Misfortune (28 page)

“Could you at least check your records?”

“I will if you want.”

“I’d appreciate it. Members and applicants to membership as well.”

“You’re interested in applicants, too?”

Frances thought she detected a hesitancy in Gail’s voice but didn’t know how to interpret it. “Yes. Thank you.” Frances gave Gail her office and home numbers before saying good-bye.

“Well?” Meaty asked as soon as she hung up.

“She’ll check, although there aren’t any black members.”

“We’ll see,” Meaty mumbled as he walked out.

A uniformed bellman met Frances at the curb as she pulled up to the Plaza hotel. He opened the driver’s-side door of her pickup truck and held out an oversize umbrella for her to step under. “Will you be staying?” he asked.

“Just for lunch,” she replied. “At the Palm Court.”

“You can let the maître d’ know when you’ll be needing your—” He stopped, unsure of how to refer to her truck. “Vehicle,” he announced, obviously pleased, as the word came to him. A pickup was undoubtedly a rare commodity for the Plaza’s valet service.

“Thank you.”

He walked Frances to the expansive awning and nodded for her to proceed up the carpeted stairs. “Through the revolving doors and straight ahead. You can’t miss it.”

Frances didn’t need directions. The Palm Court had been one of her favorite haunts as a child growing up in Manhattan. The small, marble-topped bistro tables, wire chairs, and potted palms were separated from the rest of the opulent hotel lobby by a series of polished brass posts connected by velvet rope. A tuxedoed violinist and his piano accompanist played popular melodies and familiar show tunes. But the music and decor served merely as background to the central attraction, the multishelved display rack of desserts. Linzer torte, cheesecake with strawberries, white chocolate mousse, German chocolate cake, lemon meringue pie…each sweet temptation decorated in flowers and flourishes of frosting or whipped cream sat on its own doily-lined silver platter. It was overwhelming. Although the Palm Court served lunch, dessert was the highlight, the reason to be there.

Frances spotted Annabelle Cabot already seated at a table in the corner. Her hair was pulled back in a bun. She wore a pale pink sweater underneath a beige fitted jacket with a gold cat pin attached to her left lapel and a matching pleated skirt. As Frances approached she looked up from the red leather day planner she was reviewing.

“It’s so good to see you,” Belle exclaimed, rising to her feet.

“You too. You look great, elegant as usual.”

Belle smiled and tilted her head modestly. “For a moment, I was wondering if I had the wrong time. But here you are,” she said.

“I’m late. Sorry.”

“Shall we?” she said, indicating the seats. They sat down and a waiter appeared to fill their glasses with lemon water.

“I haven’t been here for years,” Frances said, looking around. “But nothing’s changed. It still looks like a set from
The Nutcracker
, a home for the Sugar Plum Fairy.”

Belle laughed.

“Dad used to take Blair and me here. He never made us order lunch. Just let us get right down to it and have dessert. He ordered only iced coffee and a bowl of raspberries. No cream.” How vividly the memory returned, Frances thought as she spoke. She remembered the excitement of going over to the shelves of displayed desserts, examining each one, imagining the sweetness, and comparing relative quantities of frosting before making her selection. Occasionally, unable to choose, she would ask to order two. She, Blair, and her father would eat slowly, savoring their treats and discussing recent events at school, projects at home, progress on lessons. Blair did most of the talking. Even as a young child she had an uncanny ability to sustain her audience.

“How’s your father doing?” Belle asked.

“You would know better than me.”

“Not really, no. I called the house several times, but Mr. Pratt apparently didn’t feel up to talking, understandably, of course. Monday I did speak briefly with Blair.”

“I guess he’s hanging in there as best he can. It’s a shock, a shock to all of us.”

“I’m sure.”

The waiter returned to take their order, a smoked-salmon-andwatercress sandwich for Belle, a mocha almond tart for Frances. After he had departed Frances continued, “I suspect things will be easier for him after tomorrow. He seems quite anxious about Clio’s memorial service. I hope when that’s behind him, he can begin to grieve.”

“Your sister told me he was concerned about preparations. He’s always been meticulous about plans, but how can one plan for this? He’s a great man, your father, a real gentleman with a heart of gold.” She dabbed at the corner of her eye with a handkerchief. “Is there anything at all I can do to help?”

“I don’t think so, thank you. We’re all set.” Frances sat for a moment, collecting her thoughts. “There are a few things I’d like to ask you about work, if that’s okay.”

Belle nodded.

Frances cleared her throat. “Did Clio spend much time in the office?”

“Mrs. Pratt? Not really, no.”

“So she wasn’t much involved in Pratt Capital?”

“I wouldn’t say that.” Belle sighed and seemed to search for words. “Since your father’s stroke, she’s been quite involved in the business, helping him out, you know. She reviews all the projects, or at least I think she does because I send her all the materials. I believe she speaks directly with clients and investors. She just doesn’t come into the office very often.” Belle seemed momentarily to have forgotten that Clio’s activities were now part of the past.

“How did she get along with Miles?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t know.”

“Did they have a lot of interaction?”

“About a month ago, Mrs. Pratt hired an assistant, a nice young man, just graduated from Harvard Business School. He was scheduled to start work at the end of the summer. I don’t know what will happen to him now, but I believe Mrs. Pratt’s intention was to have this young man report to, and assist, her and Mr. Pratt, but work in the office here with Mr. Adler.” Belle was too smart to unintentionally evade the question.

“What did Miles think of that?”

“Well, I really couldn’t say. I’m not sure Mr. Adler even interviewed the young man. Perhaps he didn’t feel there was a need to take on somebody else.” Belle stopped talking as the waiter brought their food.

“Bon appétit,”
he said as he set the gold-rimmed plates in front of them. Belle picked up a crustless triangular sandwich and took a bite.

“Look, Belle, we’ve known each other a long time, and you know that verbal delicacy is not my strong suit,” Frances said, leaning forward. “So I’ll be blunt, and I hope you can be honest with me because it’s important. I’m trying to find out who murdered Clio. I need to know everything I can about her life in order to determine who might have had a motive to kill her. You might think I would have places to start myself, but, quite frankly, there’s a lot I don’t know about her life. I haven’t wanted to bombard Dad with questions, not yet, anyway, although I’m sure the time will come for that. So what I’m asking you is whether you can think of anything at all about Clio, her involvement in Pratt Capital, her relationship with Miles, or anybody else, for that matter, anything at all that might help me. Was there anyone you can think of who was angry at her, owed her money, anything?”

Belle shifted in her seat and fingered a loose strand of hair from the nape of her neck. Then, seeming to catch her own nervous tic, she folded her hands in her lap. She said nothing.

“You’ve known Dad a long time. Probably better than most of us. Please, Belle, for him, if you have any information, you’ve got to share it.”

“I don’t want to add to his sorrow,” she said flatly.

“You won’t. I don’t intend to trouble Dad with details of this investigation until everything is over and we have a suspect.”

“I don’t know—” Her voice cracked, and she momentarily covered her mouth with her hands. Her fingers trembled. She clenched her fists and rested them on the edge of the table. “I don’t know whether it means anything or not, but, well, things at the office have been rather strained since Mr. Pratt’s stroke. Mr. Adler and Mrs. Pratt didn’t interact much, but when they did, it was hardly what I would call civil. At an office meeting about a month ago, the one where Mrs. Pratt announced that she was hiring an assistant, that was the worst. Mr. Adler got so incensed he left the meeting, just banged his notepad on the table and walked right out. He was carrying on in quite a way about all he had done for Pratt Capital and how this assistant was the final insult. He accused Mrs. Pratt of hiring a spy. I believe that’s what he said, or something along those lines.”

“Did anything else happen at the meeting?”

“There really wasn’t much to it. Mrs. Pratt wanted to institute a review procedure to ensure that she received all information on all projects under consideration at Pratt Capital. The discussion was logistical. We talked about getting materials forwarded to her at the Southampton house in a timely manner. Mrs. Pratt was planning to redecorate the offices. She had hired a firm called Davis Design, and its principal, Gail Davis, made a brief presentation. Mr. Wasserman spoke about certain changes in the accounting system, and Mr. Michaels summarized the settlement of a shareholder lawsuit where Pratt Capital was one of the defendants. We were voluntarily dismissed by the plaintiffs, so that was a bit of good news.”

Frances listened to Belle’s perfect recall of the meeting more than a month ago. It was a testament to her steadfast attention to detail, one of the many qualities that made her a perfect secretary.

“Was Miles still around when the meeting ended?”

“Oh yes.”

“Did Clio speak with him?”

Belle seemed to contemplate her sandwich as she thought of how to answer. After several moments she looked up and focused intently on Frances. “They did speak. I’m sorry to say. I left the office right after the meeting, but when I got to the lobby, I realized I’d forgotten my taxi voucher. I went back upstairs. Mrs. Pratt was in Mr. Adler’s office, and they hadn’t shut the door. They were both very angry.”

“What did they say?”

“I didn’t stay long.”

“Did you hear any of what their argument was about?”

“Yes, but you know there’ve been several police officers that have come to the office wanting to ask me questions. I’ve said nothing. I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to be sharing information about my employers, especially information that I may have understood out of context. Your father and Mrs. Pratt, and Mr. Adler as well, have been very good to me.”

“Please, Belle, what did you hear?”

“All right.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice so that Frances could barely make out what she was saying. “Mr. Adler apparently wanted Mr. and Mrs. Pratt to sell him a controlling interest in the company. He thought he was entitled to it, you know, because he had kept the firm going so well since Mr. Pratt’s illness, or at least that’s what he said. Mrs. Pratt refused. She said, I remember this much, ‘Richard made you what you are. It’s you who owe him.’ Mr. Adler then got very angry. He called her names. I had to leave. It was too upsetting. Poor Mr. Pratt.” Belle’s voice was shaking.

“This is very helpful,” Frances said, trying to sound consoling.

“There’s more, unfortunately.” Belle reached down to her handbag on the floor beside her, opened it, and removed an envelope. She placed it on the table next to Frances. Then she took a sip of water. “That’s a copy of a letter that Mrs. Pratt gave to me. She asked me to keep it in a safe place. I have the original at home.”

Frances tore the envelope and removed a single sheet of folded paper. The letter to Clio was dated May 30.

Since I first walked through the doors of Pratt Capital, I’ve worked tirelessly. I knew when I came on board that Richard had built the company and took great pride in what he’d accomplished. He treated me well—like a son—compensated me fairly, and encouraged me with the knowledge that one day I would be his partner. In exchange, I helped the company grow. In the several years before Richard’s stroke, two of our most profitable deals came through me.

As we discussed last night, none of us expected Richard’s health to fail so suddenly and so completely. Nobody was as devastated as I. I assumed that he would retire and thought that he would offer me the opportunity to buy his company from him. To my surprise, you and he decided to keep Pratt Capital operating with you at the helm. You asked me to stay in exchange for 43 percent ownership interest. I agreed. At the time, I should have foreseen the problems inherent in having the only person with the institutional knowledge and skill to effectively run Pratt Capital be the minority shareholder. I somehow thought that it would work, that we could all just get along. I was wrong.

You have made our arrangement impossible. You have done everything in your power to undermine me. You have questioned my judgment, threatened my reputation in the financial community, and ruined the Pro-Chem deal. I warn you once and for all: Stay out of my business.

You and I both know that with the profits I have generated over the last year, I am entitled to a majority stake in Pratt Capital. I have earned that much. I urge you to reconsider your refusal to sell me an additional 8 percent of the firm. In case you didn’t hear me, I mean what I say. If you do not honor my request, you will not like the consequences.

The letter was signed
Miles Adler.

“I can’t believe Mr. Adler would do anything to harm Mrs. Pratt. He so adores your father. He couldn’t possibly want to hurt him,” Belle said.

“When did Clio give you this letter?”

“Several weeks ago. She stopped by the office briefly, unannounced, and handed it to me. As I said, she asked me to keep it in a safe place.”

“Did you read it at the time?”

“No. I put it in an envelope and did as she instructed. Only after I heard of her murder did I open it. I had to make a decision about what to do with it. Then I also remembered something that happened about the same time.”