Vultures at Twilight (8 page)

Finally, he spoke. ‘I think I would like my attorney.'

Detective Perez nodded, and with what could have been a spark of compassion in her voice. ‘Yes,' she said, ‘that would be best.'

EIGHT

A
da fumed as she reread the bottom-line figure on Mildred Potts' handwritten offer that had arrived in the morning mail. ‘Twenty-five thousand dollars! She should be shot!' Sitting at her kitchen table she reviewed the evaluation, wondering if a zero had been omitted.

It wouldn't have been so bad if either Mr Jacobs or Mr Caputo had gotten back to her. Neither had returned her calls, after assuring her that they'd get her at least a verbal quote within twenty-four hours. It was now Thursday and the twenty-four had turned into forty-eight. Caputo, she'd been told by his answering machine, was on the road and wasn't expected back till the middle of next week.
And he can't leave a cell phone number?
And Tolliver, who had seemed so pleasant . . . not a word. His secretary, probably sick of her calls, but promising ‘he'll get back to you just as soon as he can.'

She wanted out of this mess, and the nasty calls from Evie's heirs. Each one more eager than the next to have the estate liquidated. She was sick of them, the subtle threats, and the not-so-subtle attempts to flatter and ingratiate. It nauseated her.
Is this what it's all about? Relatives fighting over the remains? Is this it?

At least that Potts woman had gotten back to her. It would almost serve them right if she accepted the offer. She wouldn't, of course, but the thought gave her a needed chuckle. The worst part was now she had to get quotes from another dealer or two.

She thought of Delia Preston from Nillewaug, who had provided her with a list of antique dealers. ‘I keep lists of everything and everyone,' she'd remarked.
Bet she gets a kickback
, Ada mused as she fished through her bag for Preston's card.

A knock came at the door. Followed by the bell.

‘Coming,' she said, hoping it was Lil, but still checking the peephole. She'd lived in New York too many years to dispense with that basic caution. She was shocked to see her grandson, her attention riveted to an angry black-and-blue over his right eye. ‘Aaron,' she said, opening the door. She hugged him tight, noting his black knapsack on the ground, how thin he felt, and the fact that it was too cold to not be wearing a jacket. ‘What happened?'

He shrugged and winced. ‘I ran into a wall.'

She grabbed on to his shoulders. He was a good head taller; she stared into his dark hazel eyes. ‘Tell me the truth, Aaron Matthew. Who did this?'

‘Grandma.' He stepped back. ‘What do you think happened?'

‘I don't know,' she said, formulating a number of hypotheses, most of which involved her son-in-law, Jack Gurston. ‘But come in. And why aren't you wearing a jacket?'

‘You talked to Mom?' he asked, ignoring her question.

‘Yes.'

‘What did she tell you?'

‘That you and your dad weren't seeing eye to eye on some things.' As always careful to not let her true feelings slip about her son-in-law.
If he hurt you I'll kill him.

‘That's a laugh,' he said, then changed the subject. ‘Got anything to eat?'

Ada smiled.
Yes, let's pretend everything's normal, but I will find the truth
. ‘Come with me.' He followed as she went into her galley kitchen and foraged through the cupboards, looking for suitable sustenance for a sixteen, almost seventeen, year old. As she inventoried her on-hand food, she was struck by how erratic her dietary habits had become. Aside from large-curd cottage cheese, a head of iceberg lettuce, Danish butter cookies, cartons of blueberry and pomegranate juice – high in anti oxidants – and a half loaf of twelve-grain bread – which reminded her of eating birdseed – her pantry was bare.

‘Wait a minute.' She opened the freezer. ‘I have ice cream and . . .' She knew it still had to be there. ‘Hershey's syrup.'

Aaron laughed. ‘I'm not five.' But he didn't resist as she spooned out generous bowls of Ben and Jerry's and squirted bursts of chocolate syrup over the top.

‘So what happened?' Ada asked, taking inventory of her tall, sandy haired grandson in his skinny jeans, sneakers and baggy tee. With his hazel eyes and even features, she had a moment's hesitation and surge of pride;
he's turning into a really handsome man.

‘I told you,' he insisted.

‘You told me something. Are you hurt anywhere else? And how did you manage to
run into a wall
?'

‘Jeez! You don't let up,' he said, avoiding her gaze and wolfing down ice cream. ‘Dad and I were fighting, and I wasn't looking where I was going; I ran into the glass shelves in the living room. It's no big deal.'

‘Hmm.' Observing how his story had just shifted from the wall to shelves, and that yes, somehow Jack was behind this;
you bastard!
‘Have things quieted down, or is that why you're here?'

‘I had to get out of there, and Mom said you told her I could stay here.' He glanced up expectantly.

Ada swallowed back any criticism, any
you could have called first
or
does your mother know you're here?
Looking at his handsome, albeit marred face, something melted; it's not just that she loved him unconditionally, but that in his eyes, the angle of his jaw, even the way he flicked his too long bangs off his forehead she caught traces of her own brothers at that age, and from certain angles her grandfather, Morris, a man who by all accounts was too handsome for his own good. ‘Of course you can stay, but we'll need groceries.' Then she caught herself. ‘Wait a minute; what about school?'

‘I've got my car. I can drive.'

‘Right,' she said, ‘you're not five.' There were so many things she wanted to ask.
Are you really gay? How could you possibly know when you're so young? Did your father do that to you? What aren't you telling me?
Never one to hold her tongue, Ada was filled with trepidation. She pictured Lil, with her even features and soft brown eyes and how the feelings she had for her friend had progressed beyond . . . friendship. It had taken her decades to even entertain such a notion, how could he possibly know at sixteen?

‘What?' he asked.

‘It's nothing,' she replied, figuring if he were going to tell half truths about his father and whatever else was going on she'd do the same. And so they passed a companionable afternoon, playing Scrabble, finishing the ice cream and then taking a trip in Aaron's not quite vintage, and not quite restored blue Mercedes diesel sedan to Costco, Ada's favorite store.

NINE

T
olliver felt numb and not quite real as he pushed the unanswered stack of phone messages from one side of his desk to the other. A tsunami was overtaking his life; if he didn't put his business into order, everything he and Philip had built would be swept away. He imagined that the police would charge him with Philip's murder. After all, people are usually killed by those closest to them.

His attorney, Richard Thompson, III – Dick to his friends – had assured Tolliver there was nothing to worry about. ‘There's no hard evidence,' he'd said. ‘Nothing to connect you to the scene of the murder. I mean, hell, they're not even certain
where
he got killed.'

Tolliver fanned the messages over his leather blotter. He picked one at random; it was Ada Strauss calling to get his quote.

How long ago that seemed, but it had only been two days; Tuesday, almost a lifetime. He remembered the two women and the translucent Hassam painting with its idealized images of beautiful Victorian ladies in pastel dresses at a seaside picnic. It was worth a fortune, and not the kind of thing he'd normally let slip through his fingers. ‘Just pull it together,' he told himself as he picked up the phone and dialed.

‘Hello,' a woman's voice answered.

‘Mrs Strauss?'

‘Yes.'

‘This is Tolliver Jacobs; I came by earlier this week to look over an estate.'

‘Of course, Mr Jacobs. Not to be rude, but you'd said you'd get back to me yesterday. I'd begun to think you weren't interested.'

‘I'm sorry.' His voice echoed in his head. ‘Things have been a little crazy.'

‘I hope everything's OK,' Ada remarked.

‘It's good of you to ask. To be honest –' and he wasn't sure why he continued – ‘things couldn't be worse. You see, my partner was found murdered.'

‘In Grenville?'

‘Yes.'

‘How horrible for you.'

‘It is. It's the most awful thing I could have imagined.' He held the phone to his ear and said nothing, having forgotten why exactly he had called. ‘Oh right,' he said, looking at the pink message in his hand. ‘About the estate . . .'

‘Are you sure you want to do this now?' Ada asked. ‘I hadn't realized. Obviously this can wait, or . . .'

‘I don't know what I'm supposed to do,' he said, staring at the message slip. ‘They can't release the body, and his parents couldn't get a flight till Saturday. I'm sorry, I'm rambling. I think work may be what pulls me through this. It's the only thing that feels half normal right now.'

‘You could be right,' she agreed as she reeled from what he'd just told her.

‘Good, let me look at my notes.' Finding comfort in the routine, he glanced through his three pages of jotted impressions. ‘You'll have to forgive me, but usually I write these things up. I just haven't gotten around to it. OK, now without the painting, which I would strongly recommend consigning to a New York auction, I could go one hundred thousand for the entire contents.'

Ada paused. ‘I know this is the wrong time,' she said, ‘but I'm curious as to how people arrive at their figures.'

‘Everyone does it differently. Basically, I add it all up and divide by four,' he said being more blunt than he'd ever been.

‘So twenty-five cents on the dollar?'

‘Yes. If it were all antiques I might go as high as thirty or even thirty-five cents, but where there's a lot of household goods, it takes more man hours to realize less money.'

‘That makes sense,' she agreed. ‘I was in retail for years. Let me ask you this: is your quote firm, or do you have anywhere to move?'

In spite of himself, Tolliver smiled. ‘How much movement?'

‘Well,' Ada continued, ‘I was thinking more like one fifty, without the painting.'

‘I'll go halfway,' he countered. ‘One and a quarter, but that's it, especially with the economy being what it is.'

‘That's close to what I was thinking, so yes,' Ada agreed.

After they hung up, Tolliver removed all three of her messages. It made the pile less bulky and he felt a small sense of accomplishment. As he flipped through the others, there was one among the dozen that caused his gut to churn. ‘
We had been having problems,
' he had told the intense detective, unable to tell her more.

He reread the message:

 

To: Mr Jacobs

From: D. Preston

Re: What we discussed.

He hated everything the message implied; all it meant, all of the changes that had crept into the business, a rot that he'd allowed to happen. He knew that he would have to get back to her; he was in too deep, both he and Philip;
is that why this happened?
Unable to think of any reason why someone would hurt his beautiful Philip.

Was it this?
Over the last few years, the playing field of local dealers had changed. Strange affiliations and tacit agreements had sprung up creating questionable alliances as everyone jockeyed for shrinking inventory.

Yes, he thought – picturing Detective Perez – we were having problems. And motivated more by fear, than by anything else, he called Delia Preston.

TEN

I
waited in Ada's front hall as she and Aaron got ready. Pretending to fix my face in the mirror – hair twisted up into its habitual bun, a bit of lipstick – I glanced into the living room, hunting for traces of Ada's face in her grandson's. His black and blue made that difficult, and I had the good sense not to ask questions. I also knew that Ada would fill me in on the details later.

It felt good to see her focused on something other than Evie's estate or her mother's proposed move to Nillewaug. She fussed over Aaron, trying to get him to put on a garish knit cap and scarf she'd made.

‘Are you ready?' I asked, buttoning my chocolate brown leather coat.

‘I am,' said Aaron as he joined me hatless in the hall. ‘I'm not wearing this,' he said, stuffing the red, green and orange stocking cap into the pocket of his navy blazer.

‘It's a little loud,' I agreed, ‘but remember, there are few people in this world who will ever love you enough to actually knit you something.'

‘I know,' he said, his voice low, ‘but next time see if you can't get her to pick better colors. Black is good. And ditch the pompoms.'

‘I'll see what I can do,' wondering why he thought I'd have input into yarn selection. We watched as Ada made the circuit of her condo, turning out lights and checking to make sure her electric teakettle and shredder were unplugged. I'd seen her do this so many times, it seemed dance-like, and bordered on obsessive.

‘I know I'm forgetting something,' she said. ‘You sure you wouldn't rather I fix something?'

Aaron shot me a glance, which let me know he had few illusions about his grandmother's culinary skills. Ada had many talents, cooking was not among them.

‘No,' I said. ‘We're going. My treat.'

‘If you insist.' She joined us at the door. ‘And don't you look nice,' she commented and proceeded to pinch her grandson's cheek. ‘What did you do with that hat? It's Merino wool; I made it myself.'