Fortune Favors the Dead

by Stephen Spotswood

  When I finished, she took a full two seconds before asking, “Is there any reason to consider taking this case other than the clients’ bank account?”

  “Their bank account is nothing to sneeze at,” I told her. “At least according to the latest stock prices in the Journal. But if filthy lucre doesn’t interest you, there’s also the fact that it’s an honest-to-God locked-room mystery. A locked-room mystery! How often do you get one of those?”

  “I don’t have the same fascination with pulp conceits as you.”

  “How about that it’s the brutal murder of a woman and the police have come up dry, and you have a civic duty to do your best to see the killer brought to justice?”

  “There are many murders I could turn my attention to,” she countered. “Most affecting families who are unable to leverage their wealth to hire a private consultant.”

  I arranged my limbs in a posture of defeat. “You got me,” I said. “I guess I’ll just have to call and cancel.”

  I reached for the phone but froze, as if suddenly remembering something. “Oh, there is this.” I pulled a newspaper clipping from my vest pocket and casually tossed it across her desk. Cautiously, she picked it up and scanned it.

  It was from a day-three follow-up on the murder. I’d circled a name buried on the jump page. When she came to it, Ms. Pentecost perked up. Or at least one eyebrow raised a quarter of an inch, which is as perky as she gets.

  “Why haven’t I seen this before?”

  “You’ve been braids-deep in the Palmetto case, so you’re still catching up on the clippings,” I said. “Also, this is an Enquirer story. We don’t usually pick up that rag. Lucky I even saw it.”

  “Are we sure it’s accurate? They could be making it up. You said that no other paper included a guest list.”

  “It’s possible,” I admitted. “I don’t have a person at the Enquirer. But I could probably ferret somebody out within a day or two and slip them a twenty. No, scratch that. They’d be a new contact so it’d have to be a C-note. Then we could cross our fingers that their information’s legit, because it’s the Enquirer, after all. They’d frame their mother on the front page if it would sell a paper. Or…”

  “Or we could ask the Collinses when they arrive just who was at their party,” Ms. P finished with a dollop of sarcasm.

  “That’s certainly something to consider,” I said.

  She tapped a finger against the side of her not-quite-hook nose and stared off into space. After a few seconds’ hard thinking she said, “Go up to the archives and retrieve any clippings on the Collins family, including the father’s suicide.”

  “You think there’s a connection?”

  “I don’t think anything yet. I don’t even know if I’ll take the case. But it’s better to have the information at hand than to be found wanting.”

  I asked her if she’d like the files on the other character—the person whose name I’d circled—but she told me no. She was already familiar with it.

  I hurried up two flights to the high-ceilinged room that takes up the entirety of our third floor. The space is filled with rows of tall shelves and resembles certain areas of the Forty-second Street library. A giant Egyptian carpet creates an island in the middle of it all. A comfortable armchair and a tall Tiffany lamp hold a place of honor in its center. The sea of shelves surrounding the island is filled with file boxes, hundreds of them. Each firmly sealed to protect their contents from the light streaming through the skylights that checkerboard the ceiling.

  The boxes contain years’ worth of meticulously organized clippings on crimes, notable events, and citizens of interest, as well as case notes, curiosities, evidence, and assorted strange objects that Ms. Pentecost has picked up over the course of her career.

  I found the correct box, and sure enough there were clippings on Alistair Collins’s suicide. One of my tasks is to cut out any articles on unsolved deaths or general weirdness and file them away for possible future use. I’ve tried to convince her that this is wasted energy, since each newspaper has its own morgue, to which I can gain easy access. But she likes having everything close at hand.

  I brought the files down and she read through them while I clipped new articles from that morning’s papers. The choices that day included the drug overdose of Charlie Silverhorn, a semifamous jazz musician, and the latest in a string of burglaries plaguing the Central Park–adjacent crowd.

  At three on the dot, the bell rang. I opened the door to Rebecca and Randolph Collins, whom I recognized from their pictures in the papers, and Harrison Wallace, who introduced himself as acting CEO of Collins Steelworks and executor of the Collins estate. He was the fussy patrician I’d spoken to over the phone.

  Relieving the three of their hats and coats, I directed them to the chairs facing Ms. Pentecost. Then I planted myself at my own desk, where I could get a good look at our visitors.

  Wallace was a lawyer right out of central casting. Somewhere between middle age and retirement, he was tall and stoop shouldered, with a high forehead and half-moon glasses centered in a profile that could have been handsome if you made a dozen or so adjustments. His skin hung too loose in some places and adhered too tightly to his skull in others. His gray two-button was fashionable enough but suffered from the same poor fit as his face. He carried a leather briefcase and set it down next to his chair, giving me a look like he was afraid I might pull a snatch-and-run. Perched between the siblings, he looked like a pigeon who’d fallen in with doves.

  I describe Wallace first to get him out of the way, because the Collins twins were two of the most beautiful humans I’ve ever laid eyes on, and my days in the circus had introduced me to some lookers.

  I knew from the papers that they were a hair under twenty-one. What I didn’t know was which was prettier: Randolph with his knife-edge cheekbones and Cupid’s bow mouth perched atop a six-foot-tall swimmer’s body? Or Rebecca with her gentle Gene Tierney overbite and not-so-gentle Rita Hayworth physique squeezed down into a size-two frame?

  They both sported blue eyes and white-blond hair, his slicked back, hers in ringlets that dangled to just below her ears. He was in a light gray suit whose casually rumpled cut likely cost at least three bills for a tailor to get just so. She wore a dark blue dress with white polka dots that left her arms bare. Not something I’d usually care for, but she made a case for it.

  I looked up to find her watching me watching her. Something in her look brought the blood to my cheeks. I found myself wishing I’d taken more than two minutes on my hair.

  The pigeon chirped first.

  “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice, Miss Pentecost,” Wallace said.

  My boss held up a hand. “Ms. Pentecost, please. I am unmarried and, I believe, have long outgrown ‘Miss.’ ”

  Wallace was ruffled, but not overly so. “Of course. Ms. Pentecost. I suppose it’s no mystery why we’ve asked to consult with you.”

  “I despise making assumptions,” my boss declared. “If forced, I’d assume it’s concerning the recent death of Abigail Collins and the police’s inability to locate a culprit.”

  Wallace snorted. “That’s a very polite way of saying that the police are idiots. Which they are.”

  “I’ve found New York City homicide detectives to be quite dogged.”

  “If by ‘dogged’ you mean chasing their tails, I agree,” he sniped. “They assured us this would be handled swiftly. Two weeks later, not only do they have no culprit, they have no leads, no suspects, and have taken to badgering the Collinses’ friends and associates.”

  “It’s not all that bad, Uncle Harry.” This was from Randolph, who arranged his Cupid’s bow into a soothing smile. “They’re just doing their job.”

  “Uncle,” by the way, was a purely ceremonial title. In the papers Wallace was described as a senior partner at Collins Steelworks and longti
me family friend. No blood relation.

  “It is bad,” Wallace corrected him. “The longer this goes on, the worse it is for the company.”

  “Could you elaborate, Mr. Wallace?” Ms. Pentecost asked.

  “With the death of Mrs. Collins unresolved, the majority control of Collins Steelworks remains in legal limbo. If you’ve read the Business section of the Times, you probably know all about it. With the war over, the company’s military contracts are up for renegotiation. If we lose them, we’ll be forced to return to a prewar footing manufacturing office supplies. Millions of dollars are at stake, and everything is up in the air because the police can’t do their job.”

  “I just wish they’d let us finally bury her.” This was from Rebecca, whose voice was a full octave deeper than I’d expected. Something you’d hear out of the throat of a jazz singer, not a socialite. “They still have her…body.”

  Wallace patted her knee. “Of course, dear. I shouldn’t have started off by focusing on business. That was thoughtless of me. You see, Ms. Pentecost, the police are not just playing with the finances of a multimillion-dollar company, but with the emotions of my godchildren. They deserve closure.”

  “What makes you think I will find success where the police cannot?” Ms. P asked. “And why turn to me specifically? There are larger organizations.”

  “You come highly recommended by several members of our board. By their wives, really,” Wallace explained.

  This wasn’t a surprise. Ms. P made a specialty of investigating crimes against women. Though it was a surprise that Wallace dropped this comment without the usual condescending tone you get from most men his age.

  “They praised you for your ingenuity but, more important, for your discretion,” he continued. “Those larger firms? We’ve used several in the past for other jobs. Suspected industrial espionage and that sort of thing. But they’re such large organizations, with so many men hired freelance. Too many chances for certain elements of the case to slip out.”

  “And that worries you?”

  The three shared a look I couldn’t decipher.

  “There are certain details around Abigail’s death that are…embarrassing,” Wallace said. “If you agree to take the case, you’ll hear all about them.”

  “I’m afraid I’ll need to hear about them first,” Ms. P said, casting her eyes over the group. “I never take a case blind.”

  Wallace puffed up his feathers. “I’m afraid that’s unacceptable. We need assurance that what’s said here will never be made public.”

  I decided to dip my toe in.

  “You’ve got the assurance of Ms. Pentecost’s reputation,” I told him. “If you don’t trust that, you should probably go with one of the big firms. They’ll take a case no questions asked.”

  Wallace squinted at me, like he was trying to figure out just what species of bird I was—pigeon, dove, or other.

  “This is ridiculous,” Randolph blurted. “The girl’s right. We should go to Sterling and Swan. Father trusted them implicitly. Remember that…incident…with the labor organizer?”

  Wallace shook his head. “No,” he said. “Too many staff; too many variables.”

  I could tell Ms. Pentecost was getting impatient.

  “Mr. Wallace,” she said with more than a little steel in her voice. “I’ve handled any number of sensitive cases, many of which my reputation is not built on, since no one but myself and my clients has ever heard of them. Whatever you have to tell me, I can assure you, unless it includes evidence of a crime or the intent to commit one, I will safeguard it.”

  “Just tell her,” Rebecca demanded, borrowing a little metal from my boss.

  Still, Wallace hesitated.

  “It’s going to get out eventually—you know that.” Rebecca turned to Ms. Pentecost, leaning in toward the big desk. “People already think they know who killed her.”

  “You believe you know who killed your mother?”

  “I didn’t say that. I just said people think they know.”

  “Becca, please. Don’t be silly,” Randolph scolded.

  “It’s what everyone’s whispering. They think it was our father.”

  “I was under the impression your father committed suicide over a year ago,” Ms. P said. “Did your mother remarry?”

  Rebecca shook her head. “Oh no. That’s who I mean. People think she was murdered by the ghost of our father.”

  CHAPTER 4

  If Wallace and Randolph were women, I’d probably use the word “tizzy” here. Actually, I’ll still use the word. They went into a tizzy.

  “You’ve got to stop saying that,” Randolph flittered.

  “There is nothing to suggest this is anything other than the work of a…a madman,” Wallace fluttered, the loose skin around his cheeks shaking. “Anyone saying otherwise is being stupid, cruel, and foolish. It’s superstitious gossip and I won’t have it. Not among company people.”

  “I’m not saying it,” Rebecca countered. “Other people are.”

  “Please.” Ms. Pentecost held up a quieting hand. “Perhaps if you would start from the beginning. But first, would any of you like a drink? Some brandy, Miss Collins?”

  “Gin, if you have it.”

  We did have it and I fixed her a healthy three fingers with a little water. Wallace had scotch and milk, which I didn’t agree with, but to each his own. When I asked Randolph what he’d like, he shot a look at his sister. “No thank you. I like to keep my wits.”

  I immediately disliked him. Not for the sobriety—I don’t drink, myself—but for the judging.

  “Suit yourself,” I said, pouring Ms. Pentecost her usual glass of honey wine. Mrs. Campbell has the stuff imported from Scotland at an expense that is, if not ungodly, at least embarrassing.

  Once drinks were distributed and we were all settled again, they began telling the story, trading off when needed and prompted occasionally by questions from Ms. Pentecost. It was clear they’d gone through the tale more than once, probably in front of a rotating cast of men with badges.

  The story began on Halloween night. The holiday had fallen on a Wednesday, so most of the city had celebrated the weekend before. On Saturday and Sunday the streets had been awash in costumed revelers stumbling from party to bar and back again. By midweek most of the celebrating was finished unless you were saddled with kids.

  “Mother wanted it held on Halloween night. Even if it was a work night. She said the veil was thinner,” Randolph said.

  “The veil?” Ms. Pentecost prompted.

  “Between the living and the dead.” Randolph’s voice practically dripped sarcasm. Wallace looked at the floor, embarrassed.

  Only Rebecca kept a straight face. “Every year there was some form of special entertainment,” she said. “This year—”

  “We’re getting there, Becca!” Randolph snapped. Their looks might have echoed, but I didn’t think they’d be singing harmony any time soon.

  Wallace picked up the narrative.

  “Al began the tradition shortly after they were married. It was partly to give Abigail a chance to socialize, to have fun with planning a to-do. Mostly it was to entertain company executives. This year, there were about a hundred guests—down from previous years. That was due to Al…passing away last year,” Wallace said. “Nearly all in attendance were company men and their wives.”

  The festivities kicked off around nine o’clock. There was a string quartet in the ballroom, waiters passing out an endless stream of hors d’oeuvres, and three bars—two inside and one on the veranda—assuring nobody had to wait in line to get sloshed.

  As in previous years, everyone arrived in costume. No rented gorilla suits here. A lot of gowns and capes, black ties, and elaborate masks, most only covering the top half of the face to allow for eating, drinking, talking, smoking, and so forth.
r />   I was surprised to learn that Wallace had gone full-on Uncle Sam with a red, white, and blue tuxedo; spangly top hat; and fake beard.

  “My wife talked me into it,” he said, blushing. “To celebrate the victory overseas. She said people would get a big kick.”

  “They did, Uncle Harry,” Rebecca said, giving him a buck-up smile.

  Wallace returned the smile, but his was a tad sickly.

  “A little after midnight, Abigail had everyone gather in the study on the second floor. This was Al’s study that he used as an office,” he explained. “When we walked in we found black velvet draped everywhere. Covering the bookshelves and most of the furniture. Al’s desk was done up in gaudy silks with this absurd crystal ball in the middle. And she had that woman there, sitting right in Alistair’s chair. It was ridiculous.”

  “It was awful,” Rebecca added. “Hideous.”

  “What woman was this?” Ms. P asked.

  “It was a séance, you see,” Wallace continued. “She’d invited her spiritual advisor—Abigail’s phrase, not mine. This woman was going to tell fortunes and read tarot cards and speak with the dead.”

  Ms. Pentecost leaned forward ever so slightly. “What was this spiritual advisor’s name?”

  “Belestrade.” The word twisted in Wallace’s mouth so he practically spit it out. “Ariel Belestrade.”

  There it was. The name from the newspaper clipping that I’d circled in red. The hook I’d used to get Ms. Pentecost in on this case.

  Belestrade was one of those citizens of interest whose name I’d been trained to pick out whenever it appeared in print. As a spiritual advisor to a handful of the city’s elite, she made the papers occasionally, though usually in the society pages, and only in passing.

  In our third-floor archives there were two boxes dedicated solely to her. Why was Ms. Pentecost so interested in the movements of a woman who was basically Madame Fortuna working a better zip code? I had no idea. When it came to her strange fascinations, I’d learned not to ask. She’d tell me when she thought I needed to know.