Larry was leaning against the car. As soon as he saw her he held out the scarf.
Rannie checked sidewalk traffic. A dad was barreling down the street with a double-wide stroller, one twin screaming, snot cascading down his upper lip, the other one out cold. Dad was a big guy, somebody who could subdue Larry if he tried anything funny, like shoving Rannie into the trunk of his car. Rannie took the scarf. “Thanks. Didn’t even realize I left it.”
Larry was staring at the Yale track pants. “Don’t tell me you work out now! Weren’t you the woman who once told me se—”
“Yes. I know what I once said.” Her credo had been: sex was all the workout anybody needed. “Look, Larry, to be perfectly honest, I don’t think we should be in contact.”
“Why not?”
Rannie had no answer that Larry would like hearing, so she remained silent.
“Unbelievable. You still think I’m some homicidal maniac?”
“I don’t understand why you’re here.”
“How about this? I’m scared. Ret, Ellen too, must have been murdered because of something in the damn book.”
“Not necessarily.”
Larry ignored Rannie and kept on. “Maybe I know something only I don’t know what it is.”
Almost verbatim what Ellen had said the very last time Rannie had spoken to her.
“You don’t need to be in Mensa to figure out Ret had somebody helping her do interviews.” He went on. “Who knows what that sicko did to Ret before strangling her? She was trussed to her bed, right? It wouldn’t have taken much coaxing to get her to give out my name. . . . Ergo, I am in danger.”
Rannie decided to throw him a bone. “Listen. You haven’t read the book. I have and there are no bombshells, I promise. It is a tame, very un-Ret-like book. . . . You didn’t uncover anything big and nasty, right?” Rannie looked at him, waiting.
Larry shook his head. “The granddaughter—Babsy? Boobsy?—was a druggie back in the day. All Ret said to that was ‘big whoop,’ that it was old news and wasn’t worth wasting even a paragraph on.”
“And she doesn’t bring it up. It’s not in the book. So there you have it.”
“You’re forgetting one thing. I only know what I came across. There’s Snoop 2 in the mix. You told me that yourself.”
“Gery Antioch.”
“Yeah, him. Who knows what he uncovered.”
Rannie didn’t remember the exact wording of the acknowledgment but the gist was that the truth would always come out. “Wait. Even if this Gery Antioch did uncover something truly horrible, something that Ret kept out of the book for whatever reason—”
“Surely not out of the goodness of her heart.”
“Let me finish. Even if Gery Antioch did uncover something, and even if the killer forced Gery Antioch’s name out of Ret, he’s the one in danger, Gery Antioch, not you. Have the police gotten hold of him?”
“They have no idea who he is or where he is. My guess is it’s a phony name, to disguise his true identity, which, when I suggested as much to the sergeant, he actually started pondering . . . you know what I mean? Stroked his chin, eyes went all squinty, brow got all furrowed, lips clamped together.” As he spoke, Larry mimicked each facial gesture. “And finally he nods a little and says to me, ‘That’s certainly an interesting idea, Mr. Katz.’ This is the caliber of investigative mind that’s going to solve a double murder?”
“Did you try playing around with the name? It’s Gery with only one R.”
“Of course. I tried anagrams, different codes. I got nowhere. I tried Gerald Antioch. Gerard. Geraldo. Zippo.”
“It could be Gery as in Geraldine.”
“Thought of that too. There’s a writer who’s done a couple of word puzzle books for me. I called him. He did no better. He said maybe Ret knew a Gery who went to Antioch College. That was a big help.”
Once again, the more Larry talked, the more Rannie became convinced that his agitation was genuine, not an act to throw suspicion off himself. Then she remembered a nagging fact. “One more thing, Larry. What made you go see Ret the day she was killed?”
“I didn’t! I merely dropped off an envelope in the lobby. I was on my way out to Long Island. I left the envelope with the concierge; I was in and out in less than a minute. This is why you’re acting like you’re gonna wind up chloroformed in my trunk? How’d you know, anyway?”
She ignored his last question. “What was in the envelope?”
“Duplicates of all the photos I took. Ret insisted on having them. God knows why. She said she paid me to take the pictures, so they were her property. Fine. What the fuck did I want with them?”
“What time was that?”
“No earlier than eleven, eleven thirty. I got a late start out to my mother’s. . . . That’s where I just came from. Today Mom and I went over the guest list for my bar mitzvah.”
It was growing chillier and darker. Also, the couple who lived in 5B, the apartment directly under hers, was approaching the building. Now was the time to bring this tête-à-tête to an end.
“I’ve got to start dinner. Nate and a friend are upstairs waiting,” she lied. “Thanks for the scarf. And for what it’s worth, I’m really starting to think Ellen’s death is unrelated.”
“And what will Santa be bringing you this year, little girl?”
“I’m just telling you what I think.”
The husband of 5B gave Rannie a stingy smile as he got his keys. There had been several calls as of late to inform her of the level at which Nate blasted music while she wasn’t home. He opened the outer door for his wife, who had a large bag from B&N. Rannie half expected Larry to inquire whether a copy of Tattletale was inside it. He didn’t and Rannie slipped inside her building before the door closed.
Upstairs, Rannie couldn’t stop obsessing about the photos. What were the odds that they were still sitting in the package room at Ret’s building? A long shot but, hey, you never knew. Ret avoided being seen, so she wouldn’t have come down to the lobby for them. The concierge would have had to deliver the envelope himself to her apartment. And with only one guy on duty, that probably meant waiting until his shift was over to do so. By then it might have slipped his mind. Had it also slipped the mind of the police sergeant? Highly unlikely and, if he was dotting his i’s, he’d have checked the contents.
Rannie had seen the photos and copyedited the captions for Portrait of a Lady. Most were of family members and famous close friends of Charlotte Cummings saying “cheese” with her on yachts, in boardrooms, at celebrations, and the like. There were photos of the various residences Charlotte had owned over the century-long span of her life, real estate porn for readers to drool over. And also there were four or five interior shots of the Cummings Fifth Avenue mansion—the dining room in which every president from Eisenhower through Bush 43 had been feted, the conservatory with a trove of priceless instruments, and the grand salon that housed the art collection Rannie had seen. Although the copyrights for all the photos of the mansion rooms were in Ret’s name, undoubtedly Larry was the shutterbug. He must have taken many more than what ended up in the book. Ret already had a complete set. Why, on what turned out to be the very last day of her life, would Ret insist on having all the duplicates in her possession?
A compelling urge to see the photos—or at least attempt to see them—seized hold of Rannie. Was it worth making a special trip over to the East Side? Rannie was debating the issue when Nate texted her.
“O and I thinking about Paolo’s. Wanna come?”
Translation: neither of us has a credit card or dough, so we’ll let you treat us to dinner.
Cheap (for Manhattan) and convivial, a throwback to the days when small family-owned joints populated Lexington Avenue, Paolo’s was renowned for thin crust pizzas—Rannie’s favorite, clam with bacon. It also happened to be located on Sixty-Eighth Street, a meatball’s throw from Ret’s apartment building. Dinner for three? At the very least sixty bucks with tip. And she couldn’t forget b
lowing a hundred dollars already for her nontraining session. But a little more snooping? In the immortal words of MasterCard, “Priceless!”
Rannie texted back. “There in an hour.” Forty-five minutes of which were eaten up by public transportation, not bad for a Saturday, which evidently was a day off for ninety-nine percent of the MTA’s workforce.
First stop, Ret’s. Happily the concierge from last Saturday was not on duty when Rannie entered the lobby. A young skinny guy was at the concierge desk; the maroon jacket he wore, with 69 East Sixty-Ninth Street stitched on the breast, was swimming on him . . . was there only one uniform and all the security guys had to share it?
Rannie approached him, cleared her throat, and hoped the addition of her newly repossessed scarf and wool duffle coat made more of a statement than the Yale pants or Converse high-tops. All businesslike brisk she introduced herself. “I’m Miranda Bookman. A week ago, a package was left for me in care of Ret Sullivan. I’m here to pick it up.”
His Adam’s apple, a considerable one, bobbled up and down. “Ms. Sullivan? Uh, I’m afraid . . . maybe you don’t know but—”
Rannie toned down the professional and assumed a just-sad-enough smile. “Yes. Of course I know about her passing.” Rannie would have preferred the plainer, more forthright “death”; however, her hunch was that the euphemism would play better with this guy. “Just awful, awful, awful. I worked with Ms. Sullivan. I was her editor on the book she just finished.” Rannie produced the S&S business card and hoped (A) the guy would be impressed with the title on it and (B) he would disregard its far-from-mint condition.
“Let me check if anything’s still here,” he said and in a moment returned with an 8½ × 11 manila envelope. Rannie’s heart practically went into tachycardia at the sight of it.
“Gee. I’m sorry but it just has Ms. Sullivan’s name on it.”
“I’ve been away. She was supposed to hold it for me. That’s why.”
He was shaking his head. “I’m sorry but I can’t—”
Rannie cut him off, returned to businesslike brisk, and threw some exasperation into the mix. “Look. This is important. Those are photos for Ms. Sullivan’s new book. Is there someone else I can talk to? Is the building manager around?”
“Michael! I need help with my bags.” A petulant voice preceded the entrance of a middle-aged woman who by the look of her outfit—a real Barbour jacket, expensive “driving” loafers, and brandy-colored cords—had returned from her weekend place. She was cradling a yappy terrier in a pink cable-knit sweater.
“Right with you, Mrs. Gordon.” Then to Rannie. “You could leave your card. I’ll ask the manager to call you Monday.” He placed the envelope by the phone console.
Rannie nodded and he hustled off toward a brass luggage cart stationed by the mailroom.
His back was to her. She snatched the envelope.
An adrenaline-infused “Go me!” rush acted like Super Premium Unleaded, propelling her out of the lobby.
Was it actually theft when the dupes had no value? Yes, Rannie decided. To call it anything else was hairsplitting semantics à la Bill Clinton and his famous definition of sex. At a pace that was faster than trotting but still didn’t really qualify as running, she traversed the two blocks to Paolo’s. At one point she heard a police siren and looked back, convinced that in a minute she’d be escorted via squad car to the nearest precinct to pose for her mug shot.
Rannie had always prided herself on what till now had been the unstickiest fingers among the Bookman sisters. As soon as Amy, older than Betsy by twenty months, had her learner’s permit in hand, they’d head to the mall every Saturday to shoplift cheap cosmetics from Walgreens. Rannie, who was no more than seven, was dragged along and forced to play decoy. Her sisters would generously steal a candy bar for her as payoff. Like that Proustian madeleine, Rannie could still conjure the taste, texture, and aroma of those purloined Snickers, how she savored their peanutty goodness but was simultaneously nauseated by waves of guilt. Tim was right: in another life, she’d definitely clocked a lot of hours in confessional booths.
Olivia and Nate had beaten her to Paolo’s. They were at a table in the back under a garish fresco of the Bay of Naples. Examining the photos had to be put on hold.
“We already ordered,” Nate told her and within ten minutes Rannie was gratified to see two medium-size clam and bacon pizzas arrive.
“I caught a glimpse of your parents at the funeral for Charlotte Cummings earlier today,” Rannie said.
Olivia did the throat-clearing thing. “Yeah, my mother was totally stressing over what to wear. I’m like, ‘Black, Mom. Black’ll work.’ She’s at Mrs. Gaines’s now. My mom is taking her on a trip next week maybe to Cabo.”
“Your mother sounds like a good friend.”
Olivia shrugged. “They haven’t known each other very long. My mom thinks Mrs. Gaines is a big deal because of her family.” Then, without Rannie having to resort to any unseemly probing, Olivia all on her own launched into a discourse offering up the fact, swaddled within layers of extraneous, forgettable information, that it was the Werners who actually owned Bibilots. Olivia didn’t state it so baldly—“I think my dad bought the whole building or something ages ago” was how she phrased it—and she referred to Bibi and her mother as “partners.” Yet since Olivia added, “Although I can’t remember when my mother ever worked a day there,” Rannie came away with the distinct impression that on some level, whatever livelihood Bibi Gaines earned from Bibilots came via the generosity of Carole Werner.
This was certainly not the larkish “working keeps me out of trouble” interpretation of her career delivered by Bibi that day Rannie had stopped in at Bibilots.
It was awfully hard to imagine Bibi Gaines needing to work in the same fiscally mandatory way Rannie Bookman needed to work. Bibi was rich . . . or rather she came from a rich family, which, Rannie stopped to remind herself, wasn’t precisely the same thing. Look at Mary Lorimer. She came from money, piles of it. However, the stringent terms of Mary’s father’s will were such that even now at eighty-two, she was allowed access only to the interest on her inheritance. Mary could never touch so much as a dime of the principal. Peter had told Rannie all this: “My grandfather didn’t think women could be trusted to handle money.”
Up until this past Tuesday, when Charlotte Cummings finally checked out, whatever inheritance coming Bibi’s way was theoretical, nothing Bibi could lay her hands on. Of course there was Bibi’s late mother—Daisy’s beloved friend—who must have provided for her only child. But Bibi was already getting into serious trouble before her mother’s death. Straight from Daisy’s lipstick-smeared lips had come the words “If melanoma hadn’t killed Madeline, worrying over Barbara would have.” So Madeline’s will might have taken precautions to keep the purse strings pulled tightly on inheritance money, ensuring that Bibi couldn’t squander it all on highly controlled substances.
Hard drugs were costly. An appetite for them would take a large bite out of anyone’s monthly budget, even a budget with a lot of zeros after the dollar sign. Still, nothing about present-day Barbara Gaines whispered, let alone screamed, substance abuser . . . except for Daisy’s comments about long sleeves and the one-hundredth birthday party. . . . Also, what was it Peter had said? Bibi had a knack for appearing fine when she was stoned out of her gourd.
“I’m going to walk O home,” Nate said once the check arrived, which with tax and tip included was only three dollars over Rannie’s earlier sixty-dollar guesstimate.
On Lexington Avenue, after waving good-bye, Rannie watched their two silhouettes head into the night, hand in hand, backlit by a streetlamp. She was happy for Nate, she was worried for Nate. But mostly she was hit with a sharp loneliness: almost like an amputee continuing to feel a phantom limb, she suddenly experienced the sensation of Tim’s hand in hers, the comfortable, warm pressure of his grasp. Her fingers flexed involuntarily, yet all she grasped now was the envelope of duplicate photos.
The headiness of having done something that her bad angel would applaud had disappeared. Now remembering the way she’d cased the lobby so furtively, then hotfooted it outside made her cringe. It was pathetic, a little scary too. If she didn’t watch out, thirty years from now she could wind up as “kooky” as her mother’s friend, the one who interpreted messages from the beyond in pennies laying in the street.
Chapter 25
The duplicates, about twenty, were spread on the coffee table; all were of the Fifth Avenue mansion, both exterior and interior shots. Larry was no Ansel Adams. Several were indecipherable blurs; one, taken at an odd angle, showed nothing more than a pair of feet, probably belonging to Bibi, in pink Tory Burch flats. All these went into a discard pile.
With a magnifying glass Rannie next inspected the photos she had seen before, the ones that were to be included in the book. I have absolutely no idea what I am looking for, she told herself. So how on earth would she know if she found it? It was a variation on the “what if I know something only I don’t know it” theme. Still Rannie kept looking. There was a photo of an eighteenth-century harpsichord in the conservatory, a shot of the dining room with a chandelier worthy of Versailles, and photos of the grand salon that Rannie had been in herself. There were a couple of photos of martyred saint paintings and three of the gigantic fireplace that needed to be assembled side by side in order to view the whole. To the right of the mantel another painting of a martyred saint was partially visible. Rannie didn’t recognize it from her quick tour with Bibi. She squinted. The saint was a young girl, her head yanked back savagely by a soldier in armor. The small brass ID plaque on the frame remained nothing more than a rectangular blur even under a magnifying glass.
Rannie leaned back on the sofa and, sighing, chalked off grabbing the photos as tangible proof that crime never paid. Then because the evening held nothing more urgent than waiting for Nate to come home, she searched through all the bookshelves in the living room for her copies of Ret’s books. As expected, she found no mention of Gery Antioch on any of the earlier acknowledgment pages. Nor, by using an old set of Scrabble tiles, did Rannie get any further than Larry and his puzzle friend had in finding another name hidden in the same letters. . . . Unless—Rannie sat back and thought for a moment—Gery Antioch wasn’t a name but a phrase, a phrase that was some sort of clue, in which case maybe adding in “For” to “Gery Antioch” would yield results. Rannie played with various letter arrangements. But no, all she came up with was
Almost True Confessions Page 23
