Fall from Grace (12 page)

Adam sorted out his impressions, trying to separate his emotions from the woman he had encountered. “Pacelli’s not quite what I expected. She’s cooler, smarter, and very self-contained. And beautiful, I’ll grant you, but in a different way—tempered and subdued. With her gifts as an actress, she’ll make a better impression than she deserves.”

Thomson nodded, eyes narrowing as he looked out at the water. “Whatever the reason, she made a considerable impression on Ben. That much I know.”

His tone caught Adam’s curiosity. “How, exactly?”

“The last time I saw him was a few weeks before he died. We were fishing off Lambert’s Cove on a chilly spring night. I didn’t know that he was dying—no one did, perhaps not even Ben. But he tired easily, which worried me some. To keep him company, I sat with him on the beach, sipping whisky from a flask to keep the dew off.

“It was quite dark, just the two of us in the silver light of a quarter moon. Ben got very quiet. He felt different to me, like life was weighing on him—I realize now that he’d already changed the will. Because we were old friends, and because I felt a debt to your mother, I brought up this actress.” Thomson grimaced. “There’d been talk, I mentioned, enough to embarrass Clarice deeply. I asked if Ben weren’t a little old for such foolishness, and whether he should place more value on the woman who’d stood by him all these years.”

Adam was touched. “A good question, and an act of grace. How did he respond?”

“Strangely, I thought. He just smiled, in a way I found smug yet oddly melancholy. All he said was ‘Carla has promised to make me immortal.’”

“Do you know what he meant?”

“No. It was a curious remark, I thought. Even Ben knew that no one gets out of life alive.”

“A sane man would know that,” Adam amended.

“True. Anyhow, too late to ask him now. He’s dead, and you’re his executor.” Facing Adam, Thomson spoke slowly and firmly, “I don’t know your intentions, and don’t want to. But you know the rules for remaining as executor. You should at least appear to follow them. That means that you’ll graciously accept Ben’s generous bequest to you, and take no overt steps to undermine the will. Or Ms. Pacelli and Mr. Seeley will have you pilloried by the court. Still with me?”

“Yes.”

“Let your mother’s lawyer, Gerri Sweder, do the heavy lifting. Gerri’s no one’s fool. The first question she’ll ask Clarice is the one I always wanted to ask—why such a clever woman signed this disastrous postnup. On that fateful day, and ever since, I’ve wished that I could read your mother’s mind. But she’s the last of the old-line WASPs, and she holds on tight.” Thomson gave Adam a long, quiet look, and then finished evenly, “With your father’s demise, she’s the only one who knows her reasons. There’s nothing to stop Clarice from choosing her answer with care.”

Adam offered no response; it was clear that Thomson wanted none. “There’s one more issue,” Adam said, “involving George Hanley and the state police. Suppose that someone who inherits under the will pushed him off the cliff. They get nothing.”

Thomson gave him a pointed look. “Are you confessing to his murder?”

“No. Regrettably, I wasn’t here.”

“Then the pool of people who profit from Ben’s death shrinks to two, doesn’t it? Who’s your favorite—Carla or Jenny?”

“Carla, naturally. She gets more money.”

Thomson stared at him. “You’re not joking.”

Adam shrugged. “George thinks someone killed him. That it be Ms. Pacelli serves my family’s interests at least two ways. It cuts her out of the will and gets George off our back. What better?”

Thomson laughed aloud. “You are a cool one, aren’t you?”

“Just practical.”

“Then it would help if George convicts her. To simply accuse her won’t suffice. So have a care.”

“Always.” Adam paused. “A last detail. How would I find out the date my father bought our house from my grandfather?”

“By asking Clarice. If her memory isn’t precise, ask to see Ben’s papers.”

“Then let me put it another way. How would Carla’s lawyer determine the date without alerting my mother?”

Thomson contemplated the ground. “I gather you’re thinking about the postnup,” he said at length, “and your mother’s reasons for signing it.”

“Not very subtle, am I?”

“Subtle enough. So here’s the deal. If the sale took place after 1985, which is roughly nine years after she signed the postnup, Carla’s lawyer could check Massachusetts land records on the internet. If Ben bought the house before then, he’d have to slog through the Registry of Deeds in Edgartown. But eventually you’ll find what you need—date, parties, and price.” Thomson paused, then added, “Of course, someone might remember you were looking and wonder why. Best to ask your mother.”

Adam stood. “I will. This has been very helpful.”

“To whom, I wonder.” Thomson remained seated, gazing at the water. “Mind if I sit for a while? I’ve got some thoughts of my own to sort through.”

Adam thanked him, and went on his way.

When Adam returned home, he went to his room and spent a few moments on the internet. Then he found his mother on the porch, sipping iced tea as she watched the late-afternoon sun descend toward the water. She had just completed a bicycle trip around the island—even as a child, Adam had perceived that she sought distraction in strenuous exercise from whatever troubled her. Now her face had the healthy flush of exertion. But she still looked older to him, more vulnerable, with wisps of gray in her hair that seemed to have escaped the colorist. Looking up, she asked, “Did you see Matthew Thomson?”

“Not yet, no.” He sat beside her. “When are you meeting your lawyer?”

“Tomorrow, at ten.”

“Good. Tell her I’ll be offering the will for probate on Friday, and that she should be ready to file. That should keep Pacelli from running off to Switzerland.”

Her eyes filled with quiet gratitude. “Thank you, Adam.”

“There’s something else I’d like to be clear about. When you signed the postnup, you believed you’d still inherit from your father.”

“Yes,” she said with a trace of impatience. “As I recall, this is the third time you’ve asked that—”

“So Grandfather hadn’t sold the house to Dad?”

“Why does it matter?”

Adam watched her eyes. “Because as I understand you, he sold the house after going belly-up.”

“That’s true. Though I can’t retrieve the specific date.”

“I’m more interested in the date relative to the postnup. I do know Dad bought this place before 1985, because I checked the computerized records.” He hesitated, choosing his words. “When and why you signed that postnup will be a central issue in the will contest. As to that, your testimony in court requires more precision than what you tell me when we’re alone. So I want you to double-check Dad’s papers before you see your lawyer, and be very clear on which event came first. You don’t want to be wrong about this.”

His mother’s face closed. “If you say so.”

“I do,” Adam replied flatly. “That’s the first part of a conversation that, once it’s over, you and I never had. The rest concerns how you answer when your lawyer asks what Dad offered you in exchange for signing.”

“Exactly what I told you—nothing.”

“You also told me you signed it on principle.” He paused, looking into his mother’s face. “I don’t blame you for concealing the deeper truth for the sake of your sons. But you can’t be so reticent in court.”

His mother’s blue eyes held confusion and alarm. “What do you mean?”

“That my father threatened you. That you were afraid of him. That you signed this agreement under duress.” His tone softened. “Domestic violence is a terrible thing. All the more so because, back then, the victim saw it as a shameful secret no one outside the marriage could know. So now no one but you knows how badly my father treated you, and how endangered you felt by the consequences of refusing him. I can’t know the details. But you can provide them easily. All you need is the will.”

Though Clarice’s mouth parted, she could not seem to speak. With quiet urgency, Adam said, “You owe him what he left you with—nothing. Your sole obligation is to save your future, and Teddy’s. Are you prepared to do that?”

Comprehension stole into her eyes, and then Adam saw her make a decision, reluctance followed by resolve. “If I have to.”

The quiet firmness in her tone, Adam thought, reflected the knowledge that she was cornered and must fight for her own survival. “You do,” he said coolly. “And please skip the story about signing the postnup as a feminist gesture. Not even I believe that.” His voice became gentler. “Don’t say anything, Mom. All I ask is that you remember everything I’ve said, and forget who said it.”

Clarice bowed her head, briefly touching her eyes. Then she looked up at her son again. “It’s been so terrible, all of it. Now you’re back, my deepest wish. But the more I see you, the more I’m reminded of Ben.”

Against his will, Adam felt wounded, even scared. “That’s the last thing I want.”

“I understand. But you’re very sure of yourself, as he was. As if you can bend the world to your will.”

Adam grasped her hand. “I’ll be damned if I’ll let my father take everything away from you. If that makes me like him, so be it.”

His mother’s eyes moistened. “I understand, Adam. I’m sorry if I hurt you.”

He squeezed her hand and then sat back, letting a fragile peace settle between them.

Three

At eight that evening, Adam walked into the bar at the Kelley House.

In ten years it was little changed—dim lights, wooden tables, and a bar jammed with tourists and islanders, the din of laughter and conversation bouncing off walls covered with old photographs and Vineyard memorabilia. Bobby Towle sat at a small table in the corner, looking bulky and awkward in blue jeans and a polo shirt big enough to double as a beach towel. In the instant before Bobby saw him, Adam had the affectionate thought that he looked like Baby Huey all grown up—a little bulkier, a lot sadder.

With a smile, Adam sat down. “So, pal, how’ve you been the last decade or so?”

Bobby mustered a smile of his own. “You know how this island is. Days pass, then years, nothing changes much. Pretty soon that’s your life.”

But something had changed, Adam sensed. For a guy like Bobby, being a cop, and married to the prettiest girl in their high school class, should have felt better than it appeared. Bobby ordered two beers, then asked, “And you? Seems like you just disappeared.”

Adam nodded. “One day I woke up and decided to see the world. For me everything changes, every day. I don’t know which is better.”

The puzzlement lingered in Bobby’s eyes. “Everyone thought you’d be a lawyer. Maybe marry Jenny Leigh.”

Adam felt the familiar ache, the memory of a life torn asunder. “So did I,” he answered. “I found out that wasn’t me.”

A young waitress brought two beer mugs full to the brim. Hoisting his, Adam said, “To victory over Nantucket.”

Clicking mugs, Bobby replied nostalgically, “That was a game, wasn’t it?”

“Yup. I’ll remember the last play on my deathbed. They’re two yards from the goal line, five seconds to go, a quarterback sweep away from beating us. He almost gets to the goal line. Then you knock the sonofabitch into tomorrow, and the ball loose from his hands—”

“And you fall on it,” Bobby finished. “Happiest moment of my life.”

“Happier than marrying Barbara?” Adam asked lightly. “Football games are sixty minutes; marriage is supposed to last a lifetime. Or so they tell me.”

Bobby’s face changed, his bewildered expression followed by a slow shake of the head. “That’s what I always believed.” He stopped himself. “I don’t much like to talk about it, Adam. With what happened to your dad, we maybe shouldn’t even be having this beer.”

It was another sign, if Adam needed one, that George Hanley and the state police thought someone had killed Benjamin Blaine, and had focused on a member of his family. Shrugging, he said casually, “This is the Vineyard, not Manhattan, and we’re old friends. That doesn’t entitle me to anything you don’t want to tell me. But if it helps, I’d like to hear more about you and Barbara.”

For a long moment Bobby looked down, then shook his head again, less in resistance than sorrow. “It’s all just so fucked up.”

Adam gave his friend a look of quiet commiseration. After a time he said, “I guess we’re talking about your marriage.”

Bobby puffed his cheeks. Expelling a breath, he murmured, “Barb got mixed up with a guy where she worked. At the bank.”

This required no elaboration. “Sorry,” Adam proffered. “That’s tough to take, I know.”

Bobby looked past him, seemingly at nothing. “You start to imagine them together, you know? Still, the unfaithful part I could have gotten past. But this douche bag was into crystal meth.” His voice became almost hopeful. “I think that was what Barb was into, more than him.”

Keep telling yourself that, Adam thought, if it helps. Signaling for a second beer, he asked, “Did you guys break up?”

Bobby stared at the table as though examining the wreckage of his own life. “She begged me to take her back. But by that time it had gone on way too long, and she was way too deep into meth. I had to put her in a treatment center.”

It was the kind of thing Bobby would do, Adam thought—even in high school, he had been a responsible kid, stepping up when a lesser person would not. “When did all this happen?”

“She went away six months ago, to a treatment center on the Cape. She’s still there.” He frowned. “It sort of reminds me of the actress your dad got mixed up with. Except she had the money to get straight.”

“Oh, it worked out fine for Carla,” Adam said. “For her, this island became a profit center. But I guess helping Barbara gets expensive.”

“Like lighting hundred-dollar bills on fire,” Bobby answered resignedly.

When the waitress brought their second beers, he barely noticed her. Adam thanked her, then asked his friend, “How are you affording that?”

“I’m not. Had to take a second mortgage on the place we fixed up together. Only reason I could buy it is my granddad left me a little.” A look of bleakness seeped through Bobby’s stoic mask. “You haven’t been here for a while. I love this place, for sure. But us ordinary folks are getting squeezed out of the real estate market by summer people with money. Not to mention we’re losing work to these Brazilians and day laborers from the mainland, and property taxes keep going up. Families who’ve been here since time began are barely hanging on.” He looked at Adam, as though recalling the difference in their circumstances. “Your dad always had plenty of money. Still, you’re well out of all this. Except for what happened to him, I guess.”