Misfortune (20 page)
“Did it work?” Frances asked.
Blair laughed. “What do you think?”
“Did Clio ever say anything?”
“Not a word. Neither did Dad.”
“Where was I?” Frances wondered.
“Who knows. At a friend’s house, if I had to guess. You slept out as much as possible.”
Frances looked at her sister, reclining with her glass of wine. She sensed relief in Blair’s voice, a seeming nostalgia for the bad memories now that her stepmother was dead and out of her life forever. It made Frances uneasy.
The light had changed, and the sky showed the first swatches of pink, the precursors of the sunset that was yet to come. Frances could see a flock of geese flying away in a V-shaped formation. Their wings rose and fell in perfect unison. Blair got up, disappeared through a sliding glass door, and returned a few minutes later with her wineglass refilled.
“So when’s Jake getting back?”
“Too soon,” Blair said sarcastically. “He called and said he’ll be out here sometime tomorrow.”
“What was he doing in Ohio?”
“Apparently he didn’t get to Ohio. There was some rambling explanation that I didn’t follow. For all I know, he never left Manhattan.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Jake’s spending most of his time trying to rescue the gallery from financial ruin. He had counted on Clio to help us out, but, no surprise, that backfired. I can’t keep track of what strategies he’s using now. He’s frantic. I guess I am too in my own way, but he does his thing and I do mine. Let’s just say we haven’t seen eye to eye on how to deal with our solvency problems.”
Despite the obvious inconsistency between Blair’s remarks and the papers Frances had seen on the front seat of her Miata, Frances let her sister’s remarks go without response. She had learned long ago that criticizing someone else’s spouse was a no-win proposition unless divorce papers had been not only filed but finalized. “Have you spoken to Mom today?”
“Yeah. I called her from Fair Lawn after I spoke to you, and then again when I got home. She offered to come over, but I told her I’d be okay.”
“How did she react to Clio?”
“Shocked, I guess. I didn’t pay much attention. I doubt Mom really cares.”
The two sisters sat quietly as dusk settled over the deck. Blair rubbed her feet together under the blanket and sipped her wine. Finally Frances stood up. “I should head home. I’m going to call for the jitney schedule,” she said, referring to the bus that could take her back to Orient Point.
“You can take the car.”
“That’s okay.”
“Well, just leave it at the jitney stop. I’ll pick it up later, or tomorrow.”
“Thanks. Will you be all right alone?” Frances asked.
“I’m fine. I don’t need a thing. And if I do, a friend is staying with me,” Blair responded wistfully. She looked at the small gold watch on her left wrist. “He should be back any moment.” The “he” hung in the air.
Frances didn’t want to ask anything more.
Except for the porch light, the house was dark when Frances returned home. She opened her door, heard the sound of padded paws alighting from the couch onto the floor, and felt the furry warmth of Felonious and Miss Demeanor as they came to greet her. “I missed you guys,” she said as she felt for their velvety ears and scratched their heads.
Frances and the dogs made their way into the kitchen, where she turned on the overhead light. On the butcher-block counter was a note held down by a bunch of wildflowers in a jelly jar.
I missed seeing your smiling face. Where were you this afternoon? I came over and saw the truck but no trace of you. I took the liberty of feeding the dynamic duo around 4:30. They have been out and done their business.
Frances recognized Sam’s thick-lettered script. He never forgot her dogs, or her, for that matter.
She opened several cupboards in search of a graham cracker, or some other snack, realizing that she hadn’t eaten all day, but found nothing except a can of black beans, expired vitamins, a box of oyster crackers, instant oatmeal, and several bags of assorted dog biscuits. As she opened the refrigerator the telephone rang. She resisted the urge to let it ring. Not tonight, it could be important.
She grabbed a bottle of Amstel Light, shut the fridge, and answered the telephone.
“Let me first express my condolences to you and your father.” Frances recognized the voice of her boss, District Attorney Malcolm Morris, whom she had known since childhood. Malcolm had been her father’s partner in the annual golf tournament at the National Golf Club in Southampton for years, and he’d been an occasional guest at Richard and Clio’s larger dinner parties. After witnessing some of his rowdier moments during these evenings, his Hawaiian hula dance, his moose yodel, Frances often had difficulty treating him with the reverence that his elected office deserved. Tonight, though, his voice was stern.
“However, I want to tell you in no uncertain terms that you are to have no role, official or unofficial, in investigating Clio’s death. I know you were over at the Fair Lawn Country Club with Meaty today. It doesn’t surprise me that he brought you along, but that’s the end.”
“He didn’t bring me along. I got the call. I brought him in.”
“I am not talking about semantics, Frances, and you know it.”
“We’re not investigating anything. There’s no signs of violence, a struggle, nothing. Heart failure, that’s it.”
“Apparent heart failure. Let’s wait until we get the pathologist’s report. Then you and I will talk. Until then, I don’t want you involved. It’s family.”
“She was my father’s wife. It’s not the same thing.”
Malcolm was silent for a moment, presumably processing the import of her last comment. “Look, I don’t want to get into the middle of anything personal. All I’m asking you, all I’m telling you, is that I sure as hell do not want to see your face in front of any cameras about this one.” Then his tone softened. “Again, I’m really sorry. Please tell your father that I send my regrets. I’ll get in touch with him myself in the next couple of days.”
Frances replaced the receiver and surveyed her kitchen, the butter yellow walls, the spice rack that hung crooked, the square table covered in a green-and-white-checkered cloth, all that was familiar. She opened her beer and took a long sip. She needed to run a tub, add bubbles, and submerse her body, but even as she thought of this comfort, Malcolm’s call haunted her. His vague reference to something suspicious was unusual for a man who was normally brutally honest and straightforward.
Frances had interviewed for her job with Malcolm at one of the lowest points in her life. She’d needed something concrete to make her decision to get out of the city irrevocable, to end any vestiges of her engagement. Pietro Benedetti would never follow her to the north fork of Long Island, to the acres upon acres of potato fields and vineyards, to the quiet, rural life. Malcolm must have sensed her anxiety because he hadn’t asked a lot of questions. He hadn’t explored, while others might have, the reasons for Frances’s sudden departure from the Manhattan District Attorney’s Office, nor had he asked why a young, single, talented woman wanted to live alone in Suffolk County. He also hadn’t gone behind her back to talk to her father. He’d only wanted to know of her experience, her credentials. That was enough. He had given her the break she needed.
Since that day Malcolm had treated her well, promoting her to chief of the Financial Crimes Unit, the first woman ever to hold that position in the Suffolk County District Attorney’s Office. Frances appreciated all he had done for her. In return she worked hard for him. He rarely interfered in her work and, as far as she knew, had always been candid with her.
So why was he being mysterious about Clio’s death? Whom had he talked to? Apparent heart failure…The words echoed in Frances’s mind. What wasn’t he telling her? She tried to dismiss the thoughts. Maybe she had been a prosecutor too long. Or maybe not.
F
rances hadn’t slept more than a few fitful minutes all night. When she did manage to doze off, her dream left her more agitated than her insomnia. She had dreamed she was diving into the murky water of Lake Agawam, searching for Justin. She called his name and saw her bubbles float away from her face and disappear into the blackness, but there was no trace of her half-brother. Each time she came up for air, she saw her father, seated erect in his wheelchair, staring at the surface of the water. He showed no signs of noticing her. She dove under again and thrashed her arms to try to feel a piece of the sailboat or the softness of her brother’s arm. She awoke, sweaty and disoriented with her fists clasping her quilt, her pillows on the floor, and her dogs staring at her in bewilderment.
Frances tried to read but couldn’t concentrate on the pages in front of her. Lying beside the warm bodies of Felonious and Miss Demeanor, listening to the sounds of their unsynchronized breaths, she closed her eyes and prayed for rest, only to have the darkness filled with Clio’s face. Something about Clio’s mouth, the white teeth and painted lips frozen open in an oval, seemed evidence of a last gasp or an attempted shout. Had she been in pain? How quickly had death come?
Frances ran her fingers through the black fur of Felonious’s soft coat. Clio hadn’t been dead more than twelve hours before Malcolm had called. Why had he mentioned an investigation? What could he possibly have known in such a short period of time over a holiday? She wouldn’t be able to find out for at least another day. The medical examiner’s office was unfamiliar territory to a financial crimes prosecutor. Besides, any public servant at work on a Sunday would do his business as quickly as possible. He couldn’t be expected to answer her call to the morgue.
Frances arose with the sun, made herself a pot of strong coffee, then returned to the gardening she had abandoned so hastily the previous day. She listened to the crickets and watched the early morning worms wriggling their way back into the soil. Nothing held her attention for long. By nine, showered and dressed, she found herself nestled into the cab of her red pickup truck on the way to Southampton. She drove straight to the Fair Lawn Country Club.
The same blond boy from the day before attended the entrance gate. This morning he was busy talking to a young woman with auburn hair and sunglasses, who was just leaving the club in a burgundy Jaguar convertible. Without removing his mirrored sunglasses, the attendant leaned his elbows on the driver’s-side door and chatted with considerable animation. Thus engaged, he failed to notice Frances as she paused briefly and drove through.
Frances parked her truck by the service entrance.
The grass tennis courts were filled with players, not unusual for a beautiful summer Sunday morning. Frances walked up the steps onto the porch. A man sat alone, leaning back in a chair, legs stretched in front, ankles crossed. A canvas tennis cap covered his face. At the far end, four women sat together in a circle. On the table between them were cans of Diet Coke and tennis balls. One woman in a pink headband threw back her head and laughed a loud honk of a sound that pierced the relative quiet. Otherwise the porch was empty.
Tacked to the shingled side of the clubhouse were the summer tournament draws, a careful matrix of elimination with the list of top seeds in the upper-left-hand corner. Frances remembered that her father had made that list long ago for both singles and, with his partner, Jack Von Furst, doubles. “Canceled” had been written in red letters across the draw for the men’s doubles. That had to be a historical first.
Frances opened the screen door to the right of the main entrance and stepped into the bar. Commentary from a newscast piped from the television mounted on a wall bracket in the corner. No one was around. Apparently the Sunday morning Bloody Mary crowd hadn’t yet arrived.
Frances walked over to the bar and climbed up on a leather stool. She ran her fingers along the edge and felt the tightly spaced row of metal tacks that held the leather onto the circular cushion. The door behind the bar swung open, and a white-haired man in a green plaid vest and starched shirt came through from the kitchen.
“What can I get for you?” he asked.
Frances ordered a ginger ale and watched as he pushed a button to dispense the bubbly golden liquid into a tall glass. The bartender set the drink on a monogrammed paper napkin in front of her. Then he removed a pad of charge slips and a pencil from his vest pocket and looked up at her expectantly.
“Pratt, Richard Pratt,” she said.
The man looked at Frances intently.
“I’m his daughter Frances.”
“I’m real sorry about Mrs. Pratt,” he said without hesitation.
“Thank you. That’s very kind.” Frances felt the awkwardness of her response.
The bartender continued to stare at her. She straightened up on the stool to correct her slouched posture.
“Weren’t you here yesterday with the police?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I thought so.” He nodded to himself. “I’m an assistant district attorney with the Suffolk County District Attorney’s Office. We assist the police in their investigations,” she said, wondering if an explanation was actually owed.
“Well, I remember you because it struck me as unusual you know, to see a lady policeman. I hope you don’t mind my saying so.”
Frances smiled. She didn’t bother to correct him. A lawyer or a cop, he probably had the same view of women in either law enforcement profession.
“You say an investigation, huh? People are going to be pretty curious if it turns out to be something worth investigating. We’ve never had anyone die right here at the club before.” He put his pad back in his vest pocket. Then he cleared a partially filled wine-glass and a tumbler from the end of the bar and began to wash them. “Mrs. Pratt was a fine lady. Far as I could tell, she had a lot of friends here at Fair Lawn,” he remarked.
Frances watched his small hands scrub the inside of the glasses with sudsy water, then rinse them under the tap. He worked fast. “Did you see Clio Pratt yesterday?” she asked.
“Nope,” he said without looking up.
Frances took a large swig of her soda. The ice cubes rattled as she replaced the glass on the counter. “Thanks.” She slid off the stool.
