Suspicion of Malice

Barbara Parker

For Laura,

who deserves that

first-class cabin on the
QE2

Chapter 1

It was the dog that awakened her, the strange noises he made. A yelping whine, then a bark. Then nothing, and she drifted back to sleep with the soft whirr of the air conditioner. Rain tapped on the roof of the
cottage, and dim light came through the window.
Then the barking started up again.

Diane thought Jack might come down from the
house and see about it, because after all, Buddy was
his damned dog. She remembered that Jack had
thrown a party last night, and he'd been happily
drunk when she'd gotten home at midnight. It had
been three in the morning before the music and laughter had quieted down.

Roof-roof-roof. Roof-roof Hyeeeeeeee
—

Diane shoved the pillow off her head and squinted at her clock. 6:45. "Oh, great." In plaid boxers and a camisole, she stumbled out onto the small wooden porch. Nothing stirred in the yard. All she could see
of Jack's house was some white clapboard and the steps to the screened porch. In the other direction, past the mildewing seawall, lower Biscayne Bay gleamed as dully as an old nickel.

No dog anywhere in sight. "Stupid mutt."

A walkway ran across the yard, vanishing under
a cedar trellis and into a thick stand of palm trees.
He was in there.
Roof-roof. Roof.

"Buddy! Come!" What was he doing? Diane
thought of bufo toads—huge, slimy creatures with poisonous skin. Buddy would taste anything. She ran
down the steps and across the yard, then under the
trellis. Vines decades old kept out the rain, and the
light dimmed. Dead leaves stuck to her bare feet.
There was a fountain farther on, and Diane could
hear it. The path turned, then opened up to a semicir
cle of teak benches, beds of bromeliads, and hanging
baskets of orchids.

Jack's black Lab stood right in the middle of the
path. He turned his head and looked at her, and his
tail wagged. Diane came closer, then stopped. There was something just past him. The low, overcast sun
barely penetrated the shade, and the thing—what
ever it was—lay halfway under some bushes. Gradu
ally the details became clear. A man's legs in tan slacks, feet pointing upward. An arm.

Barking, the dog loped toward her. Diane stum
bled, caught herself, and raced back the way she had
come, along the path, under the trellis, and across
the wet grass to Jack's house, then up the steps. Her
hair fell from its knot and into her eyes. Buddy danced in circles around her. She flung open the
screen door, leaving him in the yard.

A spare key was hidden in a conch shell. She retrieved it in trembling fingers and jammed it into the lock. The back door opened into the kitchen. "Jack!
Jack!" She ran through the hall, slipping as she rounded the corner. Dim light came from a globe
held aloft by a bronze nude.

"Jack!" Her feet thudded up the stairs. "Jack, get up!"

His door swung open and Jack came out in old hiking shorts. "I'm
up!
What in the name of God's
little angels is going
on?"
He was pulling a faded
green T-shirt down over his belly. His eyes were
puffy, and his big sandy mustache was turned up on
one end, down on the other.

"There's a man by the fountain. On the path—oh,
my God, Jack—he's dead. I heard Buddy barking,
and I went to see—" Diane steadied herself on Jack's
shoulder. "And there was a man lying on the
ground. I think he's dead."

"What do you mean, dead?"

"I mean not breathing, Jack! Not moving."

"Maybe he's sleeping."

"No! Buddy's been barking forever."

"Well, who is it?"

"I don't know! I was afraid to look!"

"Calm
down."
Jack rubbed his face. "My. How in
considerate, right in my backyard. He's probably
asleep. Wait for me downstairs. I'm going to get
some shoes on."

"Do you want me to call the police?"

"No. If you want to be helpful,
ma petite,
go make
some coffee."

The door closed. Diane heard a woman's voice.
Then Jack's low murmur. A few seconds later he came out in his old leather boat shoes. The door closed, but not soon enough to cut off a view of
tangled red hair and a sheet clutched to some
body's breasts.

Jack's stern glance admonished Diane for not being
downstairs already. At the landing she whispered, "That was Nikki."

"Shhh. You saw nothing, child." He nudged her
along.

Jack looked out the kitchen window as if the wild
landscaping would part and reveal whatever was there, lie held aside the curtain with one hand and
with the other twirled the ends of his big mustache into points.

"I had hoped, on this drizzly Sunday, to spend the
day in the sack. No hope of that now." He dropped
the curtain. "If my guest ventures downstairs, tell her to stay in the house. I'll go have a look-see."

"What about the coffee?"

"Of course. Start the coffee—not that I need it after
this jolt."

Jack pushed open the back door. The dog rose
from the mat, and its swaying tail tipped over a beer bottle. More of them littered the porch. The ashtrays were full, and a roach clip lay on a side table. Dead? Dead drunk was more like it. Guests had occasion
ally been found in the yard, sleeping it off, but not,
he had to admit, this time of year, not with mosquitos chewing on exposed flesh and humidity so high
one could work up a sweat breathing.

The drizzle was turning to rain. Jack touched his
.38 snub-nose through his pocket. The neighborhood was generally safe, and he didn't expect to see any
strangers, conscious or otherwise, but one never
knew. Buddy trotted along beside him.

The main walkway from the house, paved with old keystone, arrowed to the seawall and a boat-
house, where Jack kept his fishing boat raised on
davits. Stepping-stones curved left toward the cottage, and another path meandered through a collection of rare plants and palm trees to the grotto. That had been his cousin Maggie's mad creation. She had
piled up coral rocks and studded them with tacky Florida souvenirs, then set a bronze manatee on its tail. The sea cow's hippo-like mouth spurted water
into a pond where fat carp wove among purple
swamp lilies.

Jack could hear the splash of water as he took the
path under the trellis. It blocked the rain, and intermittent drops spattered onto the keystone. Jack swept
a spider web off his face. Then he saw it—a man's
legs and feet. White canvas deck shoes with leather laces. Khaki pants, soiled with dirt and bits of rotten
leaves. The rest of the man lay just beyond a clump of elephant-ear philodendron.

“Hey!” Jack knew already, but called out, "Wake up!"

Drops of water fell from the trellis onto a philodendron leaf, which moved slightly, as if shuddering. Buddy whined through his nose. Jack pointed toward the house. "Go home!" The dog circled, panting and
wagging his tail.

Walking closer, Jack felt a sharp crunch under his shoe—a snail, smashed like a tiny brown porcelain
cup. Slime trails crisscrossed the path. Standing
alongside the man's thighs, Jack slowly peered
around the huge leaves of the philodendron, holding
the edge of one to pull it aside. He saw the other
arm—muscled, golden-haired—and at the end of it a
hand covered in blood. The shattered bones of the
wrist gleamed purplish through the skin.

Without his volition, Jack's eyes traveled upward, quickly taking in details that mounted in horrific impact. A torso in a white knit shirt, neat little red holes
in it. And so much blood. Not on the shirt. On the face. The left half was bathed in red, and streaks of
it ran into the man's ear and matted his hair. One
blue eye gazed upward. The other was a pulpy mass of glimmering black. It seemed to be moving. Then
Jack saw the ants. Swarms of them.

"Oh, sweet Jesus," he moaned, letting go of the
leaf, which gaily bobbed and dipped. Hands on
knees, he waited for the dizziness to pass, then stood
up. "Buddy, come!" His voice cracked.

Walking slowly through the rain, he gathered his
thoughts. Water dripped off his eyebrows and chin, and his T-shirt clung to his back. Diane was on the porch. She pulled open the screen door, and her eyes
took him in, finding the answer. She whispered, "He's dead, isn't he?"

Jack went inside, shaking his head when she asked
who it was. He grabbed a dishtowel and ran it over his face and neck. The smell of coffee filled the
kitchen, but he had no taste for it.

Nikki sat at the table, green eyes open wide. Jack
absently smoothed his mustache and stared across
the kitchen.

Diane spoke again. "Jack? Who is it?"

He beckoned to Nikki. "Come with me into the
study for a sec. Diane, be a good girl and tidy up
the back porch, will you? Don't go anywhere. I won't
be long."

He took Nikki down the hall, their footsteps re
duced to soft thuds on an ancient oriental carpet
gone to threads at the edges. The house was too cold.
He had turned the air conditioner down to sixty-something before Nikki had slid into bed, giggling.
In the study, gray light filtered through wooden
blinds.

"What is going on, Jack? Say something. What
happened out there? Somebody died?" Her glossy
pink mouth was open.

He set his hands firmly on her shoulders. "I want
you to be very calm. Can you do that?" Nikki nod
ded. "It's Roger. He's been shot."

She stared, then blinked. "Roger? Roger is
...
dead?"
She dropped onto the sofa. "Oh, my God"

He sat beside her. "This is a mess, baby."

Chapter 2

Rain hissed under the tires, and the windshield
wipers swept back and forth and back. A drizzle here, a downpour farther on. Ragged clouds tumbled
across the sky. This had to stop soon. Or it might
not. One couldn't be certain of anything this time
of year.

Anthony Quintana set his elbow on the window frame, arched his hand across his forehead, and squeezed. Long fingers moved upward on his tem
ples as if testing the bones for cracks. He would
rather have been in bed. Asleep or simply horizontal,
it didn't matter. Unless he had a trial scheduled the next day, he didn't like to waste his Sundays work
ing. The Cresswells weren't even clients—yet. They could have come to his office during normal business
hours. He could not remember why he had agreed
to do this.