A Killing Gift

by Leslie Glass

  "I don't know. The truth is, Dad had been acting a little off before he died."

  "How off?"

  "I told you this before. Obviously he was secretive. You know Mom was into the lottery, but I didn't know how it works. Call me crazy. I didn't know it came in so fast, and I didn't know what he did with it. I know he was depressed about his future. He kept talking about living in a hotel, sitting on a park bench. Crazy stuff. I didn't know he was looking for a house in Florida. There was a lot of stuff I didn't know."

  "Do you think he was feeling guilty?"

  "For surviving Mom? I'm sure. He thought he'd neglected her."

  "What about that and distributing money to Bill and Harry? Maybe guilt for excluding you was what you heard in his voice."

  "Jesus, April. Don't go there. I knew Dad. He was my buddy. Why would he do that to me?" But Kathy wasn't sure now. April could hear it in her voice.

  "Maybe your dad had a plan for you, too," she said. "Maybe the check was supposed to be in the mail and just didn't get to you."

  "He would have told me," she said quietly. "He was a careful man. I'm sure he would have told me."

  April had planned to save this for a time when the two of them were sitting face-to-face, but she went ahead because she didn't know when that time would be. "He didn't tell you everything, Kathy. He had your mother cremated."

  "Oh, Jesus. That's a crock, too. Where did you hear that?"

  "We know he did," April said softly. She didn't have to offer proof. It was in the computer if Kathy cared to look.

  "Oh, sure, and where are the ashes? She had a funeral. I saw her buried. She didn't have an open casket because of how bad she'd looked. But I did see her buried."

  "I know you did. What did you see her buried in?"

  "A casket, of course. Where are you going with this?" Kathy was furious, but she sounded nervous, too.

  "Okay, good. She was buried in a coffin. Maybe our information is wrong. Look, Kathy, I'm sorry about all this. We'll straighten it out, okay?" Lorna was buried in a coffin? April shivered. Something wasn't right; she could feel it.

  "Where are you going with this, April? I need to know what you're doing," Kathy demanded.

  "I'm doing whatever I have to, Kathy. Your father was a friend of mine." April was puzzled. What picture was she seeing?

  "Fuck you. It doesn't sound like it," Kathy muttered before she hung up.

  Thirty-eight

  April's stomach knotted up as they continued north on Park Avenue. She felt bad about Kathy. Something was way off between her and her dad, also between her and her brother. It appeared that Kathy had been out of the loop as far as the family finances were concerned, and she sounded concerned about the murder rap threatening her brother. But April knew her distress went a lot deeper than that. Now she had to worry about her mother's ashes. What was that all about? April was getting a creepy idea, but she pushed it away as traffic slowed them down in Midtown.

  By the time they got to Fiftieth Street, she'd stopped brooding about the Bernardinos. Ten minutes later, when she and Woody got to the tenth-floor Bassett apartment, she had other things to be concerned about. For one thing no uniform was there to secure the victim's home. Here was another unsettling parallel with the Bernardino case. The heirs had gotten here first.

  "Okay, okay. I heard you. Come in if you're coming in." Brenda Bassett opened the door for the two detectives, then quickly turned her back on them.

  April stepped inside and was stopped dead by the magnificence of a rose-colored marble floor in a gallery hung with oil paintings of horses and dogs in various hunt modes and dead animals in small still-lifes. Also portraits of richly dressed people picnicking on flawless lawns in front of grand houses. A huge chandelier lit the hall. Under the chandelier was an ornate table inlaid with tortoiseshell, mother-of-pearl, and brass. Under that was a thick Oriental carpet in bright blues and reds. Way over the top, it was just the sort of place to which a cop from a string-decorated house in Queens could really relate. It was the kind of display that only big money could swing.

  Brenda Bassett walked around the center table to a mahogany door on the other side. She was a tall woman, probably close to six feet in high heels, and thinner than a healthy person should be. Ms. Bassett had no bosom and no fanny, and it struck April as perverse that someone with so much money wouldn't eat. To the Chinese, food was pretty much everything. Most memories of luxury and excess were of eating, never of going hungry.

  April blew her breath out as Brenda led the way through a door into a dark wood-paneled library where the walls were lined with a collection of books that looked as old as the paintings in the hall. Ms. Bassett turned and seated herself in one of several leather wing chairs, and April got to see her face. Her features were all angles. She had a long, straight nose, slab-sided cheekbones, a sharp chin, and razor-blade lips-the kind that couldn't be improved with lipstick. Her hair was black and blunt-cut.

  The man, who stood near the desk, was five-eight, and had a heavy build, no chin, little hair, and moist pink lips set in soft round cheeks. April didn't have to examine him closely to catch the dazed look of an all-night drinker who'd been forced out into the daylight way too early. Boyfriend, brother, lawyer? A messy pile of papers and other small items on the desk indicated that a search had been in process. The man put some space between himself and the desk and sat gingerly in another wing chair.

  "I'm Sergeant April Woo. And this is Detective Baum," April said. Woody took his at-ease position by the door, and she waited for a cue to sit. It didn't come.

  "Well, this is my brother, Burton Bassett, I'm Brenda Bassett. What do you want?" the woman asked bluntly.

  Burton put a hand to his head. "Gently, sister," he said in a pained tone.

  Not a lawyer. Brother and sister. April quickly formed the impression that the genders of the Bassett siblings had been reversed. Brenda was the strong and pushy yang; Burton was the passive, yielding yin. Neither appeared to be in mourning for their father or stepmother. Suddenly new links between the Bernardino and Bassett murders occurred to April. Both victims' names began with B, both spouses of the victims had the money and had died first of natural causes. Both had two adult children, a boy and a girl. What else?

  What, boss? Woody's body language told her he was trying to read her orders. "Do you need something to drink, Sergeant?" he asked out loud. Their code for, Do you want to separate them?

  "Thank you, Detective. In a minute," April replied.

  Neither Bassett offered her any water.

  "I was at home last night," Brenda said, "if that's what you want to know." She smirked.

  "I was out with friends, till… quite late." Burton actually yawned.

  Brenda glared at him suddenly. "Birdie was a nice woman. She didn't deserve to die like that." Her mouth shut like a clamshell, then opened again. "Do we need a lawyer? You're not reading us our rights, are you?"

  April smiled. People always jumped to conclusions. "We just need some background about your stepmother."

  "Well, I don't know how much we can help you. We weren't close."

  "When was the last time you saw Mrs. Bassett?"

  "Dad's funeral. She was pretty out of it." This came from Burton, who looked pretty out of it himself.

  "That would be when?"

  "A month ago, something like that."

  April frowned. Lorna died a month before Bernie was killed. What did the length of time between the natural death and the murder tell them about the perpetrator? "What day?"

  "I don't remember." Brenda turned to her brother. "What day did Daddy die? I'm so upset with this-"

  Burton shrugged. "Thursday? No, I was playing golf Thursday. It had to be Friday."

  "Yes, it was Friday. But I can't remember the date." Brenda Bassett's mouth made an astonished O. "I've lost track of time."

  "We'll need the time frames," April told her, as if they wouldn't know pretty much everything about them by dinnertime. Hagedorn w
ould hack into their lives until nothing was secret.

  "For God's sake, why?" Brenda made some noise with her breathing.

  "How was she doing with your father's death?" April didn't bother to answer the question.

  "I have no idea," Brenda said indignantly. "It's not like I knew her. I didn't know her. I mean, I'd seen her a couple of times a year. At family events. Thanksgiving, things like that.." Her voice was strong and angry. Maybe she hadn't liked being excluded.

  "Did you speak to her after the funeral?" April asked.

  "About what?" Brenda made a face, then lifted a shoulder.

  "Your father's will, arrangements for…" April let her hand reference the rifled desk, the contents of the apartment.

  "No, is the correct answer," Burton told her. "We did not speak to Birdie. She didn't speak to us. We don't know who her little friends and associates might be. We never knew what she did from day to day. We don't know why she would go to a dinner at York U. None of us went there; we didn't support the place."

  "How do you know it was a York dinner?" April asked.

  This time Burton made the O with his mouth.

  "Someone called us," Brenda said quietly. "Someone from there, a dean or someone."

  "That's how you heard?" April took out her notebook and began to write.

  "Of course that's how we heard." Brenda frowned at her brother.

  "How did they know to call you?" April asked.

  Brenda blinked. "I have no idea. It wasn't me. Burton got the call, didn't you, Burr?"

  "Well, I didn't speak to anyone. Someone left a message. I was out at the time. I didn't get in until late."

  "What difference does it make?" Brenda said impatiently. "You called me in the middle of the night. After that I didn't sleep a wink." She sniffed over the lost sleep.

  "Did you save the message?"

  "No, why should I?" Burton said.

  "What did you do then?" April asked.

  Silence. The siblings locked eyes.

  "You know, I think I would like that water," April said, but no one made a move to get it for her. "Detective, would you like some water?"

  "Thanks, water would be great." Woody was enthusiastic. Now he'd get a chance to question Burton alone.

  "Miss Bassett, would you show me the kitchen?"

  Brenda remained motionless in her chair. Even when April reached the door, she still resisted getting up.

  "It's not like I live here," she protested finally. "I haven't lived here since I was thirteen."

  "You still know where the kitchen is," her brother pointed out.

  Brenda pulled herself out of the wing chair. "Follow me," she said coldly.

  She led the way into the gallery with all the paintings, then through a doorway to an inside dining room that wasn't very cozy. All it had in it was an old table and some wooden chairs. When she turned around, the fluorescent light from the ceiling fixture made her look old. "The servants' dining room," she said.

  "Does someone live in?" April wouldn't mind knowing what had been taken out of here since last night.

  "Not anymore."

  "How about daily help?"

  "I wouldn't know Birdie's arrangements." Brenda moved through a doorway into a kitchen April's chef father would appreciate. It wasn't one of those new overdone ones.

  This kitchen was all utility and about the size of April and Mike's one-bedroom apartment. Half of it was equipped with a huge old restaurant stove, miles of stainless-steel countertops, and high glass-doored cabinets full of crystal glasses and delicate china. The main area boasted two refrigerators, two sinks, and two dishwashers. Another section had more miles of counters, with heat lamps set into the cabinets above and a third sink and dishwasher.

  "Butler's pantry." Brenda waved her hand toward the area with the heat lamps near the dining room. An open silver closet revealed felt-lined shelves, heavily laden with silver casserole dishes and plates and serving trays and salt and pepper cellars, the gamut. An elaborate coffee and tea set on a silver tray, four large candelabra, and an open chest full of flatware on the counter had already been removed.

  On the question of the water, Brenda seemed stymied by the three sinks, as if each one might dispense a different flavor. April pushed open the swinging door and went into the dining room.

  This, too, was like a room from a museum. The door swung closed again as April tried to absorb a level of magnificence she'd never seen before. A huge table had sixteen English-looking carved mahogany chairs set around it. A beige-and-gold Oriental carpet matched the gold trim on navy brocade drapes. The drapes were tied back with golden ropes, and the sheers underneath were closed to shield the silk-covered Queen Annes around the table from the sun. But maybe the chairs weren't Queen Anne. Who knew what they were. But April did recognize the Chinese porcelain. Valuable pieces had been removed from the display area on either side of a huge marble fireplace. A large Tang camel, an even larger Tang ram, three stunning export chargers from a much later period, and a bunch of teapots all different ages. April noticed that the marble fireplace was inlaid with brass, or maybe even gold, and above it hung a painting of a rosy-cheeked girl that April knew was a famous one. Auguste Renoir, read the brass plaque on the frame. "I thought you wanted water." Brenda pushed the door open and grimaced at the dining table loaded with expensive goodies. "They were my mother's," she said defensively.

  "Very nice," April said. "But please don't touch anything else or take anything out until we're finished here."

  "Why?"

  "Your stepmother was murdered last night. We need to go over the apartment," April told her.

  "But the police were already here."

  No doubt they were. Soon after the body had been identified, someone would have come to the apartment to notify the next of kin. But there had been no next of kin, and no one had stayed behind to guard the place. If Birdie had died there, the apartment would still be overrun with cops. April couldn't even guess how much the contents of the apartment were worth. But if Birdie Bassett had made a will, then her estate probably owned them. Who owned what, however, wasn't her department.

  "Maybe, but there's still a lot to do. I'd like to see her bedroom," April said smoothly. Did she ever, and Birdie Bassett's jewelry box, and her closet and the contents of her medicine cabinet and her cosmetics, and the messages on her answering machine, and pretty much everything else.

  Brenda gave her a truly hostile look. "What about that water?" she asked.

  "Maybe later," April replied.

  Thirty-nine

  Jason returned many of his calls, but he delayed returning the urgent phone call of Sid Barkow, president of the institute. At four p.m. he felt he couldn't in good conscience wait any longer. He dialed the number in a fifteen-minute break between patients, fervently praying that he'd reach Sid's voice mail and be spared talking to Sid himself. Sid must have been screening his calls, because he picked up immediately. "Hello."

  "Hi, Sid, it's Jason." Jason tried not to sound disappointed.

  "I know who you are. But I'm with someone. When are you free to talk?" Sid let his breath out in a long whoosh, as if he'd been holding it in all day.

  "I'm free now, Sid," Jason told him.

  "Okay, well, I'm just finishing up. I'll call you back in five minutes." Sid hung up. Five minutes later he called back, and right away his hysteria spewed out. "For God's sake, Jason, did you hear about Mrs. Bassett?"

  "Yes. I saw the story on the news. Very sad," Jason murmured. The more he'd thought about it all day the sadder it became.

  "Jesus, it's just such bad luck. Did you have a chance to talk to her about the institute?"

  "You know, Sid, you're a-" Jason almost let his mouth say sleazy bastard, but he stopped himself in time. What was the point in antagonizing an old colleague? "No, I was supposed to meet with her today."

  "Oh, God, that's just terrible. Who gets control of Max's foundation now?" he asked.

  "You know, Sid, I wouldn't k
now that." Jason was distressed by the one-track mind. Institute, institute, institute. Couldn't anyone take a break? Poor Mrs. Bassett. She'd sounded like a nice lady.

  "I thought you knew Max so well," Sid started whining. Now that the legacy was gone, he must feel very threatened.

  "I didn't know him that well." In fact, Jason had met with Max dozens of times over the years and they'd talked about many things, but never about his dying someday, or the details of his foundation.

  "Well, what were his plans for the institute when his wife died?"

  "He didn't tell me, Sid. He didn't think his wife would die. She was only thirty-seven." Max hadn't thought he would die either, for that matter. Jason pondered the two deaths so close together and wondered what he'd missed in that conversation with Birdie.

  "Will you find out, Jason?" Sid's voice had that panicked tone that always irritated everyone in board meetings.

  "Yes, Sid, I'll find out," Jason promised in his most soothing tone.

  "How soon?" Sid demanded.

  "Well, I have to check my notes, talk to a few people. It may take a week or so."

  "Can you hurry it up, so I can add it to my report for the June meeting?"

  "Sure thing, Sid. I'll get back to you soon. Got to go. My patient is here."

  As soon as Jason hung up, his doorbell really did ring. And it was Molly, who happened to be a lovely woman, ironically thirty-seven years old. When she'd come to Jason two years ago, she hadn't had a date in ten years and suffered from so many phobias that she couldn't leave her apartment for anything but food. Now she was working and dating like a maniac, even talking about getting married and having children. One of his success stories. But today he couldn't get interested in any of her exciting plans for the future.

  He was distracted by remorse for having put Birdie Bassett off for a week. He should have met with her that evening. It really bothered him.

  "What's the matter?" Molly gave him a funny look. He came to and smiled benignly.

  "You were frowning at me," Molly accused. "You don't think I mean it?"