Body in the Big Apple ff-10

by Katherine Hall Page

  ten, if I ever knew—like the words to certain Christmas carols. But I have both—patience and fortitude, that is.”

  “Where did you get the rest of the Wenceslas verses? Here at the library?”

  “I bought a book. It’s in my apartment. Want to stop by and sing?”

  As a variation on etchings, it was certainly original, and Faith realized she wanted to sing. Wanted to sing very much.

  “Baked butternut squash soup with toasted pignolis, butterflied game hens with asparagus risotto, Bibb lettuce and radicchio with pomegranate seeds in a raspberry vinaigrette, cheese plateau, and individual chocolate mousse cakes.” Faith had arrived at work early the next morning. The soup was done and she was starting the cakes. The recitation of the menu for tonight’s dinner was for Josie’s benefit. She’d just come in and they were alone.

  “Two questions. Anything else with the hens? Like a chutney? And, more important, where’d you get that glow? ’Cause if it comes in lotion, I want a truckload.” Josie laughed. “Never mind. Don’t tell, but if it were a cosmetic—like those tubes of instant tan—someone would be a billionaire.”

  Faith tried to look stern and professional. “Chutney’s a good idea. We can offer two—one for the fire-breathers.”

  As the morning wore on, she let her thoughts wander. Last night had left her more confused about her feelings for Richard than ever. He wasn’t seeing anyone else. Had never been married, but he’d had a five-year relationship that had broken up last summer. It 173

  wasn’t a tell-all session, to Faith’s relief. She’d run as fast as she could from men who insisted on detailing their every conquest—and every heartbreak. For her part, she simply told him she had several good male friends—guys she’d gone to school with, some she’d met since—but she’d never been seriously involved with anyone for too long. As Josie was wont to put it,

  “I don’t hear chimes.”

  As the morning passed, thoughts of Richard receded and the cast of characters occupying her life, the cast she couldn’t mention, resumed their prominent roles.

  She’d see Lorraine tomorrow morning and ask if she could borrow the manuscript. The earth-shattering tell-all book. It had to be what Lorraine was talking about.

  It had to be in one of those precious stacks of memorabilia under her window seat. Obviously, there were things in it that freaked out Lorraine. Who and what had been mentioned? There was something sickening about Fuchs sitting at his shaky card table, hammering away at his old Underwood, filling sheet after sheet with his own particular venom. Faith thought of the recent craze for Mommie Dearest books. Fox would skewer those hostesses, Poppy for sure, as well as his comrades in the struggle. Politicians, of course, perhaps even his family. Those two cousins at his service—Irwin and Marsha. Maybe they’d taken his sand pail away on an outing to the Jersey shore. Faith had a feeling it was that kind of book. The kind of book a lonely, embittered, disappointed older man writes to get back, to point blame—anywhere but at himself—

  for his life. Did it mention Emma? Would he do that to his own daughter?

  Faith had become convinced that Fox’s Marxism consisted mainly of “To me according to my needs.” 174

  He wouldn’t have cared what kind of havoc he’d be wreaking after his death—would have positively enjoyed the prospect. If he thought about Emma at all, and possibly he did care for her, he’d have convinced himself that he was doing her a good turn—extricating her from her marriage to a major capitalist pig. Bringing Stanstead down—and who knew how many others in the pages of his book?—was what Nate Fox would have considered a magnificent legacy.

  She wondered about his other literary efforts. There had been best-sellers, but in recent years his efforts had barely raised a ripple—a mention in the “Books in Brief ” column of the Times Book Review at best. It was quite a comedown. Fox had genuinely seemed not to care about money—look at how he’d lived—but he’d cared about fame. And fifteen minutes didn’t begin to be enough. He’d had it and wanted it again—

  even if he wouldn’t be around to enjoy it. Envisioning the effect his book would have was enough—mental masturbation.

  But what about his agent? Surely he cared about fortune—and fame as a result. The big advance, the multiple printings, the translations, the movie. Faith didn’t have a moment to spare to see Quinn, but it was time. Past time. A blockbuster posthumous book—

  that was money in the bank. Joining some sizable de-posits from blackmailing Fox’s daughter? But would he be capable of helping his client—a client with steadily dropping sales figures—on his way to push the publication date up? “Agent from hell” was usually an appellation from the publisher’s perspective.

  This might be a new variation. Faith resolved to call Arthur Quinn after lunch and set up an appointment as soon as possible.

  175

  Emma had mentioned finding out about Todd Hartley from a bookstore in the Village. Faith took down the Yellow Pages. It was a name you didn’t forget. Sure enough, Better Read Than Dead was still alive and kicking. She looked at her watch. She had an hour before she had to meet Emma, and tonight’s dinner was under control. She’d be back in time to finish up the rest of their jobs after the luncheon.

  “Do you mind if I duck out again?” she asked Josie.

  “It’s so hard to get good help these days,” she quipped, then added, “look, Faith, I know your friend’s in trouble, serious trouble, and you can’t tell me about it, but whatever you need to do, just do it. I can look after things here.”

  Faith threw her arms around her assistant.

  “When you open that restaurant of yours, I’m going to be there every night with everyone I can think of.”

  “Once, twice a week will be fine. Now, you go take care of business.”

  Better Read Than Dead was the type of bookstore Faith loved. It was small, yet the owner had managed to wedge in several comfortable easy chairs and a couch. There were books everywhere and many had little tags on them—“Recommended by Natasha,” or

  “Recommended by George”—which gave a familial feel to the place, as did the large ginger cat curled up in the window. There was no cappuccino, and used books outnumbered new ones. There were no computer terminals. The cash register was original. The woman behind it was, too. She was by Botero—or Rubens. Large, lush in appearance, with a deep gold paisley scarf wound around the neck of her volumi-nous dark caftan, she wore several strings of amber 176

  beads that had become tangled with the glasses resting on her large bosom. Her hair was gray and short. She was very beautiful.

  “Looking for anything in particular or just brows-ing?” she asked. She had a slightly husky voice. Too many cigarettes? She was lighting up now. The voice reminded Faith of something. She couldn’t remember now, though.

  “Have you got anything by Nathan Fox?” The woman smiled quizzically.

  “I’m doing my thesis on the sixties,” Faith lied.

  “Oh, that explains it.”

  Faith bristled. Was it so obvious that the stack next to her bed consisted of Gourmet, Vogue, The New Yorker, an Alice Hoffman novel, and a book of Ellen Gilchrist’s short stories?

  “I had quite a run on Fox the week after he was killed, but I have plenty of books left. Got a good deal on remainders. Take your pick. Five bucks apiece. I got ten the other week, but the demand is down, so I’ll give you the regular price.”

  Faith felt compelled to buy one of each title. Nagging at her was the thought that the key to this whole ugly mess lay in Fox’s personality, but she wondered if she’d glean much wading through his rhetoric.

  “Did you know Nathan Fox?”

  “We all knew Nathan Fox. But this was his favorite bookstore—until he became famous and started going uptown.” Natasha related this matter-of-factly. If she was bitter, she wasn’t revealing it to Faith. “He used to hold court over there.” She pointed to the largest easy chair. “I can see him now. You’ve probably seen news video
s. He could hold a room—or a stadium or a park—for hours. But I don’t know why you’d want to 177

  waste your time on him. He never contributed anything meaningful either to contemporary neo-Marxist political theory or to the movement. Nathan Fox cared about Nathan Fox—not anyone in Vietnam, Cambodia, or all the people killing themselves in dead-end jobs in this country.”

  Faith wasn’t surprised. She had another question, and she asked it obliquely.

  “He looks very attractive in the old pictures. He was supposed to have a way with women, in particular.” Natasha laughed. It was deep, throaty, and conta-gious. “He was a cocksman, if that’s what you’re getting at. In the beginning, he’d screw anything in skirts, except we were seriously into pants, khaki pants, in those days.” She looked at Faith. “And to answer your next question, no, he wasn’t my lover, although he would have liked to have been. I started this store with a dear friend. We lived together from the day we met until the day he died last year. Nathan Fox was nothing compared to what I had. Drove him crazy. Then he went uptown—

  and we didn’t see him so much anymore.” So much for solidarity, Faith thought.

  “I should put the books in the window,” Natasha said. “Somebody’s bound to write Nate’s biography now. Even before all this, somebody was around last summer asking about him.”

  “A man or a woman?” Faith asked quickly.

  “A man,” Natasha answered.

  Faith picked up the bag of books. An interesting parcel to check at the Sherry-Netherland, her next destination.

  “Did you ever meet somebody named Lorraine in those days?” Faith wasn’t sure why she asked this. It just popped out.

  178

  “I don’t want to talk about Lorraine. It’s too sad.

  Now you’d better go and do whatever it is you do,” Natasha said pointedly.

  Faith left the store, and looking back, she saw that the woman had flipped the sign on the door to CLOSED.

  The red-walled private dining room at the Sherry-Netherland Hotel was filled with poinsettias and pine boughs—and women. The women were greeting one another with squeals of delight. Dress ran heavily toward Adolfo suits in red or green, with Faith having opted for a Betsey Johnson quilted peplum jacket and skirt in soft gray. At the last minute, she’d grabbed a felt hat with roses from Charivari. It was festive.

  Emma was waving from her table, and Faith hurried over.

  Doubles was a private club and an invitation to one of their holiday lunches was a coup. Fun and familial—without the complications that family events often brought. And Emma had been right: With the buzz of conversation and a spirited performance, complete with sleigh bells, by the West Side Madrigalists, they could safely talk about anything without fear of detection—especially since the seat next to Faith was empty.

  The first thing Faith noticed was that Emma was beginning to show the strain of the last weeks. She’d pulled her hair back and her face looked pinched and tired. She was wearing makeup, yet she still looked pale. She was picking at her cuticles again.

  Faith had missed the first course and the waiter was serving lamb chops. They looked good—rosy, not overdone.

  179

  “How did they get in touch with you? What did they say?” she asked Emma.

  “By phone again. Late in the afternoon. After I saw you. It was so quick, I barely had time to take it in.

  Just, ‘Same time, same place. If you don’t happen to have the cash, bring jewelry.’ Then whoever it was hung up. I was terrified. Michael was home, working in his study. Thank God he didn’t answer the phone.” Again a Sunday, at a time when the spot would be deserted.

  Emma looked anguished. Faith turned, so that anyone glancing their way would see more of Faith’s quilted back than Emma’s face.

  “It’s the hang-up calls. I can’t stand them, and now maybe they’ll stop. I wrote another note saying this is absolutely the end.”

  “From now on, if you hear anything at all from them, anything, call me. Leave messages at home and work. I check them all the time. Maybe I should get a beeper.”

  “Delicious. And so much fun to catch up with everybody. Did you see all those yummy desserts?” Emma answered quickly—now flushed with the effort—when the woman next to her suddenly remembered her manners and turned to say a few words to the guest on her other side. Having satisfied this social obligation, she turned back to the other conversation, having apparently not noticed Emma’s untouched plate or total lack of catching up.

  “Eat something,” Faith ordered. “And try to smile.” Obediently, Emma the good girl cut off a tiny piece of meat and choked it down.

  “What jewelry did you give them?”

  180

  “I had the money.” Emma sipped some of the white wine at her place.

  “The odd ten thou just lying around?” Faith was incredulous. The rich really were different.

  “After you told me they probably wouldn’t stop, I took some more out—just to be on the safe side.” Emma Stanstead wouldn’t be on the safe side unless Faith could figure this all out, but if it made her feel more secure to have stacks of Ben Franklins under her camisoles, so be it.

  “I was very careful to notice everything so I could tell you, but there wasn’t much to notice. It was a different cabdriver, but I wrote his number down anyway.

  And there wasn’t a soul at the construction site. Luck-ily, I had the garbage bags left over from the last time.”

  Lucky, lucky, lucky. Faith sighed. She had to get back to work. This was neither the time nor the place to tell Emma about Harvey Fuchs and Faith’s new suspicions about a Harvey-Todd Hartley combo. It was much more likely than anything involving Arthur Quinn. Agents didn’t murder their clients. It was bad for business.

  “I’m going to hit the ladies’ room, then be on my way. Tell Michael everything, please. Get some sleep, and call me.” She felt like a physician.

  Emma didn’t address the first part of the prescrip-tion. “I am tired. There’s so much going on.” Faith gave her a swift hug and walked across the room. The dessert buffet had been set up on a large round table in the middle of the dance floor. Bird-boned women were circling it, taking “just a taste” of the fabulous-looking concoctions on their plates: St.

  181

  Honoré cakes, almond tarts, pecan tarts, blueberry crisps, crème brûlées, praline soufflés. Everybody loves dessert.

  Poppy Morris was in the ladies’ room, reapplying her makeup with a practiced hand. She looked striking, as usual; her suit by whomever was apple green and made all the rest at the luncheon look unoriginal.

  “Faith, dear, how lovely to see you. I was going to give you a call after the party. It was wonderful, and I’m so impressed. You’re a very clever girl.” She patted the low seat next to her and Faith sat down. For a moment, Poppy was intent on her lip liner; then she glanced about the room. Apparently, the sole other occupant, a woman of a certain age applying rouge to cheeks resembling crushed tissue paper, was not someone Poppy cared about overhearing their conversation.

  “Emma looks terrible. Do you know what’s bothering her?”

  Faith had dreaded this moment, predicting it when Poppy had fixed her with her gimlet eye the moment she walked through the door.

  “I think she’s tired. They go out so much, and she has all these other things—her charity work, political events.”

  Poppy wasn’t buying it. “She’s always had those.

  True, it takes a great deal of stamina to be married to someone in politics, but she doesn’t entertain much.

  It’s merely a question of showing up and behaving pleasantly.” Clearly, Poppy felt her own role as trend-setter much more demanding—and important.

  Faith knew she had to give her something else.

  Poppy wasn’t buying fatigue.

  “Well,” she said drawing the word out, “I know she’s 182

  worried about not getting pregnant.” Nothing to hurt Emma in this revelati
on, and she hoped her feigned reluctance would convince Poppy that this was all that Emma was worrying her pretty little head about.

  Poppy snapped her Chanel bag shut. “I knew it! And she simply makes it all worse by agonizing! Not that I’m in any hurry to be a grandmother at my age.” She managed to make it sound as if forty were still a speck on the distant horizon.

  Faith nodded in agreement. “She told me the doctor said she should relax, but I imagine that’s hard when you want something as much as this.”

  “I don’t know why she’s having all this trouble.

  With me, all you had to do was lay a pair of men’s trousers across the bottom of my bed and there I was.

  Not literally, of course.”

  “It’s all right, Mrs. Morris. I know where babies come from. My mother explained it all to me when I was in third grade by using Del Monte pear halves—

  womb, et cetera. Emma knows, too, because I told her myself.”

  Faith still remembered their joint shocked wonderment and giggles. She’d never been able to eat those pears again—not that she would now, in any case.

  Canned pears!

  Poppy stood up and smoothed her skirt. Once more, she glanced around the room and for the moment, they were alone.

  “Michael’s going places, and he’s the perfect husband for Emma.” She gave Faith an air kiss and stepped back. “You know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for my daughter— nothing. ” Then she was gone, leaving Faith to speculate about what the hell had just happened.

  183

  * * *

  * * *

  * * *

  Faith went over the scene with Poppy all the way back to work. This was a side Faith had never seen before—the mother lion and her cub. Cubs, if you counted Lucy, but Lucy could more than take care of herself, and Poppy knew it. It was Emma she’d had to go rescue from the commune in the Village, Emma she’d dragged to Dr. Bernardo, and Emma she’d safely married off to “the perfect husband.” What did this intensity mean? And why now? What did Poppy know? She’d been at Fox’s service and had looked bereft. She and Lorraine had been the only two, Faith noted. But what if Poppy knew about the book, knew that Fox planned to name names? There was nothing she wouldn’t do for her daughter. Did this include murder?