Tender Death

by Annette Meyers

  “O’Melvany.”

  Bless him. “Sergeant, this is Leslie Wetzon. Do you remember me?”

  “Oh yeah. Well, I don’t have anything to tell you on—it’s gone downtown.”

  “I know. I have something to tell you.”

  “Yeah?” He was polite but doubtful. Probably a dyed-in-the-wool chauvinist, she thought.

  “I’m at a salon called Katerina of Hungary in the Galleria on East Fifty-seventh. I think Ida Tormenkov is here, or may have just been here. I heard her. Can you come and meet me here now?”

  “I’m busy now, Miss Wetzon.” She could hear in his voice that he thought she was a pain in the ass.

  “Please, Sergeant. Just check it out.”

  “Lady, you want me to stop everything and come there because you think?”

  “Humor me. I’m not a crank. Silvestri—”

  “How long will you be there?” He was grudging.

  “I’m in the middle of a facial, so at least another forty-five minutes.”

  Saskia was smiling with surface concern, but tapping her foot nervously as Wetzon retied the belt of her robe, which had come loose, and trundled down the hall toward her. “Tch, tch, tch, all good vork of heat vasted.” She helped Wetzon back into the chair. “But I see vhat I can do.” She wet and reapplied the eye compress and went to work on Wetzon’s skin. “Beautiful skin. So lucky. No blackheads. Very sensitive, no?” She smeared Wetzon’s face with a thick sticky mixture and then swathed her with an ice-cold mask of wet Kleenex. “Rest now.” Saskia turned off the lights and left the room.

  Wetzon was impatient, turning back and forth, trying to find a comfortable place on the chair. She could not lie still. Her back complained. Her thoughts roiled.

  There was a knock on the door. “Wetzon?” The door opened.

  “Smith?”

  “I’m finished. I’m going to be made up. Meet me there.” Smith closed the door without waiting for Wetzon to respond.

  Wetzon had no intention of having someone else do her makeup and certainly not with mascara and materials that had been used on other people’s eyes. She wondered how long it would take O’Melvany to get there, how much time had passed since she had spoken to him.

  Saskia entered, switching on the light, and Wetzon lay back while Saskia removed the final mask and cleansed her face again. After the final step, the moisturizer, Saskia untied and discarded the turban and handed Wetzon a large mirror. “Beautiful, no?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Beautiful, yes. She always felt beautiful after a facial. It was the pampering.

  “I leave this.” Saskia handed Wetzon a bill and left the room, closing the door discreetly.

  Wetzon threw her clothes on, took her hair down, combed it, and rolled it back up into its neat knot. She looked at herself closely in the mirror and reddened her mouth with lipstick. Gathering up her coat and carryall, she stepped out into the corridor, passing an elderly woman in one of the pink robes, her hands held out in front of her, fingers stiffly separated to keep a manicure from smearing, being led to Smith’s vacated room. Wetzon strolled casually, eyes and ears alert, in the opposite direction of the pay phone, looking for Smith.

  Smith’s laugh rang out and Wetzon followed it until she came to another open space similar to the kitchen. This one had half a dozen high stools in front of a broad expanse of makeup mirrors and tables. The light was soft and diffused. A slim young man, his left earlobe sporting a ruby stud and a tiny hoop, was highlighting Smith’s eyes. She seemed to be enjoying herself. Could this be a new, less judgmental Smith?

  “You look absolutely stunning, Ms. Smith,” he gushed, giving Wetzon a flirtatious wink.

  Smith smiled at herself seductively in the mirror. “I do, don’t I, Jeffrey?”

  “Not that you didn’t before, but you should really use emerald-gold on your lids. What an impact. With those fabulous eyes—”

  Oh yuk, Wetzon thought. All this self-love was more than she could tolerate right now, and she certainly was not going to hang around and listen to all that. “I’ll meet you in front, Smith.” She saw Smith’s eyes meet Jeffrey’s in the mirror. Some private joke, a shared secret, a didn’t-I-tell-you look?

  A gaunt Chinese woman in a red Adolfo suit trimmed with black braid sat at the cashier’s desk. “Is this your first visit, Ms. Wetzon?”

  “Yes.” Wetzon put the bill and her American Express Card on the pink counter.

  “Well, we do hope you are pleased and will be back to see us again soon.” A dark line outlined the crease in her eyelids. She handed Wetzon a small pink-and-gray shopping bag and gave her the charge slip to sign. “Some complimentary samples of our treatment products.”

  Wetzon returned to the reception room and sat down on the gray sofa next to a small round-faced woman with short white hair who looked somewhat familiar. She was thumbing through a copy of Town & Country. In the little shopping bag were tissue-wrapped small tubes and jars, a lipstick, and an eyeshadow. Wetzon was delighted. She loved samples of cosmetics. She rolled the bag of samples up and slipped it into her carryall. Lois-Jane Lane was on the telephone switching someone’s appointment.

  “Did you buy those here?” The woman next to Wetzon asked in a warm, scratchy voice. She looked a little like Maureen Stapleton.

  “They were complimentary samples.”

  “Oh goodie, I love all those things.”

  Wetzon didn’t notice Margot until she stood in front of them. “Ms. Stapleton?”

  “Oh yes. Thank you. It was so nice meeting you.”

  The white-haired woman followed Margot up the stairs as the elevator doors opened and O’Melvany stepped out. He flipped a lighted cigarette out of the palm of his hand and put it in his lips, inhaling. He was wearing the same dark brown suit and sweater he’d had on the first time Wetzon had seen him. And he was not wearing an overcoat.

  Wetzon got to her feet and went to meet him. “How is your back?”

  “Better.” He rubbed his back and then his orange-yellow mustache. He added grudgingly, “Your friend has been effective.” He strode across the entrance room to the Lucite desk and showed Lois-Jane Lane his ID. “I’d like to see the owner, please.”

  The woman stared at O’Melvany’s ID; her face turned pasty. She rose. “Please wait here.” She disappeared up the stairs, in a big hurry.

  “This better not be a waste of my time, Miss Wetzon. I’m sticking my neck out here,” O’Melvany said, glowering at her. He looked at the nameplate on the desk. “Do you believe it? Lois Lane.” He walked around the desk and looked through the appointment book, unconcerned, humming faintly, “Doo, doo, da, doo, doo.” Ashes from his cigarette fell on the gray carpet.

  A woman in her forties with beautiful, clear skin and shoulder length chestnut hair, wearing a pink lab coat over a wool challis print skirt, came down the stairs, followed by an agitated Lois Lane.

  “I am Katerina Sakar. I own this salon. You want to see me?”

  “Sergeant O’Melvany. Nineteenth Precinct.” He showed his ID, then put it back in his inside pocket.

  “I would appreciate your not smoking here.” Katerina took a paper cup from the rolling Lucite table, partially filled it with water, and held it out to him. O’Melvany dropped the stub of his cigarette into the cup, and she delivered it to Lois-Jane, who took the offensive cup up the stairs and returned moments later empty-handed. “Now, what can I do for you, Sergeant?” Katerina’s smile infused her face with tiny lines. She was older than she had initially appeared.

  “We’re looking for a woman. Ida Tormenkov. She was seen here a short time ago.”

  Katerina’s smile froze. Her voice, however, did not change. “I do not know an Ida Tormenkov,” she said flatly.

  “Perhaps yes, perhaps no. But if you do, and she’s here, I suggest you ask her to give herself up.”

  “Why? What did she do?”

  “She is wanted for questioning in a murder—” Inadvertently, Wetzon gasped. Katerina’s eyes followed her
gasp and they locked into hers for a brief instant. So they were finally calling Peepsie’s death murder.

  Smith chose that moment to come flamboyantly down the stairs, mink coat flying. “Dear Katerina,” she cooed, barging right in. She batted her eyelids at O’Melvany. “And who is this lovely man?”

  O’Melvany looked confused, then beamed, and Wetzon groaned inwardly. No one was safe from Smith’s seductive charm.

  “I do not know an Ida Tormenkov, Sergeant,” Katerina repeated, ignoring Smith.

  “Sergeant what? Ida who?” Smith looked puzzled.

  “I can get a search warrant, Miss Sakar,” O’Melvany said, turning his attention back to Katerina.

  “What’s going on here?” Smith whispered loudly, sidling over to Wetzon.

  “You must do what you have to do, but you will not find the woman here.”

  O’Melvany nodded at Wetzon. “This lady says otherwise.” Katerina’s cold and furious eyes found Wetzon, as did Smith’s.

  “Wetzon,” Smith snapped, “why do you always humiliate me? After this, how can I ever come back here?”

  Wetzon felt her face flush. Had she been wrong? Had she simply fallen asleep and dreamed it? Had the Russian accents just triggered a memory?

  “I cannot help you, Officer.” Katerina did not move.

  “I suggest you tell Ms. Tormenkov to come forward. If she’s innocent, her life is in danger.” O’Melvany thrust his card at Katerina, who refused to take it. He shrugged and dropped it on the Lucite desk in front of Lois-Jane Lane. “She can call me in confidence at that number.”

  “I’m sorry, Sergeant,” Wetzon said when she and Smith and O’Melvany stepped out of the elevator and into the street lobby of the Galleria. Smith was fuming. Wetzon could almost imagine steam coming out of her ears.

  O’Melvany touched his forehead to each of them and strode out to the curb. Wetzon followed him to where a police car was parked at a fire hydrant, a uniformed cop at the wheel. O’Melvany bent awkwardly and spoke to the cop through the rolled-down window. The cop picked up his transmitter and talked into it, then he nodded to O’Melvany.

  “I guess Katerina stopped us cold, didn’t she?” Wetzon said.

  O’Melvany turned to her with his hand on the door. “We’ll see about that.”

  48.

  THE LAID-BACK ENTRANCE to the Galleria encouraged unpredictable air currents that billowed scarves and coats and lifted hats unceremoniously. The wind worked pathways through Wetzon’s raccoon coat and froze her freshly processed cheeks, swirling dirt and grit that had lodged in previously frozen snowdrifts into tiny vortexes. She took the lavender beret from her carryall and put it on, pulling it down over her ears.

  Smith, who had followed her to O’Melvany’s car, was standing nearby, silent for once, possibly trying to figure out what was happening before forging forward again.

  “Sergeant.” Wetzon’s words whipped around her almost lost in the wind. “You said Ida was wanted for questioning in a murder ... does that mean Peepsie—I mean, Evelyn Cunningham’s death is now officially considered murder?”

  O’Melvany rested his elbow on the roof of the car. The cold didn’t seem to bother him. “I have nothing official to say about it. They’re calling the shots from the commissioner’s office. There’s a special squad on it—your friend Silvestri has the assignment.” Wetzon shaded her eyes from the wind and looked up at O’Melvany. He sounded envious. He opened the door and got into the car. She tapped on the window and he rolled it down. The younger man at the wheel eyed her with interest. “Sergeant, I think I know where that other shoe may be. You know, the mate of the one I found on the street after Mrs. Cunningham was pushed off the terrace.”

  Smith had evidently had enough, grown bored with not knowing what was going on. “Let’s go, Wetzon.” She tugged at Wetzon’s coat.

  O’Melvany rubbed his wiry mustache and frowned. “Now how would you know that? We went over that place with a fine-tooth comb.”

  “Did you look inside the big urn that was at the entrance to the living room?”

  O’Melvany’s wiry orange eyebrows rolled over each other.

  Wetzon put her hands up on the edge of the open window and leaned toward him, raising her voice over the wind. “They’re auctioning off her furniture at Yorkeby’s. We were on our way over to the exhibition now.”

  “Oh, for pitysake,” Smith said.

  O’Melvany stared straight ahead out his front window, then with one long arm, reached behind him and opened the back door. “Get in, Ms. Wetzon. Let’s take a ride.”

  “Come on, Smith.” Wetzon got into the backseat of the car and slid over, making room for Smith.

  “This was going to be a fun afternoon, Wetzon, just us girls,” Smith grumbled, but she got into the car, as Wetzon knew she would. One thing Smith hated was being left out. She settled in behind O’Melvany and gave him a lovely smile.

  Grunting, he rolled up the window and took a cigarette out of a pack of Marlboro’s on the dashboard and lit it. The carbon smell of the match filled the air, giving way to the sharp smell of the cigarette. “Yorkeby’s,” he said to the other detective.

  “This is my partner—”

  “Xenia Smith,” Smith interrupted in a throaty voice. “So pleased to meet you ... ah, Lieutenant ...”

  Wetzon elbowed Smith, who shifted out of the way, smiling a contented smile. Why did she have to ply her charms on everyone?

  “Sergeant,” O’Melvany corrected. “Sergeant E. D. O’Melvany.” He spoke over his shoulder. “This is Detective Galvin.”

  Galvin negotiated a U-turn expertly in the midst of the rush hour traffic on Fifty-seventh Street, and they headed east toward First Avenue, reaching Yorkeby’s about twenty minutes before the exhibition closed.

  O’Melvany, all long and lanky arms and legs, ducked his head and unfurled himself from the car. He reached down to open the rear door, giving first Smith and then Wetzon his hand. The icy wind coming from the East River was unrelenting. They hurried to the entrance of the modern box of a building where the internationally renowned auction house held the auctions of much of the world’s antiques and artwork.

  “We’re closing in fifteen minutes,” a haughty black man in a dark blue guard’s uniform announced. O’Melvany flashed his ID. “Yes, sir, what can we do for you?”

  O’Melvany looked at Wetzon. “The Cunningham Collection,” Wetzon said.

  “Second floor exhibition room. Take the escalator.”

  O’Melvany moved forward quickly and Wetzon, scooting after him, missed Smith. Smith was at the information desk talking to a woman in a severe black suit, with gold-rimmed glasses resting on the tip of her long thin nose. The gray, jewel-neck sweater was a close match to her hair. She was smiling warmly at Smith, who reached into her pocket and handed the woman her business card. Smith fluffed her curls and laughed affectedly. She caught up with Wetzon on the escalator.

  “What was that about?” Wetzon didn’t bother trying to keep annoyance out of her voice. O’Melvany was using the escalator as a staircase, going up two steps at a time.

  “She’s going to call me whenever there’s a consignment of—”

  “What’s this we’re looking for, Ms. Wetzon? Some kind of jar?” O’Melvany suddenly seemed annoyed.

  Another uniformed guard stood at the entrance to the exhibition room, to the right of which was a small table with catalogues for sale at two dollars each. A similar catalogue, very well thumbed, hung from a cord attached to a hook in the wide doorframe.

  “You can’t smoke here,” the guard said, pointing to the No Smoking sign.

  O’Melvany took a long last inhale and put his cigarette out in a tall deco ashtray, where a dead cigar butt stood upended in the sand.

  “I don’t exactly know what they’re called—see—” Wetzon pointed to a copy of the ad on the table. “This is it. I think it’s some kind of temple urn.”

  Smith wandered ahead of them into the exhibition room, which was
arranged somewhat like a grand living room. Oriental rugs were on the floor, furniture was arranged along the walls and in conversation groupings. Lamps and accessories were decorously placed on the end tables and coffee tables. Paintings and tapestries hung from wires on the walls.

  A few stragglers were still examining items in the exhibition even though it was so near to closing. A slovenly old man in work clothes, in need of a shave, was studying the underside of an old trestle table. A thickset man with a loupe in one eye was holding a piece of jewelry while a woman in a red sports jacket and pleated skirt watched him, hand on an open glass exhibition case. Smith drifted over to him and looked over his shoulder. The man handed the piece of jewelry back to the woman in red, who replaced it on the glass shelf and locked the cabinet. He ran his hand over his bald spot, put the loupe back in his pocket, and took a turn around the room. Smith followed the man, a seductive smile on her face, as he walked toward the escalator.

  “There it is!” Wetzon saw the huge urn with its vivid blues and reds on the far side of the exhibition room. It seemed even larger than she remembered.

  “May I help you? We’re about to close.” The woman in red stood next to them, looking from O’Melvany to Wetzon, a question on her face.

  O’Melvany flipped his ID at her and put it back in his inside pocket. “Sergeant O’Melvany, NYPD. We’re looking for something that may be inside that urn.”

  Wetzon was already standing next to the urn on tiptoes, trying to see into it, but the urn was almost as tall as she was.

  “I’d like to upend it,” O’Melvany said.

  The woman looked pained. “Morris,” she called in a thin voice to the guard near the entrance. “Would you bring us a flashlight and call Mr. Falkland, please.” To O’Melvany she said, “I don’t think we have to move it.” The guard returned with a long stainless steel flashlight and handed it to O’Melvany. “I’ll be right back,” the woman said. “Morris, please see if you can help Sergeant O’Melvany without disturbing the exhibition.” Her tone implied, See to it that these boors don’t do any damage.