by Mary Marks
Jayda Constable wore a T-shirt under white painter’s overalls stained with droplets and smears of every pigment in the rainbow. Her waist-long gray hair hung unrestrained around her face and down her back. High cheekbones and wide, dark eyes hinted at the beauty of her younger self. I understood why Quinn had been attracted to her.
She studied us for a moment, searching our faces. “You both have his eyes. And you”—she pointed to Giselle—“have the same red hair.” She walked across the room to a small efficiency kitchen and came back with a bottle of merlot. She handed us each a generous serving of the ruby red wine in ceramic mugs with an iridescent glaze. “I don’t like glasses with stems. They tip over too easily.”
I knew what she meant. I preferred to drink my wine from a Moroccan tea glass. “These mugs are beautiful. Did you make them yourself?”
She nodded and glanced at her hands, knobby and distorted from arthritis. “They’re some of the last things I did before my hands got too weak to work with clay.”
“So you switched to painting?” asked Giselle.
Jayda’s mouth moved into a smirk. “What was your first clue?”
Giselle laughed and took a sip of wine then explained to Jayda why we’d come to see her. While she spoke, I took mental notes of the details in the room. Threadbare red Persian carpet on scuffed hardwood floors and various glazed ceramics sitting on every flat surface. A substantial round oak table stood near the kitchen with a vase of yellow freesias and a bronze sculpture of a vagina.
I switched my attention to the art hanging on the walls and stopped at a framed pencil drawing of a young woman. “You have a lot of nice art.” I set my mug on the wooden chest that doubled as a coffee table and moved toward the drawing. A signature in the corner read J. Q. Maguire. “Is this a picture of you?”
Jayda smiled. “Yes. Quinn drew that for me one year. There’s a message on the back. Go ahead and look.”
I removed the small drawing from the wall and turned it over. For the love of my life. Your Quinn. It was identical to the message he wrote on the back of my mother’s pencil portrait. What a jerk!
I hung Jayda’s picture back on the wall and sat down. “What did you do when he failed to show up for the gallery opening?”
“I freaked out, that’s what. Especially since he said he was bringing a lot of cash.”
“Do you know what the money was for?”
Jayda blinked and took a slow breath. “The whole gallery opening thing was just an excuse to come to New York. We were really going to Atlantic City. He liked playing at the new Resorts Casino Hotel but couldn’t let his family know. He’d lost a lot of money in Las Vegas once and had to ask his father-in-law to bail him out.”
“Where did the cash come from?”
She shrugged. “I think he’d just sold a painting. He had an exclusive contract with the Shiffer Gallery in Beverly Hills. We didn’t always discuss those details, and I never asked. Anyway, two LA detectives actually flew to New York to question our circle of friends. I told them about the money and swore something terrible must’ve happened, but they blew me off.”
“Didn’t anyone ever contact you after that first interview?”
Jayda shook her head rapidly. “I tried to keep in touch with that woman detective, what was her name? Marilyn? Meredith? But every time I called her, the answer was the same. ‘No new developments.’ She eventually stopped taking my calls. In the end, I gave up trying to make anyone listen to me and just got on with my life.”
“What do you think happened to Daddy?” Giselle spoke for the first time, gripping the mug tightly.
“Isn’t it obvious? He wouldn’t just stop painting and disappear. Art was his whole life. Someone robbed and killed him and got away with it.”
“Did Daddy ever talk about his wife and family? Did he ever talk about me?” Giselle asked in a tiny voice.
Jayda paused for a few seconds, as if deciding what to say. “Quinn was a passionate guy. He lived in the moment. When he was in New York, he belonged to the art scene here. His West Coast life didn’t exist for him. He liked to keep the two things separate.”
“If you were the love of his life,” I said, “how did you feel about his being married and living on the West Coast?”
“Our relationship was open.” She wagged her finger. “If you’re thinking I was jealous enough to kill him, you’re way off base. We both had other lovers. We were exclusive only when he was in town. The jealous one was his wife, Louise.”
Giselle’s eyes narrowed. “Are you saying my mother knew about Daddy’s affairs?”
Jayda shrugged. “Of course. That’s one of the few things Quinn did talk about. He said she would fly into a rage whenever he came to New York.”
Poor Giselle. This wasn’t looking good for her mother. Louise not only lied to the police about having sex with her husband in the car, she lied about ever knowing he was unfaithful. I wondered if she also knew about the gambling. “Jayda, you said there were other lovers. Do you know who? Did he ever mention my mother, Shirley?”
“Like I said, he had a big ego and an appetite to go with it. He had more than one woman in LA. I don’t know any of their names. He did mention a daughter he never met. I guess he meant you?”
I just had to ask. “Did he ever say anything more about me or my mother?”
Jayda tipped the mug and took a long drink of wine. “I know what you two are really asking. You want to know if your father loved you. All I can say is, it’s hard for a man like him to see beyond his own needs. But to the extent he could feel affection, I’m sure he felt something toward the two of you. If you were beautiful, he was beautiful. If you were talented and successful, he was talented and successful.”
“What you’re describing is a total narcissist!” Giselle spat out the word in disgust. “That’s not at all how I remember Daddy.”
Jayda sat back and smiled sadly. “Quinn was the most charming man I ever knew. He had great charisma. I’m glad you have some good memories of him. Even though he fought with his wife, I’m sure he enjoyed being around his kids.”
Not! He never even bothered to meet me, let alone spend time with me.
I swirled the wine in my cup. “Is there anything else you can think of that might help the two of us find out what happened to him?”
“Are any other family members involved in your search?” Something about her expression set off my internal alarm.
“No, both our mothers are dead. Why do you ask?”
She cleared her throat. “No other siblings are involved?”
Giselle and I looked at each other, and I could tell she was thinking the same thing I was. I grabbed her hand and squeezed.
Jayda took a deep breath. “You also have a brother. You didn’t know?”
“No,” I said, “but I’m not surprised. Until two weeks ago, I didn’t know about Giselle, either. And now you’re telling me we have a brother? God knows how many more of us may be out there.”
Giselle reached for the bottle of merlot. “For God’s sake, Jayda. You don’t strike me as the motherly type.”
The older woman shook her mane of gray hair. “Not me. Someone in LA. Quinn loved the idea of having a son. He talked all the time about the boy.”
“What is his name?” I asked.
“She wanted to give the baby his name. But Quinn didn’t want to take the chance that his in-laws would find out. So, she named him after her own father, including the last name. Quinn only ever referred to him as Junior.”
“How old is he?”
“The boy was born in LA in 1971. Quinn was in New York at the time. I remember, because that’s the first night we slept together.”
I did the math. “That would put Junior in his early forties, only a couple of years younger than you, G.”
Giselle took a long gulp of wine. “Can you believe him? A young wife waiting for him at home with a toddler, your mother waiting at home hoping for him to call, and a third woman in the hospit
al having his baby. And all the while, he’s here in New York screwing Jayda.”
“What else can you expect?” Jayda asked. “Men like Quinn demand to be adored.”
“Clearly,” I said, “there was one person who didn’t adore him.”
We took our leave of the artist and headed down three flights of stairs.
“Crap!” Giselle’s voice echoed in the stairwell. “The more I find out about Daddy, the angrier I get.”
I clung to the handrail and looked down, concentrating on not tumbling down the steps. “Men cheat. That’s been my experience, anyway.” Well, maybe not all men. I didn’t believe Crusher would ever cheat on me. “What really grabs me the wrong way is what Jayda said about Quinn liking the idea of having a son. I mean, what are we? Chopped liver?”
“Exactly! We need to find this Quinn Junior.”
“It won’t be easy, G. We don’t even know his name.”
“Is there a way to find out?”
“Maybe.” I twisted my engagement ring. “I know just the person who can help.”
CHAPTER 13
The town car waited for us at the curb, with the motor running, and the driver opened the rear doors. “Where to, Mrs. Cole?”
“Manhattan.” She turned to me. “We’ll spend the night at my apartment.”
“Wait! I need to get back to LA. Tomorrow is Quilty Tuesday, and people are scheduled to show up at my house at ten a.m. Remember? You were going to bring your grandmother’s quilt to the group.”
“I’ve given the crew the night off, so you’ll just have to reschedule. Besides, I’ve planned a girls’ night out. We’re going to have fun, Sissy. We have tickets to see one of the hottest shows on Broadway, The Best Man. You don’t want to miss a chance to see Eric McCormack and James Earl Jones, do you? Afterward, we’re dining at Un Deux Trois, a great little French place.”
“I haven’t missed a Tuesday in seventeen years. Besides, I didn’t bring the right clothes for a fancy night in New York City.”
She waved her hand. “Not to worry. What size do you wear?”
“Sixteen petite. Why?”
“What about shoes?”
“Seven and a half. Wide.”
She punched a couple of buttons on her cell phone. “Hello, Simone? This is Giselle Cole. I’m staying in Manhattan tonight and I’d like a huge favor.”
* * *
Giselle’s west-facing apartment overlooked Central Park and received the afternoon sun. A smiling woman with latte skin greeted us with a Jamaican accent. “Welcome home, Mrs. Cole.” She took our luggage from the driver, who had followed us upstairs, and disappeared toward a hallway.
Giselle led me to the living room, painted in soft lavender with a plush gray velvet sofa and peach silk chairs. A purple and pink area rug with a Chinese cherry blossom design covered the hardwood floors in the center of the room. Crystal chandeliers and a couple of antique French regency pieces completed the elegant space.
I walked over to a generous bank of windows and gazed at the green canopy in the park across the street. “This is breathtaking, G.”
Just then the doorbell chimed and the maid hurried to the foyer. I glanced at my watch. It read twenty after six.
A cheery voice with a French accent called, “Giselle? I came as soon as I could, chèrie.”
A petite older woman in a black dress and severe bun breezed into the apartment, followed by a younger man pushing a clothing rack and rolling a suitcase. Giselle introduced the woman as Simone, her personal stylist.
Simone took one look at my stretch denim jeans, T-shirt, and Crocs and screwed up her face. “Yes, I see what you mean. But I think I can fix this.” She removed the tarp from the clothing rack and uncovered several fancy dresses. She waved her hand back and forth in my direction. “Take off your clothes, chèrie. We have to hurry if you’re going to make the theater.”
“Don’t I have anything to say about this? I can’t afford designer clothes.”
Giselle crossed her arms. “This is my treat, Sissy. Just strip down and stop complaining.”
Simone removed a floor-length beaded red sheath with spaghetti straps and a slit up the side, several sizes too small for me. “This just came in. I thought you’d look fabulous in it.”
To my relief, she handed the gown to Giselle, who immediately removed her blue linen pantsuit and slipped the gown on. The skinny dress clung to her slender, athletic figure. Her bare shoulders and arms were tight and well defined, without any hint of flab. Every time she took a step, her slender thigh peeked out from the slit in the skirt.
“You look stunning, G.”
“I love it. I’ll wear it tonight.”
Simone smiled with satisfaction and handed her a pair of scarlet-colored four-inch heels. Then she returned to the rack and handed me the same dress in a much larger size. “I also brought one for you.” She handed me the replica. It definitely wasn’t designed for a short, overweight fifty-something with huge thighs, flabby arms, and an ample bosom.”
I stared at the both of them. “You’re joking, right? No way! Uh-uh. I’d look like a gilded tomato in that thing.”
“But Martha!” Giselle pleaded. “Wouldn’t it be fun for us to dress alike? Absolutely no one else does it.”
“Not only no, but heck, no.” I turned to Simone. “I hope you brought something more appropriate for my size.”
For the next half hour, I tried on beautiful floor-length designer dresses. In the end, I rejected the sleeveless ones and the chiffon tent printed in white and brown like a reticulated giraffe. I settled on a long-sleeved, low-cut black crepe number that accentuated the girls but covered the rest of me down to my ankles. Simone finished off my outfit with some strappy black heels, a beaded clutch, and dangling crystal earrings. “There you go, chèrie, almost perfect. You need to wear Spanx, though. I brought some in your size.” She handed me a pair of XXL panty hose.
I could be so insulted, except they were my size.
Finally, she studied my face for a moment and then handed me some jeweled combs. “Use these.”
When Simone left, Giselle looked at her watch. “It’s nearly seven. We have ten minutes to get ready if we hope to make an eight o’clock curtain.”
I hurried to the bedroom with my new outfit and struggled into the mercilessly tight panty hose. I turned slowly in front of the mirror. Simone was right. My silhouette under the dress was a lot smoother with the Spanx. I slipped into the high heels and pinned my long curls on top of my head with the sparkling combs. The only other jewelry was my engagement ring and glittering earrings that dangled provocatively against my bare neck. I dashed on some pink lipstick and met Giselle in the living room at ten after seven. She waited for me, armed with a bottle of perfume.
“Wow!” Her eyes widened when she saw me. “You look much better when you want to. If you lost some weight and worked out a little, you’d be really fabulous for someone your age.”
I did an internal eye roll and closed my eyes while she spritzed expensive fragrance all over me.
On the way to the theater, I called Lucy on my cell phone. “I’m in New York and won’t be home until tomorrow. I’m afraid I’ll have to miss quilting. Can you call Jazz? Did you get the results of Ray’s biopsy yet?”
Lucy’s voice tightened. “I’ll call Jazz. I was going to cancel, anyway. The doctor wants to see us in his office tomorrow. They don’t do that unless there’s bad news. I’m so afraid, Martha. I don’t know what I’ll do if anything happens to Ray.”
“Maybe it’s something minor, Lucy. Try not to panic. I’ll call you as soon as we get back.”
Next I called Crusher.
“Babe.” He sounded relieved. “I was wondering when I’d hear from you. I miss you. When will you be home?”
“We’re in New York right now but we’re coming back tomorrow. I have a lot to tell you. Meanwhile, can you do a search of birth records for me?” I told him about my half brother.
“A brother, huh? Your
old man was one randy dude.”
“That may be what got him killed.”
“Do you have any info I can go on?”
“He was born in 1971 in LA. Name unknown. But I’m thinking maybe Quinn is listed on the birth certificate as the father.”
“I’ll get on it tomorrow.”
My daughter, Quincy, was my last call.
“I can’t wait for you to come back, Mom. Noah and I have a big announcement to make.”
My stomach sank. “Does this mean things are serious between the two of you?” Please God, make it not true. “Why can’t you tell me now?”
Her laughter tinkled over the phone. “You’ll find out when everyone else does. Hurry back.”
As soon as the curtain went up, my stomach rumbled loud enough for the woman sitting in front of me to turn around and stare. At first Giselle poked me with her elbow. Then she reached in her purse and shoved a protein bar in my hand. The crinkle of the paper unwrapping echoed throughout the orchestra seats.
All during the play I kept trying to think of ways to derail my daughter’s romance with Noah Kaplan. I even briefly considered not going back to LA in order to forestall their big announcement. I also worried about Lucy’s husband, Ray. Over the years, he’d been like my protective big brother. What if something was seriously wrong with him? I decided that no matter what the crisis, I would put my own life on hold to help my closest friends. Please, God, make him okay.
Later that evening, we sat at a linen-covered table in a charming French restaurant near the theater.
“I’m starved, G. I’m not used to eating this late.”
“The trick is to remember to eat a snack beforehand.”
As we sat waiting for our first course, a bottle of Cristal champagne chilling in a bucket of ice arrived at our table. Giselle looked questioningly at the sommelier.
He pointed to a table across the room. “Compliments of the gentleman.”
The man looked at our table and raised his glass and smiled. He appeared to be in his early sixties, handsome, silver-haired, and impeccably dressed in a black tuxedo. Giselle smiled at him and primped her hair.
