Murder and Gold

by Ann Aptaker

  “I’ll look into it,” Huber says, and moves to the door. “And I’ll have a look at the college roommate angle, too. The dead girl was the Garraway butler’s daughter, right? Maybe his grudge caught up with him.”

  “I’ll work the Garraway collection, get a line on any players,” I say to his back as he opens the door. And I’ll take my time figuring whether to lead Huber to Sig’s interest in the Garraway killer. I wouldn’t mind if either Huber or Sig devoured the other, and I don’t care which one. That would be one less son of a bitch with his claws in my hide.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Vivienne’s butler George takes my coat and cap and leads me to the dining room. Vivienne is reading The New York Times while having breakfast at a polished walnut dining table where the crowned heads of Europe wouldn’t be embarrassed to dine, which pretty much describes the ambience of the whole room. Vivienne’s peach silk blouse and slender dark green skirt contrast nicely with the dining room’s pale blue walls and dark blue drapes held open with gold cord. Light from the tall windows bathes the whole place in a soft, golden sunlight that comes with the moneyed neighborhood’s real estate.

  “Good morning, Cantor. What brings you around today?” she asks, then adds, “George, please bring a cup and saucer for Cantor. And some eggs and toast?” She’s looking at me.

  “Scrambled is fine, thanks,” I say and take a seat near Vivienne at the table.

  She says, “So, Cantor, any news?” She takes a sip of coffee, looking at me over the rim of her cup, a late eighteenth-century beauty of white porcelain with dark blue bands and gold trim. It goes well with the room and Vivienne’s green eyes. But everything goes well with Vivienne’s eyes.

  “What do you know about Sterling Auctions?” I ask.

  “The Chicago firm?”

  “That’s the one. Any chatter among your museum set about Sterling competing for the Garraway collection?”

  “I haven’t heard, but it wouldn’t surprise me. They handle top of the line items, so the Garraway hoard would find interest among their clientele. Why? Are you linking them to Eve’s murder? If you are, you’re really barking up the wrong tree. I’ve known the Sterling people for years. They can tell you all about fifteenth-century Italian stilettos but none of them have the nerve to use one.”

  “Just a thought,” I say, as if tossing off an idea of no consequence.

  I know she’s not buying it because of the way she sits back in her chair and looks at me through a half-smile that would make great-grandfather Trent proud of his descendant’s gutter savvy. “Bringing up Sterling Auctions out of the blue is more than just a thought, Cantor. There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  I’m a sucker for smart women. Whether they come from the streets or more lofty regions, women with brains are the sexiest creatures on earth. And right now Vivienne Parkhurst Trent is very sexy. Too sexy for her own safety. Her intelligence, her curiosity, not to mention her involvement with me, could put her in danger, and that scares me to death. It scares me that she could join the company of Lorraine Quinn, Eve Garraway, and Alice Lamarr, because all three of those women had two things in common: me, and the notice, even sideways, of Sig Loreale.

  I’m damned sure Sig is responsible for the death of one of them, but his power hovered over all of them.

  Spilling the beans about Sig’s involvement with Sterling Auctions could put Vivienne in his crosshairs. I can’t let that happen.

  “Well?” she says, looking at me with the Parkhurst arrogance mixed with the Trent back-alley rawness that floors me every time. But the look changes to something softer, sadder, even tender. It’s the same look Vivienne gave me yesterday after the meeting with Dierdre Atchley. Maybe I’ll explore what’s behind that look someday. But maybe not. Something about me scares Vivienne. Something about getting close to Vivienne again scares me.

  “Cantor?” she presses again.

  She’s not letting go, stubborn as a dog with a bone. She’s already figured there’s more to the story. I have to give her something. She’s earned it by setting me up with the Atchleys, but if I want to keep her safe I have to hold tight to the string.

  “Three women are dead,” I finally say, the pain of it deep in my gut. “Three women who’ve crossed my path. Two of them— well . . .” I let that drop before I get twisted up again about giving Lorraine Quinn the brush-off and failing to protect Alice. I just say, “I think it’s safer to keep you out of things, Vivienne.”

  “Don’t treat me like a child,” she says. “You know I’m not a shrinking violet. You know I can handle myself.”

  “Sure, when you see what’s coming at you. But—” I’m cut off by George bringing in a cup and saucer and a plate of eggs and toast, which he places efficiently before me and just as efficiently leaves the dining room.

  I pour myself a cup of coffee from the silver pot on the table, refill Vivienne’s cup, then take a sip of the rich brew. Vivienne can afford the most expensive and exotic beans, but I’ll take Doris’s street-strong cuppa anytime.

  “Thanks for breakfast,” I say, taking up a forkful of perfectly scrambled eggs.

  “You’re welcome. Now, about Sterling Auctions.”

  I put the forkful of eggs down. “The less you know, the safer you’ll be.”

  “The less I know, the less I can help you find Eve Garraway’s killer.” She’s looking straight at me, dares me to look away, dares me to defy the steely Trent backbone behind those aristocratic green eyes.

  “Look, if it puts your mind at ease,” I say, “I doubt anyone from Sterling Auctions came all the way from Chicago to sneak into Eve’s house and put a knife in her back.”

  “So why the interest in them? Are they connected to the Atchleys?”

  “Not that I know of,” I say after a forkful of eggs. “Y’know, George really knows how to whip up scrambled eggs.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell him. No doubt it will make his day. Cantor, don’t you understand? I want to help you.”

  “You’ve already helped me. You set me up with the Atchleys. By the way, I talked to James Atchley last night. He’s one slimy article.”

  “Don’t change the subject. Tell me why you asked about Sterling Auctions.”

  I have to get Vivienne off this track.

  An idea occurs to me, a dicey idea, but yeah, Vivienne knows how to handle herself. I know it, too. I’ve seen it. “You really want to help me?”

  “I said I did, didn’t I?”

  “Okay. Then come with me to the Garraway house. Let’s have a talk with Desmond. Did you know he’s an old thief from way back? He also killed a guy, or so they say.”

  Her face lights up with the excitement of a kid on a Coney Island thrill ride. “Really? I had no idea. Did Eve know?”

  “Probably. Her father knew. The old man took Desmond in, gave him a second chance and a roof over his head after he got out of prison. Desmond trusts me—”

  “Sure. Rogue to rogue,” Vivienne says with a mischievous laugh.

  “Which is why he’ll talk to me, tell me who’s come around, who’s maybe been pushy about getting the Garraway collection.”

  “Okay, but what’s my part in this?”

  “Just be yourself,” I say. “You’re the art expert, even more than I am. You can ask the right questions and spark his recollection of any pieces in the collection that triggered more interest than others. You know as well as I do that people’s taste in art says a lot about them.”

  Vivienne’s in her element now. Cool as a huntress with her finger on the trigger and prey in her sights, she says, “And maybe something in the Garraway collection caught the eye of a killer.”

  • • •

  Desmond’s ditched his butler’s duds in favor of brown slacks, tan shirt, and a brown cardigan, all of it hanging on his skinny frame like laundry hung out to dry. His eyes are red and watery, maybe from crying, maybe from drinking, or maybe just from the cigarette smoke.

  We’re all in the livin
g room, a heavy room of overstuffed furniture and dark woodwork, the kind of room made for brandy and fine cigars. I can picture Boss John Garraway enjoying both in this room while making shady political deals and twisting powerful arms.

  Desmond, Vivienne, and I are having coffee and cigarettes. Desmond is seated on the sofa. Vivienne and I are in big chairs, our coats draped over the backs. My cap’s in my lap. Vivienne still wears her hat, a close-fitting number of swan feathers dyed peach to match her blouse.

  “I really miss her,” Desmond says through his wisp of a voice. “Miss Garraway was very good to me. Generous at Christmastime, too. Always a nice bottle, and extra cash in my pay envelope.”

  I say, “Maybe you’ll get lucky, Desmond, and she’ll be generous to you in her will.”

  “Well, we’ll see,” he says. “So what’s on your mind, Cantor?”

  “Just thought we’d drop by. See how you’re holding up.”

  “I’m okay. This house feels empty, though. Only memories here now. I swear, Cantor, sometimes I think I hear old man Garraway’s voice in these rooms, y’know? Asking for his nightcap? And I can hear Miss Garraway’s laughter when she was just a wee thing. Tell you the truth, I’m glad you dropped by. For the company, you understand.”

  “Haven’t the police been back around?”

  “Not since they took the body away. The lawyers have trooped through here, though.” There’s an edge to his breathy, old man’s voice when he mentions the lawyers, like a knife blade gone to rust. “They took Miss Garraway’s papers, and the ledger listing all the stuff in her art collection.”

  “Yeah, lawyers can be nosy that way,” I say. “Listen, Desmond, before Miss Garraway died, when she was dealing with people who wanted her collection, was there anyone who seemed, well, off to you? You know, maybe pushier than they should be?”

  His face folds into a crunch of wrinkles, his nose crinkling as if he’s caught a bad smell. “They were all pushy, if you want my opinion. Greedy bunch, thinking they’re so classy with all that art talk— oh, no offense, Miss.”

  Vivienne taps into her Parkhurst heritage and gives him a truly classy smile, but it’s the Trent side of her that’s working. “None taken. My profession can be as cutthroat as any scoundrel’s.”

  He likes Vivienne’s sassy attitude and uptown smile. He gives her a smile in return. I can’t say I blame him. Vivienne’s smile could raise heat in even the coldest heart. It’s winning Desmond over, which is what Vivienne had in mind.

  Warming to her, Desmond sits up straighter on the sofa, leans forward in her direction. He says, “And let me tell you, Miss Garraway saw right through those snooty people. She really was her father’s daughter. Couldn’t pull the wool over her eyes nohow!” He says it through the type of laugh so stuffed with memories there’s more sadness in it than joy.

  I say, “Yeah, Eve was no fool. Was there anyone among the suitors for her collection she especially didn’t like?”

  He takes a final puff of his cigarette, stubs it out in the ashtray on the side table, sits back against the sofa cushions, as relaxed as if he owns the place. “Hard to say. She once told me that she thought all of them a bunch of thieves. We had a laugh about that. And you know what else she said, Cantor?”

  “I’ll know when you tell me.”

  “Well, she said the only thieves she trusted were you, me, and her father.” This makes him laugh again, a jollier laugh than the first one.

  Vivienne says, “Did she ever mention a Chicago firm, Sterling Auctions?”

  My eyes slide over to Vivienne. Hers are on Desmond.

  “Sterling. Sterling,” he says as if trying to recall the name. “Nope, doesn’t ring a bell.”

  For the moment, my end of the bargain with Huber— playing the art angle— is going nowhere. Time to take another road. I’ll decide later whether to give Huber anything new I pick up. Huber’s still a cop and I’ll always be his target, Devil’s bargain or not.

  I say, “What about people outside the art crowd? Anybody have it in for Eve?”

  Desmond’s face lights up like someone’s just told him he’s won the Irish Sweepstakes. “Well,” he drags the word out, “I don’t want to tell tales outta school . . .”

  “C’mon, Desmond,” I say, “if it helps find Eve’s killer, you’ll be doing a service to her memory.”

  “Her sainted memory.”

  “Okay, her sainted memory. Now come across.”

  “Well,” he drags the word out again, enjoying the spotlight, “she wasn’t a woman to be trifled with. If you crossed her, she could be as tough as her old dad. He taught her to be loyal to her friends and to destroy her enemies and folks who make the mistake of doing her dirty. Those politicians on the city council or up in Albany, they knew to stay on her good side. More than one of them has lost an election or didn’t get a law passed because they didn’t dance to her tune.”

  “Any one of them threaten her?”

  “Nah. They knew better. As long as they played ball, she let them be. But there was one fella,” he says, really warming up now, “who she particularly had it in for. Not a politician, a banking fella, a Mr. Atchley. She was really playing with fire there, and I told her so. Those big money people are more powerful than politicians, and slimier, too. They get away with everything, don’t they, Cantor. They can even get away with murder.”

  “You’re talking about Brooks Atchley?”

  “Yeah, he did Miss Garraway wrong.”

  “And Brooks Atchley threatened her?”

  “No, not him. The son. A hoity-toity sort, thinks he’s better than everyone else. He came around, oh, I don’t know, maybe a month ago, told Miss Garraway to lay off, or else.”

  Vivienne says, “Or else what? Or else he’d kill her? Or come after her money? Her reputation? What?”

  Desmond doesn’t like the question. “What do you think?” he says, snippy as a bratty schoolgirl.

  But Vivienne doesn’t back off. “He said he’d kill her?”

  Desmond sits back in the sofa, calm again, the quiet calm that made him a champion bank robber with steady hands and even steadier nerves. “He didn’t have to say it. Miss Garraway wound up with a bruise on her arm, an ugly red thing where he grabbed her. Boy’s got a temper.”

  That fits with Drogan’s story about James.

  Desmond keeps talking. “Yeah, I bet it was him. Now I think about it, I bet it was him who killed Miss Garraway. Hope they give that high-and-mighty punk the chair.”

  We’re all quiet after that:Desmond with satisfaction, Vivienne with a worried look for the possible downfall of her friends and museum benefactors, the Atchleys, and I’m tossing around the idea of handing James Atchley to either Huber or Sig. If James is the killer and I give him to Huber, he’ll likely die in the chair. Juries love to stick it to high society snobs even more than they like to fry cheap gangsters like Tap Tenzi. And after a humiliating trial, James will have an agonizing wait on death row. Months, maybe years of appeals to sweat out. Maybe Sig’s way is more merciful. It’s certainly faster.

  I take a good look at Desmond. I’ve always liked the guy. Maybe it’s because he made the best of his second chance with the Garraways, or maybe, as Vivienne said, he and I deal with each other rogue to rogue. But I’m having a hard time liking him now. There’s a look on his face I’ve never seen before, a sort of cat-that-ate-the-canary satisfaction, but meaner. If Desmond’s the cat, then James Atchley’s the canary, and Desmond’s enjoying the meal too much.

  Maybe it’s time to look at something I didn’t want to look at, something that risks breaking the old bank robber in half. “Yeah, families,” I say. “They’ll do anything to protect each other, or if someone wrongs them, they’ll make them pay, no matter how long it takes. Isn’t that right, Desmond?”

  He looks at me like I just stepped on his foot, but he’s too stunned to say ouch.

  I’m about to press the issue but Vivienne grabs the conversation. “Just a minute,” she says, �
��let’s not jump to conclusions. It sounds like you have good reason to point a finger at James Atchley, Desmond, but I’m not satisfied that the Garraway collection didn’t play a part in Eve’s murder. Some of the people in my world play rough to get what they want, or keep others from getting it. So I want to ask you again, was there anyone else, anyone from the museums or galleries, who was, let’s say, aggressive in their pursuit? And I’d like to have a look at the collection. I’m familiar with the catalogue. I want to make sure the collection is intact. If anything’s missing, that could lead to another suspect in Eve’s murder.”

  “Miss . . . Miss Trent, is it?” Desmond says.

  “Parkhurst Trent.”

  “Miss Parkhurst Trent. You wouldn’t be implying that I—”

  “Oh, of course not,” she says, turning on her irresistible charm. “Your devotion to Miss Garraway is clear. You would not do anything to besmirch her name or her memory. No, I’m referring to outsiders. Anyone come to mind?”

  “I’ll have to think on it,” he says, “though I think young Atchley is still your best bet. And anyway, if you want to enter the vault, you’ll have to ask the lawyers. They have the combination.”

  “Eve didn’t share it with you? Her trusted retainer since childhood?” Vivienne’s smile could melt the North Pole.

  Desmond’s smile could freeze the tropics.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It’s nearly twelve-thirty when I drop Vivienne off at her museum, and just after one o’clock when I get back to my office after I pick up a chicken sandwich from Pete’s. Judson tells me he’s had Alice’s body released from the city morgue and taken to the Harris Funeral Parlor on Sixth Avenue. “Funeral’s tomorrow morning, Flushing Cemetery, ten o’clock,” he says and hands me four messages: three from clients who want me to risk my life to get them some treasure or other to decorate their walls or add to their museum’s prestige, the fourth is a message from Sig to call him back.

  I take a bite of my sandwich and dial another number first.

  When the desk sergeant gets Huber on the line, I say, “Anything new, lieutenant?”