Richard Patterson - Fall from Grace

Ferris shook her head. “She’s a dead end. I can’t find anyone she told about the will. All I’ve got on her is trivia-an occasional trip to Boston, one dinner with you, and a real effort to withdraw from public view. Present company excepted, she’s the most guarded person in America. You tell me what that means.”

I’ve only lied to you once, Carla had told him, for reasons of my own, and not about Jenny or the will. “Maybe she’s in mourning,” Adam rejoined. “But every instinct I have says she’s hiding something serious. According to my mother, a few nights before he died she saw my father on the promontory with a woman. Who else but Pacelli?”

“Quit trying to divert me,” Ferris said in a relentless tone. “I’ve got more than enough for a story. We’re going to print that Edward Blaine is the prime suspect in his father’s murder, and spell out the evidence against him.”

In the half-light, Adam looked into her face. “Actually,” he told her softly, “you’re not.”

Ferris gave a short laugh. “Can I ask why?”

“Several reasons. Unless Teddy’s indicted, he’ll sue you and the Enquirer for libel-”

“Don’t try to threaten me,” Ferris shot back. “We have lawyers for that.”

“I’m counting on it. So you should confess to bribing a cop, then obtaining documents and information critical to a murder investigation. Then ask how long it will take the police to indict you for obstruction of justice. Because if you print another word about my brother, I’ll make damn sure they do.”

“That’s bullshit.” Suddenly her voice was shrill, uncertain. “Do that, and you’d go down with me.”

“Would I? You’re the one who passed the money, not me. You have no evidence we’ve ever spoken. And if you try to trace your calls to me, you’ll find out that you can’t. That also goes for the anonymous call I’ll place to the police.” Deliberately, Adam muted his voice. “You lose, Amanda. All you can do is leave this island for good. But before you go, you’re going to give me the piece you’re still holding out. Something about an insurance policy.”

She looked away, caught, then met his eyes again. “If you already knew, why ask?”

Ask Teddy about the insurance policy, Bobby Towle had said. “Because you’re telling me what you know. So that you remain in my good graces.”

Ferris’s face twisted, a study in stifled anger. “Four months ago, according to your friend, your mother took out a one-million-dollar insurance policy on your father’s life, with her and Teddy as beneficiaries. They collect unless Ben committed suicide, or one or the other killed him. Or,” she added spitefully, “if they knew he was terminal and bought it to cash in.”

Jarred, Adam mustered an air of calm. “From which you conclude-”

“That they knew about his will, and lied to the police. And that one or both knew that he was dying, and lied about that, too.” She gave him a sour smile. “Any comment?”

Adam shrugged. “So many questions, so few answers. The only person who knows what they knew is dead.”

“Conveniently so.” Ferris’s tone became chill. “Your brother will be indicted by summer’s end. Then I’ll print my story, and there’s not a fucking thing you can do. Especially from Afghanistan.”

That much was true, Adam realized. “We’re through now,” Ferris finished with palpable bitterness. “I don’t need a lawyer to know that you poison anything you touch.” She laughed. “Poor Carla.”

She turned from him, walking swiftly away as though fearing for her life. A good thing, Adam supposed.

He found Jack and his mother on the darkened porch, sitting in Adirondack chairs beside a radio tuned to the Red Sox game. “I thought they’d invented television,” Adam remarked.

This drew a wispy smile from Clarice. “Memories,” she answered. “When I was a little girl, I’d sit here with my father listening to the games. We had Ted Williams then, and always finished behind the Yankees. But it felt magical-just my dad, me, and the crickets, the announcer’s voice in the darkness and the sounds of a game far away. This may be the last summer I can relive that.”

Turning, Jack regarded her with avuncular concern. “It’ll work out, Clarice. This place is meant to be yours.”

There was something old-fashioned about this scene, Adam thought-not just the radio, but that the two of them seemed like actors in a play from another era. Perhaps he should have found this more affecting. But Amanda Ferris had curdled his mood.

“I need to talk with you,” he told his mother.

As she looked at him in surprise, Jack regarded him more closely. Then Clarice said, “You can help me make fresh coffee.”

He followed her into the kitchen. Stopping by the sink, she poured out the scalded coffee, then carefully ladled more beans into a grinder. “What is it?” she asked.

“The insurance policy.”

Glancing up, she asked in a thinner voice, “Where did you hear about that?”

“Not from you. Or Teddy, for that matter.”

“Don’t reprimand me, Adam.” She paused. “The police know, of course. But it isn’t that important. After all, it won’t let me keep the house, and with Ben having cancer, I don’t know that I’ll collect. At least that’s what my lawyer tells me.”

She made not telling him sound innocent enough, Adam thought, but this was not the real problem. Evenly, he said, “The police must wonder why you took it out. So do I.”

Clarice put down the bag of beans. “So now you’re looking at us like you’re Sean Mallory?”

“Please don’t try guilt, Mom. I outgrew it. What concerns me is the answers I’m not getting. Did you expect that something would happen to him?”

“Not anything specific. But when you’ve lived with someone for forty years, you notice not-so-little things like drinking too much, or losing one’s balance for no reason. Or Ben’s indifference to being caught out with this actress.” She paused, as though finding her own answer. “I didn’t imagine him falling off that cliff, or changing his will. Except for worrying he might drive his car into a tree some night, it was nothing that concrete. More a sense that the ground was shifting under us in ways I couldn’t identify. When you’re as afraid as I was, and as defenseless, you become good at reading tea leaves.”

“Did you discuss this with Teddy?”

“In a general way, yes. But the initiative was mine.” Her voice became clipped. “Are we quite done with this now? We’ve left your uncle sitting there.”

“One more thing,” Adam said. “Why did you call Teddy the night he died?”

Clarice cocked her head. “Did I? When?”

“About eight thirty.”

“I really don’t remember. So it can’t have been important.” Clarice frowned. “I certainly didn’t call him to predict your father’s death. Which leaves me wondering why you seem to know more about me than I can remember.”

“Because Teddy’s in trouble,” Adam said curtly. “Do you recall anything else about that night? Specifically, anything that would make it harder for the police to suspect my brother?”

“I know this much,” Clarice responded firmly, “as a mother. No doubt Teddy feels protective toward me. But he’s the last person on earth capable of killing Ben. You’re imagining Teddy as yourself.”

Turning from him, Clarice foreclosed any further discussion.

When Adam stepped outside, he saw light coming from Teddy’s studio.

His brother painted up to fourteen hours at a stretch, Adam knew, working at night under 200-watt bulbs. But this was late even for him. Walking to the guesthouse, Adam could see Teddy through the window, seated at his easel with a glass of red wine beside him. The stillness of his posture suggested a trance.