by Leslie Meier
“You’re always running out of food,,” grumbled Sara.
“Sara’s right, Mom. If we had our own place we wouldn’t be eating up all your yogurt.”
“And how exactly do you plan to pay rent and buy groceries?”
“We’d get jobs,” said Sara.
“College is your job,” said Bill, coming up from the basement, where he’d gone to get a set of drill bits.
Something clicked in Lucy’s fuzzy brain. “Actually, you could pick up a few bucks, if you want. Bill Pusey at the Queen Vic needs temporary help for the Silver Anniversary Weekend next month. He said to stop by.”
“What kind of work?” Sara was skeptical. “I won’t do toilets.”
“He needs waitresses, too.”
“Well, maybe,” she grumbled.
Lucy’s eyes met Bill’s in a shared acknowledgment of their daughter’s inconsistency. Sara wanted independence, but not if it meant working at a menial job.
“I’ll talk to him,” said Zoe, who was always the more practical one. She was buttering a slice of whole-grain toast. “Who knows, it might lead to a summer job.”
“Elizabeth worked there,” said Bill. “And now she’s in Paris.”
“Humph,” was all Sara had to say, as she slipped on her jacket and grabbed her backpack. “I’ve got to go. I’ve got an eight o’clock.”
Lucy was late for work; she’d gotten distracted by packing for the weekend when she was dressing and somehow the time got away from her. She still had to write up the planning board meeting, and was finding it difficult to make sense of the convoluted discussion about an eighteenth-century barn that had been converted to a slaughterhouse in the nineteenth century and then became an auto body shop sometime in the early twentieth century, but had actually been abandoned for several decades and was now in imminent danger of collapsing, which the town building inspector determined made it a dangerous nuisance. He wanted the building demolished, but members of the historical commission argued for preserving the structure, which featured a unique adaptation of post and beam construction.
She was saved, temporarily, from attempting to elucidate what exactly made this ramshackle building unique, by a rare phone call from Elizabeth.
“Comment ça va?” she crowed, employing one of the few French phrases she knew.
“Très bien, Mama,” replied Elizabeth, quickly switching to English. “I heard about your friend, Beth. I’m sorry.”
“How did you hear?”
“Jeremy Blake is famous, even here in Paris. There was an article in Paris Match about his wife’s tragic suicide. Tragic suicide always gets attention in France, especially if it’s a rich American.” She paused. “But I don’t mean to sound flip. I remember Auntie Beth. She used to bring great presents to us kids when she visited. She was a lot of fun, and she brought a lot of excitement when she came.”
“That was Beth.”
“You must be pretty upset. She was one of your best friends. It’s so awful when someone commits suicide. . . .”
“Actually, I don’t think it was suicide and neither does her son, Dante. I’m going to New York tomorrow to see if I can figure out what happened.”
“Does Dad know about this?”
“Not entirely. I told him I need some time alone, to process everything. I’ve got a week in an Airbnb, and he’s going to come next weekend so we can have a little vacation together.”
“So you’re going to have a bachelorette week, a whole week to yourself in the big city?” Elizabeth sounded amused and somewhat impressed.
“Well, yeah. I guess I am.”
“You go, girl! Go straight to Bloomingdale’s. Splurge on something wonderful. Promise?”
“We’ll see.” It was the best Lucy could do. She was already feeling guilty about taking off by herself. And then there was the expense. Sure she’d managed to do it as cheaply as she could, but it was still money that could be used for something else, like new tires for Bill’s truck.
“Bon voyage!” urged Elizabeth, ending the call.
* * *
On Saturday morning, when Lucy squeezed herself into a tight plane seat again, on the flight from Cleveland to New York, she remembered a time when airplane travel was actually a pleasant adventure. Her mother and father used to dress up for a flight, in their best go-to-meeting clothes, and were treated to all sorts of special perks, like hot meals and even freebies like cigarettes and chewing gum. While she didn’t relish the thought of flying in a plane filled with cigarette smoke, she wouldn’t have minded a bit of breakfast, since she hadn’t eaten since last night’s dinner. It was now ten a.m. and she’d been on the move since three a.m., when she left home for the drive to Portland to catch the six a.m. flight to Cleveland. And it was truly unfortunate that the large man sitting next to her was spilling out of his seat into hers and reeked of cologne.
Even so, she was excited about the adventure that awaited her in New York. It was rare for her to travel by herself, or even be by herself, and she was relishing the opportunity to sample a different lifestyle. She was a small-town wife and mother and as much as she loved her family and her town, she had to admit that sometimes she found it all a bit confining. She’d grown up in New York City and missed that sense of being in the center of things, the place where things were really happening.
But sitting there on the plane, trying to make herself as comfortable as possible, she wasn’t quite sure how she was actually going to investigate Beth’s death. She wasn’t a cop, she wasn’t a private eye, and she had no credentials or official standing whatsoever. All she had were the investigative skills she’d picked up as a reporter for the Pennysaver, which amounted to little more than an ability to get people talking and then carefully listening to what they said. But while asking questions and listening to the answers was an important skill, it was also true that she had an advantage in Tinker’s Cove because people there knew her and her work and were often flattered by a request for an interview and pleased to read about themselves in the Pennysaver.
She knew she wanted to begin with Jeremy Blake, who she considered to be the prime suspect, but she doubted very much that a high-powered, successful billionaire would bother to give her the time of day, much less allow her to question him about his wife’s death. Her only hope was to present herself as Beth’s friend, reaching out to him as a fellow mourner, grieving her death. How exactly she was going to do this was the problem.
She was roused from her thoughts by the captain’s announcement to prepare for landing. Then, once the plane was on the ground, she had to cope with the barely civilized scrum that debarking had become, followed by a long wait in the taxi line. Finally approaching the city on the Triborough Bridge, she was once again enraptured by the familiar sight of the New York skyline. There they were, the Chrysler Building and the Empire State Building, greeting her like old friends. And casting her glance southward, she spotted the shining new Freedom Tower that replaced the twin towers of the World Trade Center, destroyed on 9/11. Like most New Yorkers, she knew someone who’d died that day, and gave a thought to a boy she remembered from her church youth group who’d been aboard the plane that hit the Pentagon.
But then the taxi was slowing for the crawl across midtown, and finally stopped in front of a tall, white apartment building on the West Side, near Lincoln Center. Somewhat warily she opened the door to the studio that was to be her home for the next week, but was relieved to find it clean and pleasant. She stowed her suitcase next to the futon covered in blue denim that served as both sofa and bed and sat down, determined to make good on her promise to call Dante as soon as she arrived.
“It’s Lucy. I’m here, in New York,” she announced, encountering his voice mail and leaving a message. “Just checking in with you,” she continued, hoping he was too busy to answer her call and not floating face down in the East River. “Give me a call when you get a chance. Love you.”
Still uneasy from her failure to contact Dante, Lucy explored her
little apartment. It was basically one room, with windows along one wall that looked out onto an alley and a similar white brick building. There was a fake wood wall unit containing recent best sellers and a TV, a rather battered coffee table set on a tribal sort of rug, and a couple of armchairs covered with tan slipcovers. The kitchenette was arranged along one wall and divided from the living area by a small island with a couple of stools. She found a basic set of dishware in the wall cabinet, cutlery in a drawer, and a few pots in a cabinet beneath the small counter. Opening the refrigerator, she discovered a bottle of wine had been left for her to enjoy.
It was late for lunch but still rather early for a drink, so she decided to go out and buy some supplies from the bodega she’d noticed on the corner. Acting on impulse, and feeling a bit guilty about the extravagance, she chose a bouquet of assorted blooms, adding it to the basic groceries she needed. She also bought the day’s New York Times, which was thick with news, opinion, and weekend happenings.
It was the happenings that interested her, while she ate a hearty ham on rye sandwich. There was so much to do: museum exhibitions, gallery openings, concerts, plays, movies, and restaurants. Special events were also planned in various parks, including, she noted with interest, a ribbon-cutting and award presentation at a newly restored gazebo in Central Park. The honoree, who had funded the restoration, was Jeremy Blake.
Checking her watch, she realized the event was in progress, and only a few blocks away. Abandoning her half-finished sandwich, she grabbed her purse and was out the door, hoofing it along Sixty-Seventh Street to Central Park. She reached the gazebo, a rustic wood structure perched on a hill overlooking the lake, just as the ceremony was ending. Jeremy Blake, clad in a blue blazer and gray pants, and sporting a jaunty bow tie, was accepting a silver bowl and acknowledging the scattered applause of a small crowd of people. Lucy joined the crowd just as Blake began to speak.
“This restoration has been a dream of mine, because it brings Central Park one step closer to restoring Frederick Law Olmsted’s original plan for a space open to all that would be a sanctuary from the stress and clamor of city life. I am honored to be able to help support the Central Park Conservancy’s important work and want to encourage everyone to join me. Thank you so much for this award, which I have to say should really have gone to my late wife, Beth Blake. She was the one who urged me to undertake this restoration.” Here he stopped and looked upward toward the sky, raising the bowl, and with his voice breaking, said, “Bethie, this one’s for you.”
The crowd erupted in applause and Blake was quickly surrounded by people offering congratulations. Lucy saw an opportunity and joined them, smiling and waiting for a chance to speak to him. Much to her surprise, he recognized her and greeted her with a hug. “Lucy, thanks for coming.”
“My pleasure. I’m so glad you mentioned Beth.” She glanced up at the gazebo’s intricate construction, crafted of twisty wooden boughs retaining their bark. “This is just the sort of thing Beth loved.”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “People are already booking it for weddings.”
“It’s a beautiful spot.”
“And there’s no charge. Can you believe that? Most places would charge an arm and a leg. Try booking a wedding at the Met or the library or the Brooklyn Museum.”
Ever the businessman, thought Lucy. “And this is much nicer, too, with the view of the lake and all.” Lucy knew that this was probably the only chance she’d get to talk to Jeremy, but there were a lot of other people who wanted to talk to him, too, and she couldn’t monopolize him. “You know, I wish I’d had a chance to talk to you at the funeral service.”
He looked at her, seemingly surprised, then came to a quick decision. “Can you stick around? Wait for me to finish up here and then we could go for a drink or something? The Cardiff is just across the way.”
“Sure,” she said, slipping away and perching on one of the benches that lined the gazebo. Watching as Jeremy chatted with his admirers, she became aware of his social skill. He seemed to give each person his undivided attention, saying exactly the right thing, and then handing them off without giving the impression that that was what he was doing. They all left with smiles on their faces, still basking in his reflected glow. It was as if he were the sun, radiating light and warmth.
She only hoped that when it was her turn, when she was alone with him, that she wouldn’t make a complete fool of herself.
Chapter Eight
When the last of Jeremy’s lingering admirer’s finally left, he approached her with an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting.”
Lucy stood up, wishing she was wearing something dressier than the comfy jeans and striped fisherman’s jersey she’d worn for the flight. The jeans were faded from wear and many spin cycles, but she reminded herself that some high-end retailers were selling torn, and even muddy jeans, for hundreds of dollars. The mud was fake but intended to make it seem as if the well-heeled person wearing them had actually been working, digging ditches or some other strenuous job, a concept which Lucy found somewhat ridiculous but clung to, attempting to convince herself that her casual outfit would be acceptable in the classy Cardiff Hotel.
Tossing her head back and standing up as straight as she could, she gave him a big smile. “No problem. I’ve enjoyed sitting here and people watching.”
“That’s right,” said Jeremy, as they walked down the path that led out of the park, “you’re a writer.”
“Not really. I’m just a reporter for a small town weekly.”
“A reporter! I’ll have to watch what I say.”
“Right. Or you’ll be exposed to the Pennysaver’s dozens of subscribers in Tinker’s Cove, most of whom use the paper to line birdcages or wash windows.”
He smiled, taking her arm as the light changed and they began to cross the street. “Wash windows?”
“A little housewifely trick,” explained Lucy. “Newspaper is much better for washing windows than paper towels. There’s something about the ink that makes the windows shine.”
“I’ll tell my housekeeper,” said Jeremy, and Lucy was reminded that he occupied a loftier perch in the social hierarchy than she did.
This truth was confirmed as they approached the hotel and the doorman greeted Jeremy with a big smile. “Nice to see you, Mr. Blake.” He opened the door for them with a flourish and Lucy suspected she could have been wearing nothing at all, or could have had a pet python draped over her shoulders—it didn’t matter because she was with Jeremy Blake.
Entering the bar, which was paneled with dark mahogany and dimly lit by crystal sconces, they were offered a prime table in a secluded corner. “The usual, Mr. Blake?” asked the waiter, speaking with a French accent.
“That will be fine, Pierre.” He turned to Lucy. “What will you have? I can recommend the Blue Sapphire martini. They do them very well here.”
“A glass of chardonnay would be fine.”
“Then I think the Rivers-Marie,” said Jeremy.
“Excellent choice, Mr. Blake.” Pierre departed and Lucy settled back in the plush banquette seat, noticing the little bouquet of fresh flowers on the table, the gentle tinkle of piano music, and the other well-dressed, well-behaved customers. She should have felt out of place, but instead decided that she could definitely get used to this pampered lifestyle.
Money certainly smoothed out life’s rough spots, she thought, watching Jeremy take his seat. He wasn’t the best-looking man, she realized, comparing him to Bill, who was naturally handsome in a rugged way. Jeremy, however, despite a double chin and developing paunch, had the advantage of expert tailoring and barbering and the confidence that went with a billion-dollar portfolio.
“So what brings you to the big city?” asked Jeremy.
“I’m a New York girl, you know. I grew up in the city, and when I was here last week for Beth’s funeral, I realized how much I miss it. I decided to take a break and have a little vacation here.”
“Beth used to
tell me that she envied your life in Maine.”
“I guess it’s true that the grass is always greener, that we always want what we don’t have.”
The waiter delivered their drinks and they clinked glasses. “Cheers,” said Jeremy, proceeding to gulp down half his martini in one big swallow.
“I can’t quite believe that Beth really envied me, with my highly mortgaged old house and my secondhand car.” Lucy took a sip of wine, realizing it was definitely a cut above the stuff she usually drank, and paused, savoring the complex flavors before swallowing. Then she continued, choosing her words carefully. “She had everything people dream of, including a penthouse. Do you have any idea what went wrong?”
Jeremy shook his head. “I don’t. I wish I did. Maybe then I could have done something to prevent what happened.”
Lucy was quick to offer the sympathy and reassurance he expected. “That’s natural after a suicide, but you shouldn’t blame yourself.”
“I wish I could believe you.” Jeremy had finished his martini and was signaling the waiter for another. “How long have you known Beth?”
“Since kindergarten,” said Lucy, remembering once again the little girl who had welcomed her. “But, well, you know how she was. She went her own way, and sometimes I didn’t hear from her for long stretches of time. But then she’d pop up again, and we would just pick up where we left off.”
“Amazing,” said Jeremy. His second drink had arrived and Lucy had the sense that he was losing interest in her.
“I’ve often wondered, how did you and Beth meet?” she asked.
“It was at a benefit gala for the Red Cross. She was one of the planners, one of the gals who make these things happen.”
“Like a chairperson?”
“No. She was working for some outfit, some party planner.”
“Was it love at first sight?”
“For me, yeah, but not for her. Beth wasn’t eager to marry again. She was gun-shy after three tries. She’d been on her own for a long while and liked it that way.” He looked down at his fresh drink, as if it were a crystal ball holding all the answers. “Maybe she was right—the marriage didn’t work out. We were in the process of divorcing when she . . .” He broke off, staring glumly across the room.
