by Hy Conrad
Franklin George eased open the thick beige door, unlabeled on this side but clearly marked PRIVATE on the other. “Sorry. No one was at the desk.” Marcus could tell by the man’s sheepish demeanor that he’d won. “How are you guys doing?”
“Doing well, sir,” said Gavin, slightly taken aback by the interruption. “Marcus and I were just discussing your big event.”
“Yes.” The tycoon drew out the word. “About the proposal . . .”
Franklin George went on to explain that he would not be proposing to Calista, after all. It seemed the woman was “crazy jealous” and delusional and, to top it off, had balked at the idea of a prenup. “So I guess we’ll have to cancel Bublé and the Empire State.”
Gavin looked on in disbelief as Marcus graciously explained that it would be no problem. Two days was plenty of time, and he could probably talk the “Bube” into not suing him or charging anything.
“You call him the Bube?” asked Franklin.
“Well, after making all the arrangements, we got kind of close.”
Franklin erupted into a grin, shook both their hands, said the Ritz-Carlton would be his only hotel from now on and, right before walking out, informed the head concierge that Marcus was “a keeper.”
“I don’t know how you did it,” Gavin snarled as the door closed.
“Hundreds of hours of hard work,” Marcus said.
“Don’t bullshit me. You screwed up their engagement. Did you seduce her? Because if you did, it’s going to come out, and I’ll have your ass fired so fast. . . .”
“Seduce Calista?” Marcus mocked. “I’ve spoken to her twice. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get on the phone and cancel everything.” And with that, Marcus took the rest of the day off.
An hour later he was at the travel agency, thanking Fanny with a couple of iced chais purchased from the trendy café down the street.
“We did them a favor,” Fanny insisted. “It worked only because the girl is the jealous type, which is good for him to find out now. Besides, the bastard wanted a prenup. Destined for failure.”
Marcus still felt a twinge of guilt. “So we didn’t ruin two people’s lives just to keep me from getting fired?”
“Nonsense.” Fanny chugged the rest of her chai. “Manipulating people is like hypnotism. You can’t make them do anything they wouldn’t otherwise do.”
“I suppose.” Marcus thought, not for the first time, about how different mother and daughter were. He checked his Faux-lex. Still ticking away. “Where’s Amy?”
“Can’t stand to be away from her?” Fanny teased. “Now that she’s finally home?
“No,” Marcus lied. “Just curious.”
“She went to visit Barbara Corns.”
“Amy’s been home for a week. When are you going to tell her about the money thing?”
The “money thing” was the fact that Fanny had lied to Amy about the money used to start up Amy’s Travel. It had not come from the portfolio of Fanny’s late husband Stan. That had all disappeared in the recession. It had come from a mortgage she’d taken out on the Barrow Street house, the first mortgage the house had seen in eighty years.
“Not in so many words,” answered Fanny.
“You have to tell her. Amy wouldn’t want you to lose the house just to keep her in business.”
“That’s not the problem. Unless a miracle happens, the business is already gone. As for the town house . . .” Her tone was almost cavalier. “Well, it’s too big for me. And Amy needs an excuse to move on with her life.”
“No.” It was impossible for Marcus to imagine Fanny without her home. “There must be a way.” He bit his lip and thought. “Did Amy sign a rental agreement for her half of the house? Because it’s hard to evict a renter in New York City. The new owner would have to . . .”
“Of course not. What kind of mother do you think I am?”
“How about your credit cards? They can buy you a few months.”
“Maxed out.”
“Well, how about Uncle Joe and Sol? They’re your brothers.”
“They are Stan’s brothers.”
“Even more reason. This was their family home, right?”
“Now you’re getting into the whole mess of family.”
And, according to Fanny, it was a mess. Thirty-six years ago, neither Uncle Joe nor Uncle Sol had approved of Stan’s marriage to the tiny, opinionated shiksa from Long Island. Relations had not improved a few years later, when Stan, the least successful of the Abel brothers, inherited the Barrow Street house. They felt their parents had always rewarded Stan for his unorthodox choices in life, which probably held an element of truth. He’d always been the squeaky, damaged wheel of the Abel family.
In the following decades, everyone had tried to heal the wounds. Fanny had done her part, transforming herself from a fifth-generation French Huguenot into someone more Jewish than Golda Meir. But Stan’s death took its toll. And the brothers objected strongly to the idea of a travel agency. How would they react now, she asked Marcus, to finding out that she’d mortgaged the homestead to finance this pipe dream?
“But they still love Amy,” Marcus protested. “They don’t want to see her homeless. Talk to them.”
“Remember what I said about manipulation and hypnotism?”
“This isn’t the same.” But he could see his argument was going nowhere. “Okay, but you have to tell Amy. Today.”
Fanny was relieved when the office phone rang—anything to change the subject—until she checked the display.
“It’s Amy,” Marcus prodded.
“If you think I’m going to tell her over the phone, you’re crazy.”
Amy waited until the call went to voice mail, then hung up. Perhaps her mother was on the other line with a customer. That would be nice.
Barbara Corns and two paralegals from her firm wandered through MacGregor’s white apartment with their clipboards, performing a real inventory this time. Amy was staying out of their way in the oval foyer.
Barbara joined her, seconds after Amy had put away her phone. “Sorry about this. I thought we could relax while my people did their thing, but it never works out that way.” She led Amy into the kitchen, where the plates and stemware and saltshakers had already been tallied up.
“Thanks for making the time.” Amy had been concerned about Barbara and had made a point of reaching out. “Are you doing all right? If there’s anything I can do . . .”
“I’m fine,” Barbara assured her. “Keeping busy.”
“I didn’t realize you were a lawyer.”
“I haven’t worked in years. But since Evan’s firm was named executor, I felt I had to come take his place.”
The mention of Evan’s name, as always, created an uncomfortable pause. “Have you talked to them lately?”
Barbara hadn’t left Hawaii until the search was called off. Every post and bulletin board in the park was now plastered with Evan’s photo and description, but the police held out little hope. “At this point finding his body would be something of a miracle. Don’t worry. I’m not planning to sue.”
“I appreciate it.” It sounded so cold, put in those terms, but that had indeed been a concern. The money wasn’t an issue. That was what business insurance was for. It was the publicity.
Peter had done a heroic job. There were no YouTube videos, a small miracle. Nicole and David had both shot portions of the ceremony and the aftermath but had agreed not to post. The authorities were labeling it an accident, which it undoubtedly was. And in every account, Peter had made sure it was his agency, not Amy’s, that was listed as tour operator. But a suit by the victim’s wife would open everything up.
They talked for another few minutes, staying in familiar territory, about the chances of Evan being alive and what in the world could have happened. Then Barbara excused herself and went back to work.
The probate inventory didn’t take as long as Amy thought it would. MacGregor had not been fond of jewelry or art. Her financia
l files seemed to be in good order and were packed into cardboard boxes for their trip to the Corns and Associates offices downtown, in Murray Hill. The files marked PERSONAL PAPERS were set aside to be burned, as stipulated in the will.
Their primary focus was the walk-in closet, fabled repository of lost gifts. They had gone from one side to the other, unwrapping the wrapped ones, listing all the items. Amy noted four large bottles of Chanel No. 5, all from Peter Borg, and wondered why they were expending so much effort on cataloging long-forgotten birthday and Christmas presents.
“Miss Archer!” called Barbara, throwing her voice into the next room. The male paralegal had just whispered a few words in her ear. “Can you come in here, please?”
The maid’s maid took her time. “Yes?” Joy Archer appeared, looming in the doorway.
“Did you happen to see a music box?” Barbara pointed to the newly cataloged and stacked boxes. “Did Paisley have a music box?”
“I don’t remember one.”
“Are you sure? Dark mahogany. There’s a mother-of-pearl pattern on the lid, shaped like a diamond. Mr. Corns and I gave it to her as a birthday present.”
“I didn’t take it, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”
“No,” said Barbara. “I just thought you might have seen it.”
“Because if I wanted to steal something, it’d be nicer than a music box.”
“No, it’s just personal. I was hoping to take it as a memento. The lid isn’t made of diamonds, just shaped like a diamond. It was a little joke between the three of us.”
“I never spend time in here except to dust, and I don’t recall any music box. Maybe she sold it.”
“Paisley didn’t sell our presents.”
“Maybe she gave it away.”
“I guess that’s possible,” Barbara said without conviction. “It’s no big deal.”
But it was enough of a deal, Amy noted, to force Barbara and her paralegals to start from one end of the apartment and re-inventory their way to the other. Looking for a music box.
Amy quietly let herself out.
CHAPTER 27
As a rule, Lieutenant Rawlings didn’t call in advance. This time he had, giving Amy and Fanny the hour between eight and nine to worry and wonder and drink—coffee for Amy, tea for Fanny—while pretending to read the Times. Rawlings was never the bearer of good news. Except for today, as it turned out.
“We found your Billy Strunk,” he announced cheerily, settling onto a kitchen stool while Fanny brewed a fresh pot of coffee.
“And?” asked Fanny.
“He was an American from the Bronx, living in Istanbul. His real name was Bill Strohman.”
“Why did he give us a fake name?” Amy asked. “And such a name?”
“The guy was a Columbia professor. Maybe he did it as a shout-out to the real Bill Strunk.”
“There’s a real Bill Strunk?”
“I thought you were an educated woman.” His grin barely kept it from being an insult. “William Strunk and E. B. White. The Elements of Style.”
“Strunk and White.” She had to resist smacking herself on the forehead. Back in freshman writing class, the famous little book of writing dos and don’ts had been her bible. “Was he an English professor?”
“Art professor,” Rawlings said. “But he wrote a book, so I’m guessing he used Strunk and White.” Amy was surprised that Rawlings knew the names, and was chagrined that she herself hadn’t made the connection.
Bill Strohman, the detective told them, had married a Turkish woman, had given up tenure at Columbia, and had moved to Istanbul four years ago. Since then, he and his wife had separated, and he was living alone.
“His wife last saw him when he came over to celebrate her birthday.”
“You see?” Amy took this as a victory.
“I never said you were lying,” Rawlings countered. “She tried contacting him a few days later, but he wasn’t home. Finally, she went to the police and gave them a photograph.”
“And?” Fanny said, repeating her previous question.
“And . . .” The lieutenant drew it out, as if he were slowly pulling a puppy out from behind his back. “Bill Strohman had no connection to any of your tourists.”
“Thank God,” Fanny sighed, then rewarded him with a cup of coffee. Black, two sugars.
“We did a quick check. Strohman’s first wife didn’t recognize any of their names, and none of your tourists are in academia.”
Given this information, the Indian authorities were sticking to their story. Strohman had taken a last-minute vacation to India and had happened to get killed by a mugger in the Protected Forest.
Amy moved her head up and down and wanted to believe this, but... “Why did he use a fake name? And isn’t it a coincidence, him showing up at our hotel?”
“He didn’t show up at your hotel. He showed up at the Taj Mahal. My in-laws went to the Taj Mahal. Bill and Hillary went to the Taj Mahal.”
And, just like that, the case was closed. Like it or not.
It was an hour or so later, at the office, when Fanny looked up from her computer and pointed out that Amy was whistling.
“Am I? Sorry.”
“Not that I mind,” said Fanny. “I haven’t heard you whistle in some time.”
“I didn’t even realize.”
Amy returned to her work, tallying up the last of the wake’s expenses in Hawaii, but her mind was elsewhere. It’s finally over, she told herself. And the thought made her nearly giddy. Whatever trouble had been brewing—from the note to the murder to the loss of Evan Corns—had been dealt with, explained away to the satisfaction of the police on two continents.
Across the office, Fanny had returned to her keyboard, and Amy couldn’t resist skipping across and planting a kiss on top of her henna-dyed head.
“What was that for?”
“No reason. What’s TrippyGirl up to these days?” She could see that her mother was working on yet another posting.
“Right now she’s sleeping in a yurt hotel in the Mongolian steppes.”
“How’d she get to Mongolia?”
“There’s a branch line from the Trans-Siberian Railway.”
“And she’s staying in a yurt hotel?” Amy was dubious.
“Motel? A yurt B and B? A yurt Airbnb?”
“How about . . . off the top of my head . . . Trippy has been rescued by a nomadic family who welcomes her into their yurt?”
“Doesn’t sound as believable,” said Fanny, but she gave it a moment’s thought. “Does this Mongolian family have a cute son?”
“Yes. And he’s a doctor.”
“Ooh, I’ll make him a vet. Trippy can help him deliver a baby yak.”
“Perfect.”
Fanny typed a few sentences, then looked up. “Is everything okay?” She wasn’t used to seeing her daughter so relaxed.
“Perfect. I mean, business seems a little slow, but . . .”
“Business is fine,” Fanny assured her. “I’ve been booking cruises on the Web site left and right.”
It was exactly what Amy needed to hear, and she took it as an excuse for a long lunch and a pilgrimage to a thrift shop in SoHo. They might just have another pair of designer frames. She grabbed a collapsible umbrella from the stand by the door and headed out.
After walking just a few blocks south on Hudson, Amy stopped and looked back. It took her a few seconds to put a name to this sudden feeling. Was she being followed? The light rain had begun to get heavier, and people were sidestepping to stay under awnings, pausing in nearby doorways for the WALK lights rather than waiting at the corner. Maybe that was the source of her feeling, this rain-induced pedestrian shuffle all around her.
At the next corner she looked back again and noticed the mousy middle-aged woman in a brown dress and head scarf standing under a section of scaffolding. The woman glanced up and met Amy’s eyes and instantly turned away. Maybe Amy was being followed.
Amy passed by a Starbucks, we
nt another block, then pushed open the door of the next Starbucks and stood in line for a tall nonfat latte. She took it to a stool by the front window, and this time when the woman approached and caught her eye, Amy motioned with her head, as if to say, “Come join me.” For some reason, Amy wasn’t afraid.
The woman hesitated, then stepped inside, ordered a double espresso, and made her way to the stool next to Amy’s. “I’m sorry,” she said. Her voice was soft and lilting, with an accent Amy couldn’t immediately place. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Do I know you?” Amy didn’t, but it seemed like the right thing to ask.
“My name is Samime Strohman. I believe you knew my husband, Bill?”
Amy paused. If, by “knew,” you mean, did I chase him down in the woods and watch him bleed to death? “Yes, I knew him.”
The woman named Samime smiled with sad satisfaction, as if a goal had been reached. “The police say bandits attacked him at the Taj Mahal. Is that true?”
Yes, that’s what the police say. “Yes.”
Samime looked almost disappointed. “Bill was not the best man in the world. After we moved to Istanbul, he got sick with his hand tremors.”
“I noticed he had trouble.”
“The doctors could do nothing, and it absolutely ruined him. He loved to paint. When he could no longer do that, his world changed. I told him, ‘Do another hobby. Photography.’ But no. Finally, I had to leave and move back in with my family.”
“I’m sorry. But why are you telling me this?”
“I’m not saying this to make you sorry. I’m saying . . .” She seemed to be thinking it through. “On my birthday, two weeks ago, he apologized for the small present. He said he was going to get money soon, that everything would be good. A few days later he was dead.”
“Money? Where was he planning to get this money?”
“I asked, but he wouldn’t say. That was his secret.”