Misfortune (38 page)

“Maybe the police, the investigators, know something you don’t. Maybe Malcolm has information on suspects.”

“Maybe.” Frances leaned back on her elbows and felt the grass tickle her forearms. She wondered silently who that might be, then dismissed the thought from her mind. Meaty would have told her if there was any hard information. “My departure’s probably long overdue. I’ve been there a long time, longer than most line assistants.” She looked at Sam’s face, his furrowed brow, his worried eyes. “Anyway, these guys need a lot more attention than I’ve given them recently. My garden, too.” She paused, looking around. “And there’s Dad to think of.”

“Are you all right? For money, I mean.”

“For a while. There must’ve been a part of me that was subconsciously heading in this direction, because I’ve actually got money saved.” She smiled. “That’s a first. It should be enough to last through year end, I think. Beyond that, who knows.” She forced her tone of voice to sound enthusiastic. “Time to move on.”

“Do you think you’ll leave here?” Sam asked. Frances thought she noted concern in his voice.

She looked behind him at her house. The wooden porch sagged, and several posts in the railing were missing. The shingles on the roof were beginning to come loose, falling off in bits and pieces, with only the underlying black tar paper to protect her from the elements; but otherwise the place looked sturdy. She had replaced most of the windows over the last two years with Thermopane, and the cheery yellow exterior paint masked some of the flaws in the woodwork. Most important, though, it was her home, the only place she belonged, the only place she felt she ever belonged. She wasn’t about to give it up.

“I’m a lawyer after all. I could hang out a shingle. Go into the dreaded defense business. Who knows, enough people I prosecuted are bound to get into trouble again. They might realize my brilliance and come to me.” She winked.

“Wouldn’t it be hard to defend people after prosecuting them for so long?”

“Not really. It’s all a big game, or should I say a crapshoot. Look at O. J. Simpson. The guy gets away with murder, literally, and the prosecutors become millionaires off books and television appearances. Or look at that nanny case up in Boston. The au pair who murders the baby, actually gets convicted, and then walks away with no punishment. She had a fan club in England to return to. Whether I’m prosecuting or defending, either one pays the bills.”

“Aren’t we cynical.”

“You’re the second person who’s told me that recently.” She took a sip of orange juice. “Maybe I’ll take in boarders instead. Run a bed-and-breakfast in beautiful Orient Point,” she mused.

“I don’t see you in the hospitality business,” Sam teased.

“You could do the hospitality part.” Suddenly feeling awkward, Frances looked down and pulled at a blade of grass.

“Anything to help,” Sam said softly. He reached out one hand and laid it on top of hers. She flinched—imperceptibly, she hoped— at his touch but didn’t pull away. His coarse skin felt warm.

The telephone rang. Frances looked toward the house, wondering whether she should answer. Sam squeezed and then released her hand. “It must be Meaty,” she said. “He’s the only person who’d call at this hour. Excuse me.“ She hesitated a moment, then got up and climbed the porch steps two at a time.

“Are you temporarily insane or totally nuts?” Meaty said.

“News travels fast,” she muttered.

“Call Malcolm. Tell him you’ve made a mistake. Tell him you’re under stress. Don’t be an idiot.”

“No.” Frances’s voice was firm. “I’m done.” She was in no mood to be chastised for impulsiveness.

“Stop that. You’re being a brat.”

“You’re entitled to your opinion, but the only thing I’m much interested in is what you found in my father’s office. Or did you think I wouldn’t learn about the warrant you served?”

“Frances, stop. I was going to tell you about that.”

“Save your breath. I’ll see you around.” She hung up. The district attorney’s office could find someone else to pry into her father’s affairs. She would get to the bottom of Clio’s murder, not because Malcolm deserved another feather in his cap, but because her father deserved to know.

Frances leaned against the kitchen counter and looked out the window. On his hands and knees, Sam was weeding around a patch of Shasta daisies to the right of the porch stairs. She watched him work, pulling out the errant shoots between his thumb and pinkie with a dexterity that made the lost fingers in between incidental. She thought of his touch and his arm around her shoulder. Had that been Monday night? So much had happened, she’d lost track of the days. But minutes earlier he had touched her again, more deliberately this second time. Despite Sam’s gentle nature, he wasn’t timid. She liked that.

“A man on his knees. What more could a woman want?” she called out the window.

“How about a man to cook you dinner tonight?” Sam replied without looking up from his work.

“What are you making?”

“Whatever your heart desires.”

Frances smiled. Before she could answer the telephone rang again, and without thinking she reached to pick it up. It was Blair.

“Fanny, are you okay?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Well, it’s just you never answer the phone. I’m used to leaving messages.”

“Well, you never call this early.”

“I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No.”

“Are you all right? Your voice sounds odd.”

Frances didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t bring herself to tell her sister that she had quit. She didn’t feel like dealing with the reaction, the questions, and the fact that Blair was certain to tell Aurelia. That, in turn, would trigger a panoply of frantic calls. The thought of listening to Aurelia’s despair, her dashed hopes to have a daughter who might be a judge, was too much for her first day of official unemployment. Even Blair, who never understood why anyone would want to be a lawyer, was sure to criticize her decision to give up a steady income. “I’m fine,” was all she could muster.

“Well, I’m calling to invite you over tonight. Slightly different company this time. Jake had a business dinner scheduled last night with a client who’s a potential Marco collector. It got postponed and moved out here. This client wants to meet Marco, so they’re coming out together on the four o’clock Jitney. He’s single,” Blair said.

“Marco or the client?”

“Very funny. The client was the one I was offering.”

“No thanks.”

“Why do you say no before I’ve told you anything about him? He’s in his mid-forties, divorced with a ten-year-old daughter who lives with her mother in Arizona, so he only sees her a couple of times a year. He’s successful, has his own company, something to do with computers. He’s trim. He mountain climbs or rock climbs or climbs something or other, I can’t remember, but he has a sweet face.”

“I’m not interested.”

“Come on, Fanny. Live a little. What are you doing tonight that’s so compelling?”

Frances looked out the window again at Sam. His face had turned red from exertion, but his weeding pace hadn’t slackened. “I’m having dinner with a friend,” she replied.

“A friend? Bring her, too,” Blair persisted.

“It’s not a her,” Frances said, pleased to sound mysterious.

Frances piled the few personal belongings that she kept in her office into an empty milk crate. She had been deliberately spare in what she’d brought in over the years. That way, she always told herself, she could just walk out the door at any time. Despite the paucity of personal effects, though, Frances had collected papers, telephone messages, notes, research, and other miscellaneous junk to fill every desk drawer and file in her office. These materials now had to be sorted on the off chance that there was anything of import. Her wastebasket overflowed.

The door opened, and Perry Cogswell’s head appeared. Without waiting for an invitation, he stepped inside and stood with his legs slightly spread, his hands deep in his pockets. “We’re all so sad to see you go. Couldn’t take the pressure?”

Frances pretended to ignore him. She shuffled through a stack of papers.

“Hard feelings about the investigation? Homicide’s awfully hard-core. Doesn’t mix too well with your background. Plus there’s the family issue in this one.”

Frances resisted the urge to leap over her desk and knee him in the groin.

“Well, I’m glad you’ve finally listened to what I’ve been telling you all along. Your heart’s not in this work.”

Frances looked up. “If you’ve come to say good-bye, great. Goodbye. Now it’s been said. Shut the door behind you.”

“I just hope you’ll think of me if you need any professional recommendations for a Wall Street firm. I’d be more than happy to oblige.”

Frances flashed a fake smile and returned to the organizational tasks in front of her.

Moments later she was interrupted again. “I heard you were in the building,” Malcolm Morris said.

“You have good intelligence at work,” Frances replied.

“Fanny, you’re making a huge mistake. Don’t do this to yourself, to your career. Let’s just forget the whole thing.” He seemed irritated.

“All I need to know is who’s replacing me. If you don’t appoint someone fast, I’ll leave my files in a pile.”

“Come on, Fanny.” Malcolm’s tone softened. “I’ve talked to Meaty. Maybe I made a mistake setting up the investigation the way I did. I shouldn’t have cut you out. I thought I was being considerate, giving you and your family room, but I understand now that the best thing for you is to stay engaged, involved. Cogswell and you can work it out, I’m sure. You’re both professionals. Meaty wants your help.” He looked at Frances, but she diverted her eyes, continuing to sort through the stacks of memos in front of her. “Don’t you think we both were a little strong-headed?”

“Actually, I don’t.” Frances turned her pictures facedown in the milk crate.

“Look, even if you’re mad at me, you can’t just walk out on your unit. Your line assistants are hysterical. They look up to you. They rely on you. Kimberly has been in my office this morning nearly in tears because her first trial is coming up. You’re her supervisor. She doesn’t know what to do. And Mark mentioned he’s got some big evidentiary problem that you’d agreed to help him with. You can’t leave these people stranded.”

Frances met Malcolm’s stare. “Don’t make me feel guilty for leaving. There are plenty of people, senior people, around here who can lend a hand.”

Malcolm took a deep breath and sighed. His tone changed. “Fanny, if you need time off, to be with your father, whatever, it’s yours. But you don’t want to quit. What will you do tomorrow when you wake up and have nowhere to go?” He hadn’t anticipated opposition to his proposal. She had never seen this mixture of worry and agitation on the face of the sleek politician.

Frances glanced at her watch. It was not yet ten. “I guess I’ve got the rest of the day to figure that out.”

“Frances.” Henry Lewis sounded startled as he opened his front door to find Frances standing on the threshold. “What can I do for you?”

“May I come in?” she asked.

He stepped back hesitantly, and she entered the house. He looked more rumpled than the last time she had seen him. The tail of his denim shirt hung out of his khaki slacks. The back pocket of his pants was torn. He was barefoot. She noticed that one toenail was completely purple. He beckoned her toward the living room, and she followed in silence. After they were seated, Henry volunteered that Louise had taken the girls down to the beach for a swim before lunch. “I wasn’t in the mood,” he added as if his presence in his own house needed to be explained.

“It’s not the best of days for a swim,” Frances remarked.

“How’s your investigation going?” Henry asked coolly.

“I no longer work at the district attorney’s office,” Frances said.

Henry leaned back and crossed his arms in front of his chest. He had an odd expression on his face. Assuming his complaint to Malcolm had precipitated her sudden departure, Frances couldn’t tell whether he felt smug or guilty for criticizing her to her boss.

“Your discussion with Malcolm about our earlier meeting had nothing to do with it,” she said. She looked for a reaction. Henry showed none.

“What can I do for you?” He seemed to ignore her remark. His voice was flat.

“I wasn’t aware that you were involved in Long Island politics.” Frances tried to sound casual.

“No reason you should be.”

“I understand you’re a big supporter of Malcolm’s.”

“I don’t know about ‘big.’ I think he’s done a good job so far.” Henry stared at her intently, then lowered his voice. “My political views are none of your business. Why don’t you tell me what you want?”

Frances felt her pulse rise. She should have been prepared for hostility, and she silently reprimanded herself for making herself vulnerable. “Do you remember about eight months or so ago that your father-in-law asked for a recommendation of a psychiatrist?”

Henry nodded. “Whom did you recommend?”

“Dr. Fritz Prescott.”

“How did you know of him?”

“I don’t know of him. I know him.”

“How?”

“He’s on staff at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital. He and I were roommates in medical school. He’s a very competent and caring man.”

“Did you know at the time that the referral was for Clio Pratt?”

“I assumed as much. Marshall Bancroft said he had a friend in trouble who needed a professional in grief counseling, preferably a specialty in ‘spousal loss or incapacitation.’ I believe those were his words. Clio was the obvious mystery patient.”

“Were you aware that Clio began to see Dr. Prescott?”

“I was.” Apparently Henry was prepared to make her work for her information.

“How did you know?”

“I ran into her at Columbia Presbyterian. In the lobby.”

“And she told you about it?” That didn’t sound like Clio.

“The first time, no. She tried to pretend she hadn’t seen me. I wasn’t surprised. It’s a sad commentary on our society, but people are still embarrassed to seek psychiatric help. We haven’t gotten to a place where we recognize it for what it is—another form of medical care.”