Suspicion of Malice

by Barbara Parker

  Gail made a theatrical shudder. "What a reptile." She kissed Anthony on his jaw, which still was knotted. "Don't worry. I like you better."

  He let out a breath. "Porter wasn't as crazy as that when I first met him, I assure you."

  The boat plowed steadily through the water. The wind was blowing from the other direction, and the rain fell only in intermittent drops.

  Gail took her lipstick and compact out of her small shoulder bag. "Anthony, what if we're wrong? Maybe Dub and Liz had nothing to do with Roger's death. What if it's Porter?" She put on her lipstick, then looked at Anthony. "Well?"

  "No. Porter wouldn't have the strength to throw Ted Stamos off the catwalk, and he wasn't there late on Friday."

  "What if Ted just fell, and we're following a dead end thinking that someone pushed him?"

  "Anything is possible," Anthony said glumly. "It is possible that whoever did this is going to get away with it. We have no proof of anything." He put an arm around her. "Why don't we go have a drink and forget about it? No. I'll have a drink, you can have a club soda. No alcohol for you, mamita."

  Gail leaned against him. "Did I apologize yet for avoiding you the last two days?"

  "Is that what you were doing? I thought you had changed your mind."

  "No. I wouldn't do that. I can't." She turned her head to kiss him, savoring the moist warmth of his mouth, the adjacent roughness of beard under his skin. And then he was embracing her with a ferocity that took her breath.

  He held her face and rested his forehead on hers. "How long do you have to think before you stop being so afraid?"

  "When you kiss me, I can't think of anything."

  "Good. Then you should let me do it more often."

  The boat plunged again into a wave, and water sprayed into the air. Gail shrieked a laugh. There was salt on her lips.

  "Let's go inside," Anthony said. Walking single file, they made their way toward the rear deck. Coming around the corner, they felt the force of the wind. Afternoon clouds, born over the Everglades, were piling into gray masses. A few of the guests had come outside to watch the slow-motion thunderheads in the distance and the silent flashes of lightning. The flag snapped and fluttered on the fly bridge.

  Gail noticed Jack Pascoe in one of the chairs, sitting with his ragged leather deck shoes crossed on the stern. He held his fishing hat down with one hand so it wouldn't fly off his head.

  Anthony reached for the salon door, but Gail hesitated. "Go ahead. I want to talk to Jack Pascoe."

  "Why?"

  "Just a couple of questions. I'll be there in a minute."

  Anthony acquiesced with a shrug, and Gail dragged another chair across the deck to sit beside Pascoe.

  His eyes turned toward her. "It's Ms. Connor. Did you bring your spy camera today?"

  "No, I did not. Anthony and I are here as friends of the family."

  "Oh? Did Claire let you onboard?"

  Gail's temper flared. "After what you did with that portrait, sending it back to Porter and Claire after they gave it away, I'm surprised she let you onboard."

  Jack Pascoe smoothed his mustache down, pressing outward with thumb and forefinger. "So am I. I showed up and apologized, and she forgave me. Porter is another matter. That's why I'm out here, to avoid running into him. He said he would throw me overboard. I hope he was kidding."

  "I have a question."

  "What a surprise."

  Gail pressed her lips together on a quick retort, then said, "You've heard about Ted Stamos."

  "Who hasn't? It's all they're talking about in there."

  "The police suspect that Ted Stamos shot Roger, but until they're sure, they could come back to Bobby Gonzalez. Otherwise, I could just let it go. When I came to your house that day, I thought that Roger's death and Maggie's suicide might have been connected somehow. I haven't completely discarded that idea."

  Pascoe gazed past her at the city on the horizon. The wind was strong enough to move the curled ends of his mustache.

  Gail leaned close, not wanting to be overheard by anyone else on deck. "Shortly after Porter became sick, he gave Roger ten percent of the company. Why would he do that? From what I know of Porter, he hates to give up control. I was thinking, What if Roger had been able to pressure his father somehow? What could he have bargained for a share of the company? What might have gotten him killed if he'd threatened to reveal it?"

  Pascoe's eyes shifted to focus on Gail.

  She said, "I know who Diane's mother is. Don't worry, I'm not planning to tell her or anyone else. I won't have to. I think one day she'll figure it out herself. But that's only half the picture. I think you know who her father is. Or was. I think Maggie told you everything because you were the only person she ever really trusted."

  "Ms. Connor." Pascoe tugged on one end of his mustache. "Some things in the world are not meant to be known, and if they are known, they are best forgotten." He returned to gazing at the black horizon, and Gail knew she would get nothing more from him.

  She stood up, holding onto the back of the chair. The deck was moving, and she walked with her arms outstretched toward the salon door. She had begun to despair of ever finding the truth. The facts seemed to swirl, unsettled and elusive.

  The door to the salon was of tinted glass, like the windows on three sides. She pushed it open, and the low buzz of conversation entered her ears. There were thirty or more people, seated on upholstered chairs and sofas. Anyone standing had braced himself against something steady. The carpet was thick, and fresh flowers adorned the side tables. Indirect lighting glowed on a gold-toned ceiling, and spotlights picked out one of Margaret Cresswell's originals, this one in shades of blue. Ice cubes clinked in a pitcher on the bar, and the water level shifted. Gail glanced around to find Anthony. He was talking to Claire Cresswell. Gail might have joined them if she hadn't seen Diane. She sat curled up in the corner of a sofa, cheek in her palm, watching the ocean. Her long blond hair fell over her shoulders. She looked around and smiled when Gail bent down to give her a hug.

  "It's good to see you," Gail said. "I thought you weren't coming."

  Diane scooted over so Gail could sit down, then tugged her denim skirt back into place. "Aunt Claire asked me to come. Family togetherness and all that. I saw you arrive with Angela's father. Are you back together again? Angela said you were."

  Wondering how much Angela had told her, Gail said, "We're taking it slowly."

  "I hope it works out for you." Diane ducked her head closer to Gail's. "I have some news. My mother said I could have the portrait."

  "Wonderful."

  "Well, it was Aunt Claire's idea. My mother wouldn't be so generous. Aunt Claire promised to give her something else to replace it, one of more value, so really, Mother should be happy."

  Gail let her eyes drift over the crowd. She had only glimpsed Elizabeth Cresswell at a distance when Anthony had pointed her out, but she had no trouble finding her. Dark, shoulder-length hair framed her face, and her cheekbones were made more prominent by accents of brick-red blush. The hem of a narrow green dress came several inches above her knees. Her legs were worth showing off.

  She stood beside a chair in which sprawled her son, Sean. As she talked to one of her friends, she put a hand on Sean's shoulder and played with the collar of his shirt. Sean looked away, bored.

  Gail continued to watch them as Diane said, "Remember I told you that I feel Maggie's presence in the cottage? It's more so ever since I brought the portrait there. Do you know what I found out? Maggie didn't run away. They sent her away because she had a breakdown. Aunt Claire told me. I want to know things, but no one will tell me."

  Looking around again, Gail saw Sean's father at the bar, pouring another drink. He made his way through the people in the salon, passing his wife and son without so much as a glance at them.

  "It's like they're hiding something. Why is Maggie such a taboo subject?"

  Gail was aware that she had not been paying attention to Diane, but the quest
ions had not been intended to elicit an answer. As Diane continued to complain about being left in the dark, Gail glanced back at Dub Cresswell, whose laughter reached across the salon. He had just told a joke.

  The truth hit Gail with a chill that made her shiver. There was no connection between father and son. It was all between Sean and his mother. If he had given Roger's wallet to anyone, it would have been to her.

  At the first break in the conversation, Gail touched Diane's hand. "I should go find Anthony. Would you excuse me?"

  "Sure." Diane smiled at her. "And good luck with everything."

  Standing up, Gail felt her stomach shift. She breathed deeply, then steadied herself on one chair, the next, making her way across the salon. The door opened, and two women blew in on a gust of wind. Gail looked out the windows. The sky was a mass of clouds. Jack Pascoe still sat in his chair, staring out at the storm.

  Gail felt Anthony's arm go around her. "Are you all right?"

  "A little queasy. They say to keep your eye on the horizon, but I can't see it."

  "You should sit down."

  "No. I'm okay. It's better when I stand up."

  The boat was not rocking terribly, but she felt as though her insides were being poured from one bowl into another and back again.

  Gail heard Liz Cresswell say, "Claire? If you don't mind, I'm going to check with Porter and find out what we're doing." She waved a hand. "Everyone have a drink."

  Liz went out the door toward the pilothouse, and Gail saw Diane get up from the sofa and follow.

  The room was too warm. The bulkhead creaked, and from deep below, the engines made a constant muffled noise.

  Claire rang a spoon on a glass. "Everyone? I'm so sorry about the weather, but Porter says he's trying to get past the worst of it. When we stop, we won't stay long. Our pastor, Bill Hardwick, will conduct a short service." Claire nodded toward the man seated in an armchair by the salon door. "I'm grateful to you all for coming. It means so very much to Porter and me. What I thought I'd do, if you don't mind, is to ask if anyone has something to say about Roger, maybe a funny story, or some way in which you remember him. If so, please share it with us."

  Gail tried to breathe slowly through her nose.

  Claire cleared her throat. "Well, I guess I can begin by saying how much Roger would have liked to be with us. Ever since he was a little boy, he loved the ocean. ..."

  Gail felt the sweat on her neck. She whispered to Anthony, "I'll be back." He mouthed the words Are you sick? and she nodded.

  She quietly went out the door. Hardly daring to breathe, she hurried down the stairs, then steadied herself on the bulkheads as she ran along the companionway. She went through the nearest door, ran into the bathroom, and leaned on the edge of the sink. Nothing came up. She had not eaten more than a slice of toast and some juice six hours ago, and her stomach heaved uselessly. She leaned on both hands and spat bile into the sink, then took a paper cup from the holder and ran a little water into it.

  She was gradually aware of muffled voices. Women's voices. Gail drank the water and listened. For a moment she was confused about where the women were, then looked at the bulkhead of the bathroom, where the wallpaper was a pattern of tropical fish. The voices were coming from the next stateroom. She recognized Diane's voice, but the other woman spoke too softly to be heard.

  The walls were thin, and Gail could hear Diane crying.

  Never told me . . . all my life was a lie!

  There was only a murmur in reply, but Gail knew who it must be. Diane's mother. As if confirming this, Liz Cresswell's voice became clearer. Maggie's baby was born dead . . . a coincidence . . .

  Diane answering. That's a lie . . . want to know the truth. I'm not your daughter!

  The reply was only a laugh.

  Diane spoke again. . . . to ask Uncle Porter. Gail pressed her cheek to the wall.

  You will do nothing of the sort.

  I will . . . my uncle or my grandfather?

  "Oh, my God,” Gail breathed.

  Come back here!

  There was only silence for several long seconds. Liz's voice again, only a low murmur. Then nothing. Nothing.

  Gail heard the click of a door opening. A few moments later, it closed. There were footsteps, fading away.

  She pushed away from the wall and caught sight of her own face in the mirror, pale and wide-eyed. She put her purse strap back over her shoulder and crossed the stateroom. She opened the door and looked into the corridor. It was empty. She walked toward the stairs and was about to go up when she heard a metallic clatter from the galley, as if a pan had been dropped.

  The engines were below this deck, and their muffled roar made it impossible for Gail to be sure what she had heard. Vibrations came through the floor. She walked around the corner into the galley and saw a small metal trash can on its side. She peered into the corridor leading to the deck at the stern and saw light coming through the door. It was suddenly cut off when the exit door closed.

  There had only been a split-second's glimpse, but the incongruity had been enough to imprint it on Gail's vision. A blond woman lying on the deck. Then Gail remembered the denim skirt. Diane.

  She ran for the door and pushed it open.

  Diane was sliding away, and in another instant Gail saw the cause. Frozen with disbelief, she watched Liz Cresswell pull Diane by the wrists across the rain-soaked deck. Diane's head lolled back, and her hair flowed out behind her. A waist-high wall surrounded the deck on three sides. Liz dropped Diane to unlatch a small door at the stern. It swung outward, and water frothed and sprayed. The rear of the boat rose over a wave, then dropped. Liz lurched against the side, then regained her balance. The green dress was halfway up her thighs, and the wind swirled her dark hair around her head. She bent to pick up Diane's wrists.

  In an instant Gail knew what would happen.

  "Stop! Leave her alone!"

  Liz Cresswell spun around and saw Gail. Brown eyes widened to become points of darkness in her face.

  "Help!" Gail's screams tore at her throat, but she barely heard them above the growl of the engines.

  She turned to run, but it was too late. A hand clenched in her hair and snapped her head back. Gail held onto the door frame. "Somebody help!"

  "Shut up!" Liz crooked an elbow around Gail's throat and lifted. Gail's feet were off the deck, thrashing. She dug into the arm around her neck.

  The boat pitched at an angle. Diane rolled toward the open gate, and the door swung free.

  Twisting madly, Gail freed herself and fell to the floor, crawling under the table. Liz's fingers scraped her arm. Gail came out the other side, picked up one of the white chairs, and flung it off the back of the boat. Then another one. Someone had to see. "Please! Help!" She threw the third chair at Liz, who turned and deflected the chair off her shoulder.

  Like a limp doll, Diane lay across the opening. The stern lifted, then sank, and Diane rolled closer. Her head and arms slipped through.

  "Somebody help!"

  Liz charged at Gail, and they fell to the floor, hitting each other. Gail yelled, "Bitch! I know what you did, and I know why you did it!" On all fours, Liz grabbed Gail's arm and pulled her toward the open gate.

  Gail became aware of other shouts not her own. Voices came from above them.

  The boat dipped, and Diane vanished.

  "No!"

  A split second later a man hurtled past holding onto a life preserver. Gail saw a fishing hat fly off his head.

  Liz stared. Comprehension flooded her face, and she howled in despair, a cry like a mortally wounded animal. They had found her. She would not escape. She pressed herself into the far corner of tire deck, half sitting on the gunwale. Her eyes were wild.

  Gasping for air, Gail staggered to her knees.

  Footsteps came closer, and men rushed onto the deck. Liz pressed herself away from them. The engines quieted to a low growl, and the boat slowed, moving ahead on its own momentum.

  "Mom!" The yell came fro
m above. Gail leaned out. She could see Sean above her. "Mom!" His voice was shrill, terrified.

  Liz Cresswell looked up at him. Her mouth moved. I love you. She closed her eyes and pitched backward.

  "Mom!" Sean howled and beat his fists on the boat, and someone held him back.

  A voice shouted to lower the dinghy, get the dinghy over.

  Anthony pushed past two other men to reach Gail. He dropped beside her and pulled her close. "Gail! Ay, Dios mio. Oh, Jesus, are you all right?"

  "Where is Diane? What happened to her?"

  "Jack Pascoe has her."

  "Is she alive?"

  Anthony was brushing Gail's hair off her face, touching her arms, running his hands across her ribs. "Your knee is bleeding. Can you bend your leg?"

  "Yes. Anthony, is Diane alive? Please let her be alive."

  "I don't know, sweetheart." He helped her stand. "Come on. I'll take you upstairs."

  "Where's my purse? I lost it."

  "We'll find it later. Here, lean on my arm." He shouted for people to move out of the way. The corridor was jammed, and Gail felt eyes staring at her. A chorus of voices asked what had happened. Was she all right? Did someone jump off the boat? Who was in the water?

  Gail buried her face in Anthony's neck. "I need to lie down. Please." Her back had begun to ache, a deep, twisting pain.

  "Come to the salon. I'll help you up the stairs."

  "No. Let me lie down."

  Dub Cresswell's face appeared in view, red and shiny with tears. He wanted to know why Diane had fallen into the water. Why had Lizzie jumped? Gail opened her mouth. Nothing came out but a moan. She closed her eyes.

  Anthony murmured something in Spanish, then said he needed to take Gail to one of the cabins. He asked someone to open a door, then he scooped Gail up, one arm under her knees, the other around her back. Gail heard voices diminish. A door opened.

  "Thank you," Anthony said. The door closed. He put Gail on the bed, and she lay on her side, curling up.

  "Anthony—"

  "Gail! What's wrong?" He lifted her face. "Look at me. What is it?"

  The pain was low in her belly, taking her breath.

  "What is it?"

  "The baby ... I'm losing the baby."