Suspicion of Guilt (41 page)

Dee-Dee's hair was tied back, and her eyes were swollen, her face splotched. Gail came up beside her and gently took her arm. "Dee-Dee, I'm so sorry. Please, is there anything I can do?"

A wan smile. "Nothing but wait. Our boy is doing better, though. He opened his eyes for a few seconds—the one that isn't bandaged. I think he even knew me. God, he looks like hell."

"How are Trisha and Mandy?"

"A mess. They're with my sister. I don't want them to see him this way, but if—if something happens to him before ..."

Gail hugged her.

They clung for a moment, then Dee-Dee looked over Gail's shoulder toward the people gathered at the end of the hall. "I should go say hello. They're so dear, waiting like this."

They walked slowly together. Gail asked if the police had found out what had happened.

Dee-Dee said, "Larry left the house about a quarter to eight. His secretary called about eleven to ask if he was coming in. I didn't know what to tell her, maybe he'd gone to see clients. I ran some errands in the afternoon. Larry never came home. I waited till nearly midnight, then called the police. They wouldn't even take a report until this morning." She spoke as if she had recited these events a dozen times already. "Those boys found him just in time. Somebody robbed him and left him there to die."

She stopped walking and ducked behind a head-high laundry cart, out of the visitors' line of sight. "Gail, they found things in his pockets." Her eyes were shiny with tears. "Cocaine in a
little plastic bag. And a pack of condoms. One was gone."

"I don't believe that. Not Larry."

"You can imagine what they think. Where he had been, what he was doing!" Her voice was tight.

"Don't. Don't even think about that now." Gail leaned against the wall beside her, their shoulders pressed together. "Dee-Dee, you know the case I'm doing on Althea Tillett's estate?" When she nodded, Gail said, "The housekeeper told me this morning that Althea went to see Larry the day she died. Did he tell you about this?"

Dee-Dee shook her head. "Oh, Gail. I can't think."

"I wouldn't ask you now, but it might be important."

"How? Does it relate to what happened to Larry?" Her eyes shifted back and forth, meeting Gail's.

"It might. I don't know yet."

Dee-Dee reached around the edge of the laundry cart and stole a
washcloth to blow her nose on. She laughed. "What was the question?"

"What Althea and Larry talked about."

"I didn't even know he saw her. He didn't mention it to me.

A nurse walked by, her shoes squeaking on the polished floor. "Something's been going on with him lately," Gail said. "Ever since the firm took the Norris case, he's been jumpy as hell."

"I've noticed. It isn't like him."

"Has Larry ever talked to you about the Easton Charitable Trust?"

"Not particularly. Larry's into so many clubs and organizations."

"He's a member of the Easton Trust? He said he wasn't."

Dee-Dee smiled tiredly. "They're so silly. He says they don't like people begging them for handouts, so they keep it quiet."

"Althea Tillett was a member, wasn't she?"

"Yes. Maybe that's what they talked about," said Dee-Dee. "I don't know what else it could have been. Not church business. Althea rarely attended. And she wasn't a client of his."

Gail asked, "Who else is in it? Do you know?"

"Some of them. Howard Odell runs it. And Sanford Ehringer—have you ever met him?"

"I've met him. He's the chairman."

"Isn't he a character? Who else? Judge Joe Herran. And Kevin McCarr with the Downtown Development Council. He's one of Larry's clients. And Leland Spencer with First Miami Bank. And that fat woman with the opera. God, what's her name?"

"Jessica Simms," Gail said. "What about Irving Adler?"

"Yes, him too," Dee-Dee said.

"How did Larry become a member?"

"My dad got him interested. Dad died a few years ago."

"What was his name?"

"Herbert Nash."

"And your grandfather?" When Dee-Dee looked at her curiously, Gail said, "Was he one of the original founders in 1937?"

Dee-Dee said, "I never heard that, but... My grandfather, Walton Nash, was a friend of Samuel Ehringer's, Sanford's father." She pushed a stray lock of hair behind one ear. "Althea Tillett's husband R.W. was in it, and his father Wade Tillett before him. R.W. was related by marriage to Judge Herran. They all seem to know each other."

"How many are there?"

"Now? The board has about a dozen members, I think, but they rotate. Maybe twenty in all. I don't know. Larry and I haven't talked much about it. He never goes to meetings. In fact, there aren't many meetings anymore. I thought that Easton was just about extinct." Dee-Dee wiped her nose, then took a heavy breath as if she had just climbed a flight of stairs. "The Easton Trust used to be a power in Miami, years ago. I think some of them pretend it still is. Hardly anybody donates big money anymore, only the diehards."

"Like Althea."

"Yes. Like Althea." Her voice was dull with exhaustion. "Gail, what is this about?" Gail shook her head. "Nothing. Come on, you've got some people who want to see you." She said she would get in touch in a day or so, when Larry was out of danger. They walked the rest of the way down the hall, then Dee-Dee was surrounded by friends waiting there to hear good news.

Going back toward the elevator Gail passed the wide door to intensive care and let her fingers trail across it. If only she had made Larry tell her what was going on. She had seen his anxiety and had let it go, minding her manners. She should have shaken him by the lapels.
Damn it, what is the matter with you? I'm your friend. Tell me.

Her stomach floated as the elevator dropped to the ground floor. He had not told her about his visit to Althea Tillett. He had lied to her about the Easton Trust. When she had told him Althea had been murdered, he'd been more than upset; he'd been panicked.

Gail's mind began to chum, a whirl of confusing connections and odd facts. The simple truth could be that Larry had taken a wrong turn in his Mercedes, then had been dragged off by some of Miami's ubiquitous street scum. But the cocaine and the condoms in his pocket? Perhaps Larry's life at home was not the warm ideal she had imagined. He was a philandering coke addict, and Dee-Dee was a sweet, credulous fool.

When the automatic doors flung themselves open outside the lobby, the sun was lost among the mottled clouds, which seemed ready to drop from the sky like stones. At the curb Gail looked automatically to her left, then stopped dead in her tracks.

A white Lincoln limousine had pulled up in a no-parking zone across the street, and a uniformed chauffeur stood by the open back door. Gail saw a voluminous bosom, a tiny black shoe, an ankle in white hose. A plump arm extended a vase of flowers and the chauffeur took it, then closed the door and walked toward the hospital.

Gail went over and tapped on the window. Jessica Simms slowly appeared as the tinted glass slid down. She wore a black straw hat, a polka-dotted dress, and a string of pearls.

Her mouth in its nest of chins and cheeks made a smile. "Gail. How nice to see you."

"I'm sure. Are the flowers for Larry Black, by any chance?"

"Why, yes. Have you been to see him?"

"He's still in intensive care." Gail planted her hands on the window opening and leaned closer. The engine was running and the air conditioner was on. "I suppose you've heard about Irving Adler, too."

"Yes. I'm just on my way to visit the family." There was another flower arrangement on the seat beside her. "You know, it was a blessing he went so quickly and didn't suffer. My husband took weeks."

Gail spoke in measured tones. "Mrs. Simms, listen carefully to what I'm going to say. Before he died, Irving Adler confessed that you and he helped forge Althea Tillett's will."

The mouth sagged open. "He never—"

"You did it. If you he to me, I'll fry you on the witness stand. I'll have you thrown in jail for commission of a felony."

"But it isn't true! I wouldn't—"

"Shut up! If you had told the truth when I asked you before, Larry might not be up there dying," Gail said.

"Larry was beaten by thugs! How could you dare to say I was responsible!"

Gail continued to look at her for a moment. "How did you get into the Easton Trust, through your late husband?"

"Yes, what of it?" Jessica Simms was breathing heavily; her dimpled hand, heavy with diamonds, twisted the strand of pearls.

"Who in the family was a member before him?"

"His elder cousin Fauntroy Simms. Why?"

"Anyone before Fauntroy?"

Jessica shook her head. Tears were making two shiny trails down her cheeks. "Why are you asking me these things?"

"How about Rudy and Monica Tillett? They're in Easton too, aren't they? Answer me, Mrs. Simms."

"Yes. Now leave me alone."

"Who asked you to sign the will? Rudy Tillett? Howard Odell?"

She fumbled for the window button. "Please leave."

"Why did you do it? For Althea? Or for the money in the trust?" The dark glass began to rise, and Gail had to move her hands.

Jessica Simms's voice quavered. "Go away, go away."

After half an hour of dead ends and double-backs, Gail finally found the narrow driveway leading to Sanford Ehringer's house. It was not far from the hospital, only across the river and up a bit. She drove through the trees until she could see the metal gate. Gray light leaked in through the canopy of leaves, revealing silvery razor wire looped along the top of the wall on either side. There was a camera on one of the columns, and under the camera, an intercom. She got out, walked to the gate, and pressed a button by the speaker. No answer. She leaned on it, not letting up.

Finally a male voice came through. "Who is it? What do you want?" There was a slight African-American intonation.

She stepped back and stared up into the camera. "Russell, is that you? This is Gail Connor. I want to talk to Sanford Ehringer."

"Mr. Ehringer's not available, Ms. Connor."

Gail paused, then said, "Tell him I know who Easton is. I've solved the acronym."

"The what?"

She exhaled. "Acronym. A-c-r-o-"

"I can spell it." There was a silence. "I'll see if he's in."

Fifteen minutes later, on the point of trying the buzzer again, Gail heard the growl of an engine. It died. A car door slammed. Then the gate slid into the wall on oiled tracks. Ehringer's driver Russell stood on the other side, dressed in his black suit. He walked over to glance inside her car, then told her to follow the Range Rover to the house.

The same elderly butler led Gail through the six-sided living room, then past the stairs with their dark, carved balusters. Floor lamps beside the long sofas pressed their yellowish light into the corners of the room. The scent of orchids drifted through the open windows.

The old man knocked lightly at the door of Sanford Ehringer's study, let her in, then closed it behind her. Ehringer's wheelchair was drawn up to his desk, and his secretary, Thomas Quinn, stood beside him, notebook in hand. The two men glanced at Gail, then Ehringer finished dictating a letter about elections in Singapore, Quinn writing in shorthand. Ehringer's computer screen was forming geometric shapes of purple and red that would collapse upon themselves, then spin into new configurations. Ehringer wore glasses today, a turtleneck sweater, and a pair of soft red leather slippers.

Thomas Quinn bowed slightly to Gail on his way out. "Good afternoon, Ms. Connor. Delightful to see you again."

Ehringer laid his glasses on the desk. "Sit down, Gail. Russell says you wish to see me. You have found our mysterious Mr. Easton. I must say, I am surprised at your tenacity."

She was pacing. "Have you heard about Larry Black?"

Ehringer swung his chair around. "Yes. Damn shame."

"More than a shame, I should think," Gail said stiffly. "He may not survive."

Ehringer followed her with his eyes, nearly lost under his heavy black brows. "I suspected you had other reasons for coming than to offer a solution to my puzzle."

"I have a puzzle for you," she said. "Two days before Althea Tillett's death, Irving Adler comes to see her. They argue. The morning before she dies, she meets Larry Black. All three of them belong to the Easton Charitable Trust. Then Althea is found dead—murdered. Her will leaves the residuary of her estate—millions of dollars—to Easton. Then the woman who notarized the fake will dies too, supposedly in an accidental fall from her balcony. Then Irving dies of a heart attack. And now someone tries to kill Larry Black. So I ask you, Mr. Ehringer, are these random events? Or is there a pattern?"

"This could be a religious inquiry, could it not? A matter of teleology: Is there a partem to the universe, or are we only subject to its whims—"

"Mr. Ehringer, answer the question."

His yellow teeth showed behind thin lips. "You assume that
I
have special knowledge of these events?"

"I assume one of them—Larry, Althea, or Irving—must have spoken to you. Or that you know what it was they talked about. I wager that very little goes on at Easton that you don't know about."

"How flattering," he said.

Gail studied him. His black eyes, set in heavy pouches, gave up nothing. The loose skin of his jowls seemed as pale and cool as the throat flap of a lizard. She said, "What is going on?"

Noiselessly his chair glided across the room to where she stood by the bookcase with its heavy volumes. He smiled at her. "What's the acronym? Tell me that first."

She took a breath, then began, "The Easton Charitable Trust. The name represents the six founding members. Your father Samuel was the E. His attorney Jacob Adler, the A. S is for Fauntroy Simms. T is for your father's business associate Wade Tillett. Howard Odell's grandfather George was the O. The N is for Samuel's friend Walton Nash, Dee-Dee Black's grandfather. Those six died off, but others—family and friends—have taken their place. I can't name them all, but they're a secretive, closely knit group from the remnants of old Miami society."