I kept that answer to myself. “That’s not how it was with Venus and Harry. All those hours on-line, they became soul mates. What they saw when they met in the flesh, that wasn’t going to change it. At least, that’s what Venus said. And then there’s this new will—that sure lets me think Harry thought the world of her, both before he met her and afterward.”
“Don’t tell me.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“What do I think?”
“That Harry left her a bundle.”
“He didn’t?”
“Uh-uh. No money. No houses. No cars. Not even a stock portfolio.”
“Then what?”
“He left her in control of the trust for Harbor View.”
Chip whistled.
“So she was right,” I said, “She is in hot water. More than she knows, because I’m so mad I could strangle her. Do you believe this? She thinks her life’s in danger, but she neglects to mention the cause.”
I must have been shouting, because Dashiell came over to see what I was so steamed up about.
Chip groaned.
“Sorry,” I said. But all I could think about was Venus, the way she eked her story out at the gym, that diamond necklace, the one she kept hidden at work, winking at me as she pulled the wool over my eyes. “Damn.”
“You’re worried about her?”
“That, too.”
Then there was a silence. I thought it might be nice if I acted like a normal human being for the rest of the call.
“What did you do today?” I asked.
Took the kids horseback riding. I’m a little rusty at it. I need to get into a hot tub. But first, tell me what I’m missing by being here and not in New York.”
“Ah, the East Coast news. Well, it’s all good for a change.”
“Truly?”
“Absolutely. For starters, New York was chosen for chip research.”
“No.”
“It’s true. It was in the Times.”
“Potato or corn?”
“Semiconductor. I don’t know what this is, so I didn’t read the rest of the article. But still.”
He laughed.
“Next, the Donald was foiled big-time. He tried to get some old lady’s house in Atlantic City condemned so that he could add more parking for his casino. Get this. He said her house was ugly, and the parking lot would beautify Atlantic City.”
“His greed must be boundless.”
“Yeah, and he’s no gentleman.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow. Sleep tight,” he whispered.
“You, too.”
“And be careful.”
“I will,” I promised, after he’d hung up.
I put the phone down on the top step and walked out into the garden, looking up at the sky, streaks of gray and inky blue, a cloud cover, no stars visible.
Earlier in the evening, while I was returning Harry’s new will to the back of Venus’s file drawer, Homer hadn’t been listening outside the office door. He’d been in the kitchen, brewing tea, setting out two place mats on the butcher block counter, filling a bowl with fresh, cool water for Dashiell, from the looks of things, polishing up the teaspoon he then set out on the carefully folded napkin, making sure it had no spots on it. When I’d joined him in the kitchen, Harbor View as quiet as a mausoleum, he’d jumped up and pulled out the stool on my side of the counter and taken the napkin off the plate of homemade cookies, then asked if Dashiell could have a dog biscuit—one of Lady’s, he’d said, but he’d checked the expiration date on the box, and they were still fresh. He’d taken his napkin, I thought to put it on his lap, but no, he’d wiped his eyes with it. Looking at him, this little man with his polished shoes, I wondered again if he had stolen Lady from Harbor View, if he had taken away the dog that made everyone, including himself, happier than they were before she’d come.
Or if, one recent night, he had lurked outside on West Street, sitting on the seat of a bicycle, then riding it full tilt into the man who had employed him, the man he’d called a saint, unable to look me in the eye when he did.
Despite his lie, I didn’t think so. But that was because some unrealistic and juvenile part of me didn’t want to believe—as if I didn’t know better—that murderers could seem so nice, that a man who had plotted and killed wouldn’t think to offer water to a thirsty dog or worry about a senile old lady’s aluminum foil tiara.
Someone else could have been here the night Venus had whispered into her tapped phone, someone who, unlike Homer, had something to gain from Harry’s death.
Or at least thought so.
Standing in my garden, no sound to distract me, I thought about the service at the Society for Ethical Culture, where I would more than likely meet the person who had executed Harry Dietrich, a person who had great expectations about the benefits that would fall to them upon Harry’s death, a person who, when Friday rolled around, was going to be gravely disappointed.
And really annoyed.
Unless whoever it was already knew the awful truth.
CHAPTER 16
Don’t Get Me Started, She Said
A heavyset man in a dark suit, not a gray hair out of place, a wine-colored handkerchief in his breast pocket to match his tie, walked somberly to the podium. He looked down, studying his hands, it seemed, which he’d carefully placed there, maybe checking to see if the girl had trimmed his nails evenly before she’d coated them with clear polish. After more time than it took a Chihuahua to make all gone with a bowl of kibble, he began to speak, still not looking at his audience, a large group of mourners mostly in shades of black and gray, filling the seats of the flower-lined conference room.
“Putting the needs of others before his own, using his wealth for the benefit of the community, helping those who could not help themselves”—slowly, dramatically, he lifted his head, looking around at the attentive faces lined up before him—“this was Henry Knowlton Dietrich, tender caretaker, devoted husband, loyal brother, philanthropist.”
At that point a young man in the front row stood. The speaker came around to the side of the podium, bent his head to listen, then returned to his place and cleared his throat.
“Harry Knowlton Dietrich,” he said, “was, in everyone’s estimation, a good man.”
There was some throat clearing and a few coughs, people trying hard not to laugh.
Whoever the speaker was, he certainly hadn’t known Harry. Still, overcome with grief, he removed the handkerchief from his pocket, took off his aviator bifocals, and dabbed at his eyes.
“A life of giving, not of taking, a life of searching for answers, for others rather than himself, a life of devotion to the memory of his beloved sister, this was Harry Knowlton Dietrich.”
Feeling secure that I’d absorbed the pattern and the theme of the eulogy, enough so that if any of the relatives gave a pop quiz on the way out, I could pass it with flying colors, I tuned out the booming voice as best I could and began to look around the room. I was sitting in the last row, all the way to the left. From there I could see just about everyone in my half of the assembly.
The woman in the front row wearing designer mourning clothes, a dark gray suit with a pale gray blouse, was also dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, only hers seemed to have a lace trim on it. She had to be Arlene Poole, Harry’s sister-in-law. At her left sat a thirty-something woman in a black cloche hat. I couldn’t see much of her face, but I could see the utter perfection of her blond hair and just about a thousand dollars worth of her pearl necklace. To Arlene’s right was her son, the young man who had corrected the speaker’s error, seated again now. A shock of his blond hair kept falling into his eyes, and he’d periodically swing his head to knock it back into place. He didn’t have a handkerchief in his hands, but when he turned toward his mother to catch something she was whispering, I saw that his lips were pursed in annoyance. Hey, he might have given up a tennis date for this, and it wasn’t as if Uncle Harry could even appreciate, or reward, hi
s sacrifice.
Or perhaps his lips were pursed for another reason. Perhaps Bailey Poole was impatient to inherit what would have been his had the original will not been superseded by a later version, a substantial amount of money—enough, I’d say, so that he’d never have to miss a tennis date again.
Of course, all was not lost. The new will left Bailey one of Harry’s cars, the beautiful racing green Jag that probably spent half its life at the shop getting its timing adjusted, but hey, you got a Jag, that’s to be expected. Which may be why Harry had several other cars.
Oddly enough, there had been no chauffeur waiting out front the last day that Harry had headed home, the day he was hit by a bicycle and never got to walk over to Fourteenth Street, hop on the subway, and ride to his apartment on the Upper East Side.
And Janice Poole, I wondered if her lips were pursed too. Instead of inheriting a trust fund that would let her spend her summers in France and might inspire her next husband, should there be one, to retire before he reached his fortieth birthday, Janice was getting some of the lovely antique furniture from Harry’s apartment, French pieces that might not even be to her taste. C’est la vie.
But I didn’t think they knew that yet. Just as I didn’t think Eli Kagan knew what was in the new will. I was only sure that one other person here had read the will, the person who had hired me because she thought her life might be in danger. A good guess from where I sat, still angry over her sin of omission.
I looked around for the Kagans, but I couldn’t see Samuel, so I assumed they were on the other side of the room. What would they be thinking if they knew what I knew? Even if all three of them turned out to be saints, I didn’t think they’d be particularly happy with the new arrangements for Harbor View, those putting Venus White in charge of operations, those requiring Eli Kagan, when he needed something, to have to get approval from a former employee.
The eulogy was coming to a crescendo, the stentorious voice even louder than it had been at the onset, the talk more about the eloquence of the speaker than the accomplishments of the deceased and, as far as I was concerned, much too annoying and much too long.
Everyone was standing, so I stood too, just hanging back as people went to give their condolences to Harry’s sister-in-law, his niece and nephew, and to say some kind words to the Kagan family as well. As the group thinned out, I walked up front. Venus was talking to Eli, and he was nodding, his face soft, his hands not around her throat. I was right. He hadn’t read the will.
Of course not. They would all read the will on Friday, sitting in Harry’s lawyer’s office, each, at last, with his or her own copy, discovering what Harry had done just days before he’d died. That was why the clock was ticking so fast: on Friday, they’d all find out. That’s what was scaring Venus.
I walked up to join her, and she introduced me to Eli, Samuel, and Nathan.
“We’ve met,” Samuel said, his face glistening with sweat the way it had been when he was trying to get the kids to sing along with him.
“I’m sorry I haven’t had the chance to welcome you before,” Eli said. “There’s so much to take care of now. I’ve been keeping irregular hours, sometimes not even coming in at all, just making phone calls from home.”
“I understand.”
“Venus tells me you’ve had some remarkable experiences with our residents already.”
He was short, like his former partner, and no youngster. I thought he was probably a few years older than Harry had been. But unlike his son Samuel, he had a grim face. When I looked at his eyes, I got nothing back but reflected light. And his lips, under a trimmed white brush of a mustache, were drawn. Hey, this was a funeral, what did I expect? But Samuel looked almost cheerful. And Nathan looked as if he were here in body only, his attention very far away. In fact, when I took a better look, his attention wasn’t that far away at all. It was only across the room, on the Poole family.
Nathan was taller than his father and his brother, heavier too, a mountain of a man. Perhaps his mother had been a large woman, more statuesque than her husband. And large boned.
He was dark, with even features, a long, straight nose, a lovely mouth. Perhaps his mother had been dark, with a lovely mouth. A cupid’s bow.
He began to smile. I thought he was finally going to say something to me, but he didn’t. I turned again and saw the Pooles approaching, the mother’s face a mask with the startled look and pointy chin that come from one or two too many face-lifts. Bailey was still pouting. Perhaps that was his normal expression. And Janice looked bored, as if there were dozens of places she could name where she’d rather be. As they got closer, something struck me as almost funny. Like her mother, Janice was wearing gray, a smart little suit with a short, short skirt and black braid trimming along the neck and fronts of the collarless jacket. Her shoes were dark too, black kid, new and expensive looking. But her handbag was red, one of those designer things that cost more than the annual salary of people in third world countries. Perhaps it was as new as it looked, and she couldn’t bear to leave it home.
“Janice,” Nathan said. But she was fiddling with those pearls and didn’t seem to hear him.
Arlene was talking to Eli, and Samuel was talking to Bailey. I gave Nathan the old Kaminsky grin, thinking I could start a conversation. But he didn’t smile back.
“We have to talk,” Arlene was saying to Eli.
Perhaps that was what had snagged Nathan’s attention. He took a step closer to his father, both of them standing with their hands clasped in front of them, like ushers with no one to escort down the aisle.
“Of course, of course. Why don’t we have lunch?” Eli said.
Now it was Arlene’s turn at a farbisen punim. She seemed to pull her lips in so that they all but disappeared, but then she nodded. “Let’s do,” she said. “No sense waiting.”
“Mrs. Poole,” Samuel said, sweating and smiling, “this is Rachel Alexander. She’s doing pet therapy at Harbor View now, and—”
“I’m sure she is, dear,” Arlene said, never looking at me.
I looked at Bailey, who was flinging some hair out of his eyes. I wondered if I should tell him the good news, that someone had invented hair gel, but thought that perhaps this wasn’t the place for it.
Janice had opened her red purse and was fishing around inside. Perhaps she’d talk to me. After all, she looked to be about my age, give or take any work she might have had done—cheek implants, dermabrasion, whatever. But that didn’t happen either. Anyway, Venus was pulling on the back of my jacket, trying in her subtle way to get me out of there.
“Let’s go,” she whispered to my back.
We said good-bye quickly, and I followed her out.
“They don’t seem close,” I said in the hallway.
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t get me started,” she said.
“Get started,” I said, as we headed down the stairs. “I have a job to do. I need information.”
Venus stopped and looked at me, as if that had never occurred to her.
“They’re the kind of rich people that give rich people a bad name, snobs without, in my humble opinion, anything about which to feel superior.”
Finished, she headed down the stairs and out to the street.
“Is that it?”
“Harry didn’t like them,” she said, “but he was always decent to them.”
“Well, they are his wife’s family.”
Suddenly Venus looked grim.
Or was that an angry look? Well, in that case, she had some company.
She walked up to the curb and stuck her arm up. As a cab pulled up, she turned back to me. “They weren’t exactly his favorite charity.” She opened the door and waited for me to get in first.
I knew that, I thought, sliding over to make room for Venus. In fact, I knew a lot more than that.
If Venus wasn’t telling me what she knew, perhaps I should be the one talking. It was high time someone gave out with some information. Besides, it was gett
ing more and more difficult for me to contain myself.
Especially since Friday wasn’t all that far away.
CHAPTER 17
You Know How Families Are
I could barely keep my mouth shut until Venus closed the door and told the driver to head downtown, to Jane and West.
“What in hell’s name were you thinking,” I said, “hiring me and not giving me the information I need to do my job?”
Venus looked away.
“I have my reasons.”
“I know your reasons,” I told her, so angry I was trembling. “I know why you wanted me to find out who killed Harry by Friday.”
She turned and looked at me, then turned away again.
“We’ve got to talk.”
“Okay, Rachel. But we have to go someplace where no one will overhear us.”
“And where would that be?”
“Six six six Greenwich Street,” she told the driver.
“I don’t think so.” I shook my head. “Make that Hudson and Tenth,” I told him.
“Why?”
“Your phone at work is tapped. Can you assure me that your apartment isn’t bugged?”
“But how—”
“Harry’s is bugged, too. I couldn’t get into Eli’s office. Any bets on that one?”
She shook her head.
“How did you—?”
“Harry’s, through the window. It wasn’t locked.”
I thought about Jackson, out in the garden where he wasn’t supposed to be, but kept my mouth shut. Maybe the worst thing about being in an institution is that you have no secrets.
But then I thought the opposite was true at Harbor View. For people like Jackson and David, almost everything about them was a secret. Nonetheless, I kept the faith, at least for now.
“And my office? How’d you get in there?”
“Homer.”
She shot me a look.
“I said I had to call my boyfriend, and he let me use your phone.”
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