Suspicion of Malice (16 page)

Feeling his neck getting hot, Ted thought about
what to say. He wondered if Porter had gone crazy.
He wondered what would happen if he got up and went back to work. Both the brothers were looking
at him, Porter from behind his big desk, Dub with
his fat belly and booze-red face. Ted nodded. "Yeah. It's clear."

Then he stood up and said if there was nothing
else, he had to get back down to the shop. He was reaching for the door when somebody knocked, and
it opened. He had to dodge out of the way.

Nikki Cresswell came in, walking like she was about to fall off her high heels. Her eyes were red,
and her mascara was smeared. Porter's secretary was
right behind her. "I'm sorry, I
told
her you were in a meeting, but she wouldn't wait."

Claire put aside her magazine. Dub started to get
up.

"No, don't bother," Nikki said. "I'm not staying. I
just came by to talk to Porter, but it's lucky you're
here, Dub, because you might be interested in this.
Wow. Ted's here too. Maybe I should put a notice on the bulletin board." She made a little laugh.

Porter said, "What is it you want, Nikki?"

"I have to sell Roger's shares in the company as
soon as possible." Nikki sounded like she had a cold.
"Roger was so far in debt. I mean, I had no idea.
He didn't even have life insurance, or retirement, or
anything like that. I don't have enough to get by on
till the probate goes through. Anyway, the shares are for sale. No reasonable offer refused!"

Silence. Everybody looking at her. Ted Stamos knew he ought to slide on out the door, but this was
too good.

"Porter, you ought to buy them back, then you'd have more than Dub again. If Dub buys them, he'd have almost sixty percent." Nikki made a big smile in Dub's direction. "Think about that. You'd be in control. Or maybe I'll sell them to the employees."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Porter de
manded. "You have no interest in this company."

"Yes, I do. The lawyer handling the estate said that
since Roger didn't leave a will, anything he had is now mine."

"Are you crazy?" Porter laughed. "Those are
my
shares. You don't own any part of this company.
Jesus. It can't be inherited by spouses or sold piece
meal to outsiders. Dub's and my father set up the
business to make sure it stays in the family. Roger
knew that. He should have explained it."

Nikki's mouth was open for a few seconds before
she said, "What?"

Claire murmured, "Porter, please. Not now."

A stiff forefinger accented Porter's words. "Pay attention, Nikki. Children inherit, spouses don't. You
have
no interest
in this company. None.”

"No! Wait, that's not true. Roger said he owned ten percent of the company, and his shares were
worth twenty million dollars!"

"You've got
nothing,
don't you listen? I told Roger he was making a mistake to marry you. Gold digger.
My son's warm in his grave and you're picking his
bones."

"Don't you dare say that!" She clenched her fists at her sides. "I loved Roger! You never did. You treated him like dirt. All his life, nothing was ever
good enough—"

"Go on. Get out of my office, you sleazy little tramp."

Claire was trying to calm her down, and Nikki was batting her hands away. "You can't do this. It's a lie!
I'm going to see a lawyer!"

"Go ahead, see your lawyer. See what you get."
Porter was laughing.

"You dried up old fuck. I hope you
die!
I hate you
all!" She backed toward the door. "You're going to be sorry, I swear."

When she slammed the door, the wood paneling
on the wall shook.

The Cresswells looked at each other. Dub finished off his drink and squeezed the can flat in the middle. "Well, well."

Ted Stamos said, "I've got to get back downstairs."

Porter pushed out of his chair, stumbling a little,
then standing upright, straightening his jacket.
"How'd she get in? I want security notified. She isn't
allowed in here. Did you hear what she said? That
little bitch. I came back to work one day, just out of the fucking hospital, and she's sitting on Roger's lap
in my chair, and they're talking about what they'd
do when I was dead. Well, I didn't die, did I?
Greedy. Both of them. Sharp as a serpent's tooth— what'9 that quote, Claire? A child's ingratitude is like
a serpent's tooth . . ."

At the door Ted glanced back into the office. Porter's wife was looking out the window as though this wasn't happening. She could probably see a yellow
Porsche tearing across the parking lot.

Ted Stamos and the other production supervisors—
engines, electrical, and mechanical—had offices over
looking the floor of the main assembly building,
where the boats were constructed. Two lines were pulled along like circus elephants hooked together, sixty-to-eighty-footers on one side, smaller boats on the other. The lines began where layers of fiberglass were laid into molds for the hulls. Hoists ran overhead to lower the decks, shafts, and engines. Steel scaffolding supported a wood floor at gunwale level, workers going back and forth. Carpenters, plumbers,
electricians, engine mechanics. Each team in a differ
ent color T-shirt. Every boat made by hand. Up to three months per boat.

When a boat reached the end of the line, a high-
lift would carry it to a slip and lower it into the
water. Someone from Cresswell would take it a few miles out in the Atlantic with a rep from the engine
manufacturer and run it wide open. Assuming no
bugs, the boat would be trimmed out with carpet,
furniture, and audiovisual systems, then trucked or piloted to the buyer.

The main building was open at both ends, metal
roof on concrete I-beams. If Ted stood on the catwalk
at the east end, he could see the narrow Miami River, lined with rusty freighters, snaking toward the buildings downtown, a couple of miles away. Below him,
spread over ten acres and bounded by chain link
fence and cyclone wire, were the various warehouses and shops at the Cresswell yard: the wood shop with stacks of fine teak, cherry, and maple; a metal shop
with lathes and bandsaws and racks of sheet metal, rods, and pipes; and storage areas for galley equip
ment, heads, and shower stalls; sonar, GPS, and shortwave radios; bait tanks, fuel tanks, drive shafts,
propellers, portholes, dozens of rolls of fiberglass,
and hundreds of miles of cables and wiring.

Ted spent as little time as possible in his office. He preferred to be on the floor with the men. Sometimes
he'd pick up a wrench, or get inside a hull with a
resin gun, or tinker with a new cabinet design. His father had said,
If you act too much like a boss, the men won't care about nothing but the -paycheck.

Whenever Ted needed to think, he would go to his
father's workshop. He still called it that, although
Henry Stamos had been dead for fifteen years. It was
a small room, twelve feet square, around a corner
from the wood shop, where the big saws and routers
and planers were located. Henry had used the work
shop for putting together smaller pieces, like fine built-in cabinetry.

Henry's tools still hung on pegboard above the
scarred workbench. A step stool with peeling red paint was pushed underneath. Henry had made it
over thirty years ago so his son could stand on it
and watch him work.

Charlie Cresswell had talked about giving Henry
a piece of the company, but never did, and Henry
wasn't the kind of man who would push. Time went by. Charlie was killed in a boating accident, and the company went to his sons. Then Henry got cancer— too many years breathing acetone. He'd not left much
more than his carpentry tools, and Ted wasn't sure
who they belonged to—him or the company. Until
recently it hadn't mattered. Then Roger Cresswell
asked why the hell that room was locked. He wanted
it opened and cleaned out. Ted asked him did he
want his teeth readjusted.

After getting the hell out of Porter's office, Ted headed for the workshop. He closed the door behind him, pulled a high stool over to the bench, and sat down. He had a portable phone on his belt if anyone needed him.

The conversation with the Cresswells weighed on
Ted's mind, and as he sat there he mulled it over. What bothered him most, he decided, was that he'd
just been reminded of who he was. A hired worker.
An employee. Porter could go back on his promise
to put him in charge of the floor. He could be let go.

Ted knew he could find other work if he had to,
but that wasn't the point. He had almost twenty
years in this job. That meant something. The people
who meant something were here. Ten years ago his ex-wife had remarried and gone to Ohio with their
two daughters, teenagers now. He sent cards, and he
paid child support, but they rarely wrote back, and
for the most part, he had put them out of his mind.

Being president of the company meant that Porter
Cresswell could do what he wanted, fire anybody
who pissed him off. He could turn the business over to anybody, even a blue-eyed golden boy who didn't
have shit for brains.

Roger had talked about saving money. No more teak or cherry. Panel the interiors in reconstituted
wood with plastic veneer. Recon wood was a fraction
of the price. In a meeting on that topic Ted had said
it would turn the Cresswell name into a seagoing
joke. Roger had backed off. Then Roger decided to
make a new hull mold in four days. It could have
been done, but Roger told the men to lay down the
next layer of glass when the previous layer hadn't
yet hardened. The mold crinkled and was ruined.
Worse, it ruined the plug—the form underneath. Pro
duction was set back for weeks.

Roger had blamed the men, who should have
known. He'd blamed Ted Stamos, who stood by and
let it happen.
You're trying to fuck me over, aren't you,
Stamos?
Ted had known that sooner or later, Roger
would get even.

There wasn't a Cresswell in the bunch worth a
damn. Something bad in the family. Except for the girl, Maggie. The one who had killed herself a few
years ago. Ted was only surprised that she'd lasted
as long as she had. He'd known her once, way back. How the hell old had he been? A teenager, anyway. She'd been a quiet girl with long honey-brown hair. Sweet as honey too. He'd told her that, first time he'd kissed her.

The Cresswells had lived in Miami Shores, a big two-story white house with columns. Ted knew his
way around power tools even at that age, so Henry
had sent him over to build a deck and trellis. Ted
had worked stripped to the waist, and he'd seen
Maggie's face at the window. Finally she came out with some iced tea, and things progressed from there over the next couple of weeks. Then her brother saw
them together and told. Porter grabbed Maggie by the arm and dragged her away. Called Ted a piece
of trash and ordered him off his property. That night,
Henry had said to leave the girl alone, don't make
trouble with the boss. Ted had hated that most of
all, his father caving in. Now he was older, he understood. So Ted had stayed away from Maggie Cresswell. He thought about her sometimes. How if they'd
stayed together he might be running this company.

Ted reached across the workbench and took a
wood plane off its hook. The steel blade and the box were still shiny under a light coating of oil. The hick
ory handle was dark where his father had touched
it. Henry Stamos's big hands had been raspy as sandpaper, thick with calluses, wrinkles criss-crossing leathery skin. There had been a fading tattoo of an anchor and flag on his right hand, and his left index finger was nicked off at the first knuckle. He could
turn a sheet of teak into a galley table in less than two hours, all the lines straight and true.

Henry's people had been sponge fishermen. They'd come from Greece to settle just north of Tampa, and they'd fished the Gulf. Henry had met Charlie Cress
well in the Navy, then moved down to Miami when
Charlie needed a marine carpenter. He wanted to
make good boats. Build them right. That still had to
mean something, even these days.