Conduct in Question Read online

  “Who’s he?” Donnie looked at Frank, who peered out the window.

  “I dunno,” he muttered. “Must be someone from the church.”

  “Look, kid, go get Auntie’s tea, willya? It’s getting cold. She’s waiting for it.” Then he left, slamming the door behind him.

  Donnie took the tea tray from the kitchen and headed upstairs. Gram stood before her window with the sun streaming in. She looked all faded. As Donnie shut the door, she turned.

  At first, he saw the glint of anger in her eyes, but then she softened and said, “Ah! It’s you, Donnie. Yes, put the tray down next to the bed, dear.” Donnie moved some glasses and papers to the far side of the table to make room. He sat on one of the chairs drawn up to the bed.

  “So, you’ve come from the diving club, Donnie?” she prompted.

  He smiled gratefully and nodded. He could talk about the club and the dives he was working on. Maybe the team would get in the finals. He was sure that Gram had never dived into a pool.

  She laughed, “When I was young, ladies were only permitted to go bathing.”

  He grinned at this. Smiling felt strange; he did it so rarely.

  When he talked about his dives, she got this look in her eye and said, “I know what you mean. It’s like breaking free—like learning to fly.”

  Sadly, he said diving would be over if they did not make the finals. “I don’t know what to do Gram. Nothing seems worth doing, anyway.”

  Marjorie nodded. She always seemed to understand. “Both of us are weary.” she said, “You at the beginning of life and I near the end.”

  He looked at her with apprehension.

  She continued, “You’re like my brother George. He tried to fill the shoes of his father, a decorated war hero. An impossible task. Consequently, only with great inner strength did George ever find his own way.” She looked sternly at him. “You have that trait, Donnie. You will find your own way. Just as I will find mine.”

  Some of the things she said scared him. Not knowing how to answer, he silently poured her tea and handed it to her. She had lain down on the bed, propped up by pillows, and slowly sipped from the cup. Then she told him it was time to leave. Now she lay in the coffin and he had to keep on living.

  Gram lived in a different time, when things were simpler and people were somehow more important. She stood for what was right. He couldn’t believe all the stuff on the Internet about the Florist. Although Gram would never have understood that kind of person, Donnie did, at least a little bit. The guy’s ideas about fire were really cool, especially the part about its cleansing power. Fire destroyed everything that was ugly. For all Donnie cared, the whole fucking world could go up in flames. Then he could start again. But he could hear Gram saying that the Florist was a madman. She was right. Carving people up and redeeming their souls was nuts.

  From his pew, Donnie glanced over at Jenkins. The lawyer’s eyes kind of darted around. Maybe he was crooked and wanted to steal Gram’s money, just like Frank had said. But Frank was a slimy bastard. He couldn’t trust him either. Donnie shoved his chin into his collar and closed his eyes.

  A hush fell over the church. Reverend Sleem climbed up to the pulpit. Although Harry thought the clergyman resembled an unkempt Santa Claus, he sensed there was little mirth within the man.

  Sleem smoothed his surplice and cleared his throat. Gazing out, he saw approximately a hundred people awaiting his words. In the first few pews sat the family, and behind them were several rows of gray heads, followed by the usual cluster of business associates. His duty, as explained to him by the archbishop himself, was to ensure that the next generation of Deightons was brought into the fold to continue the tradition of generous contributions. He cleared his throat and began intoning.

  “I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die.”

  Sleem was prepared for the rustling of the pages of the Common Prayer Book and the fumbling of those trying to find the page. He could spot a non-attender a mile away. In fact, he made it a game. Fish out of water. He smirked inwardly.

  But by the time he had finished, saying, “We brought nothing into this world and it is certain we can carry nothing out,” only the very slowest were still shuffling.

  Reverend Sleem dove into such a lengthy recitation of Sir William Mortimer Deighton’s contributions to the church that Harry began to wonder whose funeral it was. Had Crawford survived Marjorie, he would have brutally criticized the priest after the service for failing to give proper respect to the deceased. But the old man would have remained cool and circumspect, despite the passions roiling beneath his calm surface.

  At last, the six pallbearers approached the casket. In unison, they shouldered the coffin, and in step, proceeded down the center aisle. Frank was a pallbearer at the rear.

  A fine rain was falling outside, no more than a mist, although it made the steep steps of St. Timothy’s slick and black. The pallbearers teetered precariously on the top steps and then descended with great care. The mourners hung back underneath the arched doorways and held their breath until the procession reached the sidewalk.

  Swiftly, the pallbearers swung the casket around for entry into the hearse. Forced to dance backward, Frank stumbled and let go of his burden. The others desperately clutched the casket to prevent its slide from their shoulders. Other mourners pitched in to help slide it into the hearse.

  Slamming the rear door of the hearse, Frank cursed furiously. With exaggerated motions, he dusted his hands and brushed off his clothing, oblivious to the horrified silence that had fallen over the gathering.

  Harry was incredulous. Frank earned his reputation as a lout effortlessly. Looking up the steps, Harry spotted Donnie standing at the very top, near the doorway. He wondered if he should approach him. Tears streamed down the boy’s face.

  A few mourners tried to console Donnie, but he tore away from them and ran into the church. Sitting in the darkness of the last pew, he wiped his tears.

  “Gram,” he whispered, “I’m so sorry. Frank shouldn’t have done that. Treating you just like a bag of garbage. I don’t know what to do. Is that guy Jenkins really crooked? Please tell me what to do.” He tried to stop sniffling so he could hear Gram’s voice, but the church remained silent.

  Donnie stalked outside toward the subway. He didn’t want to go to the cemetery with his parents. His father couldn’t wait to get her buried and get the cash. He slumped onto a park bench. He kept thinking about the Florist and what he’d found on the Internet. Whoever he was, the Florist was right about one thing: the cleansing power of fire. He had to admire the guy for saying that.

  Following the burial, Harry headed to the reception at Katharine’s home on Blyth Hill Road in Rosedale, where lawyers, stockbrokers, and those of independent means dwelt. He rolled down his misted window to read the house numbers. Deighton wealth made such a location possible.

  He parked the car and mounted the front steps of the Georgian-style red-brick home. After being welcomed by a butler at the front door, he hung up his coat and was free to stroll the main floor.

  When Harry visited the homes of clients, he liked to guess at their personalities from their surroundings. This interesting game often provided valuable insights. He suspected Bob had chosen the house and Katharine had decorated with a smothering vengeance.

  Her foremost triumph was in the living room, where the furniture was low-slung and probably hard to get out of. The far wall was papered in a dramatic, bold stripe. On the opposite one hung several canvases splotched with fantastic colors. Despite the vivid slashes of red and orange colors across the canvas, the room chilled him.

  Accepting a drink from a waiter, Harry wandered into the study, where Bob had established his own cluttered turf and small domain. The old oak desk was piled high with books and papers. More books were jammed into the bookcases lining the wall. Harry understood this warm, sca
ttered peace. He sank into one of the leather armchairs. Never before had he witnessed such a psychotic clash of personalities expressed in two rooms under one roof.

  The door behind him suddenly closed, and Bob moved slowly and deliberately into the study. Approaching the far side of the desk, he kept his eyes fixed on some distant point in the garden and did not see Harry. Heavy-set and compact, he was every man’s notion of a learned professor.

  Wearily, Bob extracted a pipe from a breast pocket and sat down. Staring out the window, he began to mutter. “What kind of mess are you in now? Oh, Katharine…you’ve made my life hell.” A deep sigh followed.

  To avoid further embarrassment, Harry had to announce his presence immediately. Shifting in the high-backed chair, he coughed discreetly. Receiving no reaction, he rose to introduce himself.

  “Bob, I’m Harry Jenkins, Marjorie’s lawyer.” Bob spun around in his chair. His face was white. Extending his hand across the desk, Harry continued, “Sorry to surprise you. I just wandered in here and found your study so inviting that I…” His voice trailed off.

  Bob stood up unsteadily to shake his hand. Worn creases of sleepless worry lined his face. “Please, Mr. Jenkins, do sit down. I’ve been a bit preoccupied lately, what with all that’s been going on.”

  They sat in silence for several moments, and a waiter came in with a tray of drinks. Bob took a glass of wine. Harry declined.

  “Listen, Mr. Jenkins—”

  “Harry, please.”

  Bob removed his glasses and stared at the ceiling. “I wanted to talk to you about Marjorie anyway, Harry. She called here for Katharine the night before she died. She wasn’t here, of course.”

  Harry could not miss the bitter edge to his words.

  “She seemed very upset and wanted to speak to Katharine and Suzannah. From what I could tell, she wanted some advice about finances and maybe her will.”

  Harry was trying to reconstruct his last conversation with Marjorie. “You’re probably right, Bob. She phoned me the day she died. I went to see her about changes to her will.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. She was dead when I got there. She had said she was seeing some people at two and would need my advice.”

  Bob stood up and turned on the desk lamp. “Did you ever hear her speak of a living will?” he asked.

  “Only once or twice. I told her it wasn’t easily enforceable, but if she wanted she could write one out herself. “

  “Harry, do you think there’s anything odd about her death?’

  To Harry, Bob’s concern seemed genuine. “It’s hard to say. She looked very peaceful. No signs of violence.” Harry shook his head. “There was talk of an autopsy, but nothing came of it.”

  “Why an autopsy? Was there anything suspicious?” Bob’s frown deepened.

  Harry did not feel as certain as he tried to sound. “I don’t know. I’ve left that up to the police.” He decided against setting out his concerns.

  “Could she have committed suicide?”

  “I really doubt that. Why would she call me to discuss her will and then kill herself?

  Bob shrugged. “I don’t know. I just don’t know what to make of this living-will business. Maybe she did want to die.”

  “Well, maybe she did. But as far as I knew, she wasn’t in any pain or distress. She was probably just lucky. She got what she wanted: an easy, natural death.”

  “Well, I hope you’re right, Harry.” Bob glanced at his watch. “Thanks for the time. But I’d better see to the other guests.” He patted Harry’s shoulder as he left the study.

  Puzzled, Harry rose and circled the desk to look out the window. Apparently a living will was blatant evidence of suicidal intent. Many clients would be alarmed at the thought. Reflecting on the conversation, he wandered into the hallway.

  The living room was filling up. Not many of Marjorie’s generation were in the crowd, Harry noted. Must be business associates of Katharine and Gerry. Murmurs from the corners of the room floated to him.

  “I wish they’d catch that Florist, whoever he is.”

  “He must be terribly demented. Imagine! Thinking you’re creating beauty when you’re destroying life.”

  “It’s fascinating from a psychological point of view.”

  Harry moved away. With all the media attention, the grisly murders hung in everyone’s mind.

  Frank was leaning against the mantelpiece, with Suzannah close at his side. Swaying slightly, she closed her eyes.

  Donnie slouched in a chair and glared at Frank. Rising unsteadily, the boy limped painfully toward Frank. With Donnie at her side, Suzannah attempted to focus her eyes.

  “Isn’t it terrible, Donnie?” Her voice was softly slurred. Refusing to take his eyes off Frank, Donnie remained silent. With studied care, Suzannah placed her glass on the mantelpiece. To console him, she draped her arms around the boy.

  “Poor dear.” She patted his cheek. “You’re the one who’ll miss her most.” His arms hung loosely at his sides. Under Donnie’s glare, Frank shifted uneasily from foot to foot.

  “Take it easy, kid. I’ll talk to you later,” Frank said moving away.

  Suzannah released Donnie and sighed. She said loudly to the gathering, “Frank’s so upset about Auntie, you know. He just has to have another drink.” The bitter sarcasm in her tone caused everyone to look up. Frank kept walking toward the bar. She knew she would pay for baiting him, but she didn’t care. Her voice grew louder rising above the general din. “No one knows what happened to Auntie. Even worse, no one even cares—except you and me, Donnie.”

  The guests were breaking off their conversations to listen. Retrieving her glass, Suzannah took a long drink and began drifting about the room.

  “We didn’t care about Aunt Marjorie when she was alive. She couldn’t rely upon us for anything. She knew we were just waiting for her to die.” In the silent room, her voice began an upward slide, ready to drift out of any normal key into hysteria. “Now that she’s dead, we can divide up her money, and she’s got piles of it—hasn’t she, Mr. Jenkins?”

  Shocked by the absurdity of the scene, Harry said nothing.

  Katharine marched into the living room. The waiters stepped back to the corners.

  “Suzannah, stop this instant. You’re drunk and making a complete fool of yourself!”

  Suzannah might have waited all of her life for the moment. Turning on her sister with a sweet and dreamy smile, she said, “Why, Katharine, dear! You of all people know it’s true. When did you ever take time from your busy life to give Auntie a second thought? You and Gerry never paid her any real attention. You were just waiting for her to die.”

  Katharine slapped her sister hard across the face. Red blossomed instantly on Suzannah’s cheek.

  “When,” hissed Katharine, “did you ever do anything except wring your hands and moon over her?” Katharine mimicked her. “But Suzannah, here’s something you didn’t know. Marjorie was strong and tough. She despised whining. You just wallow in it. You’re way off base if you think Marjorie wanted your smarmy pity.”

  Katharine rushed from the living room.

  No one knew what to do. Everyone set down their drinks and looked for the quickest route to the front hall closet. Confusion reigned as they searched for coats, hats, and gloves in the vestibule. Some hung back until the crowds thinned out. Within five minutes, the main floor was empty except for Harry, Suzannah, and the waiters.

  Harry found his coat had been thrown on the floor. He let himself out the door. Suicide? Natural death? Murder? And now emotional neglect. Stepping outside, he pulled up his collar and hurried for the car.

  Frank cornered Donnie on Katharine’s back porch. “Where’s the will, kid?”

  Donnie hunched forward and pulled an envelope out of his windbreaker. “I got it here.”

  “The combination I gave you worked okay?”

  “No problem.” Donnie hesitated. “Frank, why do you want her will?”

  “I
told you already. That lawyer, Jenkins, is a real shyster. He’s gonna rob your auntie blind.”

  Donnie thought Jenkins seemed okay, but he couldn’t tell for sure.

  “Did you create a distraction like I told you?” Frank reached for the envelope.

  Donnie couldn’t help but smile in recollection. “I trashed Jenkins’ office. And,” said Donnie, drawing himself up, “I stabbed a knife through some papers on his desk and tossed a bunch of flowers around them.”

  “What? Are you fucking crazy? Why?”

  “To make it look like the Florist guy was there.”

  “Jesus! You must be outta your mind, kid.”

  Donnie’s face darkened. “You wanted a distraction.” Then he stepped back and threw the envelope at Frank’s feet. “Here’s the will. That’s the last thing I’m doing for you, Frank.” Donnie turned and limped down the driveway.

  “Fucking little jerk!” Frank shouted, then he stooped to retrieve the papers.

  After the funeral reception, Harry went home. Opening the front door, he saw Laura on the stairs.

  “Hi.” He set down his case. “When did you get in? I thought you’d be late.”

  Her smile was quick. “The meetings were canceled, so I thought I’d come home and take a bath.”

  “You want me to scramble us some eggs?”

  “Sure, Harry.”

  Only then did he notice the bag at the top of the stairs.

  “I’ll go up and run the bath.” She turned and hurried up the stairs.

  “What’s in the bag?”

  “Just some old clothes I was going to drop off at the Goodwill.”

  In the kitchen, Harry got out the eggs. Pain across his chest made him sit for a moment at the counter. He breathed deeply until the spasm passed. He knew she was about to leave.

  Half an hour later, they sat in the den with the dinner on separate trays. She snapped on the television.

  “Laura? We have to talk.”

  “About?” She looked up innocently.

  “Us. You, me…Dr. Stover.”

  “Harry, there’s absolutely nothing to talk about. It’s a strictly professional relationship.”