by Hy Conrad
“What’s the matter?”
“Let’s go,” she answered with a snap. And without looking back, the willowy blonde headed through the lobby, followed closely by her substantially built beau. “What were you doing last night?” she said into the air of her wake.
“What?” Franklin asked, racing to catch up.
“While I was at the movies for three hours.” A second later and they were swallowed up by the revolving doors.
Marcus spent five more minutes dealing with the French shoppers—“Yes, it’s possible to get good prices in the Diamond District, but there’s this great little shop on Broome Street. Here’s their card. Mention my name”—then turned to deal with someone new.
It was Fanny in disguise. She was dressed head to foot in her rich-lady drag, a parody of wealth probably adapted from a dowager character in a Marx Brothers movie. Marcus had noticed her following Calista out of the elevator bank.
“Mission accomplished?” he asked.
“This was the easy part,” Fanny said and modestly snuggled her cheeks in her mink stole. “My penthouse suite—well, someone’s penthouse suite—is right next to theirs. That’s what I told her. Most people will engage in elevator conversation if you seem rich enough and harmless enough.”
Fanny’s elevator icebreaker had been short, friendly, and provocative. “Are you friends with Mr. and Mrs. George?” she’d asked the willowy blonde. “I saw you leaving their suite just now. What a lovely couple.”
“Mrs. George?” Calista had said, her brows furrowing for probably the first time in years. “You must be mistaken. Mr. George isn’t married. Yet.”
“Oops. I just assumed he was.”
“What made you assume that?”
“Well, I was putting out my room service tray last night just as she came in. Around seven thirty. He was waiting at the door, so happy.” Fanny clutched her pearls and mimed an embarrassed blush. “I shouldn’t say this, but I could hear them through the wall.” She tittered. “They were very, very glad to see each other.”
For the remaining two dozen floors, Calista had asked Fanny the expected questions. Was this woman pretty? Did she have big breasts? Did she look like a hooker?
“Don’t you feel bad about this?” Marcus asked, feeling just a little bad himself. “I mean, breaking up their engagement?”
“We’re saving her from a ghastly mistake,” Fanny reasoned. “And don’t act so innocent. You’re the one who talked her into going to that Italian movie last night. Alone.”
“That wasn’t hard. The girl is pretentious and loves Italy . . . blabbering on about Fashion Week in Milan, throwing around a few odd phrases. Of course, the more she tried to force him to go with her, the more he resisted.”
“And of course you helped.” Fanny lowered her voice and adopted a fawning, obsequious tone. “Mr. George, you’ll love the movie too. Not movie, sir, a film. Three hours long, but the subtitles are marvelous.”
Marcus chuckled at her re-creation, then instantly changed gears. “That particular musical is sold out, Mrs. Altengruber. But I’ll see what I can do. Saturday night? Two on the center aisle?”
Fanny didn’t blink or pause. She instinctively knew that the head concierge must be standing right behind her. “Marcus, dear, you are such a treasure.”
“Is everything all right, Mrs . . . ?” Gavin paused for a split second. “Mrs. Altengruber.”
“After all the times I’ve stayed here . . .” Fanny turned to face Gavin, pulled herself up to her full five-foot-one, and threw her stole back across her throat. “It’s Altenstruder,” she said huffily and marched off through the revolving doors, a Marx Brothers dowager to the hilt.
Gavin’s expression turned from smug to crestfallen. “Oh, my God.”
Marcus kept a straight face. What a woman. “I’ll fix it, Gavin,” he said with reassuring softness and trotted out after Fanny. It was as good an excuse as any to leave and take the rest of the day off.
The house on Barrow Street, in the heart of the Village, had been in the Abel family for generations. The block was composed almost entirely of brownstones, many of them still single-family homes. But what made the block stand out wasn’t the small-scale comfort of the street or the uniform row of shady ginkgoes. It was the communal garden.
It was a design still fairly common in London, but one that had almost died out in New York. In the center of the Barrow Street block, where one might expect to find small, dusty backyards or sheds or, more probably, home additions nestled right up to the property lines, was a manicured garden, surprisingly large, with benches and a play area and a fountain in the middle. It was accessible only through the houses, and every home owner gladly paid a share of the upkeep.
Fanny sat on the flagstone patio outside her kitchen, a Marlboro Light in one hand, a cordless phone in the other. Amy had called at an unsuspecting moment, just as Fanny had come racing through the front door. That had been five minutes ago, and Amy was still grilling her. “I’m sorry I’m not always here to answer the phone, dear. I do have a life.”
“Mom, it was a simple question. Were you in jail?”
“Of course I’m not in jail. I’m out on the patio, enjoying . . . enjoying the air.”
“Enjoying a cigarette? Mom, are you smoking again?”
“No.” Fanny covered the mouthpiece and exhaled a lungful.
“You’re smoking. Is that a habit you picked up in jail?”
“I wish. They don’t let you smoke in jail.”
“Aha. You were in jail.”
And so the truth, which Fanny had been cagily avoiding for the past five minutes, fell out into the open. “All right, I was. But just overnight. Uncle Sol bailed me out the next morning.”
Fanny went on to tell her the whole story, leaving out nothing, except the possibility that she and Marcus might have been in the wrong. “Don’t worry. Charges were dropped. Rawlings isn’t pursuing it,” she said as she lit up a second Marlboro Light. “He was trying to force us to make a statement, say that the Billy Strunk murder might be connected to Paisley MacGregor.”
“Why would he care about that?”
“He thought it would give him probable cause for a search warrant. He’s dying to go through the apartment, but the maid’s maid turned him down.”
“So why did he drop the charges?”
“Your uncle Sol had a talk with an assistant DA. Rawlings had latched onto this case as a favor to the Indian police—and because he wants the glory. But when you come right down to it, it’s just an unidentified body in India that may have connections to New York. I suspect Rawlings lost interest. I don’t know whether to be insulted or not.”
“Not,” Amy shot back. “How many times did I tell you this kind of stuff would get you in trouble?”
“I was impersonating a lawyer. What’s the harm in that? Your uncle Sol does it all the time.”
“He’s a lawyer.”
“More or less. Dear, in a perfect world no one would have to impersonate anyone. But jail wasn’t so very terrible. One night. And they were very sweet.”
“So this wasn’t like TrippyGirl?” Amy asked. “You didn’t have to survive for two days on water and a head of cabbage?”
“I made that part up. At the time I was hungry for coleslaw.”
“Is Marcus there with you?”
“No, dear.” Actually, Fanny had just heard the front door open and close, so she knew Marcus was indeed there, technically. She pretended that Amy had asked the question ten seconds earlier, so it didn’t feel like lying.
“Well, tell Marcus to stop it. The two of you together . . . You’re dangerous. This time you got arrested. Next time you could get killed.”
A few seconds later Marcus appeared in the doorway, aimlessly flipping through a stack of the newly arrived mail. He stood on the cusp of the tiny patio and waited until Fanny had spoken her last insincere assurances, said good-bye, and hung up on her daughter. “So, that’s the end?” he asked. “No more
investigating?”
“Not by a long shot,” she said, barely skipping a beat. “We can’t go back to Paisley’s apartment, obviously, but there’s another angle. Billy Strunk, or whoever he was. We have his picture, and we know he was connected to one of our mourners. Enough to get himself killed. I’m guessing that if we show his picture to the right people . . .”
“Why do we care?”
Fanny squinted. She seemed puzzled by the question, so he rephrased it. “If Rawlings doesn’t think this case is worth pursuing, why do we care?”
“Because one of our clients is probably a killer.”
“Not to be callous, Fanny, but there are plenty of uncaught killers in the world.” Marcus was prepared to go on arguing, but he was stopped by a flash of bold red lettering. He shuffled the mail back between his hands and found the envelope in question. It was addressed to Amy’s Travel, Inc., and was marked COLLECTION DUE. FINAL NOTICE.
Fanny pushed herself up from the patio chair and reached for the mail. “Just junk,” she said too casually and quickly.
Marcus held on. He didn’t open the letter. He didn’t have to. “How much do you owe?”
“It’s just a misunderstanding,” Fanny said. “Accounting error.” Again, she tried to grab the mail.
“Really?” Marcus found himself mildly insulted. “Really, Fanny? We’re lying to each other? Not that I object on any moral ground.”
Fanny knew what he meant. If there was anyone whom she could confide in without the risk of judgment or a lecture, it was Marcus, who’d probably done everything she had and more. But she remained silent.
“I’ve had plenty of debts in my life,” Marcus said, trying to prime the pump. No response. “I was arrested once for check kiting in Miami,” he added, “but they couldn’t prove it.” That was, in fact, a lie. “Wound up spending two days in jail, until my mother bailed me out. And then I never paid her back.” What would he have to confess to in order to make her open up? A Ponzi scheme?
For Marcus, her continued silence finally said it all. “My God,” he whispered. His mind had leaped to the only possibility big enough. “Are you losing just the business? Or are you losing the business and the house?”
CHAPTER 24
Hawaii should have been the simplest location to arrange, but had turned out to be the hardest. Paisley MacGregor had stipulated the four other hotels by name, sometimes by room numbers. But for Hawaii, the Big Island, to be specific, she had left only instructions to find someplace exclusive and private—with at least one helicopter pad.
The helipad wouldn’t be a problem, they’d discovered. Combining the exclusive and private aspects of their stay would be. Hawaii was part of the United States, almost home, and literally home to the Steinbergs, who lived just one island up the road. For all the previous stops, they had been this clique of Americans, united by a dead maid and separated from the local world by language and culture. But now, to be on the last leg, with fatigue setting in, with Americans on all sides, and with the atmosphere of everyday life seeping through the cracks . . . How would Amy and Peter keep their eight rich mourners united for two more nights?
Peter’s knee-jerk solution had been the Four Seasons, having them occupy six suites in an ocean-side wing. Peter’s solution to everything seemed to be the Four Seasons. But Amy had worked a little harder and had come up with a private home, one of several over-the-top residences for sale in the current real estate market. It had been vacant for a year, and the corporate manager was becoming flexible about short-term rentals. The buying price was set at forty million, but Amy was sure she could pick it up for thirty-eight, cash, if she wanted to buy a nice winter home.
The estate was spread out over several acres on the Kona coast, with eight Polynesian-themed guest cottages, in addition to the main house. The owner’s identity was kept secret by the corporation, but the home went by the name No Mistakes, which Amy found a bit disconcerting. Shouldn’t dream homes have carefree names, like No Worries or No Problems? No Mistakes sounded like way too much responsibility.
The Kona coast wasn’t known for its sandy beaches but for its craggy, lava-laden shorelines. It was on just such a craggy promontory, under the shade of some architect’s version of a native hale, that Paisley MacGregor’s last will and testament was finally about to be read.
Amy was alone in the shade of the hale, except for the caretaker, who was helping arrange the chairs and the podium and was telling her what could and could not be done. For example, the landscaping lights could not be turned on; they were on a timer controlled from a computer in a warehouse in San Francisco. And if they weren’t through by 6:15 p.m., the sprinkler system, controlled from the same warehouse, would make the act of leaving the hale a bit of a challenge.
When Amy looked around, she saw that the first three guests were arriving. Peter was in the middle, caught between David and Herb, the meat in a Pepper-Sands sandwich. The bickering couple had finally agreed in favor of their “fortieth” anniversary extravaganza. Now it was just a matter of the venue argument.
“I’ve done a bike tour through Provence,” Peter said cheerily, siding with David for the moment. “Not all that strenuous. Maybe forty miles a day. Less.”
“But there are hills,” Herb protested.
“Yes, there are hills,” Peter allowed. “It’s Provence. But I can find you some great châteaus, and there will be a courtesy van following you, just in case of emergency. Flat tires, that sort of thing.”
“You can ride in the van,” David said with unrepressed glee. “Or better, we can put a little motor on your bike. I can just see it, the rest of us cycling away, working up a sweat, and you putt-putting like a motorized Queen of England, waving to the throngs.”
“What’s wrong with a private river cruise?” Herb countered. “A boat and a crew and a great chef. And we spend a few weeks on the Rhine or the Danube. Much more civilized.”
“Yes, if all your friends are over sixty. Oh, I forgot. You’re over sixty.”
“Don’t forget who’s paying for this.”
Amy couldn’t decide if their bickering was real or a game, a way for them to pass the time and flirt with Peter. Of course, the proposed trip was real. Probably. But even more real was an attractive man’s approval. Would Peter approve more of youth and adventure or money and ease?
“A river cruise is nice,” Peter said, his high school stammer returning just at the edge of his voice. “And you can take bikes with you. That way, the younger people . . . I mean the more athletic. . . I didn’t mean that, either. I mean the people who want to can take bike trips during the day, and the more sedentary . . . I mean the people who don’t want to cycle . . .”
Peter seemed to have nailed it, the perfect lose-lose. David was incensed at the idea that Herb’s river cruise might win the game, and Herb was incensed at being called sedentary.
By now, the Steinbergs were also maneuvering their way out to the hale. Maury was on his phone, dealing with someone or something back in Maui and ignoring Laila, who stumbled a few yards behind, trying to keep her footing on the shelves of black volcanic rock. Her leather-soled Manolos weren’t helping.
Peter saw her on the rocks and grabbed at the excuse, any excuse, to leave the Pepper-Sands with a murmured “Excuse me.” When Maury finally noticed his wife, her arm now securely around the waist of their tall, sure-footed guide, he reacted with an impatient sigh, then returned to his call. He seemed rather bipolar in regards to his wife, Amy concluded. Sometimes loving and protective, sometimes disdainful, with very little in between.
Nicole Marconi, in a much more sensible pair of white Top-Siders, was also making her way across the lava rock. Her demeanor was determined, almost solemn. Evan and Barbara were the last of the party to arrive, treading gingerly down a path of carved-out steps from one of the estate’s manicured lawns. They, like Nicole, appeared solemn and nervous—eyes darting, mouths thin and straight.
For this particular ceremony, Peter joined t
he seven others on the bamboo folding chairs, facing Amy and the podium and the blue-green sea beyond. Amy had never read a will before, had never even heard one read. It felt like an outdated tradition, best left to the world of fiction. But Paisley MacGregor had requested it here, at their last stop.
Amy picked up the copy of a handwritten, notarized letter, the one Fanny and Marcus had examined that night over a week ago in her New York home office. She cleared her throat.
This wouldn’t be Amy’s first time reading Paisley MacGregor’s notarized letter or Paisley’s will, for that matter. After the murder in India, she had, very guiltily, sat in various hotel rooms, poring over both documents, hoping to find a connection, some little hint of a connection, between one of her tourists and the man who had called himself Billy Strunk. And although the letter and the will were in no way dull, they failed to shed any light—on anything. Amy cleared her throat again and began.
“My loved ones, thank you for coming. I know you’re all here, in this beautiful Hawaiian setting, preparing to scatter the last of me into the sky. What a comfort to know that all my loving families cared enough to take time out of your busy lives and say farewell. You are very special to me. And I’d like to think that I had an influence over you, to make your worlds a little easier, to help guide you in my own small way.”
This was vintage MacGregor, Amy thought as she paused between the first and second paragraphs. Now here comes the good part.
“Even you, Peter, although I did have to lure you with a nice piece of business and a commission. Just teasing. I love you, too. Just don’t skim more money than you should. The executors won’t like it.” It was meant as a joke, but . . .
“I never skimmed money,” Peter mumbled, aware that he was arguing with a dead woman. Everyone avoided looking his way, and the temperature in the hale probably went up a degree. They could literally feel him steaming.
“You people were my life. It was a privilege to be a small part of yours and all your special moments. Nicole, I remember like yesterday you and your parents coming back from Europe, only to find all your records burned in that dreadful fire. I’m so glad I was able to be there to comfort you. The police can be so awfully rude to you. And for no reason.