Suspicion of Malice

by Barbara Parker

  "From you?"

  "Well, you obviously misunderstood. I'm going to adore this baby when it comes, and so will Karen. What did Dave say? I bet he agrees with me."

  "Dave can afford to. He's leaving next week. Let's not get into that, please. Diane Cresswell expects me in a little while. That's what I came out here to talk about—the Cresswells." Leaving wet footprints across the deck, Gail went over to the patio table and picked up her notebook.

  Her mother looked at her over the top of the lime-green glasses. "You're going to have this child, Gail. Stop pretending otherwise. You'll have the baby, Anthony will find out, and you'll have to work it out with him, one way or another."

  "I don't want to think about it." Gail sat down and uncapped her pen. "If I go over to Diane's, would you mind watching out for Karen? She went next door to see a video."

  Irene rolled her eyes. "Of course I don't mind." She took off her glasses and swung her foot. "What are you doing, taking notes?"

  "Yes, I'll have to do a memo on this. What did you find out about Roger?"

  Irene Strickland Connor, third-generation Miami, belonged to half a dozen cultural and political organizations. She was petite and non-threatening, and her incisive intelligence was hidden behind a motherly smile. People would confide in her. She might repeat what she heard, but not to just anyone.

  Irene had met Roger Cresswell only once, at a ballet gala last year that he'd probably attended to keep his parents happy.

  "He was very good-looking, but he knew it. His wife was with him, falling out of her dress. Red hair out to here." Irene held her hands away from her head. "They were both smashed on champagne. This was not a marriage Porter and Claire approved of, but Roger played around for years on a trust fund, so you can see what kind of woman he'd go for."

  Gail looked up from her notebook. "What did you find out about Porter's brother?"

  "Duncan. Let's see. He drinks too much. He's a big joker, and it's his wife who wears the pants. Duncan has never been the bright star of the Cresswell brothers. In fact, nobody can figure out how he ended up as half owner. When their father died he left the business to Porter, and Porter isn't the kind of man to give anything away. Now, giving it to his son, I understand. When Porter got sick, he gave Roger ten percent of the business. I guess that wasn't enough for Roger."

  "What do you mean?"

  "He was like his father, they say. He just had to be in control." A friend of Irene's had told her that her husband, who was on the board of the Coral Reef Yacht Club with Duncan, had overheard Duncan's wife say Roger Cresswell's ego must be compensation for his pin dick.

  "Mother!" Gail laughed.

  "Well, I didn't say it, she did."

  "Still."

  Pausing to think, Irene said, "What is her name? Liz. She's from a blue collar family—not that there's anything wrong with that, but you'd think she'd have risen above it. They contribute scads of money to charity, and you see their pictures in the paper, but she doesn't get invited to the better parties."

  Gail's pen flew over the page. More problems in the household. Their son, Sean, had been in trouble with the police. The older daughter, jealous of Diane. Diane leaving home as soon as she could, moving to Jack Pascoe's place, and who knew what was going on there? Jack had once been a reputable art dealer, but people said he'd been cheating his customers. Claire denied it, lending him money for a place in the Grove. Enraging Roger, of course. Name-calling between Nikki and Liz in the ladies' room at the Forge Restaurant, overheard by a friend of one of Irene's bridge partners. Hints of financial trouble at the company after Roger came in. Porter not happy. Claire in the middle, always smiling.

  As a teenager, Irene had known Claire Pascoe. "We went to high school together at Cushman, but we were never friends."

  "Why not?" Gail took a quick sip of iced tea. "Was she a snob?"

  "No, I was younger and we were in different crowds. Claire was into dancing, and she practiced a good deal, so she was too busy to mix with other kids. Even when she did, it was like she was always onstage. She smiled too much, maybe that was it. Everything was always perfect." Irene laughed. "Boy, did I get into trouble, but girls like Claire— honor society, prom queen. Beautiful clothes, never a spot on them. Her car was always so shiny. A little white Thunderbird that her parents bought her. They were members of the Bath Club and the Riviera Country Club, and her mother ran the debutante ball. What a bitch she was. She complained to my mother because I didn't wear stockings at the tea party. I think Mr. Pascoe was a deacon at the Presbyterian Church. They had the most immaculate house." Irene gave a little shudder, then was quiet for a while, looking out at the bay. "Maybe that explains it."

  "Explains what?"

  "I've lost a child too," Irene said. "I could hardly function for months—you remember how it was when your sister died. Claire just goes on, like closing a door, all the heartache locked behind it. She never complains, and I don't see how in hell she puts up with Porter. He had another woman for years, and she looked the other way. She didn't want a scandal in the family, I guess. Who cared? She has her own money, she could've booted him right out. What's she holding on to, I ask you? Can you imagine? Both children dead. I wouldn't be far behind, if that happened to me."

  Eyes on the page, Gail continued to write, aware that she had fewer facts than inferences. Even so, she was left with a feeling of disgust for the entire Cresswell clan, except for Diane. So far, Gail had no reason to lump her in with the rest of them. As for Claire, was she anything more than a shell? Anthony had used the right words on the tape he had sent. There is more malice in this family than Claire will admit, even to herself. A family of wealth and position, to whom appearances meant so much. Families like that always had secrets. And how odd that both Roger and his sister had died on the same piece of property. One murder, one suicide. One family.

  Chapter 16

  The five colored glass numbers of Jack Pascoe's street address swung from an ornately twisted metal arch over his driveway that was hidden among so many untrimmed bushes that Gail went past twice before seeing it. The gate was open, and Gail drove through.

  The house could have been transported from Key West—two stories of white clapboard, green shutters, and vines climbing up lattice trim. A garage was connected to the house by a portico, and under it was a little red Honda with a Miami City Ballet bumper sticker. It had to be Diane's. Gail couldn't tell if Pascoe was home or not. She pulled a compact camera out of her shoulder bag and took several pictures.

  As instructed, she went under the portico to the back. She had worn shorts and a sleeveless linen shirt for the heat, but the sun blazed down with an almost physical pressure. Beyond an area of weathered picnic furniture and badly watered grass, a keystone walkway vanished into the shrubbery. Toward the far right corner of the property, dozens of palm trees soared above dense foliage. Their fronds moved in the wind. Roger Cresswell's body had been found among those trees. Everything corresponded to the hand-drawn map that Anthony had sent. Gail aimed her camera, then turned and took more photos of the rear of the house. Above the screened porch, the second-floor windows would give a stunning view of the bay.

  Following the walkway another twenty yards or so, Gail found the cottage. It too was clapboard, built on a foundation of old coral rock, but the shutters were bright turquoise. Colored glass rotated on fishing line, sending flecks of light dancing across the front. Orchestral music was coming through tightly closed windows.

  Gail didn't notice the black dog underneath the porch swing until he leaped out, nails scrabbling to gain a hold. She gasped, then froze in place while the animal stood at the top of the steps barking and growling. The music went off, and a moment later the door opened. From behind the screen a slender figure in blue tank top and white shorts called out, "Buddy, be quiet!"

  The dog immediately shut up, wagged its tail, and padded toward the door. Diane Cresswell unlatched the screen. Her blond hair was on top of her head. "Come in. I forgot to
tell you about Buddy. He's noisy, that's all." She reached down to pet him. "Hey, you silly old mutt, go back to sleep."

  The cottage was air conditioned, and fans turned in the open-beam ceiling. A divider at one end marked the kitchen, and a door led to a small bedroom. Ballet posters and photographs decorated white-painted walls. The space seemed larger because the cottage was so sparsely furnished—tiny table and chairs, some floor pillows, an upholstered bench for a sofa.

  Gail started to walk across the floor, then noticed the splashes of paint on the age-darkened pine.

  "It's dry," Diane said. "I dance on it. Kind of neat, huh? Maggie took the paintings and left the drips."

  Most of the paint was concentrated near the front windows, where an easel might have been placed. Rectangular shapes on the floor marked where canvases had been laid down, then taken up when they were finished. Tilting her head this way or that as she walked among them, Gail said, "It would be interesting to find out what she was working on. This one—all those little splotches of red and green. You could match it up to the painting."

  "Jack says he ought to take out the floor and sell it." Diane laughed, then said, "Do you like carrot juice?"

  Gail agreed to a small glass, and Diane walked to the refrigerator. She was barefoot. The big joint at the ball of her foot was enlarged, and her toes were reddened and callused.

  "How long have you lived here?" Gail asked.

  Glasses clinked in a cabinet. "About two years, except for eight months I spent in New York in the corps at the City Ballet. Edward Villella asked if I'd like to come back to Miami as a soloist, so I did. The cottage isn't exactly convenient, but Jack lets me have it for nothing.”

  "So you studied in New York?"

  "No, here in Miami. Bobby Gonzalez and I took classes together. He stayed, I left. New York is wonderful, but there are so many great dancers it usually takes years to get out of the corps. So here I am again."

  Setting her purse on the table, Gail noticed a gold picture frame on the wall beside the front door. She had missed it on her way in, and walked back across the room to see. "Oh, this is wonderful." Against an almost overpowering backdrop of black shadow and velvet curtains, a young dancer stood at the edge of a stage. Her tutu was a froth of net and gleaming pearls. The girl's small, rosy lips were parted, and her eyes were fixed on something out of view.

  Gail realized that Diane was standing beside her. She looked back and forth, one face to the other. "It's really you. And the tutu! I could reach in and touch it. Is this typical of your cousin's style?"

  Diane handed Gail the glass of carrot juice. "Well, the colors are sort of typical, but most of her paintings are abstract. She didn't do portraits, so this is special. That's what Jack says. He's an expert."

  "And your mother wants it back. I don't blame her."

  "She doesn't even like it. She'll have a cocktail party so she can show it off. 'Oh, yes, this was painted by our dear, departed niece, the famous artist. Isn't it just marvelous?' "

  "You're her daughter. That could be another reason to want it."

  "I wish that were true. One time, when I was a little kid, she got mad and said she'd found me in an orange grove. They were at Disney World when she went into early labor. I think she blames me for ruining her vacation."

  Unwilling to argue, Gail said, "Tell me again how your parents acquired this. It was a gift from your uncle, Porter Cresswell?"

  Diane shook her head. "Not exactly. Nate Harris gave it to Aunt Claire and Uncle Porter as a present, but then they gave it to my parents. Nate didn't want them to have it. He was Maggie's husband, and this was her painting, and he bought it for Aunt Claire and Uncle Porter."

  "Wait. You say that Nate Harris gave it to them?" Gail wondered why Anthony hadn't mentioned this.

  "Yes. He bought it from Jack. Jack's an art dealer.

  Nate came by here the night of the party and picked it up.”

  "You were here?"

  "Not then. I was out with some friends and got home late. Earlier that day I saw it in Jack's study, and I said, what's this doing here? And he said Nate Harris was coming by to look at it. It wasn't in there the next day, so I guess Nate took it with him that night."

  "Really. How did Jack get it?"

  "From Roger."

  Gail laughed a little. "Well . . . where did Roger get it?"

  Diane looked to one side, then frowned. "I don't know, but Jack's had it for two or three months. It's been hanging in his gallery."

  Lightly touching the gilded wood frame, Gail said, "How much is this worth? Just curious."

  "Jack says a serious collector might pay fifty thousand. He was offering it for seventy-five."

  "God."

  "Well, Jack likes to bargain."

  "Where is Jack, by the way?"

  "He's home. I told him you were coming."

  "And I suppose he knows I'm working for Bobby Gonzalez."

  Diane tucked a strand of platinum hair into her stretchy black headband. "You don't have to worry about Jack."

  "Listen, Diane. Do me a favor and don't mention this to anyone else. Don't mention me either. No one can know I'm working for Bobby. If your aunt and uncle found out, or your parents— Oh, great, I'm telling you to keep secrete from your parents."

  "That's easy. I hardly talk to them anyway."

  With another look at the portrait, Gail let out a breath. "Come on, let's sit down."

  Diane went over to the little bistro table and lowered herself gracefully into a chair. The upswept hair made her neck seem long and fragile. The thin straps of her pastel blue top revealed the bones of her chest. Large eyes watched Gail approach, set down the glass of carrot juice, and pull out the other chair.

  "It's a painting of me," Diane said. "Doesn't that give me some kind of right to it?"

  "Afraid not." Gail thought for a moment, then said, "If Nate bought the painting for your aunt and uncle, and they gave it to your parents, you had no right to take it. But let's say for a moment that Nate hadn't paid for it. The sale wasn't final. If Nate didn't pay, and no one else along the line paid any money, then the previous owner, Jack, could in theory recover his property."

  For a minute or two Diane looked blankly across the room. "Does that mean I could have it?"

  "Well, if Jack would give it to you. And if—this is all very iffy—there was never actually a sale. I could find out, but honestly, no one ever wins in a family dispute. You should talk to your uncle. Are you on good terms with him? Maybe he'd persuade your parents to drop the issue, since he was the one who gave them the portrait."

  "Well, my fattier doesn't really care. It's mostly my mother." Diane frowned in thought. "Uncle Porter has never been easy to talk to. He's kind of intimidating, especially since he got sick. He'd probably just tell me to go away and leave him alone."

  "What about your aunt Claire?"

  "She hates controversy, hates it, and she's such a mouse when it comes to Uncle Porter, you just want to scream. She might help, if I could convince her to do it. I know she likes me. She was a dancer in her faraway youth." Diane smiled. "That's what she says. 'My innocent and faraway youth.' "

  Gail considered, then said, "Would you like for me to talk to Claire? She went to high school with my mother. What if I mentioned this, and said that I'd met you, and that we had talked about the portrait. . . ."

  The pale blue eyes gazed back at her. "You could even ask about Roger. I mean, if you wanted to."

  As before, outside the ballet, Gail had the sense of things being wordlessly conveyed. This girl would help Bobby Gonzalez as far as she could. "I could talk to Claire next weekend on the boat."

  "What boat?"

  "They're taking Roger's ashes to be scattered at sea. You hadn't heard?”

  With a sigh, Diane nodded. "Jack told me. That's how I found out. My mother and father didn't say anything. You see how they are? But why are you going?"

  "I'm working with Nate's lawyer. Claire invited him, and he got me
onboard."

  A smile dimpled Diane's cheeks. "Angela's father."

  "Things get around, don't they?" Gail said, "Will you be with the family next weekend?"

  The smile vanished. "I hadn't planned to. It would be awfully strained, wouldn't it? Everyone pretending they're sorry he's dead. I guess that makes me sound cold, but it's the truth."

  "How well did you know your cousin?"

  "Hardly at all. We saw each other at holidays or family dinners. He came to the ballet a couple of times, but only because Claire insisted."

  Gail said nothing for a few moments, snagged on the awkwardness of asking Diane which of her relatives might have had a reason to commit murder. Her uncle, who had feared his son was destroying the company? Her own parents, who had clashed with Roger for pushing them aside? Diane's brother, Sean, had hated Roger for getting him in trouble with the police. And there was Nikki, who would have lost millions in company stock if her husband had divorced her.

  Unable to find a thread to follow, Gail let her eyes drift across the room. Through the windows she saw the colored glass pieces slowly turning, catching the light. "Those are pretty, the pieces of glass. Did you put them out there?"

  "No, they were here already. I think Maggie did."

  "Did you ever watch her working?"

  "I wish I had." She sighed. "I was too young to know anything."

  "Tell me about her," Gail said.

  "Well . . . she was brilliant, of -course." Diane leaned forward on crossed arms. "Jack told me a lot about her. They grew up together. He says that when she was really small, she knew she was going to be an artist. It's sort of the same with me, actually. When I was little, I felt special, not like my brother and sister. Maybe that's why I don't get along with them, or with my mother. Anyway, Maggie ran away when she was still in high school and went north to study. She lived in a cottage on Cape Cod and was really happy there, even though she was alone. Sort of like me. I was a senior in high school, and one day Jack handed me the keys to this cottage, and he said whenever I wanted to come over here, it was mine. He let Maggie stay here too. I'm sorry now I didn't come over to see her. He says we would have been great friends. Isn't it sad how you always know something too late?"