Suspicion of Deceit (2 page)

"Ah. Havana . . . Cuba."

"She heard it from one of her friends—a Cuban woman, in fact—at a benefit for the Heart Fund. Who knows where
she
got it. I asked Tom if it was true. He said, 'So what?' " Rebecca lifted one golden-clad shoulder, imitating his reaction.

Gail had to smile. "But
two years
ago—"

Rebecca looked at her. "Gail, you live here. Can you seriously tell me we have
nothing
to worry about?"

"Well . . . no, I can't."

The previous spring a Brazilian jazz combo had been booked into a theater downtown. Nobody paid much attention, until a Little Havana radio host announced that the band had just appeared in New York with a group straight from Havana called Los Van Van—a gross insult to the exile community. The theater manager received death threats. The scene outside the concert turned ugly—shouting, pushing, the police trying to keep the crowds behind barricades. The second performance was canceled, and the story wound up on
Nightline.

"What would you like me to do?" Gail didn't know what could be done, except to roll down the hurricane shutters and bring in the plants.

Rebecca twisted her gold necklace around her finger, then slid the diamond pendant back and forth, metal clicking. "The general director is in New York looking at talent. He doesn't know about this yet, and I'll have to give him a recommendation. We have two choices—find someone else to do
Don Giovanni
or keep Tom Nolan. It's not that easy. We don't want a controversy in the middle of a fundraising drive. On the other hand, do we fire him and look like cowards? My husband says we have to hold our ground, no matter how much it hurts. Lloyd isn't on the executive committee, but he can be such a horse's behind."

A quarter of a million dollars gave him that privilege, Gail thought. "What do you want to do, Rebecca?"

The pendant clicked on the necklace. "I. .. haven't decided yet."

"Well, here's your lawyer's position," Gail said. "Keep the singer. If you cancel his contract without cause, you still have to pay him. How much does he get, by the way?"

"Six thousand five hundred dollars per performance. Seven performances."

"Yikes."

Rebecca took Gail's arm. "A few of us on the executive committee are getting together at my house tonight. I'd like you to be there. Bring Anthony Quintana. We need his input. I wanted to consult you first, of course, in view of your relationship with him."

"Tonight?" Gail groaned. "Oh, Rebecca. Don't say that."

"Gail, I've got to have someone who can tell us how the Cuban community is likely to react once the news gets out—and it will. I can't just go into that meeting and say well, I think this might happen, or that—"

"Look, you have Cubans on the board, don't you? Ask them."

"I would, but they have no connection with the—I don't want to say extremists. Let's say certain groups who take a different point of view."

"What? Anthony doesn't—"

"It's his
family
I was referring to. His grandfather is a member of every hard-line exile group in Miami. His brother-in-law, Octavio Reyes, has a radio talk show. Anthony would have an opinion on what might happen. Maybe he'd even help us with PR if we decide to keep Tom Nolan. Please, Gail. I'd ask him myself, but it would be better if you did."

"In view of our relationship," Gail repeated. A man in love wasn't likely to turn his fiancée down. "All right. I'll ask, but what he wants to do is up to him."

"Fair enough." Rebecca squeezed her hand. "You're a dear."

"Just curious. How did you find out so much about Anthony's family?"

"Well ... we knew each other in college."

"Oh, yes. The University of Miami," Gail said. "Anthony mentioned that."

"He was very political in those days," Rebecca said. "That's why I believe he'll help us now."

"Political? No ... I don't think he was ever . . . like his grandfather."

A laugh danced off the tiles in the foyer. "Good lord, no. The other end of the spectrum. Anthony had a poster of Che Guevara in his bedroom."

Gail managed to smile. "Really. Che Guevara." The bearded poster boy of campus radicals. Hero of the Cuban Revolution. In Anthony's bedroom. Which Rebecca Dixon had somehow seen.

"Oh, don't tell him I brought that up, after all this time. It would embarrass him."

What an odd sensation, Gail thought. Almost physical. A slight turn on the axis. A shift in the angle of light. Edges in what had seemed smooth.

Rebecca gestured toward the corridor. "I suppose we should go back. They'll be wondering where we are."

CHAPTER TWO

Without a word Anthony jerked his keys out of the ignition and opened his door. He slammed it and came around. Gail was already out her side. She grabbed her shawl off the seat. "I said you didn't have to be at this meeting."

"What am I supposed to do? Sit in the car until you finish?" He aimed his key ring at the Cadillac, and the locks clicked shut. "Let's do this and get out of here." He was several steps along the tiled walkway before he realized she wasn't with him. He said sharply, "Gail, come on."

"Don't you
ever
walk away from me like that!"

"Cono,
what's the matter with you?"

For a long moment they looked at each other, Anthony more stunned than angry. The parking lot was illuminated only by moonlight and a line of small lamps that led along the walkway, then to a six-floor building of Mediterranean design, where the Dixons owned an apartment.

He let out a breath and looked toward the ocean, which gurgled and splashed gently against the seawall.

"Okay." He came back. "I'm sorry. It's not because of anything you did."

"I know that."

"Gail—" She shifted her eyes away. He kissed the spot between her eyebrows.
"Niña, no me hagas sufrir."

"You should suffer, you jerk."

"Ah. Your Spanish is improving."

She looked straight at him. At five-nine, in high heels she was nearly as tall as he. "Get engaged, you think you're entitled to treat me like that?"

"Of course not." He made a smile she didn't really believe. "Let's go upstairs. I'll speak to these
comemierdas,
and then we'll leave. All right?" He took her arm and turned her toward the building.

"Hold it. Why are you so pissed off? Slamming the door, calling people names—"

A shrug. "I wanted to be with you tonight."

"No, it's something else."

"Let's just go—"

"Not until you talk to me."

He looked past her at the building. A breeze shifted the fronds of a palm tree, and shadows moved on his face. "I don't like to be a spokesman, an example— whatever the hell they expect."

"What they expect? I think they'd like to have your opinion. Maybe your help. Rebecca would, anyway. She'd like to avoid any controversy over Thomas Nolan, but some people on the board don't get it. Nobody's going to push us around, by God, this is the U.S.A. You know."

"Oh, I know very well."

"Will it cause you problems with your family? Your brother-in-law—"

"To hell with Octavio. I don't care about him. What he says on his radio show, I don't care. If he mentions my name, to hell with that too."

"Your grandfather—"

"Gail, I have always been independent. You know that." Anthony laughed and threw his hands up. "Why do you think the old man and I don't get along? Because I refuse to take sides. I won't do it. You watch. Those people up there don't want my opinion. They want me to tell them what those crazy
cubanos
have against an opera singer, an artist without a political agenda. So he sang in Havana! What's the big deal?"

"You feel disloyal."

He laid a hand flat on his chest. "Disloyal? Why should I feel disloyal? I'm not one of them. I'm the good guy, the one they can reason with. Explain to us, Mr. Quintana, why they make so much trouble. Why can't they forget about it? It's been almost forty years. This is their home now. Why can't they be good Americans?"

"Anthony—"

"Explain to us why they still care about the place that gave them life, a place as close as their blood, where a man can be put in jail for taking a lobster from the sea to feed his children—Gail, I love this country. I chose to be a citizen, I didn't have to. And Cuba—I don't talk about that. I don't try to explain it to people who can't understand, because every time I do, I feel sick."

"Oh, Anthony. They won't be like that to you."

"No, they're too polite."

Nearby headlights went off, then someone opened and closed a car door. An alarm system chirped.

Gail took his arm. "I should never have asked you to do this."

"It doesn't matter."

"It does. I think it matters a lot."

He let out a long breath and played with his keys. "Well, some things you just have to leave alone."

After the concierge called upstairs, they stepped into the elevator just ahead of the man Gail had glimpsed in the parking lot, a stocky figure in jeans and a pullover sweater. Anthony pressed a button, then glanced around as if to inquire what floor he wanted.

They stared at each other, a mildly curious gaze that worked into puzzlement, then recognition. But there was no hearty greeting, only steady appraisal. The other passenger was in his late forties, a few inches shorter than Anthony and twenty pounds heavier, with curly gray hair and gold-rimmed glasses. A smile slowly lifted the corners of his mouth.

"Tony? I'll be damned."

Anthony remembered she was there. "Gail Connor, Seth Greer."

Gail glanced from one to the other. "How nice to meet you, Mr. Greer. It seems we're all going to the Dixons'. You're the treasurer for the Miami Opera, aren't you?"

"Right, but call me Seth. And you're the new lawyer. Welcome aboard." He shook her hand. "A distress call from Madame President induced me to trek all the way over here. Something about a problem with the Cubans." He grinned at Anthony. "Speaking of
el diablo.
She didn't mention you."

"We ran into each other tonight at the party."

"Imagine that." Seth Greer looked at Anthony for a moment longer, then at Gail. "I sense a relationship here."

"Definitely," Gail said.

"You poor kid. I could tell you stories about this guy."

Anthony said, "Seth and I used to be neighbors in Coconut Grove."

"Ah, the Grove. Just not the same anymore. Planet Hollywood on one corner, multiplex cinema on another. The steady march of progress."

"You still live there?"

"I do, in my own little tropical wonderland. Stop by sometime, we'll reminisce about the days of old. You're looking good,
amigo.
I see your name in the paper, defending the downtrodden and no doubt falsely accused." The remark had a touch of sarcasm. Anthony's clients were some of the richest defendants in Miami.

"And what are you doing now, Seth?"

"I have an accounting firm downtown."

Anthony made a slight smile. "What happened to your law practice?"

Seth Greer spread his arms. "I've moved up in the world."

The bell dinged softly on the top floor.

The men let Gail out first. She glanced at Anthony, but he wore a blank expression. Seth Greer led the way, a bouncy stride across an open terrace where plants spilled from clay pots along a carved limestone railing. In daylight, the view to the sea would be breathtaking. They walked around the corner, the wind lifting Gail's hair.

Greer leaned on the buzzer. "Dis mus' be da place." A young Hispanic woman in a maid's uniform opened one side of the double doors.
"Juanita, ¿qué tal?"

"Bien, señor. Le esperan en la sala."
She smiled-and nodded at Gail and Anthony. They followed her through the marble foyer to a living room with uncurtained floor-to-ceiling windows. Everything was the white of bleached sea shells, except for a huge abstract canvas spattered with the colors of the ocean. Long white sofas and a thick hand-woven rug marked the living room. The five people sitting there looked around when Seth called out a loud hello.

Aside from the Dixons, Gail recognized only one of the others, an elderly man named Wallace something, who had been general director of the opera a few years ago. Rebecca Dixon's gold tunic swirled as she crossed the room, arms extended. She told them to come in, have a seat. Juanita would bring coffee and dessert. Or would they prefer a drink?

Introductions were made. Eleanor, a woman about sixty in a black beaded dress, whose face-lift had tilted her eyes. Martin, a bald man with a neatly clipped beard. The elderly gentleman, Wallace, toddled from the other end of the long sofa to shake their hands.

Lloyd Dixon walked behind the bar at the opposite end of the room. Lights in the high ceiling shone on his white hair and white shirt. His black silk bow tie hung from his open collar. "What can I get for you folks?"

Seth Greer passed. Gail took red wine, Anthony asked for scotch.

"Red wine. Jesus, we've got about ten different— Pinot noir, how's that? Pinot noir and a single malt scotch. Glenfiddich okay?"

Dixon was a big man with a barrel chest, a heavy jaw, pale blue eyes, and a smile that started on one side of his mouth and didn't quite get to the other. Suspenders made an X on his shirt when he turned to drop ice into Anthony's glass.

For a while there was the usual chitchat about the recital. The selections Thomas Nolan had chosen. How many people had shown up. The quality of the hors d'oeuvres. Seth Greer sat at the baby grand picking out the melodies of old standards. Rebecca walked past him on her way to the bar, and his eyes stayed with her across the room. She asked her husband for another martini on the rocks. Seth watched her come back.

The maid came in with a tray, which she put on the low glass table between the two sofas. She set it down slowly, carefully, not to let the silver pot tip over onto the plate of tiny frosted cakes.

Rebecca called to Seth Greer, "Seth, could you stop, please?" He dropped his hands into his lap. Rebecca settled into a high-backed armchair with a cup of coffee. The president, presiding. "Everyone is aware of the facts, so I thought rather than a formal meeting, we'd simply discuss our options and see if we can arrive at a consensus." There were nods all around.