But Emma was right. The police would have been onto her immediately. Fox’s murderer had taken the photo and the cards. Fox’s murderer. Emma’s blackmailer?
Emma stood up. She looked out at the tree and said 58
pensively, “I’m madly behind with my shopping. I’d better go to Saks.”
Faith pulled on her coat. “What about Todd? What happened to him? Don’t tell me you see him at three o’clock on Wednesdays.”
“Don’t be silly. I never saw him again after that, but I did get a card in the mail a couple of years ago from some real estate firm on Long Island. You know the kind. ‘If you’re thinking of buying a house, think of me.’ And it had his picture on it; otherwise, I would never even have read it. It was right after we got married, and he must have seen the announcement in the Times. Maybe he thought we wanted to move out of the city. City—that’s where he was—Garden City.” So, Todd Hartley had not assumed a blue collar—
and he knew what had happened to Fox’s daughter.
And that she’d been pregnant by him. Faith put his name on the list of potential blackmailers.
“Was there anybody else who knew who Fox was and knew you? Anyone else around when you went to see him the first time?”
“He was living with some woman. Daddy always had women,” Emma added ruefully. Faith was glad to see it. All this Daddy Fox worship was getting to be a bit much. “I didn’t meet her, though. I think he didn’t want her to know about me.”
Faith made a mental note of this woman. The list could use a few more names. At the moment, it consisted of Lucy Morris and Todd Hartley. Poppy Morris knew about her daughter’s pregnancy and parentage, but it strained credulity to think she would be blackmailing her own daughter. Still, Faith made another note to try to find out if Poppy was paying her Bergdorf’s bills on time. Some of the veteran sales 59
force who had been outfitting Jane Lennox Sibley’s family forever could be counted on to spill a few beans.
Jason Morris obviously knew about Nathan Fox and his wife’s affair, yet he may not have known about Emma’s pregnancy, although Emma had mentioned that Poppy was carrying on about it all over the house.
The only reason he’d have to blackmail his—what, stepdaughter?—would be pure spite. To get his hands on the money Poppy had set aside for Emma behind his back? Faith added Jason to the list. From what little she recalled, he’d never struck her as a terribly nice man, and at the moment, that was enough to fit the profile. Then there was Fox himself—he knew Emma was his daughter and she may have told him about the pregnancy during one of their parent-child bonding visits.
But Fox was already dead when the first card turned up. Even if he’d written it, he couldn’t have orches-trated the delivery of the money or composed the second from the grave. He’d been a vocal force when previously underground, but this time around was decidedly different. Whatever one’s beliefs concerning the hereafter, none included the postal service or even faxes.
“I know I have no right to ask you to do anything else, Faith, when you’ve been such an angel, but there is one more thing. A big favor.”
Emma was putting some money down on the table, over Faith’s protests that they split the bill. “Women aren’t good at this. No one ever has the right change or can figure out who owes what, so it’s easier for me to pay, and besides, I want it to be my treat.” Emma had interrupted herself to settle the question of the bill.
Faith put her coat on and waited to find out what this 60
favor might be. It could be anything from helping her find that perfect little something for sister Lucy—some desk models of guillotines, “conversation pieces” leapt to mind—to breaking into Fox-Fuch’s apartment to be sure the photo and cards were gone. This had already occurred to Faith. And if Emma had a key, it would even be somewhat legal.
“There, that should be right.” Faith looked at the money tucked next to the teapot. If everyone tipped the way Emma did, the waiter could go to Acapulco for Christmas and Easter.
Emma pulled on her long suede gloves and put one hand on Faith’s arm.
“Will you go to the service for me? Daddy’s service? Knowing that you’re there will be the next best thing to being there myself, and you can tell me all about it. I wish I could go, but I can’t. There could be pictures, and soon everybody would be asking why I went.”
“Of course I’ll go. The Times had said Quinn, his agent, would be arranging a memorial service soon.
Tell me once you know when it is, in case I miss the notice.” This was not a big favor. This was nothing.
The big favor that Faith had already taken on—in her mind anyway—was finding out who was blackmailing her old schoolmate.
And going to the memorial service would be the first step in her investigation.
Emma left and Faith made her way to the rest rooms.
There had been talk of placing public conveniences like the coin-operated kind in Paris at various locations throughout the city, but at present one had to grab at any opportunity or go into a department store, which 61
invariably cost much, much more than any pay toilet—
in Faith’s experience anyway. The last time she’d dashed into Bloomies, she’d come out with a Jil Sander jacket—it had been on sale—and a Mary McFadden scarf for her mother—it hadn’t. The cubi-cles on the streets in Paris had occasionally failed to open, trapping the occupant, and Faith had resolved either to avoid them until foolproof or always carry a very long book—something like Proust—that she’d been meaning to read for years.
Returning, she again noted a man with his face buried in the Wall Street Journal a few tables behind where they had been sitting. The few other men in the café at this hour were older with, presumably, spouses or were younger with families. She looked back at him. He was leaving. There was something familiar about him, yet it could just be that they’d been on the subway together, or he could have been at any number of dances and parties over the years. Parties. That was it. He’d been at the party she’d catered last week. He was with the host and Michael Stanstead when they came into the kitchen. He must not have been a close friend of Stanstead or he would have said something to Emma today. Unless he was so intent on his reading that he didn’t see her. Or unless he felt he’d be intrud-ing. His presence continued to disturb Faith. What was he doing alone at the café at this hour? The market had just closed.
She walked out into the bitter cold and took a soft wool cloche out of her pocket, pulling it down over her ears. The hat made her look like a Gatsby girl and filled her hair with static electricity, but it was warm.
She stood on Fifth Avenue, glancing back over her shoulder at the huge tree at Rockefeller Center. It was 62
even more dramatic as the day drew to a close, its lights glowing like jewels against the dark branches.
On the other side of Fifth stood Saks on one corner, Saint Patrick’s Cathedral on the other. God and mam-mon. The front windows at Saks were filled each Christmas with ever-more-elaborate moving figures—
scenes from The Nutcracker, Dickens, the Arabian Nights—glimmering, glistening fantasies. Shoppers filed by in long lines behind the velvet ropes, funneled at the end of the oohs and aahs into the Palace of Goods.
Worshipers at other altars across the street—those dedicated to Saint Anthony, Saint John, Saint Theresa—also moved in lines, walking slowly up the nave to gaze back at the rose window and ahead toward the lady chapel. Today, Faith decided to join this crowd. She crossed, darting between two cabs, only one of which, miraculously, honked at her, and climbed the stairs into Saint Patrick’s marble interior.
Instantly, she knew she had picked the right place and she walked quietly up the side aisle toward the altar, banked with row upon row of brilliant red poinsettias.
The cathedral was filled with a golden glow—tiers of flickering votive candles and interior spots created sudden pools of light against the early dark. The smell of incense mixed with that of burni
ng candle wax and hung in the warm air. She slipped into a row and took a seat on one of the hard wooden pews. She had yet to be in a church—and she’d been in a great many of them over the years—with comfortable seating. She’d mentioned this to her father a few times, commenting that penance of this sort seemed at odds with modern religion. “We don’t beat ourselves with sticks, wear hair shirts, or put pebbles in our shoes. Why do we 63
have to sit on such unforgiving surfaces?” Once, he’d told her that if the pews were too deeply cushioned, he’d put his parishioners to sleep. Another time, he’d answered that it was simply a matter of economics.
Something else was always more pressing—disaster victims, the homeless, the poor, the leaks in the church roof. He’d got her there, yet she continued to secretly hope for a bequest from some eccentric who would stipulate the money could be spent only for the better-ment of congregational buns.
She closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them, the altar blazed before her. It was truly beautiful. She didn’t like poinsettias, opting instead for amaryllis, cyclamen, clivia, and hydrangea during this festive season, yet she would have been the first one to protest the absence of the traditional plants from Saint Patrick’s. Protest. That brought her back to Nate Fox—
and Emma.
It was difficult to sort things out. This last conversation with Emma had made one thing clear, however.
She had adored her lost and found father. What’s more, he seemed to have cared for her, displaying the postcards, her wedding photo—though in that case, Faith was sure Fox also got a kick from the irony of conser-vative Michael Stanstead in full nuptial regalia posed next to, say, Fox’s autographed copy of Trotsky’s History of the Russian Revolution.
Yet Fox, the devoted dad, had never tried to get in touch with Emma, although he certainly knew where she was all those years. Granted, he was on the lam, but if it had been his dream to see her, wouldn’t he have done something about it? Watched her incognito at the park with her nanny? Impersonated a waiter at her coming-out ball? Faith could think of all sorts of 64
soppy grade-B movie plots. Maybe he had had a deal with Poppy. Obviously, they’d decided it would be better for the child to believe Jason was her father. Only Jason didn’t love her. All those years of never pleasing him, never being what he wanted—and never knowing why. Emma had been physically abandoned by her real father, and the man she’d thought was her father had abandoned her emotionally and in a more tangible, economic way, although she wouldn’t have learned that until Jason’s death. Faith shuddered. She thought of her own father—and she was sure he was, since she had his clear blue eyes. Lawrence Sibley had been an impoverished divinity school student when Faith’s mother, Jane Lennox, had met him and been uncharacteristically swept off her feet. The two opposites had forged an indissoluble union. That’s a hard act to follow, Faith reflected as she heard the soft murmur of whispered prayers around her. No wonder I’m not married. Because when I am, it’s got to be for keeps.
Like Emma. Emma and Michael. In Emma’s mind, revealing to her husband what she was going through, had gone through, would be an act of betrayal, equal to something like adultery—a sin. Finally, in Michael, Emma had found a man who would not leave her.
Someone she could trust and she would literally die rather than destroy or even jeopardize that.
Once again, Faith was back at the beginning. There was only one thing to do. Find out who was blackmailing Emma. Put a stop to it—note to self: Have to work on this angle. Then Emma can live happily ever after and Michael will remain in blissful ignorance.
Faith stood up and walked toward the altar. She was starting to think like Emma, she realized with dismay.
* * *
* * *
* * *
65
Someday when things are so busy that I don’t even have a chance to catch my breath, I’ll look back at this time and regret I didn’t enjoy it more. This was Faith’s advice to herself after she checked the messages at work and found nothing urgent. No emergency calls from Gracie Mansion to whip up a quick mayoral dinner for two hundred. Not even a call for a dinner party for twelve. She did have a party to do the following night, and she decided to make another hors d’oeuvre, although there were already several selections. They’d prepared phyllo triangles stuffed with a proscuitto and ricotta mixture and others filled with diced mushrooms and smoked turkey. Then there was gravlax with plenty of dill and mustard sauce on rounds of thin dark rye and toasted brioche. She’d do some spiced nuts and put bowls of them next to the bowls of various kinds of olives she’d already planned. Before she got started, she decided to check the messages at her apartment.
Emma would be getting ready for her fund-raiser—
Faith had forgotten to ask her where it was—but there might have been further instructions from the blackmailers. Emma would leave some sort of message, Faith wanted to believe.
She punched in the code—and beep, “Faith, love, it’s Granny. I’m totally distraught and can’t understand why someone didn’t tell me sooner! I suppose they were trying to spare an old lady.”
Whatever it is, it must be bad. Faith felt a flicker of anxiety. When her grandmother started referring to herself this way, it meant she’d lost another friend or received some other devastating news. Normally, she made a point of ignoring the aging process, and she still had the legs to prove it worked.
“Altman’s is closing! B. Altman! They’re having a 66
gigantic sale and simply gutting the place. I can scarcely take it in. I’d like you and Hope to come to lunch with me at the Charleston Gardens. Remember all those times we used to go there before the ballet?
Humor an old lady and call me, dear.” Two mentions of
“old lady” in one message. Faith hated that Altman’s was closing, too, although she hadn’t been there in years. It had furnished her grandmother and mother’s trousseaux—and first apartments. When Hope and Faith were little girls, Altman’s was de rigeur for party dresses, white gloves, navy blue Sunday school coats, and, of course, Easter bonnets. She felt a sudden nos-talgia for the Charleston Gardens’ rendition of chicken à la king. (And which king was that? British, surely, not French.) The memory was complicated by an equally strong one of Hope losing her lunch in the final moments of Romeo and Juliet, when sister and grandmother took her tugs on their sleeves to mean requests for information—Hope had been a great one for questions like “Why can’t she climb down the balcony and leave?”—rather than the urgent need for the bathroom that it was. The image of mopping Hope up, as well as three ladies from a women’s club on Long Island who had been in the row in front of them, had stayed with Faith as clearly as if it were yesterday. It was the first time she’d ever seen what she later learned was called a “merry widow.” Yes, she’d have lunch with Granny and they could all mourn the passing of yet another treasured New York institution and bemoan the short-sightedness of the philistines responsible—but Faith would stick to the BLT.
Beep: “ ‘ “Hither, page, and stand by me,/If thou know’st it, telling,/Yonder peasant, who is he?/Where and what his dwelling?”/“Sire, he lives a good league 67
hence,/Underneath the mountain,/Right against the forest fence,/By Saint Agnes’ fountain.” ’ ” Richard Morgan! Things were looking up. “I can sing some more verses, too. If you’d like to hear them, meet me for dinner tonight. I know it’s short notice, but I thought I’d still be out of town. Give me a call. Five five five, eight nine four seven. I’ll even not sing, if you’d rather.”
The last message was from Hope. She was at work and had her work voice on. “Please let me know some times when you’re available for dinner, so we can arrange a date and place to meet. Best call me at work.
I won’t be home until late all week.” Hope got to the office well before dawn and seldom left until it was time to tumble into bed. It wasn’t until all the Michael Milken stuff came out, revealing, among other things, that, like many in the b
usiness, he rose at 4:00 A.M., sleeping only four to five hours a night, that Faith con-ceded her sister wasn’t seriously disturbed, simply seriously lacking perspective.
She shook her head and dialed Richard. He answered on the second ring.
“Hi, it’s Faith Sibley, and as it turns out, I am free, and trying to remember all those verses has been driving me crazy. Your call came just in time.”
“One so rarely has the opportunity to be of service.
I’m delighted. Now, what’s your pleasure?” That awkward moment had arrived. Where to eat?
And she had no idea how fat his wallet was. Did the absence of an overcoat mean good circulation or an un-healthy cash flow?
“I dunno. What do you want to do, Marty?” Faith had been brought up on black-and-white classic movies. Apparently, so had Richard.
68
“If I remind you of Ernest Borgnine, we may have a problem.”
Faith laughed. “Okay. What kind of food do you like to eat, and if you say everything, I’m hanging up.”
“Don’t do that! Let’s see, there’s wassail. No, how about I dare the impossible and choose for the caterer.
They make great margaritas at Santa Fe on West Sixty-ninth, and the food is pretty good, too.” Faith had been there a few times and liked it. The warm brick-colored walls and soft lighting were any girl’s best friends. “Done. Meet you there at eight?”
“Meet you there at eight. And Faith, I’m looking forward to moving on to the next topic.”
“Me, too. See you soon.” Frankly, at this point in her life, she wasn’t the least bit curious about the forest fence or Saint Agnes’s fountain. She already knew how it turned out.
Body in the Big Apple ff-10 Page 6
