He looks at me. “You were right, Allie. The deed to the townhouse on Seventy-Fifth isn’t in Danes’s name. It’s being held in trust by Kingsley-Smythe, Templeton, PC, Attorneys at Law.”
Bill had to have known about that. Why didn’t he tell me? I brush away the creeping sense that I’ve been sleeping with the enemy and recover my composure. “That’s too bad. It won’t be easy to trace real ownership without a subpoena.”
Ms. Cha grabs a purple marker and makes yet another box on the whiteboard. She prints Cliff Danes in the center and adds an arrow pointing to Sigrid Hale’s box.
Greene says, “We hope to gain entry to the townhouse without a warrant. That’s Jaime’s department.”
Jaime riffles through a few papers, then looks up. “This morning I set up surveillance of the townhouse from across the street in the school service area.”
The detective breaks in. “I don’t hold out much hope for the bugs we installed in the townhouse when Allie was living there. They’ve been remodeling.”
I wonder how that could happen so quickly. According to Angela, no one works that fast in the Big Apple.
Jaime continues. “Danes has kept mostly to himself except for one visitor—a female of a certain age. Not his mother; she’s been dead over twenty years.”
Greene points to the adjacent orange square. “This represents Georgina Kingsley-Smythe, Jason’s wife.” He looks at me. “Do you still think this Hale is Georgina Kingsley-Smythe?”
I shrug. “Could be, even though Bill insists Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe is an invalid. Still, I think we should go see for ourselves.”
“I agree,” he says, “but we can’t use a warrant. It’ll have to be a friendly visit.”
“I’ll be happy to call her.”
Mindy Cha speaks up for the first time. Her voice is low, her tone measured. “And you’re going to say, ‘Hey, Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe, I’m an old girlfriend of your late husband. Mind if I drop in for tea?’”
I squelch the urge to be cute. After all, it is my first day on the job. “I was thinking of something a little more subtle than that. Do you have any suggestions?”
“Well, actually, I do. I’ll call Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe. Introduce myself as your secretary at the Kingsley-Smythe firm and say that you have a document for her to sign. If she buys, I’ll make an appointment, and we’ll go out there together. Two well-dressed women seem harmless enough, don’t you think?”
I have to admit Cha is good. “Sounds like a winner.”
She picks up the telephone and in a matter of minutes the deal is done. “Tuesday at eleven? We promise not to keep Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe very long.”
Greene’s cell rings and he moves into the hall to take the call. When he returns he says, “The surveillance team reports the bugs we installed at the townhouse are no good. I’m not surprised, but it will cost us time.”
Jaime leans forward. “I’d like to try to get in on my own. It should be easy to install a few new ears.”
Greene looks around the table. “As far as I’m concerned, if we get Sigrid Hale and that elusive red address book, everything else will fall into place. And, ladies and gentleman—” He gives us a wide grin. “This case will be a wrap.”
————
It’s past five when we pour into the street and I invite Mindy to have a drink with me at a nearby bar where we trade the usual girl talk.
After I run down my résumé, Mindy gives me her background. The only daughter of a beat cop in Chinatown, all she ever wanted was to work with the law.
“I just graduated from John Jay College of Criminal Justice with a joint BA/MA degree in forensic psychology.”
“So I heard. Greene said you were in a couple of his classes.” She flushes and looks down. “Yes. He’s a wonderful instructor. I didn’t think I’d ever see him again after I took a position with the Newark force.”
She ducks her head so that her hair almost covers her face and murmurs. “I was so surprised—and flattered—that Detective Greene requested my services. But, I thought we would be working alone. I must confess I was very surprised when he added the two of you.” She pauses, brow engaged. “What did he say your jobs were?”
“Independent agents. All I get is room and board. I have no idea what Platón is making. He’s also working for the DEA.”
I take a sip of my drink to cover my beginning smile. The woman is crazy for Greene. Could he feel the same?
“So, are you seeing anybody?”
Mindy, hair still a screen, shakes her head. “No. No one. My parents are very distressed—especially my mother, who longs for grandchildren.”
“Then, you live at home?”
She gives me a triumphant grin. “Only two more days. I’ve leased a two-bedroom flat on Howard. It’s in lower SoHo, not far from the Holland Tunnel. That way I can still live in the city, but get to Newark plenty fast. Now, all I need is a roommate.”
I jump on that like a duck on a June bug. “Hey, if you’re serious, maybe we could work something out.”
My offer hangs in the air as Mindy gives me a thoughtful once-over then drains her martini. “Gee, it’s much later than I thought. I’d better head downtown. See you Monday.”
Chapter 31
MINDY LOOKS JUST LIKE the secretary she’s playing: glasses in place, hair twisted up in a severe bun, a black suit with a tailored white jabot spilling at her neck.
One nice addition: a police issue stashed in her briefcase. Greene assures me she’s a crack shot. I slide my hand in my leather tote to test the safety on mine and envision the latest fashion slogan: Women in the know pack heat.
The rental car she navigates north on Interstate 95 is a non-descript sedan—fitting for the nondescript day. Low clouds scudding above are the remains of a wet, windy, cold front.
We take Exit 3 and wind our way southeast through lanes lined with rock walls until we come to the Kingsley-Smythes’ address.
Mindy slows the car. “Wow.”
She eases through the tall stone pillars and stops. “Ready?”
At the end of the long drive sits an impressive two-story mansion that looks much larger than the picture Greene showed me. “Not bad.”
Mindy laughs. “The Kingsley-Smythes have been in the green for generations. First whale oil, then steel.”
“I see you’ve done your homework.”
She gives me a baleful look. “That’s about all I do.”
————
The butler greets us and leads us down a wide gallery displaying several ancestral portraits. In some, familiar cold gray eyes stare down, the same eyes I saw in the grainy photograph of Sigrid Hale. At that, my pulse steps up a notch.
I turn to Mindy, eager to point out the resemblance, but she is closely examining a Jacobean library table butted against a massive stairway that rises to the second floor.
Every inch of the patinaed oak is crammed with photographs: there are several of the young Kingsley-Smythes with a little girl and a young boy; some include the Kingsley-Smythe children at a later age—a teenage girl leading the pompom squad, a young man in a football uniform. Others feature the four of them posed before landmarks in practically every major European capital. I note Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe is always in a wheelchair.
We enter the library, a long room with a fireplace on one wall, a grand piano on the other and floor-to-ceiling leaded-glass windows surrounding double doors leading to a flagstone terrace. Beyond, a broad lawn ends at the water’s edge. And in the distance one can make out the Long Island shore.
A whirring noise heralds a motor-driven wheelchair bearing a small handsome woman with white hair piled high, dressed in a long lavender cashmere ensemble. Once she is inside the room, a tall dark-haired man turns.
I barely suppress my gasp as Bill Cotton, wearing a navy cashmere blazer, faces us. Instead of the rush of joy I should feel, spots dance before my eyes and a deafening buzz drowns out the “hello” I read on his lips.
Mindy must see my
agitation, because she leans to touch my arm. “You okay?”
I see concern in Bill’s eyes, look away and take a deep breath. The noise and spots subside and by the time Bill has come to stand behind the wheelchair I’m pretty much in control.
Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe looks up at him. “This is my nephew Billy. But, of course, you must already know him from the firm.”
Nephew? Am I hearing right? Did she say he was her nephew? Has he ever told me the truth? First he’s a sheriff in Uvalde, Texas. Then he appears in New York on assignment as a lowly attorney who “barely” knew Kingsley-Smythe. And now he’s the beloved nephew?
Bill places a hand on her shoulder. “Aunt Georgina, may I introduce Angela Armington and her secretary, Mindy Cha? They brought a document for you to sign.”
Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe gives us a small acknowledgement. “I’m so sorry you came all this way. Billy could have brought it home.” Bill leans down. “I haven’t been to the office since Uncle Jason’s memorial service, remember?”
Mindy does her part. “Since the firm is eager to wrap things up concerning your late husband’s estate, we need your signature on this one document so the probate can move forward.”
I get Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe’s attention. “Please accept my deepest sympathy for your loss, Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe. Your husband was a fine man.”
She peers at me through sad brown eyes. “You knew him?” Bill leans down. “She worked for Uncle Jason.”
After shooting him an “I knew that” look, she turns to me. “Of course you did. Thank you, my dear. My Jason’s sudden death was quite a shock. He had just taken his annual physical, and the doctor pronounced him healthy as a horse.”
She turns to gaze lovingly up at Bill. “My nephew has been such a godsend.”
It seems as if we are all holding our breaths until she says, “Well, let’s get on with it.”
Mindy places the bogus papers on the smooth side of her briefcase and hands it with a pen to Bill.
He scans both pages, which in actuality state that we made the appointment with Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe by telephone and visited her on this date. From her dazed condition, it’s doubtful that she will pick up on the nature of the document.
Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe signs the paper and turns to Bill. “If that’s all, darling, could we go back to our gin game?”
Her request is overridden by a hushed but intense argument in the hallway, followed by determined footsteps heading in our direction.
She’s tall, blonde and gorgeous, dressed in a chic chocolate riding habit sans derby.
Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe’s face fills with sun. “Dierdre. What a surprise. We weren’t expecting you for lunch.”
Dierdre glides across the Oriental carpet to give Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe a kiss, then turns to do the same for Bill.
I hardly have time to absorb the latest terrible reality when the woman slides an arm around Bill’s waist, gives him a squeeze, and says, “I’m so sorry to intrude, I didn’t know you had guests.”
I have to give it to him. The man doesn’t miss a beat. “Dierdre, please meet Angela Armington and Mindy Cha. Both women work with me at the firm. They were kind enough to drive all the way out here to accommodate Aunt Georgina.”
He looks down at her, then at us. “And this is Dierdre Wainwright.”
I expect him to add “of the blah-blah Wainwrights, who preceded God and the Mayflower to America,” but he spares us that.
Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe’s eyes brighten. She motions toward the piano. “Dierdre has given me so much pleasure since my Jason passed away. He used to entertain me by playing his jazz compositions on the Bosendorfer. Now the dear girl often pops by to do the same.”
The silence that follows seems to last an eternity until Mindy stands, retrieves the signed document and shoves it in her briefcase.
————
My eyes don’t fill until we are in the car. To hide the tears, I peer out the window until they dry and the catch in my throat dissolves.
To ease the pain, I roll the tape of Bill above me, crooning my name with each deep thrust. Then after, spooning his body around mine, hugging me close and saying how nicely our bodies fit together.
I remember his concern for my well being. How he cautioned me to keep a low profile until I could get on a flight out of New York. Now, I can’t help but wonder if his only goal was to get me out of the way?
Mindy doesn’t speak until we’re on the I-95. “Okay, what was all that about? First, the white-face-I’m-about-to-faint look; then your zombie-mode when Miss I’m-somebody-really-important walked in.”
I look away so she can’t read the pain in my eyes. But why get into it with Cha? Why should I spill my guts to someone I barely know—a person who isn’t overly enthusiastic about taking me on as a roommate? Besides, I’m still reeling from the shock of seeing Bill in this new setting and, much to my dismay, well attached to that blonde.
When I first learned Bill was married for a short time to a Southern belle from the First Families of Virginia, I couldn’t imagine the sheriff married to a blueblood, but now that I know a little more, it’s obvious he’s attracted to the type.
Mindy’s “Well?” brings me out of it. “I’m hypoglycemic.”
“Don’t smoke-screen me. I didn’t make detective grade for nothing. The tension between you and the nephew was so thick I needed a hacksaw. Greene told me you were involved with a DEA agent. Is this the same guy?”
“This is the last place I expected to see him. He mentioned he had met Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe, but he failed to tell me just how close he was.”
Mindy glances my way. “No wonder you went so pale.”
She concentrates on the road for a minute, then says, “Wow. Did you get a load of that blonde neighbor? The caring little piano player? Where do you suppose she fits in the scheme of things?” “Good question. But, at this point, not only do I have no idea, I really don’t care.”
When Mindy shoots me a “liar-liar” look, I change the subject. “Okay, Miss Detective, answer me this: Why would Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe be so dependent on a nephew when she has kids of her own? Weren’t those pictures on the table in the entry hall the children?”
“You betcha.” She puffs up. “But did you notice the pictures went only through adolescence? Where are the wedding pictures? Where are the pictures of the grandchildren?”
I start to mention the cold gray eyes in some of the ancestor portraits but decide to save that information for Greene.
The rest of our drive back to Manhattan is mostly silent. Mindy seems lost in her own thoughts, and I certainly am in mine.
The shock of seeing Bill again, and in such an unexpected venue, has thrown me for a loop. His words echo, “I’ve never blatantly lied to you, Allie. My only sins are those of omission.”
Boy, has he got that right! At first, he implied he didn’t even know Mrs. Kingsley-Smythe. Now he’s Aunt Georgina’s favorite nephew with the gorgeous next-door neighbor draped around his neck.
Chapter 32
MINDY AND I SPEND the next several days trying to dig up information pertinent to the Kingsley-Smythe case by going through investigative documents from the DEA and other law enforcement agencies.
On this particular morning we are setting up the Kingsley-Smythe family file. To her credit, that woman is like a Jack Russell terrier when it comes to unearthing odd little pieces of esoterica.
Mindy goes to the pile of files in the corner and retrieves a thick one. “Though the Kingsley-Smythes had no kids of their own, they seemed to be very much in love at first. You know—in those early pictures they looked so happy. Then after a while they didn’t.”
“Do you still have those pix? It might be interesting to see who else shows up.”
“There are over thirty in here.” She hands me the stack. “Be sure to keep them in order.”
I open the file. The first photograph shows a younger and very dashing Jason Kingsley-Smythe posing with his wife. But in the next
one there’s a drastic change. Georgina stares into the camera with vacant eyes, while Jason’s attention is focused on an attractive brunette, who returns his gaze.
There’s another man in the picture with his arm draped over the brunette’s shoulder. Knowing Mindy leaves no detail unturned, I flip to the back side. The man is Lawrence Templeton. The woman is his wife, Norma.
Though Templeton’s hairline is receding, he wears it brushed back. His face is too big for his body and though his features are coarse, they reflect a certain sensuality.
“Are the Templetons still married?”
“If you can call it that. Mrs. T is in the final stages of advanced alcoholism. She’s just come back from one of her bimonthly visits to Silver Hill.” “Children?”
“Two sons. Both attended California colleges. Never came back to the East Coast.”
I can’t quite bring myself to see Jason and Norma as lovers. She doesn’t hold a candle to Georgina. But in the light of Norma’s alcoholism, Larry could be involved with Sigrid Hale.
I shuffle through the rest of the stack, hoping to pick up another lead, but the photos deal mostly with the Kingsley-Smythes at the club, at tennis parties, cocktail parties, social suppers and the like.
“Did you ever find out why the Kingsley-Smythe kids suddenly disappeared from view?”
Mindy looks up. “I found out who, what and when, but, unfortunately, not the why.”
I give her a grin. “I’ll settle for the first part. I’m sure you’ll unearth the second.”
“In a nutshell, the Kingsley-Smythes adopted Frank and Sallie Stone when their parents died in an automobile accident. The boy was fourteen and his sister eleven.
“Frank, nicknamed Bud, graduated from Andover, which coincidentally was Kingsley-Smythe’s alma mater. He entered Dartmouth and never returned home. Then Sallie enrolled at Emma Willard between Thanksgiving and Christmas and remained there until she went to Wellesley. She never came home either.
“And—get this—when Bud turned twenty-one he legally changed his last name from Kingsley-Smythe back to Stone.
Xs, An Allie Armington Mystery Page 12
