Girl Watching You

by J. A. Schneider

  “He bought flowers.”

  “Oops, I’ve got another call waiting. We’ll talk more about this, gotta go.”

  His end goes dead. I’m left in my hollow kitchen, still hearing my plaintive voice bounce off the walls.

  The toast has burned and the coffee is weak. I force both down anyway, grimace, then stuff the paper holding Chrissy Greer’s number into my purse, and leave.

  Cars honk, traffic veers, and I catch myself jaywalking across Seventh. The mind’s upset and careening. I pull back to the curb, lean on a lamp post, and try to simmer down…mull what Alex said versus what Greer seems to be after.

  Last night’s revelation comes even clearer.

  In his words: I hate having the children see her…the way she gets. Her shrink says having visitors would help. If you cheer her it’ll cheer my kids.

  That’s it.

  The man loves his children. On that point, I had him figured wrong.

  The big tell was writing out his wife’s name and number before he came. Maybe he was embarrassed to ask first thing.

  Chrissy Greer thinks I remember and like her? After two visits with customers crowding? She must be incredibly needy; how sad.

  I’ll make a real effort to be nice…and, hopefully, Greer will work on Boudreau.

  I enter West Eleventh, feeling excitement again. At long, long last, a sense of forward motion in my life.

  It nags a little that I’m getting further entangled with some very rich, dangerous people, but I hear Kim tell me, Just follow your nose…

  25

  Joe’s truck is double-parked in front. He and Joselito are unloading sloshing buckets of fresh-cut lilies, carnations, and roses; the first pumpkins, too. I pitch in; tell Joe I’ll be working just half a day, taking the afternoon off.

  “Glad to hear it,” he smiles. “Didn’t I tell you to take a week? Go to Maine or Aruba?”

  “You said Maine or the Bahamas, and no, I’d go stir crazy.”

  “I’ll go to the Bahamas,” Joselito grins. “No, Jamaica! Oh man, those beaches.”

  They’re a blur. I almost don’t see them, I’m so impatient for later.

  Joe helps me put bright buckets onto low sidewalk shelves. I brace for his questions. He doesn’t disappoint.

  “Did you sleep okay? Hey, you look like you’re feeling better.”

  “Yes and yes,” I smile, too brightly, shuddering to imagine his reaction if he knew Greer came up after he left.

  I’m thinking of his kiss, too…

  Joe studies me for a moment, then hefts carnations and a bucket of lilies. “Have you re-thought going after Greer?” he asks. “You were going to get him, you said. Trick him - something crazy like that.”

  “Yeah, it was crazy,” I say evasively, and almost laugh. “I’ve re-thought it; don’t worry.”

  His sister Mel appears from inside.

  “C’mere, you,” she says, hugging me worriedly. “My God, Joe told me you got involved in that awful murder. I didn’t know.”

  I tell her I’m fine as she yammers about “danger,” and “trauma” and “in this neighborhood!” Melanie Cooper, today in tight jeans and a yellow chunky sweater, is cameo-faced and brown-haired; pretty enough to have tried acting as Joe did, but no, she’s determined to follow in their attorney mother’s footsteps. She emotes with her eyes and hands a lot, will make a good trial lawyer; is actually a stronger personality than Joe. I was hired to replace her when she had to start studying for her bar exam.

  “Joe,” she turns to him. “You do the orders. I’m staying out here.”

  The two of us water and deal with a burst hose. Kneeling, rewinding it, Mel stops to check her phone for mail, and looks surprised. “Oh boy,” she says, frowning.

  I look at her.

  “The murder.” She blinks, reading, then shows me her phone. “Peter Greer…”

  My breath stops. We put our heads close and read.

  “…storied hedge fund star Peter Greer has admitted to being the date of Chloe Weld on the night of her murder, but insists on his innocence. Sources confirm that he was heard having a violent argument with her shortly before midnight, although there are reports that the young woman died hours afterward. Tyler Rand, CEO of Mr. Greer’s employer, JDBancroft Global Fund, has expressed his full confidence in ‘the high moral character and innocence of Mr. Greer.’ The New York City Medical Examiner has attributed the death of Ms. Weld to a head wound fired from a small caliber gun….”

  I get out my phone to stare at the article and Greer’s file photo, a close-up of him grinning in a tux, throwing a football. My lips are dry. Chloe’s friends have no doubt been talking since the day her body was found - so what took so long? News outlets heard about the alibi and feared litigation? Frustrated police allowed the story to leak?

  We’re still in a crouch over the hose. Mel is now yammering about Greer.

  “I’ve seen him here, he’s gorgeous! Didn’t do it, of course; someone like that has too much to lose – and he’d better not be the bad guy ‘cause I’d like a roll in the hay with him.”

  “Give him a call,” I say weakly.

  “I tried flirting, he didn’t notice.”

  “You were probably too subtle.”

  “I’ll say. I saw him with one girl who was all over him. Just draped and hanging on him.”

  “Did she have long brown hair?” I’m still staring at Greer throwing his football.

  “Yes. He called her Dulcey or something like that.” Mel peeks over her shoulder; looks back to pretend she’s still fiddling with the hose. “Y’know what makes me mad?”

  “What?”

  “Well, since I have an almost crush on him I’m taking his side, and what makes me mad is seeing him get called a womanizer on gossip sites. What a joke. Women throw themselves at him, only bitch about him after he ends it; moves on ‘cause he probably can’t stand them more than twenty minutes. They’re climbers. Every woman I’ve ever seen him linked to looks like a serious climber.”

  “Rich men have that problem.”

  “Cry me a river – but no, you’re right. Big money is dangerous. It’s probably harder for rich people to lead normal lives, meet normal people.”

  Again Mel looks back over her shoulder, almost cringes and drops her voice. “Oops, Joe’s coming; don’t repeat anything I said.”

  “’Course not.” There was something in her voice. “Why?”

  “He hates Greer.”

  “Does he know him?”

  “Just hates the sight of him.”

  Joe comes and stands over us, fuming about roses and orchids from Colombia late in getting transshipped from Miami International Airport. “You argue with them,” he says to Mel. “You’re better at it.”

  He doesn’t appear to have seen the news yet. Too preoccupied.

  Mel gives me a look; goes back inside with him.

  Good. I’m alone to scroll away. It’s too early for business to pick up, so I sit on the stool by the cash register.

  Belatedly, the media’s in gleeful, gibbering hysteria: last guy seen arguing with a murdered girl and a society hedge funder known for his storied dating! Many of the articles don’t even mention the fact that Chloe died hours after Greer left. That would spoil the fun. Allegations like this are too delicious, prime click-bait for websites.

  I look down the block to Chloe’s brownstone. Gawkers are back, gaping up to the second floor, taking pictures, peering into the narrow service alley they’ve heard leads to her studio in back.

  I shake my head. Nothing like red hot media gossip to turn a place into a sightseeing attraction.

  Maybe knowing the movie biz gives me perspective when it comes to “reporters.” How the rotten press loves a scandal! If it doesn’t exist, they’ll invent it. Divorce rumors for hot couple so-and-so is a favorite…ooh, don’t print that picture of them at the beach with their kids….

  That’s something else. It’s so hard for the children, and I feel sorry for Greer�
��s. If he was worried about them last night…

  Customers start to come, and I put my phone away. The stories are all the same anyway, as if they’ve copied each other.

  I’m back to feeling impatient for the hours to pass.

  I wrap, smile, and sell.

  Finally, at eleven-fifty and between customers, I brace myself to call Chrissy Greer. Her soon-to-be ex said she moves around in a fog.

  I wonder if she’ll even answer.

  26

  “Hello?” A little-girl voice; fast, anxious.

  I introduce myself.

  “Oh-h.” Chrissy’s voice slows. “Yes…hello. I thought you were my doctor calling back.”

  “Is this a bad time?”

  “No… He’s probably almost here. He’s late. Is the traffic bad?”

  Traffic is always unspeakable in Manhattan. I reassure her that her doctor – he comes to her? – is no doubt stuck in some tie-up, and will be there soon.

  “Yes…I’m sure.” She sounds medicated; doesn’t sound as if she’s seen the news. Wait - she has her phone. Maybe uses it rarely and just as a phone.

  “Will you come afterwards?” she inquires, still on the subject of her doctor. “He says having company is good for me.”

  One o’clock, we decide.

  I disconnect as a woman comes up to buy roses, and I see a kid run into the store carrying a fat deli bag, and then Mel comes out pointing to Régine’s.

  “Lunch?” she says low…and, conspiratorially, “Joe’s been busy, just saw the news.”

  I nod. “Régine’s it is. That table by the window if you can get it.”

  Two minutes later Joe comes out with Joselito, who usually covers for me at lunch. “I have a need for roses,” the big guy smiles, grabbing some pink sweethearts, sniffing them. He moves behind the counter.

  And Joe announces that he’s ordered sandwiches. Would I like to join him? I tell him thanks, but I’m going to meet Mel for lunch.

  He shows his disappointment. “Aw, I’ve ordered turkey with your favorite kind of mustard.”

  I’ve been summoned. For God’s sake, Joe.

  I text Mel to cancel, and we go to his office. He jokes about the sudden aroma of pickles, unloads his deli bag, puts my Coke on his desk next to my chair, and pushes a foil-wrapped sandwich to me.

  “Sweet of you,” I say, sitting, unwrapping the foil. “Thanks.”

  “I need company.” He points to his laptop. “This is driving me nuts.”

  We eat, and pretend to talk about nothing: Excel’s annoying upgrade, invoices caught up, the triumph over the palm mite infestation. He hasn’t brought up Greer yet, so I get out my phone.

  He tilts his head and looks. “What are you doing?”

  “Researching something.” I stare into my screen, fingers going a mile a minute. I don’t say researching someone because…questions, questions.

  “You look intense. Thought you were decompressing.”

  “I am, really.” I scroll and read without looking up. “Go back to Excel.”

  Moments pass. Joe works a bit more, then slides cookies to me, and shifts in his chair. “Something’s troubling me, if you don’t mind my saying…”

  “’Course not. Speak.” I glance up to him.

  “Well, this morning you seemed different from last night, maybe too happy. Are you taking uppers or something?”

  “No,” I almost laugh. “I’m just coming out of my dark cloud a little. Or maybe becoming bipolar.”

  “Don’t joke! I care about your welfare.”

  “I know. And sorry, I do appreciate that.”

  “You’re not offended?”

  “No, ‘course not.”

  I sigh. Go back to my phone, aware of his eyes on me. He shifts again restlessly.

  “You’ve, ah, seen the news? About Peter Greer?”

  “Glanced at it, yes.”

  “Just glanced?”

  “I’m avoiding stress. It’s part of my new program.”

  Determinedly, I let the silence stretch, so the subject’s closed.

  He goes back to his Excel, muttering again about their upgrade. I mutter agreement. We trade commiserations about IT headaches, and finish our sandwiches.

  I get up. “Thanks again for lunch.”

  “Don’t thank, I’m just glad you’re taking care of yourself. I really was worried you’d started uppers.”

  “No, no.”

  He leans back in his chair, watching me toss sandwich wrappers into his waste basket, my empty Coke can into his recyclables basket. Joe is a good citizen.

  “So you’re going to spend the afternoon doing something nice?” he smiles. “Relaxing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you finish what you were researching?”

  “Yes. Just a lot of silly stuff.” I pat his arm, grab an extra cookie, and leave.

  Luck: a cab’s just dropping someone off, and I grab it.

  Spend the next fifteen minutes in traffic researching more about Chrissy Greer and her illustrious family. Maiden name Jakes, from that old money. A media and real estate empire started generations ago: her grandparents were trust fund kids, bought and sold Midtown properties as if playing Monopoly. According to sites ranging from Bloomberg to gossip, her deceased father got drunk once and forgot he’d bought an island; her estranged mother’s in Italy divorcing some guy who’d said he was a count, and her oldest brother died from alcohol and four packs a day. Her surviving brother Nick sounds halfway sane: loves philanthropy parties, race horses, and lawsuits; was engaged, it ended, now dates a list of hopefuls.

  Chrissy is delicate-looking in photos dating from her brief, abortive foray into fashion design. That was nine years ago. In a photo from two years ago – a hospital benefit – she looks like a ten-years-older version of Chloe Weld. She’s now thirty-four. Brother Nick is thirty-seven.

  The poor hustler from Pennsylvania must have impressed her family, rising so fast, hanging on to what he had as opposed to her cousins who blew their fortunes. The family is riddled with fourth generation losers dead from drugs, booze, and private plane crashes. One skied into a tree. Another raced his powerboat into a Miami abutment at 120 MPH.

  Greer was the strong personality Chrissy couldn’t hang onto.

  I’m reading about their lavish wedding, eight years ago at St. Bartholomew’s, when I feel the taxi slow and we pull up outside the carpeted, canopied entrance to their Fifth Avenue building.

  My pulse quickens. A doorman rushes to assist helpless me from the cab.

  I thank him and enter the gilt-and-mahogany lobby, where uniformed people at a long security counter have been told to expect me.

  27

  Blond marble. The private vestibule off the elevator is all blond marble, like a mini Versailles lined with huge, gold-framed mirrors, an antique console table, and plush settees.

  I feel right at home in my worn tracksuit and scuffed Nikes, but who cares. I’m in the process of brushing peat moss off my jacket when the elaborate door opens, and a smiling, middle-aged woman in a blue dress and running shoes greets me.

  “Hello, I’m Mary,” she says, opening the door wider, stepping back. “Mrs. Greer is waiting.”

  I follow her through a foyer lined with paintings into a vast living room, glass-walled with views of Central Park ten floors below. Foliage down there is turning, it’s gorgeous. Tiny people jog, bike, or stroll through paths and clearings. I can see the old, red brick clock and the carousel and the pergolas housing animal exhibits of the Central Park Zoo, and I stop for a second. “Oh, beautiful.”

  Mary smiles. She looks in her late forties; her hair is short and brown, her face is handsome square angles. “Yes, Chiara’s taken the children there. It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?” A maid is dusting. Mary gestures me away from the view. “This way, please.”

  I pretend not to notice. Turn slightly as if oh so impressed; look more carefully at the grand room with its overstuffed armchairs and long twin sofas facing e
ach other before a fireplace. Peter Greer said he “slept on the couch” that fatal night, so I’m guessing it was on one of those sofas.

  Lamely, I point to them, peony-covered damask. “That’s beautiful fabric.”

  “Yes, isn’t it?” Mary’s smile stays locked in place. She gestures toward a hall. “This way, please,” she says again. I give up and follow. Her blue dress is conservative; her running shoes are scuffed.

  Interesting.

  We pass archways to a lavish dining room and, across from it, a library with crowded bookshelves and a billiards table. Further down, a wide arch to the right leads deeper into the apartment…bedrooms, probably; then the long hall ends in a ‘T’ with corridors leading off to the right and left. A woman in a yellow uniform carries a roasting platter to the hall on the left.

  Mary has said something that I’ve missed. No problem; she’s probably attributed my lapse to my big, big eyes looking around.

  Lady, I’ve been in fancier places than this. Alhambra in Malibu, Ivanhoe in Beverly Hills, Art Deco in Benedict Canyon. Ha! Divorce or bad box office has half of them back on the market.

  “I’m sorry?”

  She’s standing before a closed door she’s described as the den, and hesitates. “Ah,” she says quietly, “about Mister Greer…you may have seen things about him online…”

  “Yes.” I nod somberly.

  “We would prefer that you not mention any of it to Mrs. Greer. She’s fragile.”

  We?

  “Absolutely,” I say sympathetically. “Of course.”

  “She knows the basic facts…about that night. She hasn’t seen today’s headlines.”

  “Right. Of course. I’d never mention it.”

  Mary smiles her thanks and opens the door, but not before I take another look at the long hall, and the distance between the living room and the probable location of bedrooms.

  “Chrissy?” she says gently, peeking in. “Your visitor is here.”

  28

  The blond head turns from the view, and the small face smiles wanly. “Hello,” Chrissy Greer says. “Welcome.”

  So pale, I think as I go to her. She holds her hand out and I shake its small coldness. She’s in a shell pink cashmere sweater and dark slacks, and sits at the end of a long sofa pushed to the wall. Her knees, like a child’s, are folded under her. Her hand is bone-thin as she waves a wee thank you to Mary, who withdraws, checking first to see if I like Darjeeling tea. I say yes with thanks, and she’s gone.