She replayed Meaty’s questions in her mind. Would Miles Adler really have a motive to kill Clio over ownership of Pratt Capital? She couldn’t imagine that his 43 percent interest wasn’t sufficient to give him everything he needed. Frances tried to remember when last she’d spoken to Miles. She couldn’t think of a time since she had called to tell him of her father’s stroke. She remembered the panic in his voice that Sunday morning fourteen months ago. He had spoken as though Richard were his father. He’d wanted to come to the hospital immediately, and she’d had an awkward time explaining that he should stay home, that the Pratts preferred to be alone. She could tell he was hurt.
Was it possible that Miles’s relationship with Clio was tense? Perhaps Clio resented Richard’s affection for his prodigy, their paternal bond. Clio wouldn’t have wanted a professional relationship to evolve into a replacement of their son in Richard’s eyes. Without thinking, Frances looked up Miles’s home telephone number. Her directory contained few names, and his was the only listing under “A.” She dialed. After several rings a woman’s voice answered.
“Hello?”
“Penny?” Frances asked. “It’s Frances Pratt.”
“Fanny, I just don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry, sorry for Richard, sorry for all of you. Miles and I are devastated.” Penny Adler’s concern sounded genuine. “We were devastated when we heard, and now even more shocked to hear it’s a murder. It’s just awful, beyond awful, unthinkable. I do hope they catch whoever did this.”
“Me too.”
“I was in the hosiery department of Saks of all places, when I ran into a friend who had just seen the news. She told me. I couldn’t believe it was true,” Penny rambled. “We were actually at the Fair Lawn Country Club, staying as guests of Clio and Richard’s. We were supposed to have drinks with them that night. Of all nights to have a cocktail invitation.”
“You were?” Frances felt her pulse quicken.
“Miles had wanted to stay with them, you know, to have a little more time to see Richard. He so loves Richard, but Clio said it wasn’t a good weekend for houseguests. We understood, of course. They don’t need guests on top of all they have to deal with. They put us up at the club. It was very nice.” Penny started to cry. “Oh, I feel so terrible. I wish there was something I could do to help.”
Frances hadn’t seen either of them at the Fair Lawn Country Club on Saturday and wondered where they had been that morning. “Were you at Fair Lawn when they found her?”
“No. Actually, Miles was, but I wasn’t. We had both gone to the beach early, before it got too crowded, but Miles forgot his sunscreen, and you know how easily he burns. He has to wear SPF thirty, at least. He went back to our room. When he returned, he told me what had happened, that Clio was dead, that she had died right there in the clubhouse bathroom and that everyone was frantic. He collected our things, packed our bags on the spot. He seemed out of his mind, distraught like I’d never seen him before. I thought he was going to have a heart attack. He could hardly breathe. He wanted to go back to the city immediately, so I drove us.”
Frances listened, amazed at Penny’s candor. “Did Miles talk about Clio’s death on the drive back?”
“No. He didn’t say a word. He seemed almost in shock.”
“Are you familiar with the terms of Miles and Dad’s partnership agreement?”
“No. Miles doesn’t involve me in any of his business deals.”
“Does Miles have his own lawyer?”
“Yes. Excuse me.” Frances heard Penny put down the receiver and blow her nose. When she returned, her voice was clearer. “Ian Feldman is Miles’s lawyer. He handles everything.”
“Do you know where he works?”
“He’s a corporate lawyer at Stockton and Purvis. On Wall Street. I seem to remember Miles mentioning he specializes in partnerships, business arrangements of some kind, but I’m not sure. I only met him once, myself, when Miles wanted me to sign some papers.”
“I see.” Frances knew of Stockton and Purvis by reputation. Small by New York standards, it had made a name for itself in the eighties representing several parties in high-profile hostile takeovers. It was known for aggressive tactics, although that described most lawyers Frances knew.
“Did you want to speak to Miles?” Penny asked after several moments. “Because unfortunately he’s out of town.”
“Where did he go?”
“Mexico City.”
“When did he leave?”
“On Sunday. It was rather unexpected, but some business deal came up at the last minute.”
“Before or after you went to Southampton?”
“When we got back home on Saturday, he was on the telephone late into the evening. He told me he was leaving the next morning. That he had to go for important business. That’s the way Miles is. He copes with grief by being efficient. I think his primary concern is keeping Pratt Capital going, you know, so that Richard won’t have to worry about that on top of everything else.”
“When do you expect him to return?”
“I’m not sure. I know he wants to be back for the memorial service, but he’s not certain he’ll make it. I sent some flowers to the house. You don’t know if they’ve arrived, do you?”
Frances wasn’t listening. Miles had left town twenty-four hours after his partner’s wife died. What possibly could have been so important? “If you could let him know I called, I’d appreciate it.”
“I’ll give him the message. I’ll see you on Wednesday. If there’s anything at all I can do, please let me know.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” Frances hung up.
Frances quickly called Stockton and Purvis. Ian Feldman’s secretary informed Frances that Mr. Feldman was out of the office. She promised to relay Frances’s name and number when he called in for his messages.
Frances led the dogs outside and settled herself on the porch step. The air had cooled, and the slight breeze soothed her flushed cheeks. The two canines sniffed at smells perceptible only to their astute olfaction as she watched the changing light of dusk and listened to the sound of crickets.
Crossing the street, Sam approached, carrying a basket of potatoes.
“Harvested today,” he said, extending the basket toward her. “You look like you could use some comfort food.”
“My mood is that transparent?”
“How about if I mash you some? It won’t take more than a few minutes. They’re mighty good. Yukon gold. Nothing like a mashed potato to calm the spirits.”
“Thanks, Sam.” Frances smiled. “But I’m not hungry. How about a drink instead?”
“Sure, Miss Fanny. Coming right up.” Sam disappeared inside Frances’s house and returned moments later with two plastic tumblers of dark rum on ice. He hiked up the legs of his khaki trousers and settled himself on the step beside her. They clinked their glasses and sat in silence, sipping their drinks. The strong alcohol burned in Frances’s throat.
“I saw the news. Do you want to talk?” Sam asked after a while.
Frances looked directly into his hazel eyes. His wavy hair fell in all directions, and wisps covered the lines in his forehead that she knew were there. He had sun-browned skin and thin, cracked lips. “I trust you, Sam. I trust you more than anyone I know.” Her voice quivered. She glanced down at his bony ankles, bare feet, and long thin toes with recently clipped nails. “Help me. I can think of a lot of people who disliked Clio, myself included, I suppose, but I can’t think of anyone who would actually kill her, anyone who would risk getting caught.”
“Why do you think it’s someone you know?”
“It had to be someone from her world. I mean, given how quickly they think she died, it had to be someone with access to the Fair Lawn Country Club. No one saw anything unusual. The killer must have literally been one of them.” Her sentence hung in the air. Frances raised her glass, inhaled the scent of rum, and took a sip.
“Did she have a lover?” Sam asked.
“You mean besides my father?”
“Well, since your father’s stroke.” He looked away modestly.
“Not that I know of. Although I’m realizing that I know very little about their life.”
“You know your father loved her. That’s something.”
“It’s odd, though. There are moments, like when I was talking to Meaty about the medical examiner’s report, when I feel like I’m investigating the death of a total stranger. And then someone will say something or make a reference, and I’m reminded that this person was a part of my family, that my dad is devastated, that none of us will ever be the same.”
“You know as well as I do that you shouldn’t be on this case.”
“You sound like my boss. Malcolm’s doing everything possible to keep me away.”
“Can you blame him?”
“No. But whether I’m on this case formally or not makes no difference. All I have to do is close my eyes and see Dad’s face, his eyes, to know that I’ve got to find her killer.”
“Finding out who killed her is not going to change that sadness.”
“I know, but at least I’ll give him an answer.”
“Give him or yourself ?”
“Both of us, I guess.”
“Why does that matter to you so much?”
Over the past two days Frances had wanted to be in control, but she was slipping. At that moment she felt like a lost child, scared, vulnerable, and desperate to get home. Was it possible to explain to Sam that if she solved the crime, if she did something special for her father, it might make up for their years of relative estrangement? Could he understand that her drive to find Clio’s murderer might be a mission to lead her back into the warmth of her father’s embrace? Such thoughts were irrational, she knew, and she felt ashamed to speak them aloud.
Tears filled her eyes, and she looked up at the sky, hoping to keep them from spilling out. Sam put his arm around her, and she could feel the firmness of his muscles against the top of her back. She turned her head away from him and stared at his hand resting on her shoulder, the two scarred stumps of flesh. He had lost his fingers in a tractor accident, working corporate fields in Washington State.
“Can I ask you something?” she said.
“You can ask me anything.”
Frances felt his grip tighten slightly on her shoulder. “Do you ever miss your fingers?”
“Not much anymore. I’m not surprised like I used to be when I look down and see that they’re gone. Although I do miss wearing my wedding ring. Rose wouldn’t like that one bit.”
Frances laughed quietly at his humor. Sam had been a widower since before Frances had met him, and he rarely spoke of his late wife, who died after a brief illness at the age of thirty-eight. My age, Frances thought. Sam had come east after her death. With the money that workers’ compensation paid for his lost digits, he’d bought himself the small potato farm where he now lived.
“Rose insisted that men should wear rings, too. ‘Why should married men waltz around with nothing to show their status? Only gets ’em into trouble,’ she used to say.”
For the second time in as many days, Frances recalled her own engagement. On the carousel in Central Park, Pietro had proposed. He had climbed up on the bobbing painted horse that Frances rode, put his arms around her, and showed her the ring in his hand, too garish for her taste, a huge emerald-cut diamond that cost more than she now earned in a year. She’d never put it on, just watched him hold it as it reflected the colored lights. They had whirled around in circles with circus music playing.
“You know, maybe I could use those mashed potatoes after all,” Frances said, turning to face Sam.
Sam smiled again. Together they went inside. The many questions surrounding Clio’s death could wait until tomorrow.
M
alcolm wants to see you,” Sue muttered as Frances walked past the secretarial station toward her office at the end of the hall. Frances didn’t stop. Sue won the prize for worst secretary in the world. She couldn’t spell, couldn’t type, couldn’t articulate, and rarely transmitted a telephone message or number accurately. Given that Sue snacked without interruption, the few documents Frances did ask her to prepare were returned covered with fingerprints, food stains, or grease. Sue used her limited mental power to calculate and recalculate the number of vacation days she had accumulated.
Frances set her briefcase on her desk and picked up the telephone to dial his extension.
Malcolm Morris answered on the third ring. “I’ll be right down,” he informed her before she even said hello. Apparently caller identification had eliminated the need for introductions or pleasantries.
True to his word, Malcolm appeared on the threshold of Frances’s office moments later. His dramatic figure nearly filled the threshold where he stopped and leaned against the door frame. A college quarterback who still ran six miles every morning, he kept thirty-pound dumbbells under his desk so that he could lift weights in his office. His deep brown eyes shone out from his tanned forehead and wide cheekbones. Underneath the flourescent overhead lighting, his silver hair looked almost blue.
“What’s the story with the Bryant case?” he asked.
Bryant.
It took Frances a moment to remember the name. So preoccupied had she been the last seventy-two hours that her investigations had been forgotten. Andrew Bryant, whose palatial home across the street could be viewed from several of the dirt-encrusted windows of the Suffolk County District Attorney’s Office, was chairman of the local Democratic committee and had backed Malcolm’s opponent in the last election, John Wetherbee. With high hopes of attracting the attention of people in the national Democratic machine, Bryant had done what so many wealthy political contributors do: funneled money in excess of legal limits to his candidate through his children, relatives, and household servants. The New York State Ethics Commission had referred the case for criminal prosecution while it simultaneously pursued its own investigation and sanctions. Malcolm had been particularly vehement that Bryant be indicted since the file first arrived in the office.
“You know, Malcolm, I’ll be perfectly honest with you,” she said, pleased that even under the circumstances the details returned to her. “Bryant was stupid, but he didn’t do anything that thousands of others haven’t done, including some of your own contributors, I’m sure.”