Suspicion of Guilt (20 page)

"Gail, my birthday is next month." Anthony nodded toward a pedestal supporting a machine that seemed to have been crafted from wood. Leaves and tendrils sprang from gears and sprockets. A closer look revealed the wood and leaves weren't real at all, but cleverly made of metal and painted. The machine moved, one part thrusting into another. Words slid across a small video screen: "He shew'd me lilies for my hair, and blushing roses for my brow ..." A small white plaque announced:
Romance. Monica Tillett. $4,500.

"Would you mind terribly if I just bought you a card?" Gail slipped her arm through his. "Although I do like this. Whatever it is."

From the other side of a
divider came loud female laughter. A whoop, really. And then Gail saw a man who seemed familiar. Late forties, good haircut, expensive sport jacket. He veered away from the exit and came in her direction.

He held out his hand. "Gail, how are you? We met downtown last week." He smiled. Perfect teeth, deep voice. "Howard Odell." His collar was open, and he wore a flat gold chain that gleamed sinuously against his neck.

"Of course," she said. "How do you do, Mr. Odell."

"Howard." There was no wink this time. 'Tony, my friend. Haven't heard from you."

"Ah, well. Bad timing."

"Gotta get together." But his attention was back on Gail. "Wonder if I can give you a buzz at your office. Like to chat with you."

"What about?" she said pleasantly.

"Oh ... business. A probate matter you may be involved in."

Anthony said, "Excuse me, there's someone over there I need to speak to." He drifted away, Gail looking after him. "A probate matter, Mr. Odell?"

"Please. It's Howard." He touched his chest. "I'm not a formal kind of guy."

He handed her a
card similar to the one she had seen before. His name was printed in gold, followed by the words, EXECUTIVE DIRECTOR, EASTON CHARITABLE TRUST.

She looked up.

He was smiling. "My understanding is, you've been retained by Althea Tillett's nephew to overturn her will. Gotta tell you, I'm disappointed. Althea left the residuary of her estate to the charity I'm involved with—the Easton Trust. You know, Althea was a great gal. Her biggest joy in life, I'd say, was to help those less fortunate than herself. She wanted to start a
scholarship program for inner-city youth. Week or two before she died, as a matter of fact, she called me up. Said, 'Howard, you know I've always made a provision in my will for the Easton Trust. Here's what I want you to do. You make sure that those kids—' "

Gail broke in. "Excuse me, but who told you I represent Patrick Norris?"

"Rudy Tillett, just now. We're on the Art Deco League together, so I know Rudy pretty well." Odell shook his head. "I said, 'Rudy, you're kidding. What's going on?' But I guess you're the one I should ask."

She noticed his hair—thick brown, a hint of gray at the sides. Perfect. It must have cost a fortune. "What is it, exactly, that you do as director of the Easton Trust ... Howard?"

He laughed softly, a deep rumble. 'Try to separate people from their money and then help the board decide where best to spend it, who can benefit most. So what are we going to do about Patrick Norris? Look, Gail. Your client isn't happy? Let's see what we can do to make him a little happier. Get this thing resolved
tout de suite.
You litigate, it'll be years. And from what Rudy tells me, he and Monica ain't gonna roll over. So let me take you to lunch, we'll talk."

"What you're saying is, the Easton Charitable Trust will pay Mr. Norris not to contest the will. Correct?"

He touched her arm, came in a little closer. "What I'm suggesting—and this makes sense—the trust kicks in, the Tilletts kick in, all the major beneficiaries. Everybody sits down together, works out a reasonable compromise. I'll be glad to make the phone calls."

"No, I don't think so—not unless we're talking some serious numbers."

"How serious you want to get?"

"Do you have any idea, Howard, what the estate is worth?"

"I have a good idea. I also know you don't have much of a case." He looked at her steadily. "Rudy says you think the will was forged. How come?"

"I prefer not to get into that," Gail said.

He came closer, speaking over the noise in the gallery. She smelled breath mints and Polo. "What are you doing, Gail? Althea wanted to give her money to charity, not to taxes. Or to lawyers. She wanted to remember her best friends. And what about the ordinary folks Althea cared about? Her household help, for instance, who faithfully toiled for many years. You going to leave them with nothing?"

She dropped his card into her purse, made a smile. "It was a
pleasure seeing you, Howard. Perhaps I'll give you a call sometime."

He raised a hand, pointing at her. "Be careful, Gail. The media haven't got hold of this yet. Once they do, your bargaining power's down the tubes. What have we got? A lawyer blocking disbursement of money to charity, using the system to jack up a big settlement for a
man the decedent herself thought was a
pain in the ass. I see that Cuban station,
Canal 23,
over at his apartment, talking to the pro-Castro leftists he hangs out with. I see the
Miami Herald
uncovering his conviction for drug possession. You didn't know about that? I bet Norris has a few more surprises for you. That is not a model citizen you've picked for a
client, Gail. You get the community on your back, the judge wonders about that. He has to. Human nature."

"What are you planning, a press conference?"

"It's up to you. You play nice, I'll play nice. Okay?"

Her hands trembling with anger, Gail reached back into her purse, took out his card, tore it in half, then again. The pieces fluttered to the concrete floor. She whirled around and went off to find Anthony, mumbling curses through her teeth, first cursing Howard Odell and then herself for a petty display of rage. From somewhere in the gallery came the same braying whoop she had heard before, followed by a chorus of laughter.

She found Anthony studying a
miniature TV screen mounted in a rosewood box. He held his jacket over his shoulder by one finger in the neckline. Gail wanted to slip up behind him, press herself against his silk shirt, and close her eyes. She glanced at what held his attention so raptly: On scratched and grainy film a
soft-fleshed woman wearing nothing but rolled stockings sank to her knees, hair flowing over her raised arms, mouth opening in a kind of ecstasy.

A slender blond man in a linen suit standing on the other side of Anthony gestured with his wine. "Incredible, what she does with the human form in her art. It's relentlessly genital. Yet there's a delicate spirituality. Do you see what I mean?"

Gail saw Anthony's head turn slowly, slowly. She could imagine the dark glitter in his eyes.

The man smiled. "Do you live on the beach?"

"He's mine," Gail said, speaking around Anthony, taking his arm.

The man looked at her, laughed. "Well, more power to you." He withdrew a card from his shirt pocket and extended it to Anthony. "I'm with an agency. We're in the market for the Mediterranean type. There simply aren't enough good models your age. Would you be interested? It can be quite lucrative."

"No."

The man drew back his card. "Never mind, then." He went away.

Gail pinched Anthony's cheek. "Stop growling. He's right. You are pretty."

"What did Howard Odell want?"

"Oh, Howard. He was being a jerk, threatening me with exposure in the
Miami Herald
as a sorry example of why the American public despises lawyers. I'll tell you later." She laid her head on his shoulder for a second. "I have to go find Rudy and Monica. Then I want a drink."

"What did he say to you?"

"Will you beat him up for me?"

"Gail, this could be serious."

"Yes. I know that. I do know." She let out a breath. "He says Patrick was once arrested for drug possession. And please don't start on how I shouldn't have gotten involved."

"Would you like an investigator to look into this? I could have mine call you."

"It's an obvious lie. Back in law school, I never even saw Patrick smoke a joint."

"And law school has been ... how long ago?"

"God. Poor Patrick. Such trouble. Well, Howard Odell is no saint, is he? You told me he had a friend who was a pornographer. Your client, remember?"

"Not friend, acquaintance," Anthony corrected.

"Oh. Well, forgive me, Howard." She gave Anthony's waist a quick hug. "I'll be back." "Where are you going?"

"To find Rudy and Monica. I'm feeling reckless." "Don't get into trouble," he said.

She smiled over her shoulder. "And don't you get picked up."

Monica Tillett—Gail knew her immediately—was in the center of a group of people. She was a sturdy, square-shouldered woman in black tights and a flowing red blouse. She had brows like blackbird wings over deep-set gray eyes. Her black hair, parted in the middle, sprang in wild curls from her head as if an electrical current had passed through it. Her hands chopped the air as she spoke about the spinelessness of the current art scene.

"We're all scared to offend somebody. Gotta be so correct, don't criticize victims of society. Victims! The victims are discriminating against everybody else! It's an excuse for a lack of talent. You're discriminated against,
ergo
your art is valuable?"

Gail noticed a man taking notes. An art critic? A reporter? How much of this would appear in print?

"Like that fuckin' Whitney Biennial, those buttons they gave out. 'I can't imagine ever wanting to be white.' Hah!" And Monica laughed, a single loud peal. It was she whom Gail had heard before, over the dividers. "Oh, sure. If it doesn't have an agenda, it's not art? Adolf Hitler said that. How art has a duty to uplift. Fuck that. The minute you have an agenda, you start cranking out cliches."

A young woman asked, "But doesn't your own art contain feminist themes?"

"Excuse me? Like it's gotta fit in this little square box? With a label?" Her intense gray eyes, the brows gathering over them like storm clouds, suddenly fixed on Gail. Her words began to slow down. "Look, I don't care what it is. That's the point. It is what it is. Hey, you-all excuse me a minute, okay? I gotta talk to somebody."

Gail involuntarily took a step backward. Monica Tillett walked toward her, shorter by half a foot but moving like a heavy cat, all slit-eyed intensity. She looked up into Gail's face, then whispered, "Jesus effing Christ. I didn't think you'd show up here."

"I could leave."

"What, leave? No." Monica turned, looking for someone. "I guess we ought to talk, right? Hey! Rudy! Check out who's here."

Gail hadn't noticed him before, a brooding man with the same wild black hair as Monica's, though his was cut a little shorter. He was staring sullenly at Gail, rocking back and forth on his heels. He wore jeans and a faded black T-shirt that clung to rippling pecs and biceps.

Monica grabbed Gail's arm. "Come on. We've got a room in the back." Gail looked over her shoulder for Anthony. Monica laughed. "What? We're going to bind and gag you?"

The dusty room, lit by a long fluorescent light, was no more than eight feet square, crammed with canvases, frames, a ladder, boxes, assorted junk. Rudy closed the door and silence fell.

Gail said, "I didn't think you'd recognize me after all these years."

"Why not? Ransom was a small school. You were student council, right? One of those girls that ran things. I remember." Monica laughed. "Cripes. You know what tonight is? My break-out. All these years of busting my buns. And get this. We had somebody from
Art in America
in here earlier. Down on vacation, sort of stumbled in by accident. He said he liked my stuff, and I don't think he was bullshitting me."

"Congratulations."

"Yeah. I'm like so high on this, then you show up."

From his place by the door Rudy crossed his arms. The muscles danced in his forearms. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

After a moment, Gail said, "Curiosity?"

"What do you want?"

Both of them, Gail noticed, had full, red lips, and their blood seemed to be racing just below the surface of their skin.

"Rudy, honey. Chill." Monica sat heavily on a middle step of the ladder. She looked morosely up at Gail. "I know what you think we did. If Patrick told you that, he's demented. Totally out of his fuckin' mind, okay?"

By now Gail had recovered herself. "Can I ask a question?"

Monica threw up her hands. "Yes! What do you want to know? Let's get this done, over." "Who found the will?"

"We did, in Althea's house, the day after she died. She's got a study upstairs and a desk, and we found it in a drawer."

"Why did you and Rudy go through her papers? Patrick is her nearest relative."

"So what? Althea was our stepmother for twenty-two years."

"How did you get in?"

"The housekeeper, Rosa." Monica barked a laugh. "It's our house. We grew up there!"

"What did you do with the will?"

"We took it and a bunch of other papers over to Alan Weissman's office, her attorney."

"You gave it personally to Alan Weissman?"

"No. His secretary, I forget. Whoever was at the front desk."

"Did you read it?"

"Sure. Wouldn't you? I nearly fell over. She actually did what she promised. She gave us our mother's house back. Didn't I say that, Rudy?"

"Yes, and the art." Rudy gazed coolly at Gail. "Althea said we could have it."

"When?"

"Several times. It was understood. It belonged to our parents."

"I thought you and Althea didn't get along." "Who told you
that
lie?"

"Let's say it's a general impression I get from talking to people who knew her." Gail began to feel a little claustrophobic in the cluttered room.

"What an
asshole!"
Monica pitched over, beating her fists on her thighs, then just as quickly she straightened, glaring at Gail. "You know what's going on here, don't you? Patrick is getting his revenge. Okay, fine. We treated him like shit after Daddy let him come live with us. We were
kids."