The Death of an Ambitious Woman (16 page)

“Ruthie?” Wink Segrue came through one of the doors. He was the lawyer sent by central casting, from the tip of his graying but full head of hair through his broad shoulders and on to the elegantly tapered waist of his casual Italian slacks. He took her trench coat and hung it up. “Great to see you. C’mon back.”

Ruth followed him down a long hallway with more rich wood and dead partners hanging on the walls. Segrue’s office was in the northeast corner of the building. Its huge windows offered a panorama of a modern Boston harbor, dramatically shattering the illusion of an earlier century so carefully cultivated in the windowless lobby and hallways. Ruth took a moment to appreciate the view, impressive even on a rainy day.

It was hard to believe Wink Segrue had been Marty’s best friend in high school. Now Wink was a fixer, a lawyer who handled ugly personal matters for the presidents and board members whose corporations, universities, and hospitals kept Wilson Brenner in antique paneling. Taking in the view, Ruth wondered, did Marty ever regret the choices they’d made that resulted in his cramped office on the converted side porch of their house?

Ignoring the lovely sitting area at the other end of the large office, Segrue seated himself behind his desk and gestured to the guest chair opposite. On the credenza behind him was a picture of his second wife with their two young children, posed casually and smiling for the camera.

Ruth turned her attention to Segrue. “Thanks for seeing me on a Saturday.”

“No trouble.” He gestured to the deposition open on his desk. “I was here. As you knew I would be. What’s this about?”

“Tracey Kendall came to see you in January.”

Segrue’s smile disappeared. “I can’t confirm that.”

“Let’s say I already know it.What was the nature of her visit?”

“You know that’s privileged.”

“So you’re confirming Tracey Kendall was your client.You’re not the Kendall family attorney.You’re not the Fiske & Holden corporate attorney. And yet, she came to you.”

“No, I’m not confirming it.”

“You have no privilege if she wasn’t your client.”

Segrue’s expression remained flat. “Is there a point to this?”

“Tracey Kendall is dead.”

“I’m aware of that. And you, no doubt, are aware that as a result of the Charles Stuart case, Massachusetts courts have made it absolutely clear death in no way ends privilege.”

“It can be waived.”

“Not by me.” The attorney settled back in his chair.

“Did Tracey Kendall speak to you about changing her will?”

Segrue’s face relaxed. “I certainly would have notified the probate court by now if she had.”

“Then did Mrs. Kendall come to see you about a separation?” This time Ruth thought she caught some movement behind the eyes, but Wink Segrue, at the top of his field, had a famous poker face. It was impossible to be sure.

“I’m not willing to sit here and play ‘warmer/colder’ with you, Ruthie.” Segrue’s tone was light, but firm. “If Bob Baines were behind you, I suspect you could threaten to eat up great chunks of my expensive time with excruciatingly pointless activity, but since I, like everyone else in the state, know that you don’t have the smarmy weasel in your corner, I see no reason to continue this conversation.”

Segrue shifted forward in his chair. He was smiling again. “Now, how are Marty and the kids? How come we don’t get together more often?”

Ruth drove home from Boston as fast as she dared. When she reached her house, Moscone’s unmarked car was already in the driveway. In their big, old kitchen, Marty was assembling lunch and telling Moscone stories. Sarah sat opposite, fixing Moscone with a puppy-dog gaze.

Ruth entered apologizing. “I’m sorry I’m late. Just let me get changed.”

Moscone glanced at his watch. “No problem. We’ve got time. I’ll just stay here until you’re ready.”

Across from him, Sarah sighed a happy sigh.

Ruth and Moscone parked behind headquarters and walked the two blocks to the Second Unitarian Church on Main Street. The crowd was large in spite of the bad weather. Out of the corner of her eye, Ruth noticed the young patrolman who had been hired to work the funeral traffic detail lounging against a parked car. Moscone excused himself, went over, and whispered something in the patrolman’s ear. The young man shot a look at Ruth, pulled himself erect, and waded into the middle of the street to help the crowd across.

“Thank you,” Ruth said to Moscone.

“Funny, I think it’s him who should thank me,” Moscone answered.

Inside the cavernous church, islands of mourners were visible in the pews. Stephen Kendall sat up front, flanked by Hannah Whiteside and Susan Gleason. Even from the back, he looked shaky. The women talked to him in quiet voices, occasionally patting his upper arm or shoulder.

The Noonan family also sat in front, across the aisle from Stephen Kendall. Brian and Philip wore identical suits, with white shirt collars protruding at the neck. From the back of the church, Ruth wondered about the ties. Same colors, different patterns was her guess. Brian’s wife Maura wasn’t there. Perhaps she had stayed home with the children. There was no coffin in sight.

The Fiske & Holden delegation was arranged in two rows behind the Noonans. Ruth could make out the bowed heads of Ellie Berger, Brenda O’Reilly, and Jane Parker in the front. Jack Holden, Kevin Chun, and Adam Bender sat in the row behind. As Ruth watched, Margot Holden swept down the aisle toward the Fiske & Holden group. They expressed delight in seeing her and she kissed and embraced each one in turn. Each one, except Jack Holden.

The rest of the church was filling up with clients and neighbors, fellow preschool parents, artists, and dealers. Ruth moved slowly down the center aisle with Moscone. She spotted Fran Powell sitting inconspicuously in the middle of the church, her blond frosting hidden under a dark scarf, her eyes obscured by dark glasses despite the gloomy day. A bloated man Ruth took to be the husband, Sandy Powell, sat to Fran’s right. Ruth entered the row and sat down. “Hello, Mrs. Powell,” she whispered. Fran Powell moved closer to her husband and took his arm.

The service was led by the Reverend Annie Warner, pastor at Second U. Ruth knew Annie from town youth activities and could imagine how the Kendall/Noonan family’s problem of where to hold the funeral had appealed to her big heart. The Reverend Warner worked valiantly, but her efforts only confirmed Ruth’s belief that in spite of all the religions, sects, and creeds, there were only two kinds of funerals—the kind where the speaker knew the deceased and the kind where he or she did not. Annie Warner had done her homework, but it showed. She had not known Tracey Kendall in life, just as Ruth had not. They were both here, working, trying in different ways to make some sense out of a stranger’s passing.

Evidently, though, Reverend Warner’s efforts struck home for many in the church. As Ruth watched, Stephen Kendall’s shoulders began to heave. He brought his hands to his face, and the women who flanked him bent forward with concern, laying their arms across his back. Across the aisle, Tracey’s original family mourned, too. Mrs. Noonan cried aloud and Tom brushed away tears. Brian and Philip sat hunched forward, heads bowed as if in prayer. In the Fiske & Holden rows, the women cried, Ellie and Jane sobbing. Behind them, the men sat motionless, except when Kevin Chun reached out and patted Jane Parker’s shoulder.

When the service ended, the congregants stood and waited respectfully for the most bereaved to make their way from the front of the church. As Stephen Kendall moved slowly up the aisle, Ruth turned and caught a glimpse of his first wife, Rosie Boyagian, wiping away a tear as she exited out the back.

Outside the rain had really started, cold, windswept, and devoid of the promise of May flowers. Ruth shivered and pulled her trench coat closer. The family climbed into the limos. At the close of the service Annie had invited everyone present back to the Kendall home. Ruth had no intention of going. It would move her presence over the line from respectful to intrusive. Besides, she had work to do.

She and Moscone were walking purposefully past the second limo when its tinted window slid open. “My mother wants to invite you both back to the house specifically,” Brian or Philip said. “You’re the only people in the church besides Fran Powell we recognized.”

Ruth leaned over and looked in the open window. “Of course we’ll come back, Mrs. Noonan,” she said. “We’re just going to get our car.”

A valet tried to take the unmarked car at the front door, but Moscone waved him away.The Kendalls’ front hall was crowded with people shedding wet raincoats. Two young women in black vests, white shirts, and bow ties whisked the coats away. In the corner of the dining room, a bar had been set up and a young man, also dressed in a caterer’s uniform, was turning out drinks as quickly as he could. More minions were busy bringing out hot food, placing the platters on the long dining table.

Susan Gleason and Stephen Kendall were seated in the living room, Stephen receiving the condolences of his guests. Up close, he looked awful. Black circles ringed his large eyes. His face was drawn and as he reached out to his guests, his hands shook.

Hannah Whiteside circled nearby. “Hannah, get Stephen a drink, please,” Susan purred. “And while you’re there, get me one, too.” Hannah shot her a withering look, but complied. There was no graceful way to refuse. As soon as Hannah stepped out, Fran Powell moved in. She gave both Stephen and Susan a hug and whispered something about the lovely service. She had removed the head scarf, but not the dark glasses and Ruth wondered what she was hiding. “Susan,” Fran said, “I think you’re wanted in the kitchen.The caterer has a question.” Susan shook her head, as though she might protest, but then thought better of it, got up, and moved off. Fran sat down next to Stephen and took his hand.

That left Fran’s husband Sandy standing awkwardly to the side and gave Ruth time to study him. Her impression from the church was confirmed. He was bloated and red-nosed. He was, in fact, one of the most dissipated individuals Ruth had ever seen still functioning in polite society. He had not removed his raincoat and stood clutching a large umbrella. As Ruth watched, he approached his wife, whispered something in her ear, shook Stephen Kendall’s hand, then turned and exited through the front door, his funereal obligations fulfilled.

Hannah Whiteside returned with the drinks. She handed a Bloody Mary to Stephen and stood briefly with the other drink, a white wine, looking around for Susan Gleason. When Susan didn’t appear, Hannah squeezed her not insubstantial behind between Stephen Kendall and the arm of the sofa and sipped the wine herself. “Mrs. Powell,” she said, looking past her employer to Fran, “Maura thinks the children should be fed. Since your little Xander is here, maybe you should help her out.”

It was an amateur ploy by an inexperienced player and Fran Powell didn’t fall for it. “Whatever for?” she asked. “You’re the nanny.” Neither woman moved. Stephen stared straight ahead. If he was aware of all the jockeying going on around him, he didn’t show it.

Ruth wondered if the implications of this shifting tableau were as obvious to everyone present as they were to someone with her knowledge of Susan and Hannah’s claims. Hard to tell. Ruth decided that despite the morbid fascination the women’s dance held, nothing could be gained by watching them further. She went in search of Tracey’s parents.

The crowded front hall was dominated by the folks from Fiske & Holden. Moscone, his back turned, was in deep conversation with Brenda O’Reilly. As Ruth watched, Brenda smiled with obvious pleasure. Jack Holden stood on the other side of the hall, talking to two men in expensive suits whom Ruth concluded must be clients.

The Noonans had staked out the far corner of the dining room, opposite the bar. May,Tom, Philip, and Brian stood in an awkward clump. Ruth saw that she’d been wrong about the brothers’ ties. Same pattern, different colors.

Ruth went to the family and took each hand in turn. She murmured she was sorry, it must be a difficult day. She stood with them, not talking for a while. She found she wanted to show some solidarity with Tracey’s family, to make their little group appear less isolated.

Maura entered the dining room with the four children: Carson Kendall, Xander Powell, and her own two, the boy Carson’s age and the toddler. The children were dressed formally, though they hadn’t been at the church. Xander and Brian’s son took the plates Maura offered and moved quickly to the table. They were excited, amazed by the food and sweets. Maura insisted they take some salad as she deftly fixed the toddler’s meal. Carson stood well back, staring at the laden table, his plate held at his side like a book. As Ruth watched, the significance of the meal seemed to strike him like a lightning bolt. Ruth felt her throat constrict.

“Dad?” The room was crowded with people balancing plates and making small talk. Ruth wasn’t sure anyone else had heard. She took a step forward.

“Dad!” Carson’s voice was louder and more desperate. He began to shake.

The guests around the table hushed. “Get Stephen!” someone stage-whispered into the hall.

“Dad! Dad! Dad!” As the crowd watched, Carson fell apart in the obvious way children do, like a ship breaking up in a storm. He dropped the plate and sank to his knees. “Mom!” He was sobbing, tears running freely. “Oh, my Mommy.”

Voices called out. “Stephen! Call Kendall!” The crowd in the hall parted, providing a clear view to the couch where Stephen Kendall had sat. He was gone.

“Mommy, Mom-mee!” Carson was prone on the floor, legs kicking, arms flailing.

Hannah Whiteside glanced at the empty spot next to her on the couch, jumped up, and started running, but May Noonan was faster. She knelt beside her grandson, gathering him in her arms. “It’s Grandma, Carson. It’s Grandma.”

Carson jerked back physically, staring at his grandmother as if she were a stranger. For a terrible moment, the crowd held its breath. Would he bellow or bolt? Then, the boy’s stiff body softened. He brought his head to his grandmother’s chest and allowed himself to be comforted.

Everyone moved at once. Brian Noonan went to Maura, who stood stricken, toddler on one hip, his plate in her other hand. In the hall, Jane Parker cried on Ellie Berger’s rounded shoulder. Margot Holden looked at the food on her plate with disgust and deposited it on a side table. Ruth stepped back next to Tom Noonan and put her arm through his in a gesture of support. She felt his weight shift as his knees buckled, then stiffened. He moved toward his wife and grandson.

The crowd broke up. Carson Kendall’s raw grief made it impossible to ignore the reason for the gathering. Those who were distant enough to persuade themselves that leaving early was the best response looked for their coats. The group that stayed on chatted nervously.

Tom Noonan picked up Carson and carried him from the room.

Ruth left the house through the kitchen door. The rain had stopped, but the grass was soaked and slippery. She came around front in a broad circle, staying well away from the living-room windows, and headed straight down the lawn. Sixty feet from the house, she stopped and looked back. Moscone was on the verandah with Brenda O’Reilly and Kevin Chun. They were heavily engaged in conversation, Moscone gesticulating wildly. Brenda O’Reilly stood at his side, occasionally opening and closing her mouth, her hands still. Voice alone would be the stock in trade for a receptionist. Kevin Chun leaned against the railing, without regard for the back of his raincoat. He also was rapt, but was listening more than speaking. Ruth wondered what on earth they were talking about.

She knocked at the door of Stephen Kendall’s studio, pushed it open, and walked in. Her pace quickened as she walked between the sculptures. The clouds over the skylights hid them in shadow. They were looming, menacing.

At the center of the room, Ruth paused and stared at the new sculpture. Much work had been completed. Its metal skeleton rose to the ceiling and long ropes attached it to the pulley system. Kendall’s tools were arrayed across the floor. An old acetylene torch sat on a drop cloth, a tangible reminder of the work in progress.

“Mr. Kendall?” Ruth called.

“Back here.”

Ruth followed the sound of Kendall’s voice toward the design room. Kendall was sitting in his desk chair, his eyes rimmed in red, his fine nose raw.

“Carson is calling for you.”

“Hannah and his grandparents are there.”

“He’s calling for
you.
”

Kendall hung his head, staring into his lap. When he finally looked up, Ruth saw the strain in his face and realized how it had been building over the last four days. She saw a man who wasn’t eating or sleeping, a man who looked like he was being eaten away from the inside out. But why? Had he hired Al Pace to kill his wife?

The stress had tempered Kendall’s personal magnetism, but not snuffed it out. Ruth still felt its pull. She wanted to tell him his young son desperately needed him and it was up to him, the adult, to move past whatever it was that kept him away and go to his son. But she didn’t say it. It wasn’t her place. More important, she couldn’t see the future. Why push this man to embrace his young son, only to tear them apart later if the man went off to prison for the hired murder of his wife?

“I’ve been to see Wink Segrue,” Ruth said. “I know Tracey consulted him earlier this year. The problem is he’s claiming attorney-client privilege. He won’t say what they talked about.”

“Why tell me?”

“You’re Tracey’s executor. I want you to release Mr. Segrue from his privilege.”

“I can’t do that.”

“You can,” Ruth countered. “You’re the only one who can.”

Stephen shook his head. “I won’t.”

“Your wife met with Wink Segrue in early January. Two days later, she disappeared. She told her office she was on vacation. Hannah believed she was on a business trip. Her meeting with Segrue was important. Don’t you want to know who killed your wife?”

“You’ve told me who killed my wife. Al Pace.”