"I just wanted to call to say...that I miss Dad even though we fought all the time, and that I loved him...and that I love you and I'm sorry I left without...God, Mom, I'm sorry." She burst into tears. "I'm so sorry me and Daddy didn't get a chance to talk about everything before..." she sniffled to a stop. "Before he died." She regained control. "Mom?"
"Yes, it's me, honey," her mother said. "I'm still here. I'll always be here for you, Lucy. And no matter what you thought, Daddy was always there for you too."
"Yeah, I know Mom. I just..."
"It's all right. It's nice that you called. I...I understand why you left last week—and why you left twenty years ago, and last Christmas too. Daddy never blamed you. He just...couldn't stop."
"He was disappointed. He made choices he regretted. Everybody does. I've learned that much." Mom was silent. "Well, I guess I've said what I needed to...I've got to go, I have some work to do."
"That's good. Bye, Lucy."
"Listen, Mom, I'll be back next year. In spring. I'll come and help you plant the garden. Maybe put a new coat of paint on that birdhouse, see if we can get it rented out again."
"I'll be here."
"Right. See ya then, Mom." She put the phone down and went into the bathroom to remake her face. Mom really was like a rock, in ways both good and bad. Solid, but impenetrable. Stable, but hard.
She put on some black leggings, tall, flat-heeled boots, and her short black leather jacket over a t-shirt, and took Claud for a walk into SoHo, cutting down to Grand Street and over to West Broadway and then down into Tribeca to Café Bob, where in the European mode dogs could slip into the bar at quiet hours and sit under the tables. She shortened Claud's leash and went in. The place was empty, in its post-lunch, pre-cocktail hour set-up mode. She asked the bartender, a ridiculously handsome black-haired boy of 25 or so, if Maurizio was around. "Who wants to know?" he said, an Italian trying to do Bronx.
"Why is it that everybody talks like they're in a bad gangster movie in this neighborhood?" Lucy asked. "Who wants to know? I wants to know. Me, Lucy Ripken." The guy looked at her. "And my dog Claud wants to know too," she added. "So is he here?"
"Yes, sure," the bartender said, and picked up a phone. "Somebody down here wants to see Maurizio. He busy?" He listened, then looked at Lucy, smiling slightly. "He wants to know who wants to see him."
"I'm a writer for magazines, and I'm doing a story on The European Invasion of Downtown. I thought Maurizio might want to get in on the article."
He relayed the information. "He'll be right down," he said to Lucy, hanging up the phone. "Why didn't you tell me what you were...who you are?" he asked.
"Oh, don't worry," she said, as Maurizio appeared at the kitchen door. "I lied." She walked back to meet him.
"Lucy Ripken," she said, holding out a hand. "And Claud."
"Maurizio Fabriccioni," he said, taking her hand. "Hello, Claud," he added. "Nice looking dog. But what happen his ear? He pick a fight? Now, what can I do for you? Would you like a glass of wine, mineral water, something to eat? Shall we sit?" He indicated a table, and they sat. Claud laid on the floor, his nose on Lucy's foot.
"To tell the truth, Maurizio, I'm not here about an article—although it does sound like a good idea for a piece and I intend to write it very soon, I promise."
"What do you want?" he said, frowning.
"It's about...did the police come to see you about...Zane Smithson last week?"
"Oh, that. Yes, they did. I told them everything I knew. That's where I know from your face! You were with him and that lovely girl that died. Now I can remember. Look," he said, standing. "I'm very busy right now. I have a restaurant to run. So if you'll excuse me..."
"What did you tell them? The police I mean?"
"I didn't know the man. Zane Smithson. He...his driver had come in earlier and given me one hundred dollars to hold that table for him and to remember his name. I thought with this sort of money he would be a good person to encourage as a regular customer. So I did it. That is all." He shrugged and walked away.
Lucy, contemplating herself in the new role of real-life paid PI, wondered if there was something else she should ask him. Nothing came to mind. She rose and sauntered back to the bar. "Could I have a glass of Pinot Noir, please," she said. "And a bowl of ice water for my dog."
CHAPTER SIX
UPTOWN MOVES
Lucy had cross-checked Nova's East 77th Street address, and the only office listed belonged to a Dr. Lucien Schwartzhill, D.A.M. D.A.M.? What sort of doctor was that? She rang the guy’s buzzer until the release buzzed back, then pushed open the door and went in. His office was garden level rear in the five story brownstone. She let herself into the unlocked waiting room, painted a deep mauve and furnished with Persian rugs, overstuffed couches, and heavy, scroll-legged wooden tables. It was very warm. She took off her black beret and her black wool overcoat and tossed them on a couch. An ornately-framed astrological star chart hung on one wall, opposite a large, carved wooden wine rack stacked with bottles of red. The ambience was sumptuous, and slightly overwrought, like a parlor in a Victorian bordello. A pair of French doors revealed a back garden. Lucy looked out. High, bare brick walls on three sides. Green cafe chairs and a round green table under a leafless maple tree. A sun dial, a white, wintry sky. She turned to the wine rack, and pulled out a bottle to read the label. The year was 1979. "Greetings. Are you an oenophile?" he asked, coming into the room. "I'm Nova. You must be Lucy Ripken."
He was fifty or so, maybe five foot five, and goatish, Pan-like, with carefully unkempt curly greying hair and beard. He wore white guru pants and shirt, and no shoes. His feet were hairy. She put the bottle back and shook his extended hand. Firm, warm, dry. He closed a second hand over hers, and attempted major eye contact. She pulled her hand loose, but held his gaze. "Hello, Nova. Or is it Dr. Schwartzhill?" He didn't flinch. "No. I mean, I like wine, but I'm no connoissieur."
"Yes, it was Dr. Schwartzhill. Until I was...re-named." He smiled. "However, that's another story. But you're not here about wine, you're here to talk about..."
"Patricia Moody."
"Patricia. Yes, yes, so sad, so very, very sad. Patricia was a real seeker after truth. She and I explored some interesting paths together."
"Yeah, I can imagine. Patty was always looking for something."
He nodded gravely, in the manner of a bad actor. "Let us hope she has found it at last," he said.
"Right." Lucy decided to get right to the point. "So why did you tell her that her father molested her?"
"Did she tell you that?" He was very smooth. "That was privileged information."
"He told me. Her father. He says it's a lie."
"What would you expect him to do, admit that he molested his daughter?"
"I believe him. And by the way, what does D A M stand for, Mr. Nova?"
The door flew open behind her, and a woman entered the room—although "entered" understated it. More like overran. She was easily six feet tall, under 25 years old, ice blonde, beautiful, pale-skinned, fur-hatted and fur-coated and platform-heeled in tight pink jeans, and she blew in, all crackling packages and swirling fur, and said, "God, I have hate for New York! Lucy, have you got my shot ready?" Clipping her words oddly, she had some sort of Scandinavian accent. She threw down the bags and took off her coat.
"What?" Lucy said.
"Can't you see I'm with someone, Katya?" said Nova. "I've asked you to..."
"This is the waiting room, Lu...Nova," she interrupted. "You have never said to me not to come into here." She took off her hat. "Hello, I'm Katya." She offered Lucy a long white hand. "Mrs...Schwa...Nova."
"Lucien...Lucy. I get it," said Lucy. "Isn't that cute. I'm Lucy too," she said. "Lucy Ripken. Nice to meet you." They shook hands. "I was just asking your husband here about..."
"Lucien, is my shot ready? I need my shot."
"I was preparing it when she came in," he said. "Lucy, would you mind waiting a moment while I take care of her?"
he smiled, nodding at his wife.
"No, that's fine," said Lucy. "Just tell me what D A M stands for and I'll be happy."
"Doctor of Astral Metaphysics," he said, following his wife towards the door to the back. She towered over him. "They gave me the doctorate when they gave me my name," he added, then disappeared into the next room. Who were "they"? Lucy wondered, looking over Katya's fur and packages. All Barney's and Mad Ave Italians. This little lady had expensive habits. They'd left the doors open, and Lucy heard:
"Goddammit Lucy please hurry, you have got to..."
"Ssshhhh. Quiet, Katya, she'll hear you, and..."
"I don't gif a fock what hears me, Lucien, if you want me to stay here you must..."
"Here, here, it's ready. Extra B and everything."
"Is the...you know..."
"Yes. It's all here." Silence, then:
"Aaaah. That is better." Lucy stared at the star chart. She wondered how geocentric astrologers explained their work. After all, it was fairly common knowledge that the earth revolved around the sun. Katya re-appeared, rosy-cheeked and smiling. "Sorry to interrupt you, Lucy Ripken. I have been fighting this cold and needed very much my vitamin shot, you see."
"No problem," Lucy said. "I was just gazing at the stars. Tell me, Katya, did you know my friend Patricia who used to come see Dr. Nova?"
She hesitated. "Patricia? I am not sure. I..."
"She and Patty never met, Lucy," Nova interrupted as he emerged from the back. "Katya and I met and got married just a couple of months ago."
"Congratulations. By the way, what is your accent, Katya? I thought for a minute you were Swedish, but..."
"I am Russian," she said. "I was working in St. Petersburg at the concierge desk in hotel, and Lucy...Nova...was guest. After three days in hotel he asks me to marry him, I want opportunity to come to America, so..." she shrugged. "I am here."
"I went to Russia to meet Dr. Eugene Tarlovsky," said Nova. "He is one of the great astrologers of our time, so when I had a chance to go, I took it. And there was Katya." He smiled at his wife.
"Yes, lucky me," she said, gazing at Lucy with an absolutely impenetrable expression in her eyes. "Now I get to shop in Madison Boulevard every single day!" She bustled over, picked up her fur coat, fur hat, and several bags, and opened the door. "Now if you will excuse me I am going upstairs," she said. "Goodbye." She didn't even look at the husband as she stepped out. Lucy turned back to Nova.
"Well," she said.
"Isn't she just marvelous," he said. All Lucy could think was, she's carrying your nuts in a Barney's bag and you're in love. Good for you, Katya, get this hairy little creature underfoot.
"Damn, a real live Russian, eh? She's gorgeous." Lucy smiled. "Congratulations. So, listen, Nova, I was wondering, to get back where we started, about a couple of things. One, how did you ever figure out—you and Patty—that she...that her Dad had done what...you said he'd done. And two, did you ever meet this guy she was dating—a man who called himself Zane Smithson?"
He rubbed his hands together when he talked. It was unpleasant to notice, but informative, speeding up when he grew nervous. "That's the man the police said was with her that night? No, I never...she told me of him, but..."
"What did you tell her? To do about him, I mean?"
"Tell her? Nothing. She was..."
"You were able to deduce that she'd been molested by her father when she was a kid but you didn't have any advice for her present day love life? She told me she was planning to marry this man. What kind of..."
"We were dealing with long term stuff. Repressed memories and..."
"How the hell do you get to that kind of material through astrology, if you don't mind my asking?"
"My techniques are extremely subtle and complex. It's a matter of paying close attention...noting relationships between signs on the birth chart, and present day patterns. Do you think Freudian shrinks, with all their rubbish about Oedipal complexes and penis envy, know any more than I do?"
"As a matter of fact, no, I don't," said Lucy. "But that doesn't mean you know anything, does it?"
"Look, I've got a client due"—he looked at his watch—"in about two minutes. I don't know what else I can tell you. But Patty's father was..."
"Did you ever sleep with her, Nova?"
"Sleep with her? With Patty? Me? No, of course not." His buzzer rang. "That's Mrs. Cornwall. Time to go, Lucy." He ushered her to the door. As she stepped across the threshold, he leaned close, grabbed her arm tightly, and snarled in a whisper, "But that doesn't mean I didn't fuck the bitch!" Then he released her arm and grinned, as Mrs. Cornwall, an elegant fortysomething lady in a gorgeous, pricey-looking red dress and a very stylish hat, appeared at the end of the hall. "Oh, hello, Margaret," he said gaily. "How are we today?"
Jarred, Lucy rushed out into the cold west wind. From minor creep to major monster in an instant, with his final words he'd etched himself into her brain. She could still feel the pressure of his hand on her arm. What the hell was a self-proclaimed Doctor of Astral Metaphysics doing giving vitamin shots anyways?
Hunched into her coat against the wind, Lucy was tempted to descend into the station and ride the train home and climb in bed and pull a pillow over her head and hide from the psycho-gurus of the world even though it was not yet noon. Instead she forced herself to walk past the station and continue west all the way to Fifth Avenue. On impulse she went into the Frick Museum, stood before a Rembrandt, and stared at it for a while, losing herself in the luminous grace of his brush strokes. Then she went out and headed south on Fifth, bound for Lucette. Lucette, founded in the 1930s by a woman of that name, unloaded in the late eighties by her high-living, debt-ridden grandson to a Wall Street merger monster, retailed high-priced jewels out of an elegantly appointed store on 57th Street. Saudi princesses and Asian dictator's wives bought their diamonds and rubies there; few pieces in the store were priced under $10,000. The recently renovated interior of the store had been featured in SPACES last year. Nina Randolph had written that story herself, not trusting Lucy or any other downtown lowlife writers to properly comprehend the significance of Lucette, even in its current incarnation as a gaudy trifle in a billion dollar debt portfolio, in the cultural landscape of New York City.
Lucy paused outside the door of Lucette in the cold October wind wondering why she and Patricia Moody had ever been friends. Patty'd had a wonderful smile, and loved to laugh. She had always confided in Lucy, giggling as she confessed her shallowness, her materialism, all her unlovely foibles and follies. She'd laughed at Lucy's jokes, and supplied her with a steady stream of barely-used expensive clothes and make-up. She'd always said when she finally married the man of her dreams and moved to Paris, she would fly Lucy over as frequently as possible so that could play together in France. She was a New York friend.
Lucy peered through the glass front door and somebody buzzed her in. Two armed security guards dressed up as gentlemen in top hats and elaborately gilded jackets flanked the arched entry portal, a glittery post post-modern architectural fantasy that appeared to be a stoned collaboration of early Michael Graves and late Christian LaCroix. Beyond this arch the room was deep blue fading to black overhead, with strands of tiny low voltage spotlights picking out the glittery showroom jewels inside the heavy, ornately-finished wooden cases. This was the cheap stuff, on display—pieces priced in four and five figures. The serious goods were locked up in special vaults. Three beautiful, elegantly turned-out women lingered at attention at the rear of the room—an Asian-American, a blonde, and an African-American. They eyed her tentatively, a little uncertain. In her black Doc Martens, faded jeans, black turtleneck, five dollar beret and three year old Williwear overcoat, even with her natural chic and her stylishly short blonde hair, Lucy didn't look quite...appropriate. On the other hand, they didn't want to radiate too much disdain, as the very rich are wont to dress down on occasion, and for all they knew she could be one of those German von Taxis princesses out looking to drop
fifty grand on a bauble.
"Hey," said Lucy, moving towards the back. Mozart piano music played, ever so softly. Music to buy by, bigtime. The shopgirls waited. Fancy, schmancy, for all their perfect hair and fine threads and carefully cultivated attitude, that's what they were: shopgirls. "Nice stuff you got here." She looked in a display case, and a deep red glow caught her eye. "How much is that ring?"
The black woman approached, glanced at the ruby and diamond ring in the case, and then looked at Lucy. "Forty-two thousand five hundred," she said. "It's an exquisite piece."
Lucy grinned at her. She was really lovely in that honey-colored, delicate-boned Ethiopian way. "Yes, exquisite indeed. But I'm a little short of cash today. Maybe I'll bring Mummy back tomorrow, and have her buy me one. Meanwhile, which one of you is Loretta?"
"Might I ask who wishes to know?"
"I'm Lucy Ripken. I was a friend of Patty's. Patricia Moody. She used to work here. I'm looking into what happened to her."
"Just a moment, please," the woman said. She conferred briefly with the other two women at the back of the store, and then the Asian woman came forward.
"Hi. I'm Loretta," she said, her Long Island accent faint but clear. "Loretta Sandusky. I know, it's weird, but I got all my looks from my Japanese mother's side. My Dad’s American, and he named me after his favorite singer. Loretta Lynn." She smiled as they shook hands, and her face lit up. Damn, New York was full of beautiful women. "Patty was a good person to work with. She was very enthusiastic. You know, she didn't really need this job, but she made it a lot of fun. Being here, I mean. She told me all about you, Lucy Ripken. You were like her closest pal."
"We had some good times together, back in the old days before..." Lucy looked around the store..."All this began to matter. But I'm not here to—can you take a lunch break now? My treat. I'd love to talk to you about Patty some more. Have the police been to see you?"
"The police? No. Why would they want to see me? I mean, she OD’ed, right? That's what I heard."
Lost in New York: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 5) Page 9
