by Hy Conrad
“Was there a suicide note?” Amy asked.
“No note.”
“It seems pretty selfish to take your cats with you,” Fanny offered.
“So, you’re thinking accident?” Amy guessed. “Either way, it’s not murder.”
Rawlings smirked. “You see? This is where us dumb cops start asking our questions, like, who would take sedatives mixed in with her caffeine? No one planning on killing herself. And no one trying to relax and get back to sleep.”
“You’re confusing me, dear,” Fanny said sweetly.
“We checked the kitchen,” Rawlings went on. “From the grounds in the waste can, we know she made two pots of coffee this morning. In the cupboard we found a mug that was slightly damp. On the coffee table there were fresh rings on two of the coasters. When my guys dusted, they found that the empty pill bottles had been wiped clean. Is any of this sinking in?”
Amy knew this scenario from some half-forgotten novel or a long-forgotten episode of Law & Order. “Your conclusion is that Archer had a visitor, who touched the pill bottles, had coffee with her, then tried to eliminate all evidence of his or her presence.”
“Very good.”
“So it is murder,” Fanny said.
Rawlings confirmed it with a nod.
“How did the killer dead bolt the door from the inside?” Amy asked.
“He didn’t. The vic’s prints were on the dead bolt. She did it herself—after the killer left.”
“I’m confused, too,” Amy admitted, which was all Rawlings wanted to hear.
“Good. Remember that the next time you think you’re smarter than me.” And with that, the lieutenant turned and led them down the hallway, speaking over his shoulder as he went. “Like you said, she had a visitor. Since the doorman didn’t let anybody up, we’re guessing he gained entry through the basement garage. We’re checking the security tapes, but we’re not holding out much hope.
“Ms. Archer made a fresh pot of coffee, meaning the two of them had something to discuss. At some point, I figure the visitor used the bathroom and laced her coffee with the pills. When our mystery guest left, Ms. Archer was probably a little woozy but still together enough to lock the door and wander back to her bedroom.”
“How did the killer turn on the gas?” Fanny asked.
“He didn’t,” Rawlings said. “Miss Archer’s prints are on the gas key. That’s probably what gave him the idea, seeing that she already had a fire going. It’s a chilly day.”
The homicide detective brought them to the open door of the utility closet. A young female technician was squeezed into a corner, taking samples of something or other, slipping them into little clear vials and labeling them. She didn’t look up or say hello.
Rawlings pointed past her to the gas main and the valve six inches off the concrete. “The Con Ed guy said something to me. He was the one who turned off the valve. He said he had expected it to be rusty. These things are turned maybe once every five years. Often he has to whack the damned things with a wrench. But this one was easy to turn. When he said that, it got me to thinking.” The lieutenant stood back and folded his arms across his chest. He was showing off to his audience, so proud of himself.
Whoever did this, he explained, left MacGregor’s apartment and simply waited in the hall. The penthouse floor had just two apartments, so there wasn’t much chance of being seen. When he figured the drugs had done their job and Archer was unconscious, he forced this gas valve closed, effectively dousing the flaming fireplace. A minute or so later he turned the knob again, and the bedroom in the locked apartment began filling with natural gas.
“And it looks like an accident or suicide. Take your pick. Locked door, pills, gas turned on . . .” Rawlings shrugged. “I’ll know more when the reports start coming in.”
“Very clever,” said Fanny.
“Thanks.”
“I meant the killer. But you, too, for figuring it out.”
“Your killer knew a lot about this building,” Amy suggested. “How to get in through the garage, where the gas valves are located. . .”
Rawlings nodded. “We’re checking frequent visitors, any friends she may have had in the building.”
“Who would kill an unemployed maid?” Fanny asked.
“That I don’t know,” Rawlings said. “All I know is I drew a murder this morning. Could be a big one. And you two are involved again.”
“We’re not involved,” Amy protested.
“So let me get back to my question. Why did you come to pay Joy Archer a visit?”
CHAPTER 33
Amy was growing tired of memorials. She had spent the past month planning and attending six of them for Paisley MacGregor, including the first in New York. And now number seven. Evan Corns’s memorial, it so happened, was being held in the same reposing room that his deceased maid had used, on the third floor of Frank E. Campbell’s.
Although there was no body to repose, the Corns clan had pressed Barbara to hold a service. They wanted to hold some sort of event before summer came and the families all headed off on vacation.
Amy had wound up telling Rawlings everything. The homicide detective had asked for custody of the manila envelope, and she had gladly turned it over.
“So this is it,” Rawlings had said that day at the station as he placed the envelope in an evidence bag. “This is what you were hiding from me.” He’d sounded disappointed.
“That’s it.”
Forensics had confirmed his suspicions about a visitor to Archer’s penthouse on the morning of her death. But the scene had produced no usable DNA or prints. And Rawlings’s superiors at One Police Plaza were accepting his theory, but only for the time being. They would need more in order to officially rule it a homicide.
Rawlings had volunteered to be Amy’s plus-one for the Saturday afternoon memorial, and for the first time she learned his full name. Rory Rawlings. What a tongue-twister. She understood why he’d never mentioned it.
It was a measure of the detective’s desperation that he was taking this “if I die” note half seriously. “You’re making a lot of assumptions,” he told Amy as his eyes swept over the reposing room. “You’re assuming this note was still in the apartment, that Archer had found it, and that it was something worth killing her for.”
“Why else would anyone want to kill Joy Archer? I’m waiting for a better theory.”
“So am I,” said Rawlings. His gaze rested on the framed photo of Evan Corns, looking ruddy and full of life. “I’m not even going to guess about this guy’s death.”
“Me neither.”
In addition to the Corns and a few close friends, Barbara had invited her fellow tour members. The Hawaii-based Steinbergs were the only ones not to accept, giving Lieutenant Rawlings a chance to meet most of the cast of characters. Earlier Amy had given him a briefing. Now she was just adding faces to the names.
Peter didn’t seem pleased by the idea of Amy showing up with another man, but he said nothing. Neither did he blink an eye when Fanny and Samime dropped in to pay their respects and also ogle the suspects.
“That’s Nicole Marconi,” Amy whispered to Rawlings.
“Is she stealing food?” he whispered back.
“Um, yes.” Amy couldn’t deny it. Nicole was once again at the buffet table, stuffing a row of mushroom tartlets into her purse. “She likes the food.”
“And she’s the one who felt cheated by the will.”
“According to her, MacGregor had quasi-blackmailed her parents into giving MacGregor their money. She expected the will to rectify this situation, but it didn’t.”
And those, I take it, are the Pepper-Sands?” He tilted his head toward the May-September pairing, who were silently critiquing an exotic-looking floral tribute sent by the Steinbergs in lieu of their attendance. It was in the center of a long table of flowers, set up where the casket would normally be. “The boys look pretty harmless.”
“Either one could have given MacGregor the note,�
� Amy said. But she agreed that it was unlikely.
“Herb Sands’s money is mostly inherited?” Rawlings asked.
“His grandfather founded an investment house back in the twenties. Sands and Sons. The blond, gorgeous one, David Pepper, moved here from Oklahoma. I don’t think he’s kept any contact with his family.”
“What about the widow, Barbara? Any dirt there?”
The woman in question was across the room, talking to a few teenage nieces. “She and Evan used to do some legal work for MacGregor.”
“Lawyers, huh? Any chance that Evan wrote the note and Barbara pushed him into the volcano?”
Amy gave it a moment’s thought. “It’s possible. Oh.” She’d just remembered. “Barbara has been asking about a music box.”
“Music box?”
“It was a birthday present she and Evan gave to MacGregor years ago. She was looking for it in the apartment. Maybe that’s where MacGregor kept the note. It’s possible.”
“Anything’s possible when you don’t have any pesky facts to deal with.”
“I wish the Steinbergs were around,” Amy said. “If there’s one person I think capable of murder, it’s Maury Steinberg.”
“Because he fought with his wife and encouraged her to eat an entrée with chestnuts?”
“Pretty much.”
“Well, I’m glad he’s not. One less suspect in the Archer case, which is the only angle I’m interested in. Speaking of suspects . . .” The lieutenant cocked his head toward Peter Borg. The East Side travel agent had once again found himself trapped between Pepper and Sands. By this point he’d given up any hope of booking an anniversary tour and was just hoping to get out alive.
“You mean Peter?” Amy asked. She had to laugh.
“If we’re suspecting Miss MacGregor’s employers, he’s on the list.”
“Technically.”
“And he was in the forest by the Taj Mahal. You weren’t together when Bill Strohman was stabbed. He could have done it.”
She laughed again. “First off, Peter’s too big a wuss to stab anyone. Second, he would never entrust anything important to MacGregor. And third, he’s the one who found the envelope. He showed it to me.”
“I’m keeping him on the list.”
As Amy and the lieutenant continued discussing suspects, Fanny and Samime hovered around the buffet, making small talk with the Corns’s relatives. Fanny had created a backstory for them, in case anybody asked. They were, she had decided, a lesbian couple, happily bonded for the past thirty years. They’d met Evan when he’d drawn up a living will for them six months ago.
Fanny hadn’t informed Samime of this backstory. It made no difference, since the Turkish woman barely spoke to a soul. But Fanny felt this sort of detail, even if left unsaid, would help her own performance.
“We should pay our respects,” she informed her partner. She took Samime by the hand and led her toward Barbara, who was standing beside the easeled photo of her husband. An angular middle-aged man in a cheap suit was in front of them, talking with the widow, and they waited their turn. Fanny let go of Samime’s hand. No need to overplay it.
“I don’t mean to talk business on a day like today,” the man whispered.
“Brendon, don’t be silly,” Barbara replied. “You’re family.”
“It’s just that you’re not returning my calls—not that I’m worried.”
“Of course,” Barbara assured him. “I’m sorry I haven’t been more responsive. But . . .” And here her voice caught. “That was always Evan’s project, and it’s taking me some time to get up to speed.”
“No problem,” Brendon said before she’d even finished. “Just sometime soon I hope we can get an accounting. Maybe a small check. Jennifer is starting college in the fall.”
“Yes, yes. How is Jennifer?”
“She’s great. She’s fine.” Brendon looked around the room, a little sheepish. “She’s in Connecticut with some friends. Couldn’t get away.”
“I understand,” said Barbara and patted his hand. The angular man in the cheap suit made his final apology and fled, letting himself be replaced by Fanny and Samime.
Fanny did all the talking, expressing sorrow at Barbara’s loss while simultaneously expressing hope that her husband might still be alive. At the end of her condolence speech, she asked if she could refresh Barbara’s glass of white wine.
Fanny held the glass by the stem and, as they took the long way around to the bar, placed it in a Baggie that Samime had taken out of her purse. Fanny sealed the Baggie, wrote something on it with a Magic Marker, and placed it gingerly in Samime’s oversize purse.
“Is your mother stealing from the buffet, too?” Rawlings asked.
Amy had seen it. She sighed. “She’s taking fingerprints.”
“I realize that,” said Rawlings. “But why?”
“I don’t know why. I have no idea what my mother does.”
CHAPTER 34
Amy opened up the shop after the service and worked the rest of the day alone. It was a decent afternoon, with two walk-in inquiries and a deposit from Lou Halpern, the co-owner of a nearby diner who had won a few million in the New York Lottery and was using some of the proceeds to take his extended family on a cruise.
On arriving back at the brownstone, she was surprised to find the door to Fanny’s apartment closed. This was rare. Even when her mother was out, she almost always left it wide open, trusting in the exterior lock and the safeness of the neighborhood. It was her way of telling her daughter, “My door’s always open.” Except today it was closed.
Maybe it’s reverse psychology, Amy thought. Pretending to keep me out so I’ll want to come in. Then bam! An hour spent discussing Uncle Sol’s upcoming divorce. Well, it’s working. “Mom?” She knocked softly, then turned the knob.
“Amy, darling. How was work?”
She found her mother at the small kitchen table, hurriedly stuffing papers back into a file folder. Across from her sat Peter Borg, who was even worse at covering up his embarrassment. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” Peter replied. “Well, not nothing, obviously.”
“Come and sit down,” Fanny said and patted the top of the third chair. Her expression was serious.
The truth came out quickly enough. Peter was there to discuss a merger. “It’ll be great for all of us,” he explained with his nervous, ingratiating grin. “I need to open an office downtown, near all the SoHo and Tribeca lofts. Your place could use my connections. And face it, the two of us work well together.”
“You do,” said Fanny, her grin equally as nervous.
Amy said as little as possible, trying to wrap her mind around it. It wasn’t the idea that she found so shocking. It was the implication.
The inescapable fact was that Fanny hated Peter. And Peter was scared of Fanny. There was no way Peter would have proposed this merger on his own. That meant that it had to be Fanny’s idea, even if Peter somehow thought it was his. And that meant that Amy’s Travel was dead broke. There was no other possibility.
As Peter continued his sales pitch, Amy threw her mother a slightly raised eyebrow. She responded with an apologetic nod, confirming her daughter’s deduction. Not the nicest way to learn bad news, but that was Fanny.
And then, as if the moment wasn’t awkward enough, they heard the front door open. Marcus’s voice boomed down the hallway. “How are my girls? Anyone in the mood for cheesecake?”
Half an hour later Amy was walking Peter along Barrow Street, looking for a cab. He had been planning to take them out for a celebratory dinner. He’d even made a reservation at One if by Land, Two if by Sea, Amy’s favorite restaurant, just down on Barrow. But the scene with Marcus had put an end to that notion.
As soon as Marcus was informed of the news, he’d flown into a rage. “So this is how you solve your problems?” he’d shouted at Fanny. “Selling your daughter to get out of debt?” Amy had never seen him this angry.
Fanny had shouted b
ack. How dare he? This was none of his business. And it was business, not personal. No one was selling anyone. Peter and Amy had had the good sense to fade back into the living room. The argument had ended with the cheesecake being thrown into the garbage and Marcus storming out.
“He shouldn’t be jealous,” Peter said as they strolled past the polished, upscale restaurant, where tonight there would be one empty table for three. “It’s business. It makes sense.”
“I don’t know what makes sense,” Amy said.
“We won’t do it if you don’t want to.”
Amy knew in her heart that this was probably the best solution, the only solution, to a problem she hadn’t even known existed until this evening. “No. It makes sense,” she said. “I’m just a little overwhelmed.”
“I’ll bet.” A cab flew by. Neither had reached out to flag it.
Amy and Fanny would discuss it later, of course. But Fanny, despite her flaky view on life, was smart about things. If she had to make a pact with Peter in order to save the company, then there was probably no other option.
“Let me think about it, Peter.”
“My lawyer will draft a document. We can fold Amy’s Travel into my corporation. And you don’t have to change the name right away.”
“I have to change the name?” She tried not to gasp. “No.”
It seemed like such a betrayal of her dreams. A betrayal of Eddie. The founding of her company had been a tribute to her adventurous fiancé, who had never lived to see it. Now it would just be the downtown office of Peter Borg Travel. Our finances must really be desperate, she thought.
“Not at first,” Peter said. “But at some point . . . I mean, that’s the whole idea, to make a cohesive product. We’ll merge our business plans and our Web sites. Fanny can keep writing TrippyGirl. I wouldn’t take that away from her.”
“I don’t know if I can change the name.”