Chrissy motions me to a plump armchair next to her. Before her, on the coffee table, are white roses in a Lalique vase. Throw pillows, a queen-sized bedroom-looking pillow, and a rumpled brown afghan surround her.
“I’m happy you’ve come,” she breathes, like a dutiful schoolgirl. “Thank you. Do you remember me? I bought flowers.”
“Of course,” I smile. “It’s nice to see you again.”
Her face is familiar, come to think of it. I vaguely recall someone who looked like her with two very small children, but that would describe other women, too. The neighborhood is full of young families, and there’s little about Chrissy Greer that’s memorable. Her affect is diffident, groggy-medicated; her once-pretty features are bloodless white with dark circles under wan blue eyes.
And the eyes wander away, don’t make contact. Amenities concluded, she actually seems to drift off.
I sit forward, wondering where to start as I admire the roses. Aha – an opener comes. “Did your doctor arrive okay?”
“Oh yes,” she brightens; looks back to me. “He’s wonderful. You were right, it was the traffic, and look what he brought me.”
On the end table are assorted little art treasures, a framed photo of Greer with their children, a glass, a carafe of water, and an array of pill bottles. “This is new,” she says, holding up a vial as if it were the most exciting present ever. “He says it will work better.”
“May I?” I gesture to the vial.
“Certainly,” she says, and hands it to me. “I had bouts of depression in college, then got better…much better, really.” She sighs. “I’d like to think I was…fun when I met Peter.”
Levaloft, 10 mg, the label says, and is signed by a Dr. Richard Somebody, I can’t make out the last name. A psychiatrist, no doubt, and how nice, he makes house calls; switches one antidepressant for another and says it’s better. I turn the vial in my hand, then give it back to her.
“I’ve used this,” I say. “Briefly.”
“Oh?” The dark circles under her eyes droop. “Just briefly?”
“Yes. I’d been taking other things, too. Got tired of feeling woozy; weaned myself.”
Chrissy’s thin hands clasp each other. Her knuckles are like little white stones. “You must be strong,” she says despondently.
“Not really. Not at all, in fact; I just keep putting one foot in front of the other. Mornings are hardest. Once I’m in motion, it eases.” I won’t add that I also had to get out and work, supplement the Street Beat residuals that are getting leaner. Chrissy makes being rich and able to just lie around seem like a curse.
She studies her hands for a moment, then lifts her face to me. “I was sorry to hear about your sister. Peter told me.”
I thank her. “You’re both, uh, speaking?”
“Well, it’s terse. But since this…thing, and about the children…of course.”
Unhappily, she turns to look at the photo of Greer smiling and hugging their children, a dark-haired boy of about two, a blond girl of four. He looks genuinely happy with them. From what I’ve read, the photo’s about two years old.
“Peter’s sorry about your sister too,” Chrissy tells the photo. “He can be nice sometimes, and caring…not at all like what you…saw.” Her eyes come back to me, glistening. “You were on the fire escape?”
Slowly, I nod. And realize only now that I’ve wanted to hear her version of what Greer told her that fatal night.
Distraction arrives with Mary bringing in a tray laden with petit fours and a big silver tea service. Chrissy thanks her but Mary takes over and serves, pouring the steaming amber liquid into china cups, indicating the sugar and sweetener bowls. She’s well built, Mary is; hoisted with no effort the silver teapot which is big enough to serve a roomful of charity ladies, and must be heavy empty. Her running shoes are black-striped white Adidas.
She leaves, twitching a quick smile to Chrissy.
“She’s wonderful,” I say quietly, tilting my head toward the closing door.
“Yes.” Chrissy almost brightens again. “She was my Chiara. Raised all of us, but I was her favorite. She’s incredibly protective.” Chrissy looks at her hands. “I’m not a good mother. I wish I had half the maternal instinct that Mary has, and I feel so guilty; to the children, to Peter too.”
I lean forward. “Everyone has their rough patches.”
“Yes, but this is…the way I am. I try to be friendly to my children; they just look at me strangely.”
What to say? I sip the tea and it’s relief in a cup. “Maybe don’t try-”
“My daughter bites her nails. They look so awful, she even made one bleed…and I was trying to be nice the other day but her nails just bothered me so much that I had to tell her, didn’t I? She wouldn’t listen and ran out crying.” Chrissy’s troubled eyes fix on the roses. “I don’t know how to connect with them, but I want to learn how to connect with them. Really I do.”
Okay, this is clearly for her shrink, and I have no words. Instead I give encouragement as best I can and wonder: has she forgotten she asked about the fire escape?
She has turned her head back to the wide window. Beyond the glass framed by long, dark drapes, the sky is blue with sun-edged, puffy clouds…but from where she sits, she can’t see or hear the park or the traffic or any humanity below. The opulent room is eerily quiet: lavish, isolated, soundproof.
“Please,” she whispers to the silent blue sky. “What did you see on the fire escape?”
Delicately, I turn the question around. “No different from your husband’s description, I’m sure. Was he accurate?”
She’s so groggy from her meds that she doesn’t notice my dodge.
“He was drunk, practically incoherent.” Chrissy looks back to me, her brow creased. “Said only that they fought…then he heard a thud, looked up and saw you. After that, he just wanted to get out of there, come home.” Emphasis on the last word. The pained blue eyes fill. “Did he hit her?”
I shake my head. Belatedly, it occurs that Greer might have slept it off in this room, not the living room. I ponder that, and say, “He was verbally rough but no, he didn’t hit her.” He just furiously raised his hand and she ducked and fell back onto the bed. Booze is so bad.
Chrissy seems relieved, sips delicately at her tea. “He’s never hit me, although he does have a terrible temper. I guess that’s because he’s unhappy.” She puts her cup down slowly, and stares at it. “I do want a divorce, there’s just been too much. On the other hand, I don’t for a single second…believe he’d kill…and I don’t want my children growing up being told their father was a killer.”
Her troubled eyes search mine. “Can you help me?”
I don’t understand.
“Can you help prove he didn’t do this terrible thing? You live in that girl’s neighborhood; you see things. Maybe she was seeing someone else…somebody jealous.”
I lift my shoulders in a shrug. “Sure, I could try. I don’t know what I’d find, though. The police must have interviewed her friends who’d know more-”
“It isn’t Peter’s fault, you know,” Chrissy interrupts.
She takes a pretty paper napkin from the tray, dabs her eyes that suddenly glisten. “All those women…” She starts to cry, tries to control herself. “It’s just wrong of anyone to call him a predator; he isn’t.”
Her fingers twist her moistened napkin.
“He’s in that environment, you know. Equity types are horrible. They do coke and strippers, he never did. We were happy at first, then we weren’t. When we separated the first time, the gossip columns pounced and he became their permanent fixture and women started throwing themselves at him. Ambitious types, they only run after rich men. He knows it. Breaks up with this or that one, comes home disappointed, then a new one comes on to him.”
I gesture feelingly.
She puts her napkin down, rubs her hands as if to warm them. “Some are quite good at faking sweet in the beginning. One actually called this
house, on the land line.”
I frown. “Who?”
“I don’t know. She was drunk and demanded to know which hotel he’d moved into. Mary took the call, then Nick got on the phone and dealt with her.”
“That’s awful,” I say, recalling that Nick is her brother.
“They’re very protective, tried to keep it from me but I overheard, cried for days.”
So, I think, Mary and brother Nick are the we who didn’t want me mentioning today’s lurid headlines. I nod encouragingly.
Chrissy rambles, her voice like a long sigh.
“Peter apologized, said he was trying to disentangle himself from that girl, but by then the gossip sites were saying he was on to another fling. They say it even if it isn’t true.”
I shake my head. “Same for people in entertainment. It’s awful how they lie.”
The moistened paper napkin’s back in her hands. “They love to run photos of him…often old ones…at clubs, parties, surrounded by women who throw themselves at him…but he’s really miserable. I almost feel sorry for him.”
I look at her, feel my eyebrows go up.
“We’re done but he’s lonely. Isn’t that terrible?” Now Chrissy’s tearing her napkin, fiddling with its shreds. “Two people not right for each other but still sad.”
I say nothing. Can’t find words.
She looks up at me, tries to smile. “You’re pretty.”
“Ha,” I scoff. “Not anymore.”
“No, you’re beautiful. Without makeup, even. You’d better watch out. He’ll be after you next.”
I avoid her gaze, remembering Greer pulling me into his arms, and his kiss, fervent and hungry. I feel guilty… then unaccountably duplicitous and sad for this woman.
“That’s unlikely,” I grimace. “I’m his worst nightmare, the girl on the fire escape.”
The door opens. A man enters and it’s Nick Jakes, Chrissy’s brother who I recognize from photos. He’s solidly built, ruddy-faced with close-set eyes, fair hair thinning. His expression is affable, his clothes preppy-casual in chinos and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
Chrissy introduces us. Nick peers from me to his sister’s red-rimmed eyes, and looks concerned. The protective brother, right.
“How’s it going?” he asks her. I wonder if he’s timed his entrance.
She’s still emotional, says to his back that our visit has been good, but he’s already bent and going through her pills. He holds up the new vial.
“This is what Richard brought?”
“Yes, it’s working.”
“Good, you should rest now. You’re worked up.”
“I’m not worked up.” Chrissy seems to shrink into herself.
“Yes, you are; look at you, you’re shaking.” Nick puts the vial back down and moves the glass and carafe closer. “Take another pill,” he tells his sister, then glances at me; smiles. “It’s her time to rest.”
“And I must go,” I say, rising.
Chrissy gets up too and hugs me, thanks me again for coming. Standing, she isn’t the little thing Greer called her; she’s about five feet five but seems so thin, diminished. Also worked up – her brother is right – as she seems to fear my leaving; fusses to make sure we have each other’s phone numbers.
Nick’s back is to us again, tugging at the brown afghan, plumping the pillows. He looks over his shoulder to Chrissy. “You want to rest here or in the bedroom?”
“Here,” she sighs, sinking back down to the sofa…again, like a child with her knees folded under her.
She waves feebly to me. “Call me?” she says. “Promise to stay in touch?”
I promise.
Nick gestures, and we start for the door.
Halfway there I stop, look around the room and back to Chrissy. “When Peter came back drunk,” I ask, “did he sleep it off in here?”
She starts to answer but Nick cuts her off.
“No,” he says firmly. “In the living room, far away from us.”
Round-eyed, Chrissy nods.
There’s a swooshing sound as her brother flips a switch that closes the drapes. He flips another switch that drops the room into dimness, and opens the door for me.
29
Through the living room with its sofas and settees, through the foyer lined with paintings, Nick Jakes follows me to the vestibule, telling me how nice I’ve been to visit; sharing and caring, it’s so rare. Something’s off about him; his small talk is too small. This visit has been draining. The shiny elevator door beckons, and all I want is to leave.
I reach for the brass button.
Nick Jakes says, “Wait, please…? I’d like to talk.”
I bring my hand down, look at him questioningly.
He shoves his hands into his pockets, shakes his head sorrowfully. “Chrissy had been doing so much better. Leave it to Peter to make things worse.”
“Things worse” must refer to a dead young woman. And his sad look is a joke after seeing how he controlled Chrissy in there; dopes her up and shuts her down. Take another pill. Time to nap.
“We’ve had it hard,” he’s saying. “One family debacle after another. Chrissy and I have always been close, protecting each other come what may - and believe me, we’ve been through a lot.” He nods to himself. “Lots of grief.”
I gesture sympathetically.
He makes it sound like they’re Dust Bowl farmers, evicted from their land of dead crops. In his case, family debacle probably just means scandal. There’s a tightness about him. He’s building up to something.
“Looks like you’re the protective one,” I say drily. “That’s nice.”
He gives an unconvincing aw-shucks shrug; looks at me earnestly. “When Peter left, I moved in to be here for the children. Take them to school, do all the dad stuff. They need me. We…” – he hesitates – “don’t want them growing up being told their dad was a killer.”
Verbatim, what Chrissy said. Did he rehearse her? Is he the ventriloquist and she’s the dummy? Nick Jakes hates Greer. I saw it in his eyes when he said slept far away from us.
“And Chiara?” I say, recalling the nanny’s name. “If you do so much, what does she do?”
It takes him a second.
“We pinch hit,” he says, reddening, his voice scorning my question. Boy, he changes fast. “I needed them out today because I wanted to meet the girl on the fire escape. Without little ears around.”
“In case of what?” I grit my teeth.
“Well, who knows? You might be…excitable, you’re an unknown quantity. Others only heard Peter and the girl fighting; you saw them - what a wonderful position you’re in.”
I stare at him. “Position?”
He steps closer. “My lawyer’s been getting calls - reporters! - about some neighbor blabbing that a woman witness was seen on the fire escape, so it’s just a matter of time before your name leaks.”
“I saw nothing.”
“I know that.” Nick’s hand waves and his expression darkens. “The girl was killed hours later and the police have no real evidence. My worry is you going to the media, offering fuel to their headlines painting Peter as a killer. They pay huge amounts! It would be understandable for an out of work actress.”
Oh.
Wow.
I want to punch his smug, controlling face in, but instead I look Nick Jakes dead in the eye.
“You’re a jerk,” I say, then wheel away; jab the elevator button.
“I’m sorry.”
He realizes his mistake and tries to sound conciliatory, but it comes out patronizing. “Just know that we would offer more than the media,” he says to my back. I cringe. My skin crawls. “Truly, I hope I haven’t offended you.”
I’m beyond furious, close to sick. Jakes has attempted to bribe? Unbelievable! I doubt Chrissy knew about this, she’s doped up and helpless; wants to be friends. I also doubt that Greer knew; he’s worried about his depressed kids and could have offered his own payoff.
I’m banging the elevator button and Jakes is behind me and breathing down my neck, yammering more “Sorry! Didn’t mean to offend!”
Without turning I hiss, “You think I’d media-whore for a man maybe not guilty?” I’m shaking with fury. “Nah, I’m not offended.”
Where could the elevator be - it’s private! In the glare of its door I see my revolted face and Nick’s twisted protests, belatedly realizing that an angry me is serious trouble; he should have kept his mouth shut. “That girl,” he’s saying, “was smart but a runaround – her parents admit it! She took bigger risks they’re just finding out about…someone jealous could have done it…”
The damned elevator isn’t coming, it isn’t coming…and suddenly I hear a dim clanking, then a whir from below as the car starts to ascend. I’m breathing fast. My blood’s boiling.
“…understand your compassion. But the girl reputedly”…“in high school-”
“Her name was Chloe!” I snap without turning.
The elevator arrives with a soft chugging sound. I step back, graze Jakes’s chest and shudder elaborately. He steps further back.
With a swoosh the metal door slides open, and a beautiful young woman steps out leading two drooping children, the girl all golden curls and pretty, clutching a blond doll, the little boy dark-haired like his father.
Jakes greets them with sudden, fake cheer.
They trudge past him.
The girl drops her doll.
I step over to her, bend for it, and give it to her.
“Thank you,” she says solemnly. Big, sad blue eyes.
I soften and smile. “What’s your doll’s name?”
“Mary,” she says. The corners of her mouth tip down regretfully. “She isn’t pretty.”
What an odd thing for a child to say. I pat her hand, see her bitten nails. “She will be pretty,” I say. “When she grows up.”
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