murdered, he'd been more than upset; he'd been panicked.
Gail's mind began to chum, a whirl of confusing connections and odd facts. The simple truth could be that Larry had taken a wrong turn in his Mercedes, then had been dragged off by some of Miami's ubiquitous street scum. But the cocaine and the condoms in his pocket? Perhaps Larry's life at home was not the warm ideal she had imagined. He was a philandering coke addict, and Dee-Dee was a sweet, credulous fool.
When the automatic doors flung themselves open outside the lobby, the sun was lost among the mottled clouds, which seemed ready to drop from the sky like stones. At the curb Gail looked automatically to her left, then stopped dead in her tracks.
A white Lincoln limousine had pulled up in a no-parking zone across the street, and a uniformed chauffeur stood by the open back door. Gail saw a voluminous bosom, a tiny black shoe, an ankle in white hose. A plump arm extended a vase of flowers and the chauffeur took it, then closed the door and walked toward the hospital.
Gail went over and tapped on the window. Jessica Simms slowly appeared as the tinted glass slid down. She wore a black straw hat, a polka-dotted dress, and a string of pearls.
Her mouth in its nest of chins and cheeks made a smile. "Gail. How nice to see you."
"I'm sure. Are the flowers for Larry Black, by any chance?"
"Why, yes. Have you been to see him?"
"He's still in intensive care." Gail planted her hands on the window opening and leaned closer. The engine was running and the air conditioner was on. "I suppose you've heard about Irving Adler, too."
"Yes. I'm just on my way to visit the family." There was another flower arrangement on the seat beside her. "You know, it was a blessing he went so quickly and didn't suffer. My husband took weeks."
Gail spoke in measured tones. "Mrs. Simms, listen carefully to what I'm going to say. Before he died, Irving Adler confessed that you and he helped forge Althea Tillett's will."
The mouth sagged open. "He never—"
"You did it. If you he to me, I'll fry you on the witness stand. I'll have you thrown in jail for commission of a felony."
"But it isn't true! I wouldn't—"
"Shut up! If you had told the truth when I asked you before, Larry might not be up there dying," Gail said.
"Larry was beaten by thugs! How could you dare to say I was responsible!"
Gail continued to look at her for a moment. "How did you get into the Easton Trust, through your late husband?"
"Yes, what of it?" Jessica Simms was breathing heavily; her dimpled hand, heavy with diamonds, twisted the strand of pearls.
"Who in the family was a member before him?"
"His elder cousin Fauntroy Simms. Why?"
"Anyone before Fauntroy?"
Jessica shook her head. Tears were making two shiny trails down her cheeks. "Why are you asking me these things?"
"How about Rudy and Monica Tillett? They're in Easton too, aren't they? Answer me, Mrs. Simms."
"Yes. Now leave me alone."
"Who asked you to sign the will? Rudy Tillett? Howard Odell?"
She fumbled for the window button. "Please leave."
"Why did you do it? For Althea? Or for the money in the trust?" The dark glass began to rise, and Gail had to move her hands.
Jessica Simms's voice quavered. "Go away, go away."
After half an hour of dead ends and double-backs, Gail finally found the narrow driveway leading to Sanford Ehringer's house. It was not far from the hospital, only across the river and up a bit. She drove through the trees until she could see the metal gate. Gray light leaked in through the canopy of leaves, revealing silvery razor wire looped along the top of the wall on either side. There
was a camera on one of the columns, and under the camera, an intercom. She got out, walked to the gate, and pressed a button by the speaker. No answer. She leaned on it, not letting up.
Finally a male voice came through. "Who is it? What do you want?" There was a slight African-American intonation.
She stepped back and stared up into the camera. "Russell, is that you? This is Gail Connor. I want to talk to Sanford Ehringer."
"Mr. Ehringer's not available, Ms. Connor."
Gail paused, then said, "Tell him I know who Easton is. I've solved the acronym."
"The what?"
She exhaled. "Acronym. A-c-r-o-"
"I can spell it." There was a silence. "I'll see if he's in."
Fifteen minutes later, on the point of trying the buzzer again, Gail heard the growl of an engine. It died. A car door slammed. Then the gate slid into the wall on oiled tracks. Ehringer's driver Russell stood on the other side, dressed in his black suit. He walked over to glance inside her car, then told her to follow the Range Rover to the house.
The same elderly butler led Gail through the six-sided living room, then past the stairs with their dark, carved balusters. Floor lamps beside the long sofas pressed their yellowish light into the corners of the room. The scent of orchids drifted through the open windows.
The old man knocked lightly at the door of Sanford Ehringer's study, let her in, then closed it behind her. Ehringer's wheelchair was drawn up to his desk, and his secretary, Thomas Quinn, stood beside him, notebook in hand. The two men glanced at Gail, then Ehringer finished dictating a letter about elections in Singapore, Quinn writing in shorthand. Ehringer's computer screen was forming geometric shapes of purple and red that would collapse upon themselves, then spin into new configurations. Ehringer wore glasses today, a turtleneck sweater, and a pair of soft red leather slippers.
Thomas Quinn bowed slightly to Gail on his way out. "Good afternoon, Ms. Connor. Delightful to see you again."
Ehringer laid his glasses on the desk. "Sit down, Gail. Russell says you wish to see me. You have found our mysterious Mr. Easton. I must say, I am surprised at your tenacity."
She was pacing. "Have you heard about Larry Black?"
Ehringer swung his chair around. "Yes. Damn shame."
"More than a shame, I should think," Gail said stiffly. "He may not survive."
Ehringer followed her with his eyes, nearly lost under his heavy black brows. "I suspected you had other reasons for coming than to offer a solution to my puzzle."
"I have a puzzle for you," she said. "Two days before Althea Tillett's death, Irving Adler comes to see her. They argue. The morning before she dies, she meets Larry Black. All three of them belong to the Easton Charitable Trust. Then Althea is found dead—murdered. Her will leaves the residuary of her estate—millions of dollars—to Easton. Then the woman who notarized the fake will dies too, supposedly in an accidental fall from her balcony. Then Irving dies of a heart attack. And now someone tries to kill Larry Black. So I ask you, Mr. Ehringer, are these random events? Or is there a pattern?"
"This could be a religious inquiry, could it not? A matter of teleology: Is there a partem to the universe, or are we only subject to its whims—"
"Mr. Ehringer, answer the question."
His yellow teeth showed behind thin lips. "You assume that I have special knowledge of these events?"
"I assume one of them—Larry, Althea, or Irving—must have spoken to you. Or that you know what it was they talked about. I wager that very little goes on at Easton that you don't know about."
"How flattering," he said.
Gail studied him. His black eyes, set in heavy pouches, gave up nothing. The loose skin of his jowls seemed as pale and cool as the throat flap of a lizard. She said, "What is going on?"
Noiselessly his chair glided across the room to where she stood by the bookcase with its heavy volumes. He smiled at her. "What's the acronym? Tell me that first."
She took a breath, then began, "The Easton Charitable Trust. The name represents the six founding members. Your father Samuel was the E. His attorney Jacob Adler, the A. S is for Fauntroy Simms. T is for your father's business associate Wade Tillett. Howard Odell's grandfather George was the O. The N is for Samuel's friend Walton Nash, Dee-Dee Black's grandfather. Those six died off, but others—family and friends—have taken their place. I can't name them all, but they're a secretive, closely knit group from the remnants of old Miami society."
"By God, that's impressive!" Ehringer said, hitting the arms of his wheelchair with his open hands. "You've got it almost right."
She clamped her teeth on a retort, then said, "I believe there is more to Easton than that. I believe that certain members of this group have used the trust for their own purposes, diverting money for investment or to influence local politicians. But donations have dried up lately, and there isn't much Easton real estate left to sell. So they planned to murder Althea Tillett and loot her estate. And they would have, if Patrick Norris hadn't seen the will for what it was—a forgery."
Ehringer was tapping his tented fingers slowly on his chin. "A murderer among us? How very gothic! Have you any evidence?"
A tremor danced its way across her chest, as if she were walking into a cellar with only a sputtering candle. She said, "I prefer not to share that information." Which was, she had to admit, half guesswork. She would keep Ehringer guessing as well.
He seemed amused, vastly so. His eyes gleamed. "If I didn't know you for a young woman of intelligence, I would think you had gone around the bend. Who are these conspirators? Tell me that. Irving Adler and Jessica Simms?"
"I think they were lied to. They helped forge the will because they were persuaded that it was what Althea would have wanted. As for others involved . . ." She took a moment. "I'm not sure. However, my mind keeps going to Howard Odell, Rudy Tillett, and Alan Weissman. There may be others. I believe Rudy Tillett knew that Althea had destroyed her will, because he spoke to her a week before she died. Without a will, his stepcousin Patrick would inherit everything. Perhaps he mentioned this to Howard Odell, and they found someone who could be paid to . . . carry out their intentions. Then after it was done—or perhaps before, I don't know— they persuaded Alan Weissman to help them. Weissman and Odell are acquainted, and Weissman needed the money. They found a notary—"
Gail stopped speaking. It had not been Weissman who had found the notary, but Lauren Sontag. Or so Lauren had said.
She turned to Ehringer. "You have to help me. I want you to tell me about these people, what they were doing. Give me something to go on. Larry Black must have found out about it, based on what Althea told him that day she died. What was it? You're a part of Easton. You have to help me find out what happened. If Larry dies—"
"He won't!" Ehringer held up a hand. "My own doctor has spoken to the chief of staff at Jackson Memorial. Larry's chances are excellent."
"Why don't I feel comforted by that?" Gail said tightly. "Didn't Althea talk to you before she died? She would have, if she was worried enough to call Larry Black. Did you speak to her?"
Now both Ehringer's hands were raised. "Good God, woman! Conspiracies among the members of the Easton Trust? Howard Odell plotting murder? Howard? I've known the man since he was born. I know his family. It is completely impossible. I do not misjudge character, I assure you."
"Did Althea call you?" Gail insisted.
Ehringer frowned at her. "I was in New York."
"She tried to call you, didn't she? But you returned too late." Ehringer abruptly grabbed his wheels and turned them in opposite directions, whirling himself around. Gail followed. "Or maybe you didn't care to return her call."
He shook a trembling finger at her. "If Althea had needed me, and I had been in the Kalahari Desert, I would have come to her. Yes, she called me. She left a message, but there was no urgency to it. Do not try to make me feel guilty. I am already ... so torn—" He hid his eyes with a hand for a moment, then scowled thunderously up at her. "What are yo
u doing here, Ms. Connor? What is your game?"
"None. This is no game."
"Throwing accusations of murder with no proof—"
"I think I know what Althea wanted to tell you. She argued with Irving Adler over whether Easton should get out of the dirty businesses it's been investing in. You told me last time you'd never heard of Seagate or Atlantic Enterprises. That was a lie, wasn't it?"
Gail put both hands on the arms of his wheelchair and leaned into Sanford Ehringer's stony face. "You know what I'm talking about, don't you?"
"Get to the point," he said.
"I believe that beginning in 1938, when Walton Nash and George Odell formed Biscayne Casinos, the Easton Charitable Trust has derived a portion of its income from such activities as gambling or nightclubs. These businesses produced an excellent return. They were intended to be high class and exclusive, very genteel. But tastes aren't genteel anymore. Now, using one company to shield another, Easton owns adult motels, sex shops, nude bars, and a travel agency where you can arrange vacations of the most exotic sort. As long as the money comes in, nobody wants to admit what's really going on. Their reputations would be ruined! Imagine little Timmy telling the other kids at the country club, 'My daddy owns an XXX movie theater.' So they close their eyes and let Howard Odell handle it."
Through the open French doors, and at the far edge of Ehringer's property, cars on the expressway across the river flashed in the spaces between the tall trees. Rush hour had started, people going home. There was a faint whoosh of traffic.
Gail looked back at Ehringer. She said, "Larry Black didn't want our firm to take this case. You tried to pressure me into dropping it, appealing to my ties to your so-called elite. At first I thought you didn't know what was going on, but now I'm convinced you do. I threatened Howard Odell by telling him I would reveal everything to you, and he didn't care."
Sanford Ehringer's shoulders began to shake with silent laughter. "Of course Howard didn't care. I did know about these businesses. But you are wrong if you think that the Easton Charitable Trust is involved. It absolutely is not. Most of our members may own shares in certain ... companies, but Easton owns none of them. Oh, what a thought!"
Suspicion of Guilt Page 32
