Have I mentioned how the woman infuriates me?
Across the desk, I saw the signs of Ms. Pentecost’s excitement—the tensing of the fingers, the eyebrows raising a fraction of an inch, that gleam in her winter-sky eye.
“Belestrade,” Wallace muttered. “Probably not even her real name. With these types, it never is.”
“These types?” Ms. Pentecost prodded.
“Frauds. Charlatans,” Wallace sneered.
“Becca thinks she’s the real deal,” Randolph said, scowling.
“I never said that,” his sister said. “Never. I only said that…she’s good.”
Ms. Pentecost raised another steadying hand. “What exactly did Ms. Belestrade do at the party?”
The three settled down and went on to describe something that would have been right at home in Sideshow Alley. There was some fortune-telling for the wives, in one case letting a not-yet-announced pregnancy out of the bag. Then came the tarot readings. By then some of the men were getting into the act. Belestrade outed one older gent as planning his retirement, something that came as a bit of a surprise to his bosses.
For the climax, the electric lights were turned off. The only light came from the fireplace. It was a cold night and the furnace had trouble reaching that room. The spiritualist asked for a volunteer. When no one leaped forward, Belestrade beckoned to Rebecca.
“Come, girl. I sense there’s someone who wants to speak with you,” she declared.
“She had me sit across from her,” Rebecca told us. “Then she asked me to take her hands, which I did, and she set them down on the…on the crystal ball.”
The medium closed her eyes and instructed Rebecca to do the same. After a long minute of awkward silence, Belestrade’s head rolled back and she began speaking in a low, sonorous voice.
“ ‘There’s a spirit here…Close to you…Someone who…who passed over in this very room. Someone who is still here.’ That’s when her voice changed again. It became…deeper. Rougher…”
“It set the entire room off,” Randolph said.
“Why?” Ms. P asked.
“Because it was our father’s voice,” Rebecca said, her own voice quivering. “His voice exactly.”
“And what did it say?”
Rebecca closed her eyes, remembering.
“ ‘Who’s there? Who is it? It’s dark here. I can’t see. I…I smell lavender….White Orchid. Is that you, Becca? Is it from the bottle you stole?’ ”
A shiver ran through her.
“Was that significant?” Ms. Pentecost asked.
“Yes,” she said. “When I was little, a friend dared me to steal a bottle of White Orchid from the counter at a department store. I felt bad and told my father about it later. He promised not to tell anyone else but made me pay the store back. I…I still wear that scent.”
My boss gave her a moment, then asked, “What happened next?”
“I think I…I think I said something. I don’t…I don’t remember what.”
“You said, ‘Daddy? Is that you?’ ” Randolph said. His eyes were on his lap, embarrassed for her. Wallace’s eyes, on the other hand, were fully stoked with anger.
Rebecca continued.
“Then he…she…said something like ‘I’m so lonely. I just want to move on. I want to be at rest. Please, let me be at rest.’ And I heard our mother behind me ask, ‘What do you mean, Allie? How can we help you be at rest?’ and the…the medium said, ‘Don’t betray me. Don’t betray me, my love.’ ”
Rebecca shook her head, like she was shaking off the reins the memory had on her.
“I couldn’t take it anymore,” she said. “I tore my hands away, then ran to my bedroom and locked the door.”
“What happened next?” Ms. P asked.
“Becca running away broke whatever…spell…the woman was under, or at least she pretended it did,” Randolph explained. “Then our mother ordered everyone out. She said she wanted to be alone in the room with…”
“With her husband. With Al,” Wallace finished. “She asked everyone to go back to the party, including Belestrade.”
Understandably, the mood of the party turned sour after that. People began to beg off. Randolph joined a few friends on the veranda for a smoke, while Wallace quickly made the rounds before too many people fled.
“I wanted to have a chat with some of the more influential members of the board,” Wallace explained. “I didn’t want any tongues wagging. Not with the company’s future on such a precipice.”
Wallace must have put the fear of God into them because no one had yet leaked the séance to the papers, and “Speaking to Dead Leaves Socialite Slain” would sell a hell of a lot of morning editions.
“Do you have any idea what ‘Don’t betray me’ might refer to?” Ms. P asked.
Wallace shook his head. “None at all.”
Ms. Pentecost downed the last of her wine and I moved to pour her another. “And you, Miss Collins? Did you return to the party?”
“I didn’t. I stayed in my room.”
“The entire time?”
“Yes,” she said. “Then I heard…Well, I heard yelling. When I came out, they had broken down the study door.”
“The papers said there was a fire. That someone smelled smoke?” Ms. P asked.
“I did,” Wallace said. “At first I thought maybe someone had left the veranda door open, but it didn’t smell like cigarettes. Then I went upstairs and saw the smoke coming out from beneath the office doors.”
“What did you do then?”
“I tried the door, but it was locked. I started yelling.”
“He was so loud, we heard him outside,” Randolph said.
“Who is ‘we’?” Ms. Pentecost asked.
“Me and John Meredith—he’s the senior floor manager at the Jersey City plant. We ran inside and up the stairs. I found Uncle Harry here trying to batter down the door. Meredith put his shoulder into it and charged. Nearly took the thing off its hinges. Smoke was billowing out, but John just rushed in. He’s that kind of man.”
“Impetuous?” Ms. P asked.
“A man of action,” Randolph said. “A little fire didn’t scare him.”
It was clear that neither Wallace nor Rebecca shared his hero worship, but both kept mum.
“Once the smoke cleared a little, the rest of us followed. There was a fire going in the fireplace and it had caught on some of the black velvet. I tore it down and stamped it out. I didn’t…I didn’t even notice her at first. Not until I saw Becca and where she was staring.”
“I heard the shouting,” Rebecca explained. “I opened my door and there was all this smoke in the hall. I ran into the study. People were rushing about, and she was just sitting there. Slumped over the desk.”
I retrieved the gin from the liquor cart and refilled Rebecca’s glass. She didn’t even notice.
“At first I thought Abigail must be unconscious,” Wallace said. “Because of the smoke, you know? I pulled up her up by the shoulders and…”
He needed a little prompting and Ms. Pentecost gave it. “And you realized she wasn’t merely unconscious.”
“Her head was…there was blood. And her eyes…”
He didn’t finish the thought, and no one picked it up for him. No one needed to. Ms. P and I had seen more than a few bodies, including ones who’d been bludgeoned to death. Our imaginations were up to snuff.
“It was the crystal ball,” Randolph said, his voice cracking. “We found it in the fireplace. It was cracked and…bloody.”
Wallace took a swig of scotch and milk and grimaced, from either the taste or the memory. “We telephoned the police,” he said. “They arrived within minutes and…And everything else you have almost certainly read in the papers.”
Ms. Pentecost shook her head. “Yo
u overstate what can be found in those articles, or understate your own efforts at keeping out the more lurid details.”
“Can you blame me?” Wallace asked. “It’s terrible enough without turning the whole thing—including my godchildren—into a public spectacle.”
Another shake of the head. “My comment wasn’t to cast blame, but to point out that there is much I don’t know, but which I will certainly need to know before I can proceed. For example, I will require a full list of guests as well as servants and hired staff, as well as a detailed timeline of when each person arrived and departed, with particular attention paid to who was still present when the body of Mrs. Collins was discovered. I will also require a complete description of Mrs. Collins’s life, both her day-to-day existence and her history.”
“Of course,” Wallace said. “I hadn’t even thought of the hired staff. The waiters and musicians and so forth. It was probably one of them. A thief or madman.”
Ms. P shrugged. “Perhaps. Though I suspect the police have done a thorough background check on the hired help. That’s usually the first place their imaginations turn. After the family, of course.”
That caused our guests to squirm a little but they didn’t object. Apparently two weeks had been enough time for them to realize that they were possible subjects for the frame the police were building.
“Abigail kept a calendar that should document her general movements. Who she met for lunch. What appointments she had. That sort of thing,” Wallace said. “As for her history, I can tell you about her life after she came to work for the company, since she was my secretary.”
“Your secretary?” Ms. P asked, eyebrows raised. “I thought she was Mr. Collins’s.”
“Technically, Al and I shared her,” Wallace said. “But my side of things required the most clerical support, so she worked out of my office. Unfortunately, she never discussed her youth or her personal life before she came to work for the company, so I can’t be of much assistance there.”
Ms. Pentecost looked to Rebecca and Randolph, who synchronized a head shake.
“She never spoke about her childhood,” Rebecca said. “At least not to me.”
“Or me,” Randolph added. “Just that she was orphaned and grew up poor somewhere in upstate New York.”
Ms. P frowned. She didn’t like having holes in a victim’s biography. Experience had shown her that that’s where killers liked to hide.
She turned to me.
“Before we discuss my fee—Will, are there any questions I’m neglecting?”
“You were probably just saving it for later, but was Belestrade still there when the…when Abigail was discovered?” I asked.
“I believe she left after the séance broke up,” Wallace said. “But I can’t be sure.”
“Also, did she bring anyone with her? An assistant or partner?” I was thinking of the times I’d worked with Madame Fortuna. It always helps having someone working the crowd.
Wallace shook his head. “I don’t believe so. She had a driver, I remember. But he never came inside.”
Rebecca placed a hand on his arm. “Uncle Harry. You’re forgetting that college professor.”
“Of course. She was so quiet, I forgot she was there. She arrived with Belestrade.”
“I spoke to her a little,” Randolph added. “She didn’t leave much of an impression.”
“What professor are we talking about?” I asked.
“A Dr. Waterhouse. Not a medical doctor. A university sort,” Wallace said. “I can’t remember her first name.”
“Olivia?” Ms. Pentecost asked. “Dr. Olivia Waterhouse?”
“You know her?”
“I know her work. Are you sure she accompanied Ms. Belestrade to the party?”
“I’m sure she wasn’t there with anyone else,” Wallace said. “She didn’t know it was a costume party. She had to borrow a mask from one of the waitstaff.”
“She said something about appreciating the theatricality and wanting to view it close up,” Randolph said. “To be honest, I wasn’t paying much attention. Just being polite.”
“She will have to be interviewed,” Ms. P said. “Many people will. But first I would like to visit the house and see the room for myself.”
“You’ll take the case?” Wallace asked.
She nodded. Wallace seemed relieved. Rebecca and Randolph were neutral.
“And you’ll be discreet? I don’t want any of the more sordid details to get out.”
“I will be as discreet as I’m legally able, Mr. Wallace. However, it’s inevitable that the sordid details, as you call them, will make their way to the press. Such things always do.”
Wallace’s shoulders slumped. “Hopefully by the time they do the company will be on firmer footing. Now, about your fee.”
Ms. Pentecost quoted a number that made all three blink.
“Do you charge that much to everyone?” Randolph demanded.
“Of course not, Mr. Collins. Nor are you obligated to pay it. I charge what is reasonable for the case and the client. Speaking of which, who am I working for? The Collins family or Collins Steelworks?”
“Neither,” Wallace declared. “The company cannot be on record as hiring you.”
He reached into the case sitting at his feet and pulled out three bank-wrapped bundles of bills. He set them gingerly on Ms. Pentecost’s desk.
“This is my personal money, Ms. Pentecost. If you must attach a name to your efforts, use mine. I’m acting as godfather and family friend, not in my role as acting CEO of Collins Steelworks.”
The only giveaway that he was handing over what was probably a year’s salary in currency was the layer of cold sweat covering his forehead.
“That is a significant investment for an individual, Mr. Wallace.”
“I have been a friend of the Collins family for most of my adult life,” he said, straightening out his spine. “Al was my best friend. Abigail is the mother of my godchildren.”
Ms. Pentecost gave a single, satisfied nod, then stood, wobbling only slightly.
“Will, please gather the necessary information and make an appointment to visit the Collins residence as early tomorrow as is convenient.”
Having handed me my orders, she shook hands with our new clients, wished them good day, and walked out of the office.
As instructed, I gathered phone numbers and schedules and made an appointment for us to visit the Collins house at ten the next morning. Then I retrieved hats and coats and saw them all out. Rebecca lingered at the doorway.
“She’s a strange woman.”
“I guess,” I said. “I find I’m not always the best person to diagnose strangeness in others.”
She gifted me with a small, polite smile.
“Is she as good as people say she is?” she asked.
“Better,” I said with a straight face. “But I thought you believed a ghost did it.”
“I said other people think a ghost did it.”
I decided to take a shot. “If you had to pin it on someone, who’d get stuck?”
She opened her mouth to pass me an answer but then looked back at the sidewalk, where her brother and godfather were waiting. She closed her mouth, shook her head, and turned away without a goodbye.
CHAPTER 5
After seeing out the Collins crew, I put the cash away in the safe—a custom job hidden under some trick floorboards beneath my desk. Then I made my way up two flights, where I found my employer sitting cross-legged in the middle of the Egyptian rug, back propped against the armchair. A pair of file boxes were on the floor next to her and clippings were scattered about. Ariel Belestrade’s name was underlined in each.
“Popular woman,” I noted. “Don’t suppose you want to tell me why you’re so interested in a glorified sideshow act?”
“I’m
interested in many people. Did you note anything about our clients and their story?”
When it comes to changing a subject, my boss enjoys the hard left turns. But if she didn’t want to spill, nothing I could say would force her to tip.
“I found a lot worth jotting,” I said. “Do you want it chronologically or in order of importance?”
She twirled an impatient finger.
“No love lost between the twins,” I said. “I’d like to know what’s behind that. Is it the usual sibling rivalry or something more recent? Rebecca’s definitely holding something back. Not sure if it was from us or from the other two.”
“Agreed,” she said, sorting through the clippings.
“Then there’s Wallace. He plays the affronted godfather pretty well. ‘Oh, the charlatan! Surely it was a madman amongst the hired help!’ ” I struck a clutching-my-pearls pose. Ms. Pentecost gave me a look that long-suffering maiden aunts could rent by the hour.
“But he’s cagey,” I continued. “I don’t care what kind of talking-to he gave the guests. To keep this quiet he’d have to be slipping some bills to reporters. Maybe even editors. At least four figures a person for this kind of hush job. That takes a lot of know-how and finesse. Makes me suspect he’s not a virgin with this kind of cover-up.”
I wondered whether Wallace was cagey enough to have committed the murder himself, then try to muddy the waters by hiring Ms. Pentecost. It wouldn’t have been the first time the person signing our checks was the one who got fitted for bracelets in the end.
“Also, did you notice the barely controlled grief at Mrs. Collins’s passing?”
“I noticed there was very little.”
“Yeah,” I said. “What do you think that says about Abigail Collins?”
“I think it says we don’t have enough information,” my boss declared, eyes skimming over a story about a museum fundraiser where Ariel Belestrade had played a starring role. “You remember Professor Waterhouse, of course.”
“Of course.”
She had been one of our lecture-night outings a year or so back. An anthropologist who made her nut as a university professor. She had been holding forth on why superstitions persist in modern culture. Dry subject, but she’d been entertaining enough to keep me awake. I vaguely recalled reading a page 3 piece in the Times about a scuffle she’d gotten into with the Father Divine crowd up around Harlem. Scuffles are the least you can expect when you try to take people’s god away from them. Even if their god is a grifter.
Fortune Favors the Dead Page 6
