Misfortune (42 page)
Frances closed her eyes, horrified by the image. “I’m sorry,” she said, although the words felt superfluous.
“I found him the next morning. His determination astounded me more than anything else. He had been so sick, could hardly eat, and yet he managed to secure himself with leather safety straps. The weight of the chair made him sink.”
“When was this?” Frances asked.
Beverly hummed for a moment before responding. “Two years, eleven months, and twelve days ago. I could probably tell you the hours if I thought about it for a moment. What time is it, anyway?”
Frances ignored her question. “Did you talk to Richard and Clio about his death?”
Beverly wiped at her eye with a red-enameled fingernail. “Most of the world was sympathetic, sweet to me. I was the poor wife who had struggled to care for her dying husband, then lost him to a horrible suicide. But Clio and Richard knew what had happened. Dudley apparently told Richard of our discussion, of my wanting to leave, and of our agreement that I would stay for the insurance. At least that’s what he told me in his good-bye note, if that’s what you call it. The fucker…” She shook her head. “His suicide meant the policy wasn’t effective anyway. I would have gotten several million dollars when he died of emphysema, but I got zilch because of his preemptive strike. I guess he got the last laugh.”
Beverly swung her feet to the floor and pushed herself up, wobbling slightly as she stood. Then she moved to a breakfront cabinet against the wall. Bending over, she opened the bottom drawer. “Here, this was what I meant. Dudley’s good-bye. It’s short. You can read it if you want.” She came over to Frances, dropped the single sheet of stationery in her lap, then went back to the butler’s tray to refill her drink.
To my wife
, it began.
To say I wish things could have worked out differently seems trite. I have no intention of minimizing the magnitude of my suffering or the magnitude of my disappointment. We didn’t talk because you couldn’t talk, and eventually neither could I. I hope the shock of finding me will stay with you forever. The hurt you caused me would have stayed with me forever. No one knows of what transpired between us except Richard, who has promised to keep my confidence, not out of respect for you, but out of respect for me. I am proud of our daughter and hope that you and she can help one another in the future. She is a remarkable woman. Tell her I love her. I wish I could say the same to you. I wish our good years together didn’t seem so distant.
Frances reread Dudley’s suicide note several times. She didn’t know what to say. She had never seen such a document and wondered why Beverly would keep it to haunt her. Finally she spoke. “Did you ever talk to my dad, or Clio, about this?”
Beverly shook her head. “What was there to say? They knew my darkest secret. They hated me for it. I couldn’t blame them. I hated myself, too.” She settled herself back on the couch. “I was never going to be able to explain to them that the initial problems, the intractable problems, were created by both of us. That’s something most people don’t understand. I guess it’s easier to pick a side, cast blame, aspersions, whatever, than it is to appreciate the complexity of a marriage, to understand that people are a mixture of good and bad. Clio and Richard saw Dudley as the saintly victim and me as the materialistic bitch anxious to abandon her husband in his hour of need.”
“How did you know they disapproved if you never spoke to them about it?”
“I knew. At first, I got the cold shoulder. I’d hear of their parties, ones that a year earlier I’d have been invited to without question even if Dudley was too sick to accompany me. Before he died, they would’ve found an extra man to sit next to me, but I didn’t get shit afterward. Clio stopped returning my calls. If I invited them to something, she’d tell me they were busy, had plans. It was always polite, but formal. She’d send a note with their regrets, as if we hardly knew each other. After Richard’s stroke, it got worse. Clio started talking, telling people I killed Dudley, even if not literally, that I was responsible for his death, that I’d made the last months of his life miserable. I don’t know whether she relayed the whole business with the insurance, but I assume she did. That’s when virtually all the invitations started drying up. Here I was, alone, and friends that I’d seen for years didn’t call, didn’t include me. The only parties I ever went to were the huge ones, the ones where you invite virtually everyone you know. Those don’t mean anything. It’s not like the hosts care whether you’re there. They just fulfill all their social obligations at once.” She gulped her drink, swilling the liquid in her mouth before swallowing.
“One time, last summer, I planned a dinner. Forty people seated. Engraved invitations, custom tablecloths, the works. I figured I’d splurge and really do things right. You know, have a party that people talk about for at least a few days afterward. One person, or rather, one couple, accepted the invitation. Everyone else said no. And I’d mailed the invitations six weeks in advance. That nearly killed me.” Beverly stared down at her newly filled glass and spoke into it. Her voice seemed magnified. “I wasn’t going to go through that again this year. I decided that after a cocktail party that the Von Fursts threw. I heard Clio had been on a new gossip spree about me. I couldn’t believe there wasn’t room for two of us in this community, and I thought I should try to stand up for myself, establish some boundaries. I knew she wouldn’t return a call, so one day in early June I followed her home from the Fair Lawn Country Club and confronted her in her driveway. Was she surprised to see me! The look on her face, eyes bugged. I actually think she was scared for a moment. But she kept her composure. Invited me in to talk. Clio was honest, I’ll give her that. She told me she thought I was selfish. She loved Dudley and couldn’t accept what I’d done, which seemed even worse to her now that she was dealing with her own husband’s illness. It was an unpleasant conversation. We were both awkward. I was probably defensive and angry. She was smug and self-righteous, you know how she can be. Could be,” Beverly corrected herself. “Like she was the perfect wife. But I felt better about the situation afterward. We sort of agreed to a truce, a moratorium. Our tennis game on the Fourth was the first time we’d spoken to each other since that afternoon. We played tennis. We passed briefly on the porch. And that was the last I saw of her.”
Frances listened to Beverly’s words with a mixture of disbelief and sorrow. What kind of society was this where alienation, or even the perception of alienation, could cause such misery, where the viciousness of rumors could destroy someone? The sick feeling that briefly washed over Frances when, in her sister’s kitchen, she saw invitations to clambakes, baby showers, brunches, lunches, and dinners, all activities in which she wasn’t included, returned to her now. Magnify a thousandfold that sense of isolation from the festivities, and she knew what Beverly had experienced. Frances had been able to rationalize her own exclusion: She lived in Orient Point. She chose to be separate. Beverly had not.
Lying prostrate on the couch, her stockinged feet askew, Beverly looked battered. Her wrinkled fingers with their polished nails clutched the glass of gin.
Frances glanced around the room. There were no pictures of Dudley and only one formal portrait of a girl who must be Deidre, a tall, elegant girl in a debutante’s dress. Above the mantel hung an oil painting of a younger Beverly seated on a blue chintz couch, one of the six that still filled this room. The painting revealed none of the agony that had transpired behind these pink drapes.
Frances realized from Beverly’s labored breathing that she had fallen asleep, her tumbler perched precariously on her chest. Frances got up, pried the glass loose, and set it on the coffee table. Beverly hardly stirred. Frances thought for a moment to leave a note, then decided against it. She could let herself out.
She pulled into the driveway of her house and shut off the engine of her truck. Too tired to move, she debated putting her head against the vinyl seat and sleeping right where she was but realized that would only be worse in the morning. She opened her side door, heaved her legs onto the grass, and, with every ounce of energy she could muster, got herself up the porch.
The enormous bouquet of pale pink sweet pea, white lisianthus, and peach roses made her gasp. It was a loose, whimsical arrangement, as if someone had swept up an English garden in their arms and left it to fill her house with its delicate fragrance. Sam. She had completely forgotten their dinner together, his promise of grilled salmon and homemade strawberry rhubarb pie, an invitation made, and accepted, over orange juice in her front yard. She was more obsessed with following stray threads of her stepmother’s life than in beginning to weave a fabric of her own. She didn’t deserve Sam’s kindness. He didn’t deserve indifference.
Fully dressed, Frances lay on top of her covers, exhausted but unable to sleep. Despite the distances she had covered and the information she had gathered, the day had left her more confused and despairing than any since Clio’s death. All she appeared to be learning was that the wealth, glamour, and etiquette of her father’s Southampton society only thinly disguised a tormented, troubled reality. How it all was connected to Clio’s murder remained a mystery.
Frances’s weary mind wandered, and she remembered Sam’s touch. Involuntarily she shivered at the thought. His disfigured hand had been anything but repulsive. His caress had simultaneously soothed and excited her. But after her conduct this evening, he would be wise to keep his distance.
Frances started to cry. She tried so hard to build up defenses, to protect herself from her own emotions, yet she felt more vulnerable than ever. She thought of her sister’s proposal that she move in with her father. Blair’s suggestion seemed practical, a solution to their predicaments. He needed a caretaker, and she, the unemployed, soon-to-be-destitute daughter, would need a roof over her head; but the idea of resurrecting intimacy from the vestiges of their formality seemed impossible. Their relationship had evolved over thirty-eight years and was unlikely to undergo a fundamental alteration.
Because you refuse to try
, a voice inside her admonished.
And look where that’s gotten you.
F
rances stepped out of the shower and reached for the terry towel draped over the corner of the door. The bathroom had filled with steam and the scent of gardenia soap. Her eyes were puffy from too little sleep, and her back ached, but she felt relieved to be clean. She dried her smooth skin and let herself imagine the breakfast of French toast and sautéed bananas that she was about to fix. Perhaps Sam would accept an invitation to join her, a peace offering.
She heard a loud knock on the front door, then the turn of the lock. The dogs barked.
She grabbed her robe, hurried to the top of the stairs, and leaned over the banister.
“It’s me.” Meaty stood in the entrance, looking up at her. He smiled, although Frances thought it looked forced. She cinched the belt tight around her waist and descended. Felonious and Miss Demeanor surrounded Meaty, their tails wagging. “Good guard dogs you’ve got for yourself,” he remarked, reaching to pat Felonious’s head.
“They can tell you’re harmless,” Frances said. “Do you want coffee? I need some for myself.”
“That’d be great.” Meaty followed her into the kitchen. The percolator had finished brewing. The aroma of strong coffee wafted out of the pot.
“What do you want?” Frances asked as she poured them each a mug. She hadn’t forgotten her last conversation with Meaty and was in no mood to be overly friendly.
Meaty sat at the table. He rubbed his eyes. “Allergies. They’re killing me,” he remarked more to himself than Frances. Then he took a sip of his coffee and grimaced. “That’s gasoline. Do you have any milk?”
Frances got up and opened the refrigerator. She removed the milk and, remembering Sam’s message, checked the expiration date. It still had several days.
“I’ll cut to the chase,” Meaty said, pouring a generous amount of milk into his mug. “I know Malcolm offered you an official position on the investigation and that you turned him down. I also know you’ve been keeping yourself busy trying to solve this murder on your own.”
Frances smiled. Apparently someone had been reporting on her whereabouts.
“As I’m sure you know, we’ve been working round the clock and, quite frankly, getting nowhere. Now that’s between you and me. Malcolm’s pretty anxious to string the press along, make them think we’re about to make an arrest.”
“You don’t have any leads?”
“Nothing to speak of. That’s why I’m here. I thought we might help each other out.”
Meaty’s code for “Tell me what you know,” Frances thought. “Does Malcolm know you’re here?” She needed to know whether this visit was sanctioned.
“Yes. He asked me to talk to you.”
“And what if I don’t want to talk?”
“Then you can just listen for a minute.” Meaty sounded slightly exasperated.
Frances settled back in her chair. “Sounds fair.”
“Detective Kelly, the one you met the day of the murder, he and I’ve interviewed everyone on staff at the Fair Lawn Country Club. The black dishwasher, the guy I told you about, he’s got a firm alibi. He had the holiday off. He and his girlfriend had gone to Shea Stadium for a baseball game. Left around eight
A.M.
and didn’t return until past midnight. Did a little partying, barhopping, on the way back.” He opened a spiral notepad and flipped through several pages. “We don’t have anything linking any of the other staff. Can’t establish anyone who even had a connection to Clio. Nobody saw anything suspicious.”
“You still think there’s something to those hair samples?”
“I know your feeling. You’ve made that perfectly clear, as has Cogswell. Only time I’ve known you two to think alike.”
“Did the lab run any DNA tests?”
“They tried. The techs ran a polymerase chain reaction test. The answer I got was that the testing was inconclusive, possibly because melanin in hair inhibits the PCR process, possibly because the samples were old, or possibly because of external contamination. How’s that for covering your ass? The long and the short of it is we got nothing.” He flipped through several more pages.
