Runaway: Wolfes of Manhattan Three

by HELEN HARDT

  The thought sent a spear of sorrow arrowing through my heart.

  I took another bite of Bananas Foster.

  This one didn’t taste nearly as good.

  32

  Matteo

  Morning in Manhattan. So different from morning in Montana. Lacey Ward was easy enough to find online. She was a partner at a Manhattan firm, so I called first thing after noshing on a bagel I’d picked up and smothered with cream cheese. Best bagel I’d ever eaten.

  I called the law firm as I was wiping the last of the cream cheese from my lips. The receptionist spewed out the names in a sing-songy voice.

  “Lacey Ward, please,” I said.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Ward no longer works here.”

  “Oh? Could you tell me where she’s working now?”

  “She’s legal counsel at Wolfe Enterprises.”

  Of course. She married a Wolfe, so now she worked there. “Thanks. Sorry to bother you.” I did a quick search for the number I needed.

  I got ready to punch in the numbers, when I made a rash decision. Why call when I could just show up? It’d be a lot harder for her to turn an actual person away, but she could easily dismiss a phone call. Chances were I’d get voicemail anyway.

  I breathed in. Out. In again.

  I was one step closer to Riley. My heart was beating hard. More like galloping. Was Riley even here? Fox had said she had an MO of disappearing. Had she come back here when she left Montana? I had no idea. No idea at all. But if her father had just died, chances were pretty good.

  Instead of catching a cab, I walked several blocks to the Wolfe building with my phone as my guide.

  New Yorkers bustled around me, never smiling, some bumping into me without so much as an “excuse me.” Man. Why did anyone live here? Everything was so crowded and closed in.

  I pondered this as I stopped abruptly when my phone chided me.

  “You have arrived.”

  Okay, then. So this silver skyscraper was the Wolfe Building. It was no Empire State Building, but it was a mountain of steel nonetheless.

  I drew in a deep breath and entered through the revolving doors.

  Several armed guards greeted me, along with metal detectors.

  “Good morning.” I smiled.

  My smile wasn’t returned. “Please place your phone and all metal objects in the container, sir,” one of them said.

  I complied, and after he nodded, I walked through the detector.

  I nearly jumped when the damned thing beeped.

  “Come back through, sir,” the guard said.

  Meanwhile, others were lined up behind me, frowning. I’d angered the masses.

  “Please spread your arms,” the guard said as he hovered a wand over me. “Seems good now. Do you have any artificial joints?”

  “No.” I pulled the silver pendant out of my pocket. “Is this the problem?”

  “Yeah. Probably. Why didn’t you put it in the container?”

  “I…forgot it was there.”

  “All right. You’re good. Go ahead to the reception desk.”

  “Thanks.”

  Yeah. A lie. I hadn’t forgotten it was there. I just didn’t want to shove it into a container with other things that had no meaning.

  I headed toward the reception desk.

  “May I help you?” one of the four receptionists—the only one who wasn’t busy—asked.

  “I’d like to see Lacey Ward, please.”

  “You mean Lacey Wolfe?”

  “Yes. Sorry.”

  “No problem. She hasn’t been married long. Sign in there, please.” She gestured to an iPad. “Do you have an appointment?”

  “I—”

  “Wait,” she interrupted me. “You can’t have an appointment. The Wolfes are all out today for Mr. Wolfe’s memorial service.”

  “Right. I don’t have an appointment.” I thought quickly. “I just came to ask her about the details of the memorial. You know, so I can go pay my respects.”

  “You’re a friend of the Wolfe family?”

  “Yes. I’m a friend of Riley’s.”

  “How nice.” She handed me a crisp card with the Wolfe logo at the top. “Here are the details. The service is at two.”

  I took the card from her. “Awesome. Thanks for your help.”

  I scanned the card. St. Andrew’s Parish. Wake to follow at the Waldorf Astoria.

  Apparently I was going to a memorial service this afternoon. For now, though? I had to buy something to wear. Jeans and a T-shirt weren’t going to cut it for Derek Wolfe’s funeral.

  Thank God I had a decent credit line on the one card I carried with me. Black slacks, a black silk tie, and a white button-down shirt in Manhattan set me back two grand. What the fuck? That was more than I’d spent on clothes in my entire adult life.

  Despite the fact that I was now two grand in the hole, I took a cab to St. Andrew’s for the ceremony. I didn’t want to take a chance of being late. I arrived at the church and stood with my mouth hanging open.

  It was a gorgeous old building, almost like something out of Paris or Barcelona. Granite stones and ornate stained-glass windows.

  Okay. New York had something to offer after all—besides Riley Wolfe, that was. I was a western boy, but we didn’t have historic buildings like this in Montana. Hordes of people milled around the entrance. Would there even be room for everyone? I pushed through as best I could, finally making it inside.

  “Welcome,” someone said, handing me a program. “Be sure to sign the guest book.”

  “Thank you.” Then I bypassed the guest book. I didn’t even know the man. I was here to see his daughter.

  Of course I wouldn’t see her now. She was no doubt up front in the roped-off areas. I’d have to find her after the service. I quickly found a pew that wasn’t completely filled and took a seat in the back.

  I opened the pamphlet containing the program for the service.

  Derek Paul Wolfe

  He was sixty-five years old. Still a young man. Everything I’d read since I found out who Riley was indicated he’d been the victim of a gunshot. Was he murdered? No one seemed to know yet, though it was presumed he had been.

  This obituary made him sound like a saint.

  Father, entrepreneur, philanthropist.

  An all-around wonderful guy. Who would want to murder an all-around wonderful guy?

  Beat the hell out of me.

  It helped to explain why Riley had run off to Montana, though. She was mourning. She needed to escape.

  And of course she came home for the memorial.

  She hadn’t run away from me. She’d run toward her home, to honor her father’s life. Who wouldn’t?

  Well, I wouldn’t, but I washed that thought away. Being at a memorial service was enough of a downer.

  A string quartet was playing something classical. I wasn’t a classical music enthusiast, but it sounded like Mozart to me. I could be totally wrong.

  I settled in at the end of the row. I smiled at the man next to me. He grumbled under his breath.

  Yup. New Yorkers.

  All right, then. All I had to do was wait this out. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and put everything on silent, and then, instead of joining in for the hymns and scripture readings, I played a game of solitaire, which was met with a surly frown from my neighbor.

  I warmed and slid my phone back into my pocket.

  “…was a gifted businessman,” a microphoned voice said.

  I looked toward the altar. A man—a man who could have been Riley’s twin—stood at the lector podium. His dark hair was long and pulled back against his neck. He looked down at notes frequently, as if he weren’t comfortable speaking in front of people.

  “He instilled in my brothers, sister, and me the value of hard work. We were born to privilege, but we still had to earn our way. Each of us worked for his company when we were young, and he taught us valuable lessons for work and for life.

  “But who was Derek Wo
lfe, really? He was a private man who valued duty, decency, honor, and integrity from the time he was a child to the day of his horrific death. He was born to Alistair and Marnie Wolfe, my grandparents, and was their only child. He studied at St. John’s preparatory school in Manhattan before venturing to Columbia for a degree in business. He played sports at prep school and university, as he was a tall and strong man and gifted athletically. He was gifted academically, as well, and was inducted into Phi Beta Kappa at Columbia and was also a member of Mensa.

  “A few years after college, he married Constance Larson. Though their union eventually ended in divorce, our mother and father gave us an idyllic childhood.

  “As a father, Derek Wolfe demanded the best, and we gave it. He made sure we always knew how lucky we were to live in such luxury.

  “If we broke something, we either fixed it or paid for it. How simple it would have been for our father to just purchase a new one. But Derek Wolfe’s children learned the value of money.

  “His discipline was strict. As children, we sometimes fought against it, but as adults, we understand the lessons learned.

  “Even as we grew away from him, he remained a solid presence in our lives and in our mother’s. He was always a reassuring presence during difficult times.

  “Especially during difficult times.

  “Derek Paul Wolfe.

  “You knew him as an entrepreneur. A businessman. A philanthropist. An avid golfer and squash player. Builder of an empire.

  “My siblings and I knew him simply as “Dad.”

  “And we miss him.”

  The man nodded and then left the podium.

  A few sniffles and soft sobs echoed through the sanctuary. The parish priest then took the podium for what I hoped would be a brief homily.

  “Derek Wolfe and I grew up together,” the priest began. “Not many of you know that, I’m sure. He was a little older than I was, and I’d come around this very parish on Sundays to beg for a few spare coins. You see, my mother and I lived in a tenement in Hell’s Kitchen, and I regularly walked over to the good side of Manhattan to beg and steal. I sometimes crawled underneath the pews to grab a purse that had been left unattended.

  “One day, I tried to steal Marnie Wolfe’s purse.

  “Derek, then about eleven years old, kicked me in the head so hard I cried out in the middle of mass.”

  A few gasps emanated from the pews.

  “Derek’s mother scolded him and sent us both out of this very sanctuary with instructions to wait until mass was over and she’d deal with both of us. Of course, she wasn’t my mother, so I chose to run.

  “Except I wasn’t fast enough for Derek Wolfe. Roy was right when he said his father was athletically gifted. He caught me and knocked my head into a wall until I saw stars. Then he forced me to walk back to the church and apologize to his mother when she emerged from mass.

  “His parents took me home, fed me lunch, and then sent me home with a hundred-dollar bill and a bag full of groceries.

  “So began a lifelong friendship.

  “The Wolfes took me under their wing, and soon I was attending mass regularly. I attended Sunday school and received my first communion not long after. And I realized I’d found my calling. Someday, I told Derek, I’d become a priest.”

  He laughed. “Of course the first thing Derek said to me upon that revelation was, ‘you’re going to give up girls?’”

  Chuckles from the pews.

  “Yes, laugh,” the priest said. “That’s another thing Derek taught me. To laugh. Derek laughed a lot, even with a scared little boy who’d tried to steal his mother’s purse.

  “So when I answered his question and told him my calling was to God and not to girls, he laughed again. But then he said, ‘Jimmy, if you really want to be a priest, I’ll make sure you’re a priest.’

  “And he did. He asked his parents to get me into a good school and pay the tuition. When it was time for seminary, Derek was already at Columbia and he paid my tuition and costs out of his own pocket.

  “I married Derek and Connie, and I gave first communion to all the Wolfe children.

  “To say I owe Derek everything is an understatement.

  “Derek embodies the philosophy and lessons of our savior, Lord Jesus Christ.

  “In the Gospel of Luke, Jesus, says, ‘Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God. Blessed are you who are hungry now, for you will be filled. Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh.’

  “Because of Derek Wolfe, I was filled, and now I laugh.

  “Live each day the way Derek Wolfe lived. Share your treasures with others. Help those in need. And laugh.

  “We may mourn the loss of Derek Wolfe. But I can guarantee you that he’s in a better place, and that he’s laughing.”

  Silence, then, for what seemed like hours. Until finally the priest said, “Amen.” A pause, and then, “May the peace of the Lord be with you always.”

  “And also with you,” the congregation murmured.

  “Now let’s share that peace with each other the way Derek would want us to.” The priest left the altar and shook the hands of the people in the front row.

  And damn.

  There she is.

  Riley Wolfe.

  She was cloaked in black, but I’d recognize her perfection anywhere. She shook hands with the priest while gazing at her feet. Then she sat down once more.

  In the meantime, the people in my pew were bustling, shaking hands, and hugging.

  The gentleman next to me stuck his hand out. “Peace be with you,” he said gruffly.

  “Peace to you as well.” I shook his hand and smiled.

  He didn’t smile back.

  Once everyone was done hugging and having sex in the aisle—okay, they weren’t having sex, but my God—the priest resumed his spot at the altar and began the sacrament of holy communion.

  I didn’t participate. Not that I had anything against communion, but I didn’t want to parade in front of Riley right now. Yeah, I came here to see her, but she was in mourning. Showing up without any warning at all might upset her.

  So I stayed in my pew while mourner after mourner stepped to the altar to receive their bread and wine.

  Finally, after a prayer and more from the string quartet, the priest gave the blessing and benediction.

  I rose and stretched my legs. Old wooden pews were anything but comfortable. I looked down at my feet as the family members passed by, walking down the aisle.

  They’d no doubt form a receiving line, and I planned to wait until the end so as not to startle Riley.

  More waiting.

  I grabbed my phone back out of my pocket. I played more solitaire but had trouble concentrating as my heart was thudding against my sternum at a rapid pace.

  Nervousness? More like anxious anticipation.

  I couldn’t wait to see her.

  I’d hold her in my arms, let her cry into my shoulder for as long as she needed to. I’d help her get through this.

  That was what you did for the person you loved.

  And God, I loved her.

  I loved her so much.

  The crowds finally dwindled, and I made my way out of the sanctuary. Three men and two women— including the man who’d read the eulogy—stood in a huddle.

  The women were both attractive, one blond and one brown-haired, but neither of them were Riley.

  I approached them. “Excuse me.”

  “Yeah?” one of the men said. He had piercing green eyes.

  “I’m looking for Riley Wolfe.”

  “You a friend of hers?”

  “Yeah, I am. I want to offer my condolences.” I held out my hand. “Matteo Rossi.”

  “Rock Wolfe.” He took my hand. “Riley never mentioned you to me.”

  “We just met…recently.”

  “I see. This is my wife, Lacey, and my brothers, Reid and Roy. That’s Roy’s girlfriend, Charlie.”

  Riley’s three brothers, as F
ox had said. I shook hands all around. “Nice to meet all of you. But…where’s Riley?”

  “She couldn’t handle the receiving line thing,” Rock said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I understand. I’m sure you’re all very upset by the loss of your father. I’m very sorry.”

  “Right.” Rock nodded, but his lips twitched slightly.

  “You coming to the wake?” Roy, the long-haired one, asked.

  “Will Riley be there?”

  “She should be.”

  “Then yeah, I’m coming.”

  “Come on, then,” Rock said. “You can ride with us in the limo.”

  33

  Riley

  I wiped my mouth with a handkerchief that once belonged to my grandmother. My mother had pressed it into my hand before the service, mumbling something about looking my part.

  I didn’t shed one tear or sniffle once during the service. I just sat, numb, feeling nothing as I listened to my brother spew lies about our father.

  He’d been good at it too.

  But the worst was Father Jim’s homily.

  It was more about Derek Wolfe being a paragon of society than about any lessons learned from scripture.

  It was a farce. A complete farce.

  Especially since we all knew who Father Jim really was. He was as sick as my father had been, and he had to be stopped.

  Perhaps all the horror had ceased when my father died, but Father Jim still had to go down.

  I didn’t have the strength to do it, but my brothers did.

  And my brothers would.

  They’d been wonderful when I told them I absolutely couldn’t stand in the receiving line and hear virtual strangers talk about how great the man who terrorized me my entire life was. They let me off the hook, and I ended up here, behind the church, puking into a rose bush.

  The dry heaves had finally stopped, and I got ready to shove the soiled hanky into my purse, but then I regarded it.

  The initials CW were embroidered on one corner along with an ornate pattern.

  CW. Constance Wolfe. This handkerchief hadn’t belonged to my grandmother. It was my mother’s.