“Don’t bother showing up for the opening on Thursday night, or any other night for that matter. You won’t be allowed upstairs.”
Judith looked at her with utter disdain.
“You have no power over me.”
“We’ll see about that. As the owner of this gallery, I most certainly can decide who comes in and who doesn’t.”
“Obviously. But your male mind with its legal bullshit isn’t grasping the situation, Ellen. You have no more power over me than you have over your own conscience. My ideas will be in this room on Thursday night, no matter how you may squawk and squeal, and women will be listening.”
Judith stepped around Ellen and walked out the door, pausing only to wave to Jane who had been standing with Susan and Ari—all of whom had heard the exchange between her and Ellen.
“Can anyone talk to Sheila about this?” Susan asked. “I have a bad feeling Judith is really out to cause trouble at the exhibit.”
Jane nodded toward Ari.
“Ari is the only one who Sheila seems to listen to.
“What about you, Jane?” Ari responded with a sly smile. “You seem to have made a friend tonight.”
“Please stop, Ari,” Jane said.
“Yeah, cut the bullshit,” Susan continued. “Will you talk to Sheila or not?”
Ari shrugged.
“I can try. But I still believe that a little turmoil will be good for the publicity. Maybe the word should get out that there’s the possibility of a real cat-fight, and that Diana will be here to choose the winner.”
While they talked, Jane saw that Maggie was still on the phone with a caller and writing something on her pad. Her face had a concerned expression as the call ended and she came over to Jane.
“Is something wrong?” Jane asked.
“I’m not sure. There was one woman who called twice. She was an older lady, and sounded very sweet, but she insisted on getting your office number. The second time, we spoke for quite a while. I believe she’s retired. I have the feeling she doesn’t get out much.”
“What is it that she wanted?”
“She said she lives in the building where the second Diana victim lived. The police are making the rounds to every apartment and asking everyone if they happened to see or hear anything. Maureen—that’s her name—says they’re going to be at her apartment soon.”
“And?”
“And she says she doesn’t want to talk to them.”
Jane looked at her watch. It was 7:30. She was hungry and tired from a full day.
“I don’t suppose she could come and see me in the morning.”
Maggie smiled and shook her head.
“I’ll go with you if you like. We can go out to dinner afterward. She sounded very nice.”
Jane thought about Martha. Was there any question what she would have done?
“Let’s go.”
Chapter Nineteen
Maureen O’Reilly lived alone in an apartment on West 86th Street between Columbus and Amsterdam. The lease had belonged to her parents originally, and she had continued to live there after they died, the father first of a heart attack, the mother some years later of a stroke. She still slept in ‘her’ bedroom, although the empty one belonging to her parents was quite a bit larger and had its own bathroom attached.
In the living room, the wooden end tables were polished to a brilliant sheen and held an eclectic combination of black and white studio pictures, featuring her parents and their only child at various ages, from a pig-tailed toddler to a gawky teen. There were also photos of aunts and uncles, grandparents, close and distant cousins—all gathered and placed carefully in an attempt to make Maureen, shy by nature, part of a larger family. Some photographs were displayed on shelves along with fine pieces of cut glass and knickknacks set on crocheted doilies. Still others hung in groups along the walls. A huge oak dining table, built in the grand old style, dominated one end of the large room. Toward the center were arranged a few easy chairs and a sofa, along with small tables with lamps of Chinese porcelain and silk shades. Two large oriental rugs, threadbare in spots, covered the floor. All of the furnishings had been bought by Maureen’s parents early in their marriage when her father had still made good money as a bookkeeper for a firm on Wall Street.
When Maggie and Jane arrived at her apartment, two uniformed policemen were already there. The two men sat near each other on matching chairs with carved wooden arms and spindly legs and rose-colored fabric on the seat and back.
“Jane Larson, so nice of you to come over,” Maureen had said in her high-pitched, sweet voice, clasping Jane’s hand and pulling her into the foyer. She wore a dress with a floral pattern of large pink and yellow flowers and a white collar and white cuffs. A single string of pearls hung from her neck. Her gray hair was pulled back into a bun. “Thank you so much. And Maggie Edwards, what a wonderful surprise! I’ve wanted to meet you since your first book came out. You know, my mother wouldn’t let me bring Getting There in the house, so I hid it from her and read at night with a flashlight. Imagine, I was in my late sixties, but that was my mother. And then you answered the phone for Jane, and I just knew it was my lucky day. It’s the 3rd of October today, and I was born on the 3rd of May, which makes me a Taurus. I’m very stubborn like a bull. You know how bulls are.”
She giggled with such girlish happiness that Maggie and Jane both smiled and kissed her in greeting, then followed her into the living room.
“This is Officer Frankie Santoro,” she said, gesturing toward a slender, youngish looking police officer who sat holding his hat with a strained smile on his face. His thin brown hair showed the crease where the hat’s rim had rested as he nodded a greeting. “He’s only 23 years old, isn’t that amazing,’ she said. “And he walks around with all that equipment hanging on his belt and that big gun. And the other gentleman is Officer Bernard Cohen. He has two daughters, one in college at Binghamton University and the other at Stuyvesant High School. Isn’t that wonderful? The older girl wants to be a police officer. The younger plans to be a lawyer.”
Officer Cohen stood and shook their hands, which prompted Officer Santoro to stand as well. They offered their chairs to Maggie and Jane and moved off to one side, forming a lopsided circle. One man and then the other glanced toward the door as if they were wondering how soon they could leave without being unnecessarily rude to Maureen.
“Nice to meet you, ladies,” Cohen said in a raspy voice, glancing at a small notebook. “We were just about done with our questions. We’ve been to quite a few apartments tonight and have a lot more to visit before we call it a day.”
“And you both have been just a couple of dears,” Maureen said. She had returned to the chair that her mother had always used when she was alive, with a high back and padded arms and a soft deep seat cushion. Her father had always used the red leather club chair on the other side of the reading table, opposite the TV.
“Thank you, Miss O’Reilly,” Officer Santoro said. His manner was crisp and businesslike. “But there is one question that we don’t seem to have gotten an answer to yet. The murder took place on the floor beneath you, and it was quite late ...”
“Yes, the young man had a one bedroom in the D line, I believe.”
“That’s correct,” Santoro said after a pause. “But let’s focus on the question, Miss O’Reilly. Thinking back to last Saturday night, do you remember seeing or hearing anything suspicious going on?’
Maureen made a grimace as she thought about the question.
“No, young man. Nothing suspicious.”
Santoro and Cohen exchanged glances. Cohen jerked his head slightly in the direction of the door, but Santoro let out a quick, irritated breath, and continued.
“Is there something you would like to tell us, Miss O’Reilly?” he asked. There was a definite edge to the question now. He was no longer amused or enchanted by this spinster lady.
“No, just the opposite,” she said in her precise high voice. “There’s somet
hing I would prefer not to tell you.”
“Jesus,” Santoro muttered.
“Miss O’Reilly, we’re really very tired,” Cohen interjected. “And we have a lot of work to do tonight before we can go home.”
“Would you like to talk to me privately?” Jane asked.
Maureen sighed.
“No, it doesn’t really matter, I suppose. At least for now.” She turned to the two officers again. “You see, I saw Diana Saturday night.”
“For the love of God!” Santoro hissed, his impatience getting the better of him now. “What do you mean by that?”
“What do I mean? I mean just what I said,” Maureen replied evenly. It was increasingly apparent to Jane that Maureen, despite her age and apparent frailty, did have a stubborn streak and was not about to be pushed around.
“What I think Officer Santoro is trying to ask,” Cohen said, “is for some details. What did she look like? Where was she? How did you know it was Diana?”
“Well, that’s a much better question. And I have to say I can’t really give a very good description. I mean, she had black hair, but it was an obvious wig. And it was dark, and it’s ten stories to the pavement where she was standing. But I do know it was her because she looked up at me and paused, and she smiled with a certain humility and ... I don’t know quite how to put it, satisfaction I suppose. I smiled back, and her face just seemed to glow for a moment—just the way my mother always said that the Virgin Mary’s face glowed when she saw her.” Maureen turned toward Jane and Maggie now. “And do you know the shame of it, girls? I never believed my mother when she said she saw the Virgin. Never. I was a very difficult child in that respect.”
Maureen started to cry, in the same gentle, precise way that she had spoken.
“I’m sorry,” Jane said.
“I think we’ll be going,” Officer Cohen said. Santoro already had moved to the door, his disgust plain, and his left hand on the doorknob. Cohen touched his hand to the brim of his hat, his face set in a frown.
“Will you need to talk to Maureen again?” Jane asked.
Cohen shook his head.
“I don’t think so,” he said, looking toward Maureen to see if she were watching him, then circling his index finger around his ear. He smiled. “Good night, Miss O’Reilly,” he said.
“Good night,” Santoro added in a sarcastic singsong voice from out in the hall as the door closed.
A few minutes passed before Maureen was composed enough to speak. She smiled shyly at Maggie and then Jane.
“I don’t suppose they’ll be back anytime soon,” she said.
“I think that’s a safe bet,” Jane replied.
“I’m glad, because at some point I’m going to remember the name of that woman who calls herself Diana.”
“You recognized her?” Maggie asked.
Maureen hesitated, her face grimacing again in thought as she looked at Maggie, appearing for a moment to be transfixed by the sight of her. She turned away.
“I believe I’ve seen her before, but I can’t think where. And I haven’t connected the face to a name, either. But I will. It’s just a matter of time, I think. There was a wig, of course, and perhaps some false eyelashes and rather heavy makeup. And let’s be honest, this old brain of mine is just a trifle slow these days, ever since my stroke.”
“Oh you poor thing,” Maggie said. She took Maureen’s hand in hers and patted it gently.
“Nothing to worry about, my dear. I’ve done the rehab. I’m good as new, except sometimes the memory isn’t what it was. And when I’m tired it can be hard to keep focused.”
“But you’re sure you saw Diana?” Jane asked. “Wasn’t it very late?”
“It was. I have trouble sleeping some nights and Saturday was one. I often sit at the window, looking at the buildings across the way, lights going on and off, people passing on the street below.
“Maybe you fell asleep?”
“And dreamed it all? No.”
“How do you know the person you saw was her?”
“How do I know?” She echoed the words softly, a dreamy look covering her face. “I know, that’s all. And I can understand if you don’t quite believe me, anymore than those policemen did.”
“No, it’s not that,” Jane said quickly.
“It’s all right, dear, really it is. I was the same way when I was young. My mother was a very religious woman and I fought it every day that she was alive; the idea that there are things that we must accept on faith alone, that are known only through faith. But now I see that she was right, and that everything can’t be known in the same way. Love, for example. How do we know when we’re in love? I should have asked that nice policeman. The point is that some things are known by emotional response. Call it faith if you like. Call it silly. There it is.”
“I don’t think it’s silly,” Jane said. “But I still like my facts. Although I am absolutely certain, Maureen, that you wouldn’t lie to me, and that you believe you saw her. Will that do for now?”
Maureen raised her eyebrows and cocked her head slightly, as though she weren’t quite persuaded.
“I suppose it will have to. For now at least, young lady. You will be my lawyer, won’t you?”
“Of course,” Jane said.
“You won’t be sorry,” Maggie added. “She’s my lawyer too, you know.”
“I do,” Maureen replied. “In the last year or so, I learned how to use the computer at the local library and I finally bought one of my own. I’ve been to your website many times. I know all about your troubles.”
Again, she peered into Maggie’s face, patting her hand now as though their roles had shifted.
“In any event,” Jane added. “You don’t really need a lawyer at the moment.”
“I know,” Maureen said, giggling again. “They think I’m just a crazy old woman, don’t they.”
“You have to be careful, Maureen. You can get into trouble for lying to an investigator.”
“I haven’t lied. My mother did tell me she saw the Virgin from time to time. Diana did smile at me. And her face did shine, although that was probably from the streetlamp not because she is a saint.” She paused, and her expression became deeply pensive. Her eyes narrowed slightly as though she were squinting, the better to see that face again. For a moment, it seemed she might have forgotten they were there, but she opened her eyes again, turning to Maggie. “And I can tell you both something else. When I do connect that face to a name, the information will never pass these lips. I can swear to that.”
Chapter Twenty
Jane and Maggie left Maureen chattering away as merrily as ever a few minutes later. Outside, Jane hailed a cab to return her to the East Side and offered Maggie a ride to her apartment, but Maggie said that the walk home in the night air would do her good and clear her mind for writing later.
Once the cab disappeared in traffic, Maggie hesitated. She glanced up at the building and counted off the floors to Maureen’s apartment, trying to imagine that elderly spinster sitting at her window, looking out in the middle of the night. Maybe she had seen a woman on the sidewalk who smiled at her as Maureen imagined a sainted angel must smile, beneficently, lips poised as if to speak, silently bestowing a blessing.
In another minute, Maggie was inside the elevator again on the way up. The hall was empty on the ninth floor when she stepped off the elevator. A musty odor hung heavily in the air, seeming to permeate the worn carpeting and the wallpaper. But it was not difficult to find the apartment she wanted. There was a yellow seal still on the door, advising those who passed by that this was a crime scene and only authorized persons were to be admitted.
She told herself that she had nothing to fear. The occupant of Apartment 9D was dead. Ghosts and spirits do not exist. And yet she felt her heart racing as she crept along the hall with silent tread and saw that the seal had been broken and that the door was open a crack. She pushed it open the rest of the way with the tip of one finger and started to walk down a
darkened hallway leading toward the living area of the apartment that was illuminated. Had the police investigators failed to extinguish a light?
She took a deep breath and moved slowly forward. Her legs were stiff and unwilling, but she wouldn’t stop.
When she heard a woman’s voice and then a man’s reply, she froze. She was about to back away when she thought that she recognized the woman’s voice. The man’s voice also seemed familiar.
“We’ve got enough shots of the bedroom,” said the woman, and Maggie was certain then that it was Heather from The Portal. “But let’s get a bunch in this room too. That wall especially.”
“The wall it is, Babe” the man responded somewhat dryly, if not sarcastically. “Your wish is my command.”
“Cut the bullshit, David,” Heather said. “Harry’s not going to like it if we don’t have a ton of shots.”
“Hey, Harry’s paying me by the hour, Babe,” David said. “I can go all night long.”
“I’ll bet you can,” Heather said with a laugh. “Take a few more of that wall from different angles. Maybe one or two from the floor, looking up.”
David seemed to grunt his assent as Maggie rapped her knuckles on the wall to announce herself and walked into the living room, calling out a greeting to Heather. She turned toward Maggie, startled to see her, and Maggie smiled back. The lines of Heather’s eye make-up were so thick and dark and the color of her foundation so pasty white that her face resembled a mask. Her hair had been dyed, apparently to match her make-up. To complete the effect, she was dressed in black from head to toe except for the usual silver rings that hung from her ears and nostrils and poked through her lips. Maggie wondered if this were Goth week for her.
David was lying on his side, taking pictures as he’d been directed to do. He gave Maggie one long amused look and went back to snapping the shutter.
“I thought you were a freakin’ cop,” Heather said with a nervous laugh. “That might have been sticky.”
“You broke in for Harry?”
Praise Her, Praise Diana Page 14