Misfortune (37 page)
“Come inside,” Blair said, pushing Frances forward. “Marco will get you a glass of wine. We’re sampling various Spanish reds tonight.”
They went into the kitchen, an open area with an island in the middle. Several bottles of uncorked wine were on the counter, along with a dish of olives, a wedge of hard cheese, and slices of crusty bread. Frances reached for an olive.
Marco had turned his back to them and stood stirring the contents of several skillets with a wooden spoon. The kitchen smelled of garlic and tomatoes.
“Marco’s making a Portuguese recipe,” Blair said, smiling flirtatiously.
“It’s swordfish. I hope you’ll like it,” he added.
“I’m sure I will,” Frances said.
“I’m going to take my darling sister out to the deck. Holler if you need anything,” Blair said, kissing Marco’s shoulder. She filled her glass from one of the wine bottles and led Frances outside.
“What do you think?” Blair whispered as soon as she and Frances settled on two lounge chairs.
The evening was cool, and Frances felt a slight chill, surprising for July. She pulled her knees to her chest.
“He’s a fantastic cook, too. You’ll see.” Blair looked truly radiant, her white teeth shining behind her gloss-glistened lips. Was this happiness a result of Marco or newfound wealth? Frances wondered. She tried not to think about it. She didn’t feel like being jealous of her younger sister, but it was hard not to envy her apparent joy.
“And Jake?”
“Not my favorite subject,” Blair replied.
“I hadn’t understood things between you weren’t working.”
“I guess you could say that.” Blair laughed. “I know I shouldn’t be doing this, but, well, it’s just that Marco’s everything Jake’s not. Charismatic, sexy, talented.”
“Is this because of your financial problems?” Frances asked.
“Oh, Fanny. You’re so unromantic,” Blair said, smiling. “Although I admit that the disaster with the gallery was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Jake’s too dependent, too needy. I feel like I always have to be the one in charge, the one that solves our problems. Sometimes I just want a man to take care of me.”
Frances nodded. The thought was appealing. “Does he know about Marco?”
“No. I tell him we’re out here marketing. Actually, it’s the truth, or part of the truth. I’m introducing Marco to potential clients. If they fall in love with him, which everyone has, they’ll want to buy his art when we give him a show in October. Jake actually seems to think it’s a great idea. We also have millions of decisions to make for the new showroom. Since the space is for Marco’s work, he should be involved in the build-out, design, lighting. He knows better than anyone what works with his art.”
“I heard you mention the new gallery to Penny Adler. You must be excited.”
“Long-term, if Jake doesn’t dig us out of our financial mess, the gallery will be forced to close, but at least for now our expansion plans are possible. Daddy’s paying the lease, and all the work to get the new space up and running. It’s bigger and better than our current one.”
“When did Dad agree to this?”
Blair eyed her sister over the rim of her wineglass. “Why does that matter?”
“I’m just curious.”
Blair pursed her lips, thinking. “Jake insisted that I talk to Clio about it a month or so ago. She claimed to have discussed it with Dad. They said no back then, or at least that’s what she said, although I shouldn’t be surprised. Anyway, we had a terrible lunch. She made me beg for the money, knowing full well that she had no intention of giving me any. I don’t know why I bothered to ask her in the first place. I actually amaze myself. I continued to give her the benefit of the doubt until the day she died, and all I got was disappointment, insult, and sometimes downright cruelty. If it had been up to her, our gallery, and everything we’ve tried to build, would have gone right down the drain. She didn’t care.”
Frances lay back in her chair and took a sip of wine. She wanted to turn off her brain. “So how did it come about now?” she asked automatically.
“What?”
“Dad’s infusion of cash. The change of heart.”
“I guess Jake and I are lucky Clio disappeared from the scene when she did.” Blair smiled again. “Actually, I made up my mind to go ahead with the project with or without the help of Pratt Capital. I hired an architect to draw up plans and did a business proposal to try to get financing. Several banks were considering it, although I had no commitment. Then, when Clio fortuitously dropped dead, I thought there was nothing to be lost by asking Daddy again. I talked to him last Sunday, when I was over at the house all day helping him with things for the memorial service. He apologized for not giving us the money sooner. If Clio hadn’t been such a roadblock, it all would have been done in June, and we’d be ready to open in September. As it is now, unless our contracting crew does an incredibly fast job, which I don’t see happening in August in New York, the space won’t be ready until October. But that’s okay. At least we’ve got it.” She sighed. “Jake seemed to be stuck wringing his hands.”
“Where was he over the Fourth, anyway?”
Blair furrowed her brow, then waved a hand at her sister dismissively. “You don’t honestly think that Jake had anything to do with Clio’s murder, do you? Please. Jake doesn’t have the balls to have bumped her off.” Blair laughed. “Believe me, I wish he had. At least I could be proud of him for accomplishing something.” She took a sip of her wine. “No, Jake wasn’t doing anything so dramatic. He canceled his trip to Ohio because Pearl and Bartlett Brenner, this couple in Scarsdale we’ve sold to before, were interested in two lithographs. Shows how desperate he was. Calls off a trip to his family for what would be, at most, a ten grand sale.” Frances must have looked skeptical because Blair added sarcastically, “I can give you the Brenners’ number if you want to check.”
“That’s okay,” Frances said in an effort to dispel her suspicions. Blair was her sister after all, and they were talking about her brother-in-law. Didn’t she know him better than that?
“Fair Lawn must have been a nightmare on the Fourth,” Frances mumbled aloud.
Blair glared at her. “Do we have to talk about that? I’ve tried very hard to put it out of my head.”
“Not if you don’t want to.”
The two sisters were silent for a moment.
“I shouldn’t even have gone,” Blair said finally. “But every muckety-muck attends the tournament. I thought it would be good to go and mingle. I’d gone as Deidre Granger’s guest. I was going to ask Clio to let me come on Dad’s account, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I didn’t want to give her the pleasure of coming up with some reason to say no.”
“Did you see Clio?”
“I saw her out on the tennis court, but not to talk to.”
“Did you see Mom?”
“Briefly. I think I saw her leaving. I can’t remember. We didn’t talk long. Just long enough for her to chastise me for not coming to visit. I promised to bring Marco over, which I haven’t. But it’s not like it’s been exactly quiet around here.”
“Did you know she started playing tennis again?”
“She wore whites and carried a racket, Mrs. Sherlock Holmes. I deduced as much. Now, could we change the subject to something more exciting, like your love life?” Blair reached over and poked her sister’s arm.
Frances grimaced. An interrogation on her least favorite topic was not what she had in mind for the evening. Fortunately, at that moment Marco appeared in the doorway. Dinner was ready.
It was after midnight when Frances returned home. As she entered her darkened house, she felt a huge sense of relief wash over her tired body. She hadn’t been home in over twenty-four hours, and she longed for solitude. She flopped down on her sofa. The dogs, particularly attentive after her prolonged absence, curled up next to her and licked her hands. Then they rolled over to let her scratch their velvety bellies.
The telephone ring pierced the silence. She didn’t move, letting the answering machine pick up. “What the hell, Fanny? I’ve been calling you all day. I know you’re there, so just listen up. I’ve tried to indulge you, given the unusual situation, but you’ve gone too far. Henry Lewis is a major contributor to my campaign, and I do not appreciate your unauthorized inquiry of him. Call me back as—”
Frances picked up the receiver.
“I knew you were there, goddamn it!” Malcolm shouted. “Are you trying to destroy me?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You were out of line. You
are
out of line. How could you question Henry Lewis? How could you raise even the tiniest suspicions about him or his wife without talking to me? Did you think he wouldn’t realize what you were doing? I don’t know what kind of a half-assed investigation you’re trying to pull on the side, but you’ve gone too far, even for you.”
“I called Louise Lewis, his wife, whom I’ve known for years. She agreed to answer some basic questions. All I was doing was following up on some theory Meaty thought was worth exploring.” Frances regretted mentioning Meaty’s name, but it was too late.
“I know about the hair samples. Perry already told Meaty not to pursue that. For that matter, Meaty’s also been told several times not to pursue anything through you.”
“But you couldn’t ignore something that was right in front of you?”
“It was a baseless, racist hypothesis that had no place in my office.”
“If more black men commit more drug-related crimes, is it racist or logical to suspect a black man first?”
“I’m not going to have this discussion with you.”
“Well, all I did was follow up on Meaty’s suggestion. It led to Henry Lewis. I didn’t realize that he was so important to you.”
“You should have. That’s the point. If you gave a rat’s ass about the political office that you’re involved in, you would’ve known.”
“Why is he interested in Suffolk County politics?”
“Because some people care what happens in their local government. But that’s not the point. The point is that he is involved. He hosts fund-raisers. He gives money, lots of it. He gets me exposure where I don’t have much. The support of an affluent, prominent African American is extremely important to me.”
“Malcolm, I was just doing my job.”
“Don’t give me that shit. Your job was to stay as far away from this investigation as possible. You’re supposed to be indicting Andrew Bryant. Instead, everywhere I turn, I find out you’re right in the thick of Clio’s murder. And this latest jaunt of yours is going to cost me.”
“Why have you cut me out of this investigation?”
“Because you’re family. Whether you perceive yourself as that or not, to the rest of the world you and Clio were family, and you’re now supposed to be coping with her death.”
“Well, maybe the best way I know how to cope is to find her killer.”
“The sentiment is admirable but unacceptable. You know damn well, and Meaty does, too, that your involvement raises serious questions about the objectivity of the investigation. I won’t have you threatening the prosecution.”
“Let me ask you one thing. Statistically, most people are murdered by someone they know. Family members are often the first suspects. Are you keeping me away because you’re suspicious of me?”
“That’s absurd. Despite your apparent attitudes about your stepmother, I don’t think you’d stoop that low.”
What a vote of confidence, Frances thought. But how did Malcolm know so much about her feelings toward her family? She couldn’t recall ever mentioning a word. A lucky guess, she surmised.
“Look, either you follow directions from your superiors or—”
“Or what?”
“Or, or,” Malcolm stammered, “you’re fired.”
“Well, guess what?” Frances lowered her voice. “I quit.”
There was silence on the other end of the line. She hung up.
T
he sky was overcast and a cool wind blew. Frances focused on the thorny branches in front of her. The black spots on her roses evidenced a week of neglect. As she worked to remove the speckled leaves, she felt adrenaline run through her system, a renewal of energy that she hadn’t felt in days. She pulled her dirtied sleeves back up over her elbow, wiped a loose wisp of hair from her forehead, and continued to work.
She tried not to think of what she had done the night before, her split-second decision to quit her job. She had abandoned the one compelling thing that shaped her self-perception. An assistant district attorney, that had been her identity for nearly thirteen years, an identity that survived even after she was no longer Pietro Benedetti’s betrothed. She had worked hard to build a Financial Crimes Unit and was proud of what she had accomplished. She couldn’t fathom a future without a secure occupation. Gardening was the one task that could distract her.
Frances didn’t notice Sam approach.
“Looking good,” he said.
She turned and saw him standing beside her with two stacked plastic cups dangling out of one pocket of his misshapen cotton sweater. He held a pitcher of fresh-squeezed orange juice. Pulp floated on the surface of the bright orange liquid.
“I quit my job,” Frances said.
He didn’t react visibly. “Can I offer you some juice?”
She nodded. Sam poured her a glass as they both settled onto the grass. Felonious and Miss Demeanor came over to sniff the citrus liquid. Felonious dug a hole beside Frances and curled up in the moist earth. Miss Demeanor lay down and rested her head on Frances’s foot. For the first time in a week, Frances felt peaceful.
She relayed her telephone conversation of the previous night with Malcolm. “Last night was the worst, but we’ve had several not very pleasant conversations since this whole thing began. I don’t know who he’s been talking to, but he’s following the details pretty closely. He saw my involvement as a potential media nightmare. It’s a high-profile case. He’s known my dad a long time. But I get the sense that something else is going on. Something more than Clio’s murder, or something about Clio’s murder that’s triggering something else.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s talking to someone, but I don’t know who. Someone other than Meaty. Malcolm doesn’t get involved in details. He never has. He wants results. ‘Make it happen,’ that’s what he says. He doesn’t care how the case gets made. There’s this one guy he wants indicted. It’s a bogus case, one the office would call a ‘barker.’ No offense.” Frances scratched Miss Demeanor’s ear. “It’s a campaign fund violation. The defendant’s an idiot, someone with extra money who wanted to buy his way into becoming somebody among the Democratic bigwigs, but he’s not a criminal. Anyway, Malcolm’s obsessed. He won’t listen to any argument why the prosecution is a mistake. Even though the race is over, he wants an indictment to embarrass his opponent. The media buzz usually wears off by the time a case gets to trial, so whether the guy gets convicted or not never really matters. That’s how Malcolm operates.” The puzzled expression on Sam’s face made Frances realize how far off track she had wandered. “My point is that something’s up. Malcolm’s behavior is too strange.”