Misfortune (25 page)

Frances squeezed her sides. There it was. The public pronouncement that she was shut out. She suspected that Meaty was trying to catch her eye, perhaps to send some signal that it wasn’t his fault, but she couldn’t look at him.

“How was Mrs. Pratt killed?”

Malcolm frowned. “This is an ongoing investigation, and we’ll have to keep many details to ourselves. I assure you, at the appropriate time you’ll get all the relevant information.”

I’m sure they will, Frances thought. She had no doubt that Malcolm would extract every possible ounce of attention. Wealthy socialite murdered. A rare occurrence, and one that attracted both the regular media and the society pages. Just what Malcolm needed to get his third term in office off to a dramatic start, dramatic enough, perhaps, to launch him into the congressional race just two years away. That it was a quest for justice on behalf of an old friend and financial supporter didn’t hurt, either.

Frances felt dizzy. She wiped her forehead, darkening the cuff of her blouse with a stain of perspiration. Slowly she began to make her way through the crowd to the exit. As she was leaving she heard another question posed. “Will this case receive top priority?” A softball.

Frances didn’t need to wait to hear the answer.

Back in the solitude of her own office, she turned on her electric fan and watched the head swivel slowly from left to right, circulating warm air. The building’s outdated air-conditioning system had been shut off for the three-day holiday weekend, and by Monday at noon the offices still hadn’t cooled down. She scanned her illegible messages and returned several calls. The lawyer for a fourteen-year-old girl indicted for grand larceny after she stole more than $100,000 worth of sterling silver, china, and jewelry from the homes where she baby-sat requested the results of the state’s psychiatric evaluation. The office’s trial court coordinator wanted to review upcoming trial dates for line assistants in Frances’s unit. Frances signed several vacation request forms, authorized an overtime voucher, then drafted a memorandum to the Victims Assistance Program, urging it to bend its criteria for the Hortons’ sake.

Frances cleared space in front of her to make room for the materials that Meaty had given her and began to read.

The telephone ring made her jump in her seat. Frances glanced at her watch. More than an hour had passed, and she had missed the news coverage of Malcolm’s announcement. She lifted the receiver.

“Fanny, I just saw what’s his name, your boss, on the news about Clio. Murder, my God. How awful. This whole situation is just awful.” Blair’s voice sounded breathless. “I was just stunned, you know, shocked and stunned. Poor Dad.”

“Have you spoken to him?” Fanny asked.

“Not yet. I don’t know whether he would’ve heard from anyone else. Maybe you should call him.”

Blair’s act, Frances thought. Get me to do the dirty work. The dynamic of their sibling relationship never changed.

“But, you know, the oddest thing happened to me as I was watching the story,” Blair continued. “I remembered this conversation I had.” She stopped. Frances heard the sound of a match lighting and then Blair’s exhale, presumably from a cigarette. “Have you spoken to Beverly Winters?”

“Who?”

“Beverly Winters. She goes by Bev. Bev Winters. I’m sure you’ve met her at some point. Bev and Dudley Winters have been coming to Southampton for years. He was a CPA, worked for one of the big New York accounting firms. Arthur Andersen, maybe? Oh, I can’t remember. Anyway, he died two or three years ago. Suicide. He drowned himself in their swimming pool. He was sick anyway. He had terrible emphysema, years of smoking, I guess, and was confined to a wheelchair. He pushed himself right into the pool. At night,” she added, as though that made it worse. “Apparently he and Bev slept in separate rooms. It was okay to leave him alone, I guess. Anyway, when Bev awoke the next morning, he was in the pool. Dead.”

“What does this have to do with Clio?”

“I’m getting there.” Blair sounded exasperated.

Frances heard her take another drag of a cigarette.

“Bev and Clio were friends, friendly, we should say. They ran in the same set, anyway. For many years they had a standing tennis game, a ladies’ doubles. I’m trying to think who the other players were. At one time I think I knew.” Blair’s voice trailed off. “In any event, apparently Clio was ruthless to Bev after her husband’s death. Dad and Dudley were great friends. Oh, I forgot to say that Bev asked Dudley for a divorce. Dad suspected another man. Anyway, he and Clio blamed Bev for Dudley’s unhappiness. They shunned her, cut her off, socially, I mean. Bev wasn’t invited to their summer party. Clio made a big deal of ending the tennis match and spread all kinds of nasty rumors about her.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Deirdre Granger, the Winterses’ daughter. You remember her, don’t you? She went to Nightingale-Bamford, then Garrison Forest. We saw her in the summers. Anyway, she and her husband, Frank, are good clients of the gallery, and they know everybody. Jake and I have seen quite a bit of them socially.”

“And she told you what exactly about Bev’s relationship with Clio?” Frances asked, trying to draw some connection between Blair’s ramblings and Malcolm’s news conference. Despite the social intrigue, that Bev Winters no longer made the A-list hardly made her a murderer.

“A month or so ago, just after Memorial Day, I think it was, Deirdre talked to me about what happened, and how miserable Clio made her mother’s life. She and I were out to dinner, and I think she had too much to drink, but she told me all about how much her mother hated Clio. Deirdre isn’t that close to her mother, but still it was hard for her to see her mother so upset. Bev had supposedly said some horrible things about Clio, although, from what I heard, I agreed with most of them. Saturday, I was at Fair Lawn as Deirdre’s guest. I didn’t see her after I found Clio, but she called me Sunday to say how guilty she felt.”

“Why would Deirdre feel guilty?”

“Just because. Because she repeated all these bad things about a dead person. Because Bev hated Clio.”

“What are you wanting me to do?” Frances asked.

“I’m not the prosecutor. I only mentioned it because I thought you’d want to know.”

“Okay. Thanks.” Then before she hung up Frances added, “Did you go over to Dad’s after I left you on Saturday?”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? I did. It was late, but I just couldn’t bear the thought of him in that house all alone. Besides, Clio’s car had to be returned. I’m heading back over there now after I run a couple of errands. There’s a ton of stuff to organize. Poor Dad.”

“Tell him I’m thinking of him.”

“And you’ll call him now, right? To tell him about the murder investigation.”

“I’ll let him know.”

Frances placed the receiver in its cradle. Chewing on the end of a plastic pen, she replayed the conversation with her sister. Nothing that had transpired during the last forty-eight hours seemed right, and Blair’s call only added to her sense of uncertainty. She felt claustrophobic and needed to get outside. She had to call her father, but not from the office, where anyone might walk in and interrupt.

Frances grabbed her briefcase and the yellow envelope of materials Meaty had given her and headed out the door. “I can be reached at home if anyone needs me,” she said to the receptionist, although it hardly mattered. She had no intention of answering the telephone.

Frances sat at the kitchen table. Her dogs lay on the floor nearby, panting. The saccharine in three glasses of diet iced tea had given her cramps, and she rubbed her stomach, then reached her arms overhead to stretch. She had read and reread the police interviews of various Fair Lawn Country Club members. All said they knew Clio, liked her, and felt very sorry for what had happened, but no one claimed to have seen or heard anything out of the ordinary. Everyone’s attention was focused on the tennis tournament.

The answering machine picked up after the second ring. She heard Meaty’s voice, “I’m sorry to bother you, kiddo, but I need—” She picked up.

“What do you know about Miles Adler?” Meaty asked.

“He’s my father’s business partner. Why?”

“How well do you know him?”

“I’ve known him and his wife for a while, but not well. I saw them over the years at Dad and Clio’s parties. Dad speaks highly of him. His wife’s nice enough, nondescript. I think she worked at a bridal salon once, but I doubt she’s still there. They don’t have kids.”

“How long has Adler been your dad’s partner?”

“They’ve only been partners since Dad’s stroke, but Miles started working for Pratt Capital right after business school. He graduated from Columbia and, I imagine, came in as a salaried employee. I assume Dad made him a partner recently to encourage him to stay on after Dad was basically unable to work. What’s up?” Frances didn’t like the one-way nature of the questions and wondered whether she was being interviewed as part of Meaty’s official business.

“I’ve just been looking at an undated copy of the partnership agreement that your father and Miles Adler executed. Your dad and Clio jointly owned fifty-seven percent of the company, and Miles has forty-three, but you probably know that.”

“I know very little of the details of my father’s business arrangements.”

“Under the terms of the agreement, if Clio dies, Miles has the right to purchase their share of the business. The money goes to something called YOUTHCORE.”

“It’s a charitable organization that provides jobs and opportunities, summer camp, that type of thing, for inner-city kids. Dad and Clio were both very involved with YOUTHCORE,” Frances explained. “Dad was the president not too long ago.”

“Well, it’s a good deal for Miles. The price per share seems low. It’s a complicated formula, but as far as I can tell, Miles can get fifty-seven percent for slightly more than twenty million. I’ve looked at audited financial statements of Pratt Capital for the last several years. It’s had annual net profits of somewhere around fifteen million. Based on historical performance, then, Adler’s shares pay for themselves in less than two years.”

“You think Miles killed her?”

“I’m not saying that. All I’m looking for is who might have reason to kill a wealthy socialite. Money’s certainly a motivator.”

“Miles has a right to purchase the rest of the business now that Clio’s dead?”

“That’s right.”

“Even though Dad’s still alive?”

“Yeah. I found that a bit unusual myself,” Meaty added, placing particular emphasis on the word
unusual
.

“How did you get the partnership agreement?”

“I went to your father’s house, right after the press conference. Your sister was there. She showed me a whole file cabinet of Pratt Capital business records. Mostly duplicates of stuff, but it’s a start.”

“Why didn’t you call me?” Frances knew that her voice sounded defensive.

“I heard you left for the day. I figured after Malcolm’s performance this morning, you might need some time to yourself. I didn’t even want to bother you now, but you’re my best information source.”

“It’s no bother.”

“What can you tell me about Miles’s relationship with Clio?”

“I’m not sure they had much of one.”

“Was she involved in the business?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who else works at Pratt Capital?”

“It’s small. There’s Annabelle Cabot, Dad’s secretary. She’s worked for him forever. She’s one of those old-fashioned secretaries like you see in the movies. You know, attractive, smart, eager to please, basically the opposite of what we’ve got. She keeps track of everything for him, although she’s way too discreet to ever let on.”

“Is she married?” Frances could hear Meaty’s pencil scratches on the other end of the line as he took notes.

“Yes. Still is, as far as I know. No children. She adored Dad, and he did her. I haven’t seen her since Dad was hospitalized, but she visited every day when he was.”

“Who else is there?”

“There’s an accountant. Stuart something, I can’t remember his name. And Miles Adler. That’s it. Dad uses outside counsel, so there’s no lawyer on staff.”

“Who’s his lawyer?”

“A guy named Bob Michaels. Pratt Capital’s been his principal client for years, although he’s switched firms a couple of times. I don’t know who he’s with now.”

“Would you talk to the secretary for me?”

Although Frances couldn’t imagine Annabelle Cabot answering probes about Clio or her father, she dreaded the thought of learning something she might not want to share with the district attorney’s office. If anyone knew family secrets, Belle did. She had been Richard’s loyal confidante and aide since Frances was an infant.

“Look, Frances, I told Malcolm to put you on this case, that it would be good for you and good for the investigation. You know the people. We need your help. But he wouldn’t listen. He’s concerned for you, for your family. He seemed almost protective, like he didn’t want you to be hurt any more than you have been. He’s the boss, after all. It’s his call. I did everything I could. You’ve got to know that. You know how much I hate working with Cogswell.” Meaty chuckled, an easy joke.

“Does Perry know we’re talking now?”

“Nobody knows but me and you. And I’d like to keep it that way. If you find out anything, I’ll relay it to those in command, but while we’re exploring, I thought we could keep it to ourselves.”

“Sure.” Frances and Meaty hung on the line for a moment. They had nothing to say, but both seemed reluctant to end the conversation. Finally Frances said, “Belle’s not likely to talk even to me, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks. I owe you one, kiddo.”

Frances got up from the table, fixed herself several slices of heavily buttered cinnamon toast, and fed the dogs. Then she dialed her father’s office. Despite the hour, past the close of business, Annabelle Cabot’s sweet voice answered promptly. Frances deliberately kept the conversation short and arranged a lunch meeting for the next day. Then she sat back down and picked at her crusts. The habitual motions of feeding herself, tending the animals, the tasks she normally performed without thinking, now seemed overwhelming. Her arms barely had the energy to hold the bread knife or the bowl of kibble. Her legs seemed unable to support the weight of her body. Odd, she thought. She hadn’t expected to feel such emptiness over Clio’s death.