Richard Patterson - Fall from Grace

Turning, he shuffled up the steps, his shoulders slumped, unhappy to retreat inside.

Once more Adam gave up his keys and wallet to pass through the magnetometer, then spent an obligatory minute in the men’s room parsing his troubled thoughts. As he left, he glanced into the room containing the TV monitor and committed the name and make of the security system to memory.

On the courthouse steps, Adam saw a sturdy figure in the uniform of a police officer. His instant impression was of a body bound to thicken, already straining the blue shirt, its torso almost as broad as the man’s thick shoulders. Then he saw the man’s features-blue eyes, caramel-colored hair, a round, amiable face that hinted at perpetual puzzlement, as though something were about to surprise him. Smiling with his own surprise, Adam experienced in miniature what a high school reunion must feel like.

“Bobby?”

Bobby Towle stopped abruptly, gazing at Adam until an answering grin spread across the broad planes of his face. “Adam Blaine,” he said, and gave Adam an awkward hug. “My God, how long has it been?”

“A while,” Adam replied. “I think the last time was at a beach party. But you may not remember.”

Bobby’s grin was rueful. “I was with Barbara, right?”

“The beautiful Barbara,” Adam amended. “What happened with that?”

The smile diminished. “We’re still together. Married, in fact.”

“Can’t blame you a bit. It’s Barbara I wonder about.”

Bobby shifted his weight. “What about you?”

“Single. I’ve become a world traveler, which gets in the way.”

“Not a lawyer?”

“No.”

Bobby appraised him. “At least you look the same,” he said, patting his stomach. “No fat on you. Maybe a little older, and a little meaner.”

Beneath his guilelessness, Adam remembered, Bobby had an instinctive gift for grasping essential truths. “Not you, Bobby. Not even in uniform. You’re a cop, looks like.”

“Chilmark Police.” Bobby grimaced a little. “Sorry about your dad.”

“Thanks.” Adam paused for an appropriate moment, then rested a hand on Bobby’s shoulder. “Why don’t we meet for a drink somewhere. Or don’t you do that anymore?”

A faint look of hurt surfaced in Bobby’s eyes. “Not as much, nowadays. But, sure, I’ll tip a couple of beers to keep you company.”

“Great. The Kelley House still open?”

“Definitely.”

“Check with Barbara, then, and give me a call.”

Bobby hunched his shoulders. “Tomorrow night’s fine. Say eight o’clock?”

Something was wrong at home, Adam felt sure. “You’re on, Bobby. We can replay the last touchdown in the Nantucket game. You really crushed that guy.”

Driving home, Adam wondered about Bobby Towle, and felt a twinge of conscience for his intentions. Sometimes that still happened, even in Afghanistan.

Promptly at six, the time once mandated by his father, Adam had dinner with his mother, Jack, and Teddy. At first he did not say much, nor did anyone mention that Clarice had prepared Benjamin Blaine’s favorite dinner-lobster and Caesar salad, with a bottle of Chassagne-Montrachet.

Facing Adam across the table, Jack said, “I sense you have something to tell us.”

“Several things. I read the will this afternoon. It’s been a while since I studied estates and trusts law, so I’m no expert. But I think Mom can attack it.”

Teddy glanced at Clarice, then told Adam dryly, “Then you’ll be glad to know we’re seeing a real lawyer.”

“Good. So let me suggest what he might look at.”

“Please,” his mother interposed with a trace of humor. “I’d like to think that year at NYU wasn’t completely wasted.”

This touched a sore point, Adam knew-for his mother, the pain of his abrupt departure was deepened by his failure to pursue a career for which he seemed well suited. Facing her, he said, “First there’s his behavior-whether caused by brain cancer or something else. That calls into question his mental capacity to execute a valid will.” Adam looked at the others. “Before Mom sees this lawyer, all of you should write down anything he said or did that seemed peculiar-”

“Can we make things up?” Teddy interjected wryly.

Adam shrugged. “Our father did. Just remember that you lack his gift for make-believe.” He faced his mother again. “Then there’s Carla Pacelli. If Dad wasn’t right in the head, she could have pressured him to make changes he otherwise wouldn’t have.”

“Maybe she did,” Jack said. “But what interest would Carla have in Ben leaving Jenny a million dollars?”

Adam had pondered this himself. “None, on the surface. Probably it was his idea. But a truly clever woman might have obscured her role by suggesting Dad leave money to someone else outside the family. Anyhow, it’s worth a shot. At least maybe Mom can force a settlement that gives her back the house and enough to live on.

“There also may be a problem with how Dad passed on his money. He created a trust in favor of Pacelli, taking the proceeds outside his estate and, as a result, outside the property Mom can claim a share in. Under the law, that may not hold up.” Adam turned to his mother again. “Finally, there’s the postnuptial agreement. Are you absolutely certain, Mom, that he gave you nothing for signing it?” He paused, concluding quietly, “Or, at least, that no one can prove he did?”

His mother flushed, then nodded stubbornly. “I’m sure.”

“Then the law may protect you from yourself.” Adam glanced around the table. “Then there’s George Hanley. George is a smart man, and he’s playing this close to the vest. But I’m pretty sure he thinks that one of you pushed my father off that cliff.”

His mother’s face became expressionless. “Why would he think that?” Jack demanded. “Hasn’t Clarice been through enough?”

His uncle wore an expression Adam had seldom seen, angry and defensive. “It’s not personal,” he answered calmly. “As to the why, my guess is that George believes that one or more of you knew about this will.”

“Then we’d be fools,” Teddy cut in. “Unless we can break the will, his death locked in our disinheritance.”

Adam stared at his brother. Since Ben’s death, it was clear, the members of his family had considered their positions more deeply than they acknowledged. “A good point,” Adam responded. “Assuming that murder is a rational act. But our father had a way of provoking hatred, didn’t he.”

For a moment, no one spoke. Studying their expressions, now quite composed, Adam felt a frisson-at the least, he sensed, someone at this table knew more than they wished to tell him. “In any event,” he said, “Dad named me executor of his will. That means I’m staying for a while.” His voice chilled. “He wanted to drag me into this. So now I’m in.”

Clarice gave him a complex look of worry and relief. After a moment, she reached across the table, touching Adam’s hand. “Whatever the reason,” she said in a husky voice, “I’m glad you’re not disappearing. The last time was hard enough.”

After dinner, Jack sat with Adam on the porch. It felt familiar and companionable, reminding Adam of the evenings they had spent a decade ago or more, when Ben was off-island and his uncle would come for dinner. Adam always cherished them, not least for the release of tension from his father’s oversized presence, the pleasant contrast of Jack’s solicitude and calm. Sometimes they would talk for hours.

But this evening Jack was quiet, the coffee cup untouched beside him. Finally, he asked, “You’re very worried about the police, aren’t you?”

Adam weighed his answer. “I don’t care if he was murdered, Jack. I just don’t want anyone in this family to pay for it. He did enough harm when he was alive.”