After Endicott and his wife died, the house had fallen on hard times, and by the time Zalinsky had acquired it, there was a leak in the roof and dry rot in the wood. He had spent a considerable amount of money restoring the place. Bernie had heard that the house was full of gold-plated faucets, spa-style showers, Japanese-style toilets, Swarovski crystal chandeliers, a media room, and a ballroom, as well as a separate exhibition space for Zalinsky’s burgeoning art collection.
However, Bernie and Libby wouldn’t know, because they hadn’t seen any of the house. They’d walked around the back and gone directly into Zalinsky’s office, signed the contract, and left. Zalinsky hadn’t offered to walk them through the house, though they could see an adjoining room through the opened door, and they hadn’t asked. The office had been small and spare, consisting of four rooms, probably the maids’ quarters in a former iteration, Bernie had speculated.
There had been the entrance room where Magda Webster had sat, a slightly larger room furnished with antique Chinese furniture and blue-and-white pottery, which was where Zalinsky had his desk, a third room that seemed to be for storing files, and a galley kitchen. The walls of all four rooms had been painted cream white and were hung with Chinese scrolls.
Bernie checked her watch as she parked the van around the rear of Zalinsky’s office. They’d made it back from Brighton Beach in an hour, which gave them a half hour with Hsaio. Bernie didn’t think that would be enough time, but at least it would be a start.
Hsaio had five files spread out over Zalinsky’s desk when the sisters entered the office. She turned and smiled at them.
“I’m just trying to get some paperwork in order,” she explained, running a hand through her short, black hair.
Looking at Hsaio, the word coming to Libby’s mind was wispy. Hsaio probably wore a double zero, Libby decided. If that. Libby was sure there was a downside to being that tiny, but for the life of her she couldn’t figure out what it could be. Today Hsaio was dressed in a white T-shirt, a mid-thigh pleated chambray skirt, and white three-inch platform espadrilles, an outfit that emphasized her smallness.
“So how can I help you guys?” she asked, giving them a quizzical look.
Bernie leaned against Zalinsky’s desk and redid her ponytail. “Tell us about the teapot,” she said when she was done with her hair.
“The Yixing teapot?”
Bernie nodded. “How old is it?”
Hsaio laughed, showing a perfect set of white teeth. “Actually, it’s modern. It was made by an artist from a province in China out of a special purple clay that can only be mined in a certain village, and the experts say that his craftsmanship compares favorably with the Ming court artisans of the fourteenth century. In addition, the clay from which it is made is supposed to have health benefits. Why are you asking?”
“Just becoming informed,” Libby told her. “Can I ask why the teapot costs so much?”
Hsaio shrugged. “A matter of supply and demand. Lots of Chinese collect them, and these days they have a lot of money. Personally, I think Zalinsky paid way too much—he got caught up in a bidding war, and his ego got the better of him—but I was not consulted. I just did as I was told.”
“Meaning?” Libby asked.
Hsaio pointed to herself. “I was the one who placed the bids for Zalinsky. He didn’t want it known that he was the one who had bought it.”
“And then he did want people to know,” Bernie said.
Hsaio concurred. “Yes, and then he did.”
“What made him change his mind?” Libby enquired.
“Personally, I think it was a matter of ego. He didn’t want anyone to know if he lost the sale. But that’s just me. I really have no idea,” Hsaio told her. “As I said, I just followed orders.”
Bernie picked up a ceramic statue of a horse and rider sitting on Zalinsky’s desk. “Nice,” she commented.
“Excellent copy of a Tang dynasty horse,” Hsaio informed her.
Bernie put the statue down. “How come he picked you to place the bids?” Bernie asked her.
“Frankly,” Hsaio said, “I think he confused art ed with art history. And then when he heard I used to work for an antiques dealer—kinda—he assumed I knew about the field, and I didn’t correct him.” Hsaio looked sheepish. “I needed the job.”
“So then you would know where to sell the teapot,” Libby observed.
Hsaio laughed. “That’s what the police said to me too, and I’ll tell you what I told them. I worked for Zalinsky, and I did what he told me, and as for knowing any serious collectors who would buy it, you probably know as many of them as I do.”
“You didn’t make any contacts when you worked for your antiques dealer?” Bernie said.
“Antiques is an elastic term. This is the place I worked,” Hsaio said, and she took her cell phone out and went to Safari. “I’ll let you be the judge. Here,” Hsaio said, handing Bernie the phone.
“Everything Baseball?” Bernie asked. “Antiques seems like a bit of a misnomer.”
“Hey, there are serious collectors of this stuff out there,” Hsaio told her. “If you’d like, I’ll get the owner on the phone for you.”
Bernie put her hands up in the air. “That’s not necessary,” she protested.
“No, I insist,” Hsaio said, dialing the number.
Bernie spent the next five minutes listening to the shop owner sing Hsaio’s praises.
“Now,” Hsaio said, taking the phone from Bernie when she was done, “if you ask me about baseball cards, that would be a different story. But selling the teapot to someone—that I can’t help you with.”
“Not even the Chinese?” Libby asked. “You said it’s a hot item for them.”
“It is,” Hsaio told her. “The police asked me that too, but in case you’re wondering, I’m adopted. I grew up in Scarsdale. Rosenthal. I’m Jewish. I have no contacts in the Chinese community. None. This whole thing makes no sense to me,” she added.
“Do you mean Zalinsky’s death?” Libby asked.
“No. The teapot,” Hsaio told her. “That is what we were talking about, isn’t it? The death I understand.”
Bernie raised an eyebrow. “How so?”
“You worked with him,” Hsaio said. “You know what he was like.”
“Oh yes,” Bernie said. “Indeed I do.”
Hsaio laughed for the third time. “Well, there you go. So did everyone else. He was an awful man. I had a terrible argument with him right before the show.”
“So we heard,” Libby said.
“The guards, right?” Hsaio asked.
Libby nodded.
“I saw them.” Hsaio hesitated for a moment, then plunged into her story. “Zalinsky and I had this arrangement, you know. At least I thought I did.” Hsaio shook her head. “I thought I was so smart. My mother told me not to do it, but I didn’t listen.”
“I remember a few of those,” Bernie said.
Hsaio shot her a grateful glance. “I should have listened to her,” Hsaio said. “What happened was that Zalinsky and I worked out a deal. Instead of paying me a salary for basically being his gofer, he was supposed to be paying my rent on an apartment he owned on the Upper West Side. I thought it was a fantastic deal.” Hsaio made a face. “Then I found out about a month ago from a neighbor that the apartment building was going into foreclosure.”
“That sucks!” Bernie exclaimed.
Hsaio snorted. “That’s certainly an understatement.”
“Did you talk to Zalinsky about it?” Bernie asked.
“What do you think?” Hsaio cried. “Of course, I did. He said there’d been a misunderstanding, and it was being taken care of, and I had nothing to worry about.”
“And you believed him?”
“Definitely. I had no reason not to. I shouldn’t have, but I did.” Hsaio’s voice trailed off. “That’s what our fight was about. I found out he hadn’t done anything at all. He swore it was all a misunderstanding and he’d done everything he was s
upposed to.” She sighed. “Well, it’s too late now. I guess I’m going to have to find another place to live. Not an easy thing these days. I’m probably going to have to move back home, God help me.”
Libby gently ran a finger down the tail of the ceramic horse. For a moment, the only sound she, Bernie, and Libby heard was the quacking of the ducks in the pond in the backyard and the whoosh of the overhead fan. “So what’s going to happen to Zalinsky’s collection?” she asked.
“That’s a good question,” Hsaio responded. She bent down and picked up a scrap of paper that had landed on the floor and deposited it in the mesh wastepaper basket next to the desk. “I can tell you what Zalinsky wanted to have happen. He wanted this house to become a museum like the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston.” Seeing the blank look on the sisters’ faces, she explained. “The Gardner museum was originally someone’s home, and when the lady died, she stipulated in her will that her house and art collection be opened to the public. Of course, she left a big endowment fund.”
“Which I take Zalinsky did not?” Libby asked.
“Nope. Not even a little one,” Hsaio replied. “Or if he did, I don’t know about it. But then, as it turns out, I don’t know lots of things,” Hsaio concluded ruefully.
“Like the money situation?” Bernie guessed.
Hsaio nodded. “Like the money situation.”
“I thought he was worth billions,” Bernie said.
“So did I. So did everyone. But now I don’t think that’s the case,” Hsaio replied. “I think maybe he was pulling one of those financial things . . . schemes. Of some kind.” She gave an apologetic shrug. “I don’t understand them, but that seems the only explanation. I mean, how do you go from billions to nothing?”
“So he was really broke?” Libby asked. “I find that hard to believe.”
“I think everyone shares your opinion.” Hsaio frowned. “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t know for certain, but what I do know is that there have been a lot of unpleasant calls coming in from people wanting to get paid.”
“So we heard,” Bernie said. According to Clyde, the police had checked out the calls and come up empty-handed.
As Bernie was talking, Hsaio rummaged around in her backpack, took out her cell phone, and checked the time. “Drats. Gotta go.”
Bernie put her hand on Hsaio’s shoulder. “One last question. How did you meet Zalinsky?”
Hsaio looked up from zipping up her backpack. “Erin introduced us.”
“I didn’t know you knew Erin before the play,” Bernie remarked, slightly confused about the timeline.
“I know Magda from when she worked at Starbucks, and Erin is Magda’s cousin. I think she’s her third . . . or is it fourth cousin. I can’t get the genealogy straight. Now if you want to talk about someone getting screwed over by Zalinsky.” Hsaio gave a mournful shake of her head. “I feel so bad for her. She gave up so much for him . . .”
“Zalinsky?” Libby clarified.
Hsaio nodded. “He treated her so badly.”
“What did he do?” Bernie asked, thinking of the scene she’d witnessed right before the play between Erin and Zalinsky.
“Ask her,” Hsaio replied as she turned off the office lights. “She’ll be more than happy to tell you, I’m sure. I’m sorry, but I’m late already.”
She hurried out the door with Bernie and Libby trailing behind her. On the way out, Bernie noticed that Hsaio hadn’t bothered to activate the house alarm. Probably in her rush to leave she’s forgotten, Bernie thought. Should I tell her? she wondered. Or not?
Bernie wavered for a moment, but in the end the opportunity to get inside Zalinsky’s house won out over the shred of guilt she was feeling, so she didn’t say anything. Instead, while Hsaio was futzing around, looking for her car keys, Bernie palmed a roll of Scotch Tape.
Once outside, Hsaio and the two sisters parted. Libby and Bernie walked over to Mathilda, while Hsaio trotted over to her old banged-up Civic. Libby got into Mathilda and Hsaio got into her vehicle, while Bernie lingered outside, pretending to take a pebble out of her shoe.
“You know,” Libby said to her, “it occurs to me that we don’t know anything about anyone in the cast.”
“Why should we?” Bernie replied, glancing up. “We weren’t there much.”
“True,” Libby agreed. “Coming?” she asked Bernie when Hsaio had gotten into her car and driven off.
Bernie straightened up. “After we take a quick look through Zalinsky’s house.”
Libby snorted. “I’m not breaking in.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Neither are you.”
“I didn’t say I was.”
“So how are we going to get in there?” Libby asked. “Levitation?”
“The way one usually does—through the door, smart-ass,” Bernie told her sister as she turned and retraced her steps to Zalinsky’s office.
“What about the alarm?” Libby called after her.
“Hsaio forgot to set it. Stay in the van if you want.”
Libby sighed. She watched her sister for a moment. Great, she thought. Just what I didn’t want to do. But then she turned Mathilda off, took the keys out of the ignition, got out of the van, and followed her sister. Just like she always did.
Chapter 9
By the time Libby got to the door, Bernie had her hand on the doorknob. She turned it, and the door swung open. “Tada. Magic,” she cried.
“I thought Hsaio locked it,” Libby said.
Bernie smiled contently. “She did, but it’s amazing what a piece of tape over the lock plate can do.”
“I don’t know where you learned this stuff,” Libby muttered, but Bernie didn’t answer. She hadn’t heard her because she was on the other side of the door already.
The sisters spent the next half hour going through Ludvoc Zalinsky’s house. They started with his office. After listening to the voice mails on Zalinsky’s answering machine, Bernie and Libby had to agree with Hsaio. There were a lot of calls about unpaid bills, but all of them were from agencies threatening legal action.
There wasn’t anything else of interest in the office, or if there was, Bernie and Libby couldn’t see it. It took less than twenty minutes to go through the rest of the office. The computer was password-protected, so that was a no go, and the few files that were there had to do with rental agreements and warranties. Evidently Zalinsky was renting his Mercedes, and it was about to be repossessed.
Then Bernie opened the door, and the sisters began exploring the rest of the house. It was not what they had been led to believe. In fact, it was the opposite. The kitchen was a big fancy affair with the requisite imported cabinets, double ovens, and granite counter tops, but it gave little evidence of being used.
“Zalinsky didn’t cook much,” Libby observed as she opened and closed the cabinet doors. The pots and pans were pristine, and as for food, there were two boxes of pasta and a can of tomato sauce in one of the cabinets, and that was it. “It amazes me that the people who have the nicest kitchens never use them.”
“True,” Bernie said as she studied the pantry. The place was full of kitchen gadgets, including the same brand of electric teakettle that they had used in the theater. “I guess Zalinsky must have liked that brand,” Bernie commented.
“Too bad it didn’t like him,” Libby said as her sister closed the pantry door, and they both walked into the den.
The walls were paneled, the books on the bookshelves seemed to have been chosen for their size and color, and the sofa was covered in a bad chintz. The room looked like a stage set, Libby reflected as she began going through the desk drawers. There was nothing in them, except a small toolbox in the bottom drawer. She opened it. The only things in it were a couple of instruction manuals and a basic tool set.
“It’s like no one lived here,” Libby observed as she put the toolbox back where she’d found it.
Bernie nodded. She was looking at a piece of paper from a yellow legal
pad she’d found peeping out of a coffee-table book on American art. There was nothing on it except a number that had been circled.
“What do you have?” Libby asked, coming up behind her.
Bernie showed her as she took out her phone and dialed the number. Her call went directly to an answering machine that said, “Art Unlimited. Please leave your number, and we will get back to you.” Bernie did as instructed and hung up. “Interesting,” she said, tapping the phone against her chin.
She lowered it, opened Safari, and typed in “Art Unlimited.” A moment later, the site came up. It was tasteful, and the copy on the opening page read, “Discreet rentals for the discerning.”
“I wonder what they rent?” Libby said.
“Art.”
“Ha. Ha.”
Bernie tried clicking on the listed links, but none of them worked. “I’ll tell you one thing,” she said to Libby. “They have a lousy website.”
“Maybe that’s on purpose to keep the hoi polloi out,” Libby said.
“Then why have a website at all,” Bernie countered as she walked into the living room. “I feel as if I’m in a fancy corporate office,” she said, looking around.
“I wonder if this stuff comes from Art Unlimited,” Libby said, pointing to the pictures hanging on the walls. They were mostly modern art. She indicated a large canvas with a white background and a white square in the middle. “I just don’t get it,” she said.
“Me either,” Bernie agreed. “I wonder if he rented the furniture as well? This place has no personality at all. I think I would have preferred what people said this place was like to what it really is like.”
“Ditto,” Libby observed as she started toward the stairway that led to the second floor. “It’s as if he got everything out of a catalog.”
It wasn’t until Bernie and Libby got to Zalinsky’s bedroom that they found anything that really caught their attention. The bedroom was huge, a fact emphasized by the lack of furniture. The only things in it were a king-sized bed, an antique red-lacquered dresser, a leather-covered armchair, and a sixty-inch TV mounted on the wall across from the bed. The walls were bare except for three small paintings: a Monet, a Cezanne, and a Picasso.
A Catered Tea Party Page 5