“You’d better get used it,” said Loren, “since you’re showing.”
“I hate that word: showing. It sounds like you’re an exhibitionist or something. Or that it’s something to be kept secret.”
“Are you sure you weren’t you-know-what when you were up there? Maybe that’s what freaked him out.”
“He got freaked out?” said David. “I told you he was weird.”
“He’s not weird,” said Lillian. “Maybe he is, a little, but I like him. I mean, I liked him. But I’m not going to pursue a relationship with a man who’s scared of New York.”
“I thought he used to live here,” said Loren.
“He did. But he got freaked out over the crash and bolted.”
“He sounds like a real loser,” said David. “What doesn’t freak him out?”
“Tranquility,” said Lillian, pulling the last shreds of meat off the bones.
“God,” said David. “Remember tranquility?”
Life seemed to stop for an instant while they stood there, silently, each engrossed in a different memory, but then they heard Kate and Judith laughing and racing down the hall, and life picked itself up again and rushed forward.
CHAPTER 34
SOMETHING WAS WRONG. Not only had Anton stopped returning her calls, but now his machine was turned off. Amanda decided to investigate and took a taxi uptown. She entered Trump Tower’s darkened foyer and stood for a moment, wondering how to proceed.
Bernard looked up from a pad of doodles. “Good afternoon, Miss…”
“Paine,” Amanda suggested. “It’s so nice to see you.”
“Likewise, I’m sure, Miss Paine.”
“Did you have a nice turkey?”
“Very nice.”
“I didn’t know you were an artist, Bernard.”
“I’m not, Miss Paine. It just helps pass the time. I’m doing a drawing of every resident.”
“Speaking of residents, is Mr. Shawangunk in?”
“Mr. Shawangunk’s left the country.”
Amanda tried not to grimace. “Has he?” she managed to say. “When did he depart?”
“Oh, I’d say a week ago. At least a week. He didn’t let you know?”
“Of course he did,” said Amanda. “We’re colleagues, as you’ll recall. He’ll be back this week, correct?”
“I don’t think so, Miss Paine.”
This is very bad, Amanda thought. She looked down to see her hand gripping the edge of the concierge’s desk, her crimson nails making tiny serific indentations in the soft wood.
“I don’t think he’ll be back for some time,” Bernard said.
“I expected him this week,” Amanda said.
“All I know is what he told us, Miss Paine. He said he might…” Bernard paused, not sure if he should proceed. Miss Paine looked as though she might attack him.
“What?” she hissed. “What did he say?”
“He said he might not be back till the spring,” Bernard muttered.
“You’re mistaken! You misheard! The trial is next week.”
“What trial, Miss Paine?”
“Heath Jackson’s. Mrs. Shawangunk’s murderer.”
“Oh, that. Well, there’s not much question about that, is there? I mean, they caught him with the gun.”
This is true, Amanda told herself: They caught him with the gun. I was never seen entering or leaving the room. She tried to regain her composure by repeating, I was never seen entering or leaving the room, I was never—
“You don’t look well, Miss Paine,” Bernard said. She must have glared at him, because he added, “I mean you look great, really pretty and all, you just don’t look…you look a little sick.”
“I think I need some fresh air,” said Amanda.
“That’s one thing we don’t got in New York.” Bernard tried to laugh and then sighed in relief as Miss Paine disappeared through the tinted glass doors.
Amanda knew better than to fall apart on the street. Only common people fell apart on the street. She would do it in Bonwit’s. She hastened around the corner and felt substantially better upon entering, reassured by the perfumed air and the serene, chimplike faces of the salesladies.
They were having a little fete in cruisewear with tea and canapés and models idling about in bathing suits with gooseflesh on their impossibly slender thighs. Amanda commandeered a cup of tea and disappeared into an empty dressing room. She sat for a moment, sipping tea, considering her reflection in the mirror. Why does it always happen like this? she wondered. Why are men so feeble? She had thought Anton was different, but he was not. He was a typical man—he loved neither properly nor enough. Perhaps Bernard is wrong, she thought. Perhaps Anton is coming back. Or perhaps it is all a story, and he has never really left. She tried for a moment to believe this, but she could not convince herself.
Where does it leave me? Without Anton’s carefully formulated testimony linking Solange to Heath, the case would undoubtedly be weakened. And if Heath were cleared, surely they would begin looking for another suspect, and surely that suspect would be…perhaps I should kill Heath, Amanda thought. If I made it look like a suicide, his guilt would be assumed and the case closed. But no, she thought, I’m not promiscuously criminal. I kill for love and love alone…
Anton’s gone, she reminded herself, swirling the dregs of her tea. Well, she thought, fuck him. God knows I’ve done everything myself so far; there’s no reason I can’t continue alone. I’ll put Heath Jackson behind bars. No one is going to make a chump out of me.
“Before I forget,” said Tammi, “Anita told me to tell you Toinette Menzies called. You’re supposed to call her back first thing in the morning.”
“Colette Menzies,” said Heath. “That’s my lawyer.”
“Maybe she has good news. Maybe they’re calling the case off.”
“I doubt it,” said Heath.
“I think you need a new boyfriend,” said Tammi. “A little romance would take your mind off all this trial shit.” She was on her break and had come downstairs to try on fur coats, smoke, and talk to Heath. “How does this look?” she asked, modeling a full-length mink.
“I don’t think it’s you,” said Heath.
“Of course it’s not me,” said Tammi. “None of these are. If they were me, I wouldn’t be down here trying them on. I’d be upstairs eating fucking veal chops. Listen, I’m serious about this boyfriend thing. What about Howard?”
“Howard? Howard, the waiter?”
“No. Howard Hughes, the deceased billionaire. Of course Howard the waiter. He thinks you’re cute. He told me you reminded him of John Kennedy, Junior.”
“You better take that off,” said Heath. “You’re getting ashes on it.”
“Ashes are good for the pelt. They give it a certain woodsy aroma.”
“Take it off,” said Heath.
“So how about Howie? Do you like him?”
“No. I don’t think he’s my type.”
“What is your type?”
“I don’t know,” said Heath.
“What don’t you like about Howard?”
“He’s too young and, I don’t know…silly.”
“So you want some old turd? Don’t tell me you’re still hung up on el yuppie.”
“No,” said Heath. “I just think he was more my type.”
“So you’re into cruelty?”
“David wasn’t cruel.”
“He ditched you for his wife.”
“He didn’t ditch me—it was a mutual decision.”
“There’s no such thing, bucko.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Heath.
“Anyone can speak for themselves,” said Tammi. “I speak for the community of abandoned lovers. Anyway, if the yuppie was so great, why didn’t you put up more of a fight?”
“I had other things on my mind,” said Heath, “having just been arrested for murder.”
“God, your life has been ultra shitty lately, hasn’t it?” asked Tammi. She
sat down beside Heath and patted his back. “I know you won’t believe me, but I think you’re going to get through this, and you’ll be due for some major happiness.”
“If I get through this without having to go to jail, I’d settle for more shit,” said Heath.
“Margot,” said Amanda, “what’s going up next?”
Margot looked up from the pile of holiday cards she was signing. “You know very well,” she said. “Gilberto Arnot. He was postponed from last summer, when we did Heath Jackson.”
“Well, we may have to postpone him a bit longer. There’s a show I want up instead.”
“I thought scheduling fell into my domain,” said Margot.
“Don’t be tiresome, Margot,” said Amanda.
“Well, it’s just that if I can’t direct the gallery I don’t see what the point in being director is.”
“Most girls in your position would be more than satisfied with the title,” said Amanda.
“I’m not like most girls,” said Margot. “Who do you want to put up?”
“Well, the details aren’t finito yet, but I think it could be a stunning—and lucrative—departure for the gallery. I’ve discovered someone who does little doodly portraits of society types. They’re splendidly drawn, and I think they could be a big hit.”
“They sound awful. I think we should stick with the Arnot. He has some very fine new paintings. And he was so devoted to
Solange.”
“Solange is dead,” said Amanda, “and fine paintings keep. We’ll open Bernard Zerener in January and do a big Arnot retrospective in the spring. How would that be?”
“Whatever you say,” said Margot.
“Sit down,” said Colette Menzies. “I’ve good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”
“Is the bad news badder than the good news is good?”
“I think they’re just about equally bad and good.”
“So they cancel each other out?”
“We’ll see,” she said. “They might.”
“The bad news then.”
Colette picked a copy of the Post off her desk and handed it to Heath. “Page three,” she said.
Heath opened the paper. On page three was a photograph of a doorman standing beneath the Trump Tower awning. He read the accompanying article.
SHAWANGUNK LOVE NEST: DOORMAN HOLDS THE KEY
A Post Exclusive—Bernard Zerener, a doorman in the luxurious Trump Tower, has come forward as a surprise witness in the Solange Shawangunk murder case. As Post readers will remember, Shawangunk was shot point-black last July 13 at her SoHo gallery during the opening reception for a show of photographs by Heath Jackson. She died of complications two months later. Jackson, who was found with the gun moments after the shooting, has been charged with the murder. It has been the prosecution’s assertion, long denied by the defendant, that he and Shawangunk were lovers.
Zerener told the Post in an exclusive interview yesterday that Jackson was a “frequent” visitor to the Shawangunk apartment on the 38th floor of Trump Tower. “I’d say he was there more than twenty times between January and June of this year,” Zerener recalled. “I often saw him leaving or arriving at the apartment late at night, escorting Mrs. Shawangunk. They were real open about it—very physical and everything. I remember it because Mrs. Shawangunk was usually such a dignified woman. I especially remember an argument they had in the lobby on July 13, the day Mrs. Shawangunk was murdered. From what I overheard, it seemed as if she was trying to break the thing off and Mr. Jackson was resisting. He got a little rough with her and I had to interfere.”
Asked why he had waited so long to come forward with this important testimony, Zerener said his conscience had troubled him. “I couldn’t sleep anymore,” he told the Post. “It’s kind of an unwritten law for doormen not to get involved in the affairs of the residents, but a decent man can stay silent only for so long. The idea that this punk could go free prompted me to speak out. I heard him threaten Mrs. Shawangunk on the afternoon she was murdered. That’s all the proof I need.”
The Jackson trial begins next week. For exclusive photos of the love nest, and a DID HEATH DO IT? readers’ survey, see page 46.
Heath replaced the paper on the desk. “Is this really as bad as it sounds?” he asked.
“I can’t know,” said Colette. “I haven’t seen his actual testimony yet. And speaking of testimony, the prosecutor’s alerted me that Anton Shawangunk has left town. We can subpoena him if we want, but I think it would be better to go after Amanda.”
“They’re both liars,” said Heath.
“But Anton’s better at it,” said Colette. “Let’s concentrate on Amanda.”
“What’s the good news?” asked Heath.
“The good news is that David Parish has agreed to testify on your behalf.”
“He has? You talked to him?”
“Several times. And given this doorman garbage, his statement will be very helpful.”
“What’s he going to say?”
“He’s going to say he had a love affair with you that began in December of 1987 and lasted through July of 1988. Which is exactly the same time the prosecution contends you were involved with Mrs. Shawangunk.”
“Who will the jury believe?” asked Heath.
CHAPTER 35
THE PROSECUTING ATTORNEY was a short man named Ned Best who chain-ate Tic Tacs. His first witness was Amanda Paine. She was wearing a maroon schoolmarmish wool dress that made her look to Heath a little like Hester Prynn.
“Please raise your right hand,” the clerk told her, once she had assumed the witness stand. “Do you swear that the testimony you are about to give this court and jury is the truth and the whole truth, so help you God?”
“I do.”
“Please be seated. State your full name and spell your last name.”
“My name is Amanda Paine. P-A-I-N-E.”
Ned Best stood up. “Thank you, Ms. Paine. Could you begin your testimony by telling the jury something about your education and present occupation?”
“Certainly. I have a bachelor’s degree in art history from Harvard University and an M.B.A. from Columbia University. I am presently the director emeritus of the Gallery Shawangunk. I was until recently director.”
“How long have you been associated with the Gallery Shawangunk?”
“For five years. I began working there in 1983.”
“And tell us, Ms. Paine, what kind of artwork does the gallery exhibit?”
Amanda laughed. “That’s not an easy question. Let me see. Our stable is eclectic. I endeavor to show art that challenges the viewer by questioning the notion of aesthetics while at the same time making either veiled or pointed references to the historical spectrum in which it exists.”
“Tell me, Ms. Paine, are you acquainted with Heath Jackson?”
“I am.”
“In what manner?”
“Mr. Jackson is a photographer who recently had a show at the gallery.”
“Was this show your idea?”
“It was not. The owner of the gallery, Solange Shawangunk, told me to mount a show of Heath’s photographs.”
“Would you have exhibited Mr. Jackson’s photographs had it been your decision?”
“I would not have.”
“Tell me, what is your opinion of Mr. Jackson’s art?”
Colette stood up. “Objection. On the grounds of irrelevancy, Your Honor.”
“Your Honor, the question is very relevant. I’m trying to determine the circumstances under which Mr. Jackson came to show at the Gallery Shawangunk.”
“I’ll allow it.”
The question was repeated.
“I wouldn’t really call it art. It’s amateurish, visually illiterate, and derivative.”
Although Heath had been instructed by Colette to remain expressionless, he couldn’t help wincing at this pronouncement.
“Thank you,” said Ned Best. “Now, getting back to the matter at hand. When was Mr. Jack
son’s show?”
“The show opened on July thirteenth, 1988, and closed on August twenty-seventh, 1988.”
“Was there an opening reception for this show?”
“There was. On July thirteenth, from six p.m. to nine p.m.”
“Could you tell us what transpired during those hours?”
“Well, I was at the gallery most of the day, working out the details of the show, with my assistant, Margot Geiger. The caterers came in around four and began setting up.”
“When did Mr. Jackson arrive?”
“Mr. Jackson made his entrance about six-thirty. I greeted him and introduced him around.”
“To whom did you introduce him?”
“Well, let me think. I remember introducing him to some media people. Then Heath and Solange went into the office together.”
“How many doors does this office have?”
“It has one door. Well, it has a closet door as well.”
“How many windows does it have?”
“It has two windows. One looks out onto the backyard and the other looks onto the gallery floor.”
“Does the window that faces the gallery have a shade?”
“It does.”
“Was the shade raised when Mr. Jackson and Mrs. Shawangunk entered the office.”
“It was.”
“Did it remain raised?”
“It was lowered.”
“Miss Paine, tell us, what did you do while the defendant and Mrs. Shawangunk were in the office?”
“I was speaking with a journalist, Leonora Trumpet. We were talking about Mr. Jackson’s photographs. I suggested she might like to see some of the photographs that weren’t being shown, which were stored in the office closet, and Leonora agreed. We approached the office and I knocked on the door.”
“How much time had elapsed since the defendant and Mrs. Shawangunk had entered the office?”
“I’d say about ten minutes. I’m not exactly sure.”
“What happened after you knocked?”
“There was no answer. I knocked again, and I don’t know, I just sensed something was wrong. I didn’t hear any voices. So I opened the door.”
“What did you see?”
“I saw Mr. Jackson standing, holding a gun. I saw Mrs. Shawangunk lying on the floor, bleeding. I think I screamed. And then I closed the door and yelled for someone to call the police.”
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