Death at Charity's Point (3 page)

The idea startled me for a moment. But as I thought about it, I felt that perhaps there were a great many less likely candidates. From what I knew of George Gresham’s life, it allowed for few setbacks. He had, one might say, cushioned himself against them purposefully by withdrawing into the simplest possible mode of existence. No emotional ties, no financial commitments. A bachelor schoolteacher. Nothing to upset what might have been a delicate equilibrium. He could well have been perched on a knife-blade of sanity. The slightest disturbance could have pushed him off the edge. I did not share this perception with Florence.

“Who told you this?” I asked.

“Parker Barrett called me last night. Evidently the authorities—that’s what Barrett called them—issued that verdict after some sort of inquest.”

“Barrett,” I repeated. “The insurance man?”

“Yes. He was all full of apologies, as though the damn money meant anything to me.”

“What do you mean?”

Florence sighed. “A little over a year ago I took out a large policy on George. He was badly underinsured. Because he had a small policy with Jefferson Mutual—that’s Barrett’s company—which he had taken out when he was twenty, George could get favorable rates. It was convertible to an annuity at sixty-five. You know how George was about money. I figured he’d accept this sort of thing.”

“How much?”

“The policy?” Florence shrugged. “Five hundred thousand.”

I whistled.

“A lot of money.” She nodded. “Enough to keep George very comfortable when he quit teaching. Without his feeling that he was living off his mother. And,” she chuckled mirthlessly, “I, of course, was the beneficiary.”

“And,” I finished, “they won’t pay off because it’s suicide.”

“Right. Not that it really matters. But, yes, there’s a two-year suicide clause. Not only that, but there’s also a double-indemnity clause for accidental death. You know how that works?”

“Sure. They pay double the face value of the policy in case of accidental death.” I thought for a moment. “So if George’s death was ruled accidental, Jefferson Mutual would have to pay you one million dollars. But since it’s suicide, they pay nothing. I imagine your friend Parker Barrett was vastly relieved.”

“Oh, he was as oily as ever.” Florence waved the insurance man away with a flap of her hand. “But that’s not really the point. This is the point: I do not believe that George jumped off any cliff into the ocean with the intent of killing himself. Not George. Dudley, yes. Dudley
could
kill himself. And did. That, as you know, I could understand. And even agree with. And Win, getting himself killed at war, that I can understand, too. It fits, if you know what I mean. But George? If George
did
kill himself, if he
did
jump into the ocean, that would mean that I didn’t know my son, that I never did know him. I would find that hard to live with. His death itself—I accept death. But suicide?” She shook her head back and forth slowly several times.

“What can I do?” I asked.

“I want to appeal. I want you to take this thing to court and prove that George’s death was not suicide.”

“But, Florence…”

“Yes, I know. There must be a lot of evidence. But they’ve missed something, I’m sure of it. There has to be another explanation. I want you to find it.”

“It’s not really my line. Perhaps a private investigator…”

“No!” she said, with a vigorous shake of her head. “No sleazy private eyes. None of those trench coat-and-cigar types. I want you, Brady Coyne.”

“Oh, come on, Florence. They’re not all like that.”

“The Greshams,” she said, “do not hire private investigators. They retain attorneys.” Her eyes narrowed. “Ten percent? Over and above your usual generous fee?”

“Now, Florence…”

“Yes, yes, I know,” she said, waving her hand in front of her face as if flies were bothering her. “We’re too sophisticated to talk money.” She leaned forward, hands on her thighs, her chin jutting at me. “The hell with that. Let’s talk money. Ten percent of the policy, if we collect it. If you can prove that George’s death was accidental, that’ll be ten percent of five hundred thousand—doubled.”

“One hundred thousand,” I breathed, in spite of myself.

She smiled. “Worth a shot?”

“Well, if you’re dead set against a private investigator…”

“I am. It’s settled.”

At that moment Julie knocked quietly, then entered with a tray bearing coffee cups. “Milk and sugar, Mrs. Gresham?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

Julie fixed me with her California smile. “Black, Brady?”

“Thanks.”

Julie set the tray on the coffee table and stood before us, her hand on her perfect hip. “I was terribly sorry to hear about your son, Mrs. Gresham.”

“I appreciate your concern, Julie.”

Julie turned to me. “Anything you’d like?”

“Please. See if you can get Parker Barrett at Jefferson Mutual for me.”

Julie touched her forehead with her forefinger. “Aye, aye, sir.” She whirled and whisked out of the office, leaving in her wake the faint scent of mayflowers.

Julie O’Malley had unerring instincts for the law, charmed all my clients of both genders, and did all of my serious spelling for me. She was engaged to a radiologist at Beth Israel, a pleasant young man named Edward who assured me that he had no intention of interfering in Julie’s career, and that, if I could consider a leave for her for perhaps three months should they eventually become parents, he and Julie did want her to continue her work. He, for one, had no objection to Julie and me continuing together well into the foreseeable future.

Julie and I established our relationship a few months after I hired her. We were working late, putting together the stuff for a nasty divorce case I had to argue the next day. We had had tuna sandwiches out of waxed paper and Coke out of cans, and Julie was hunched over her typewriter, where she had spent most of the twelve hours of that workday. I stood behind her, waiting for her to finish the page. She paused in her typing to sigh and roll her shoulders to ease their stiffness. Tentatively I reached down and began to knead the muscles at the base of her neck. She leaned back against my hands, letting her arms fall to her sides.

“Oh, that feels good,” she sighed.

Impulsively, I bent and touched the skin at the nape of her neck with my lips—not really a kiss, just my warm breath on her young skin. The wispy hairs tickled my nose. She didn’t move, but I could feel the tension where I touched her.

Without turning, she said in a low, even voice, “I would consider becoming your lover. Or I will continue to be your secretary. I will not be both. Your choice.”

I stood up and swiveled her chair around so that she faced me. I bent and kissed her forehead. “That’s a difficult choice,” I said. “But I’ll take the secretary.”

“I hoped you’d say that,” Julie replied with a soft smile. Then she turned back to face her typewriter and resumed her work.

When I look at Julie, I find it easy to second-guess my choice. But it was the right one.

Florence and I sipped our coffee and shortly the telephone buzzed.

“Yes, Julie?”

“Mr. Barrett. Jefferson Mutual. I told him you were Mrs. Gresham’s attorney. He’s all a-twitter.”

I chuckled. “Good.” I pressed the button on the phone so that Florence could hear both ends of my conversation with Barrett.

“Mr. Barrett. How are you today?”

“I don’t know what this is all about, Mr. Coyne. The clause in Mr. Gresham’s policy is quite clear.”

“Yes, yes. I know. Two years. How did you determine that his death was a suicide?”

“Oh,
we
didn’t decide that. The verdict came from the Medical Examiner’s Office. They are very thorough. There’s no doubt their findings will stand up in court.”

“No one said anything about court.”

His sigh hissed over the amplified speaker. Florence smiled at me.

“Naturally, Jefferson Mutual will stand by its contracts,” Barrett said, his voice assuming a new tone of confidence. “But I don’t need to tell you, Mr. Coyne, that a contract is binding on both parties. We will, of course, return to Mrs. Gresham the equity that has been paid on this policy, with interest. Plus, I might add, some nice dividends.”

“What can you tell me about the verdict?”

“Open and shut, evidently. Dr. Clapp—he’s the M.E.—issued the verdict yesterday. I have been in contact with his office from the beginning.”

“I can imagine,” I said.

“I phoned Mrs. Gresham immediately. Sorry to bear bad news, you know, but that goes with the territory.”

“A tough piece of work,” I said. “What exactly did the doctor tell you?”

“Mr. Gresham jumped from a spot called Charity’s Point. Place not far from the school where he taught. It’s a hundred-foot drop into the ocean. He drowned. They found his body the next morning on an adjacent beach. Apparently he was quite battered by the surf and the rocks, but the cause of death was drowning.”

“How did they determine he jumped? Were there witnesses?”

Barrett actually laughed. His voice burst harshly over the speaker into my office. “There didn’t need to be witnesses, Mr. Coyne. Mr. Gresham was his own witness.”

“Don’t be oblique, Barrett. What the hell do you mean?”

“The note. There was a suicide note, Mr. Coyne. That’s what I meant. Open and shut.”

I lifted my eyebrows at Florence, who seemed to collapse into herself.

“I see,” I said. “A note.”

“Yes,” said Barrett. “That simplifies things.”

“I suppose it does, insurance-wise,” I said. “Well, I do appreciate your time. Perhaps we’ll be in touch.”

“I can’t see why. But, of course, if there’s anything I can do…”

“Thank you, Mr. Barrett.”

I returned the receiver to its cradle and looked at Florence. The corners of her mouth drooped.

“He never mentioned any note to me,” she said.

“Still want to go ahead with it?”

“You bet I do,” she said, her eyes glittering with new life. “More than ever. If George did jump off some cliff, I’ve got to know why. Can you understand that?”

“Yes,” I nodded. “I guess I can.”

I
CHERISHED THE FAINT
hope that I might make the Great Discovery that would persuade the Medical Examiner to reverse his findings. The ten percent of George Gresham’s double-indemnity policy, I had to admit, was most attractive. Specializing in keeping wealthy people safely legal has its drawbacks. The work tends to be boring, for one thing. I spend a great deal of my time remaining
au courant
on tax and antitrust law, scouring contracts, and writing and revising wills. I spend very little of my time arguing interesting points of law in courtrooms.

I work on retainer plus fees. Generous fees. Outrageous fees, really. However, since my clients demand personal attention, I am forced to limit my practice. They expect me to be available. They expect me to make house calls. They expect me to take afternoon tea with them, to tolerate their poodles jumping up onto my lap, to listen to their old war stories again. So I rather liked the idea of visiting the Medical Examiner, for a change of pace.

When Dr. Milton Clapp extended his hand to me as I entered his office, his confident professionalism dimmed my hope of unearthing New Evidence, of making that Great Discovery. This self-assured gentleman, with his blue bow tie and crisp white smock, seemed unlikely to make a mistake. He peered at me over half-moon glasses, his sharp blue eyes crinkled at the corners, his mouth drawn back in an open grin over what appeared to be a good set of dentures.

“Mr. Coyne. Have a seat.”

His office was small, a place of work. I had the feeling that the state’s Chief Medical Examiner did not ordinarily receive visitors here. One dirty window looked out across an alley at a blank brick wall. His scarred desk was littered with papers and journals, many of them folded back as if they were half read. On one corner stood a large glass jar. Inside it, a dark, grayish mass swam in a yellowish solution. It looked like a big, dirty jellyfish.

Dr. Clapp followed my gaze. “A smoker’s lung,” he said. “I keep it as a reminder. Better than will power.”

I nodded.

The walls of his office were noteworthy by the absence of framed diplomas, documents, certificates, or awards. Instead, I saw a large chart depicting, as near as I could tell, the human nervous system. There was also a calendar produced by the First National Bank of Boston featuring an old Currier and Ives print of Haymarket Square, and still turned to April. Almost directly behind Dr. Clapp’s head hung a small wooden plaque inscribed in fancy Old English scroll. I could barely read it from where I sat. It was entitled “An Angler’s Proverb.”

“Allah does not deduct,” it read, “from the allotted time of man those hours spent in fishing.”

I pointed to it as I squirmed into a comfortable position on the wooden, straight-backed chair he offered me. “You’re a fisherman, then?”

“Oh, yes. When I can.” He waved his hand, as if it weren’t significant.

“I have a plaque hanging in my bathroom at home,” I said. “It’s called ‘The Angler’s Prayer.’ Know it?”

He shook his head.

“It goes like this,” I said. “‘Lord give me grace to catch a fish so big that even I, when talking of it afterwards, may never need to lie.’”

Dr. Milton Clapp, I noticed, smiled easily. “When I was your age,” he said, “I felt the same way.”

“The difference between youthful excess and mature perspective?” I suggested.

“The difference between lawyers and doctors, perhaps,” he said. “What can I do for you, Mr. Coyne?”

He leaned forward on his elbows, his hands clasped before him, his eyes alert. Everything about him and his office said, “This is a busy and important man. Don’t waste his time.”

“As I said on the phone, I represent the estate of George Gresham. Because there is a sizable insurance policy, and because his mother is quite distraught, as you can imagine, I am exploring the possibility of appealing the finding of your inquest.”

“I understand perfectly. You’re on a fishing expedition.” The doctor smiled. “Don’t blame you at all. It’s always a sad duty for me to find suicide. But I assure you that there is little doubt in this case.”