Kimmer spent most of the trip into the city asking Julia to turn down the radio while she took another call on her cell phone, because for lawyers these days, as for other professionals, the office possesses no natural borders. In between her urgent conversations, she beamed at the two children ignoring each other in the back seat and murmured, over and over, “Who knows what the future holds for these two?”—because Kimmer, like Julia, came from one of the royal families of the darker nation, and worried about the future of the traditions.
The show was a hit even with the most unsentimental among the mothers—like Kimmer—or those who, like Julia, had seen it before, and the children clamored to stay in town for dinner, but the caravan loaded up despite the begging, and by half past five, all the cars were on their way out of town.
All but the Escalade.
Julia explained about the stop she had to make.
“If you have time,” she told Kimmer.
“How much time?” Actually looking at her watch. Seeing that she was caught, she pulled an infectious smile. Kimmer was fun-loving and sassy and smart. There were two husbands behind her, and it was easy to imagine others waiting their turn.
“It’ll take us half an hour out of our way. No more.”
“Half an hour?”
“And you can wait in the car with the kids. I’ll be, like, ten minutes once we get there.”
“Where are we going?”
“Harlem.”
“Julia, it’s almost six.”
“They don’t close.”
(II)
THE LAST TIME Julia Carlyle had seen the three-story townhouse at Edgecombe Avenue and West 145th Street, all her children had been with her, and happy. It was seven years ago, and Julia, accompanied by Tessa, was showing them through Harlem, spinning barely remembered stories in mimicry of Granny Vee. Despite her own reluctance, the kids had clamored, and so she had driven them for a quick goggle at the fabled Veazie mansion, not stopping to let anybody out, streaking past in the hope that none of them would notice how the once-proud structure, setting of so many of their mother’s stories, had fallen into a dilapidated mess.
Squeezing the Escalade into a space that might have been shaped for it, she expected no more tonight. She knew it was a fool’s errand, and yet she had to try.
Just in case she failed to solve the anagram of “Shari Larid,” Kellen had arranged for Mr. Huebner to deliver the note. Take a train, Kellen had written, knowing his ex-lover’s musical tastes: Broadway and the big-band sound, preferably as interpreted by artists of her nation. The translation was trivial: Ella Fitzgerald and Duke Ellington had made famous Billy Strayhorn’s song about taking the “A” train to Sugar Hill way up in Harlem.
Sugar Hill, the highest point in Harlem, where, back in the day, invisible to the larger world, the elite of the darker nation, ensconced in apartments and row houses furnished as beautifully as those on Park Avenue, had looked down their noses at the middle-class Negroes in Strivers’ Row, down around 138th Street, and, farther south, the lower classes crowding into what the denizens of Sugar Hill labeled, derisively, the Valley. Sugar Hill, where Amaretta Veazie held her fabled court, one among the “light-skinned Czarinas,” as Adam Clayton Powell, Jr., called them—the matriarchs who ran the elite end of Harlem. Amaretta, an original Sister Lady; Amaretta, who had tried to limit membership in the Clan to a handful of the old families, the way her whole generation did, thinking the exclusivity a gift to future generations; Amaretta, who, like the rest of the Czarinas, failed. The darker nation proved too big and talented; or integration too tempting; either way, the Clan spread and thinned.
The townhouse where, according to legend, Ladybugs was founded. And where, back in the old days, Amaretta had kept her famous collection of mirrors.
Kellen had sent her mirrors, and reminded her of history, just to make sure she got the point.
How Vanessa had figured it out Julia was not sure, but this had been her daughter’s destination, too, the Veazie townhouse. Julia was certain of it. Vanessa had realized before her mother did that the house was at the heart of Kellen’s mystery, and wanted for some reason to visit it alone. The trouble was, Vanessa did not remember the address and was trying to pick it out by eye. Like most African Americans who had never lived there, Vanessa underestimated the sheer vastness of Harlem, the hundreds upon hundreds of square blocks. Searching Harlem was not like searching a tiny New England town. The chance of blundering by accident upon a single townhouse among all the streets and boulevards of what had once been the capital of the darker nation was virtually nil.
As Vanessa had discovered.
No wonder she had chosen to dance the night away instead, first at the club in Elm Harbor, and then, as only her mother knew, to the funeral dirges behind the locked door of her bedroom.
Why Kellen wanted her to go to Amaretta’s house, Julia had no idea; but she was quite certain this was where he wanted her to go.
Julia climbed out. She asked Kimmer to wait in the car with the kids.
“You’re going in there?”
“Ten minutes at most. They’re probably not even home.”
“Julia, come on. We’re in the middle of Harlem.” The lawyer looked around as if expecting an army of escaped convicts to show up, Uzis at the ready.
“Look around. This part is all gentrified now. We’re perfectly safe.”
“But—”
“Please. I need to do this.”
The lawyer took a long look at Julia’s face, then a longer look around at the neighborhood. She slid into the driver’s seat. “I’ll be circling the block,” said Kimmer, who hated, above all things, sitting still.
Julia turned, and mounted the steps.
(III)
THE BUILDING WAS BRIGHTLY LIGHTED in the early winter night, tasteful curtains in the windows, bricks nicely pointed, the snow neatly cleared from the steps. A hallucination, Julia decided. Her disobedient brain had carried her back nearly four decades, to the days when she used to play, along with her brother and her cousins, on this very sidewalk, waiting for Granny Vee’s maid to call them for dinner. But when she glanced over her shoulder, there was the Escalade, Kimmer struggling to maneuver the massive car out of the space so that she could circle the block. Turning back, Julia spotted the gleaming new buzzers, and realized that the elegant old house had been converted to apartments, one to a floor, including the basement with its walled-in rear yard.
Sugar Hill was coming back. Some of the hottest property in Manhattan: the Times said so, and so did her favorite real-estate blogs.
Great. The Veazie mansion was co-ops. What now?
She lifted the hand mirror she had stuffed into her pocket but saw in its dulling surface only her own reflection, brow furrowed uncertainly. Kellen had told her to bring it with her, but she could not think why. She was stymied. About to return to the car, she noticed movement on her right. A man stood in the first-floor bay window, smoking a cigar and watching her.
All right, fine.
She smiled and waved as though they were old pals, pointed to the door, and pressed the second button from the bottom, hoping it was the right one. The man vanished, and, seconds later, the front door gave off an electronic groan, a tumbler clicked, and Julia stepped into the lobby.
The pattern of orange and white tiles on the floor of the foyer was as she remembered. The wood walls gleamed with recent refinishing, mailboxes had been added, and in front of her, where the archway to the parlor should have stood, was a somewhat stronger door, reinforced with metal bars, and the same man holding it open, the same cigar in his hand, as he gazed at her questioningly out of a brown face so smooth and confident that she was reminded of Kellen. Behind him was a hallway, the door to his first-floor apartment standing open, smooth jazz wafting from beyond.
He said, “Are you Margot?”
“Me? Oh, no. No. I, ah, I used to live here. Or spend time here.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Julia. Julia Carlyle.”
“My grandmother owned the place. The whole building.”
“Retta Veazie?”
“Amaretta Veazie. Yes.”
“I’ve heard of her. They used to call her Retta, back in the day.” He drew on the cigar, stepped toward her, flicked ash out into the street, reminding her of Mary Mallard. In his pricey shirt and loosened tie, he looked bored and prosperous. “So, what can I do for you, Mrs. Carlyle?”
“I was in town on business, and I was driving by, and, well, I didn’t know they’d done a conversion. I had to stop and see.” She shrugged, aware that she was telling too much, as she always did when nervous. “I didn’t mean to bother you. I just wanted to see what the place looks like now.”
“Oh, no. No. It’s no bother, Mrs. Carlyle. Do come in, please. I was just having a drink.”
Julia hesitated. She sensed no attempt at seduction, and, after all, the whole point of this stop was to peek inside with the mirror now tucked into her pocket. But the certainties of half an hour ago were dissipating into a larger fog, and she no longer felt sure of her purpose. The mirror business was ridiculous. A mirror was glass and silvering and
—and the occasional Eggameese— a fancy handle, put together by human beings in a shop or factory somewhere, not a doorway into the past or the future or the hidden supernatural world where everyone looked at things edgewise. To walk in would be to act the fool. No matter what she thought Kellen might have been trying to tell her.
She smiled and backed off. “No, thank you. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. Go back to your drink.” The man in the doorway took a long pull on his cigar but never budged, sharp hazel eyes measuring her, and, even before she sensed trouble, Julia wondered how on earth he could have known she was married. “I hope your date gets here soon,” she said, backing away faster. “Thanks again.”
From deeper in the apartment, a familiar voice said, “Oh, you can spare us a few minutes, Julia. Come on in.”
(IV)
CAMERON KNOWLAND BECKONED with a proprietary air that told her immediately that he owned the unit, and, maybe, the whole building.
“Well, this is a surprise,” she said, because she had to say something.
“Not an unpleasant one, I trust.”
“That depends on what we’re all doing here.”
Cameron smiled. Julia looked around. The ceilings were as high as she remembered. The pricey furnishings expressed a modern blandness that no amount of money could quite disguise as taste. The man who had smiled from the window was of the Clan: she sensed it in his manner of speech and of dress and in the way that he carried himself, without either the tragic slouching disdain of the young men of their nation, or the nervous confidence of those who were newer to fortune. He was probably a decade younger than she, and it became clear in the first minute that Cameron was the boss, and the black man his minion.
Not that she had harbored any doubt.
“I’m sorry for the melodrama, Julia.” He perched on the edge of the long table. “I happened to be in the city on business. My people told me you were coming to town—”
“What people?” she said sharply.
Cameron smiled. “My people told me you were coming, and, well, you hadn’t been up to Harlem since Zant died. I hoped this might be the occasion. I guessed right.” His tone said he usually did.
“This is…yours?”
“It used to be Kellen’s. Did you know that? He bought as soon as the building went on the market.”
“How did you hear I was coming down?” she asked, tone still wooden. When Cameron just kept smiling, she tried another question: “Tony Tice. Are you his secret client?”
This at least drew a bothered frown. “A most disagreeable man. Certainly not. After Kellen died, Tice got in touch with me to suggest—Well, never mind. No, Julia. I have nothing to do with him and want nothing to do with him.”
“Good,” she said, and meant it.
The billionaire looked around the room. “This is a beautiful apartment. They tell me the whole townhouse was beautiful, back in the old days. Sugar Hill.” He rolled the name around. “Until a couple of months ago, I’d never heard of it. But this was the heart of Harlem, wasn’t it? Your Harlem. Your family. The other old ones.”
“Yes.”
“Don’t be frightened, Julia. Nobody means you any harm.”
“I’m not frightened.” She rubbed her eyes. “I’m just tired of being lied to.”
Cameron Knowland came down off his perch and crouched in front of her. “When have I lied to you, Julia? Have I told you one thing that wasn’t true?” But she was a long way from persuaded. “We’re after the same thing. Kellen’s surplus. Look around. I bought this apartment from the co-op. I bought it with contents. Never mind how. There are ways. The contents were crucial. I wanted to keep it just the way Kellen left it. He spent a lot of time decorating, making sure everything was just the way he wanted. He was down here at least once a month. You didn’t know that?”
“No, Cameron. I didn’t know that.”
“Well, he was. And do you know what’s on the walls in the study?” He pointed at one of the doorways. “Pictures of you, that’s what. Or you and him together. I think your ex had a serious thing for you, Julia.” He straightened. “I’ll tell you something else. The pictures aren’t only of you. Your children are there.”
“My children?”
He nodded. “You can come look for yourself if you want.”
And so she did, following him dutifully into the study, walls covered with fabric of dusty rose, her favorite shade. And, sure enough, photos of Julia alone, photos of Julia with Kellen, photos of Julia with her children, either blown up from magazines or snapped—so it now seemed to her—surreptitiously. Her trembling fingers touched a shot she remembered, all four kids wiggling on her lap, clipped from an Ebony magazine article about the grown-up children of a certain Harlem generation. Tears tried to surprise her, but the new Julia surprised them right back.
“I think he was getting this place ready for you,” said Cameron from behind her.
“For me? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I think it was supposed to be a love nest.”
She whirled around, ready to get in his face.
“No, no, no, Julia, no. Calm down. I’m not suggesting anything untoward, except in poor Kellen’s imagination. I think he planned to get the place ready and then present it to you like a gift. He wanted you back, Julia. He was trying to fight for you.”
Not sure whether to laugh or cry, she kept a stubborn silence. Yet, at the back of her mind, something tickled.
Cameron waved a hand. “You’re wondering why I bought the place.”
“Yes.”
“Because I was hoping that the surplus is here somewhere. Hidden. The answer. A clue. Anything. The amount of time he spent here, I can’t believe he didn’t leave some sort of record behind.”
“I thought you weren’t involved with the re-election campaign any more.”
He chuckled, his whole belly shaking with mirth. “Oh, Julia. Your husband’s influence is vast, but it’s not infinite. Men like me do what we want. We just prefer to do what we do in the shadows. Besides”—up on his feet now, roaming the room—“not everything has to be for somebody else. I’m not an altruist. I’d love it if the President won, but, if he doesn’t, he doesn’t. That’s why I bought the place. Don’t you see? If there’s any way to find out what Kellen was up to, I want it. I want the evidence. I don’t care which way the evidence cuts. If it’s evidence that the President did wrong, then I’ll bury it. If it’s evidence against Senator Whisted, then I’ll hold on to it and if he wins I’ll use it, ah, to keep hi
m from straying too far from where he needs to be.”
That was it. Almost. Almost. She could even overlook the perfidy of his motivation in the realization that she was nearly home.
“Or, if it’s evidence against the President,” she said slowly, “you could still use it to make sure he didn’t stray too far.”
He folded his arms. “I suppose.”
“But you don’t have the evidence, do you?”
“Not yet.”
She almost smiled. “Sorry.”
“Julia. Come. You didn’t drop in for no reason. Kellen left you some kind of message. A clue. You’re searching for something.” Waving his hand again. “Don’t let me stop you.”
“I’m sorry, Cameron. I really can’t help you.”
“I am entirely confident that you can help me. Take as much time as you need. Look around.”
“I’m kind of in a hurry—”
The investor gestured, and his black minion appeared. “Please go outside and tell Ms. Madison that Mrs. Carlyle will be a few minutes more. Wait. Invite them in. Find the kids some cookies or something.”
“We really have to go,” said Julia, but the minion was already out the door. And, after all, Cameron was just good old Mr. Knowland, who, as Jeannie brightly put it, owned the university.
Pretty much true.
(V)
AND SO SHE LOOKED. She could have left. She did not think Cameron meant to stop her. She could have climbed into the Escalade, driven home to the Landing with Kimmer and the kids, and put Kellen and his surplus behind her once and for all. She did not. The urge that had led her this far—the urge to solve the mystery, not for its own sake but to save Vanessa—held her tightly in its grip. Kellen had led her back to her childhood, the days when Amaretta Veazie tried, as elite Harlem society faded around her, to maintain a salon, just the way she and the other Czarinas had back in the day.
Stephen L. Carter Page 44
