Body in the Big Apple ff-10

by Katherine Hall Page

  They were at school together. You do know who Adrian is, don’t you?”

  Faith had heard the name but couldn’t place it. “Remind me,” she said, looping her arm through her sister’s and pulling her in the direction of the kitchen. “I have to get some more food. They’re eating like lo-custs.”

  “Adrian is Michael’s campaign manager and has also been with Stanstead Associates since it started.

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  He’s Michael’s right-hand man. He was born here, but his father is British, so he has that cool accent. I’ve never actually met him, but I heard him on the news once. Everything he said sounded so terribly believ-able, so terribly important. He wants Phelps to work on the campaign, which is why he got invited.” A bell went off, and it wasn’t the oven timer. “Did you tell your new beau that you went to school with Emma?” Faith asked her sister.

  “I might have. Why?”

  “No reason, I just wondered. Now we’d better get out there before this gets cold. Plus, I want to meet your charming friend.”

  A friend who might be looking to use Hope to in-gratiate himself with the party powers that be. Why else would he invite her to come along, especially when he was already a step removed himself from being asked by the host and hostess?

  The crowd in the living room had increased substantially and, unlike many parties Faith had attended, nobody seemed in a rush to go on to the next—and at this time of year, there were plenty of nexts. But this tended to happen at the parties she catered. Josie was sure it was the food. “They want to scarf down the good stuff and then they won’t be stuck with greasy buffalo chicken wings and limp crudités wherever they’re going. They can just get loaded.” It was a possibility. They were even eating the fruit now.

  “Phelps, I’d like you to meet my sister, Fay. Fay, Phelps Grant.” The young man turned from his conversation and shook Faith’s hand—she’d put her empty tray down—with every indication of pleasure.

  Yes, preppy, but definitely attractive. Very attractive.

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  Hope knew how to pick them—at least in this department.

  “Hope tells me your catering business is doing very well, and after making a total pig of myself on all this, I’m not one bit surprised. I’m out all the time, but I haven’t had such good food in ages.”

  “Thank you. That’s one of my problems—that New Yorkers eat out so much and at such great places. It’s a hard act to follow—or complement.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly succeeded where others have perished.” He then proceeded to tell a mordantly funny story about a friend who had opened a restaurant down in SoHo and went bankrupt before opening. “He had no idea he’d have to think of anything but dishing out his grandmother’s secret spaghetti sauce recipe.

  That was going to be the key to fame and fortune. He never got past the lighting fixtures.” Faith found herself liking him, but there was something about his polished delivery, and polished self, that still warned her to keep her guard up. Hope, of course, was looking at him the way a kid looks at her first puppy.

  “Phelps, sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.” The man with whom Phelps had been in conversation before had turned away from a small group of people.

  “You’re not interrupting at all. This is Hope Sibley—she’s with Citibank—and her sister . . .”

  “Faith Sibley, the caterer. I knew the food was unusually good.” It was the man who’d come into the kitchen with Michael Stanstead the night Emma had made her panicked exit after receiving the first blackmail demand. “I’m not sure we were properly introduced the other night. My name is Adrian Sutherland.” Here was surprise number two—and three. Adrian 117

  Sutherland was also the man who’d been sitting alone, reading the Wall Street Journal, at the American Festival Cafe at Rockefeller Center.

  Lucy chose this moment to join the group. “Adrian, you’ll never guess. My glass is empty.” She held it out in front of her.

  “Now, that will never do. Phelps here—you remember Phelps Grant—was just about to fetch a whole bottle of bubbly, weren’t you?” Phelps left instantly. So it was like that. Gunga Grant. Faith realized that as the caterer, she should be seeing to the libations herself, but her job as investigator was more important at the moment. She wanted to watch Lucy and Adrian. What was going on between the two?

  “I see you know the Sibley girls,” Lucy continued in her slightly nasal, well-bred voice. She managed to make it sound as if Faith and Hope were still in braces, allowed to stay up for the party as a special treat.

  “Not as well as I plan to. Especially you, Faith. I see many Stanstead events in your future.” Lucy looked piqued, and she moved closer to Adrian, leaning her head on his shoulder in a propri-etary gesture.

  Adrian made no acknowledgment of her more intimate presence, nor did he shake her off. He looked older than the rest of them, and Faith wondered if he had been ahead of Phelps in school. Or maybe he was one of those people born looking old. He was attractive, but not handsome. However, his suit, his hairstyle, the way he carried himself, and even his shoes suggested wealth—and power. He didn’t need to be handsome.

  Hope was asking about some party-sponsored event 118

  on New Year’s Day, whether Michael would be speaking and, if so, officially announcing his candidacy for the House seat, about to be left vacant by the incumbent’s retirement. Stanstead would get the nomination.

  That was a given. Winning the election was another matter.

  “Come and find out. Ah, help is at hand!” Phelps was back with the champagne and pouring it for everyone. Faith incongruously found herself with a glass. “I don’t mean to be coy, but we, or I should say he, really haven’t decided yet. I do know one thing, though.” He held his glass up as if toasting. “I’m sorry we already hired a caterer.”

  On that note, Faith excused herself with thanks and rushed back to the kitchen to maintain her reputation and to escape the lethal glances Lucy was slinging her way.

  The fourth surprise was Richard Morgan.

  Faith had returned with Josie to replenish the buffet table, where Jessica was still busy serving. He entered the room, made a beeline for the food, and stopped when he saw Faith.

  “Terrific!” he said. “I assume you’re catering this affair, and I assume it’s delicious. Nobody who can dissect a menu the way you can could have impaired taste buds. Not to mention my delight at seeing you again so soon.” The night before, they’d eaten at a noodle place and gone to see Woody Allen’s new movie, Crimes and Misdemeanors. It had had a bit too much resonance for Faith at the moment. Richard had loved it.

  “This is my assistant, Josie Wells. Josie, this is Richard Morgan.” Faith was beginning to feel less and less like the anonymous help, what with all these introductions.

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  “Pleased to meet you. I have a thing for your boss.” Josie laughed out loud, shot Faith a look as she left, and said, “Get in line.”

  “She’s loyal, very loyal,” Faith countered.

  Richard was eating a large amount of caviar on a blini. “This does not shock—or deter—me at all.”

  “I would love to stay and chat longer, but I have to get back in the kitchen,” Faith said. “But first, please, quickly satisfy my insatiable curiosity and tell me why you’re here. Did the Stansteads hire you to sing carols?”

  “And well they might. No, my dear Faith—and I mean that—I am here in a reportorial capacity. I’m doing a profile on Michael Stanstead for The New Yorker and I’m trying to get as much done as possible before I have to leave town next week. Stanstead invited me here. To see him at home, just your average guy with your average multimillion-dollar apartment.” Faith was dismayed. Not that Richard was doing a profile on Michael. That should be interesting. But that Richard was leaving town so soon. If he was gone, how was she going to find out how she felt about him?

  “Harry Connick Jr.’s at the Algonquin. Want to catch him after you finish here?” Richard ha
d moved on to the foie gras.

  “I’d love to, but I have another party to do,” Faith was already getting a bit panicky about the dessert buffet and planned to send Josie and Jessica on ahead as soon as possible, even though it wasn’t scheduled to start for another few hours.

  “Another time, another place,” he said, kissing her swiftly. Again, he was on the verge of needing a shave.

  Her cheek felt warm, ever so slightly scratched.

  “Yes,” said Faith.

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  * * *

  * * *

  * * *

  Josie and Jessica had gone. The party was winding down at long last and Howard came into the kitchen to say he was leaving the wine and champagne on the buffet table but was packing up the bar. There was another door to the study and he could do it without going through the living room.

  Faith had done everything she could do until everyone left, so she sat down at the kitchen table to think about the evening. No one had been waving those Christmas cards around or making menacing gestures in Emma’s direction. In fact, it was hard to find Emma in a crowd, even when she was the hostess. Contrary to convention, she didn’t circulate. She’d greeted everyone at the start of the party, then gravitated toward a corner with some of the people she’d invited herself: neighbors in the building, a distant relative who was teaching at the Little Red School House, and her godmother, Madeline Green. Nobody knew how old Madeline was, and she wasn’t telling. She was Poppy’s mother’s best friend and the closest thing Emma had to a grandmother, since neither her mother’s nor Jason’s parents was still living. A grandmother of the Auntie Mame variety. Faith found herself wishing they could tell Madeline everything and let her handle things. She probably already knew about Poppy and Nathan Fox, maybe even about Emma’s birth. Madeline knew everything. Tonight, she was wearing a gorgeous sapphire blue Zandra Rhodes caftan, which set off her white hair—and sapphires—perfectly. In a room filled with people wearing a great deal of black, an occasional white or splash of red, Madeline stood out—as usual.

  Faith thought about the party some more. What lit-121

  tle she had seen of Emma, after the first glow of having solved her catering problem had worn off, convinced her that something new had happened. Emma was even quieter than usual. She looked worried until occasionally, remembering she was supposed to be a fun hostess, she replaced the guarded expression with a frenetic smile. What was she keeping from Faith?

  Did she know who the blackmailer was? Did she know the murderer? One and the same? Eating Faith’s gougères this very night?

  The door to the kitchen opened and Hope came in.

  “Does it look like people are really leaving?” Faith asked her sister. “I want to get over to Sixty-ninth and be sure everything’s all right. Emma’s cleaners are coming to put everything back in shape, but I still have to pack up my stuff.”

  Hope pulled out a chair and sat down. “I think you could start clearing the buffet in a few minutes. A lot of people are putting on their coats and saying good-bye to Emma. She’s in the foyer giving out the party favors. Very classy. Those Angus McDougall glass apples from Steuben. You’ve seen the ads, right? ‘Give the Big Apple for Christmas,’ something like that. I put mine in my briefcase.” Of course Hope was one of those who had worked late today.

  “Very classy—and very expensive. Emma does have good taste, especially since she doesn’t need to read price tags. Those apples run about three hundred dollars apiece.”

  Hope nodded. She picked up a metal strainer that looked like a dunce’s cap and started fiddling with it, twirling its sharp-pointed wooden pestle against the sides. Faith had used it for the mushroom sauce. She took the equipment away from her sister and shoved it 122

  on the counter behind the table. These things were expensive.

  “Why aren’t you out there making merry with your honey?” Faith asked. “Or home reading a good book.

  You look bored.”

  “Phelps, Adrian, Michael, and some other people are in the study smoking cigars, talking politics. I would have stayed, but the combination of the smoke and the sight of Lucy draped on the arm of Adrian’s chair and the arm of Adrian’s bod was more than I could handle.”

  “What’s with them? Have you heard anything? She was certainly crawling all over him tonight, which I haven’t seen her do with other men—and he wasn’t exactly pushing her away. Somehow, I’ve never thought of Lucy as that interested in sex—except as a bargain-ing chip. Plus, she’d always want to be on top.” After Hope stopped laughing, she said, “Phelps mentioned we might be going to dinner with them, and from the way he said ‘Lucy and Adrian,’ it sounded as if they were an item.”

  Lucy and Adrian. The plot sprang fully formed into Faith’s head like Athena from Zeus’s. Emma had said Lucy was even worse to her after her marriage to Michael. What better, and more evil, way to express what was so obviously a lifelong resentment of your sister (half sister, in reality) than first to blackmail her, then expose her, wrecking her husband’s chances for success? Lucy would then emerge the winner and marry his aide-de-camp, who would then proceed to take his old boss’s place. Lucy and Adrian. More than a couple—say a partnership?

  “Fay! Fay! Hello!”

  “Sorry, I’m a little tired.”

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  “The bus pickup?” Hope asked.

  “His name is Richard Morgan, and he’s here. I should introduce you. He’s writing a piece for The New Yorker about Michael.”

  Hope brightened. The man had credentials. “Okay, let’s go.”

  Entering the foyer and looking at the small crowd left, Hope whispered to her sister, “Your journalist friend could have a field day writing about most of the people here tonight. All the secrets, and I don’t just mean Moira over there, who, according to rumor, has no original body parts left.”

  The svelte woman in what appeared to be a long red satin nightgown, the kind Jean Harlow wore with mules to match, was smiling at her companion’s remarks. The skin on her face was as tight as a drum.

  Secrets. If Hope only knew . . . “There’s Richard, and he has his coat on, so we’d better hurry.” While Faith was making the introduction, Phelps Grant appeared from the study. His eyes and nose were slightly red, and Faith wondered whether he was allergic to cigar smoke or hitting the bathroom down the hall, which had proved popular with the “White lines” crowd.

  He tapped Hope on the shoulder. “We’ve been invited to go out to dinner with Lucy, Adrian, and the Stansteads. Ten minutes. Okay?”

  “As for myself, I couldn’t eat another bite tonight. I felt it my sworn duty to make sure the Stansteads didn’t get stuck with a lot of leftovers. My name’s Richard Morgan, by the way.” He put out his hand.

  Phelps took it halfheartedly, said, “Phelps Grant; nice to meet you,” and turned to go back to the inner sanc-tum, where all the important people were. Faith couldn’t resist.

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  “Richard’s a writer. He’s doing a profile on Michael for The New Yorker. ”

  Phelps swung around instantly, and Faith left him in earnest conversation with Richard. The word quintes-sential pronounced with great intensity reached her ears, and she laughed to herself at serious little Phelps.

  She headed toward the kitchen for the large trays and rolling cart she needed to clean up. She’d liked Phelps earlier, but less and less as the evening wore on. Why on earth couldn’t her sister see what a sycophant this guy was? That was such a good word. She’d drag it out again when she talked about the party with Richard.

  Soon.

  By the time she emerged from the kitchen, Richard was gone. She was glad. For a moment, she’d thought he was going to offer to help, and that would not have worked at all. She liked to keep her work life and private life nicely separated, although tonight it had been difficult.

  Poppy came out of the study.

  “Faith, I haven’t had a moment to talk to you all evening. Wonderful party, dear. You ar
e fabulous.

  Everyone is saying so. I tell them I taught you how to make s’mores, obviously starting you on the road to success.” Poppy laughed. Faith had forgotten how completely charming she was. And yes, she had taught Faith how to make s’mores—at a sleepover. It had been terrific fun. Poppy had seemed like a kid herself.

  Faith also remembered Poppy’s saying they would do it again. She was still waiting.

  “It’s a perfect place for a party. A beautiful room.

  Hard to go wrong.”

  “Emma does have a knack this way, I’ll say that for her.”

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  And what else, Mom, what else do you have to say about your daughter?

  “We’re all going out to dinner. Not that I can eat anything. Maybe a little salad.”

  Suddenly, Poppy seemed distracted. She was looking toward the study, where all the others were.

  “What are you doing for the holidays?” Faith asked politely to fill the gap in the conversation. So many topics were off-limits. Too bad.

  “Jason isn’t interested in skiing anymore, so that means Mustique again. We’ve taken a house. You should come down,” she added with such sincerity that Faith could almost believe she meant it.

  Emma came out of the study. She looked exhausted, ill even. She read the fear in Faith’s eyes and immediately said pointedly, “Everything’s fine. It was all perfect. And Mother, Faith has another party to do, so you mustn’t keep her.”

  “Another party. You’re working very hard, Faith. I hope it’s not all too much. Everyone seems to be getting that ghastly flu that’s going around. Emma, you should stay here and get into a bath and bed. You know you haven’t been feeling up to par lately. You look a little feverish.” Poppy’s maternal concern extended to stroking her daughter’s hair, which meant she must be very worried indeed; then she gave Faith a slight wave and went off toward the study.