Silver Anniversary Murder

by Leslie Meier

  “I’m here for a week, from Maine. This is an Airbnb. I’ve got it until Sunday.”

  “Well, I’ve got to get some information, for my report,” he said. “If you want to put on something. . . .”

  “Uh, right.” Lucy grabbed a shirt and scurried into the bathroom, where she hastily pulled it on and ran a quick comb through her hair. Returning to the studio, she produced her driver’s license, signed her name, and listened to a brief lecture about the importance of securely locking doors and windows. Then the cops left and she carefully shut the door after them, making sure to twist the knob on the dead bolt, which closed with a reassuring snap.

  Wishing she hadn’t finished the wine, she sat down on the futon, trying to make sense of what had just occurred. What was the matter with her? Why hadn’t she locked the door? She knew better—she’d grown up in the city wearing a house key on a long chain around her neck. Her mother would never have left her door unlocked, not even when she was losing her mind to Alzheimer’s. It had become an obsession with her, even in the memory care unit where she lived out her final days.

  For a moment she even wondered if there actually had been an intruder. Had she imagined the whole thing? No, she decided, someone had definitely been there. There was no mistaking the fear she’d felt, the absolute shock of seeing someone who shouldn’t be there.

  She yawned, exhausted by the day’s activity combined with the loss of adrenaline, which left her shaky and empty. She got up and began stripping the kilim pillows off the futon and tossing them on an armchair. Then, double-checking that the lock was fastened, she went into the bathroom and changed into her nightgown. She felt very small and vulnerable as she slipped under the covers, pulling them up tight to her chin.

  She was safe, perfectly safe, she told herself. Whatever had happened, there’d been no harm. She was okay and tomorrow was going to be a fine new day. She turned out the light and shut her eyes, preparing to sleep. Drowsiness soon crept over her, but her sleep wasn’t peaceful and she woke, terrified, an hour or so later. It had only been a dream, she told herself, but this time the intruder hadn’t gone away. He’d confronted her, grabbed her, and dragged her to the railing, where he’d thrown her off the balcony into thin air. It was only a dream, she told herself, and the studio was on a low floor and didn’t even have a balcony. It was Beth who had a balcony.

  Chapter Eleven

  It took Lucy a long time to get back to sleep and she ended up drinking a glass of milk and reading for over an hour before she finally felt drowsy enough to turn out the light. Even then her mind was restless, fretting about locks and tuition bills and polar bears, and the sky was lightening by the time she finally did get back to sleep. When she woke, she couldn’t believe the time: it was nearly eight o’clock.

  She was supposed to meet E. L. Haley, the New York Times reporter, at nine. She quickly threw on some clothes, grabbed her purse, and ran out the door, then ran back to check that she really had locked the door. Then she was dashing along the sidewalk, wishing for coffee, and realizing that she could get a go-cup at the bodega. No wonder New Yorkers were always carrying cups of coffee; they were probably all running late.

  The Starbucks where they’d agreed to meet was handy to the subway exit, but when Lucy arrived at the stroke of nine she didn’t see anyone there who looked like a reporter. She was standing in the doorway, a puzzled expression on her face, when a young woman whom Lucy had taken for a college student approached her. “Lucy?” she asked.

  “Are you E. L.Haley?” she asked, in a skeptical tone of voice.

  “I am.”

  “Sorry. I really expected somebody, uh, older.”

  “And male?”

  “Well, yeah,” admitted Lucy, as they got in line at the counter.

  “People just don’t take a girl named Emmy Lou seriously.”

  “I suppose not,” said Lucy, with a chuckle. “So what do I call you?”

  “Ellie’s fine.”

  Lucy stepped up and ordered a pastry along with her coffee, then asked Ellie what she would like, offering to buy it.

  “No, no. Company policy.”

  When they were seated at a small table, Lucy took a bite of pastry and wondered where to begin. She was slightly intimidated. This tiny woman, really just a girl with long hair, oversized glasses, and a backpack, was a reporter for the New York Times! That was quite an achievement, especially for one so young. “How did you get a job with the Times?” she blurted out, immediately wishing she could take the words back.

  Ellie laughed. “Hard work, all A’s in college—no, really, it was just a lucky break. A story I wrote for a little neighborhood weekly, the Riverdale Press, went viral and they were looking for some younger people to enliven”—here she paused and made little quotation marks with her fingers—“the Times’ rather staid reputation.” She took a sip of coffee. “It all worked out, and I’ve been there almost ten years now.”

  “You don’t look that old.”

  “It’s my cross to bear.” Ellie shrugged. “So why did you want to talk to me? Something about the story in the Sunday paper?”

  “Yes. Beth Gerard, Jeremy Blake’s estranged wife when she died, was my best friend, ever since kindergarten. She fell to her death off a balcony on the twenty-second floor and the cops say it was suicide and they’ve closed the case, but I can’t accept that. I’ve been trying to find out what really happened, and when I saw your story about Jeremy Blake, I thought you might have some information.”

  “I’m not surprised that they’ve closed the case. Nobody wants to tangle with Jeremy Blake. He’s got legions of lawyers on retainer and doesn’t hesitate to use them.”

  “You tangled with him,” said Lucy, picking up the Danish and taking a bite.

  “That story was thoroughly vetted by the Times’ legal department, believe me, and quite a bit was cut.”

  Lucy swallowed. “Anything to do with Beth?”

  “Actually, yes. She was the source who tipped off the AG. She was going to be a prime witness against him, and when she died, so did the case.”

  Lucy dropped her Danish on the paper plate. “That means he had a motive, a big motive, much bigger than not wanting to pay alimony.”

  “A major fine, for sure, and possibly even a jail sentence,” said Ellie.

  “With all this, I can’t believe the cops aren’t going after him.”

  “They probably want to, but don’t have enough evidence for a case. It’s not like they have a witness who saw him push her off that balcony.” Ellie paused and took a swallow of coffee, then set her cup down carefully. “Chances are, if he wanted her dead, he wouldn’t have done the deed himself. He would have hired a pro, and those guys don’t leave any evidence.”

  “I met him, you know,” said Lucy, picking up her Danish again. “He really seemed to be an okay guy. He got an award from the Central Park Conservancy for restoring a gazebo.” She took a bite, savoring the buttery, cheesy goodness.

  “The two aren’t mutually exclusive, you know.”

  Lucy popped the last bit of pastry into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “A funny thing happened,” she began, after swallowing. “Last night I found an intruder in my apartment. I thought he was a burglar, but do you think he could have been working for Blake?”

  Ellie, who had been taking a swallow of coffee, choked. “What?”

  “I was in the bathroom, drying off, and heard a noise. I peeked out and saw this figure—I think it was a guy but I’m not really sure ’cause it was dark—rifling through my suitcase. I locked the bathroom door and called the cops, and by the time they came he was gone.”

  “Was anything missing?”

  “No, which is weird when you think about it. Maybe he was looking to see if I’d found any evidence against Blake.”

  “He didn’t try to attack you?”

  “No. I don’t think he realized that I’d seen him, and he had plenty of time. It was at least an hour before the cops came.”


  “Figures,” said Ellie.

  “I think they thought I was a nervous Nellie and dreamed the whole thing up. They almost had me convinced I’d imagined it.”

  Ellie caught her gaze and kept it. “Listen to me, Lucy. I don’t think you imagined it. I think you might really be in danger. If Jeremy Blake killed his wife to squelch a fraud case, he won’t hesitate to knock you off, not if he thinks you have evidence that he was behind her death.”

  “But I don’t have any evidence,” said Lucy, not liking the direction the conversation was taking, “only hunches.”

  “Trust me on this: Jeremy Blake is not a man who takes chances. If he has even a mild suspicion that you’re a danger, he won’t think twice about getting rid of you.”

  “Like I said, there was nothing there. I haven’t been keeping notes or recordings. I’ve just been talking to her son and her exes, and I haven’t come up with anything incriminating.” She paused and sighed. “To tell the truth, I really think I’m mostly just trying to convince myself that she did in fact take her own life.”

  Ellie nodded and gave her a sympathetic smile. “I understand. Suicide is really hard to accept.”

  “I’m getting closer to accepting it,” said Lucy.

  “Good.” Ellie rose to go, slinging her messenger bag over her shoulder and picking up her go-cup. “But don’t forget what I said. Be careful, okay? I don’t want to be writing your obit.”

  “Thanks for everything.”

  “You’re welcome. Bye.”

  After Ellie left, Lucy lingered over her coffee, wondering if she’d had a closer call than she realized. To be honest, she hadn’t really given the frightening incident much thought, preferring to put it out of her mind. She’d been terrified at first, when she glimpsed the intruder, but that emotion had turned to frustration and impatience during that long, chilly wait for help to arrive. The fact that the cops hadn’t taken her seriously had made her doubt herself, but now, after talking to Ellie, she was beginning to trust her instincts. Maybe she really was on to something, even if she wasn’t sure what that something was.

  Her phone started sounding off in the preset tune that she hadn’t bothered to change, and a lot of people in the Starbucks started checking their own phones. She didn’t recognize the number, which turned out to belong to Tito Wilkins.

  “I remember you,” he said, in a gravelly voice. “You were Beth’s friend. Whenever you came to visit you’d wash the dishes.”

  “I was just trying to be helpful,” said Lucy, feeling rather embarrassed.

  “I know. You were like a little Girl Scout, doing your good deed for the day.” He paused. “I suppose you know that Beth is dead. They say it was suicide.”

  “That’s why I’m here. I’m trying to understand what happened.”

  “Me too.”

  Lucy found this admission encouraging. “I’d love to talk to you. They say two heads are better than one.”

  “You’d have to come here,” he said, presenting a challenge. “I hardly ever go out.”

  “Where is here?” asked Lucy.

  “Red Hook.” He paused before adding in a patronizing tone, “It’s in Brooklyn.” He spoke slowly and clearly as he gave her the address.

  “I’m on my way,” she said, before she could change her mind.

  “There’s no rush. Like I said, I hardly ever go out. I’ll be here.”

  Before leaving the Starbucks, Lucy consulted her smartphone and obtained directions to Tito’s studio. She discovered it was going to take more than an hour to get there, thanks to service delays and repairs, and that she would have a long bus ride after getting off the C train at Jay Street–MetroTech.

  Lucy discovered that due to ongoing maintenance there were indeed plenty of stops and starts in the tunnels between stations, and she had ample time to think about what she wanted to say to Tito. She’d found him distant and difficult in the past, when he was younger, and now he seemed to have morphed into a rather cranky old man. She was still bothered by the violent images in his paintings, and wondered what drove him to create such ugly artwork. The more she thought about it, the more she was tempted to get off the train and go back to Manhattan, perhaps stopping at a hardware store she’d passed that had a window display of burglar-proof locks. It could be her gift to her Airbnb landlord.

  That desire to flee grew stronger when she climbed out of the station and found herself in a busy, crowded street full of people who knew where they going and were in a hurry to get there. She didn’t immediately see the bus stop and finally asked an older woman where she could catch the B57, which turned out to be a couple of blocks away. The bus came promptly, much to her relief, and she joined the handful of passengers, mostly older women with shopping bags. She asked the driver to let her off at the nearest stop to Tito’s address, and she was the only rider remaining when he finally announced they’d reached Lorraine Street.

  Back on foot, she sensed she was near the harbor; the light was somehow lighter and the air smelled fresher. She consulted the map again, folding it into a small square so she wouldn’t be viewed as an easy mark, an out-of-towner with a thick wallet. Not that there was anybody to fear, she realized, making her way along the empty streets, past modest one- and two-story wooden structures. Some were houses, some were old storefronts that had been converted into living spaces or workshops, and some were old garages, like the one Tito occupied. It had been painted gray many years ago, but now the paint was peeling. The garage door was closed, but there was a scarred plywood entrance door beside it with the house number painted in beautiful calligraphic figures. She took a deep breath and knocked.

  Tito took a long time to answer the door, and Lucy soon knew why. After he opened it he turned and walked away from her, leading the way on stiff, arthritic legs. Lucy closed the door behind herself and followed, watching his slow, obviously painful progress into the space where he worked and lived. A large canvas was propped against the back of the garage door, and was covered with paint only halfway up.

  Tito noticed her studying it and snorted. “That’s how I work. I paint up as far as I can reach, then I flip it over and work from the bottom up. Critics say there’s no up or down to my work, that it represents the universality of my view. Assholes.”

  “It’s good to see you,” said Lucy, surprised by the intensity of her feeling. Her fears had been unfounded. The scary young artist with the huge Afro had become a crippled old man with ashen skin and a patchy fuzz of gray hair.

  “Want a beer?” he asked, making his way to an ancient refrigerator with a rounded top.

  “Sure,” said Lucy, who was very thirsty after her long trip.

  He indicated a sagging sofa covered with numerous blankets, quilts, and even a sleeping bag, and Lucy sat down. Tito gave her a can of Pabst, then slowly lowered himself into a tall, stiff-backed armchair and popped the tab on his beer. He took a long drink. “So you want to talk about Beth?”

  “Were you in touch with her recently?”

  He nodded slowly. “Actually, I was. She was married to this rich guy and she got him to buy some paintings.” He shrugged. “I don’t know what he did with them, but I don’t think he hung them over his sofa. I sure don’t think he was the sort of guy to go for my stuff.”

  “How was Beth? What was she like?”

  Tito took another long drink. He sighed. “Beautiful. She was beautiful. She brought sunshine with her. She was rosy. She was kind. She could’ve rubbed it in, like she was rich now and I’m still a struggling artist, but she didn’t. She took my work seriously, and she’d done her research. I quoted a real high price, knowing she was loaded, and she argued me down, paid what the gallery charges.” He nodded his head in approval.

  “But she could have given you more. Wasn’t she being cheap?”

  “No. That would have been charity. She was letting me know that my work was truly valuable and she respected me.”

  Lucy drank some beer, enjoying the refreshing cold, sou
r taste in her mouth. Finally, she asked, “Do you think she killed herself?”

  Tito shrugged. “I don’t know. Could be. She was too good for this stinking world. She called me after that Sandy Hook school shooting, all those little ones killed. She said she didn’t want to live in a world where something like that could happen. Me, either, I told her. I said, why don’t we go down to the bay here, hold hands, and jump in? We’ll go together. She just laughed, said she’d think about it.”

  “Dante thinks she was murdered,” said Lucy.

  “Does he?” He considered this for a moment, staring down at his paint-spattered shoes. “Could be. Why not? Why should she be different?” he asked, brushing away a tear. “People get killed all the time. They get mowed down by trucks, planes explode, they’re massacred in theaters and nightclubs and restaurants.”

  “I saw your show in Soho,” said Lucy. “I thought you were a deranged personality, full of violence and hate. I almost didn’t come today.”

  “I paint what I see,” he said. “There’s evil everywhere. I wish I could paint daisies and bunnies, but that’s a lie. Just look at the newspaper.” He pointed to a copy of the Daily News that was lying on the floor. DUMPSTER SLAYER SOUGHT was the headline. “He kills women and leaves their bodies in dumpsters, like they’re garbage.” Tito got up and limped over to his unfinished painting. “I put it here,” he said, tapping a tiny blue shape. “The dumpster.”

  “There really are daisies and bunnies,” said Lucy.

  “Not around here,” said Tito, and Lucy had to agree she hadn’t seen a single daisy or bunny in Red Hook.

  “Well, I guess I better be going. I’ve got a long trip back on the bus and subway.”

  “There’s a ferry, you know. From the IKEA store.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Go straight a couple of blocks. It’s right on the bay. You can see the Statue of Liberty from there, too.” He snorted. “Another big lie: ‘Give me your tired, your hungry. . . ’ Now they want to build a wall. We used to say ‘Tear down that wall.’ Now we want to build one.” He narrowed his eyes and studied the painting. “Here she is: Lady Liberty.” He tapped a tiny, crumpled verdigris figure. “She’s not standing. She’s broken.”