After Mallory had kicked him under the table, Charles was encouraged to say, “Oh, no, sir. This is fascinating.”
“Well, Charles,” said Smyth, “if that’s the case, I suggest you have dinner with the family tonight. You’ve been invited by my ex-wife. I’m sure Bitty would like to properly apologize for the unpleasantness with the police.”
“I assure you there’s no need for that,” said Charles, shifting his legs beyond Mallory’s long reach.
“Say yes,” said Smyth. “I’m asking as a favor. Bitty’s so easily crushed. Tell me you’ll go.”
In Mallory’s version of subtlety, she examined her fingernails—as if they might need sharpening.
“Of course,” said Charles.
After signing a tab for the luncheon and leaving instructions to care for his guests, Sheldon Smyth departed, and the energy level of the dining room was diminished by half.
Moments later, Riker arrived, and he proved to be another head turner, attracting attention from every quarter of the dining room. He moseyed toward the table, followed closely by a waiter, who no doubt suspected this badly dressed man of a scheme to steal the silverware. Charles stood up to greet the detective, and the waiter, somewhat relieved, melted away.
When Riker had been apprised on the fine points of Mallory’s interview, he sipped his coffee and grinned at Charles. “So Mallory promoted you to snitch. Good job. Take a nose count when you show up for dinner. There might be somebody living there that we don’t know about, maybe the one who wrote this letter.” He handed over a clear plastic bag containing a sheet of paper. “We took that from the dead man’s lawyer. It came with a boxful of money.”
Charles read the scant information neatly typed. It mentioned the name of the client and an arrangement for more money if the bail hearing was successful. “My God, I should’ve recognized him from his picture in the newspaper. This is the dead burglar, isn’t it? Willy Roy Boyd?”
“Keep that to yourself,” said Mallory. “Can you tell us anything helpful?”
Charles shook his head. “Bare sentence fragments. No style or turn of phrase to give the writer away. I can tell you that you’re not dealing with an idiot. Does that help you?”
No, apparently not.
“Sorry.”
An afternoon of begging for warrants had come to a bad end. District Attorney John J. Buchanan had personally turned down the last request for assistance from his office. In a rare exception to protocol, he had granted an audience to mere detectives, and that alone had been enough to make Riker suspicious.
The DA had made it clear that the Smyth firm was unassailable and off-limits to the NYPD. That directive had included Bitty Smyth, a former member of that firm.
It was dark when the partners returned to SoHo, and Riker was gearing up for another unpleasant confrontation as they left the car and headed down the street to a familiar haunt. “Well, it’s an election year,” he said, as they walked along. “Smyth must be a big contributor to the DA’s war chest. Damn Buchanan.”
They stopped by the window of a brightly lit café across the street from the station house. The table on the other side of the glass was littered with guidebooks and cameras, and the chairs were filled with middle-aged ladies.
Damn tourists.
All the cops in sight had had the decency to take other tables. A gray-haired woman sat in the chair once occupied by Mallory’s foster father. Unaware that she was trespassing, this tourist looked up to see the young homicide detective’s face close to the window and those cold eyes like oncoming bullets. Apparently the mayor’s new hand-out sheet for visitors had included tips that were actually helpful, like—never make eye contact with the sociopath, for now the woman quickly looked down at her menu, wishing the green-eyed apparition away.
Riker nudged his partner. “They’re ordering dessert. We can come back later.”
No, that would have been too easy.
The woman seated in the dead man’s chair looked up to the window again, and now her companions were also curious. This was Mallory’s cue to clear the table—quickly and efficiently. Before his partner could casually draw back one side of her blazer to terrorize these out-of-towners with the display of her shoulder holster, Riker said, “No, let me do it this time. Just wait here, okay?”
He entered the café and hunkered down by the ladies’ table. Softly, he spoke to them about the young woman on the other side of the window glass, the one with the very disturbing eyes. Really just a kid, he said to them. He talked about her foster father, a late great cop, and how Kathy Mallory had never come to terms with the fact that she would never see him again. It was too hard to believe that Lou Markowitz would not be sitting at this very table each time she came by the café. And here Riker paused a beat to rap the table—softly.
There was always this little moment of pretend, he told the ladies, before the kid turned to the window to see that the old man’s chair was empty. And then she would come in and sit down to wait for him because, bless the old bastard’s soul, he was always late. And, just for a little while, Lou was still alive. He had never died in the line of duty and left his kid all alone in copland.
Just a kid, he said once more.
And he told them about Gurt, the waitress who had kept this table clear of other patrons at this same hour, until the day, not long ago, when she had retired. So now the girl had also lost another fixture in her life. Ah, Gurt, he said to them, that saint (a sarcastic old bat who should have retired years ago). And so, as the ladies could see—he pointed to Mallory now—the kid did not handle change very well. It . . . disturbed her.
They all turned to the window, as if waiting for Mallory to cry.
They would wait forever.
He was still talking as these women rose from their chairs, all smiling with their kind faces from the heart-land of America, where all the good people lived. They picked up their plates and glasses, silverware and napkins, and moved to a vacant table at the back of the room.
Riker faced the window, but Mallory was gone.
“What did you say to them?” She was behind his back, and he jumped. One hand went to his heart—still beating—just checking.
“I told them the truth,” he said, and that should shut her up. Mallory had difficulties with that simple concept. And the idea of human kindness would give her even more trouble.
When they were seated and waiting for their meal, Riker continued to parcel out the story of Nedda, a.k.a. Red Winter.
“You’ve seen the painting,” he said. “I guess everybody has. But back in the day—remember this is the forties—a nude painting of a little girl was a shock and a half. In the other paintings the kid had clothes on, but the nude was the biggest one, nine feet tall. And Nedda was only eleven years old then. The cops raided the art gallery and took all the paintings away.”
“The artist was her father, right?”
Riker nodded. “Her rich father. I guess that’s why the whole thing blew over—one headline in the papers, then nothing. Some of the books about Red Winter figured her for a runaway because Daddy was a freak. And some say she killed him.”
“And everyone else in the house?” Mallory shook her head. “A little girl on a murder spree doesn’t work for me.”
That had been predictable. His partner favored money motives.
“Hey,” said Riker, “I can only tell this story the way it was told to me. You wanna hear it or not?”
He knew that she did. Her chin lifted slightly, a vow to behave, and she was his old Kathy for a moment, just another little girl sitting around a copshop, surrounded by men with guns and human scum in handcuffs.
Riker had sometimes done midget duty in the after-school hours, making sure the tiny, semireformed street thief would not rob the place while her old man had been occupied with more hard-core criminals. Riker had kept Lou’s foster child honest by telling her all of his handed-down family stories from the days of Legs Diamond, Lucky Luciano and Murder Incorpor
ated—murders by the dozen in every tale.
What a deal.
Young Kathy had never gotten such bloody treats at home. Her foster mother would never have allowed it. Gentle Helen Markowitz had always held the strange notion that Kathy Mallory was a normal child, one who might have bad dreams of the bogeyman. What Helen had never understood was that little Kathy had the early makings of the bogeyman’s nightmare.
“Anyway,” said Riker, “after the raid on the art show, Quentin Winter’s daughter is famous. Everybody, uptown and down, has a theory on what goes on inside Winter House. Then one day, a year later, the cops get a call from another little girl. She tells ’em she just got home from the park with her brother, Lionel. The whole house is dead—that’s the way she put it—except for the baby. And the baby’s crying. The little girl on the phone says her name is Cleo. She was only five years old.”
When Charles rang the bell, it was Sheldon Smyth who responded. The older man had won a footrace to the door, beating a young woman in a maid’s costume, who rushed up behind him with a tray of hors d’oeuvres in hand.
“Not now,” said Smyth, flicking his fingers at her to shoo her away as if she were an insect. “Hello, Charles.” He glanced back, satisfied to see the maid in retreat. “Not the best caterers, I’m afraid. Short notice and all.”
Charles wondered why Smyth would tell such a lie. The truck parked outside the house belonged to the most exclusive caterer in Manhattan, one who was booked months in advance and not the sort to do impromptu dinner parties—unless of course, the fee had been doubled or tripled.
With the old lawyer’s hand on his back, Charles was gently but firmly propelled into the front room, and his eyes were once again drawn to the wildly impractical staircase. The architect must have hailed from a school that regarded clients as parasites in the home, only grudgingly deferring to them by allotting space for kitchens, bathrooms and the like. And now he had exhausted every sane rationale for his sudden discomfort. In a less pragmatic part of his mind, he thought the house was hostile.
How ludicrous.
At the foot of the stairs was a fully stocked bar, and here introductions were made to Bitty’s uncle. While Charles was shaking hands with Lionel Winter, he felt that his host was missing something—oh, perhaps a pulse. The man was simply not present, that or his personality was in hiding. Given the snow-white hair, the face was younger than it should be, and Charles wondered if the lack of age lines was due to the absence of an emotional life. It was pathos and comedy that creased a face with personal history.
Sheldon Smyth dismissed a young man from the caterer’s staff and assumed the role of bartender. “Let me guess your poison, Charles.” He poured a double shot of Chivas Regal into a brandy glass. “Neat, am I right?”
“Yes, thank you.” This was indeed Charles’s usual fare, but he had not ordered Chivas at lunch today. He was given further proof that Smyth had gone to a great deal of trouble over this dinner party, for now he learned that his favorite foods were on the menu. However, the elderly lawyer had not discerned that Charles’s taste in music was strictly classical, though this extended to the vintage jazz that Nedda Winter had played on the radio during his last visit to this house. Tonight, he was forced to listen to elevator music, popular tunes played as boring instrumentals by an uninspired orchestra. Even the tonal quality had changed overnight. The sound surrounded him. He did not have to look at the antique radio to see that the dial was dark, that the music did not come from there.
Lionel Winter made his first attempt at conversation, going on at length about the elaborate sound system that played in every room of the house. And when Charles mentioned the jazz tunes of the previous evening, his host fell silent and only stared at him.
Sheldon Smyth filled this uncomfortable void, saying, “The ladies should be joining us any minute now. Ah, women—never on time. Well, what’s the use of a grand staircase if you can’t make a stunning entrance?”
And now the ladies were coming, gliding down the stairs in long gowns. The tall woman could only be Cleo Winter-Smyth. Resplendent in a dark-blue gown the color of her eyes, she towered over her daughter.
Poor little Bitty. Her strapless dress of iridescent colors was reminiscent of a disco ball on prom night, and her gamin charm had been destroyed by a gash of lipstick, a rouge pot on each cheek, and hair lacquered into appalling spit curls. Aghast, Sheldon Smyth turned from his daughter to his ex-wife, and Charles wondered if Bitty had been transformed into a circus pony under duress. The tiny woman flinched, needing no more than her father’s expression to tell her how foolish she looked.
Cleo Winter-Smyth resembled her brother, Lionel. Both were tall and fair and absent any human aspect in their eyes. The woman tilted her head to one side, and this was the only indication that she was surprised by her ex-husband’s attitude. Turning away from him, she managed a floodlight white smile for their guest.
During the ensuing small talk of weather and dead burglars, Charles felt more and more ill at ease. Again, he tried to blame this on the staircase that was always in the act of running off to the top of the house. And all those tall mirrors—they picked up each gesture of a head half turned, repeating it in a herd of heads all giving alarm as animals will do when they turn to the sound or the scent of danger. Even the small painting over the bar had a manic quality of stroke and line and color. Between one drink and the next, he learned that Bitty Smyth had grown up in this unsettling house. And so, if there was an easily startled air about her, in her eyes and in her manner, this was to be excused.
Cleo Winter-Smyth lifted her face ever so slightly as she peered into one of the mirrors lining the walls. She spoke to the reflection of another woman on the staircase behind her. “Nedda, I didn’t know you’d be joining us tonight.”
Was there something in her tone that implied the older woman was unwelcome?
Nedda Winter drifted down the stairs in a long black satin dress that called to mind a black-and-white movie from a more elegant era. A loose-woven shawl of silver threads was draped over her shoulders, and her braided white hair served as a coiled crown. She was another paradox of the house. The lines of her gown were sylvan and classical, the lady statuesque, her posture unbowed, and, despite the wrinkles and the hair gone white, the total effect was beautiful. And what quiet authority this woman had, sufficient to reduce Sheldon Smyth to a fidgeting child on best behavior. Her pale blue eyes took in the drastic alterations to her niece. If the sight was unpleasing, she never let on, but, while Bitty was looking elsewhere, Miss Winter glanced at Cleo with mild disapproval. The younger sister would not look at her.
Upon reaching the bottom step, the elder lady inclined her head and extended one veined hand to Charles. “How nice to see you again. I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to talk last night.”
“Well,” said Sheldon Smyth, “we’ll make up for that this evening.” And with those words, the occasion of a man’s violent death had been reduced to a previous social event.
Nedda placed a protective arm about Bitty’s shoulders, then guided her niece into the dining room, and the rest of the party followed them to the table.
A waiter pulled out a chair to seat Cleo Winter-Smyth beside Charles. “I met your parents years and years ago,” she said. “Sheldon and I were enrolling Bitty at the Marshal Frampton Institute.” Left off this long name were the words for gifted children. “They seemed to dote on you.”
The woman had more grace than to mention that Mar-ion Butler had been a bit old for motherhood. Charles’s birth had been a shock to his parents, a pregnancy so late in life. His parents had died of old age before he was out of his teens. And, yes, they had doted upon him and sent him to schools that would cater to his freak’s IQ. He looked down at his place setting, wondering how he could have forgotten Bitty Smyth among the limited enrollment of the Frampton Institute.
“Stop racking your brain, my boy,” said Sheldon Smyth. “The moment my back was turned, Bitty’s mother pu
lled her out of school. I don’t think she attended for more than two days.”
The subject came up again as the first course was being served.
“It wasn’t the right school for Bitty.” Cleo’s tone was somewhat defensive. “I sent her to a better one where she could make all the right connections.”
“Connections?” Smyth laughed. “She was a five-year-old, not a socialite.”
Bitty seemed to be growing smaller, sinking down in her chair as she was talked about, but never acknowledged as a person in this room. She was so small, so easily overlooked in a family of giants. Charles imagined her life as a mouse in this house, scurrying from one bolt-hole to another. He waited for her to look his way, then smiled and said, “It’s a pity you didn’t stay at Frampton. We might’ve gotten to know one another much earlier.”
Bitty smiled and spilled her water glass. While a waiter mopped up the table, Nedda Winter nodded her approval of Charles. The subject was closed and peace was restored—for a time.
Before the last entrée had been served, the house and all its company, all save Nedda, had begun to wear on Charles. He hardly tasted his food while eating his way toward the final course. Cleo and Lionel’s smiles were flashing on and off like lightbulbs, and, by this odd behavior, he determined that the history of the house was a subject to be avoided. Every foray into this area was sharply cut off and the conversation directed elsewhere.
Odder still was the bond between brother and sister. In some respects, Lionel and Cleo brought to mind an old married couple who could finish one another’s sentences or altogether do away with the spoken word. However, there was no apparent affection between them. They simply came as a set. If you got one, you got the other.
Charles picked up the challenge of cleaving the pair. “Lionel, what sort of work do you do?”
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