“It’s the barometric pressure. It’s changing. We may have some bad weather tomorrow.”
“I’ll have more wine,” Paul said.
As the server filled his glass, Annalisa said, “I really wish you wouldn’t dive this afternoon. You know it’s dangerous to do more than two dives a day. Especially after you’ve been drinking.”
“I’ve had less than two glasses,” Paul said.
“It’s enough,” she protested.
Paul ignored her and defiantly took another sip of wine. “It’s my vacation. I’ll do as I please.”
After lunch, Annalisa went to the stateroom to take a nap. While she was lying on the king-size bed, Paul came in to get changed. “I don’t know,” he said, yawning. “I might not dive after all.”
“I’m glad you’re being sensible,” Annalisa said. “And you heard what the server said. The pressure’s changing. You don’t want to get caught in bad weather.”
Paul looked out the stateroom window. “It’s perfectly sunny,” he said in his usual contrarian style. “If I don’t go, it could be days before I have another chance.”
As Paul was suiting up, the captain of the yacht came out, holding a dive table. “Mr. Rice,” he said. “I need to remind you that this is your third deep dive today. You can’t stay down for longer than thirty minutes total, and you’ll need to include ten minutes to surface.”
“I’m well aware of the time/nitrogen/oxygen ratio,” Paul said. “I’ve been doing math since I was three.” Holding the regulator over his face, he jumped in.
As Paul descended, weightless and with the familiar childlike joy he’d recently discovered in being unfettered by gravity, he was joined by the yacht’s scuba instructor. The water was particularly clear in the Great Barrier Reef, even at eighty feet, and Paul had no trouble finding the wreck. The old ship was fascinating, and as Paul swam in and out of the hull, he was overcome by a feeling of pure happiness. This was why he couldn’t stop diving, he told himself. Then Paul recalled something from the diving manual and tried to remind himself that the giddy feeling could be a sign of impending nitrogen narcosis, but he quickly dismissed it. Surely he had another five or ten minutes. The giddy feeling increased, and when Paul saw the scuba instructor motioning for him to go up, instead of following his instructions, Paul swam away. For the first time in his life, he thought irrationally, he was denying the rigid rules of the monstrous numbers that had dominated his life. He was free.
The scuba instructor swam after him, and what ensued next was an underwater tussle worthy of a James Bond movie. Eventually, the instructor won, twisting himself behind Paul’s back and putting him in a choke hold.
Slowly, they ascended to the surface, but it was too late. An air bubble had formed and lodged itself in Paul’s spine; as he rose, the air bubble expanded rapidly. When Paul reached the surface, it exploded, ripping apart the nerves in his spine.
“Yoo-hoo,” Enid Merle said, shouting up to Annalisa Rice. Annalisa looked over the side of the terrace, where she was overseeing the erec-tion of a large white tent, and spotted Enid waving in excitement. “A reporter at the paper just called me — Sandy Brewer has been convicted.
He’s going to jail.”
“Come upstairs and tell me about it,” Annalisa called to her below.
In a few minutes, Enid arrived on the terrace, panting slightly as she fanned the air in front of her face. “It’s so hot. I can’t believe how hot it is for September. They say it’s going to be ninety degrees on Saturday.
And we’ll probably have a thunderstorm.”
“We’ll be fine,” Annalisa said. “We have the tent and the whole apartment. I’ve cleared out most of Paul’s things from the ballroom, so we’ll have that space as well.”
“How is Paul?” Enid asked, by rote.
“Exactly the same,” Annalisa said. As she always did when she spoke about Paul, she lowered her voice and solemnly shook her head. “I saw him this morning.”
“My dear, I don’t know how you can bear it,” Enid said.
“There’s always the slight chance that he’ll recover. They say miracles do occur.”
“Then he could end up being another Stephen Hawking,” Enid said reassuringly, patting Annalisa on the arm.
“I’ve decided to donate money to the facility for a wing in Paul’s name.
Even if Paul never comes out of the coma, it’s possible, in ten years, someone with similar injuries will.”
“It’s the right thing to do, my dear,” Enid said, nodding approvingly.
“And you still go to see him every day. It’s so admirable.”
“It’s only thirty minutes by helicopter,” Annalisa said, moving into the cool of the apartment. “But tell me all about Sandy.”
“Well,” Enid said, taking a large breath equal to the importance of her news. “He’s been sentenced to five years.”
“That’s terrible.”
“The prosecutor wanted to make an example of him. He’ll serve less time, I’m sure. Maybe two and a half years. Then he’ll get out, and everyone will forget about it. They always do. What I don’t understand is how Sandy Brewer got the cross in the first place.”
“Don’t you know?” Annalisa asked.
“No, my dear. I don’t.”
“Come with me,” Annalisa said. “I have something to show you.”
She led Enid upstairs to the master bedroom. There, on the top of her bureau, was the crude wooden box Mrs. Houghton had left Billy.
“Do you recognize this?” Annalisa asked, opening the lid. She took out the jewelry she’d bought from Mrs. Houghton’s estate and, pointing to the hinge at the back, held out the box to Enid. “It has a false bottom,” she said.
“Oh my goodness,” Enid said, taking the box and examining it. “So that’s where she kept it.” She handed the box back to Annalisa. “That would be very Louise. Hiding it in plain sight. How did you get the box, dear?”
“Schiffer gave it to me. After the King David gala. She was moved by what I said about Billy, and she insisted I take it.”
“But how did she get it?”
Annalisa smiled. “You don’t know that, either? She took it from Billy’s apartment on the day she found him.”
“Clever girl,” Enid said. “I’m so happy she and Philip are marrying at last.”
“Let’s go upstairs,” Annalisa said. “I want you to see the ballroom.”
“Oh my dear, it’s marvelous,” Enid exclaimed, passing through the large double doors. The floor had been restored to its original black-and-white marble checkerboard, the aquarium was gone, and the marble mantelpiece was newly polished, revealing the intricate carvings telling the story of the goddess Athena. Luckily, Paul had never touched the ceiling, so the painting of sky and cherubs still remained. Scattered around the room were little tables and chairs and vases filled with sprays of white lilies and lilacs.
The room smelled heavenly, and strolling to the fireplace, Enid examined the detailed carvings. “Wonderful,” she said, nodding in approval. “You’ve done so much in such a short period of time.”
“I’m very efficient,” Annalisa replied. “And of course, I needed something to keep me busy. After Paul’s accident. It still isn’t appropriate to be seen out in public.”
“Oh no, my dear,” Enid said. “Not for another six months, at least. But a private affair in your own apartment is a different story. And it’s only seventy-five people.”
“I did invite Mindy and James Gooch. And Sam,” Annalisa said. “I’ve decided that Mindy is like one of those old hags in a Grimms’ fairy tale.
If you don’t invite her, she wreaks havoc.”
“How true,” Enid said in agreement. “And it’s always wonderful to have children at a wedding.” She looked around the room with pleasure. “Ah, the times we used to have in this ballroom. When Louise was alive and still young. Everyone wanted to be invited to those parties, and everyone came. From Jackie O to Nureyev. Princess Gra
ce when she was still Grace Kelly. Even Queen Elizabeth came once. She had her own security detail.
Handsome young men in bespoke suits.”
“But now it turns out that Mrs. Houghton was a thief,” Annalisa said, looking directly at Enid. “Or so it seems.”
Enid stumbled a little, and Annalisa took her arm to steady her. “Are you okay?” she asked, leading Enid to a chair.
Enid patted her heart. “Yes, dear. It’s the heat. Old people don’t do well in the heat. That’s why one is always hearing those terrible stories about old people who die in heat waves. Could I have some water, please?”
“Of course,” Annalisa said. She pressed the button for the intercom.
“Gerda? Could you please bring up some ice water for Ms. Merle?”
The water arrived right away, and Enid took a large gulp. “That’s better. Now what were we talking about, dear?”
“The cross. And Mrs. Houghton.”
Enid looked away. “You’re so very much like her, dear. I saw it that night at the gala.”
Annalisa laughed. “Are you saying I’ve got a precious antiquity hidden in the apartment?”
“No, dear,” Enid said. “Mrs. Houghton wasn’t a thief. She was other things, but pilfering antiquities from a museum was not her style.”
Annalisa sat on the small gold ballroom chair next to Enid. “How did she get it, then?”
“You’re awfully curious,” Enid said.
“I’m interested.”
“Some secrets are best left at that — as secrets.”
“Billy Litchfield died because of it.”
“Yes, my dear,” Enid said, patting her hand. “And until just now, when you showed me the box, I never imagined that Billy Litchfield would have been involved in selling the cross. It wasn’t in his character.”
“He was desperate,” Annalisa said. “His building was going co-op, and he didn’t have the money to buy it. He was convinced he would have to leave New York.”
“Ah, New York,” Enid said, taking another sip of water. “New York has always been a difficult place. Ultimately, the city is bigger than all of us.
I’ve lived here for over seventy years, and I’ve seen it happen again and again. The city moves on, but somehow the person does not, and they get run over in the process. That, I’m afraid, is what must have happened to Billy.” Enid leaned back in her chair. “I’m tired, my dear,” she said. “I’m getting old myself.”
“No,” Annalisa said. “It wasn’t New York. Paul was responsible. Sandy Brewer showed him the cross one evening. Paul thought Sandy was going to fire him because he lost twenty-six million dollars on the morning of the Internet Debacle. So Paul sent an e-mail to the Times.”
“Aha,” Enid said. And then, with a wave, as if she wished to sweep it all away, added, “There you go. Everything always works out for the best.”
“Does it?” Annalisa said. “I still need to know how Mrs. Houghton got the cross.” She looked directly into Enid’s eyes, her gaze not wavering.
Louise, Enid remembered, could do that, too — stare a person down until she got exactly what she wanted. “Enid,” she said softly. “You owe me.”
“Do I?” Enid gave a little laugh. “I suppose I do. Otherwise, who knows what would have happened to the apartment? Very well, my dear. If you want the truth so much, you’ll have it. Louise didn’t take the cross from the Met. She took it from my stepmother, Flossie Davis. Flossie took the cross because she was silly and stupid and thought it was pretty. Louise saw her take it and made Flossie give it to her. Louise, I’m sure, intended to return it to the museum, but Flossie had a bit of dirt on Louise. She was quite sure that Louise killed her husband.”
Annalisa stood up. “I thought you said he’d died from a staph infection.”
Enid sighed. “That was how I remembered it. But after Billy died, I had a chat with Flossie. And then I went to the library. There’s no doubt Randolf Houghton did return to One Fifth with some kind of infection. But the next day, he rapidly went downhill and died twelve hours later. The cause of death was never determined conclusively — but that wasn’t unusual in those days. They didn’t have all the tests and medical equipment they do now. The assumption was that the infection had killed him. But Flossie never believed it. Apparently, one of the maids told Flossie that right before Randolf died, he lost his voice and couldn’t speak. It’s one of the symptoms of belladonna poisoning. Very old-fashioned.”
“So Louise was a murderer?” Annalisa said.
“Mostly, Louise was a passionate gardener,” Enid replied carefully. “She once had a greenhouse on her terrace but took it down after Randolf died. Flossie insists she was growing belladonna. If she were, she would have needed a greenhouse to do it in. The plant can’t survive in direct sunlight.”
“Ah,” Annalisa said, nodding. “And I suppose you wanted me to do the same thing to Paul.”
“Absolutely not,” Enid said. “Although it’s crossed my mind that ultimately Randolf’s death was for a good cause. Louise did so much for the city. But she never would have gotten away with it today. And of course, your husband is still alive. I know you wouldn’t do anything to hurt him.”
“No, I wouldn’t,” Annalisa said. “Paul is quite harmless now.”
“That’s good, dear,” Enid said, standing up. “And now that you know everything, I really must run. Schiffer and I are going to switch apartments this week, and I must start packing.”
“Of course,” Annalisa said. She took Enid’s arm and escorted her down the two flights of steps. At the front door, she paused. “There is still one thing you haven’t told me,” she said. “Why did Mrs. Houghton do it?”
Enid emitted a cackle. “Why do you think? Her husband wanted to sell the apartment.” She paused. “Now you must tell me something as well.
How did you do it?”
“I didn’t,” Annalisa said. “I only begged Paul not to go.”
“Of course,” Enid said. “And isn’t that a typical man? They never listen.”
An hour later, Philip found his aunt in her kitchen, precariously balanced on top of a stepstool, taking things out of the top shelf of a cabinet.
“Nini,” Philip said sharply, “what are you doing? The movers will pack everything up.” He took her hand and helped her down. “It’s the day before my wedding. What if you fell? What if you broke your hip?”
“What if I did?” she asked, affectionately patting his cheek. Thinking of Annalisa, she said, “It would all continue. It always does, one way or another.”
The morning of Philip and Schiffer’s wedding day was hazy and hot. The clouds were expected to burn off, but there might be thunderstorms later in the day. In the overheated kitchen of the Gooches’ apartment, Mindy Gooch was going over a catalog for Sub-Zero refrigerators with James. “I know it’s only a country house, but we might as well get the best. We can afford it. And then we won’t have to worry about replacing it for at least twenty years.” She looked up at James and smiled. “In twenty years, we’ll be in our mid-sixties. We’ll have been married for almost forty years. Won’t that be amazing?”
“Yes,” James said with what had become a nearly permanent jumpiness.
Mindy had yet to say a word about Lola, but she didn’t have to. The fact that she’d messengered those columns was enough. They would never talk about it, James thought, the way they never talked about anything that was wrong in their marriage. Of course, Mindy didn’t have to do that, either, not when she wrote about their marriage in her blog.
“What do you think?” Mindy asked now. “The forty- or the sixty-inch?
I say sixty, even though it’s three thousand dollars more. Sam will be having friends up to the country, and we’ll need lots of room for food.”
“Sounds great,” James said.
“And did you get the toilet paper and paper towels?” Mindy asked.
“I did it yesterday. Didn’t you notice?” James asked.
“W
ell, really, James,” Mindy said, “I’m a little busy here. Renovating the house and turning my blog into a book. That reminds me, Sam is bringing his little girlfriend to the wedding. I’ve asked Thayer Core to come by here at two o’clock to pick Sam up, then they’ll meet Dominique at Penn Station. She’s coming in from Springfield, Massachusetts. You can thank me for that — I thought you’d probably want to spend the day undisturbed, so you can work on your new book.”
“Thanks,” James muttered.
“And one more thing,” Mindy continued. “Dominique is Billy Litchfield’s niece. Ironic, isn’t it? But I suppose life is like that — it’s a small world.
Sam met her at tennis camp, and she’s going to Miss Porter’s in the fall.
So don’t say anything negative about Billy. She’s very sensitive, I think. But we don’t have to feel too sorry for her. Sam says she inherited three million dollars from Billy’s estate. It was in a Swiss bank account. Who would have thought Billy had so much money?”
Later that day, around midafternoon, Lola Fabrikant awoke in Thayer Core’s bed, exhausted. Thayer was out — probably running errands for that awful Mindy Gooch, she thought — and out of habit, Lola immediately turned her phone on. She was supposed to have Saturdays off, but her new boss, the crazy director Harold Dimmick, had already sent her six frantic e-mails, demanding that she come by his apartment so she could advise him on what to wear to Schiffer and Philip’s wedding. For a moment, Lola considered ignoring the e-mails but thought better of it. Harold Dimmick had bizarre habits and barely spoke, but he was so crazy he had to pay his assistants a salary of eighty thousand dollars a year to get anyone to work for him. Lola needed both the job and the money, so she put up with Harold and the long hours. Harold had just started shooting an independent film and was working round the clock; consequently, she was as well.
She got up and went into the small bathroom, splashing water on her face. Looking in the mirror, she wondered once again what had happened to her life. After James had refused to see her, her fortunes had quickly taken another turn for the worse. Marquee had disappeared, along with his website, The Peephole, and while Lola was furious because he still owed her two thousand dollars, there wasn’t a thing she could do.
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