Shadow of A Doubt Read online

  Mrs. Somerset had never been a beauty. She looked like a twin to her dead brother, her mouth set in an almost identically severe expression. Expensively styled, her hair was silver; her eyes glittered like two small knives.

  “This is Charley Sloan,” Robin said. “He’s Angel’s lawyer.”

  People can react oddly in funeral homes, particularly toward the lawyer defending someone accused of murdering the person in the casket. Before she could shout or curse or otherwise get nasty, I spoke: “I’m very sorry about your brother, Mrs. Somerset. It’s a terrible loss.”

  Those eyes never left mine. “I want to talk to you.” She pulled away from Robin, gripped my elbow with surprising strength, and led me toward a small room behind the casket, the family room, as Anderson called it.

  No one else was there and Robin didn’t follow. Mrs. Somerset sat down in a chair and indicated I should sit opposite her. As I did. she pulled a cigarette from her small purse and lit up in one fluid, practiced movement. Like her brother, she had powerful meaty hands.

  She produced a small silver flask and pulled on it like a sailor; the movement exposed muscles and ligaments and made her thick throat resemble the underside of a suspension bridge.

  She capped the flask and put it back in her purse. “Can you get Angel out of this?”

  “It’s a difficult case, Mrs. Somerset.”

  “Is it a matter of money?”

  “Pardon me?”

  She inhaled deeply on the cigarette and expelled smoke through her wide nostrils. “Money. It buys things, Mr. Sloan. Judges, for instance.”

  “Well, that isn’t the situation here, Mrs. Somerset.”

  “Robin thinks she’s taking care of things, but she doesn’t understand the power of money. I do. It was my father’s money that started the boat business. I still have my share of my father’s fortune, every damn penny. Whatever is needed I can supply.”

  “Mrs. Somerset, I know the shock of your brother’s death —”

  “My niece is the only family I have left, Mr. Sloan. She has had a very difficult life and she deserves better than this sordid business.”

  “The state says she killed your brother.”

  She nodded. “Things happen, Mr. Sloan. Terrible things. But that doesn’t change the flow of life. Harrison is dead and no one can change that. Angel is alive. She’s the only person important to me now.”

  Those knifelike eyes narrowed slightly. There was a coldness in them. “I can afford the best. The very best. Tell me, Mr. Sloan, are you the best lawyer in the country?”

  Her tone told me she already knew the answer.

  “There is no rating system. Legal reputations come and go with the case, Mrs. Somerset. The best man today may be a has-been tomorrow. Some cases are easy, some are hard. Anyone can win the easy ones. It’s the hard ones that provide the real test. Many famous trial lawyers carefully select easy ones to keep their reputations intact.”

  She stubbed out the cigarette. “If Angel were your daughter, who would you want to try the case?”

  The thought of my daughter flashed again in my mind. I wondered what she looked like now. I wondered what I would do, if she were in Angel’s situation.

  “If Angel asks, I’m quite willing to step aside, if that’s what’s worrying you.”

  “Good. I’ll select another attorney. I’ll contact my own people and get a recommendation.”

  “Doesn’t Angel have anything to say about that?”

  She snorted. “Angel is a child.”

  “A twenty-one-year-old child.”

  “She’s emotionally immature. Angel’s quite incapable of making sound judgments.” Her tone was snappish, as if she were admonishing a servant who had just spilled gravy on the linen.

  “As far as I know, Angel hasn’t been declared mentally incompetent. No guardian has been appointed, not even Robin, your sister-in-law.”

  Her mouth, a lipsticked slash, twisted into a sour smile. “Former sister-in-law. Harrison’s death ended that relationship, the same as divorce, only quicker and cleaner. I will be running the affairs of this family from here on, Mr. Sloan. If I think a guardian should be appointed, one will be.”

  She possessed the sure arrogance of someone born to wealth.

  “At the moment, Angel is my client. You aren’t. Robin isn’t. Until Angel tells me otherwise, I will continue to act in her best interest.”

  “How much do you want?”

  “For what?”

  “To get out of the case.”

  “I’ve done a number of rotten things in my life, Mrs. Somerset, things I’m very ashamed of, but selling out a client isn’t one of them.”

  “You’re a fool, Mr. Sloan.” She stood up slowly, then stared down at me. “I will be running things from here on. This case, this family, and our family business. My brother was a fool, but I’m not. I don’t suffer fools or cheap chiselers, and I think you are both. And you are history.”

  She stalked out, leaving me sitting there like a schoolboy who’d just been scolded and expelled.

  *

  I WANTED to talk to Robin but she was busy receiving condolences from a waiting line of people. It all seemed very formal. She obviously had never met any of them and they didn’t look particularly distressed. Malcolm Dutton, apparently, was stage-managing the wake and every employee had a part and played it exactly as directed.

  Since she was going to be busy for a while, I decided to get some air while I waited.

  It was difficult but I wiggled my way through the people to the exit. It was a lovely twilight evening, warm but pleasant. Overhead high clouds caught the last crimson rays of the disappearing sun. Two large boats signaled each other out on the river, the deep sound of their horns as soothing as the sound of a distant freight train at night. Such calming river sounds were another benefit in the peaceful life of Pickeral Point.

  “You’re Sloan, the kid’s lawyer, right?”

  I hadn’t noticed him standing in the shadows near the entrance. I looked closer. I didn’t know him. He was a tall, thin man with hawklike features. His suit looked expensive but it hung on him as if he had recently lost weight. It was hard to judge in the half-light but I guessed he was nearing seventy, if he hadn’t already passed that mark.

  “I’m Sloan,” I said. “Charley Sloan.”

  He was smoking a cigarette and he expelled smoke as he spoke. “I saw you on television. On the news. What kind of chance do you think the kid’s got?”

  “Do you know her?”

  He nodded. “Oh yeah. I knew Angel before she was able to walk. I used to work for Harwell.”

  “And your name?”

  “Amos Gillespie.” He spoke it as if it should mean something to me. When he got no reaction, he said, “I take it you weren’t connected with Harrison’s business dealings.”

  “No. I never met him.”

  I thought I saw a smile, but I wasn’t sure. He had an expressionless face, the kind every poker player tries to develop.

  “Can’t say you missed much,” he said.

  “I take it you weren’t one of his more ardent fans?”

  He chuckled, the sound coming out like old tissue paper being crumpled. “You could say that. Of course, he hated me. I suppose I would have too, given the circumstances.”

  “Oh?”

  “I started out with old man Harwell, the father. Hard-driving guy, but he really understood boats and business. I guess I was what you might call the old man’s protégé. Anyway, he taught me the business like a son. When he brought Harrison in things got a bit dicey. Harrison resented our relationship, his old man and me. When the old man died, Harrison fired me before his father’s body was cold.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “It was the best thing that ever happened to me. I moved to Alabama and started my own company. I own Three Tree Boats. You know it?”

  “The bass boats?”

  He nodded. “One of our lines.”

  “I’m s
urprised you came to the wake, given the history.”

  “I was up here anyway.” He chuckled again. “I had forced Harrison to sell his company to me. The sale will go through despite this, but it would have been sweeter to see his face as he signed the papers. Now, the lawyers will do it. It won’t be quite the same.”

  “How could you force him to sell?”

  He inhaled on the cigarette then flipped it away, its red tip making an arc in the deepening night.

  “Money,” he said, “or more precisely the lack of it. He had borrowed heavily for expansion but the boat business took a little dip and he couldn’t meet his payments.”

  “I thought he was rich.”

  “He is. Or was. But he borrowed one hell of a lot. He was always doing things on a grand scale. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t exactly destroying him. The sale will make the widow and the kid millionaires many times over, but the company will belong to me. That was driving Harrison nuts, but I call it elemental justice.”

  “Why didn’t he get the money from his sister? I’ve just been told she’s got it.”

  “I saw her here tonight. She didn’t age well. She looks like Harrison in drag. Mean bitch, though. Always was. And you’re right, she’s got enough money to buy Fort Knox.”

  “Then why didn’t he —”

  The dry chuckle turned into a dry cackle. He lit another cigarette. “Harrison and his sister were cut from the same cloth. Both of them always wanted to run things themselves. That included the boat company. She and Harrison butted heads after the old man’s death. She lost. Harrison had sufficient votes to run her right off the board, and he did. She never forgave him. She wouldn’t have given him a crust of stale bread after that, not if he was starving.”

  “Nice family.”

  He shrugged. “Oh, pretty typical, I guess, if big money is involved. Of course, some might say having a kid stab daddy in the belly was carrying things a tad too far. Can you do anything for Angel?”

  “I’m trying.”

  “Good. You see the widow?”

  I nodded.

  “Now that’s what I’d call a prime hunk of horseflesh. That damn Harrison always did all right for himself in that department. Great hand with the ladies, always was. Wouldn’t mind taking a whack at that widow myself. Of course, maybe if Harrison had paid a little more attention to profits and less to pussy, I wouldn’t be taking over his company.”

  He fished into his breast pocket, extracted a card, and handed it to me. “If I can help the kid, let me know. I remember when she was little. Cute as a button.”

  “Do you have children?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Nope. Never married, either. I used to regret not having a family. But I suppose if I did, some grandchild of mine might have stabbed me in the gut.”

  He inhaled on the cigarette and then coughed. “Doesn’t make any difference, really. These damn cigarettes will kill me anyway.” He chuckled. “But what the hell, you have to die of something, right?”

  *

  I MET several people at the funeral home, people who, like Amos Gillespie, had known Harrison Harwell during his life. Each person I talked to presented a different version of the man. Some loved him, or said they did. Some expressed polite admiration although it sometimes seemed almost too polite. Others appeared to be there only to make sure Harwell was really dead.

  Robin asked me to meet her back at her home after Anderson closed up.

  I grabbed a quick burger and coffee at a fast-food joint, waited until I was sure things had settled down, and then drove over to the Harwell house.

  The media trucks and the reporters were gone; the street lights shone down on a deserted street. The bored security guards recognized my old car and waved me through.

  Dennis Bernard, the butler, met me at the door.

  “Mrs. Harwell is up in her room and asks that you join her there. Do you know the way?”

  “Yeah.”

  The house was quiet as I went up the stairs.

  Her enormous bedroom was dark but I could see her silhouetted against the tall windows facing the river. She was hunched down in a chair, her stockinged feet propped up on the window ledge.

  “Robin?”

  “Come on in, Charley. Want a drink? I have some very good vodka.” She held the bottle up as I approached. “It’s chilled.”

  “I’m not drinking today.”

  “Pity, but the more for me. Sit down, Charley.”

  I pulled up a chair and sat next to her. Outside lights provided sufficient illumination to see her, and my eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness in the room. She looked tired.

  Robin took a pull directly from the bottle.

  “Is that wise?” I said.

  She turned and smiled. “It’s been a hell of a day and I just needed a quick boost. Generally, I use a glass.” She thrust the bottle in my direction. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure.”

  The black dress had crept up to midthigh. I wondered how much of the vodka she had managed to drink before I arrived.

  “Robin, I think the time has come when you should start thinking about getting another lawyer for Angel.”

  She studied me for a moment, then spoke, this time with sharper inflection. “Did my beloved sister-in-law frighten you, Charley? She scares the hell out of most people. She told me she wanted you off the case. Is she the reason?”

  “No.”

  Robin sipped from the bottle slowly, then tasted the rim with the tip of her tongue. She looked out at the river. “I talked to Angel in the courtroom. She’s satisfied with you, so why talk about quitting now?”

  I was tempted to tell the truth — that I was scared, in part because of the case, but mostly for myself. But that was something that wasn’t easily told, especially to someone whose respect you wanted. Truth can sometimes have a bitter taste. This was one of the times. For the moment, the bitter truth was something to be avoided.

  “I can handle the case through the examination on Friday. Judge Mulhern likes me. The Irish have a saying: it’s better to know the judge than to know the law. I know Mulhern and he knows me. If a break can be given, he’ll do it. Nothing illegal or unethical, but if the coin can fall either way, Mulhern may give it a nudge in my direction.”

  Out on the dark river a long ore carrier was gliding past, it’s six-hundred-foot hull strung with lights like a seagoing Christmas decoration. The reflected lights danced in the dark waters. The huge silent ship sliding past seemed ominous, like a physical symbol of the unstoppable force of fate.

  “After the examination, you should get a top man. I can line one up for you, if you like.”

  Robin didn’t reply. She watched the ship until it was almost out of sight, then she turned. “I’m told you were a top man once. Why not again?”

  “I’m rusty. You wouldn’t want a pitcher who had been away from baseball to be throwing in the World Series. I’m flattered, Robin, but this is not an easy case. Why take an unnecessary risk?”

  “Is that what you are, an unnecessary risk?”

  “In this matter, that’s exactly what I am.”

  She said nothing for a while, then spoke again. “Did you arrange it so Angel can attend the funeral?”

  I had called Mark Evola. “I talked to the prosecutor, but he won’t give permission. Even under guard.”

  “My God, it’s her father’s funeral!”

  I nodded. “And the prosecutor says she murdered him.”

  “Even if she had, which she didn’t, what difference would that make?”

  “The prosecutor doesn’t want to give Angel a shot at any favorable publicity. A few front-page photos of Angel crying over daddy’s casket might cause public sympathy to swing her way. Jurors might remember those kinds of photos. Either way, security or politics, having her there is a risk, and Evola isn’t taking any risks with this case.”

  In the dim light, Robin in profile looked exactly as she did when we were teenagers. The muted ligh
t washed away the years and she seemed magically young again.

  She must have sensed what I was feeling.

  “Like old times,” she said, reaching across and taking my hand. Her flesh was warm, her grip sure.

  “Well, this place is a touch more elegant than my old car.”

  She chuckled, her eyes fixed on mine. She was close. I could smell the aroma of the vodka.

  “Kiss me, Charley.”

  “Robin, you’re tired, and —”

  She moved with surprising swiftness. Her lips were alive, demanding. I could taste the vodka. Her tongue darted out like a hot little snake, then she sat back, smiling.

  “Remember?” she asked.

  “I remember,” I said, and I did. “Look, Robin, this has been a very tough day for you. I’d better go.”

  “Afraid of widows?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe. But tomorrow is the funeral. Take it from someone who knows, the vodka may help tonight but it will only make things worse tomorrow. You need sleep more than booze right now.”

  “Maybe I need something even more relaxing than sleep.”

  “Robin —”

  “Are you thinking about Harrison?” she asked quietly.

  “Well, the circumstances aren’t exactly propitious, are they?”

  She sighed. “Charley, he was my husband in name only, for a long time. We lived together but we were estranged in every other sense.”

  Robin still held my hand tightly. “So, I’m not exactly your typical grieving widow, am I?”

  “Still, you are the widow.”

  She chuckled, but it was a deep, throaty sound, born more in sex than humor. “Think of it, Charley. What a story you could tell. How many men have boffed a widow while her husband lay dead in his casket? You could dine out on a story like that for years, Charley.” She lay the bottle down and in one surprisingly swift graceful motion sat on my lap. “It sounds deliciously naughty, like something out of Chaucer.”

  Her tongue sought my mouth again and she wiggled against my thighs.

  I attempted to gently push her away but her arms held me tightly.

  “Robin, are you drunk?”

  She giggled. “That’s not my problem.”

  She was just like she used to be, unpredictable, with a sudden hunger for excitement so fierce and unexpected that it blotted out reason. It did then, and it did now.