by Leslie Meier
She tried to keep that thought as the cab sped through Central Park, but she couldn’t quite free herself of the notion that something black and evil had come too close—and it could come back.
The doorman at Sam’s building opened the cab door for Lucy and brought the bags inside, but when Lucy explained who she was, he told her no one was home. Sam had left instructions to let her into the apartment but Lucy declined, anxious to get back to Elizabeth in the hospital. She left the bags in his care and, refusing his offer to call a taxi, headed for the subway. It was much cheaper than a cab and faster, too, since the trains didn’t have to deal with traffic.
Rush hour was in full swing when she descended the grimy stairs that led to the even grimier station, where the platform was filled with waiting people. Oddly enough, there were free seats on the heavy-duty vandal-proof benches and she sat down, pondering the elements that composed the unique subway aroma. Primarily urine and soot, she decided, with a hint of ozone. She didn’t mind the smell; it evoked memories of childhood trips with her mother to see a Broadway show or to shop in now defunct department stores like Altman’s and Gimbel’s.
Her reverie of days gone by was interrupted when the train rumbled into the station. She got up and joined the mob cramming into the already crowded car, hanging on to a pole for the ride downtown to Times Square, where she took the shuttle over to the East Side and the old Lexington Avenue line. Nowadays the trains had numbers or letters for names but she couldn’t be bothered to learn them. The 1 would forever be the Broadway line to her, and the 4, 5, and 6 would be the Lexington Avenue line.
When she exited at Sixty-eighth Street she still had to walk several city blocks to the hospital. No wonder New Yorkers all seemed so trim, she thought, contrasting their way of life with the rural lifestyle in Tinker’s Cove. There, everybody drove everywhere. Nobody walked, even if it was only for a few blocks. It was a paradox, really. Somehow you’d think people would be healthier in the country, but in truth they got very little exercise unless they went out specifically looking for it. Taking a walk or going for a bike ride were recreational activities, not everyday means of transportation.
As she walked along the sidewalk, which was lined with tall apartment buildings, she noticed that a lot of people had dogs. Not just little dogs, either, but Labs and standard poodles and even a St. Bernard. That surprised her. It seemed a lot harder to keep a dog in the city, especially considering the requirement that owners pick up their messes. But everyone seemed to be a good sport about it; many carried plastic bags at the ready. The dogs were leashed, of course. They couldn’t run free as most dogs did in Tinker’s Cove, where people had big backyards and there wasn’t much traffic.
Lucy was wondering if dogs were really happy in the city when she arrived at the hospital. A young Lab was waiting outside, tied to a fire hydrant, and she paused to pet it.
“You look like my puppy,” she said, thinking of Libby as she stroked the Lab’s silky ears.
The puppy wagged her tail and gave Lucy a big doggy smile, and Lucy found herself smiling for the first time that day.
When she got to the ICU, however, she had a scary moment when she found Elizabeth’s bed stripped and empty. Then she remembered Dr. Marchetti had told her she would probably be moved to a regular room today and went to the nurse’s desk to get directions.
Elizabeth was sleeping when Lucy found her, once again in a single room. Fiona’s flowers had been moved along with her, and several new arrangements had also arrived, including a large one from Jolie magazine.
Lucy stood for a moment, staring at the card, then checked her watch. It was nine-thirty. If she left now, she could make the funeral. But what about Elizabeth? Lucy checked her forehead and discovered it was cool. Even more encouraging, the sore on her hand was almost entirely healed. She considered her choices: she could either stay at the hospital, watching Elizabeth sleep, or she could go the funeral, and try to figure out who had poisoned Elizabeth and Nadine.
It was no choice at all, really. She checked her cell phone battery and scribbled a note for Elizabeth, leaving it along with some toiletries and fresh pajamas. She wasn’t going far and Elizabeth could call if she needed her. She bent down and placed a quick kiss on her forehead, and then she was out the door.
Chapter Twelve
BLACK IS BACK—BUT IT’S ANYTHING BUT BASIC
Lucy had attended plenty of funerals in Tinker’s Cove, but they were nothing like this, she thought as she approached the Frank E. Campbell funeral home on Madison Avenue. Temporary barricades had been set up to contain the inevitable celebrity watchers who had gathered to see exactly who was emerging from the line of limousines that was inching its way along the street. There was a smattering of applause when the mayor arrived and, ever the politician, shook a few hands before recalling he was there as a mourner. Assuming a serious expression he stepped under the maroon canopy and entered the gray stone building. Lucy followed, hot on his heels, but was stopped by a stocky young man in a black suit.
“May I see your invitation?”
Lucy opened her purse and began searching for an imaginary invitation.
“Oh, dear, I must have left it home.”
“I’m afraid I can’t admit anyone without an invitation.”
Lucy feigned a panicked expression. “Oh, please let me in. You see, I work at Jolie magazine and everyone’s been ordered to go and if I don’t show up, well, I’m afraid I’ll get in big trouble.”
The young man seemed doubtful about Lucy’s story but when Fiona trotted up to the door, calling Lucy by name and waving an invitation, he let them both in.
“Thanks,” said Lucy. “You arrived in the nick of.”
“No problem,” said Fiona, as they handed over their coats to the check room attendant. “He was kind of cute, in a ‘Six Feet Under’ sort of way.” She giggled. “Do you think he got to see Nadine naked?”
“Behave yourself,” said Lucy, forgetting for a moment that Fiona wasn’t her child. “This is a funeral.”
“Righto.” Fiona adopted a serious expression. “I’ll be good.”
Together they followed the stream of mourners proceeding down a plush carpeted hall to the memorial chapel. They could hear the soft strains of classical music and when they entered the chapel, which was filled with white-painted pews like a New England church, they found a string quartet was playing.
Nadine’s closed coffin was resting in the front of the room. Arnold was sitting in the first pew, in the seat closest to the coffin. He appeared to be weeping and was being consoled by Nancy Glass, who kept him supplied with fresh tissues. She couldn’t seem to keep her hands off him and was constantly patting his shoulder or holding his hand.
Hmm. Not so different from Tinker’s Cove, thought Lucy, taking a seat beside Fiona. They were in the back of the chapel, appropriate to their lowly status. The front rows, where name cards were affixed to the pews, were filling up fast with family, colleagues and celebrities. Lucy spotted Norah, looking very somber and sitting by herself. Anna Wintour from Vogue was there, along with Diane Sawyer and Barbara Walters, plus lots of people Lucy didn’t recognize but who seemed important—at least to themselves.
Camilla and Elise were the last to arrive. A role reversal had apparently taken place and today Camilla was the one overcome by grief, leaning heavily on her larger friend as they made their halting way down to their front-row seats. Both were clad in black: Camilla in a couture suit with a fitted jacket and a short skirt and Elise in one of the severe pantsuits she favored. This was a very different Camilla from the woman Lucy had seen at the magazine. She seemed unable to support herself and dabbed constantly at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. Lucy wondered if the realization of her loss had suddenly overtaken her, which she knew it sometimes did at a funeral, when it became impossible to deny the finality of the situation, or if she was simply putting on a show, which she knew people also did because they thought it was expected. Or, thought Lucy, maybe Ca
milla had finally realized the gravity of the situation now that the investigation had begun. Health officials would soon be closing the Jolie offices, if they hadn’t done so already, and the workers would be told to seek medical advice; police and FBI agents would be questioning everybody.
There was a considerable fuss as Camilla practically collapsed onto her seat and Elise fanned her with a program. A few rows behind them Lucy noticed accessories editor Deb Shertzer and Nadine’s assistant Phyllis, whispering together. She nudged Fiona and cast a questioning glance in their direction.
“No tears there,” said Fiona. “Phyllis has been promoted to replace Nadine.”
“Permanently?”
“That’s the word.”
Lucy was thinking that the promotion had taken place very quickly indeed when the rabbi, dressed in a black robe with velvet trim and a yarmulka, took the podium. “We are here today,” he began, “to celebrate the life of Nadine Nelson. Beloved wife of Arnold, dear friend to many, a tireless worker….”
“He didn’t know her very well,” whispered Fiona, and Lucy had to stifle a giggle.
The rabbi droned on for almost an hour, recounting one or two anecdotes about Nadine but relying heavily on generalities and religious abstractions for his eulogy. He was the only speaker; there were no heartfelt reminiscences from friends and family; no favorite songs, nothing to signify the loss of a unique and much loved individual. Lucy had trouble keeping her mind from wandering and was wondering if there would be refreshments, compulsory in Tinker’s Cove, when the string quartet finally played the final chords of Barber’s Adagio and the service drew to a close. A few people stood and made their way to the front of the room to pay their respects to Arnold, others lingered in their seats, a few dabbing at their eyes, others no doubt taking a few minutes to meditate on the transitory nature of life, or perhaps to plot the rest of their day.
“I have to speak to Camilla,” said Fiona, rising. “I want to make sure she knows I’m here.”
Lucy remained seated, watching as Norah paid her respects to Arnold. Others were falling into line, including many of the celebrities. Diane Sawyer was taking his hand when a series of flashes went off. It was Pablo, taking pictures.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” demanded Elise, confronting him.
“Yesterday Camilla told me she wanted funeral photos for the magazine,” said Pablo. “A tasteful round-up, that’s what she said.”
Elise looked at Camilla, who shook her head weakly.
“Liar!” she growled, grabbing for the camera.
“She’s the liar,” muttered Pablo, nodding towards Camilla and tightening his hold on the camera.
“How can you? At a time like this.”
Everyone was silent. A few high profile guests headed discreetly for the door, others stood awkwardly, watching the scene.
“It wasn’t my idea,” insisted Pablo, shaking his head.
“She was our best friend,” hissed Elise, hurrying back to Camilla, who had slipped on a pair of large sunglasses and was sniffling into a handkerchief. She gently led her out of the chapel, guarding her as ferociously as a pit bull.
“Best friend? I don’t think so,” muttered Pablo, stalking off.
Lucy was tempted to follow him and ask exactly what he meant, but she hesitated, aware that he was in quite a temper. The last thing she wanted was to create a second scene. So she sat, waiting for the crowd around Arnold to thin, and replayed the confrontation in her mind. She didn’t doubt for a minute that Camilla had assigned Pablo to take the photos; the magazine always devoted a page to celebrity appearances. Usually it was balls and fund raisers, but Lucy doubted Camilla would think a funeral was any less worthy of exploitation. After all, the level of taste at Jolie was remarkably low, if the issue she read was any indication. Anyone who would have homeless people model jewelry wouldn’t hesitate to capitalize on her best friend’s death. Lucy could picture it: “Norah Hemmings in Prada, Diane Sawyer in Mark Jacobs and Barbara Walters in Oscar de la Renta console each other at the funeral of Jolie beauty editor Nadine Nelson…in coffin.”
Enough, Lucy told herself. It was time to get moving. Only a few people were standing with Arnold and he was beginning to move towards the door. She’d have a quick word with him and then head for the hospital.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” she murmured, approaching him and extending her hand. “My daughter and I enjoyed getting to know Nadine….”
Arnold, however, looked as if he’d seen a ghost. “You!” he snarled, glaring at her. “What are you doing here?”
Lucy’s jaw dropped. She certainly hadn’t expected this. “I came to express my sympathy,” she said, “and I was hoping to have a word with you. Your wife and my daughter are both victims of the same….”
“Not now,” he snapped, turning to one of the black-suited attendants. “Get her out of here.”
Lucy couldn’t believe his reaction. Even worse, two extremely fit young men in black suits were coming her way. “This isn’t necessary,” she protested. “Please, let me give you my number. I really think we ought to talk.”
“We have absolutely nothing to talk about,” said Arnold, giving the young men a nod.
Each one grasped her by an elbow and propelled her out of the room, down the hall and through the front door, where they deposited her unceremoniously outside.
“Hey, what about my coat?” she demanded, and one of the young men reappeared in the doorway. Smiling, he tossed it and it landed at her feet, on the gray all-weather carpet tastefully bordered with black.
Chapter Thirteen
CONFUSED BY COLOR? FIND YOUR PERFECT PALETTE
Lucy snatched the coat and brushed it off, trying to ignore the curious stares of the handful of gawkers still clustered on the sidewalk. It was horribly embarrassing but she put the best face on that she could as she shrugged into the green plaid coat. She wanted to get away quickly and was walking as fast as she could in her high-heeled makeover boots when she was approached by a woman she didn’t know.
Only a few days ago Lucy would have summed her up as a rather pleasant looking thirty-something professional but the makeover had sharpened her eyes. She immediately noticed the cheap haircut, the navy blue pants and trench coat, the imitation leather purse and the sensible, flat-heeled shoes. She also noticed the black vinyl wallet the woman was holding in her unmanicured hand which contained an FBI identification card.
“Do you mind if we talk for a minute,” she said, extending her right hand. “I’m FBI Agent Christine Crandall.”
Lucy took the proffered hand. It seemed unfair, somehow, that women in official jobs, like cops and firefighters and even plainclothes FBI agents, never looked quite as good as the men. It was almost as if someone, somewhere, was making sure the dress requirements indicated that these really weren’t suitable jobs for women. The mannish clothes that signaled authority didn’t flatter them, they needed to carry cumbersome purses and no matter how much they exercised they couldn’t get rid of those stubborn saddlebags. “Actually, couldn’t we do it some other time? I’m on my way to the hospital.”
“I’m afraid I really have to insist.” Agent Christine wasn’t taking no for an answer. “There’s a coffee shop a few doors down. Shall we go there?”
“I really can’t stay too long,” muttered Lucy, regretting her decision to leave Elizabeth alone at the hospital. “Coming to the funeral was a mistake.”
“I saw you get the bum’s rush,” said Christine, pulling open the coffee shop door and holding it for Lucy. “How come?”
“I’m not really sure,” said Lucy, taking a seat at an empty booth in the back. “It was by invitation only and I wasn’t actually invited, but I can’t believe that Arnold had the guest list in his head.” If anything, she suspected his reaction had been fueled by a guilty conscience.
“Where I come from you don’t need an invitation to attend a funeral. Most everybody in town goes and the family takes pride in a
ttracting a crowd. It’s almost like a popularity contest—you don’t want to have just a handful of mourners, you want everybody to come.”
“That’s how it is in my town, too,” said Lucy, ignoring the menu which was encased in a sticky plastic sleeve bound with maroon cloth tape. “But I’m beginning to think Tinker’s Cove is on a different planet from New York.”
Christine laughed. “You could say the same for Chagrin Falls.”
Lucy thought it sounded like something from “Rocky and Bullwinkle” but kept that thought to herself. It sure was easy to talk to this FBI agent, though. She hadn’t expected her to be so friendly. “And where is Chagrin Falls?”
“Ohio.” Christine smiled at the waitress, who was standing with her order pad at the ready. “I’ll just have coffee.”
“Same for me,” said Lucy.
Once that was out of the way Lucy expected Christine to begin questioning her and she was eager to share her thoughts on the case. She was sure the FBI would want to know all about Nadine’s compact and her habit of commandeering all the product samples. She could also offer quite a bit of insight into the rivalries at the magazine, and then there was the fact that Arnold had made a pass at her at the gala which seemed to indicate he was something less than a devoted husband. And, of course, there was Camilla’s increasingly strange behavior.
“So how come you and your daughter are in New York?” asked Christine, setting a small tape recorder on the table between them. “You don’t mind if I record this, do you?”
The presence of the compact device set off alarm bells in Lucy’s head. Maybe all this friendliness was just a trick to get her to let down her guard. “Am I a suspect or something?”
The agent’s reply was quick as a whip. “Should you be?”
Lucy felt for a moment as if all the air had been sucked out of the shop. “Oh, no! Not at all.”