Fatal Impressions

by Reba White Williams

  The DDD&W lawyers stopped whining and went to work. Maybe they hoped to spend a few hours with their families over the weekend. Grant smiled his serpentine smile, and everyone who saw it shuddered. They knew that not one person would see his home again until the Cobra had everything he wanted.

  Rob, struggling with jet lag, had a restless night, and as a result, overslept Saturday. He didn’t arrive at his office until nearly noon, but even so, he found nothing about Dinah’s situation waiting for his attention. The guys covering Cornelia Street must not have come up with anything, and his computer kids were silent. He sent a nudging e-mail to ­­Pete, who was supposed to check on the Victor girls, asking him to get in touch as soon as possible.

  Around two, information began to trickle in. The team questioning Cornelia Street residents had turned up a witness, the old lady who owned Carmine’s, a wholesale bakery two doors away from the Hathaways’ townhouse. The bakery was open all night baking bread and loading it on delivery trucks under Mrs. Carmine’s supervision. She’d seen Dinah come home around one Friday morning, and her light go out at half past one. She swore Dinah didn’t leave the house again until the driver picked her up a little before six, when the old lady was leaving the bakery to walk to her apartment down the block. The prosecutors would suggest that Mrs. Carmine had fallen asleep and missed Dinah’s nocturnal wanderings, but her employees—including her live-in housekeeper—swore she never slept until after the last loaded delivery truck departed, and she was in bed in her apartment.

  Not that Rob wanted Dinah on trial. But Mrs. Carmine’s statement should give the NYPD pause. The police wouldn’t find anyone who’d seen Dinah during the critical period, since she hadn’t left the building, and if anyone—like Harrison—had planned to set her up with a lying witness, it was too late; everyone had been interviewed. One potential trap had been sprung. Rob didn’t know for sure that Harrison was dirty, but his attitude was strange, and there was nothing to be gained by assuming he was clean. He’d have to check Harrison out thoroughly, but meanwhile, he e-mailed Mrs. Carmine’s statement to his friend at One Police Plaza. He wanted it on record with a trustworthy person.

  When the files from the Fry Building arrived, Rob turned them over to his assistant to organize and asked him to leave everything on his desk. He’d look at them on Sunday. At five he told everyone to go home and followed them out the door. Tonight he was cooking dinner for Coleman, and he needed to get started on the meal, and to make sure his apartment was in order.

  Twenty-Six

  At eight o’clock Saturday night, Jonathan told the lawyers that he’d be back on the telephone on Sunday at nine a.m. and signed off. He and Dinah ate lentil soup Dinah had made, walked Baker, and turned in early. Neither slept much, but they both pretended, lying apart and silent, wishing the night would end but dreading what morning might bring.

  Loretta had a blind date with a young man who worked at an advertising agency, and she hoped he’d look like Mad Men’s Don Draper. She was meeting her date in the bar of the Algonquin Hotel, which she’d read about. On this, her first visit to the historic hotel, she planned to stand out. She was wearing a red velvet cocktail suit that looked more like Christmas than spring, but it was freezing outside and felt like Christmas. Anyway, it was Saturday night! At the Algonquin, she handed her black cape to the cloakroom attendant and leaned over to greet the magnificent cat napping on a luggage rack. Then she turned to face the room. She wasn’t surprised to see that every eye was on her. She smiled at her admiring audience and waited for her date to step up and claim her.

  Twenty-Seven

  Coleman had accepted Rob’s invitation to Saturday dinner at his apartment with trepidation, but so far he’d behaved. She was glad, because she wanted him to remain her friend, and this evening would determine whether that was possible. She mentally crossed her fingers.

  She snuggled in the corner on the brown corduroy sofa, squashy pillows around her, Dolly in her lap, and sipped a Virgin Mary. Dinner smelled divine—basil, garlic, Parmigiano-Reggiano. “I like your open kitchen, so we can talk while you cook,” she said.

  He smiled over his shoulder. “Would you reconsider moving in with me? You have an open invitation.”

  She frowned. “Rob, you promised. For the hundredth time, I don’t want to move in with you. I’ve told you over and over: I’ll never live with anyone. You know I love my apartment. I’ll never move out of it—I expect to live there when I’m old and gray.”

  “I keep thinking you’ll change your mind,” he said.

  “I’ll never change my mind. I wish you’d stop bringing it up—you know I hate it. Let’s change the subject. Did you see Heyward when you were in London?” The subject of her half-brother was uncomfortable but a lot better than Rob’s trying to push her in a direction that didn’t interest her.

  Rob set the colander of cooked pasta in the sink to drain and turned to look at her.

  “Yes, ma’am, I certainly did. He asked about you. I told him about First Home, and he asked me to congratulate you. It would have been nice if you’d told him about it, since his money enabled you to buy it.” He poured the drained spaghetti into a big cream-colored pottery bowl, adding tiny steamed green beans and sliced boiled new potatoes from another pot. When he stirred in the pesto sauce, the scent of basil and garlic grew stronger.

  Coleman’s mouth watered. Rob’s words had stung her conscience but hadn’t cooled her appetite.

  “I know. I’m embarrassed I haven’t written him. I would have, if it weren’t for Simon. I hate the thought of that creep reading my letters,” she said.

  “You’re safe on that score. Simon’s been in a Swiss clinic since a week or so after the night he was injured. Getting beaten with a baseball bat repeatedly by a lunatic is no joke. He had a lot of bones broken in his face—cheeks, nose, chin—and in both hands, and all his front teeth were smashed. Heyward says he’ll be in the clinic for months. He’s lucky to be alive. Meanwhile, Heyward’s bought a house in London and visits Simon on weekends. He says he can’t take Switzerland except in small doses, but it sounds to me like it’s Simon he can’t take. I think Heyward’s lost interest in that jerk but feels obliged to help him.”

  This was welcome news, if true. “Do you mean Heyward may be breaking off his friendship with Simon?” Coleman asked.

  “I think he would if Simon weren’t in such desperate straits, both physically and financially. Heyward now knows how awful Simon is, and he’s embarrassed that he was so taken in by him. When he apologized to all of us for defending Simon, believing we were wrong about that creep, I was the only one who responded. I feel sorry for Heyward—so smart about so much but completely fooled by Simon.

  “I think Rachel has softened toward Heyward—he’s helping her straighten out the financial mess Simon made. Simon owes Rachel a lot of money, which he has no intention of paying—probably doesn’t have it. Meanwhile, they’re still legally bound together in the ownership of the Ransome gallery, which means she still has to pay him,” Rob said.

  Coleman thought about the changes of attitude toward her half-brother. If both Rob and Rachel had decided to forgive Heyward, she should at least try. With Simon out of the way, maybe she and Heyward could be friends. “Is Heyward coming to New York anytime soon?” she asked.

  Rob shook his head. “He’s kept his house here, but he didn’t mention plans to visit. I’m sure he’d come if you invited him.”

  “Is dinner nearly ready? I’m starved,” Coleman said. More pressure. But maybe the pressure wasn’t coming from Rob this time. Maybe her conscience—her own personal Jiminy Cricket—was telling her it was time to heal old wounds, to forget the past, and move on.

  Heyward hadn’t known of her existence until he was thirty-one and she was twenty-seven, but he could have known, if he’d bothered to look at the family papers. Coleman hadn’t known family papers existed, let alone a half-brother. She’d learned Heyward was her half-brother only a few months ago. Her mothe
r had given birth to a son before she married Coleman’s father. Coleman had never had more than a few brief conversations with Heyward, but she couldn’t help feeling angry knowing that when she and Dinah had been so poor, he was already a billionaire. He could have made their lives much easier.

  She had to admit that after he moved to New York last year, he’d been more than generous to her, and he was her closest relative. Her only relative other than Dinah. Coleman didn’t care if Heyward was gay, but she despised Simon, with whom he’d been infatuated. Maybe she’d write to Heyward and thank him for all he’d done for her, all he’d made possible. Right now, she’d concentrate on the pasta.

  “Food’s fabulous,” she said.

  He smiled. “I could be your full-time cook. Could start with breakfast tomorrow, if you’ll stay over.”

  Coleman took a deep breath. She’d had enough. “Get off it, Rob. I don’t eat breakfast. I sleep in my own apartment. Anyway, I have work to do—I’m leaving right after dinner,” she said.

  Rob sighed and poured himself another glass of Chianti Classico.

  Back in her apartment, Coleman put aside the article she was editing and thought about Rob. Why wouldn’t he be her friend? Until he’d started nagging her about staying over, living with him—all the stuff she’d told him she didn’t want to hear—she’d planned to tell him about the letter offering to buy her magazines. She’d wanted to know what he thought about it. She needed him as a friend. He’d ruined this evening by his insisting on more than she could ever give him. Oh well, she hadn’t heard any more from Colossus. Maybe Jonathan had persuaded them to leave her alone. Maybe she’d meet another man, a male friend to whom she could turn for help and advice, who didn’t want to marry her, or change her into someone else. A mommy in Darien? Never. She had too much to do.

  Twenty-Eight

  Bethany and Zeke were celebrating Zeke’s promotion at ArtSmart with a special Saturday night dinner at his apartment. Zeke had told her he’d arranged several surprises for her. Bethany loved Zeke’s surprises and couldn’t wait to see what he was up to. She had a surprise for him, too, but she was pretty sure he wasn’t going to like it. She hated making him unhappy. Most of the time Zeke was the happiest person she knew. He was lucky and was grateful for his good fortune—his family, his financial security, and for Bethany’s company.

  Zeke lived alone in a big Central Park West apartment with a spectacular view of the park. He was the only child and grandchild of a well-off and doting Long Island family, who gave him everything he ever thought of wanting, and a lot he hadn’t thought of. But he wasn’t spoiled—far from it. He worked like a beaver, smiling all the time. He was sweet as strawberry shortcake, and lots of fun. Plenty smart, too. Bethany was in love with him, although she certainly hadn’t expected to be when she first went out with him nearly five months ago. She hadn’t seen how anything permanent could come of their relationship then, and she still didn’t, but she’d decided to enjoy being with him while it lasted.

  She let herself in and hung her coat in the foyer. Surprise number one: the apartment was full of roses—white, pink, yellow, golden; large and small; buds and full blossoms; in vases and bowls and pots. Every room looked and smelled glorious. Something cooking smelled good, too. Roast duck? That meant Zeke’s cook was here, although she didn’t normally come in on weekends. Bethany had thought Zeke would have a restaurant meal delivered by one of those waiters in black tie from At Your Service. Wherever the food came from, Zeke didn’t cook it; Zeke couldn’t heat pizza in the microwave without burning it. Good in the kitchen he was not—but nearly everywhere else he was superb. She smiled, thinking about the many ways he pleased her.

  Zeke emerged from the kitchen, resplendent in a brown velvet smoking jacket and a cream-colored silk shirt. Another surprise—he was a crewneck sweater and khakis kind of guy. He grabbed her and kissed her hard. None of those polite little pecks on the cheek for Zeke: he was a great kisser. When he came up for air, he said, “Like the roses?”

  “Love ‘em. Love your outfit, too. You look like you walked out of a Cary Grant movie. And what about those kitchen smells? What’s cookin’? And who’s cookin’? I thought Hattie was off tonight.”

  He grinned, his cute-ugly face lighting up. “Hattie came, cooked, and went. I wanted to be alone with you, so we’re serving ourselves. Hey, I like what you’re wearing. New?”

  That was another good thing about Zeke: he always noticed her clothes. He loved her arty wardrobe, which she pieced together from ethnic shops and thrift stores and remnants. Her cloth-of-gold dress barely covered her long legs, and its halter neckline exposed a lot of bosom. The fabric was expensive, but she hadn’t needed much, and Coleman had helped her make the dress. Coleman, who’d sewed since she was a child and began designing her own clothes and a lot of Dinah’s when they were in high school, encouraged Bethany’s experiments and helped with the tough parts. She and Coleman and Dinah were all clothes-crazy, and proud of it.

  “I wanted to show off all the topaz and cat’s eye and amber jewelry you give me. See, I’m wearin’ the earrings you gave me for Christmas, and one of the necklaces. You keep tellin’ me you’re tryin’ to match my eyes, and now I’m matchin’ back,” Bethany said.

  “God, Bethany, what an opening! I planned to wait till after dinner, but I can’t. I want to give you this.” He took a black velvet box out of his jacket pocket and handed it to her.

  She opened the box and stared at the ring inside. The metal was gold, the enormous stone a clear golden yellow, surrounded by lighter yellow stones.

  “Good heavens, Zeke. I’ve never seen anything like this—it’s gorgeous.”

  “It’s a canary diamond, with yellow diamonds around it. It’s an engagement ring. Will you marry me, Bethany? I love you so much.”

  Bethany had read that when a person was about to die, her whole life flashed before her eyes. She wasn’t about to die, unless you could die of joy, but her head was spinning, and she saw pictures unreeling in her head. Herself as a child playing with her cousins and Dinah and Coleman in the clear brown shallows of the river that ran through Slocumb Corners, North Carolina, where they lived. The Byrd matriarch, Aunt Mary Louise: tall, ageless, benevolent, in a bright red caftan and turban. The family massed around her—cousins, aunts, her mother. The country school she’d attended. The simple white church where she and her family worshipped, and the lawn around it where they had picnics after Sunday services. The cemetery where her father was buried. The scent of the air—pine trees, honeysuckle, magnolias. The tiny cottage where her mother lived alone since Bethany left for college, and, later, New York.

  “What is it, Bethany?” Zeke asked, his voice strained. “Please don’t say no. Don’t you love me?”

  She looked up at him, her eyes wet. “Oh, Zeke, I do love you, you know I do. But we can’t get married. It would never work.”

  He smiled. “Give me a list of all the reasons it won’t work. I bet they’re paper tigers.”

  “Well, there’s your family—”

  Zeke laughed. “Oh, they’ve known for months I was going to marry you, if you’d have me.”

  Her eyes widened. “They did? Did you ask them if it was all right?”

  “No, idiot, I’m thirty-three, I don’t need anyone’s permission to get married. I told them almost as soon as I met you that I was in love with you, and after they met you, they were in love with you, too. They’ve been urging me to marry you, but I didn’t want to ask you until I was pretty sure you’d say yes—don’t tell me I’m wrong! My parents are wild about you, and thrilled their only son is finally ready to settle down. They have visions of grandbabies dancing in their heads.”

  She shook her head. “But you’re white and I’m not. They can’t like that.”

  “No, you’re not white—you’re an absolutely gorgeous shade of golden brown. My parents are leftover hippies, card-carrying liberals. They’ve marched for every cause, they’ve done their best to try to make thi
ngs right wherever they’ve seen injustice, and they practice what they preach. They’re thrilled at the prospect of a nonwhite daughter-in-law, especially if that potential daughter-in-law is wonderful in every way and named Bethany Byrd.”

  “You’re Jewish, and my family has this unusual religion—”

  “My family isn’t religious, and they think your religion sounds interesting. They’d like to know more about it. Is it really based on some kind of voodoo, like Coleman says?”

  Bethany laughed. “No, Coleman’s teasin’ when she says that. She loves my church; she tried to join it when she was five, and she’s always been a tiny bit huffy she wasn’t welcomed with open arms. They would have welcomed her if she’d been bigger and older—we admit members by Baptism—submersion—and she was way too little. We believe in old-time religion. Did you ever see Judith Jamison dancin’ Revelations with the Alvin Ailey ballet? It’s like that: music, clappin’, lovin’, weepin’, dancin’, swayin’. We eat a lot of meals together—picnics and potluck dinners at the church. We believe in faith, family, and miracles. If we got married, you wouldn’t have to embrace our religion, just respect it. But you would have to change your name—you know that. You’d become a Byrd? Your family won’t care?”

  Bethany had described this family custom when they first met as a matter of interest, not with any thought that it would ever arise between them. The Byrds were matriarchal, and they believed that having the same family name bound them closer together. The custom originated in Africa, but it became a rule in the time of slavery, when slaves were named after their owners. Her female ancestors hadn’t liked the takeover of their identities, and they’d adopted a secret name.

  The name was originally an African word that meant Bird; it was a code name, as in “free as a bird.” After the Civil War, their name was no longer secret, and they changed it to the more usual way of spelling a surname. To her family “Byrd” still meant freedom, and paradoxically, tied them closer together in a loving and loyal clan.