Suspicion of Malice

by Barbara Parker

  For a while she watched the dancers, then said, "Bobby's going to have a good career, if he can survive long enough."

  In the corridor behind them Gail heard voices and the thumps of heavy shoes and dance bags hitting the floor. The teacher glanced at her watch, then excused herself. Time to start class.

  She paused with a hand on Gail's shoulder. "Take care of him, will you?"

  Chapter 8

  Through the glass wall of his office, Jack saw Nikki come into the gallery. Her black linen dress showed a good bit of bare leg, but the color was right for a widow. Likewise the dark glasses. Then she pushed them into her wavy red hair, spoiling the effect.

  This was Tuesday, and Jack hadn't seen her since the funeral last week. He hadn't phoned. He hadn't wanted to hear that breathy little voice: Hi. What's up?

  Jack turned to Diane, who had not noticed his lapse of attention. She was still studying the portrait of herself, which he had propped on a shelf. A young girl in tutu and pointe shoes waited to go onstage. Her pubescent body shone in blue light against the enveloping blackness of backdrop and curtain. Her face repeated the curves of Diane's face, the small mouth, and upturned nose, and they both had corn-silk hair.

  Staring at this painting, Jack wondered what in hell he should do. He had bought it from Roger Cresswell, then had sold it to Nathan Harris as a gift for Claire and Porter. Then Porter, outrageously ungrateful, had given it to Dub and Elizabeth. Diane had taken it—rescued it—from her Philistine parents, and here it was again. Diane wanted to sell it. It made his head spin. Jack supposed he should start by sending Nate's down payment back.

  "I could find a buyer," Jack said, "but without proof you own it, you'll take a hell of a discount."

  "How much do you think I could get for it?"

  Jack wound one end of his mustache around his finger and contemplated the shadow market for art, which he preferred to stay out of. "Ten thousand, no questions asked. As much as fifty to a serious collector of Margaret Cresswells."

  Diane's voice became wistful. "I'd like to keep it, but I need to live closer to the ballet. It would be so great to have a condo where I could see the ocean."

  "You will,” Jack said. "It's time you had your own place."

  "I'd miss you and Buddy. I'd miss the cottage. I love it there."

  "It's always yours to come back to." He smiled at her. "My advice is, talk to your parents. Grovel if you have to. Maybe your mother is simply trying to show you who's boss."

  "She doesn't even like it! I heard her tell Dad it's dark and depressing. She just wants it to show off to her friends. She says if I don't bring it back, she'll call the police. Why does she hate me so much? What have I done that's so terrible?"

  "Nothing, ma petite. She's jealous. You're Princess Aurora."

  Diane reached out to slide her fingers along the edge of the frame. "I remember one day Maggie was visiting from . . . oh, God, wherever she was living then, and she wanted to see me dance. I took her to a dress rehearsal, and this is what I was wearing that day, a white tutu. She got it so perfect, even the pearls. I never knew how good she was." Diane made a little cry. "Jack! How could I even think of selling this? She meant me to have it. I know she did."

  "Tell you what. You work on ownership. Maybe you should ask a lawyer for some legal advice. Meanwhile, I'll take some photos in case you change your mind." He took his camera out of a drawer. If Dub and Liz loosened their tentacles on this portrait, Jack would send slides to potential buyers and scan a print for his website. "You can always say no," he added.

  Shifting out of the way, Diane glanced into the gallery. "Guess who's here."

  "I saw her come in."

  Diane's voice dropped to a whisper. "You're crazy for being with her, Jack."

  "It's over, pumpkin." He focused and pressed the shutter.

  "Thank God." Diane turned her back on the door. "The police talked to me again. They think you and I are lovers."

  "And you told them—"

  "I said that's ridiculous, we were just staying up late talking, and I wouldn't lie for you anyway."

  "Good girl." Jack came in closer on the portrait and took one more. "Let me take this home, all right? You don't want to leave it in your car."

  "Thanks. Listen, do you have a friend named Alan? Last week Bobby said he'd met someone named Alan at your party, but he didn't know his last name."

  "Alan? I haven't the foggiest. Bobby must have gotten it wrong. Or maybe this guy came to the party and I didn't see him."

  "Maybe so. Don't say I asked you, okay? Bobby got a lawyer, and he's not supposed to be talking about the case." Diane picked up her bag. "I'd better get to rehearsal." She kissed him on the cheek and tugged at his mustache. "Love you."

  "Love you too, kid."

  She walked, in her graceful, splay-footed way, out of his office. Her baggy jeans hung over thick-soled sneakers. When she passed Nikki, the two women glanced at each other but neither spoke.

  Nikki held onto the door, swinging around, leaning in. "Hi. What's up?"

  "You tell me." Jack hit the button on the camera to rewind the film.

  "Well. Mr. Friendly. Why was Diane here?"

  "No reason. Passing through town, paying her respects."

  Nikki glanced through the door to make sure Jack's assistant was out of earshot. "Is she still okay with . . . everything?"

  "She's fine. I told you not to worry."

  "I can't help it." Nikki's glossy pink lips parted. The two front teeth were slightly longer than the others, and when Jack had first met her, he'd thought of a rabbit. Fluffy hair, white bunny-teeth—and a centerfold body.

  Jack put his camera away. "How's your friend in West Palm holding up?"

  "Oh, she's been great. We're used to covering for each other."

  "She cheats on her husband too?"

  "Ha-ha." Nikki had a habit of moistening her lips. "I left three messages. Why didn't you call me?"

  "Perhaps I am wrong," he said, "but a period of grief for a widow is usually customary."

  "Jack, I have to talk to you. Don't worry, I'll keep my hands to myself."

  Letting out a breath, Jack walked past her into the gallery. He told his assistant to come back in half an hour. He locked the door and turned over the CLOSED sign, resetting the hands on the little clock. Through the windows he could see the surf shop and a Cozzoli's Pizza. There had never been more than one or two serious galleries in Coconut Grove, and they had departed years ago.

  Nikki's narrow black heels tapped on the slate floor, and a tasseled purse bounced at her hip. "Wow. Every time I come in here, you've got new things. It looks nice.”

  A remark like that made Jack's jaw clench. Had she been sincere or sarcastic? He preferred sarcasm. Sincerity meant that Nikki was too stupid to see that the pieces in this gallery were, for the most part, crap.

  He sold uninspired abstracts one might find at an outdoor art show, assembly-line watercolors of beaches and tropical fruit, prints of Key West cottages with a cat on the porch. Buy any of these, another would appear from the storeroom. He carried the usual cartoonish Romero Britto pieces so beloved by tourists. There were oil paintings of pears that resembled freckled yellow butts, and the obligatory thatch-hut-and-palm-tree landscapes for the Cubans. In the office was a third-rate Picasso that somebody, sooner or later, would purchase to say they had a Picasso.

  Until a year or so ago, Jack had owned a gallery in Coral Gables, where he'd shown high-quality pieces acquired from private collectors. He'd been a consultant for banks and corporations. He'd done appraisals for the Miami Art Museum. Clients had sent him to New York for auctions. Purchasers of yachts from the Cresswell boat yard had turned to Jack Pascoe for help in choosing the perfect DeKooning or Kline for the stateroom. And then disaster.

  At Aunt Claire's last birthday party, Roger got stinking drunk. She scolded her son and compared him to Jack, his older, more sensible cousin. When Jack left the party, Roger was waiting for him in the parki
ng lot. He'd accused him of sucking up to his parents, of using them to find clients, of drooling over their money. Jack had pushed him into a hedge and kept walking. Still drunk, Roger had lurched after him. You're dead, Jack-O. Jack-O had told him to go fuck himself.

  The disaster began shortly thereafter. How had Roger done it? He'd known Jack's clients because Jack had talked too much. It would have been easy— a few words to a certain society figure. A hint dropped to the president of this or that bank. One client withdrew her collection of Bonnard lithographs. Then a curator for a Texas museum, looking for a choice Wifredo Lam, had told him they'd decided to buy it elsewhere. A friend told Jack he'd heard rumors of bad-faith dealing, of fraud, of kickbacks from major galleries in New York and Chicago. Jack lost his corporate clients. Within three months his phone stopped ringing, and no one would take his calls.

  Jack's reputation was trashed, and without proof of Roger's perfidy, there had not been one damned thing Jack could do except keep smiling, bide his time, and wait for the right moment.

  The infuriating thing was, Jack had made money here, across the street from a pizza parlor, next door to a T-shirt shop. He'd made lots of money, more than in Coral Gables. And with each fat bank deposit, his stomach churned.

  Nailing Roger's fluffy little snookums had helped, but not much.

  She had walked into an area near the front of the gallery where pieces of any value were displayed. Smash-proof plate glass windows extended from floor to ceiling. The portrait of Diane had hung there for several weeks. People would stop on the sidewalk and gaze at it, forgetting to lick their ice cream cones. Mothers would pause with children tugging on their hands. The luminous beauty of that painting had even caught the attention of mouth-breathing college students heading for happy hour at the Irish pub.

  That particular spot on the wall was empty now, and Nikki asked, "Why do you have the picture of the ballerina in your office?"

  Jack spread his hands palms up. "Why not?"

  "Do you have a buyer?"

  Seeing no reason to explain the portrait's circuitous journey during the last two weeks, Jack simply said, "No."

  Nikki laughed softly and bounced her little purse on her knees. "Don't take this the wrong way, Jack, but I'd really like to move it to some other gallery. One that's a little more . . . high class?"

  "What?"

  "Well, it's been here a long time, and you haven't sold it, and I need the money."

  Jack squinted at her. "What are you talking about?"

  "You were selling it for Roger, and I need the money, Jack. I just came from the probate lawyer, and I'm broke. Roger let his life insurance lapse, he took out loans on his stocks, and there's hardly anything left in the bank! Oh, sure, there's his interest in Cresswell Yachts, but it's going to take forever to sell."

  "Ahh." Comprehension. Jack patted her shoulder. "Nikki, I am sorry. Honest to goodness I am. The painting wasn't here on consignment. I bought it."

  Nikki blinked. "How much?"

  "Ten thousand. Cash." He added, "Since it was a cash transaction, we . . . dispensed with a contract and sales receipts. Although I do have a bill of sale, proving my ownership. Well, actually, I sold it to someone else. Never mind. The point is, Roger sold it to me about two months ago."

  A year or so after Margaret Cresswell's suicide, Porter and Claire had given the portrait to their son, Roger, who had promptly refrained it in hideous black metal and hung it over his pool table. A couple of months ago, Roger had needed some quick cash. His profligate lifestyle had caught up with him. Jack had offered ten grand for the portrait. He had sworn to sell it back if Roger ever came up with the money. And then Nate Harris had wanted a little something as a thank-you present. Jack had let the painting go for under half its value for the delicious pleasure of imagining the result, next time Roger paid a visit to his parents' house. But his parents had given it away, and Roger was dead.

  Nikki's purse was still bouncing on her knees. "If you sold the painting, what's it doing in your office?"

  "Well, it's for sale again. Perhaps."

  "How much did you sell it for the first time?"

  Jack could tell where this was going. "Nikki, my transactions are confidential."

  "I bet you made a profit, though, didn't you?" Her eyes had narrowed. "A big one. That painting had a price tag of seventy-five thousand dollars."

  "A suggested price, Nikki. I sold it for quite a bit less. Hardly anything."

  "What if we split the profits? How about that?"

  "Sorry."

  "Jack, if I don't get some money soon, I could lose the house!"

  Half expecting her to break into tears, he said, "You have a job."

  "Freelancing for an ad agency? I can't live on that! This is totally unfair."

  "It's not my fault. Blame Roger. He sold it."

  "Because you cheated him, that's why."

  "He was a big boy."

  "I ought to sue you, Jack! Roger was right, you're nothing but a cheat and a liar." Her voice became shrill, and her flame-red hair seemed to sizzle.

  Anger set Jack's teeth together. "Go ahead. Sue me. The police might find out about your lapse of marital fidelity."

  "So we had an affair. So?"

  "Let's be precise. You were going down on me the same night someone was pumping bullets into your husband."

  "You're disgusting! It was your idea to lie to the police, not mine. You even got Diane involved. Here's something to tell them. The night Roger was killed, I called you at ten-thirty. Nobody could find you. Where were you, Jack? With Roger? Explain that to the cops. So don't threaten me." Nikki whirled around and walked through his office door. "It's mine, and I'm taking it with me!" She reached onto the shelf and grabbed the frame with both hands.

  "Stop that!" Jack rushed for her wrists. "Let go! I will break your fucking arms."

  "It's minel" Her lips drew back, exposing her rabbity incisors. She stamped a heel on his instep, and he howled. He caught her in the gallery and dragged her around the corner, out of view of the street and into a grouping of knock-off Boteros—fat men in fedoras, fat-thighed women in flowered dresses.

  He held her with one arm and ripped the portrait away. It clattered to the floor, landing facedown. Jack breathed into her ear. "Oh, yes, Nikki, call the police. Tell them where you were that night. When you knocked on my door at eleven, was he already dead? I think you lured him to my house, you shot him, and then you suckered me into giving you an alibi."

  "Oh, brilliant!" Nikki was laughing so hard she bent double. "Oh, my God. I shot Roger?" She twisted around, breaking into giggles. "That would have been dumb. Roger had nothing but debts!"

  "You didn't know that till an hour ago, did you?" Arms spread, Jack stood between her and the portrait on the floor behind him. "Did you do it yourself or hire somebody?"

  Her laughter had stopped, and she drew herself up, raising her chin. "You know what? This may be really hard for you to understand, but I cared for Roger."

  "Sure you did."

  "Okay, we had some problems, but I cared! I didn't know that till it was too late. When the police told me, I cried."

  "Give this girl an Oscar."

  "I cried and it was real! Roger loved me. Not like you." With the heel of one hand she wiped the tears off her cheek. "You only wanted to fuck me to get back at him." Nikki picked up her purse from the floor and put on her sunglasses. "You're a real shit, Jack."

  She ran to the door, turned the lock, and was gone. The little sign swung back and forth.

  Chapter 9

  Theodore Stamos, sitting by the second-floor window in Porter Cresswell's office, noticed the fifty-ton high-lift rolling across the yard. It would pick up one of the new boats and carry it to the river. Ted should have been down there. In his mind he listed the things he wasn't getting done while he was stuck in this meeting, listening to Porter ramble on about how his old man had risked his last dollar on a prototype of the Cresswell Cutlass. How Charlie Cresswell turn
ed the company into a leader in power boat design, and they should all be proud to carry on the tradition. . . .

  What Porter ought to be talking about, Ted thought, was how the company was going to recover from the various fuckups of the past six months, the biggest fuckup being Porter's son, who had thought a business degree was a substitute for getting his hands dirty.

  This was Porter's first day back since the funeral, and he'd aged about ten years. His wife, Claire, sat in the corner reading. She'd been driving him around lately. With his money, Porter could have hired a limo and a chauffeur, saved her the trouble.

  All the top people in the company were here. Porter's brother, Dub. Dub's wife. Management from sales and marketing. And the production supervisors, including Ted, who was in charge of wood and fiberglass. Ted was thirty-seven, and he'd been getting his hands dirty at Cresswell over half his life.

  Porter rocked back in his chair. "My dad—and Dub's—started this company in a shop no bigger than a garage. It's still down there, right by the river. Humble beginnings and a grand vision."

  No mention of Ted's father, Henry Stamos, who had built the first boat. Henry's only assets had been his hands.

  Ted noticed the yellow Porsche come through the open chainlink security gate. It sped across the parking lot, swerved into a visitor spot, and skidded to a stop. Roger Cresswell's car. Leaning closer to the window, Ted saw the driver's side open. A woman's long legs swung out, black dress up her thighs. Then a mop of red hair and big sunglasses. Nikki Cresswell. She slammed the door and disappeared under the roof overhang at the entrance to the building, apparently in a hurry about something, not bothering to park in the garage, leaving the car baking in the sun. It was another day in the nineties, and heat waves shimmered off the metal roof of the main assembly shed and glared on the hard white ground.