by Cleo Coyle
“More than half are in jeopardy? You’re kidding!”
“They could be lost at any time.” Bruce looked away, disgusted. “What a waste.”
“Do you know what year this one was built?”
“1830. You know the history, right?”
I nodded. Back then, people residing in the crowded colonial enclaves near lower Manhattan’s ports were looking to escape the regular outbreaks of disease, including cholera and yellow fever, so they came up here. The Village was only two miles north, but it was a vastly different world for them, bucolic, with fresh air and space, and they began building in earnest.
“These small row houses were an escape, weren’t they?” I said.
Bruce looked around the room a little cryptically. “It’s been one for me.”
The remark seemed to my ears loaded with meaning. “How so?”
He held my gaze a moment, as if deciding whether to talk about what was on his mind. Instead, he shrugged. “So…what do you think of this room?”
I kept hold of his gaze. He was changing the subject. We both knew it. For the moment, I let it go. For the moment.
“The work’s fantastic,” I said. “The fireplace mantel especially. Is that marble?”
“No. It’s wood, made to look like marble.”
I rose and moved to the hearth, ran my hand along the smooth finish, which was an unusual color—a sort of orange-tinted gold with deep yellow blended in a way to give the impression of carved marble.
“Remarkable. And you’re telling me this is authentic Federal?”
“Damn straight. Federal period designers liked to bring light and bright colors into their living spaces—that coloring is authentic and so is the technique. Strangely enough, they liked to play with the look of wood like that, making it look either like stone, marble, or even wood of another species.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Thanks, Clare.”
“So…how about that tour?”
He started by explaining that this large parlor room had been two rooms when he’d originally bought the place. He’d knocked down the wall because the house’s original Federal scheme, although calling for a front and rear parlor, provided a sliding door between the two that could be open, as it was now, to turn the two rooms into one larger space.
We glanced in the kitchen, which was a total mess, and I laughed when I saw the only two new and possibly working appliances were a small, office-size refrigerator and an espresso/cappuccino machine.
“I like your priorities,” I said, walking over to the large machine. “And it’s a Pavoni. Good taste.”
“I’ll be honest with you, it was a gift from a client. I haven’t figured out how to use it yet. No time to read the instructions, you know? But I did buy a bag of your espresso blend and I have whole milk in that little fridge.”
I smiled. “I’ll whip us up some after dinner—and give you a tutorial. Good?”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“It’s my business, buddy. Let me show off.”
“Then let me show off mine a little more for you. Okay?”
I nodded and he took my hand. On the stairs, he told me the third floor was the attic, which had once been used for servant’s quarters.
“At the moment, those rooms are pretty stark and filled with nothing but paint cans and building materials, so we’ll skip them for now. But I think you’ll like the second floor.”
The second floor had two bedrooms. The smaller one was obviously the “before” picture, with peeling wallpaper, a stained ceiling, broken moldings, and a hideous pink shag carpet, possibly circa 1970, over the wood floor.
“Oh, yuck.”
“I take that to mean you think I have my work cut out for me?”
“Yes. That’s the technical definition of yuck.”
The master bedroom, however, was nowhere near yuck. In fact, it had been as beautifully restored as the downstairs parlors. He’d uncovered the old fireplace, refinished and polished the wood floor, restored the ceiling and its moldings, and even started furnishing the bedroom with a four-poster bed and matching bureaus. In the corner, I noticed a workspace with a drawing board and shelves beside it, full of books and blueprints. Propped on one shelf was a map of the Village and SoHo covered with arrows of different colors and little colorful circles.
I wandered over, curious. “What are these arrows?”
“The green ones show the direction of the traffic flow. The red, blue, and yellow circles refer to sanitation pick-up schedules—its three times a week in Manhattan and twice in the boroughs.”
“Sanitation pick up?” I repeated, trying not to picture Sahara McNeil’s legs sticking out from under a ten-ton garbage truck. “Why would you need to know that?”
“Those big trucks can stop traffic dead. If my crew has exterior work or needs to move equipment in and out of a particular block, it’s better to do it on a day where we won’t have to worry about the city’s pick-up times—it’s been known to fluctuate from early morning to after dark.”
It sounded like a reasonable answer. Quinn couldn’t fault him for that. I wanted to ask him about Sahara, but since it had happened just this morning, I thought it might be better to wait.
Wandering over to his bookshelf, I skimmed the spines. “Oh, I see you have a big book on the New York subway stations here.”
He nodded. “I’m a fan of that restoration project. It was massive. All that gorgeous mosaic tile work.”
“Have you been in the Union Square station?” I asked as casually as possible.
“Sure.”
“Isn’t that the one where that poor woman jumped to her death at the beginning of the month?”
I watched him carefully. He looked away without expression. “Yeah. I’m sorry to say I knew Valerie. That was her name. Valerie Lathem.”
“I’m sorry, too. Were you good friends?”
“We dated a couple of weeks. She and I kind of mutually agreed we weren’t right for each other, and we said we’d remain friends. She booked my travel. Worked at an agency.”
“I’m sorry, Bruce.”
“I hated reading about what happened in the papers. Felt bad for her family.”
“Was she…depressed…or anything…when you two broke up?”
“Not at all. In fact, she even suggested I try her on-line dating service, SinglesNYC.”
I blinked in surprise. Valerie Lathem had sent Bruce to SinglesNYC? That’s how he must have hooked up with Inga. I filed that little piece of information away.
“She had everything to live for,” Bruce continued. “I don’t know why she…did what she did.”
I nodded. “Do you think it’s possible it wasn’t a suicide then?”
“What do you mean? Like an accident?”
“Or…something else. Could someone have wanted to hurt her?”
Bruce’s brow wrinkled. “What makes you say a thing like that?”
“Uh…just…I don’t know…. I guess I thought may be it didn’t add up. Young woman, just promoted, beautiful…”
“Those things are true about Valerie…but, to be honest, she didn’t strike me as having the kind of personality that would make someone want to push her onto subway tracks. She wasn’t a party girl per se, either…although she was a little naive. I’m sorry to say anything negative about her, but if you’re fishing as to why we decided to part ways, it had to do with the fact that her job ended at five o’clock, and my job never ended. You know how it is to run a business, right?”
“Sure.”
“Well, she didn’t. She wanted the kind of guy who’d be at the happy hour down the street at five fifteen every night. A guy who could jet off to the islands on a spur of the moment low-fare deal. I wasn’t that guy.”
I observed Bruce carefully as he spoke. He didn’t seem angry or guilty or disturbed as much as melancholy about the whole thing. He didn’t seem very evasive, either.
Okay, I thought, one down, two
to go.
(And I still intended to follow up with him on the one time he had sounded evasive—when he talked about this place being “an escape.”)
I noticed there was an oak desk beside the drawing board. It was a roll-top, and it had been rolled completely down.
“Thanks for telling me about Valerie,” I said. “I’d really like to know more about you.”
Bruce nodded. “Likewise.”
I moved toward the roll-top desk. “This is a nice piece.”
“Thanks, unfortunately, the rolling cover sticks sometimes. But I like the look of it. I keep my laptop under there.”
“A computer?”
Detective Mike Quinn’s voice suddenly boomed in my head: The person who wrote that note to Inga used a Hewlett Packard DeskJet 840C. A small computer printer. Model 840C…
I cleared my throat. “Do you have a printer?”
“A computer printer? Yeah, sure. But the printer under that roll-top won’t impress you, its just a dinky thing I use for personal correspondence. I know what you want to see—the way I design digitally, right?”
“Uh…right.”
“Well, I can show off some of my fantastic software in a few weeks. But at the moment all my work equipment is in storage while my offices are moving from Westchester to Chelsea. Tonight, I’m afraid, it’s not part of your Federal house tour.”
Bruce took my hand and pulled me back out of the room. “Come on, our dinner’s going to get cold. You must be hungry by now.”
“Sure,” I said, letting him take me back downstairs.
What else could I do? I couldn’t force the issue of looking at his computer printer.
I would just have to figure out some other way of getting myself back into Bruce Bowman’s bedroom.
FIFTEEN
“…BUT for me, the divorce wasn’t as ugly as the last few years of the marriage itself, know what I mean?” asked Bruce.
I nodded, swallowing a succulent forkful of pork loin. “I can relate.”
We were finishing an amazing dinner of braised fennel salad, pumpkin lune (little ravioli “moons” with butter), and pork loin alla porchetta with mirto (Italian for myrtle, which added a delightful and surprising herbal bite to the dish).
Bruce had picked up the basket from Babbo, the Washington Square restaurant where he’d made reservations the night I’d made dinner instead. As an expensive, celebrated gourmet restaurant, Babbo was not your average “take out” place, but Bruce had apparently consulted on some restoration work for the owners, and they always treated him well.
“Your ex give you any problems this week?” he asked.
“No. When Matt’s in the city—and these days, it’s rare—he stays out of my way and I stay out of his. The night you came to dinner, I’m sorry to say, was the exception.”
“What a disaster.” Bruce laughed. “I have to be honest, that’s the only reason you’re drinking the same wine. I’m usually not so boring that I’d drag out two bottles of the Echezeaux in the same week. But you’d seemed so excited about it before Matt showed—”
“—and rudely drank most of the bottle.”
“I wasn’t going to go there.”
“Go there, be my guest. I’ve got a catalog of Matt’s flaws filed away somewhere in storage.”
Bruce smiled. “That’s a loaded comment, you know? I mean, you must be starting the list on me by now.”
“On you? Oh, sure. Let’s see…you’re too darned thoughtful and generous. I hate that about a guy. And you’re too nice to my daughter, too. You’re also too hard working, funny, intelligent, and talented…and let’s not forget you have way too much good taste, not to mention that superior…exterior.” It was my turn to cock an eyebrow. (And keep the whole murder suspect thing to myself, of course.
“You know, Clare, with me, flattery will get you everywhere.”
He moved his hand to the back of my neck and gently pulled me close. I let him. The incredible wine had relaxed me and he just looked too good in that black fisherman’s sweater not to taste. His mouth was warm and soft and I could smell the myrtle from the pork loin and the subtle, sophisticated mix of blackberry, violets, and coffee from the Grand Cru Burgundy.
“Mmmm…” he said as we parted. “Full-bodied, elegant, and complex…”
“The wine?”
He looked into my eyes. “You.”
Oh, no…no, no, no. I couldn’t let him do this to me, I hadn’t finished my interrogation (as unorthodox as it was)…and I had to take care to keep my head…
“Are you telling me the arrangement with Matt doesn’t upset you?” I asked, pulling farther away.
“No,” he said leaning closer.
I leaned back.
“Why doesn’t it?” I asked, curious.
A barely perceptible sigh came out of him—a subtle exhale of frustration over what would probably feel to him like my second rejection of the night.
He shrugged. “Because I see my ex around, too, just like you see Matt.”
“She’s in the city then? She’s around?”
(She’s alive? is what I was really asking—because if Quinn’s theory about Bruce’s having a trigger and snapping out violently were true, it would probably have first manifested on his wife.)
“Oh, yeah, she’s around. And I hate to tell you, I’ve seen her in the Blend. You’ll probably meet her soon enough, but I hope it’ll be later rather than sooner. It’s understandable she’s come to the city. The Westchester place was this vast thing. Lots to care for—grounds, tennis courts, but at least I’m not sharing a space with her.”
“Is that what you meant earlier when you said this house is an escape?”
Bruce shifted. “Yeah, it’s an escape…from her…from the bad marriage…and just…from my past…yeah.”
My past? What did he mean by that exactly?
Bruce poured more wine for us both. “So you’re telling me that Matt’s a really stubborn guy, then? Won’t give up his rights to the duplex?”
“No…but then neither will I…”
“Joy just as stubborn?”
“I always say she gets it from her father. But I know I can be stubborn, too.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
“Oh, come on, and you aren’t?”
“Yeah, I can be, I guess…I was in the divorce.”
“Over what?”
“Ten years ago, when Maxi and I first moved East, Maxi had put up the money for the Westchester house, but I’d put in a decade of sweat equity. We split the proceeds from the sale after a really long, ugly fight in court. She was determined to keep it all, but I was stubborn about my position, too. My years of work had more than doubled the value of that property. The judge agreed, even though New York’s not a community property state. She made every possible argument, but the judge split it down the middle. She still says I don’t deserve a penny.”
“She put up the money originally?”
“Yeah…to be completely honest with you, Clare, ten years ago, before I started my own company, I didn’t have much. Remember I told you how I grew up in Napa?”
“Sure.”
During his visits with me at the Blend this week, Bruce had told me some general things about his background. Surprisingly, we had a lot in common. Like me, he’d been brought up primarily by his grandparents. Also, like me, he’d grown up without much money, which made his appreciation of the finer things in life all the more poignant. Frankly, I felt the same. It always amazed me when I’d meet people in Madame’s social circle. Some of Madame’s friends were old money, some new, but to many (not all, but many), the finer things were just a function of entitlement or prestige. Appreciation for the history and artistry of a thing was far from a prerequisite to ownership. I didn’t feel that way. And, obviously, neither did Bruce.
In any event, Bruce had told me it was his grandfather who had given him an early mastery of basic carpentry, plumbing, and the general set of “This Old House” skills. It l
ed him to start working in construction, then restoration, and eventually architecture.
“Well…” said Bruce slowly, “what I didn’t tell you was that my grandfather was a handyman on a Napa Valley estate. That’s where I grew up, on the estate itself. It was Maxi’s family’s estate…and when she and I got involved, her family didn’t like it. But Maxi was used to having her way. She’s very bright, too, but she couldn’t make a career work, didn’t play nice with the other kids, you know, kept getting fired from jobs and kept losing well-heeled fiancés, too.”
“Sounds like a real gem.”
“In a lot of ways, she is. Maxi’s beautiful. Brilliant. Rich. She can be a fantastic person when she wants to be. And there were a lot of reasons a lot of men gave her multiple chances, but she was a princess, too, and a lot of men wouldn’t put up with her games. So, when the last fiancé broke it off, she ended up living back in her parents’ home. She was thirty-two at the time and very worldly, and I was barely twenty-four and, in a lot of ways, just a stupid, gullible kid. We fell in love, eloped, and I was too young to see she was using me as a way to stick it to a family she saw as trying to rule her life.”
“Were they?”
“No. Looking back on it, her family just wanted her to get a grip. But she saw them as controlling. Only, she was the one who was controlling…it took me a lot of years to see the picture clearly. It’s hard to get perspective when you’re a twenty-something ignoramus dude, you know?”
“I can’t imagine you were any such thing, Bruce. You were just young.” I knew, all too well, that waking up to reality was the toughest thing of all in a bad marriage. His brutal honesty about it impressed me. “So…it was a hard thing for you to come to terms with?”
“It took a long time to understand how Maxi saw me, if that’s what you mean…or, anyway, how she wanted to keep seeing me. It was her father who decided if he couldn’t get Maxi to use her degrees for anything constructive, if he couldn’t make anything of her, then he’d make something of me.”
