Silver Anniversary Murder

by Leslie Meier

  Lucy took her coffee into her room, where she sipped at it while dressing in her funeral clothes: black pants, a black and white polka dot shirt, and a gray blazer. A pair of pearl earrings and plain pumps completed her outfit.

  She carried the empty cup back to the kitchen to put it in the recycling bin, and saw that Sidra was back at the table. “Where’s the nearest subway station?”

  “On the corner—you can’t miss it,” she replied. “Will you be back for lunch? Or dinner?”

  “Dinner. I’d love to take you guys out, if you’d like.”

  “Thanks, Lucy. We’re going to work in the garden so that would be great. Oh, and Geoff says you’re taking the subway, so here’s my pass. I won’t need it today.”

  “Thanks,” said Lucy, taking the bit of bright yellow plastic. “See you later.”

  Stepping out to the street, Lucy discovered it was a gentle spring morning, with the newly leafed trees creating dappled shade on the sidewalk. She quickly spotted the subway entrance and walked toward it, wondering what connections she would need to get to the church in the Bronx.

  Descending the stairs, she was assailed by the smell of the subway, a mix of soot and who knows what all—maybe it was ozone—produced by the electrically charged third rail. Lucy was no stranger to the New York subway; she’d taken it from the Bronx to Manhattan every weekday when she was in high school. She was surprised, however, to discover that it hadn’t changed since then. The station was in poor repair, with broken and stained tiles on the walls, and a couple of the same scarred, heavy wooden benches she remembered occasionally sitting on. There were never enough for everyone and even if she managed to grab a seat, which only happened during the afternoon ride home when there were fewer commuters than during the morning rush hour, she usually had to give it up to a pregnant woman or an elderly person.

  The train rolled into the station, the brakes screaming as they always did, and she stepped aboard. It was pretty empty—she knew it would fill up as it got closer to Manhattan—and she was able to sit opposite the illuminated map that indicated the train’s progress toward Bleecker Street, where she would change to the 6, then change again at Union Square for the 5. It was amazing, she thought, how millions of people had used the subway system through the years. Her mother and father, her grandparents even, had ridden the subway and it was still the same. If by some miracle she could resurrect Poppop, he would be able to count off the stations along the way to Woodlawn. The decades passed, the people came and went, and the subway trains rattled on as they always had.

  The subway had become an elevated line in the Bronx and Lucy descended a long flight of iron stairs at the Nereid Avenue station. The elevated structure shaded the street below, and as she crossed the street she noticed the little storefronts of the bodegas, liquor stores, and newsagents clustered around the station. Then she stepped out into the sunlight, following the path she’d trodden so often in her youth to Katonah Avenue, which led to the church at 241st Street.

  She had been christened and made her confirmation in St. Andrew’s, had the papers to prove it, and she had a clear memory of attending Summer Bible School there and playing the Farmer in the Dell. She’d been the cheese, standing all alone, and she hadn’t liked it one bit. Now, she thought, the little stone church seemed a bit shabby—the woodwork needed a fresh coat of paint and the stone could use some pointing. These were tough times for traditional denominations and she assumed the congregation had shrunk since the days when her family worshiped there. But today, Beth’s funeral was drawing a large crowd and Lucy joined the line of mourners entering the church.

  Once inside she smiled at the huge stained glass window of Jesus suffering the little children to come to him; as a kid she always wondered why he was supposed to be suffering. He seemed perfectly pleased, dressed in lovely robes with his longish blond hair styled into a pageboy and his blond beard neatly trimmed, surrounded by a group of small children and woolly lambs.

  “Lucy! You made it!” exclaimed her friend Sam Blackwell, giving her a big hug. “We saved you a seat—we’re right down front.”

  Sam had put on some weight, but her head of flaming red hair remained as bright as ever, without a trace of gray. Lucy followed her down the aisle to the pew where Sam’s husband, Brad, was sitting, saving seats for them with the printed orders of service. Lucy picked hers up and paused, struck by the photo of Beth on the front.

  “I still can’t believe it,” she whispered to Sam as they sat down.

  “I know,” agreed Sam as the organist began playing the prelude.

  The service was brief and impersonal, a few prayers and hymns, a short eulogy that could have described almost anyone, delivered by a very young minister, and then they were all on their feet singing the final hymn, “Amazing Grace.” As is customary, the congregation waited for the principal mourners to leave the church, and that’s when Lucy got aglimpse of Jeremy Blake, Beth’s billionaire husband.

  He looked exactly like a billionaire ought to look: tall and fit, well-groomed with a full head of wavy hair, expensively clad in a very white shirt, subdued gray tie, and a charcoal gray suit that fit so perfectly it had to have been tailor-made. He walked alone, occasionally giving a somber nod to someone he recognized, followed by a prosperous-looking group that Lucy presumed were family members. The only person she recognized was Dante, who had grown into a handsome young man. He bore a slight resemblance to his father, as Lucy remembered Gabe, but he definitely got those dimples and hazel eyes from Beth. Whatever he was doing, she thought, he must be doing well, as he was wearing a designer suit that was almost as well-tailored as Jeremy Blake’s.

  Nearing the end of the aisle, Dante caught up with Jeremy and tapped him on the shoulder. Blake whirled around, glared at him for a moment, and then marched off before Dante could say a word, effectively cutting him dead.

  Many people had witnessed the interaction and there was a shared reaction, gasps of shock and hushed murmurs of disapproval, that traveled through the church. Then people picked up their things and began making their way out, pausing to offer consolations to Dante and thanking the minister. As for Jeremy Blake, he was noticeably absent.

  Chapter Four

  Lucy didn’t have much time with Dante, due to the crowd of mourners, so she offered the usual consolatory “I’m so sorry,” but in a sudden surge of emotion managed to add, “I’ve known you since you were in diapers. I can’t replace your mom but I’m happy to try. You’ve got my number.” Dante reacted by hugging her warmly and thanking her, and then he turned to greet the people behind her.

  Lucy caught up with Sam and Brad, who were waiting for her on the sidewalk. Since there had been no invitation to a reception following the service, Sam suggested they grab some lunch on nearby McLean Avenue. Brad made his apologies, saying he had a big case coming up on Monday and needed to work. “Besides, you two probably have a lot of catching up to do and I’d be a third wheel.”

  “See you later,” said Sam, offering her cheek for a quick parting peck.

  “There used to be a good pizza place,” suggested Lucy, as the two old friends walked along. “Do you mind? I miss New York pizza up in Maine. Pizza there’s okay, but it’s not the same.”

  “Fine with me,” agreed Sam. “Funerals always make me hungry.”

  “I wonder why they didn’t have a collation afterward, as we call it in Maine. Funerals are very popular in Tinker’s Cove, and you’ve got to have a pretty lavish spread or people will talk.”

  “Even the service was pretty minimal and impersonal. I could’ve given pretty much the same eulogy for my cat.”

  For the first time that day, Lucy laughed. “Golly, you’re terrible.”

  “Well, it’s true,” insisted Sam, defending herself as they turned the corner onto McLean Avenue. Lucy was happy to see the pizza place was still there, and when they stepped inside she was greeted with the heavenly scent of tomato sauce, heavy on the oregano.

  The two friend
s ordered a large, with pepperoni, and sat down at a table with Diet Cokes to wait for it to come out of the oven. Lucy looked around the pizza place, amazed at how little it had changed. The tables appeared to be the same worn Formica, the benches were covered in red Naugahyde, repaired here and there with duct tape, and the same huge painting of smoking Mount Vesuvius still hung on the wall. One thing was different, however: the prices. Pizza was now a lot more expensive than she remembered.

  “So, Lucy, how are the kids?” asked Sam, running her hand through her curly hair.

  “Everybody’s great, but we don’t see much of Elizabeth or Toby. Elizabeth’s still off in Paris. She’s an assistant concierge at the Cavendish Hotel there.”

  “Oh, to be young,” said Sam, sipping her cola.

  “Toby’s married, and he and Molly have a little boy, Patrick. He’s my only grandchild, so far, and he’s far away in Alaska. Toby’s researching salmon propagation, something like that, and Molly’s working as a teacher’s aide.” Lucy sighed. “I really wish I could see more of Patrick, but we do Skype once a week.”

  “It’s not the same. . . .”

  “No, it’s not, but it’s all I’ve got, unless I can convince them to send him back to me for the summer. So far that’s not happening.”

  “You could go to Alaska.”

  “I’m working on it.” Lucy popped the top on her can of cola. “Sara and Zoe are still home. They’re both at Westminster College. Townies get a discounted tuition, and since they’re living at home we don’t have room and board expenses.” Lucy paused, screwing up her mouth. “That’s not exactly true—they’re eating me out of house and home with their organic this and all-natural that.”

  Sam smiled. “What are they studying?”

  “Sara’s doing graduate work in geology and Zoe hasn’t really picked a major. I think she’s going to end up with a degree in communications or something like that. So what about you? They haven’t managed to shut down Planned Parenthood yet?”

  “Not yet, but they’re sure trying,” said Sam, who was an executive director. “I’ve been working hard on fund-raising, just in case. But there’s no question we’ll have to cut back on services if we lose federal funding. It’s a disgrace, really, because we’re the only provider for cancer screenings and contraceptives for a lot of low income women.”

  “I remember that gala fund-raiser we went to all those years ago,” said Lucy, remembering a special charity event at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. “That was so amazing.”

  “It sure was,” agreed Sam. “But sad to say, my focus is now on grant writing. Not nearly as much fun.”

  They looked up as a good-looking young kid wearing a white apron over his T-shirt and jeans delivered their pizza.

  “I’ve missed this. I dream of this,” said Lucy, pulling a huge triangular piece loose and folding it in half, New York style, so she could bite off the pointy end. She took a bite and closed her eyes, sighing with pleasure. “Soooo gooood.”

  Sam laughed. “It’s funny what you miss, when you leave the city. I always get a strange longing for the subway. The smell, the rattle of the trains, the dingy stations and that screeching noise the brakes make.”

  “Me too,” admitted Lucy. “Bill doesn’t understand it at all.”

  “Neither does Brad.” Sam took a bite of pizza. “You know, he handled all of Beth’s divorces, including this last one, from Jeremy Blake. It wasn’t finalized—it was still in the works. I assume it was pretty complicated, considering his wealth, but Brad never talks about his cases with me.”

  “Did you see much of Beth?” Lucy was reaching for her second piece.

  “For a long time I didn’t, but one day a year or so ago she called me up at work, out of the blue, saying she wanted to become involved. She made a big donation and she also started volunteering. She did a lot of fund-raising, but she also helped out in one of our clinics, escorting clients through the antiabortion protestors.”

  “Wow. That’s real frontline stuff.”

  “It isn’t easy, that’s for sure. Some of those people are very, um, vehement. I thought she’d do it once and that would be it, but she was one of our most faithful volunteers.”

  “What do you think caused this change? Back in college she was never one for social action, unless you consider a frat party social activism.”

  Sam chuckled. “So true. I think maybe she got more reflective, looking back on her life. This was divorce number four, you know, and I imagine she was beginning to think she’d spent too much of her life depending on men to define her. She dropped a few hints—nothing precise, mind you—but she told me she’d learned the hard way not to trust men. They were always hiding something, she said.”

  “Like what?” Lucy was considering eating a third piece of pizza and thinking that she really shouldn’t.

  “We could split another piece,” suggested Sam, reading her mind.

  “Okay.” Lucy got up and asked the guy behind the counter for a knife, which he gave to her.

  When they were each started on their half slice, Lucy returned to her question. “What did Beth think her husbands were hiding? Affairs?”

  “Maybe, probably. But I think it was other stuff, too. Gabe, the cult guy, could’ve been doing just about anything, right? He exerted a lot of power over the Angels, and he never struck me as being saintly, to say the least. Then there was Tito Wilkins, the artist. He came straight out of the ‘hood,’ complete with gang tattoos.”

  “Okay, but what about the chiropractor? He was so boring. . . .”

  “Dr. Colin Fine. Beth used to call him ‘Dr. Colonoscopy’ because he had a fixation with her, well, um . . .”

  “I get it,” said Lucy, after struggling to swallow a mouthful of cola while laughing. “What about the billionaire? Blake?”

  “Well,” said Sam, leaning closer across the table and lowering her voice, “I happened to overhear Brad talking with Beth one night and he was saying she was asking for too large a settlement. He seemed really uncomfortable and withdrawn afterward, like he was troubled about it, and I don’t think it was just about the money. He’s used to shaking people down all the time, going after big settlements for malpractice or fraud or whatever. It’s usually the bigger the better, but he was cautioning her, telling her it was a dangerous game, messing with someone like Blake.”

  Lucy felt a chill run down her back, and she knew the air conditioning wasn’t on yet. “You don’t think . . .”

  “I don’t know what to think. Jeremy Blake sure didn’t seem overcome with grief this morning.”

  “Well, they were in the midst of a divorce. You could hardly expect him to be heartbroken.”

  “And he’s saving a lot of money now that she’s dead and he doesn’t need the divorce.”

  “But he’s really rich,” said Lucy. She wasn’t ready to let go of the fantasy she’d nurtured about Beth’s life as the pampered wife of a billionaire, the life she’d sometimes envied, especially when she was struggling with the monthly bills. “He could afford dozens of divorces.”

  “Trust me,” said Sam, a steely glint in her green eyes. “Jeremy Blake loves money more than anything or anyone. That’s how he got to be a billionaire and that’s how he’s going to stay a billionaire.”

  “You don’t really think he pushed her off the balcony, do you? Just to save a couple of million dollars?”

  “Doesn’t matter what I think. The cops have determined that Beth was alone in the apartment, so it had to be either suicide or a tragic accident,” admitted Sam, pausing to wipe her mouth with a paper napkin. “What they didn’t take into account is the pressure she was under from Blake that could have driven her to do something desperate. He might not be legally guilty, but I do believe he bears some responsibility for her death.”

  “Point taken.” Lucy was thoughtful, staring at the three remaining pieces of pizza. “Do you want them?”

  “Brad might like them for a late night snack.”

  �
�You take them then.” She smiled ruefully. “You’ll be saving me from myself.”

  Sam waved the waiter over and asked him to box up the leftovers. She gathered up her handbag and scarf, then turned to Lucy. “How are you getting back to Brooklyn? I’ve got my car and can give you a lift to midtown.”

  “That would be great.” Lucy sighed with relief. “It took me close to two hours to get here, which included a rather long walk from the station. And I have to admit, the actual experience of riding the subway didn’t quite match my nostalgic memories.”

  Lucy still had a fairly long subway ride after Sam dropped her off at Grand Central, and plenty of time to think about the funeral and mull over Sam’s theories. As the train rattled through the dark underground tunnel she struggled to understand the pressure that Beth was under from her husband. Was she like some nineteenth-century tragic heroine, say Madame Bovary, who was deep in debt? Or maybe, like Anna Karenina, she had an illicit affair? Those stories took place in a different time, when morals were much more rigid. These days, attitudes about affairs and debts were more relaxed. Even a criminal conviction and a jail sentence, like Martha Stewart’s, was just a bump on the road to even more success and wealth.

  The train finally screeched to a halt at Seventh Avenue and Lucy got off and made her way through the long, tiled tunnel to the exit. Climbing the stairs to the sidewalk above, she concluded that the person most likely to provide insight about Beth’s final days was her son, Dante. She’d love to have a good long talk with him, but how? She realized she had no idea how to contact him; she’d called Beth’s number when she spoke to him. She didn’t even know where he lived. He could have flown into the city from anywhere. And if she did manage to get a message to him, say through the church or the funeral director, would he really want to talk about his mother with her? Would he be ready to speak openly about such a painful loss, or was it too soon?

  Lucy had almost reached the corner of Thirteenth Street when she paused to admire the display of fresh flowers in front of a small bodega, one of the little neighborhood shops that sold almost everything anyone could need: groceries, toilet paper, newspapers, and magazines. She decided to buy a bouquet for Sidra and chose an enormous bunch of mixed flowers, amazed at the low price. In the city, it seemed, the things you had to have, like toilet paper, were expensive, but luxuries, like fresh flowers, were cheap.