Suspicion of Guilt (42 page)

"By God, that's impressive!" Ehringer said, hitting the arms of his wheelchair with his open hands. "You've got it almost right."

She clamped her teeth on a retort, then said, "I believe there is more to Easton than that. I believe that certain members of this group have used the trust for their own purposes, diverting money for investment or to influence local politicians. But donations have dried up lately, and there isn't much Easton real estate left to sell. So they planned to murder Althea Tillett and loot her estate. And they would have, if Patrick Norris hadn't seen the will for what it was—a forgery."

Ehringer was tapping his tented fingers slowly on his chin. "A murderer among us? How very gothic! Have you any evidence?"

A tremor danced its way across her chest, as if she were walking into a cellar with only a sputtering candle. She said, "I prefer not to share that information." Which was, she had to admit, half guesswork. She would keep Ehringer guessing as well.

He seemed amused, vastly so. His eyes gleamed. "If I didn't know you for a young woman of intelligence, I would think you had gone around the bend. Who are these conspirators? Tell me that. Irving Adler and Jessica Simms?"

"I think they were lied to. They helped forge the will because they were persuaded that it was what Althea would have wanted. As for others involved . . ." She took a moment. "I'm not sure. However, my mind keeps going to Howard Odell, Rudy Tillett, and Alan Weissman. There may be others. I believe Rudy Tillett knew that Althea had destroyed her will, because he spoke to her a week before she died. Without a will, his stepcousin Patrick would inherit everything. Perhaps he mentioned this to Howard Odell, and they found someone who could be paid to . . . carry out their intentions. Then after it was done—or perhaps before, I don't know— they persuaded Alan Weissman to help them. Weissman and Odell are acquainted, and Weissman needed the money. They found a notary—"

Gail stopped speaking. It had not been Weissman who had found the notary, but Lauren Sontag. Or so Lauren had said.

She turned to Ehringer. "You have to help me. I want you to tell me about these people, what they were doing. Give me something to go on. Larry Black must have found out about it, based on what Althea told him that day she died. What was it? You're a part of Easton. You have to help me find out what happened. If Larry dies—"

"He won't!" Ehringer held up a hand. "My own doctor has spoken to the chief of staff at Jackson Memorial. Larry's chances are excellent."

"Why don't I feel comforted by that?" Gail said tightly. "Didn't Althea talk to you before she died? She would have, if she was worried enough to call Larry Black. Did you speak to her?"

Now both Ehringer's hands were raised. "Good God, woman! Conspiracies among the members of the Easton Trust? Howard Odell plotting murder?
Howard?
I've known the man since he was born. I know his family. It is completely impossible. I do not misjudge character, I assure you."

"Did Althea call you?" Gail insisted.

Ehringer frowned at her. "I was in New York."

"She tried to call you, didn't she? But you returned too late." Ehringer abruptly grabbed his wheels and turned them in opposite directions, whirling himself around. Gail followed. "Or maybe you didn't care to return her call."

He shook a trembling finger at her. "If Althea had needed me, and I had been in the Kalahari Desert, I would have come to her. Yes, she called me. She left a message, but there was no urgency to it. Do not try to make me feel guilty. I am already ... so torn—" He hid his eyes with a hand for a moment, then scowled thunderously up at her. "What are you doing here, Ms. Connor? What is your game?"

"None. This is no game."

"Throwing accusations of murder with no proof—"

"I think I know what Althea wanted to tell you. She argued with Irving Adler over whether Easton should get out of the dirty businesses it's been investing in. You told me last time you'd never heard of Seagate or Atlantic Enterprises. That was a lie, wasn't it?"

Gail put both hands on the arms of his wheelchair and leaned into Sanford Ehringer's stony face. "You know what I'm talking about, don't you?"

"Get to the point," he said.

"I believe that beginning in 1938, when Walton Nash and George Odell formed Biscayne Casinos, the Easton Charitable Trust has derived a portion of its income from such activities as gambling or nightclubs. These businesses produced an excellent return. They were intended to be high class and exclusive, very genteel. But tastes aren't genteel anymore. Now, using one company to shield another, Easton owns adult motels, sex shops, nude bars, and a travel agency where you can arrange vacations of the most exotic sort. As long as the money comes in, nobody wants to admit what's really going on. Their reputations would be ruined! Imagine little Timmy telling the other kids at the country club, 'My daddy owns an XXX movie theater.' So they close their eyes and let Howard Odell handle it."

Through the open French doors, and at the far edge of Ehringer's property, cars on the expressway across the river flashed in the spaces between the tall trees. Rush hour had started, people going home. There was a faint
whoosh
of traffic.

Gail looked back at Ehringer. She said, "Larry Black didn't want our firm to take this case. You tried to pressure me into dropping it, appealing to my ties to your so-called elite. At first I thought you didn't know what was going on, but now I'm convinced you do. I threatened Howard Odell by telling him I would reveal everything to you, and he didn't care."

Sanford Ehringer's shoulders began to shake with silent laughter. "Of course Howard didn't care. I
did
know about these businesses. But you are wrong if you think that the Easton Charitable Trust is involved. It absolutely is not. Most of our members may own shares in certain ... companies, but Easton owns none of them. Oh, what a thought!"

"This is hardly funny," she said.

"But my dear, to find a young person today who believes such activities are shocking! I am not shocked, far from it. If people wish to be amused, leave them alone. You can't stop them, you can only observe. This darker side of our human natures is bred into the bone. We haven't evolved from it yet, and I doubt we ever shall. Read Freud. Read erotic literature in the original Latin, if you want your eyes opened Peruse the Marquis de Sade."

Ehringer's chuckles faded into a long sigh. "No, Althea did not suddenly find out about these dirty businesses, as you put it, and fly into a rage. She'd known for years."

Now his face was as serene as a Buddha. "My advice to you, Gail, is that you look in simpler places for the answers to your puzzles. Yesterday my secretary, Mr. Quinn, spoke personally to the Dade County Medical Examiner, at my request. Irving Adler died of a heart attack, not poison or voodoo. And as for Larry Black—" His heavy head moved slowly back and forth. "Under the sunshine and frolic, my dear, this is a dangerous city."

"What about Althea?" Gail asked sharply. "Give me another easy answer. What happened to her?"

The light from the desk lamp behind him formed a crescent on his hairless head. "Haven't you forgotten someone on your list of suspects? Your client? The man with a hidden streak of violence, the man with a key to Althea's house? Yes, I keep my eye on that case. The police will establish the truth sooner or later. If Althea told Rudy she had destroyed her will, why not tell her nephew? He didn't kill her for a quarter of a million dollars, but for twenty-five!"

Ehringer rolled across his study to the door. "Forgive me if we cut this meeting short. I have heard enough nonsense for a month. You have been duped. Patrick Norris! Damn his perfidious soul."

"He didn't kill her," Gail said.

The chair stopped so quickly the wheels skidded on the floor. He turned it around. "How can you be sure? You haven't seen the man since you were students together."

Gail was frozen for a moment by his icy stare. "It doesn't matter. I know what he's like." When Ehringer continued to look at her, she said, "I know him. That's all."

"You're such a clever woman. You know him." Sanford Ehringer smiled. "Before you go, Gail, let me enlighten you. The S in Easton. It wasn't Fauntroy Simms. He came in later, after the Second World War. The S was Strickland—your great-grandfather Benjamin."

"I don't believe that," Gail said. "My mother would have told me."

He gave an expansive shrug. "Would she? In the short history of this city, the Stricklands walk among the gods. Why, they're right up there with Henry Flagler and Julia Tuttle. How painful to think that one's ancestors belched and farted, like everybody else. Benjamin Strickland was kicked off the board of the Easton Trust in 1942 for indiscretions with the mayor's wife. His son John—your grandpa and my friend—gambled on more than real estate. Rich one day, poor the next. In and out of scrapes with some Italian gentlemen from New York. A dusky mistress in Overtown—well, never mind that."

Gazing across the study at the leather armchair, Ehringer said, "He sat right there, begging me for help. Goodness, this is déjà-vu. You came with him, a little girl, and you played on my carpet while your granddaddy signed a personal note. I lent Johnny half a million dollars. He died of a stroke a month thereafter. I tore up the paper. What could I do? Have your grandma thrown out into the snow?"

Still smiling, Ehringer rolled toward the heavy wooden door. "So, Gail. Meet Mr. Easton. You are not as far removed from him as you may think. Good afternoon."

Chapter Twenty-Seven

After Lauren Sontag's divorce two years ago, she had bought a top-floor condo with a view of Coconut Grove. Gail had been there a few times, so she had no difficulty finding the building. She gave her name to the security guard downstairs, and he phoned up.

Lauren Sontag was in a white satin robe, barefoot. She held on to the door for a second, then smiled. "Well. Look who's here."

"I called your office. They said you were working at home today."

Lauren's blond hair hung straight around her face, and her skin was gray without makeup. "Come in and sit down. Or something."

"You're not feeling well?" Gail asked.

"I'm on a little vacation. Look. Still in my jammies. Can I
fix you a drink?" She held up a short, heavy glass, clinking with ice cubes in pale amber liquid.

"No, thanks."

The apartment wrapped around a corner of the building, a curve of terrace outside with a view south and west. The color scheme was ivory and pastel, with a good collection of minimalist paintings on the walls and lots of windows. Now the curtains were closed, and the air was still and heavy, as if the oxygen were running out.

Lauren's high-arched feet sank into the carpet, and the hem of her robe fluttered behind her. "Let me guess. You came to talk about Althea Tillett's will."

"Yes, I did."

"I thought you would, sooner or later." She veered into the tiled kitchen. Dishes were stacked in the sink.

Gail stood by the door. "I don't know if you heard or not, but Larry Black is in the hospital."

The ice dispenser dropped some cubes into Lauren's glass. "Hospital?"

"He was beaten nearly to death yesterday, and robbed. They don't know who did it. It's bad. He'll live ... at least they say he will."

"Oh, God. Don't tell me that. It's too depressing." A sliver of ice hit the floor. Lauren poured more scotch. "Did I ever meet Larry?"

"At the cocktail party at Hartwell Black last Christmas—"

"I remember. Larry's a nice guy. A little prissy, but he's all right. You and Larry paid a visit to Alan last week. I should have been there to join the fray." She tasted her drink. "He didn't want me there. Alan didn't, I mean."

Lauren snapped off the kitchen light and Gail followed her through the dining area. There was a divider that marked the living room. On the end of it, lit by a tiny spotlight in the ceiling, was the upturned face of a young woman, lifelike in its details. Realistic red roses tumbled from her wild black curls. Her eyes were closed as if in pain or passion, and the lips were slightly parted. The skin seemed to glow.

Lauren gestured with her scotch. "Monica did that."

"Yes. I thought I recognized the style," Gail said. There were words along her cheek, as if the swirling black letters were wayward strands of hair:
I
made a garland for her head, and bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She look'd at me as she did love, And made sweet moan.

"It's very good," Gail said.

"You want it?" Lauren patted the top of the sculpture's head. "It doesn't fit my decor." She crossed the living room and picked up her cigarettes from the coffee table, then reached into a pocket of her robe for her gold lighter. She wore no bra, and her breasts moved under the white satin. "What about the will?" The lighter flamed, then clicked shut.

Gail dropped her purse on the sectional sofa. Beside it lay three pairs of shoes, as if Lauren had stepped out of them on three successive days. "One of the witnesses passed away last night. Irving Adler."

"Alan called me. He said it was on the news this morning."

"I was there," Gail said. "Not when it happened, but just after. My mother and I went to his house. Irving had called her earlier in the day. He told her the will was forged."

Lauren drew in smoke. "What else did he tell her?"

"No details. I saw Jessica Simms a little while ago. She'll break before this gets to trial. And the notary was in New Jersey on August the third, the date you said you got her to sign the will. Lauren, it's all going to come out. I wanted you to know this. You should decide what to do. You and Alan."

Lauren sat on a white leather ottoman and crossed her legs, pulling her robe closed. "Are you feeling sorry, Gail?"

"What?"

"Sorry for what you did in Alan's office. You used me to get to him."

"I am sorry. Truly."

One arm resting languidly across her knee, Lauren smoked her cigarette.

Gail said, "I know how you feel about Alan, but you shouldn't sacrifice yourself for him."