Body in the Big Apple ff-10

by Katherine Hall Page

  Faith had given the keys back as soon as she had returned. It was hard not to. The woman had had her hand stretched out. Now she slipped it off the ring and gave it to the police. One of the officers went inside.

  “I got to get to an autopsy,” the medical examiner said, walking past them on his way to his car. He stopped. “Bring her in, but I don’t think there’s any doubt here. Carbon monoxide poisoning. Classic suicide.” He looked over at Faith with sympathy. “She didn’t suffer at all. She got drowsy and slipped away.

  One of the ones I brought back described it as feeling like all his cares were floating away from him and then he fell asleep.”

  “If I’d gotten to her earlier, could I have saved her?” She gave voice to the fear that had been plaguing her since she’d dragged Lorraine’s body from the car, a 196

  shiny 1975 Ford Galaxy that must have belonged to her parents.

  The man shook his head. “You would have to have been out and about in the middle of the night. I think she must have gone to bed, felt overwhelmed, and waited until no one was likely to be stirring. Say two, three this morning. Then she went out to the garage.

  She would have been beyond help of any kind in an hour, hour and a half.”

  They were taking Lorraine away, and there was no need for Faith to stick around. She was seized by an overwhelming desire to get back home, to get back to Manhattan.

  “Is it all right to go now?” she asked. The officer looked weary.

  “Yeah, we know how to reach you, right?” Faith nodded. She had given the false name and an address, and a phone number two digits off from her own. She was certain they would never be in touch.

  The lies had come easily—at this point, she was even beginning to feel she was Karen Brown.

  The ride back to the city was interminable. The train lost power several times, with subsequent starts and stops, flickering lights and darkness. It suited the day.

  Faith wanted her aunt Chat’s party to be perfect. It was a swan song for the fabulous apartment in the San Remo, a swan song for the Manhattan chapter in Chat’s life—a lengthy and good read. It was also a swan song for the eighties—this hectic decade where fortunes had been made, lost, and made again. Chat had been a player, a rueful one, but still a player, and she’d sold her advertising agency for a very tidy sum.

  She’d told Faith she didn’t want anything trendy—no 197

  kiwi, no sushi, and definitely no quiche. Faith and Josie had decided to do a dinner buffet on a Merrie Olde England theme—except, Faith said, with edible food. There’d be roast beef—it had proved popular at the Stansteads’ and other parties Faith had catered—

  but not overcooked in the traditional English manner.

  She’d serve it with horseradish sauce or gravy and individual Yorkshire puddings. Chat, a devout An-glophile, was thrilled with the notion and insisted on her two favorites: angels-on-horseback and potted shrimp. She also ordered brussels sprouts. Faith was happy to comply, but for those who wanted their angels (oysters) cold and not wrapped in crisp bacon, she planned a large fruits de mer station. Potted shrimp and a large assortment of pâtés were fine, yet brussels sprouts were not what people wanted to see at a dinner party, even sophisticated New Yorkers. She wasn’t worried, though. She had a wonderful recipe that never produced leftovers. It was a simple one. The sprouts were steamed until just tender, then quickly sautéed over high heat in hazelnut oil with a dash of balsamic vinegar before mixing them with finely ground hazelnuts. It worked well with walnut oil and walnuts, too.

  Josie was all for a suckling pig with an apple in its mouth, but Faith felt that was a bit too Henry VIII and decided to serve Scottish salmon with a light hol-landaise for the non-meat eaters. The staff would circulate with a variety of hot and cold hors d’oeuvres.

  Chat had decreed that champagne and claret cup would be the only libations offered. “If they want anything else, they can go to another party.” Faith doubted anyone would, but she resolved to tuck in some British ale and a few bottles of red and white wine. Champagne gave some people a headache.

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  For dessert, there would be Stilton and pears, as well as a plateau of other English cheeses—Wensleydale, Cheshire, Cheddar, and biscuits. She added several bottles of Cockburn port to the list. Nobody wanted to be bothered to crack walnuts unless he or she was lingering after dinner at a long table in a stately home.

  She’d made several batches of sugared ones and a few spiced. A spectacular trifle that had taken Josie hours to concoct was waiting in one of Have Faith’s refrigerators. It had to be made the day before, and knowing it was there in all its glory was setting Faith’s mind con-siderably at rest. To fill in the cracks, if anyone could possibly still be hungry, they’d done miniature versions of treacle tart, Maids of Honor, Chelsea buns, and, with a nod across the Channel to the Sceptered Isle’s ancient enemy, dark chocolate and Grand Marnier soufflés.

  “You think people will like it? It’s not too theme park? Not too ‘Tom Jones takes a bite of the Big Apple’?” Faith asked anxiously.

  Josie was quick to reassure her. “They’ll love it.

  People are tired to death of all that Yuppie food—you know, mixed field greens and caramelized rutabagas.

  After this party, they won’t have to gorge themselves on Ring-Dings when they get home. And you know how nuts New Yorkers are for anything with the slightest trace of an English accent. Why do you think Ralph Lauren has made it so big with all his Brideshead rip-offs? Like his cowboy stuff. Live the fantasy.” Josie’s right, Faith thought happily. New Yorkers love anything British. Look at what happens when any of the royals come to town. And she’d grown up hearing her grandmother’s friends casually insert little references to “dear Wallis and the duke” into their 199

  conversations. The whole country is a sucker for the accent. What was it Hope had said about Adrian Sutherland? That anything he said sounded important because of it?

  “Just so long as we don’t have to dress up as wenches or wear those tall pointy hats with the scarves drooping out the back,” Josie said.

  Faith laughed. They’d been working since seven o’clock and it was almost time for her to meet Arthur Quinn for lunch. Josie had tuned the radio to WQXR

  and they’d been playing Christmas music all morning.

  The thought of adopting her false identity and plung-ing back into the dark morass that had opened up when she’d met Emma at the first party was profoundly depressing. She felt truculent. This is Christmas. We’re doing a great party tonight. I’m not supposed to be running around trying to solve a murder. Two murders.

  And blackmail.

  She got up and went into the bathroom to change.

  She didn’t have a choice.

  “You okay?” Josie asked when she came out.

  “Possibly,” Faith answered.

  It wasn’t a day for walking. A light snow was starting to fall and the sky was a dense gray, but Faith got off the bus at Times Square to finish the trip to the Stage Deli on foot. She wasn’t claustrophobic, but suddenly she needed to breathe some fresh air—a term used lightly to describe the atmosphere hovering over the city.

  She’d come down to the Square a few New Year’s Eves when she’d been a teenager, been to innumerable Broadway shows, but had never developed any sort of fondness for the neon sleaze that others were bemoan-200

  ing now that the redevelopment plan spoken of for years was finally going to happen. Replacing porno flicks and arcades where strung out runaway teens sold drugs or themselves with a visitor’s center, new theaters, and hotels didn’t upset her in the slightest.

  She looked up into the sky. The flakes were getting thicker, falling in a dizzy, random pattern. Who would arrange for Lorraine’s burial? She couldn’t imagine Harvey taking charge, speaking to a funeral home, selecting a casket, planning a service. The neighbor might. She seemed to have a real feel for death—a mortuary groupie. It upset Faith to think that Lorraine would go out
of this world in much the same fashion that she’d lived in it. There was only one way to express it—the woman had been totally screwed.

  Yesterday and today, Faith had said several prayers for the dead woman, but she found no ease. She’d called her father and asked that at the next church service he add the name Lorraine to those “newly gathered.” “A friend of yours?” he’d asked. She’d answered, “Yes.” He’d waited for her to say more and when she hadn’t, he’d said, “You know I’m here.” Faith had replied gratefully, “I know, thank God.” He’d given a low laugh and said, “I do.” Who killed Lorraine Fuchs? As she made her way uptown, her steps fell into rhythm with the words. Who killed Lorraine Fuchs? Who killed Cock Robin? Not I, they all said. She pulled her hat down farther over her ears. Was this matricide? Harvey? Or someone else?

  Someone so eager to get his hands on Fox’s manuscript that he’d kill for it? Someone named in it—or someone who wanted to publish it? Lorraine had been the type who would have blocked publication if there was anything in it that she’d thought would hurt some-201

  one—especially herself. Except, Arthur Quinn wouldn’t be worried about that, especially since Fox couldn’t be sued for libel. But a publisher could. It was all so complicated. And how had the murderer gotten Lorraine into the car? There were no signs of any struggle. The neighbor hadn’t smelled alcohol. Maybe an autopsy would show signs of some drug, some nar-cotic. Or maybe someone had roused her from her sleep with some story to lure her out to her car—a need for help. Harvey could have done that. Except she hadn’t been wearing a coat. Yet, if she’d thought Harvey was in trouble, she might not have even bothered with that. Or it could have been removed—with her purse—after she was unconscious. But wouldn’t she have tried to get out of the garage, even with the door shut tight? It didn’t have any windows. Faith wished she could tell the medical examiner to look at her hands. See whether she’d tried to lift the door. Again, she would have put her gloves on with her coat. Faith sighed. It just might have happened this way. Or some other way that hadn’t occurred to her yet. Who killed Lorraine?

  She was so preoccupied that she almost walked past the deli. The Stage was on Seventh Avenue at Fifty-fourth Street. It was opposite a cluster of hotels, and when she looked in the windows at the crowd, she wondered how they would be able to get a table—let alone conduct any sort of conversation. She’d told Arthur Quinn that she’d been at the service, so she knew what he looked like. She’d said she would wait for him by the cash register. He came in just after she did.

  “Mr. Quinn, hello. I’m Karen Brown.” She put out her hand.

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  Arthur Quinn was short but well proportioned. He had a gray crew cut and those large black glasses frames that were Carrie Donovan, the Times’ fashion editor’s trademark. He looked owlish and very literary, which was probably the effect he was cultivating.

  “Mr. Quinn! Come on—good to see you. We have your regular table,” said one of the waiters, hailing him. Quinn gave Faith a big grin.

  “I come here a lot. They like me.”

  Quinn’s table was for two, a rarity, and wedged in the back, away from the total craziness of the counter.

  He didn’t look at the menu.

  “You know what I want,” he said to the hovering waiter.

  “Yes, and your coffee right away.”

  Faith had been surrounded by food all morning, yet until now, yesterday’s visit to Brooklyn had destroyed her appetite. Maybe it was the smell of all the artery-blocking food coming from the Stage’s kitchen or maybe it was adrenaline, but she was ravenous.

  “Matzo ball soup and a whitefish-salad sandwich on dark rye—and coffee now also,” she ordered, handing the oversize menu back. “And plenty of pickles.”

  “My kind of girl.” The agent beamed. Faith was beginning to like him, too, but it was important to keep her guard up. What did she know about the man anyway, other than the fact that he gave a helluva funeral oration? Faith had friends who’d gone into both sides of publishing. Springing for lunch, albeit not at the Four Seasons, for an unknown with merely the sketchi-est idea for a book would have been out of character for the agents Faith knew. They’d have told a neophyte to send a query letter.

  “So, you’re writing your thesis about Nate—and 203

  maybe a book?” He drank some coffee and his cup was immediately refilled.

  “I came across him in some research I was doing on the radical movement and thought he’d be a compelling subject,” she lied.

  Quinn nodded. “I’ve always thought he would be, and now more than ever, but if you’re seriously thinking of getting something published, you have to work quickly. He won’t be hot for long. The public has a very short memory.”

  Faith nodded and asked, “At the service, you spoke about how long you’d known Nathan Fox and how you met. What was he like at that age?” Their food arrived. Quinn’s regular order turned out to be an overstuffed corned beef on rye with a side of latkes, each the size of home plate. Another waiter brought dishes of applesauce and sour cream for the potato pancakes. “Hold the coleslaw for a while,” he instructed. Faith inhaled the strong chicken flavor of her soup and cut into a matzo ball with her spoon.

  Baseball metaphors abounded at places like the Stage and the dumpling was as large as what Mattingly hit out of the park, but as light as air.

  After chewing contemplatively, Arthur Quinn answered her question. “Nate came to see me. No appointment. Just walked in off the street. Got my name from the phone book. As I said, he was a skinny kid, still in college—he stayed there a long time, the draft, you know—yet there was something about him. Something that made you look twice. Intense, sure. But funny, too. He had the first book right there with him—

  Blow Up Along with Me, the Best Is Yet to Come—

  wordy, but a catchy title, I told him. After he told me what a parasite I was, we shook hands and had a deal.” 204

  “It was a best-seller, right?”

  “Mega. There wasn’t a student in the country who didn’t sleep with it under his or her pillow, and the parents all bought it to see what their kids were up to. We made a fortune.”

  Faith was curious. “What did Nate do with his money? He wasn’t underground then.”

  “No, that came later. Nate was a good Jewish boy, and good Jewish boys take care of their parents. He paid off the mortgage on their house and put most of the rest in mutual funds for them, that sort of thing—

  bitching and moaning about investing in a decadent system, but they couldn’t keep it all in a sock. He ra-tionalized that he was getting back what was owed them. Both his parents sweated at low-level jobs to ed-ucate him. He was an only child and he was pretty cut up when they died not too long after he’d done all this.

  Then he gave everything to an aunt, Marsha and Irwin’s mother. The Fox family was very religious. Or-thodox, kept kosher. The whole bit. But Nate was a rebel from the start. Wouldn’t be bar-mitzvahed. Told them he couldn’t do something he didn’t believe in, and they respected that, although I know they were upset. His grandfather had written some kind of pamphlet protesting the pogroms and got out of Russia just as the Cossacks were about to bash in his door—and head. Nate grew up on this stuff and identified with him, even though he died before Nate was born. Nate was named for him.”

  Faith had brought along a little notebook and was scribbling away. Her sandwich arrived. It could have fed an entire Russian village.

  “He sounds like a romantic,” she said.

  “He was a romantic—at least when he was young.

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  In the beginning. And”—Quinn actually winked—“he certainly was one as far as women were concerned.”

  “I’ve heard that,” Faith said, taking a bite of the whitefish salad. It was smoky, but not too smoky. Delicious.

  “You have no idea. The guy was golden. He’d leave one of those demonstrations with his pockets stuffed with women’s phone numbers. He was like a rock
star.

  Then the asshole had to go and shoot himself in the foot.”

  And you, Faith surmised. Out loud, she said, “The holdup?”

  “It wasn’t much of a holdup. You understand this was the thing to do in those days—redistribution of the wealth, money to fund the revolution, that kind of thing. Maybe Nate was getting bored with his uptown dinner parties. Maybe he wanted to make a big splash.”

  “Or maybe he really believed in what he was doing?” Faith suggested. She was supposed to be a student, after all. An idealistic one.

  The agent laughed. “There’s always that possibility.

  In a weird way, I think he thought he could pull the whole thing off. That he was above the law. He’d still be able to live the way he had been living. He would simply add ‘knocking off a bank’ to his list of accomplishments.”

  He turned to his pancakes. The sandwich had vanished. How did he stay so trim? Hours at the gym?

  Tapeworm?

  “Anyway, he botched it. The other two guys surren-dered to the authorities, did some time, and live in Jersey now with mortgages and lawns like the rest of the world there. Fox had to be dramatic and disappear. Not that it didn’t help sales, at least for a while. He wrote 206

  his biggest book—you know, Use This—when he was on the run.”

  Faith had forgotten that Fox had had accomplices.

  Lorraine had mentioned the driver of the getaway car, too. Were they somehow involved in all this, bearing a grudge against him, perhaps knowing about the tell-all book? But from the sound of it, at least these two were grandfathers growing tomatoes. She filed them away for future thought. She wanted to get Quinn to talk about Lorraine.

  “Mr. Quinn—”

  “Please, call me Arthur. I’m not that ancient.”

  “Arthur,” so be it, “was Nathan Fox ever married?”

  “Not that I know of—and I’d know. For one thing, a wife would have wanted to get her hands on the royalties, and no one ever did. There’s poor Lorraine, but they were never married. Too bourgeois.”