by Noreen Wald
“No way,” Too-Tall Tom assured her.
“None of us would ever believe that of you, Modesty,” Jane said.
I giggled.
“Watch it,” Modesty said. “I could be home editing. Do you want my help on this or not?”
Too-Tall Tom opted for Barry DeWitt. If the “D” file’s information about Barry’s bisexuality proved correct and he’d ever made the Tribeca scene, Too-Tall Tom’s many friends would provide both accurate information and lots of great gossip. “Give me Christian Holmes too. My friends all read his column. Think he’s a hoot. Wait ’til I tell them that the religion editor they love to hate is really an atheist. That’ll inspire them more than the Holy Ghost.” He poured yet another coffee. We were all over-caffeinated. “Oh, and put Michael Moran down for me. I’ve always wanted to check out the straight biker scene. Hey, maybe I can go to a Pledged-For-Lifer’s meeting. Do you ladies think I could pass for a born-again heterosexual husband?”
While Jane thought it over, Modesty and I voted a resounding “No.”
Jane took on the uniforms: Santa Steve, Hans Foote, and Barbara Ferris. When she heard that Hans acted like a Nazi she told Too-Tall and me—at double-feature length—how she just loved old black and white World War movies. “I have to confess that I find all those uniforms, especially the air force bomber jackets and those white silk scarves, very sexy.” Fortunately, Modesty had gone to the john and missed Jane sharing her secret lust.
That left me with Mila Macovich, Robert Stern, and Isaac Walton. The two men were the police’s prime suspects. Stern because of his story about the conveniently missing dagger from his Delft collection—the means. Add Dick’s death-inducing affair with Stern’s wife—the motive. Walton because he’d lied about, then admitted to, being in Dick’s den of iniquity on the night of his murder—the opportunity. Then there was the reverend’s lifelong resentment and jealousy of his cousin—the motive. However, I wouldn’t consider murder to be beyond the realm of that beautiful Russian, Mila, either.
In fact, most of the twelve had strong motives and most of them could have purchased or stolen two Delft daggers, maybe from Robert Stern’s collection, if he hadn’t used them himself. But how “comfortable” had Stern’s relationship with Allison been? While we would investigate each of the twelve’s past history with Dick Peter and Allison Carr, opportunity appeared to be as a large a consideration as motive or means. We agreed that the key to solving these murders could well be the suspects’ ironclad or Teflon alibis. Where exactly had all these people been during those two tiny Manhattan windows of opportunity for murder?
After deciding to have dinner at eight at Grazie to exchange our progress reports, we adjoined at two thirty, all of us revved up to go find a killer.
I stopped at the co-op to check my phone messages and email. Nada. My mother was working this afternoon at the bookstore. New Agers were kept hopping as Halloween approached. Feeling a little guilty—Mom had stayed home this weekend to be with me—I left a note saying not to expect me for dinner and suggesting she hang out with Gypsy Rose. Then I brushed the cinnamon from my teeth, looked up Robert Stern’s home address, put on my sneakers, and went out to play Clue.
Mr. Kim’s outdoor stands were loaded with mums and pumpkins. Row after row of gold flowers and orange fruit, quickly turning into greenbacks. His business as brisk as the weather. I waved as he filled a young mother’s big basket with two truly ugly jack-o’-lanterns. But her preschool-age twin sons were beaming, fighting over who would get the more garishly painted pumpkin.
“Jake,” Mr. Kim shouted. “I’ve saved some of my biggest and best pumpkins for Gypsy Rose’s Halloween Happening. Please tell your mother she can pick them up, or if she’d prefer, I’ll bring them with me on Monday night. The carver’s a true artist, don’t you think?” He pointed to the hideous hollowed-out horrors lined up in front of me. “And we’re so lucky, he’s created a theme for the evening. I swear, Jake, this Adrian’s a magician; he’s turned each of the pumpkins into one of the seven dwarfs.” Next Mr. Kim would be telling me that Dennis was planning on coming to the party as Snow White.
Robert Stern turned out to be a neighbor, living only a block north and an avenue west, but beaucoup bucks and social strata away from my co-op’s front door. I walked to 93rd Street, crossed Madison Avenue, heading west, admiring one of the best maintained and prettiest blocks in New York City. Stern’s five-story townhouse was located on the north side of the street, steps off Fifth Avenue. I stood awed in front of the limestone mansion, its architectural design combining old-world Georgian elegance with America’s late nineteenth-century robber barons’ penchant for a gargoyle perched over every window. Robert Stern’s grandfather had been one of those robber barons who, following in Andrew Carnegie’s bold footsteps, had moved so far uptown in Manhattan that high society scorned the uncharted territory, saying settling there would be as unfashionable as living in New Jersey. Today, our neighborhood, Carnegie Hill, is the most desirable one in the city. And—to think—if Mom’s grand-aunt hadn’t died and left us her co-op on 92nd Street, I’d still be living in Queens. I guess both the Sterns and the O’Haras can thank our ancestors for our current lifestyles.
I climbed the steps, caressing the wrought-iron railing interlaced with cupids, complete with bows and arrows. Then, without a script or even a sane reason for doing so, I raised the big Delft knocker and banged it on the front door. A butler, dressed in formal morning coat and school tie, stood in the foyer, averting any eye contact, as stony as a guard at Buckingham Palace. Silence, that lasted long enough to make me nervous. My smile fading along with my patience, I finally said, “So, hello. I’m Jake O’Hara. Will you please tell Mr. Stern that I’m here?”
Still not looking at me, the butler asked in an icy English accent, so upper class it made Queen Elizabeth sound like Eliza Doolittle, “Is Mr. Stern expecting you?”
I’d be damned if I’d let this Jeeves wannabe intimidate me. “Why don’t you ask him?” I used my most imperious tone. And, by God, it worked. He ushered me into the foyer, and took off, “to see if I can locate Mister Robert.”
The chandelier reminded me of Phantom of the Opera. I inched away from a direct hit if it should fall and looked around. The foyer had to be as large as our co-op and, even to my untrained eye, loaded with unique antiques which, if sold, would feed the Balkans for decades. Then the artwork could take care of Central America. So much beauty left me breathless and seriously pondering the benefits of socialism. When the revolution came, I’d like the Van Gogh hanging near the sweeping center staircase.
Judiciously mixed with the grand masters’ originals, inlaid mahogany armoires, and Chinese curio cabinets was Delft. Dozens of blue and white vases, bowls, and plaques were promiscuously prominent wherever my eyes roamed. I wondered if the daggers had a place of honor all their own.
“Mr. Stern will see you in the morning room,” the butler beckoned. The morning room. Shades of Rebecca. And didn’t these people know it was three thirty in the afternoon?
Stern was stoking a lazy fire as I walked through the off-white enameled French doors. The room’s decor ran a palette of neutrals from whole milk to eggshell to crème caramel. The perfect backdrop for all that Delft. The furniture was shabby chic. Grandma’s front porch, liberally infused with Dutch Colonial. I loved it. “Jake, how nice to see you.” Stern’s smile managed to be warm while his eyes remained puzzled. “I trust you haven’t reached an impasse on your first column.” Did I hear an employer’s rebuke behind the fatherly sounding concern?
“Oh no, Mr. Stern. Jennifer’s copyediting that at home this weekend. You’ll have it on your desk Monday morning.”
“Well, that’s fine. Good work. But then to what do I owe the…er, unexpected pleasure of your company?” Not for the first time, I wondered just how old this guy was. He always sounded so Victorian, and this afternoon, dressed in a narrow,
wine velvet jacket, he looked like Edwin Drood or Nicholas Nickleby. I’d have to ask Gypsy Rose if Stern had been around during a previous incarnation in the England of Charles Dickens. Jeez. Had I become as weird as Mom and Gypsy Rose?
“Yes. Why I’m here. First, forgive me for intruding...”
Stern made a sweeping gesture with his right hand, almost landing on my left shoulder. “Please, that’s just nonsense, Jake. You could never intrude. Now what can I do for you?”
“It seems I’m on the police’s shortlist of suspects—well, I guess it’s a long shortlist...”
“But why? You didn’t even know Dick Peter before Tuesday. Did you?”
“No. However, I did wind up with his job at Manhattan, and the chance to complete…to edit, that is, his manuscript. Motives, you see. Listen, Mr. Stern, I’d like to find out who killed Dick and Allison and I think you might be able to help me.”
“There’s nothing I can tell you. I’ve shared what little information I have with the police. It may be small comfort, but I’m on their list too. Incidentally, did you find anything, any clues, that is, in Dick’s notes for the book?”
Who was asking the questions here? And how did he know about the files? “No, I haven’t had time to read through them all yet. Do you think there will be clues somewhere?”
Stern shrugged and started poking around the logs again. “Would you like a drink? Coffee or tea?”
“No thanks. Mr. Stern, I know you were working in your office—until nine or so—on the night of Dick’s murder, but that you saw nothing. Heard nothing. Are you sure? If he had a visitor, would you have heard him or her? Did you go downstairs to use the copier, for example, or maybe you went to the fourth floor for coffee or…”
Robert Stern wagged his right index finger at me. “I was alone in my office that night, working. Late, as I often do. Then I went directly home. I never saw Dick Peter or his killer, and if one of my Delft daggers was the weapon, I wasn’t the one who wielded it. For the record, Jake, I was also at work—as you were—on the morning of Allison’s murder. I didn’t see or hear anything then either.”
That wagging finger convinced me that he was lying; he knew something. But before I could form another question, the French doors opened and Barbara Ferris, out of uniform and into black satin, swept in.
Eighteen
After an abrupt, awkward farewell to Stern and Ferris, I collapsed on a bench in front of Central Park, watching the tourists and local photography buffs entering and exiting museums. Barbara Ferris and Robert Stern? Totally wild. Isaac Walton was next up on my afternoon’s agenda. But I just sat, letting the fading sun warm my face and wishing my mind would go blank. A bold pigeon plopped down next to me and used his spot on the bench as a john. A sure sign it was time to move on.
Tonight would be the big finale for the Pledged-For-Lifers. Their last hurrah would be covered on the news and Madison Square Garden would be filled to the rafters. I’d need to catch Isaac Walton before show time, and I’d read that the old-time revival meeting—featuring religious rock music—was scheduled to start at seven thirty. Where was Isaac now? What hotel was he staying at? If I ever knew, I’d forgotten. Christian would know. The irony of one murder suspect calling another to check out a third was not lost on me as I pulled out my cellphone and looked him up. Holmes lived on the West Side and, thank God, he was listed. His voicemail picked up. His recording informed me that he could be reached at a very familiar phone number: Gypsy Rose Liebowitz’s bookstore. I decided to just head over there, drop in, and browse. After all, I was in the neighborhood. The pigeon and I vacated our shared place in the sun.
My mother and Gypsy Rose had turned the New Age bookstore into an eerily attractive set design: Children of the Com visit The Wizard of Oz. Hey, maybe Mr. Kim’s seven pumpkin heads could be recast as disembodied Munchkins. Too perfect. I’d mention it to Mom. The store’s two part-time sorceresses who doubled as salesclerks were draping cobwebs over a coffin in the corner, but there was no sign of either my mother or Gypsy Rose. Customers were getting into the spirit of things. The tearoom was packed. Cafe Diablo, Gypsy Rose’s homemade devil’s food cake, and a witch’s brew, served with a cinnamon stick in the shape of a broom, were the hot items. And the lines, snaking around the tombstone where the book section’s cash register was now precariously perched, were long. Aaron Rubin, of all people, was busy ringing up sales.
I called to him, trying to out-shout the chatty crowd. “Where’re Mom and Gypsy Rose?”
He spotted me, and without the slightest pause in counting money, checking credit cards, and having the customers sign on the dotted line, yelled, “They’re upstairs in the office, working with the witches. I’m in charge here.” The former district attorney for the City of New York was obviously loving his new job.
Climbing the wonderful old wooden staircase to Gypsy Rose’s third-floor office, I found myself chuckling. It was no wonder I was nuts. It was in my genes. In my Irish bones. However, a man as rational and normal as Aaron Rubin must have caught this craziness like you would the flu or—more likely—the love bug.
Before I reached the second-floor landing, I could hear the screaming. A strident woman’s voice, filled with venom: “If we can’t have a four-foot cauldron and the live snakes, the deal’s off. Just what kind of a witch do you think I am?”
“A very unreasonable one. We have a contract here.” The usually unflappable Gypsy Rose sounded angry.
“You can take that contract and shove it up your crystal ball. We’re outta here. And our entire coven will boycott your Halloween Happening. Come on, Lucretia.” A door opened, then slammed. I jumped to one side of the narrow step as two large ladies, looking more like Merlin than Samantha on the reruns of Bewitched, came flying down the stairs. Jeez. Mom and Gypsy Rose were having problems with the hired help. I really didn’t want to get involved. All I wanted was an address from Christian.
I found him sitting next to my mother; Gypsy Rose, looking forlorn, was behind her desk. “Hi, guys,” I said. “What’s the problem?” Now why did I say that? I asked myself. I already knew the answer. I’m crazy.
Ten minutes later, we’d solved Gypsy Rose’s labor strike. I volunteered Modesty, Jane, and me to be witches du soir on Monday. And since I figured Too-Tall Tom must have firsthand knowledge of what it was like to be a warlock—having dated one—I volunteered him too. Now all I had to do was sell this solution to the ghostwriters.
My mother beamed. “I’m so proud of you, Jake. What a great idea. Now listen, darling, why don’t you come to dinner with us tonight? Gypsy Rose and Christian are joining me and Aaron when we finish here.”
“Sorry, Mom, I’m meeting the ghostwriters. I left a note for you at home.” Humph—and I was worried she’d be alone. No doubt about it, my mother had a far better social life than her darling daughter.
“You see, Maura,” Gypsy Rose smiled, “Jake’s not running around poking her nose into murder, she’s planning a nice evening with her friends. So we don’t have to worry.” I felt grateful that Gypsy Rose’s psychic powers seemed to have taken the afternoon off.
I turned to Christian. “Is Isaac Walton staying at the Marriott Marquis? One of my friends thought she saw him there.”
“No. Sally Lou would have loved the glitz, but Walton knows the Marquis wouldn’t be the right image for a country preacher. As a matter of fact, he’s right across the street at the Wales. Says their bed-and-breakfast style makes him feel at home.”
As I danced down the stairs, I heard Gypsy Rose say, “Christian, as we were discussing before those wicked witches interrupted us, I want you to know that you were very brave when you faced the guillotine.”
Nineteen
The Wales stands on the east side of Madison Avenue, midway between Gypsy Rose’s townhouse and our co-op. It’s a small hotel that may be the best bed and breakfast in New York City. Europeans as well a
s Carnegie Hill’s Museum Row tourists from across America fill its rooms. The century-old building had a face-lift some years ago and looked great. Its eclectic facade, featuring stone balconies, round, arched windows on the top floor, and decorated escutcheons above the middle stories’ windows make for an intriguing architectural hodgepodge. In the tiny but elegantly refurbished lobby, there’s a salute to Puss in Boots. And the decor in the grand salon on the second floor, filled with potted palms, geraniums on the sills of lace-curtained windows and Victorian settees, continues the theme; the walls are covered with paintings by some of the finest tum-of-the-century children’s artists. Elegant old New York. Edith Wharton would have approved. An oak sideboard provides a great breakfast and every afternoon, tea and cookies are offered, together with harp music at five. That’s where I found Isaac and Sally Lou, dressed in matching powder blue jogging suits—I hoped to God they’d be changing before the revival meeting—and sipping tea, just as the first selection began.
When the desk clerk had told me that the Waltons weren’t in their room, I figured they might be catching a little culture at the afternoon concert. Now I’d have to wait ’til the performance was over to talk to them. I grabbed an empty chair in the back of the salon, closed my eyes, and let the beauty of “Clair de Lune” sweep over me.