Her parents had not lived that way. They’d met on a chance encounter in Boston, fallen in love, married, and moved to Maine, with little thought of what an interracial relationship on a remote island might entail. They’d had a child, raised her on that island, confident that she’d find her way in the world, having known their love …
“What is it, love?” Miles’s voice held concern. He reached out and rubbed Darby’s cheek with the back of his hand, a tender gesture that caused her eyes to well with tears.
She let herself be enveloped in a hug. Later, she’d tell him that yes, she wanted to visit England, but for now she allowed him to comfort her in the midst of Central Park.
_____
The basement of the Pulitzer building was a dusty, dark place, even at ten o’clock in the morning, but Peggy had thought ahead and brought a small flashlight. She’d already entered Miles Porter’s office and removed the moth-eaten scarf, and it was safely inside the plastic bag along with the butcher apron. She shone the flashlight down the stairs, saw the giant hulk of the boiler, as well as the massive hot water tank. She frowned. It was pretty clear no one came down here. Important evidence would be a long time in coming to light if it were placed in the basement.
Reluctantly she climbed back up the stairs. This whole thing was becoming annoying and she felt an anxious itchiness that she associated with her penchant for collecting.
And then she saw it. A huge potted plant—a tree, really—in the corner of the entryway. The perfect place to put something if you were in a hurry to dispose of it …
Quickly she lifted the plastic bag over the plant’s soil and released its contents. Bunched together on the dirt, the apron and scarf looked natural, as if they’d been tossed there. She stepped back. Yes, it was perfect.
Peggy stuffed the empty plastic bag in the pocket of her spring jacket. She found the custodian replacing paper towels in the downstairs bathrooms and reminded him to water the ficus tree outside her office. “You’re probably watering them all today, right? Even the ones in the lobby?”
He nodded. “Just one of my many duties, Peggy.”
She ignored the sarcasm and gave a heavy sigh. “I keep thinking the cops will make some headway on that murder.”
“Now, what murder would that be? They’re a dime a dozen in this city.”
“The one that happened a block away, of course. The Russian fellow. I know the police are looking for evidence.”
He slammed shut the dispenser. “Yeah, well, I’ll be sure to keep my eyes peeled.”
Later, when she saw the detectives enter the building, Peggy Babson could not resist a small triumphant smile.
_____
There was a throbbing in her head, a dull, persistent ache that the migraine medicine couldn’t touch, and Rona Reichels suspected, even as she gulped down a drink, that nothing would relieve her of the pain. If she could only sleep, she could forget about the pain, forget, too, about the death of her daughter, Devin.
How had the police detectives put it?
An accidental overdose.
A neighbor had thought it odd that the blaring music of Devin’s alarm had not ceased after an hour, and had called the building superintendent. He’d knocked repeatedly and then finally entered her apartment, finding her sprawled across her queen-sized bed.
In her system was a toxic cocktail of Valium, Oxycontin, and alcohol. “We see this happen more than we’d like,” said the portly detective. “Unintentional overdosing on prescription meds. Sometimes the victim takes a sedative, gets confused or drowsy, and forgets they’ve already taken a dose, and then takes more. Or they take another drug. Unfortunately, when you add sleeping pills to the mix there’s little difference between the amount that helps you nod off and the amount that can kill.”
Rona hadn’t known Devin took sleeping pills, but she wasn’t surprised. She herself suffered from insomnia and took a sedative nearly nightly. As for the pain pills, Rona remembered a tennis injury—a torn rotator, or something like that?—for which Devin was treated last spring. Had that doctor been the one to prescribe Oxycontin?
“Was she alone?” Rona barely recognized her voice, which seemed to come from somewhere far away, as she questioned the detectives.
“We saw no evidence anyone was with her.”
Rona had nodded. Devin, her lone wolf. She closed the door behind the men and collapsed on the couch, getting up only when she remembered the insurance policy tucked inside her dresser drawer.
_____
Eleven a.m. Gina dialed the number for Vera’s apartment, praying that by some miracle Yvette would be out and she would not have to speak with her. Her prayers were answered when the clipped voice of Vera Graff answered the phone.
“Thank God,” Gina blurted, upon hearing the woman’s quick hello. “How are you feeling, Vera?”
“Just fine,” she said, brushing off Gina’s concern as if it was an unwanted breadcrumb. “How are plans for the store progressing?”
“Moving right along. I hope you can keep the first of June free. That’s when we plan to have our opening.”
“I’ll try.” Vera waited, no doubt wondering why the young woman had called.
“I wanted to talk to you about the missing sword,” Gina said. “The one you told me about.”
“Surely you aren’t selling weapons in your vintage clothing store?”
Gina laughed. “No. Not yet, anyway.” She cleared her throat. “Vera, I was thinking that you ought to tell the police about the theft, if you haven’t already.”
“It seems so trivial. Why?”
“Because it may be important. The Russian student—the one who lives in the penthouse—her fiancé was murdered with an antique sword. What if it was yours?”
“What if it is?”
“Don’t you see, the murder and the robbery could be related. Perhaps the same person who stole your sword killed Alec Rodin.”
“But I hate talking to policemen,” Vera scoffed. “I don’t like having them snoop around my things …”
“They aren’t going to snoop. They’ll appreciate the lead. And if you don’t want them to come to your apartment, I could go with you to the station.”
“Absolutely not.” Vera sighed. “I suppose I should do my civic duty and call them. Will you come over when they’re here? You know the whole thing will terrify poor Yvette. She can’t stand anyone in a uniform.”
“Yes,” said Gina, thinking that it was going to be enjoyable, in a perverse way, to see Yvette’s face when law enforcement appeared. She hoped to heck they wore their uniforms, with big, shiny guns strapped to their hips.
“Call me when you hear from them,” Gina said. “I’m at the Coopers’ house until noon.”
“You’re sure about this, Gina?”
“I am. Make a list of anything else that’s missing. Let’s see if we can help the cops catch this guy.”
_____
When ET called and gave Darby the news that Carl and Jill Davenport were suing Pacific Coast Realty over a mold infestation, she surprised herself by feeling philosophical, rather than panicked.
“It’s out of my hands,” she told her assistant. “I feel I treated them honestly and fairly, and if indeed there is a mold problem in their home, it was not something I knew about, nor could have reasonably known about.”
“Very well said,” ET murmured. “Attorney Hitchings has voiced the same sentiment to myself and Claudia. We won’t discuss it, but you should know that we are both in your court.”
“Pun intended?”
ET groaned. “Darby, I never use puns intentionally, you know that.”
“Hey, lighten up. If I can make a joke about this, you can, too.”
“I suppose.” ET gave a little cough. “Are you still coming home on Thursday?”
“Yes. Time to face the music
.”
“I hope you’ve enjoyed yourself.”
Darby thought about the moments she’d wasted worrying about the lawsuit and shrugged them off. “Yes, Miles has been a wonderful host. We’ve eaten great meals, seen a show, and toured MOMA. And, I met with Hideki yesterday and put an offer in on a fabulous building in the Flatiron district of the city.”
“And how are you managing to sell real estate in New York without a license from that state?” he asked delicately.
“Relax,” she laughed. “I’m just getting a referral.”
“Good. You’re somehow keeping yourself out of trouble?”
“Yes. For all its glitz and glamour, this city isn’t all that exciting.”
“Meaning no one has asked you to solve any crimes.”
Again she laughed. She hadn’t told ET about Alec Rodin. “Right.”
“Let’s hope your uneventful stay continues, and you come home in one piece to California.” ET was silent a few moments. He knew all too well his friend’s propensity for putting herself in harm’s way. “I mean it, Darby. Keep yourself safe.”
“No worries,” she said blithely. “I laugh in the face of danger.”
On the other end of the phone, ET groaned.
“That’s just the attitude that worries me.”
fourteen
Vera’s call came just as Gina was making her third peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Luckily Alison, one of the afternoon nannies, had just arrived.
“Allie, I need to scoot right out,” Gina explained, hugging the boys while simultaneously licking peanut butter from her thumb. “See you in the morning, super-duper-party-poopers.”
The giggles over any rhyming words were so satisfying, thought Gina. She grabbed one of the sandwich halves and her satchel and headed out the door. On an impulse, she decided to run down some of the floors to Vera’s apartment, taking the stairs two at a time.
She was winded when she arrived, but the sandwich tasted even better.
Vera opened the door with a whoosh and beckoned her inside. “Lunch on the run?” She shook her head as if making a comment on the whole sorry state of the world. “We’ve already had our midday meal, and Yvette has gone out for a few items at the pharmacy,” she explained. “Come in, come in.”
Gina entered the apartment, struck, as always, by the Old World elegance of the ornate furnishings. Although located smack in the center of Manhattan, the main salon could be in Vienna, or Paris, Rome, or Budapest.
“I do hope these officers are respectful,” Vera fretted, plumping the cushions on a curvy loveseat. “I cannot abide rudeness, you know.”
“I’m sure they’ll be very courteous,” Gina assured her, realizing that she had no idea how the police officers would act. “If they’re not, we’ll hand them over to Yvette.”
Vera gave her a look that was shocked, and then she did an unexpected thing. She blurted out a huge guffaw.
“Oh my word, oh my word,” she laughed. “I hope I don’t split one of my seams.” She wiped her eyes with her fingers, the mirth etched on her wizened face like an engraving. “Gina, you are a funny one.”
A knock on the door interrupted their chuckles.
“Go ahead,” Vera instructed. “Let them in.”
Gina jumped up and pulled open the door, but the figure standing before her was not a police detective.
_____
Miles’s voice on the phone was incredulous.
“An apron,” he fumed. “A butcher apron, and my wool scarf. They were found this morning in a planter in the lobby of Pulitzer Hall.”
“But how …?” Darby struggled to understand the bizarre news Miles was trying to relay. “Your scarf was with an apron?”
“Yes. And it’s covered with blood. The apron, I presume, but who knows? Maybe the scarf as well.”
“How strange.”
“Indeed! I’m headed down to the police station now to talk to them about it.”
“Do you think you should call a lawyer?”
“Whatever for? It’s the most ludicrous thing I’ve ever heard of.”
“Agreed.” Darby knew, though, that evidence, no matter how ridiculous, could cast suspicion on innocent people.
“Can I meet you there, Miles?”
“Oh, I suppose so. Total waste of time, though.” He gave her the address and the tone of his voice softened. “Thanks. It will be nice to have your support, no matter how crazy this whole thing is.”
She hung up and thought about the odd news. A white butcher apron, stained with blood, and a wool scarf belonging to Miles … how had they been linked, and who had put them in the building’s lobby?
Darby knew that Miles had nothing to do with placing the items in the planter. So who, then? Someone with an axe to grid against the lanky Brit?
Her thoughts went to Miles’s students. He’d called some of their papers “drivel.” Did his disdain for their work mean that at least one of them harbored anger? Was it a random prank? Miles said his scarf had been inside his office for days, although he hadn’t noticed when it had gone missing. How had it been removed, and when?
Darby pulled on her sneakers and a black lightweight jacket. She ran a brush though her hair, tied it into a ponytail, grabbed a small pocketbook, and headed out the door.
_____
“I’m sorry,” said Natalia Kazakova, shaking her head. “I didn’t realize you had company, Vera.”
“That’s all right, dear, come in.” From her perch on the couch, Vera waved a graceful arm. “Introduce yourselves—unless you are already acquainted?”
“Not really,” Gina said, smiling. “I know your dog, Korbut, but you and I met only briefly several months ago.”
“Korbut, my ill-mannered wolfhound,” Natalia lamented. “He lunged at someone’s sneaker this morning. He is developing a bad reputation, I’m afraid.” She looked confused. “You say we’ve met before?”
“In the locker room of the gym, at Halloween. I was with a friend and we asked you to come out with us for a few drinks. Completely random, now that I think of it.”
“But very nice.”
“Sit down, Natalia.” Vera waved at the satin-covered couch.
“No, I won’t disturb you. I came only to see if we could work on our project again?” She asked it delicately, waiting for the older woman to respond.
“Of course.” She turned to Gina. “Natalia and I are doing some historical documentation,” she explained. Swiveling back to the Russian woman, she sighed and said, “I should think I’ll be too tired this afternoon, but we can meet tomorrow.” She took a breath. “I might as well tell you, Natalia. Some months ago, an antique sword was taken from this apartment. Gina has convinced me to call the police, mainly because of the death of your fiancé.”
The girl’s face grew pale. “But that is terrible. Could it be the same sword used to kill Alec?”
“I have no idea. The police are bringing a photograph.”
Natalia shuddered. “I do not wish to be here when they come,” she said simply, moving toward the exit.
But it was too late. A knock on the door signaled the arrival of someone and this time, Gina knew as she opened the door that the man waiting on the other side was a cop.
He stood in the doorway of Vera Graff’s apartment, clutching a manila folder.
“Come in,” Gina said. She was about to introduce Vera when the man started.
“Ms. Kazakova,” he said, a note of surprise in his voice. “I did not expect to see you.”
“And who exactly are you?” Vera Graff had a commanding presence when she wanted, and Gina could see from the way the man hung his head for a split second that he felt chastised.
“Hello, Mrs. Graff. I’m Detective Benedetti, New York Police Department. Thank you for your call.”
“Come in, Dete
ctive.” She moved slowly but deliberately to the couch and eased herself back down. “Natalia was here for a visit and I told her about the sword.” She indicated Gina. “This is Ms. Trovata, a friend who works in the building. She is here for moral support.” She gave a wry smile and sighed. “My housemaid, Yvette, will be returning from errands very shortly. She’s bound to be surprised at your presence. She doesn’t take well to strangers in our home.”
The detective pursed his lips. “Thank you for the warning.”
“Please, sit down.”
In contrast to Vera’s graceful movements, Detective Benedetti lowered himself like a breaching baby whale. Gina thought she saw a flicker of amusement in the older woman’s eyes.
“Let me start off with first things, first, Mrs. Graff. You’ve called because an antique sword is missing from your apartment.”
“Yes, along with a few other things.”
“Such as …?”
“A little figurine of a horse, some old coins, and an egg.”
He was taking notes. “An egg?”
“That’s right.” Her blue eyes were sharp. “Encrusted with precious gems. As is the case with the onyx horse, it’s rather valuable.”
The detective looked up from his jottings. “And this happened …?”
“About a month ago.” She paused. “I know your next question, Detective. You’re going to ask why I did not report this theft.”
He gave her a level gaze. “I was wondering. Especially if the items are valuable. Surely you would want to report them stolen so that your insurance company would cover your losses.”
Vera seemed to be choosing her words, but then the door opened and Yvette stood in the threshold. Her face sagged when she saw the assembled guests.
“Madame …” she said. Her voice quavered. She swayed on thin legs and Gina feared she would drop the groceries clutched in her arm. Gina sprang up and lent a steadying hand.
“It’s okay, Yvette,” she whispered. “You don’t need to be afraid.” She guided the terrified woman to the couch and coaxed her to sit down. She pointed at Benedetti. “This man is from the police department. He’s here because of the things that are missing from the apartment.”
Deal Killer (A Darby Farr Mystery) Page 17
