Suspicion of Guilt

by Barbara Parker

"Hi, honey." Gail straightened Karen's bangs. "Larry's a little better today. The doctors say he'll pull through."

  "That's good," Karen said softly. Her eyes were fixed on Gail. "You promised to be home early today."

  "I am—well, earlier than usual." Gail tugged on her elbow. "Come on. I'll fix you some dinner."

  "I'm not hungry." Karen closed her eyes.

  "There's some pizza."

  "No, thank you. Go work on your files. I'll be all right."

  Gail held her hand. Karen's fingernails had rims of gray underneath. "Karen. How long do you plan to lie here, sweetie?"

  "I don't know," she mumbled.

  "Do you want me to call Clarinda again?" Clarinda Campbell had spent half an hour on the phone with Karen last night, telling her the Lakota Sioux story of the wolf who climbed to heaven, leaving stars wherever he stepped. Gail wasn't sure what it meant, but Karen had seemed comforted.

  "Clarinda was nice." Karen's smile was as fleeting as a shadow. "But I don't feel like talking to anyone."

  "Not even me?"

  She took a long, slow breath. "Mommy?"

  "Yes, baby."

  "I love you."

  "Oh, sweetie. I love you too." Gail leaned over and kissed her cheek. "Can't I bring you anything?"

  "No, it's all right." She closed her eyes.

  "Some hot chocolate with a marshmallow?"

  She sighed. "If you want to. Three marshmallows, please."

  When Gail went back into the kitchen, Phyllis was at the counter folding her apron. She turned around. "Well? She going to live?"

  "My daughter has decided to have a nervous breakdown at age ten. Fine. Saves me from having one." Gail reached into the cabinet for a mug. "Hot chocolate. Three marshmallows, please." Phyllis chuckled and pulled the bag down from the top shelf of the pantry, untwisting the tie at the top. Gail poured the milk.

  The phone rang and Gail's arm jerked. A splash of milk hit the counter.

  "Connor residence." Phyllis listened, one eye on Gail. "No, the lady of the house is out and we don't want any, thank you." She hung up. "Brooms for the blind or some such thing."

  Gail wiped up the spill. "I need to write you a check before you leave, don't I?"

  "Uh-huh. Who you expecting on the phone?"

  She made a vague motion with her hand, then tossed the wet paper towel into the trash can under the sink. The mug of milk went into the microwave. Gail pressed the buttons, then crossed the kitchen to get her checkbook. She bumped the table, and her briefcase tipped over. A stack of papers slid out and hit the floor.

  Gail pulled her checkbook and a pen out of her purse, sat down, and began to write. "I thought perhaps Anthony might call."

  "You-all have a fight?"

  "Not really. A disagreement." Gail wrote slowly, carefully. "Actually, Phyllis, we had a fight. You are quite correct. I told him—in effect—that I never wanted to see him again." She laughed and pushed her hair off her forehead. "And then ... he said the same to me. And I haven't heard from him since. There."

  "Why don't you call him?"

  Gail capped her pen. "I did. I left a message yesterday on his answering machine at home. He hasn't returned my call, so I assume ..." She made another vague motion of her hand. The microwave buzzer sounded and she got up to see about the mug of milk.

  Phyllis folded the check and tucked it into the front pocket of her blue uniform dress, over her wide, rounded bosom. "Must have been some fight. How you doing?"

  A long stream of chocolate syrup went into the milk. "It's sweet of you to be concerned, but at the moment there are other things more pressing. My daughter is seeing a therapist. Larry Black might be incapacitated for life, if he doesn't die first. A friend of mine is being investigated for a murder he didn't commit. Another may be suicidal, and there is nothing I can do for any of them. I have a hearing tomorrow I haven't begun to prepare for. And now the plumber says I have to tear out my bathroom wall. Believe me, Phyllis, I have enough on my mind."

  Phyllis nodded. "Seems like if you got trouble with your man, nothing goes right."

  Gail glanced at her, then stirred the chocolate in with a spoon.

  "He was always nice to me," Phyllis said.

  "Anthony can be very charming when he decides to be."

  "I guess you can't tell about men from their outsides."

  "No, you can't." She dropped three marshmallows into the steaming mug, then a fourth.

  Phyllis stood with her purse hanging from her arm. Her old button-front sweater was draped through the handles. "If it was me, I'd call him again."

  Gail turned her head to look at her.

  Phyllis nodded gravely.

  "I've already called him once."

  "Now it's his turn?"

  "Yes. If he wants to resume our relationship, he can damn well make some effort in that direction. Why should it be solely up to me?" Gail grabbed a small plate and put a napkin on it, then opened a box of oatmeal cookies.

  Phyllis was still standing there. "I can stay with Karen for a while if you want to go see him."

  Gail laughed. "See him? He's not interested in calling me. He certainly doesn't want me showing up on his doorstep." She dropped the cookies on the plate.

  "That's right. Soon as I laid eyes on him, I could tell he was a spirited man."

  "He's impossible." Gail picked up the mug and plate. "At this point in my life, I don't have the energy to fight with him anymore."

  "You scared he's gonna turn you away?"

  Gail looked at her. "Not at all. I—it's—"

  Phyllis waited.

  "What would I say to Karen? Sorry, sweetheart, Mommy just got home to take care of you, but now she has to run off to Anthony's house, so please have your breakdown with Phyllis."

  Phyllis's brown eyes rolled upward for an instant, a quick flash of white. "Sweet Jesus in the manger." Then she fixed on Gail. "I got to be home by nine o'clock."

  By the time she reached the Rickenbacker Causeway to Key Biscayne, paying her dollar toll, it was dark, the days getting measurably shorter now.

  Karen had not been understanding. She had rolled over with the pillow on top of her head. Gail pulled up a corner of it to say she had to leave now, before it was too late. Karen told her to go away. Gail promised they would talk about it with Clarinda. She had showered, changed into slacks and a silk blouse, and put a dab of perfume on her wrists. Leaving, she had paused at the telephone, wondering if she should call first. But if he answered, what would she say?

  As she drove she thought about what she would say to him. The words had to be clever enough to get his attention before he slammed the door. Regretful, but not abject. Dignified, not aloof.

  When she reached the end of the waterfront cul-de-sac where he lived, his townhouse was dark except for the low lamps along the walkway leading to the front patio. The door was six feet beyond a security gate. She sat in her car for a while, breathing deeply. She finally got out and pressed the buzzer on the wall next to the gate. Nothing. At the end of the street was the bay. The white mast light of a sailboat slid by a hundred yards out. The sails were down, motor faintly purring. The cool breeze made her shiver. Gail walked back and forth, hugging her arms across her chest.

  What to say? What combination of words? It was possible that Anthony—because he was, after all, Latin—would respond to passion, but she doubted that she could work herself up into screaming and weeping. For a while she imagined the two of them playing a scene from Carmen, and she hummed the music under her breath.

  Headlights played along the cul-de-sac, then turned into another driveway. She watched for a while, expecting to see his dark-blue Cadillac at any moment. Lights were on in the other townhouses—people doing the dishes, yelling at each other, putting the kids to bed, watching television, each a little universe of love and disappointment and hope.

  It was after eight o'clock now. Anthony's house was quiet, only the fronds of a palm tree whispering at his upstairs window. Gail couldn'
t imagine living alone, no one there when she got home. She had never asked Anthony how he managed. She had never thought of asking till now. She stood in front of his gate, looking through. There were no clever words to say to him, only true ones.

  On the floor of her car she found a sheet of notebook paper—Karen's math homework, already handed in and graded, a 65. She turned it over and wrote a note. She slipped it underneath the gate, where it lay folded on the reddish tile leading to his door.

  At the street she waited against traffic to take a left turn, headlights in her eyes. She would go home and read a story to Karen. The hearing tomorrow at the courthouse could take care of itself. She had done enough of them to wing it.

  She waited for another car to go by. Its turn signal went on. The car cornered, its headlights sweeping over her. Behind her she heard the screech of tires and glanced in her rearview mirror. The car—dark color, low profile—sat there motionless, red brake lights flaring.

  Gail took a breath. The backup lights went on. When the Cadillac came even with her car, the driver's tinted window slid down. She reached for her window crank.

  Anthony looked at her across the three-foot divide between them. He seemed to be debating what to say.

  "I want to talk to you," Gail said.

  He unlocked the gate and Gail followed. Before she could reach the note, he picked it up as if it might have been blown there by the wind. He dropped it, crumpled, into his jacket pocket. Inside the living room he flipped a switch and lamps came on. Not looking at her, he dropped his briefcase on the long table behind the L-shaped sofa. The table was stacked with mail and magazines.

  Gail stood unmoving. "Did you get my message? I need to know."

  He nodded, eyes shadowed with fatigue. He waited, then said, "What do you want to talk about, Gail?"

  "Why didn't you call me?"

  He loosened his tie. "You want to sit down? I'm going to fix a drink." He went into his kitchen, squinting for a second when he turned on the light. He took a heavy glass out of the cabinet over the sink.

  From the open entrance she asked, "How's the trial going?"

  "All right. I have to review some testimony tonight."

  She watched him drop ice cubes into his glass, then pour bourbon. Out of breath, she studied the tiles on the floor. "Maybe I shouldn't have come."

  Anthony put the bottle back in the cabinet. "I didn't ask you to leave."

  She crossed the kitchen, took down another glass, and held it out. "Just a Coke or something. I'm not staying long, and I have to drive home."

  He opened his refrigerator. "I heard what happened to Larry. Damn criminals in this city. He should carry a gun." Anthony put in some ice cubes and unscrewed the top off a plastic bottle of Coke. It fizzed. The front of his white shirt seemed to blaze in the bright kitchen, and his hair was dark against the collar. "How is he?"

  Gail took the glass. "Thank you." She took a sip. "They say he'll be all right. They say, but... I don't know. I went to see him, but they won't let anyone in but family. I spoke to his wife."

  "Dee-Dee? Is that her name?" Anthony drank, looking at Gail over the glass.

  "Yes. Dee-Dee says ... he looks awful. And she doesn't want their girls to see him like that but if he—if he doesn't..." Gail put down her glass on the counter next to the stove and turned away, weeping.

  Anthony's hand was on her arm. "Gail, don't."

  She pressed her face into his shoulder. His arms went around her. "Anthony. I don't know what to say. I'm no good at this."

  He pressed his lips against her temple. "I should have called you. I was going to."

  She laughed and reached for a napkin. "Did you want to make me suffer?"

  "No." He pulled her back to him, holding her tightly. "No, not to suffer. Maybe to be sure. Please. Don't do this again. I can't ... I'm not so good at this either. Maybe I wouldn't have called you. I don't know."

  "I'm here."

  He nodded. "I am very glad. Yes." He let out a heavy sigh.

  Gail felt his jacket pocket for the note she had written and he opened his eyes.

  "What is this?" He unfolded it and read. "You love me? Well. This is ... I like this. And if I don't call you, you'll be back." He cleared his throat. "Yes, I like this very much." He turned the page over. "Arithmetic? I see. Karen's. Only a sixty-five? But she's such a smart girl. You should think about a tutor for her."

  Gail reached for the note. He held it away. "No. I'll keep this to show you, if you change your mind."

  "I won't."

  "I'll keep it anyway." He put it back into his pocket, then locked his arms around her waist. "And where is Karen? With your mother?"

  "No. She's home with Phyllis." Gail glanced at the clock on the stove. "I can't stay. I promised Phyllis I'd be back by a quarter to nine."

  He made a little sigh of disappointment. "Not much time." He kissed her gently, then again, deeper.

  "Wait I have something to say to you." The stubble around his mouth scratched the tender place at the base of her neck. She lifted her shoulder. "Anthony. Listen to me. Please?"

  He rested his forehead on hers.

  She held his face, smoothed the lines at his eyes with her thumbs. "I don't want an easy time of it with you—an affair that's going to fit into our schedules. I don't want to think fondly of you when I'm old, as a man I used to know who made exquisite love to me. It has to be difficult and painful."

  "Ay, Gail." He laughed. "Yes, I think we have that already."

  "I want us to love each other so much that if it ended, we'd want to die. If you hadn't let me in—" These last words came out on a whisper, and her eyes filled.

  He held her. "How could I not have let you in?"

  "Anthony? I would like to get married someday. You don't have to decide now, but I need to know that you wouldn't rule it out entirely."

  "No, I wouldn't rule it out I've never ruled it out."

  "Good. And something else," she said. "Stay with me occasionally. You're too alone, and I can't come here as often as I'd like. My bedroom has been redecorated. Everything is new. You haven't even seen it."

  "Someday I will," he said.

  "Should I find a santero to exorcise the evil spirits?"

  "Gail, it's not that. What about Karen? If I stayed overnight at your house—" He shook his head. "Not yet."

  "Maybe you're right."

  "I am right." He drew back far enough to focus on her. "Gail. We're more to each other than what we do in bed."

  "We are. Yes. A lot more." She turned to kiss the palm that cupped her cheek, then laughed. "But I still wish you had come home earlier."

  "So do I."

  They stood in the brightly lit kitchen, embracing, until it was time for her to leave.

  Chapter Thirty

  When Gail turned into the parking lot at the Sea Towers Condominium on Collins Avenue, Eric was already there, leaning against his Lexus. The sky was boiling with clouds, and wind ruffled the surface of the puddles.

  She closed her door, walked over to him. "What do you think?"

  His hair lifted off his forehead, then settled. "I walked around before you got here. There's no doorman or security desk. Front, rear, and garage entrances lock automatically. I'd say whoever shoved Carla off her balcony had a key. Or she let him in."

  The building had fifteen floors, each with a row of terraces and white metal railings. Gail counted up ten floors. Plants hung in baskets from many of the balconies. Had Carla grabbed for them, for anything, in that last hideous moment? She let her gaze fall to the parking lot with its slanting yellow lines.

  "They probably hosed it down," Eric said. The reflection of clouds swept across his sunglasses.

  Gail let out a breath and looked away. At the rear of the building, beyond a low wall, the tops of folded umbrellas rattled in the wind. She could smell the ocean and hear the breakers on the beach.

  She headed toward the front of the building, and Eric followed. The pastel-painted lobby had a ter
razzo floor, potted palms, and ceiling fans.

  Eric said, "You see a connection between this and whoever did Althea Tillett. Correct?"

  She nodded.

  "Because both Carla and Althea knew about the X-rated businesses Easton owned—"

  "Not Easton's," Gail said. "Some Easton members owned shares in Biscayne, which owned the companies that ran the businesses. Biscayne is a front. Charging ten dollars for a drink in a nude bar is legal. Running a call-girl service using teenagers isn't. They were probably into gambling, sports betting, pornography ... Carla knew. I think she told Althea when she handled her travel arrangements, and Althea argued with Irving Adler about it. He didn't want her to expose the truth, because it would have ruined too many of their friends' reputations." Gail added wryly, "A lot of supposing."

  "But it makes sense," Eric said.

  "Add Larry Black to the equation," Gail said, "then ask, Who had a reason to want them all dead? My first choice is Howard Odell."

  "Obviously. He had a lot to lose." Above his sunglasses, Eric's forehead creased. "However ... beating Larry Black like that? I don't think he's capable. And why go after Larry? Did Howard think he was a threat?"

  "I saw them together at lunch in the Hartwell Club a few weeks ago," Gail said. "Larry told me they were discussing investments, but I doubt it." She hesitated, then said, "Larry was a member of the Easton Trust. His wife Dee-Dee told me.

  Eric nodded as though the news were no surprise.

  "What you haven't heard about Larry—and you're not hearing it now—was that the police found cocaine in his pocket. Larry doesn't do coke. I think it was planted there to make the crimes look unrelated. When you knew Howard, was he using it?"

  "No." Eric shrugged, then smiled a little. "I would have known. But Gail, in Miami cocaine is common as dirt. Rudy Tillett had it on him when he was arrested. That doesn't mean he went after Larry. I can get him for the other two, though. Althea, for her estate. And Carla, because she may have demanded more than the five thousand he paid her, after she found out how much the estate was worth."

  "I can get Howard Odell for all three,” Gail said. "All of them knew about his dirty businesses and any one of them could have shut him down."