by Hy Conrad
“Is my daughter in trouble?” Fanny asked in wide-eyed wonder. “No! My God! What happened?” Her performance was interrupted by the waitress, who wiped their table, set out three place mats and menus and sets of silverware. “What happened?” Fanny asked again, but this time without any real conviction.
Rawlings pulled a photo off the banquette beside him. “Do either of you know this man?” He put it on the table, facing them, between their place mats. It was the shot of Billy Strunk, bleary-eyed on his Istanbul bar stool.
“That’s the guy who got killed?” Marcus asked.
“Good. Things go faster when you don’t lie.”
Fanny raised a single eyebrow. “Of course she told us. What kind of daughter do you think I raised?”
“So the question remains.... Do you have any information that can help us identify him?”
“No,” Fanny said. “We know nothing more than you.”
“That’s hard to believe.”
“What? That we don’t know more than the police?”
Lieutenant Rawlings grunted, lowering his eyes to his closed menu. When he raised them, he was back on track. “Amy and her friend happened upon a murder. They told the police some unsubstantiated story about the victim and misled them with a false name. Then, as their plane was taking off, they e-mailed in a photo, which they’d previously denied having taken.”
Marcus pretended to be confused. “I thought it was a mugging.”
Rawlings stretched his smile thin. “That’s a placeholder. Every unsolved murder is a mugging. I’m not sure even Badlani believes that. Did one of Amy’s people kill this guy?” The question had come out of nowhere.
“No,” Marcus sputtered. “I mean, I don’t know.”
The homicide detective turned to Fanny. “Your daughter has withheld evidence in the past. She was never charged, because . . . well, it all worked out, if you don’t count Marcus here getting shot.” He reached across and punched Marcus on the left arm, the arm where they’d dug out the bullet.
“Is the Taj Mahal within your jurisdiction, dear?” Fanny asked, as sweet as syrup. “Just curious.”
Rawlings cleared his throat. “Amy mentioned a New York accent, so the Indian foreign ministry asked for our cooperation. If evidence develops to connect a New York resident to this John Doe’s death, then, yes, it will become a joint investigation.”
“You have to identify the victim first,” said Marcus. “And we can’t help you.”
Fanny had retrieved her reading glasses and was bent over, staring at the photo. “He doesn’t really look American. Can we have a copy of this?”
“Don’t insult my intelligence. Amy already sent you one.” The waitress was about to return to take their order, but Rawlings waved her away. “I’m not staying. I just wanted to warn you so that you’ll warn Amy. If she’s withholding evidence or protecting a killer, for any reason . . .” The detective let the words hang. Then he pushed himself up from the plastic tabletop and pulled out his phone. Before they knew it, he had taken their picture, Marcus and Fanny, sitting side by side in the booth.
“What’s that about?” Fanny demanded.
“I just wanted to record the moment.” Then the lieutenant turned and headed for the door.
“What was that about?” Marcus said, his eyes following Rawlings until he passed by the window and disappeared. They spent the next minute or so with their eyes lowered to the menus.
“So . . . ,” Fanny finally said, drawing the word out. “What are you having?”
“I was thinking the turkey club.”
“Me, too, except it has bacon.”
“Get it without bacon.”
She shook her head. “That seems a waste. Maybe I’ll get a turkey sandwich on white toast and have them cut it like a club.”
“But then it won’t be a double-decker. Get the turkey club without bacon. It’s the same price.”
“It’s not the price; it’s the principle. Paying for something you’re not getting. It’s not fair.”
“But it’s the same price. You know he’s just mad because he has to deal with us again.”
Fanny put down the menu and picked up her phone. She pressed a button, and her new screen saver came up, with little icons surrounding the same photo of bleary-eyed Billy Strunk. She stared at it for about the fiftieth time since receiving it late last night. “So, were we being honest with him? Do we know something he doesn’t?”
“We know that the murder is probably connected to Paisley MacGregor.”
“Because of the ‘if I die’ envelope?”
“It would be a huge coincidence if the two weren’t connected. Maybe the note said, ‘If I die, Billy Strunk did it.’”
“Which it wouldn’t, since that’s not his real name.”
“But if we find the note, we’ll know his real name. Of course, the problem with this argument . . .”
“Strunk turned out to be the victim.”
“We can’t deny that.” Marcus flipped his hands up on the table. “But the note is the one thing we have that the police don’t. Not that we have it. But at least we know it exists.”
“You’re right, Marcus. We need to find the note.”
“We?” Marcus violently shook his head. “No, there’s no ‘we.’ There’s not even a ‘you.’”
“Why not? We caught a killer last time.”
“Last time it was our business,” said Marcus. “We need to give Rawlings the envelope.”
“But that would officially connect Amy’s Travel to another murder. Once is cute. Twice looks like we’re hanging with a bad crowd.”
“So we don’t give him the envelope. The killer’s a mugger. End of story.”
“Or we could keep our little secret and do some investigating.”
“Or we could burn the envelope. End of story.”
“Maybe . . .” She stretched the word out. “Or maybe we—”
Marcus knew he was in trouble. Anyone who refused to order a turkey club without bacon on principle was not about to let a killer go free. “Oh, wait. I forgot,” he interrupted, raising a finger for emphasis. “I have a business problem. Do you happen to know if Michael Bublé is afraid of heights?”
“Michael Bublé?”
“The singer. Of course the real question is, how do we get a piano up to the observation deck of the Empire State Building?” Marcus didn’t elaborate. He sat there stone-faced and let his teasing, tempting words hang in the air.
“Are you trying to distract me, dear?”
“How’s it working?”
CHAPTER 20
“MacGregor’s doorman has a nicer uniform than yours.”
Marcus had to agree. “Maybe.”
They had just announced themselves at the front desk and were now in the center elevator of 142 Sutton Place, on their way up to the penthouse floor.
“Of course, I may not have that uniform much longer.”
Fanny waved away his concern like she would a gnat. “Nonsense.”
Marcus had spent the last day researching the proposed Bublé proposal and come to the conclusion that it was indeed impossible. The Empire State Building would not allow the private use of its most famous space, and Michael Bublé, according to his agent, was booked for the next eighteen months at venues slightly larger than an observation deck. Perhaps they could get away with a Bublé impersonator. Perhaps. But an Empire State Building impersonator was, well, impossible.
“No one’s going to fire you,” Fanny insisted.
“Whatever alternative I come up with is going to disappoint. He made that clear. And Gavin’s just waiting for me to screw up.”
“Nonsense.” She had thought this through and saw a glimmer of hope. “You keep telling your billionaire that it’s all set up and ready. Grand piano. Orchestra of fifty. And then you maneuver the situation so that he cancels it.”
“He’s not going to cancel. His fiancée has her heart set—”
“Cancel the wedding. Make hi
m call it off.”
“That’s a bit harsh.”
“The woman likes Michael Bublé. She has it coming.”
“True.” The elevator doors opened, and they stepped out. “How do we get him to call it off?”
Fanny slapped him on the arm. “Ingrate. I just changed your situation from impossible to annoyingly difficult. Try to meet me halfway.”
When they arrived at the white penthouse door, they paused. Or rather, Marcus paused. “Our law firm?” he asked quickly as he watched one of Fanny’s red fingernails hit the bell. They had gotten through the Ellis Eyewear incident in one piece, but it could have been easier. This time he had insisted on preparation. They had even printed a business card.
“Brummel, Brown, and Associates,” answered Fanny. Brummel & Brown was Fanny’s favorite margarine, and so it was easy for her to remember.
“And the firm’s relationship to MacGregor?”
“Marcus, please. I’m better on the fly.” Those words were barely out of her mouth when the door eased open.
Miss Archer stood in the doorway, looking both bored and formidable. “I suppose you’re the lawyers.”
“We are,” said Marcus, employing his best concierge charm. The woman grudgingly stepped aside and let them in.
The first minute went smoothly enough. Amy had told them about Archer, so they were unfazed by the homey clutter of the maid’s maid. Amy had failed to mention the cats, Fanny noted, so perhaps they were new. Out of the corner of her eye, she counted three, one scooting into the kitchen, one settled on a window seat, and a third, oblivious to their arrival, making long, deep claw marks on the arm of a white leather sofa. The general sheen of every surface was now dimmed by a thin, even layer of fur.
They had called ahead, lawyers representing the MacGregor estate, coming to take an inventory of the apartment and its contents. With the arrival of “lawyers,” they had expected Archer to clean up her act. But Archer remained unapologetic. “I have every right to be here.”
“Absolutely,” Marcus agreed. He brandished his clipboard and pen and dazzling smile, trying to make her lift her eyes from their card. Why was Archer studying it so intently? And why in the world had he agreed to the name? Here was a woman undoubtedly familiar with margarine brands.
“We need to start listing the deceased’s household possessions,” Fanny said, pointing to the clipboard.
“Has the will gone into probate?” Archer’s tone suggested she knew more about the legal system than they did.
“That depends.” Instantly, Fanny knew it was the wrong thing to say. “I mean, the will hasn’t officially been read, but that’s a formality.”
“This is just a kind of pre-probate inventory,” Marcus suggested.
“Are you the executors?” Archer asked, checking the card again. “This isn’t the firm Ms. MacGregor used before.”
“They hired us for the inventory,” said Marcus. “As a security measure.”
“Security? Do they think I’m going to steal something?”
“No, no,” Fanny said. “Actually, we don’t know. We were just hired for the job. And the sooner you let us do it . . .”
“Go knock yourself out.” Archer extended her right arm and used the business card to point. Marcus wanted to grab it back but didn’t dare take the chance. They were lucky enough to gain access. Unsupervised access. Even better.
Marcus thought about it for a moment as they walked in—how uncharacteristic it seemed for the sour, suspicious Archer to leave them alone. Just like that. But he credited it to their natural good luck and breathed a sigh as he nudged the bedroom door so that it almost closed behind them.
“So,” Fanny whispered, also accepting their luck. “If someone gave MacGregor an ‘if I die’ note, she’d open it. I don’t know any self-respecting woman who wouldn’t. The envelope somehow fell into the piano, which no one ever played until Peter came along. Then MacGregor read the note and, we assume, hid it someplace for safekeeping. She was a snoop, yes, but a loyal snoop.”
“That’s our theory,” Marcus whispered back. He was already at the bookshelf, leafing through each volume, his eyes geared for anything bigger than a bookmark. The woman seemed to have the complete collected works of Jackie Collins and Danielle Steel, all in hardcover, with a few Barbara Cartland paperbacks thrown in between.
“Marcus, come here.”
Fanny was across the room, at a section of wall that wasn’t a wall at all but a door—not a secret door, just a closet door for people who didn’t like the look of closet doors. She was standing in the open doorway, fists on her hips, an upturned chin, in a pose reminiscent of Columbus standing on the shoreline of a new world. Marcus could see why.
It was a large walk-in, large even by millionaire standards, although the lack of shelves and rods and drawers made it look more like a storage unit—a rather festive storage unit. Almost half the boxes crammed in there were still in wrapping paper, with fading ribbons and squashed bows, sitting on top of each other like the remnants of a hundred lost birthdays. The others appeared to be gift boxes, some taped shut, some with the flaps folded.
They stepped inside the closet, and Marcus reached down to a glossy Santa-wrapped parcel the size of a shoe box. He read from the gift tag. “To Paisley, Merry Christmas. The Pepper-Sands.”
“What’s a Pepper-Sand?” Fanny asked, bending over to see.
“Don’t know,” Marcus replied. “But if the note is somewhere in here, we’ve got our work cut out for us.”
Fanny frowned. “We can’t open all these.”
“Yes siree. For one thing, it’s illegal.”
Fanny was shocked to hear these prudish words. So was Marcus—because it wasn’t he who had said them.
Lieutenant Rawlings was leaning against the lid of the bedroom’s white piano, a broad, closed-mouth grin replacing his usual open Midwestern smile. Directly behind him was Archer, arms folded across the front of her blousy pink cardigan.
“Lieutenant,” Fanny chirped, even though it was a lost cause. “So good to see you.”
“I thought you might show up,” Rawlings said, not moving from the piano. “After our little talk, I came by to see Miss Archer.”
“You gave her our photo,” Marcus deduced. “From the diner.”
So this had been Rawlings’s plan all along: not just to warn them, but to goad them into leading him somewhere. It felt to Fanny like entrapment, although she didn’t know exactly how.
“Worth a shot.” His voice was brimming with false modesty. “If Amy is protecting someone from a murder charge in India, I figured it might have something to do with the woman who sent them to India. So I dropped by and asked Miss Archer to keep an eye out.”
“Brummel and Brown?” snorted Archer, still clutching the business card. “I knew from the second you called.”
“And at the risk of repeating myself . . .” Rawlings took a step toward them and the closet. “What evidence are you withholding? Was one of the tour members involved in Mr. Strunk’s death?”
“We don’t know,” said Marcus.
“Then what are you looking for? Why are you here, rummaging through . . . ?” He grunted and turned to Archer, genuinely puzzled. “What are they rummaging through?”
“A closet of unopened presents,” said Archer, making it sound almost normal.
Rawlings cocked his head, but that seemed as far as his curiosity was willing to go. “Marcus, come on. This is your last chance. If you two don’t cooperate, I can’t help you.”
Marcus had to ask. “Help us do what?”
“Get out of this mess. Impersonating officers of the court . . . That’s what lawyers are, officers of the court. Plus, gaining entry under false pretenses and conspiracy to commit a felony. I’m not sure I can get that to stick, but I have to assume you came here to steal something.” He glanced past them, into the closet of colorful wrapped boxes. “Or re-gift something, which isn’t officially a crime, unless it’s not yours.”
“Lieutenant Rawlings!” Fanny pulled herself up to her full five-foot-one. “I need to speak to my daughter.”
Rawlings nodded. “Fine with me. But I would suggest saving that phone call for a lawyer, a real lawyer. You’re both under arrest.”
“Under arrest?” Fanny didn’t understand. For what? Telling little lies? Getting into places where she wasn’t allowed? She did it all the time.
“I didn’t bring the handcuffs,” Rawlings said, finally stepping up to meet them at the closet door. “But I trust you’ll come along peacefully.”
CHAPTER 21
Barbara Corns had always been afraid of China, at least the idea of China. In her mind, it was this ancient third-world mystery that had morphed into a bureaucratic juggernaut nurturing untold billions of mysterious humans. Okay, maybe she had been “told” how many billions of humans there were, so it wasn’t quite “untold,” but she had a lot on her mind these days and couldn’t be expected to remember little things like numbers. Somewhere in the billions.
China, at least so far, hadn’t been all that daunting. True, Beijing Capital International Airport had been predictably shiny and monumental, with ceilings the height of European cathedrals and concrete posts the size of sequoias. And the drive from the airport into the countryside had been almost surreal, with their black limousines crawling painfully along a three-lane highway, wedged in between endless numbers of trucks, tractors, and buses, all spewing gray plumes of exhaust.
But once they’d left the highway and turned onto the back roads, it had been quite pleasant. The countryside became suddenly, mercifully lonely, fragrant with the scent of pine and eucalyptus. When they turned off the road into the hotel property, they found it to be a sprawling enclave of hilly trails sprinkled with shockingly modern villas of stone and wood and glass. And the Great Wall. You couldn’t miss the Great Wall. It was right there, visible from half the windows, snaking across the valley below, only a few minutes’ walk from any of the far-flung villas. For that was the whole point of being here, wasn’t it? The Great Wall of China.