“Not without a helluva court fight,” Felicia said. “If she dies and I don’t get half the estate, some lawyer is going to earn mucho dinero representing me. But that’s all in the future. Right now I’ve got enough loot so that you and I could live the lush life. Well?”
“Interesting proposition,” Turner said. “I’ll have to think about it.”
“Sure,” she said. “Run it through your little computer and see if it doesn’t make sense. Now let me prove that marrying me would be the smartest deal you ever made.”
He finished his vodka, set the empty glass on the floor. “I have something for you,” he said. “Want it now?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” she said. “Where is it?”
“Top bureau drawer.”
“How much?”
“A gram.”
“You darling!” she cried.
16
TWO DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS, Dora Conti went home to Hartford, lugging an espresso machine in a bulky carton. She had spent more than she intended, but it was a marvelous gadget. Not only did it make espresso and cappuccino, but it also ground coffee beans. And it had enough shiny spigots, valves, dials, and switches to keep Mario happily busy for days while he learned to brew a perfect cup of coffee.
Before she left New York, Dora called John Wenden. He reported there was nothing new on either the Lewis Starrett or Solomon Guthrie homicides. The Department was checking out all discharged employees of Starrett Fine Jewelry, but it was going to be an arduous task.
“We got their employment records,” Wenden said, “but there’s been a big turnover in the last two years. This is going to take a long, long time.”
“Did you get anything from Records about Callaway or the Pierces?”
“Not yet. They say they’re working on it, and if I push them, they’re liable to get pissed off and stall just to teach me a lesson. That’s the way the world works.”
“Tell me about it,” Dora said. “I have the same problem in my shop.”
Then she told him she would return to Manhattan on January 2nd and would call him when she got back. She wished him a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
“Likewise,” John said.
So she went home, feeling guilty about leaving him alone for the holidays, and thinking what an irrational emotion that was. But he seemed such a weary, lost man that she worried about him and wished she had bought him a Christmas gift. A maroon cashmere muffler would have been nice. But then she wondered if NYPD detectives wore mufflers.
Mario was at work when Dora arrived home, so she was able to conceal his gift in the back of her closet. In the living room he had erected a bushy six-foot Douglas fir and alongside it, brought up from the basement, were boxes of ornaments, tinsel, garlands, and strings of lights. There was a big bottle of Frascati in the fridge, and in the wine rack on the countertop were bottles of Lacrima Cristi, Soave, Valpolicella, and—Dora’s favorite—Asti Spumante.
They had a splendid holiday, all the better because they spent it alone. On Christmas Eve they made love under the glittering tree because it seemed a holy thing to do. Mario gave her a marvelous tennis bracelet, and even if the diamonds were pebbles compared to the rocks that Starrett women wore, Dora thought it the most beautiful gift she had ever received, and her happiness was doubled by Mario’s joy with his new espresso machine.
During the remainder of the week, Dora went to the office every day and wrote a progress report on the word processor, consulting her spiral notebook to make certain she could justify her surmises and conclusions. She left the nineteen-page report on Mike Trevalyan’s desk late one evening, and the next morning she was summoned to his office, a dank chamber cluttered with files and bundles of computer printout tied with twine. The air was fetid with cigar smoke; during crises or explosions of temper, Trevalyan was known to keep two cigars going at once.
He was a porcine man with small eyes, a pouty mouth, and all the sweet reasonableness of a Marine drill instructor. But the Company didn’t pay him an enormous salary for affability. They wanted him to be irascible, suspicious, and to scan every insurance claim as if the money was coming out of his own pocket. He had worked as a claims adjuster all his life, expected chicanery and, it was said, was furiously disappointed when he couldn’t find it.
“This case,” he said, pointing his cigar at Dora’s report, “it reeketh in the nostrils of the righteous. There’s frigging in the rigging going on here, kiddo, and I’m not paying a cent until we know more.”
“I agree,” Dora said. “Too many unanswered questions.”
“The cops think it was a disgruntled ex-employee taking out his grudge on Starrett executives?”
“That’s what they think,” she said.
“You know what’s wrong with that theory?” Trevalyan demanded.
“Of course I know,” Dora said. “It doesn’t account for the knife disappearing from the Starretts’ apartment, maybe on the night Lewis was killed. That’s the first thing I want to check out when I get back to New York.”
“This Detective Wenden you mention—he should have seen that. Is the guy a bubblehead?”
“No, he’s just overworked, running a half-dozen homicide cases at the same time. He happens to be a very experienced and conscientious professional.”
Trevalyan stared at her. “You wouldn’t have the hots for this guy, would you?”
“Oh Mike, don’t be such an asshole. No, I haven’t got the hots for him. Yes, we are friends. You want me to make an enemy of the detective handling the case?”
“Just don’t get too close,” he warned. “It’s your brains I’m buying, not your glands. If he’s as overworked as you say, he might try to sweep the whole thing under the rug.”
“No,” Dora said firmly, “John would never do that.”
“Oh-ho,” Trevalyan said, mashing out his cigar butt in an overflowing ashtray, “it’s John, is it? Watch yourself, sister. This big-city slicker may be warm for your form, and is feeding you just enough inside poop to keep you coming back to him. And meanwhile he’s working an angle you haven’t even thought of.”
“You’re crazy!” she said angrily. “It’s me that gave him the scoop on the missing knife and Callaway’s record. I’m way ahead of him.”
“Keep it that way,” Trevalyan advised, lighting a fresh cigar. “If he’s not playing you, like you claim, then you play him. Don’t tell him everything; just enough to make him want to cooperate. What else are you planning when you get back to Sodom on the Hudson?”
“A couple of things,” Dora said. “Mostly I want to dig deeper on how Father Callaway fits into the picture. Like where was he and what was he doing the morning Solomon Guthrie was stabbed to death.”
“You think Callaway did it?”
“I’m not sure about Guthrie, but I think there’s a good possibility he killed Lewis Starrett.”
Trevalyan inspected the glowing end of his cigar. “What was his motive?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet. I guess Starrett said some nasty things to him, but nothing dirty enough to trigger a murder.”
Mike looked up at her and laughed. “Dora, you better read your own report again. Callaway’s motive is in there.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Your report includes a very logical reason why Callaway might have iced Lewis Starrett.”
“Mike, what is it?”
He shook his head. “You find it; it’s your case. And keep an eye on that New York cop. I still think he’s trying to get in your drawers.”
“Where the hell were you when God was handing out couth?” she said indignantly.
“Waiting for seconds in the cynics’ line,” he said. “Now let’s go drink some lunch. Your treat.”
He was exaggerating, of course; they actually had food for lunch: thick corned beef sandwiches with french fries and a schooner of beer each at an Irish bar near the Company’s headquarters. And while they lunched, Mike told her what he had be
en able to pick up about Starrett Fine Jewelry, Inc.
Little was known because it was a privately held corporation, and public disclosure of its structuring and current financial condition was not required. But through rumors and hearsay, Trevalyan had learned that Olivia, Clayton, and Felicia each owned ten percent of the stock. Lewis had owned seventy percent which, presumably, would go to his widow.
“So as of now,” Dora said, “Olivia really controls the whole shebang.”
Mike nodded. “From what I hear, back in the 1950s and ’60s, Starrett Fine Jewelry was a cash cow. That’s when they opened all their branch stores. Then, beginning about ten years ago, their sales and profits went down, down, down. The problem was a-g-e. Their clientele was getting older, putting money in annuities and Treasury bonds instead of diamonds. And the baby-boomers were doing their jewelry shopping at trendier places. They thought Starrett was old-fashioned and stuffy. So about two years ago Lewis went into semiretirement and turned over the reins to Clayton.
“Well, Clayton’s first year at the helm was a disaster. He brought in a bunch of kooky designers and started pushing a line of what was really horribly overpriced costume jewelry. Not only did it not attract the yuppies, but it turned off what few old customers were left. Starrett was drowning in red ink, and there was talk in the trade that they might end up in Chapter Eleven. Then, about a year ago, Clayton turned the whole thing around. He got rid of all the designers with ponytails and went back to Starrett’s classic fine jewelry. He fired most of his branch managers and brought in young hotshots who knew something about modern merchandising. And he started trading bullion, buying gold overseas at a good price and selling it to small independent jewelers in this country at a nice markup. From what I heard, Starrett is back in the bucks again, and everyone is happy.”
“Except Lewis,” Dora said. “And Solomon Guthrie.”
“Yeah,” Trevalyan said, “except them. Have you talked to Starrett’s attorney yet?”
“Not yet, but he’s on my list.”
“He probably won’t tell you a thing, but it’s worth a try. Ask him if Lewis kept a bimbo on the side.”
Dora stared at him. “Why should I ask him that?”
“Just for the fun of it. You never know.”
She sighed. “All right, Mike, I’ll ask him. Now I’m going to pay for our lunch. But I warn you, I’m putting it on my expense account.”
“Suits me,” Trevalyan said.
On New Year’s Eve, Dora and Mario walked to their church for a noon service. Afterwards, they went looking for Father Piesecki and found him in the church basement where he and a fat altar boy were gilding a plaster saint. They told him about the open house they were having that night and urged him to stop by.
“I’ll try,” he said, “but I have four other parties to visit.”
“Homemade kielbasa,” Mario said.
“I’ll be there when the doors open,” Father Piesecki promised.
It was a wild and wonderful evening, with friends and family members coming and going. Most of the guests brought a covered dish or a bottle, so there was plenty to eat and drink. Neighbors had been invited to forestall complaints about the noise. Father Piesecki showed up with his accordion and never did get to those four other parties.
No one got too drunk or too obstreperous, and if the Christmas tree was knocked over during a violent polka, it was soon set aright. Even Mike Trevalyan and Mario’s trucker friends were reasonably well-behaved, and the worst thing that happened was when Dora’s elderly uncle dropped his dentures into the punch bowl.
Mario started serving espresso from his new machine at 1:00 A.M., but it was almost three o’clock in the morning before the last guests went tottering off. It was an hour after that before the remaining food was put away, empty glasses and scraped dishes stacked in the sink, ashtrays wiped clean, and Dora and Mario could have a final Asti Spumante, toast each other, and fall thankfully into bed. They didn’t make love until they awoke at eleven o’clock on January 1.
She returned to New York the following day. Manhattan was still digging out from a five-inch snowfall, but that was pleasant; garbage on the sidewalks was covered over, and the snow was not yet despoiled by dog droppings. Streets had been cleared, buses were running, and the blue sky looked as if it had been washed out and hung up to dry.
She called John Wenden from her suite at the Bedlington, but it was late in the afternoon before he got back to her.
“Hey, Red,” he said, “how was the holiday?”
“Super,” she said. “How was yours?”
“No complaints. I drank too much, but so did everyone else. How’s your D.O.H.?”
“My what?”
“Your D.O.H. Dear Old Hubby.”
“My husband is fine, thank you,” she said stiffly, and Wenden laughed.
“Listen, Red,” he said, “I finally heard from Records. What they dug up on Father Brian Callaway is pretty much what you told me: real name Sidney Loftus, small-time scams and swindles but no violent crimes. He’s never done a day in the clink—can you believe it? Nothing on either Turner or Helene Pierce. That doesn’t mean they’re squeaky clean, just that they’ve never been caught. Let’s see, what else … Oh yeah, I had a nose-to-nose talk with the Starrett servants. They finally admitted the eight-inch chef’s knife disappeared the evening Lewis Starrett was killed.”
“John,” she said, “I thought you were convinced Lewis and Solomon Guthrie were murdered by an ex-employee.”
“Convinced? Hell no, I wasn’t convinced. But when two guys from the same company get iced, it’s S.O.P. to check out former employees who might be looking for revenge. It’s something that has to be done, but there’s no guarantee it’s the right way to go.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that. So you still think it might have been someone at that cocktail party?”
“It could have been Jack the Ripper for all I know,” the detective said. “What’s your next move?”
She thought a moment, remembering Trevalyan’s warning not to reveal too much. “I don’t know,” she said. “Just poke around some more, I guess.”
“Bullshit,” Wenden said. “Unless I miss my guess, you’re going to investigate where Callaway was at the time Solomon Guthrie took his final ride in a yellow cab.”
“I might do that,” she admitted.
“Don’t hold out on me, Red,” he said, “or I’ll bring this beautiful friendship to a screeching halt. Forget about Callaway; I’ve already checked him out. He was in a hospital the morning Guthrie was offed.”
“A hospital? What for?”
“Minor surgery. I’d tell you what it was, but I don’t want to make you blush. Let’s just say he’s now sitting on a big rubber doughnut. Anyway, there’s no possibility he could have aced Guthrie. Disappointed?”
“Yes,” Dora said, “I am.”
“Welcome to the club,” John said. “How about lunch tomorrow?”
“Sure,” Dora said. “Think you can stand hotel food again?”
“I can stand anything,” he said, “as long as it’s free. Can you make it early? Noon?”
“Fine.”
“It’ll be good seeing you again,” he said. “I’ve missed you, Red.”
“And I’ve missed you,” she replied, shocked at what she was saying. Then: “John, what’s the name of Starrett’s attorney?”
“Oh-ho,” he said, “the wheels keep turning, do they? His name is Arthur Rushkin. Baker and Rushkin, on Fifth Avenue. That’s another one you owe me.
“I’ll remember,” she promised.
“See that you do,” he said, and hung up.
She called Baker & Rushkin on Fifth Avenue, explained who she was and what she wanted. She was put on hold for almost five minutes while “Mack the Knife” played softly in the background. Finally Arthur Rushkin came on the phone. Again she identified herself and asked if he could spare her a few minutes of his time.
“I have to be in court tomorrow,�
�� he said, “but I should be back in the office by four o’clock. How does that sound?”
“I’ll be there, Mr. Rushkin.”
Then she dug out a copy of the progress report she had submitted to Trevalyan. She reread it for the umpteenth time, searching for what Mike had said was a logical motive for Callaway killing Lewis Starrett. She still hadn’t found it, and thought maybe Trevalyan was putting her on; he was capable of a stupid trick like that.
But this time she saw it and smacked her forehead with her palm, wondering how she could have been so dense.
17
TURNER HAD WARNED Helene of Clayton’s reaction to Solomon Guthrie’s death and had suggested the spin she put on it.
“You’ll have no trouble,” he predicted. “Most people believe what they must believe, to shield themselves from reality.”
“But not you,” Helene said.
“Oh no,” Turner said airily. “I take reality raw a la sauce diable. Delicious, but it might make you sweat a bit.”
Still, it was no easy task to convince Clayton that Guthrie’s murder had been a simple mugging gone awry. He admitted that such senseless killings occurred every day on the hard streets of New York, but Helene could see that guilt gnawed; he could not rid himself of the notion that somehow he had contributed to Sol’s death, that he was in fact an accessory. That was the word he used: accessory.
Finally she ignored Turner’s instructions on how to handle this crybaby and resorted to a more elemental and effective method: She took him to bed. Within minutes sorrow was banished, guilt forgotten, and he was exhibiting the frantic physical ardor of a man who had been brooding too much on mortality.
She understood his passion was death-driven, but no less enjoyable for that. Afterwards, though, she had to listen to his banal maunderings on how fleeting life was; how important it is to “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may”; how no man on his deathbed had ever said, “I should have paid more attention to business”—all hoary clichés Helene had heard dozens of times before, usually from older men.
But this time the peroration was different.
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