by Hy Conrad
“We need to borrow a few,” Amy said. “If that’s all right.”
“Knock yourselves out,” Archer said and led the way into the bedroom. The woman really needed a dangling cigarette.
The first thing Peter noticed was the huge, empty bed—unmade, with pastel pink sheets. It was the first physical reminder he’d seen of MacGregor’s death. Archer followed the line of Peter’s gaze and grew defensive.
“Why not? The place is empty. I’m being paid to look after it.”
“What happened here? Miss Archer!” Peter had turned from the bed and was looking across to the white Steinway. Its expansive top was barren.
“The pictures are there,” Archer said, pointing to a pair of large sealed boxes under the piano. “I didn’t want them staring at me,” she said with a sniff. “Creeps me out.” And with that, she turned around and retreated into the living room.
It had been Amy’s idea. The framed photos had been part of MacGregor’s life. They were the whole inspiration behind this worldwide wake. So, wouldn’t it be a nice touch, she’d suggested, to enlarge a few and display them at the New York service?
“It was your idea,” Peter said, keeping a lazy distance from the impending chore. Then he softened. “I’ll help out. . . .”
“No,” Amy said. “I like unpacking things. It’s like Christmas.” She found a box cutter on a windowsill and soon was on the floor by the first box, slicing through the tape, showing no concern at all for the knees of her black skinny jeans. “You can pack them back up tomorrow.”
“Thanks.”
Her idea had been to take the “inspirational” photos, the ones representing the five different stops around the world. But she was leaving herself open. Was MacGregor herself in any of them? Something like that would make a nice centerpiece. Amy began to unwrap each frame, laying the white tissue paper off to one side, half expecting Peter to join her and smooth the paper into a neat pile. But Peter was taking her at her word and not even pretending to help. Instead, he was at the Steinway, easing his long legs under the keyboard, then teasing out a few tentative scales. At least it wasn’t “Chopsticks.”
The first unwrapped frame was a marquetry herringbone showing a sunburned family of four on a pink-sand beach, probably in Bermuda. Definitely not funeral worthy, she thought and put it off to one side. The second frame was silver, with a happy older couple on a private grass terrace with the unmistakable peak of Machu Picchu looming close in the background. Amy recognized not only the hotel but also the room. Sanctuary Lodge, room 40. She had a similar photo on her bedside table, but of a younger couple who would never grow so old and happy together. This one went into the keeper pile, even though each glance would bring a little pang.
What was it about travel that was so potent? she wondered. People went thousands of miles to wind up with the same views as every other traveler, the same exact experiences repeated a million times. And yet within that rigid form, as you joined the millions posing in front of the same icons, everything wound up seeming unique and personal and worth the trip.
The music brought her out of her reverie. Peter, to her surprise, could play. Not just tunes, but the classics. From memory. She recognized this one as Russian, something romantic. She probably could have named it on a better day, when she wasn’t on her knees, pawing through other people’s lives. The familiar melody rose slowly to the upper keys. Then a few muffled notes sounded, then stopped.
“Don’t stop,” she said, barely aware of having said it.
“Sorry,” Peter said, standing up with a frown. “There’s something wrong with these strings.” A few seconds later and he was propping up the lid, looking inside. “Like there’s something on top . . .” He squinted and reached around with his right hand. When he removed it, he was holding a standard-size manila envelope, folded in half. He unfolded it and saw that there were a few words written in pen across the center. “Open only in case of my death.” The words hung melodramatically in the air.
“What?” Amy was off her knees now, stumbling over to the piano. “Are you kidding me?” But, of course, he wasn’t. There they were, in sloppy, uneven block letters.
“Open only in case of my death,” Peter repeated. Then, with a lift of his eyebrows, he obeyed, inserting his hand in the envelope and rummaging around. “Nothing,” he reported and handed it off to Amy.
The envelope was indeed empty, but they could see from the creases and the open tear across the top fold that it had once held something. “Is this her handwriting?” Amy asked in a whisper, glancing off toward the open door. Archer was nowhere in sight.
“Block letters? Could be anyone.”
“Maybe it’s not her.” Amy’s mind was racing around the possibilities. “Could this be a used piano?”
“Well . . .” Peter thought. “We can ask Steinway to look up the serial number. But I think she ordered it new.”
“So if it’s not from some previous owner . . . ,” Amy thought out loud. She held the envelope at arm’s length, like a dead rat.
“She wasn’t murdered.”
“I didn’t say she was.”
“You’re implying it. This was cancer. She had the best doctors at Sloan Kettering working for months to keep her alive.”
“Of course.” But the words still stared up at her. “Peter, we need to call the police.”
“Call the police? Wha . . .” Amy hated it when people laughed and spoke at the same time. It was an irritating affectation. “About what?” he continued, laughing and speaking. “An open envelope?”
“Don’t you think it’s suspicious?” she argued. “A woman dies, and we find a message saying, ‘If I die, open this.’ And it’s empty.”
“It could be anything,” Peter reasoned. “It could have been a note saying, ‘Feed my cat’ or ‘Here are my computer passwords’ or ‘I’m the one who broke your favorite vase.’”
“Someone removed the letter.”
“Yes, just like she told them to. You want to ask Archer about it? Let’s ask Archer.”
“Yes. No. I guess so.”
“Why are you reacting this way?” Something about Peter’s lack of suspicion was helping to put her at ease. “People leave notes when they die. It’s kind of normal. Miss Archer!” He aimed his voice in the direction of the living room. “Will you come in here a minute?”
They stood side by side as the emotionless Archer entered, stopping by the bedroom door. “Yeah?”
Peter held up the envelope and casually asked her about it. Amy saw no reaction on the woman’s face, except perhaps a tinge of boredom. No, she had never seen it before. No, Miss MacGregor had never given her any envelope. No, no one had come to visit except the ambulance people. Would that be all?
Yes, that would be all.
CHAPTER 4
After several tries, Amy had decided on her old black Fendi with the scoop neck and the long-sleeved jacket. She didn’t like wearing new things to funerals. It made the clothes somehow sad and hard to wear again. But this wasn’t really a funeral, was it? More of a business obligation.
Marcus sat patiently behind the wheel as Amy swung her legs over to the sidewalk and eased on the three-inch heels. He was borrowing the Abel family Volvo. It was for some errand or a job search. Amy hadn’t paid much attention, since the odds of him telling the exact truth were about fifty-fifty. She just needed a drop-off first.
“I’ll take the subway home,” she said and straightened her eyeglasses, also black Fendis, also old.
“If you feel nervous about this trip, you shouldn’t go.”
“No. Peter’s right. It’s a silly envelope. And she died naturally.”
“Amy, your instincts are good. If you think there’s a possibility of danger . . .” Marcus and Fanny had been trying for days to talk her out of this, both for the same reason. It wasn’t because of the potential danger, but because they both liked Marcus and disliked Peter. “You shouldn’t do it for the money.”
“Of course I
’m doing it for the money.” She buckled the last strap. “We have to keep the doors open. And it’s good to get away. We both need a break.” Marcus didn’t have a response for this, and she mentally kicked herself for wanting one. “How do I look?” she asked.
“Too good for a funeral,” he said. As soon as she was out and the door closed, he put the Volvo in gear and started heading north on Madison Avenue. Amy watched him disappear, then turned and looked up at the imposing gray-brown box.
The Frank E. Campbell Funeral Chapel was an East Side institution. Everyone who was anyone, from Rudolph Valentino to Jackie O to the Notorious B.I.G., had put in a final appearance here. Campbell’s was understated, expensive, and clearly stipulated in Paisley MacGregor’s rather detailed instructions. Peter was waiting for Amy under the chandelier in the cream-colored lobby, and together they took the stairs. Their employer was waiting for them in one of the reposing rooms on the third floor.
The service that morning would be informal, bordering on the nonreligious. One of MacGregor’s bosses had recalled that she had been raised Church of Scotland, but the best that Amy could do on short notice was a Presbyterian minister from a tiny congregation in the Theatre District. His presence would serve to give some structure to the proceedings.
Amy was glad she had gone to the trouble of blowing up the photos and placing them around. It gave the illusion of a few more people having shown up. She was also glad about the catering. The table of wines and hors d’oeuvres provided a much-needed centerpiece, drawing focus away from the open casket and the shriveled head propped up on a powder blue pillow. Is this what MacGregor imagined? thought Amy as she examined the peaceful, artificial-looking features, the maid finally being the center of attention, the benefactress of an unforgettable trip.
There were perhaps two dozen mourners, and none of them seemed to be curiosity seekers. Peter, always mindful of publicity, had given the story to the New York Times, which had done a charming article, half a page, complete with photos, about the maid sending her former employers around the world. Amy had been wary about the funeral turning into some sort of circus, but it hadn’t.
Archer was in attendance, back in her prim, pulled-together disguise, along with two other women. Amy assumed they were fellow maids, then immediately wondered why she had made such an assumption. Perhaps it was the fact that they were chatting so tightly in their little bunch—and instinctively cleaning the buffet table, disposing of the used corks and stacking the plates to one side.
A fourth woman joined them at the buffet. After a few moments, Amy realized that she wasn’t subtly cleaning like the others, but subtly herding a row of mushroom tartlets into a plastic bag inside her large black purse. Her hair was ash blond; at least that’s what the bottle probably said. Despite her heels, she remained petite, with features that would remain pinched even when she wasn’t sneaking food. In her twenties, a little younger than Amy, the woman wore a stylish black dress, one approximately the same age as Amy’s. When the woman eased an unopened bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé into the purse, Amy wasn’t outraged or annoyed. She was fascinated.
“Are you Nicole Marconi?” Amy gave her a moment to recover before sidling up and introducing herself. “I’m Amy Abel. We’ve spoken and e-mailed a few times.”
“Yes, Miss Abel. Nice to finally meet you.”
Amy was taken aback by the formal tone, the kind used to address service providers. Of course, Amy was technically a service provider. But then Nicole Marconi was technically a food thief. “I’m sorry we have to meet under such circumstances.” Amy mentally berated herself for sounding like an undertaker.
“No one knew she was sick,” said Nicole, warming ever so slightly. “I have fond memories of Paisley. Of course, my parents adored her. More than they adored me.”
Amy nodded. “I think every girl feels that way about somebody. Not that we ever had a maid.”
“Oh, it wasn’t Paisley’s fault, but it still hurt.”
Amy didn’t know what to say. “Well, I’m glad you’ll be able to join us in celebrating her life. It’s an unusual bequest.”
“To be honest, I was expecting something like this. Paisley would never let us off so easily.” Nicole’s pinched features grew even tighter. “You know of course that it’s my money that’s paying for this.”
“Your money?”
“My inheritance. Or what would have been my inheritance. But that’s not your concern. Your concern is to spend as much as you can, fulfilling the demented last wish of a dying maid.”
“Oh. It was your parents’ money. . . .” Amy knew that MacGregor’s inheritance had come from one of the families, but she’d never considered the implications. Did Peter know about Nicole’s situation? If so, why hadn’t he warned Amy? A little information would have gone a long way.
“Yes. They left most of it to the maid. You can imagine having to deal with your parents’ deaths. And, on top of that, when the lawyers told me . . .”
“Must have been horrible.” Amy herself had an eccentric mother, but this would have been too much, even for Fanny.
“By the way, when is the will being read? Six years ago, when this travesty happened, MacGregor assured me that the money, what’s left of it, would be returned to the Marconi family. Of course, a lot of things are said in the heat of embarrassment. And there was plenty of embarrassment.”
“Um . . . there’s a reading of the will set up for the last stop. Part of the grand finale.”
“Not until then? Well, I guess I’ve starved for this long. . . .” And, as if to illustrate her point, Nicole took a final tartlet from the tray and popped it into her pinched little mouth.
After that, Amy shied away from conversations. She let Peter hand out the condolences and the small talk and wondered how soon the minister would start earning his money—Nicole’s money. Amy found it relatively easy to disappear, even in a sparse crowd, to wander among the easel-mounted photos, gazing pensively at some, hiding behind others. This was always her fallback position, a reflex she usually fought against, but not this time. She could only imagine what other land mines might be buried around the room.
To her amazement, all of MacGregor’s old bosses had said yes, although the travel dates had become an almost insurmountable challenge. Of the eight tour members, including Peter, six had shown up at the New York service. The Maui-based Steinbergs would be joining them in Paris to help throw the first pinches of Paisley out over the Seine. Amy thought she recognized the Corns, a fleshy, red, slightly oversize couple who always looked like they had just come out of the sun. And, of course, it was impossible not to recognize Herb Sands and David Pepper—not because they were in any way famous, but because they were standing in front of their own photo, inspecting a younger version of themselves, arms around shoulders, posing among the long morning shadows of Stonehenge.
“Eight years ago?” David asked, studying the image from a happier day. He was the younger of the two by about twenty years, although Amy would have guessed a larger gap if she hadn’t seen the passports. He looked no more than thirty, at least in this soft lighting, and was incredibly handsome and tanned, with a bright white smile and wavy golden-red locks.
“More like ten,” countered Herb. “Before you started dyeing your hair.” Herb Sands was still an attractive man, but with the usual surrenders that men make to the advancing years—not heavyset but thick, his hair thinning and more gray than brown, features that had once been nicely proportioned now continuing to grow into a slightly saggy face. Amy wouldn’t have been so critical of his looks, except that Herb was being so critical of his perfectly beautiful partner.
“I don’t dye. I highlight,” David shot back. Amy had been expecting a more sarcastic retort, especially since the man was looking just as perfect as he had eight or ten years ago, while Herb . . . Of course, Herb didn’t have to look good. He was the one with money.
In all their correspondence, the couple had called themselves the Pepper-Sands, Herb a
nd David Pepper-Sands, a mouthful that stopped just short of being funny. On their passports, of course, their names were separated. The men had begun their romance while Paisley MacGregor was working for Herb, and true to the MacGregor formula, the three had become a family of sorts, until Herb Sands decided that what their town house needed was a butler—a handsome English butler, it turned out—and the perfect maid made up some excuse to quit. This was all secondhand information gleaned from Peter, who had gleaned it from MacGregor herself.
“I don’t think Peter Borg highlights his hair.” Herb’s gaze had wandered across the reposing room, seeking out the tall, blond tour operator. Peter was leaning absently on the open casket, his elbow almost grazing MacGregor’s face, as he chatted amiably with the Corns. “Of course, he’s a little younger than you.”
“There’s always someone younger.” David was making a heroic effort not to take the bait—and failing. “If you think I’m going to stand by and watch you hook up with a damned travel agent . . .”
“You were a waiter when I met you.” Herb’s smile grew unexpectedly warm. “The most gorgeous waiter in New York.”
Amy listened and couldn’t help fantasizing about the upcoming journey—Herb making up an excuse to visit Peter’s room on some “tour business,” David becoming a simmering pot of resentment, Peter doing his clueless best to be ingratiating to everyone. She really ought to warn him.
“Stop it. You’re not throwing yourself at Peter Borg. Besides . . .” David studied Peter for a second, trying to be objective. The travel agent was indeed younger and taller and blonder, even without chemical assistance. “I think Peter thinks he likes women.”
“We’ll see,” said Herb with a sigh and a shrug. “Around the world is a long way.”
It was at this moment that Peter pushed himself up from his employer’s resting place, subtly checked his watch, and gently extricated himself from his conversation. When he managed to catch the minister’s eye, Peter raised an elegant finger, perhaps a little too elegant. Herb saw it and chuckled. “We’ll see.”
