Under her stylish black overcoat, Rose was dressed appropriately for getting an award herself, in a chic navy power suit with a cream-colored blouse that draped at the neckline. A circle pin that would have been a cliché on anyone else looked just right on Rose, holding a paisley silk scarf in place under her lapel.
She’d pinned an antique amethyst pin to my burgundy jacket in her hotel room, after pressing my jacket pockets and collar so they looked less floppy. I had to admit the brooch sharpened my image. Ordinarily my jewelry of choice consisted of a science-related lapel tack, my favorites being a set of small squares, each bearing a symbol of an element as it appeared on the periodic table. I hadn’t brought any with me on the trip, however.
“Thank goodness,” I’d heard Rose say when I mentioned it.
She’d denied making the comment.
As we approached the remodeled and redesigned museum, Rose came through with statistics. The new 630,000-square-foot space, close to three years in the making, had nearly twice the capacity of the former facility.
“When did you have time to look all that up?” I asked her.
“It’s in all the guidebooks, Gloria. A Japanese architect named Taniguchi won the competition for the project.”
“What’s his first name?”
She raised her eyebrows and said nothing.
Lori had told me that we should use a side entrance to the museum and follow the signs to the café on the fifth floor. Thanks to the sweeping, airy design, some of the museum’s collection was visible though the galleries were closed. I was impressed by the largest Monet I’d ever seen, a three-part mural. Rose was proud that I recognized a water lily painting, and she took full credit for my art education, as was correct.
Rose pointed out the wonders of the Sculpture Garden and Rodin’s figure of Balzac. I was more taken with the building itself and wondered how they—whoever they were—managed to requisition all this open space in the middle of Manhattan.
The café was as crowded as close-packed molecules. Except for one or two holdouts in contemporary styles, the gathering of women was a testimony to power dressing. I’d seen so many unusual fashions this week, from the strangely slanted neckline on the NYPD secretary to the various wraparound blouses and abbreviated sweaters worn by women I’d observed around town. I’d wondered if anyone bought plain wool suits any more, or slacks that fit at the waist, or classic blazers.
And here they all were.
Lori found us in the crowd very quickly. I hoped it wasn’t my travel-store burgundy knit that pinpointed us so easily. She’d succumbed to tradition and wore a brown gabardine suit with a knee-length skirt and a velvety lapel. Her plain, crewneck blouse was an off-white that reminded me of what Rose called her eggshell kitchen walls.
“The professional look becomes you,” I told her.
She fingered her pearls. “My mother’s,” she said. “I dressed around them.”
“Wonderful choices,” Rose said.
Lori brought us to a round table near the podium. Our names had been printed in calligraphy on place cards in spite of short notice.
I was thrilled when Tina Miller took the seat next to me.
Lori’s doing, I knew. Such was the prerogative of the setup committee.
“Nice to see you again, Dr. Lamerino,” Tina said, though she couldn’t have read my place card, which was turned away from her. She must have noticed my surprise and guessed the reason. She smiled. “It’s my business to remember names.”
“You’re good at what you do. I read the wonderful article in New York City Today.”
“They did a nice job. I was very pleased with it,” she said, with a modest shrug.
“Congratulations on being chosen for this award. I’m sure you worked very hard for it.”
“Thank you, and I did.”
Tina’s outfit looked like the same one I’d seen in the magazine spread—a tailored black suit and white blouse. I figured this was the only such suit in her wardrobe, as opposed to a broader collection of turtlenecks, corduroys, and belt buckles.
Despite Lori’s good intentions, the seating arrangement did nothing to further my inquiry into the Dee Dee Sanders–Amber Keenan–Tina Miller connections. Our conversation was stilted and uncomfortable. It didn’t help that it took place amid the din of waiters (the only males in the room) plunking down plates and pouring ice water and guests chatting, laughing, and shouting congratulations to each other across the room.
“How’s Dee Dee?” I asked in a voice too loud to carry my concern. “Such an unfortunate thing to have happened to her.”
Tina tsk tsked. If she was surprised that I knew so quickly, she didn’t let on. “It’s terrible that you can’t even go jogging in the world’s greatest park without being attacked.”
“I thought the attack on Dee Dee was related to Amber Keenan’s murder,” I said.
Tina gave me a broad—if not quite sincere—smile. “I see you’re still on the case, in a manner of speaking.” She broke off a piece of her blueberry muffin. “Funny, I’ve been working with the NYPD myself for years and I haven’t been deputized.”
“Shall I put in a good word?”
One good dig deserved another, I figured, but my smart-aleck comment sent her away, mentally and physically.
“Could you please pass the butter?” she asked. Then quickly, “Is that Renee Duboscq two tables over? Please excuse me. I’ve been trying to reach her for days.”
The next time I saw Tina Miller, she was behind the podium accepting her award. She never came back to her crepe and sausages.
On the other side of me, a young, attractive black woman was showing Rose a portfolio of her company: Alida’s Personal Shopping and Custom Designs. Rose had made a friend.
I hoped Alida didn’t do wedding receptions.
Before we left, Lori introduced us to several other women, some of whom I recognized from the magazine piece. Rose had kept busy giving and receiving business cards.
Near the coat check counter, Lori pulled us aside. “In the interests of your becoming familiar with people involved with the ozone issue, I want to point out Rachel Hartman.” She nodded her head in the direction of a tall blond woman in a sleek black suit. “Pardon me for being catty, but she really shouldn’t be here. She’s the PR woman for Blake Manufacturing, which owns at least four facilities in the tristate area. Hardly a small business, but the rules have loosened up and now it’s sort of—any woman with a job can join.”
“And no PR person would miss an opportunity like this,” Rose said.
“Everybody needs a little welding now and then,” Lori said.
As we left the building I caught a glimpse of Tina Miller on a bench, changing from pumps to what looked like safety shoes.
CHAPTER EIGTEEN
Still in my power breakfast clothes, I rode the elevator with Matt to my second of three special meals on Wednesday—Lori’s luncheon. The third would be dinner at the Sassos’ in the evening. I thought I was ready to face Karla without feeling as though I’d read her secret diary.
This trip was doing nothing for my weight control, but I reminded myself that another chance for a New Year’s resolution to that effect was less than a month away.
Matt and I made a cozy twosome on the elevator in Lori’s building, especially with our newly purchased, enormous poinsettia on the floor between us. I was glad the janitor had left his bucket and mop somewhere else this time.
“This is pretty small,” Matt said, running his hand along the elevator’s accordion door. Something I thought I’d made clear in my many iterations of that Sunday morning adventure, but I guess he needed the personal experience.
Despite an enthusiastic effort on my part, first thing in the morning, Matt had had no trouble shrugging off my ideas and questions about Dee Dee. In the very cold light of day, they’d faded into the back of my mind and began to seem preposterous to me, too. So I’d abandoned my circuitous reasoning and looked forward to lunch with Amber Ke
enan’s brother. The least I could do was be nice to the family of a woman I’d failed in her last hour.
I suppressed a queasy feeling as the old box creaked its way up to the fourth floor. I leaned back against Matt. I’d hoped to ask the loft some questions, to see something missed by the NYPD forensics experts, but my secret euphoria at revisiting the crime scene was gone.
Rose had declined Lori’s invitation in favor of meeting Karla’s mother for shopping. They’d start at Trump Tower on Fifth Avenue and head north and east to Bloomingdale’s, she’d said, as if I’d be envious. I knew that Grace Sasso would be a more appropriate shopping companion for Rose, and I was happy for her.
“I can’t wait to tell Grace about your upcoming wedding reception,” Rose had said.
“I agreed to a party,” I’d said.
“A party with a wedding theme,” Rose had answered, picking a piece of white lint off my jacket. “I’ll be keeping that in mind while we’re shopping. Maybe I’ll see something new in bride-and-groom decorations.” Instead of responding, I busied myself searching for a foreign speck on her outfit. None to be found.
Lori was at the door to greet Matt and me, as if she’d heard the elevator and knew exactly when we’d be exiting. “I’m so glad you came,” she said. She led Matt to a table where he could set the plant and then hugged us both, though I’d left her only a short time ago.
I assumed the tall young man following her was Billy Keenan. I had a strange reaction to him, imagining that he looked like his sister, though I’d never seen her full front, in an upright position.
Billy was a big man, with lighter hair than Amber’s, worn in a bowl cut so that large strands of it fell in front of his eyes. I pictured him on his farm, his thumbs hooked in the straps of his denim overalls, his boots covered in who knew what. The result of my never having set foot in Kansas, or on a farm, I suspected.
“Billy flew in on Monday night. I wish he’d have called me then,” Lori said. “Anyway, he’ll stay here until . . . he has to leave.” She ended weakly, then disappeared into the kitchen.
“I didn’t want to be a bother,” Billy said, shaking our hands in turn. “Nice to meet you all.”
“We’re all so sorry about Amber,” I said.
“Anything we can do to help,” Matt said.
“Thank you, ma’am.” Billy’s voice was soft, his manner respectful. He shook Matt’s hand. “And, sir, there is something you can do.”
Before Matt could ask what, Lori came in from the kitchen with another young man, leaving me to wonder what Billy wanted. Burning with curiosity as I was, you’d think he’d asked me for a favor instead of Matt.
“This is Craig,” Lori said. “He and Billy got to know each other last night, so I thought it would be nice to have him over, too. Craig’s the guy who does both the sound and the editing for me.” She patted his back and shrugged her shoulders. “It’s a small company,” she said with an apologetic tone, answering a question no one had asked.
Craig uttered an enthusiastic “Hey” to each of us and returned to kitchen chores. Before he left he assigned Billy the task of arranging chairs in a circle.
Lori’s long dining room table, which looked also like a worktable, was laden with food: roasted chicken, pepper and olive salad, pasta primavera, and a basket of crusty bread. The smell of anise from the assortment of Italian cookies held its own against the aromas of garlic and vinegar.
I was curious about Lori and Craig’s relationship, especially since he seemed to be playing the role of cohost. When Matt and I were assigned a task—to haul in drinks from an extra refrigerator in the back hall—I took the opportunity to quiz him.
“Is Lori seeing anyone special at the moment?” I asked.
“She just broke up with a guy she’s known since before college,” Matt said in a low voice. “Sean Mahoney. He wanted to move back to Boston, which he did, but Lori would never leave New York, and she wasn’t interested in a long-distance relationship.”
“What about Craig?” I whispered.
Matt shrugged and gave me a strange look, as if I’d suddenly taken over the role of Rose in our group. “I’m sure we’ll find out.”
I wasn’t sure myself why I’d bothered to ask about Lori’s love life. I’d lived a few decades as an adult without a partner and certainly didn’t think it odd or unpleasant for anyone to live singly, but Lori seemed very connected to social matters and to people.
“I’m just curious,” I told Matt, answering his unspoken question. “I want everyone to be as happy as I am.”
“I can’t wait for the wedding,” he said.
We reentered the main part of the loft laughing.
To keep myself from staring at the spot in front of the couch, now right side up, where Amber’s body had been, I wandered around the loft. I estimated it to be at least sixty feet long and about thirty feet wide. I noticed that our gift was the first sign of Christmas to enter the loft and wondered if Lori had been having a particularly bad holiday season even before her home became a crime scene.
Decorative screens and draperies marked off space here and there. One of the few real doors, in the southeast corner, had a sign: GO. I assumed it was a darkroom with a STOP sign on the other side of the placard. The brick interior walls were a perfect backdrop for nicely framed prints and fabrics. Every few feet a painted white post dotted the high-gloss hardwood floors, ending at the ceiling. I hadn’t appreciated the ideal chameleon space the first time I saw it, under less than ideal conditions.
There were fuzzy lines between Lori’s work and living areas: Video and DVD cases were on both sides of the room, as were personal photos. Floppy disks were spread on the kitchen counter; a shoe rack sat on the floor next to the computer tower; and an easy chair upholstered in a mauve and red paisley fabric held a stack of clear jewel cases.
I took a leisurely look at the photos on Lori’s wood-and-cinder-block shelves, artistically arranged against one of the short brick walls.
I wondered if Lori had moved the pictures around in the last day or so. One stood out, of her and a young woman with amber-colored hair, both smiling broadly. The backdrop was an image of a movie screen with the words TRIBECA FILM FESTIVAL. Another, showing Lori and Amber in the snow on the steps of the New York Public Library, brought home how much bigger Amber was than Lori. Amber and Lori were eye to eye in the photo, but two steps apart. At one time, it seemed, the two women were friends. I remembered how Lori at first denied knowing Amber well, and I assumed now that it was because she was trying to put distance between herself and Amber’s blackmail operation.
If the photos were on display on the day of Amber’s murder, I wouldn’t have noticed. I’d been focused on Amber’s body and my cell phone—and the sounds of a killer leaving the scene.
“You might want a closer look at this one,” Matt said, coming up behind me. He handed me a five-by-seven photo in a light wood frame: a girl of six or seven with . . . I peered closer . . . her young, handsome Uncle Matt, in an Irish knit sweater.
It was always startling to see my husband in his earlier life, long before I knew him. In some ways I envied his niece and the people who’d known him so much longer. He’d been friends with Rose and Frank since his rookie days, when, according to them, he was a high-strung, stressed-out young cop. As much as Rose loved to talk about the old days, she hadn’t told me much about the Matt-Teresa couple, only that Teresa had been the stable, low-key force in the family. Rose’s diagnosis was that her death had brought Matt the perspective he needed and made him the calm, even-tempered man I married. Rose had the skills of a therapist in these matters, and I trusted her interpretation.
In a way, I was sorry I missed Matt’s wild phase (Rose’s term when he was around to hear it and blush). At the time I was hiding out in California, unable to deal with life outside my physics lab. The untimely death of my first fiancé, Al Gravese, a few months before our wedding seemed to set the course of my adult life, sending me across the country
and away from relationships that might lead to the same horrible end.
Now I was part of this family, which included Lori, and I was thankful for every moment.
I looked at Matt, minus the Irish knit, but with the same droopy eyes and pleasant face.
“If I were the kind to lift things that weren’t mine, I might stick this photo in my purse,” I said. “Instead I’m going to ask Lori if she’ll scan it for me.”
You wouldn’t think elbow nudging could be so sexy.
“Lunch is served. Please report to the buffet line. The left side is for loading only,” Craig said, his voice like a documentary film narrator’s.
My immediate judgment of him was thumbs up, in case Lori cared to ask.
“This is quite a spread, Lori,” Matt said.
“Be impressed by Raoul, the cook at the deli on Forty-ninth,” Lori said.
“Well, you made good choices, then.” He held up a bottled water. “Salut’.”
“Salut’. Thanks, Uncle Matt.”
We sat in a circle with TV trays spaced conveniently at our sides.
“Have you been to New York City before?” I asked Billy when we’d all filled china plates with Raoul’s offerings.
Billy put down his chicken leg. “Just once, ma’am, when Amber first moved here. I took that Circle tour, and I went to the top of the Empire State Building, but to tell you the truth, it was so crowded everywhere, I couldn’t wait to get home.”
If you want to be alone, try Lori’s elevator on a Sunday morning, I wanted to say.
“That reminds me of a Yogi Berra quote a friend told me the other day,” Matt said, “but I can’t remember how it goes.”
Craig jumped in. “I’ll bet it’s ‘Nobody goes there anymore; it’s too crowded.’ ”
Matt pointed his fork at him, and the three guys laughed. “That’s the one.”
Lori and I rolled our eyes. I made a note to arm myself with a science quote, soon.
The Oxygen Murder Page 15