by Leslie Glass
Twenty-one
Just before noon April, Mike, and Inspector Bellaqua met in the video section at One Police Plaza to view the video of Tovah Schoenfeld's wedding preparadons. It was crowded in the room where usually only one person pored over surveillance tapes of banks, stores, fast-food chains, and the elevators of housing projects where crimes had been committed. This was an eerie first. Not many homicide detecdves got to see their vicdm alive and the murder scene being constructed.
The video opens on the synagogue with its two bloodred azalea bushes out front, then cuts to a Caucasian male, five-ten, heavy build. Distinguishing feature: a blond pompadour that stood up a good three inches. He's wearing a pink silk shirt and fusses with the huppah, his lips moving as he waves away the camera. Get out of here, he's saying.
There is no audio or time frame. The next sequence shows a good-looking, skinny Latino, five-five, five-six, wearing tight jeans. His thick black hair is in a short ponytail. He's adjusting flowers in the party room, sashaying from table to table, aware of the camera. He sticks a lily stem between his teeth and poses. Cut. Next, waitresses are setting the tables with glasses, silver, napkins, plates. Three women— all have thick curly hair and gold Jewish stars around their necks. Cut to a short take of an African American, black as midnight, a big man, around six-two. He's standing by the exit door between two orange trees with an unreadable expression on his face. Cut to an elaborate ice sculpture on the food table, not yet beginning to melt. Cut to .. .
"There she is," Bellaqua said.
Tovah appears, disconcertingly alive with her hair in rollers under a hair dryer. Her hands are splayed in front of her on a table. Only the back of the manicurist is seen as she bends over her task of painting Tovah's nails are pearl pink. The manicurist has red hair. On the table beside Tovah is the blond wig on a Styrofoam head. Behind her are many colorful dresses hanging on a clothes rack, among them her wedding gown and veil in two plastic bags. Tovah looks at the camera as if she doesn't see it.
"She looks drugged," April commented.
"Mmmm," Bellaqua agreed.
"Weird," Mike murmured.
Cut to a little girl on the floor crying. Tovah leans over to hug her, hands her a hard candy The little girl takes the candy, puts it in her mouth, and stops crying. Tovah smiles.
"There. She looks okay there," Mike said. "Pretty girl. Likes children."
Cut to Tovah and her mother and grandmother arm in arm. Tovah's hair and nails are done. She's smiling here, too.
"She looks fine here. Eyes are okay," April said.
Cut to ...
"Ah," Bellaqua sighed.
"Just look at that!" Mike marveled.
At last, Tovah is wearing her voluminous wedding dress. A small Asian male stoops to arrange the folds of the dress, then steps back and tosses a cloud of white over her. A fog drops over her. The veil makes Tovah look as if she's trapped inside a tent of mosquito netting.
"Jesus. That's something. Who's that guy?" April said.
"Name's Kim. He's from the dress store."
"She sent someone?" April said, incredulous. Tang again. Not good. The presence of Ching's famous friend in this case was beginning to bother her.
"Guess so."
Cut to Tovah in her ten-thousand-dollar tent walking out of the room—not into the party room, but into the corridor on the other side that leads to the elevator that leads to the rabbi's study on the second floor. The camera follows her and her mother into the study, where Rabbi Levi waits with her father and the Ribikoffs. Nothing can be seen of Tovah through her veil as an illustrated scroll of some kind is brought out and displayed. Papers are signed.
It's a long movie. Then the camera follows the bride, her train, and her family downstairs to the corridor outside the sanctuary. Cut. The film ends at the open door of the sanctuary. They groaned and played the video two more times.
"Let's get stills of all the non-family members," April said. "We'll see if anyone saw them."
"Yep. And backgrounds on all of them. It's time to widen the net. Maybe one of these people hates Jews enough to kill one," Bellaqua said. "Ugly," she murmured. "Let's break for some lunch."
They left headquarters and walked across the street for a hamburger at the Metropolitan. While they ate Mike recounted his interview with the Ribikoffs. April did not say a word about going up to COOP City to pee in a cup, but she did describe her visit to the Schoenfelds.
"Tovah was a very nervous girl, probably had an anxiety disorder that was treated with antacids and bed rest. She liked shopping trips in the city with her mother and grandmother, but didn't do well with the strict adherence to rules. Apparently Tovah didn't like controls and direction. Her sisters said she was the only one who consistently wiggled out of tasks and schoolwork and anything else she didn't want to do. She had headaches and tuned out a lot."
Bellaqua shook her head. "So we've got zip on the families and their friends."
"No one who was present had opportunity. Everybody was accounted for, but. .." Mike shrugged.
"But what?" April asked.
"The families were at odds before the incident. Ribikoff took the ring because he didn't trust the Schoenfelds to give it back, and he didn't want his son marrying a damaged item. He was thinking very clearly, almost as if he had a plan."
"Oy." Bellaqua picked up the tab, thought about it for a minute.
"Okay, let's take it further, then. We'll run a check on everyone Ribikoff knows, every call he made in the last month, every withdrawal from his bank. See what he was up to." She rolled her eyes. "It's a hell of a way to break off an engagement, but we'll follow it through."
Mike nodded as she paid the bill. "Thanks. They make good burgers here."
Bellaqua didn't answer. She and April were heading for the door. Already on to the next thing.
After lunch, Mike checked with Ballistics to see what they had on the gun. He couldn't make contact with the right person so he and April headed uptown to see the blond guy in the video, the florist who called himself Louis like one of the French kings. On the way April told him about her two-minute conversation with Hollis. "I told him we'd deal with Wendy ourselves. Do our own background on her."
"How did he take it?"
"Seemed fine with it."
Louis's shop was icy, and they almost walked out when they saw a woman with little packages of foil in rows all over her head sitting under a hair dryer reading a magazine. Then they saw Louis.
"Come on in. We do hair on Wednesdays," he said.
"Sergeant Woo, Lieutenant Sanchez," Mike said.
"Louis the Sun King. What can I do for you?" Louis's hair was yellow. It stood straight up. His shirt was purple. Stuck in the open collar was an ascot. Bright red and yellow spilled out. His nails were manicured, shiny. His accent was slightly, incongruously British. He tilted his head and looked, for a second, like a huge, curious canary.
"We're investigating the Tovah Schoenfeld homicide," Mike took the lead.
"A terrible tragedy. Come out in the garden where we can talk." Officiously, he patted his astonishing pompadour.
As they walked through the shop, April glanced around at the planters and display of glass and porcelain vases. Everything looked expensive. Outside, Louis plopped himself on a garden chair in the shade of the building next door and indicated to Mike and April the two chairs in the sun. Mike moved them into the shade and waited for April to sit down.
"I've already made a statement. What else do you want to know?" Louis said, leaning back in his chair.
"Details. A lot more details."
"Why? Do you suspect me?" Louis laughed loudly.
Mike sniffed delicately and took out his notebook. "How did you get the Schoenfeld job?" he asked.
"They came in one day. They wanted something no one else they know had done. And, of course, the more the better. The Schoenfelds were not hard to please."
"People just come in off the street?" Mike said incredulously.
"How do they know about you?"
"Oh, the magazines. I've been written up in all the industry rags. Plus the New York Times, Town and Country. Word of mouth." Again the hand went to his hair.
"I understand you have a waiting list. And people offer to change their dates just to get you." This from April.
"The spring is a busy time," Louis said modestly.
"So people don't just come off the street," she said.
"Well." He lifted a shoulder.
"Who referred the Schoenfelds?" Mike again.
"I'll have to check. Maybe it was Wendy Lotte. I've been doing a lot of work with Wendy lately."
April glanced at Mike. Wendy again.
"Does Wendy get a commission?" she asked.
Louis looked surprised. "Why do you ask?"
"Decorators get commissions on everything they provide for a job. I just wondered if party planning works the same way." April was all over it. She'd checked it out. Party planners got a commission on everything.
"No, I have one fee. The principals pay me directly. It doesn't go through Wendy," he said glibly.
She made a note that he was a liar. "Does Wendy use other people?" she asked.
"Oh, of course. And so do I."
Mike grew silent as April took over and led Louis through his movements the two days before the Schoenfeld event. It took a while. They got an earful on the difficulties of working with suppliers of all kinds. This week, for example, Louis needed fresh coconut palm fronds. He had to order out of state. He showed them the plans for the Hay wedding.
"The Hays wanted whole grass huts constructed, but the St. Regis refused, so they had to settle on thatched umbrellas with twinkling lights."
Mike and April saw how a ballroom got transformed into a fantasy place.
"Sometimes a client wants to create a real night sky complete with the Big Dipper and the Milky Way. I use theater techies for lighting, and carpentry. They're the best." Louis's hand went to his hair again. "I love the theater, don't you?"
"Absolutely," April said.
Then Mike asked where Louis's staff had been at the time of the shoodng.
"We were gone long before the guests began arriving/' Louis said.
Mike asked a few more questions about his relationship to Wendy, then collected the names and addresses of the "boys" in the video. Tito wasn't there at the moment, but Louis explained where he could be reached.
"Ah, and Jama?"
"Jama isn't his real name," Louis said. "I call him Jama because he's from Africa. That's how they say hello there."
April knew Louis was misinformed about that or lying again. "What's his real name, then?" she asked.
"I have no idea. He didn't tell me," Louis said loftily.
"Where is he now?"
"Home sick."
"What's wrong with him?"
"He's scared to death of cops. Wouldn't you be if someone was murdered and you were the only one on the scene who happened to be black?"
Mike took the man's address and stuffed his notebook back in his jacket pocket. From the car April called Poppy on her cell.
The inspector didn't have anything on the others yet, but a computer check on Louis's social security number revealed his real name as Steve Creese.
"Guy comes from western Connecticut, near Hartford. At the age of six, he and his older brother, David, were removed from their parents. An arsonist, possibly their estranged father, burned down the house, severely injuring their mother. Steve grew up in a number of foster homes, got in trouble in middle school, straightened himself out in high school. He turned up running an art gallery in Hawaii in the early eighties. Returned to California in the late eighties, where he dressed sets for movies. Migrated back east and became the assistant to Jack Eldridge, a well-known florist whose inspiration was the regimented shrubs and gardens of Louis the Fourteenth. Jack Eldridge died of AIDS in 'ninety-three. Steve Creese inherited the shop and the business and reinvented himself as Louis the Sun King."
April handed the phone to Mike. He heard it all again. Then she dialed the lab out in Jamaica. Still no word on the gun. The rest of the day was busy, but uneventful. Just after ten April headed home to Queens alone, disappointed when Mike didn't mention spending the night together.
Twenty-two
P
rudence Hay woke up on Wednesday morning with the dreads, the same dreads she'd had for the few last months about whether she really wanted to marry Thomas Fenton, or not really The dreads were nauseating. Dizzy making. She'd also had too much to drink last night, trying to goad some life into him. She pulled her face out from under a mountain of pillows, rolled over on her back, and tried to make the room stop spinning.
OhGodithurt.
Her thoughts were as agonizing as her hangover. They spun with the room, for Thomas was perfect on paper but not so perfect in real life.
I want to get married. I don't want to get married.
Oh, Prudence felt sick. She was in her bed in the Sutton Place apartment where they were staying all week until the wedding—barely three days away. Her room was all pink and apple green.
Girlie
was the only word for it. She groaned. She adored her mother even though her mother was sometimes silly and extravagant. Her mother had been loyal to her no matter what she did, and she'd had her share of scrapes growing up. Her mother wanted her to marry Thomas Fenton: he was tall, dark, handsome, suitable in every way. Her father was her rock, her advisor, and her friend. She was his only daughter, and he wanted her to marry Thomas Fenton: his family was prominent and wealthy. He trusted Thomas to take good care of her. Already Thomas had bought an apartment for them and was making it absolutely perfect. Everything with Thomas had to be perfect except himself.
He didn't like travel, didn't like going out and having fun. Didn't play golf or tennis, didn't finish work before ten or eleven even on weekends. And he didn't get hard when he hugged her. That was the problem. He had no passion, no juice. Still, he was every girl's dream. He was on partner track, had money in the bank. He was a perfectionist who personally oversaw every detail of the apartment renovations so that she didn't have to worry about a thing. Thomas wanted her totally free of worry, just a happy-go-lucky wife with nothing much to do. When he wasn't fussing with the contractors, he was working to make money all the time so she could have a perfect life. A hammer beat in Pru's head as she imagined Thomas's vision for her perfect, orderly life. She was twenty-four. He was thirty-two and certain she was the One. Everyone she knew thought he was an absolute doll. All twelve of her bridesmaids thought so. Thomas kissed her on the street, insisted on holding hands all the time, and no one knew their infrequent sex together took less than two minutes. He had no staying power. She wasn't sure how much it should matter to her.
"How about some coffee?"
"Jesus! Get out of here, Anthony!" Prudence yelped. "It creeps me out when you do that." She sat up, clutching her throbbing head. Why did Anthony do that! "Jesus! Are you crazy!" she said, furious at him for yet another intrusion into her private space. He had no right to come into her room.
"Wendy is here opening your gifts. I'd worry about it if I were you," he said, neutral as always.
"You aren't me," she said. "I trust Wendy completely. What is she going to do, take something?"
"You should open your own gifts," he told her. "If you were a happy girl, you'd be taking an interest."
"I'm a happy
woman.
And it's not your business. Haven't you heard of the intercom?" she added.
"I'm worried about you, and you don't answer the intercom."
"I told you I don't like your bugging me." Prudence sighed. "I'm not a little girl anymore."
Anthony humphed about that. He didn't move. He stood in the doorway, looking at her. She hated that.
"Wendy wants to go over the guest list and the seating plan with you. Your mother wants you to go over to Louis's after you
r fitting. She'll meet you at the florist's. Hurry up. It's getting late."
"All right, all right. I'm coming. Close the door, will you?"
"Is everything all right, Pru? You look so unhappy—"
"Close the door, Anthony."
"I'll get your coffee."
"Fine, but don't bring it here. I'll have it in the dining room."
"Very good." Anthony backed out and closed the door.
Unhappy? She didn't like him saying that. She wasn't unhappy. She just had a hangover. Prudence threw back the covers all the way She was wearing a peach slip and nothing else. Groaning, she dragged herself out of bed.
Ohshitohshitohshit. I feel like dog food.
Muttering this, she stumbled to the bathroom, where she tossed down two aspirin without water, then squinted at herself in the mirror. She breathed noisily through her nose as she assessed the damage. Did she look unhappy? No, she did not. But she did look pretty wasted. Thomas wouldn't like seeing her like that. She didn't want Wendy seeing her wasted, either. Spoiled her glow.
She splashed cold water on her face.
Hello.
She was back in the world, about to be Mrs. Thomas Fenton. Never mind that that her head hurt like hell, and she somedmes had a niggling worry. Life was great. It would all work out. She knew it would. She threw on jeans and a T-shirt and padded into the dining room, where Wendy sat with a mountain of opened blue Tiffany boxes.
"Okay, I'm ready," Prudence said brightly, smiling and happy again. "Bring it on."
Twenty-three
W
endy's life fell apart when she was ten, after a jolt of pure terror forged together a jumble of images. War was on the news, and though science was on her mind, war was in her heart, too. That day she'd killed the gardener's pet rabbit to feed the shark.
Feeding the shark had not been her smart idea. Her brother Randy wanted to see if a shark would eat a rabbit. But Randy was with Daddy on a hunting trip in Alaska and she'd been left alone for many days, so she'd decided to do some hunting herself. She killed the big tame white rabbit that was a prize from a local magic show, then put it in a garbage bag and hid it under the dock.
