O’Melvany shone the flashlight into the urn and peered inside. “Nothing here.” He said it as if he hadn’t expected otherwise.
“Are you sure?” Wetzon had been so certain.
“Give me a break, lady.” He handed the flashlight back to the guard as the woman in the red jacket returned, followed by a pale, elegant man.
“I’m Gerard Falkland, the managing director.” The man ignored Wetzon, speaking directly to O’Melvany. “How may I help you?”
“We’re finished here,” O’Melvany said, dusting off his hands.
“No, wait!” Wetzon said. “Where’s the other one?”
“Other what?” O’Melvany shoved his hands in his pockets and headed back toward the escalator.
“The other temple urn.” Wetzon looked around urgently. Smith was engrossed in something in a flat-topped case. Jewelry, of course.
“What other urn?” O’Melvany paused, rubbing his mustache.
“Was there another urn?” The woman turned to Gerard Falkland.
“As a matter of fact, there was. It had a hairline crack near the base. I think we may have returned it.” He ran his forefinger along his aristocratic nose. “Wait—let’s have a look. Follow me.”
He led them to the fifth floor, by an elevator decorated with exhibition notices, and unlocked a double door of staggering proportions with a key from a large ring of keys. They entered a massive storage room, windowless and musty with the smell of old wood and aging upholstery. It was pitch-black. Falkland reached out and pulled a large lever, bathing the room in brilliant light.
“Oh my God,” Wetzon gasped. Furniture was piled many feet high from one end to the other, almost to the ceiling. Shades of Citizen Kane.
“It may still be here ... somewhere,” Falkland murmured, motionless, eyes searching.
Wetzon walked slowly into the ordered disorder. The sheer abundance was mind-boggling.
“Please, do be careful.” Falkland’s calm demeanor had begun to fray.
“I don’t see it,” O’Melvany said, moving cautiously into another aisle.
“I’m afraid it’s just not here anymore,” Falkland said. “Shall we go?”
“Ms. Wetzon?”
“Please, wait.” Wetzon darted into an area she had not checked and caught her boot on the edge of a worn tapestry. A cloud of dust flew in her face as she clutched at the tapestry to keep from falling.
“Good heavens! I asked you to be careful.” Falkland came down the aisle toward her in high dudgeon.
“I’m sorry. All right ... let’s go,” she said, defeated. She tried to prop up the bulky tapestry to put it back where it had been, when it slipped from her hands and slid to the floor, revealing the urn, gleaming and majestic, next to a large carved open armchair with a damaged seat. Cracked or whatever, it was beautiful. “Eureka!” Wetzon cried.
“May I?” O’Melvany strode over and moved the chair.
“Go right ahead.” Falkland watched dispassionately as O’Melvany rolled the urn to the small clearing near the entrance to the storage room. “There’s only a hairline crack, but of course you understand we cannot sell anything that’s damaged—”
O’Melvany tilted the urn and Falkland grasped the bowl and together they turned it gently on its rim. Wetzon held her breath as they picked it up and righted it.
On the floor where the mouth of the urn had been was a small, dusty blue Gucci shoe.
49.
“ALL THAT FUSS over a dirty old shoe!” Smith frowned. She spread the tarot cards out on the marble top of her coffee table. Hyper, hands shaking, she was sitting on the edge of her off-white sectional. Her mink coat had slipped from the arm of the sofa, where she had thrown it when she came into the room, and lay crumpled on the floor.
Wetzon came out of the bathroom in time to hear Smith’s gripe about the Gucci shoe and decided to be smart for once and let it go. Smith wasn’t paying attention to Wetzon anyway. She seemed totally wrapped up in the cards, almost as if she were on a mission. Hiking her skirt up, Wetzon did a grand plié and scooped Smith’s coat up from the floor, shook it straight, and laid it back on the end of the sofa farthest from Smith.
“Stop bustling around, please,” Smith said, with her eyes closed, hands roaming over her cards. “You are distracting me.”
Miming Smith’s last remark, Wetzon curled up on the tufted ottoman and watched Smith scrambling the cards. “Making mushy with the cards, eh?” Wetzon said, trying to lighten the tense atmosphere.
But Smith was in no mood for levity. She’d been singularly silent in the car after O’Melvany had offered them a ride. And since it was too early to meet Silvestri at Hazel’s, Wetzon had accepted Smith’s intense command that she come home with her. Poor Mark had been sent to his room with a “Not now, sweetie pie. Wetzon has a small problem Mother has to help her work through.”
“Wetzon has?” she had started to say to Smith, but Smith had gone into her trance.
“Something’s wrong,” Smith muttered repeatedly as she continued to shuffle the cards, her eyes firmly shut. She stopped suddenly, her eyes snapped open, and she rose to her feet. “Here!” She thrust the cards at Wetzon. “Hold them and concentrate.” She left the room.
“Concentrate? On what?” Wetzon looked at her watch. It was six o’clock. She wanted to call Silvestri, make sure he was going to meet her at Hazel’s. She wanted to call Hazel ...
Smith returned holding a squat vase of very thick glass in which rested a small white candle. She sat down again and lit the candle with a match from a book of matches near the chrome ashtray on the coffee table. The flame expanded. Smith sighed deeply. “Shuffle the cards,” she said.
Wetzon shuffled.
“Okay. Stop. Give them back to me.” Smith plucked a single card from the deck and put it face-up in the center of the table between her and Wetzon. “The queen of swords,” she said. “Cut the cards to your left—left hand, please.”
“Smith—” Smith was acting crazy. Really crazy.
“Please, Wetzon. It’s important. Humor me.” In fact, as nervous as she was, Smith seemed to have pulled herself together. There were no seductive “sweetie pie” and “sugar” words. She was direct, if obtuse, and full of a kind of reeling urgency.
Wetzon obediently cut the cards to the left with her left hand and gave them back to Smith, who laid them out one by one into a Celtic cross. Wetzon’s stomach growled audibly. Smith looked daggers at her.
“Sorry.” Shit. Smith was making her nervous.
Smith wrapped the remainder of the deck in a silk square, putting the package aside. She began to turn the cards faceup. “No! No ...” She mumbled something else which Wetzon didn’t catch and then once more, “No!”
“Do you want to tell me what’s going on, Smith?”
Smith turned up the card above the queen of swords. It had a skeleton riding a horse. The card said Death. “The queen of cups, the queen of wands covering, the queen of pentacles crossing, and upheaval— death—in the near future. I don’t like it one bit.” Smith gathered up the cards abruptly. “You’ll stay with me tonight.”
“Oh come on, Smith.” Wetzon stood up, cross. “Let’s have a cup of tea and forget about this. I feel funny about making Mark hide out in his room.” All at once she felt chilled, weary. The only thing she had left on her agenda was Hazel. But no doubt about it, Smith had spooked her. “I want to make a couple of calls, okay?”
Smith shrugged. She pulled off her high-heeled boots and left them on the floor near a stack of magazines and newspapers, which were part of the scenery in Smith’s apartment. “I’ll make coffee, if you want. It’s decaf.” She left the room and came back a minute later carrying a white cordless phone, which she handed Wetzon.
“You’re on.” Wetzon sat down on the sofa and pulled up the aerial. She dialed Silvestri’s number at the Seventeenth Precinct.
“Metzger.” Artie Metzger’s resonant monotone suited his basset hound appearance.
“Hi
, Artie.”
“He said if you called, to tell you he’ll meet you at seven.”
“Good. You told him where?”
“Yeah.”
She disconnected and dialed Hazel’s number. She could hear Mark’s and Smith’s voices humming in the kitchen. The kettle began to whistle. She got a busy signal and disconnected, pushing the aerial back in place with the palm of her hand.
“Come on into the dining room, sweetie pie,” Smith called, sounding like herself again. That was a relief. “Mark is making omelets.”
Wetzon crossed the living room toward the sensual odor of melted butter and eggs frying. Her stomach growled again. “I’m probably having dinner with Silvestri later,” she said. The dining room table was laid out for three. On the sideboard next to a stack of legal documents the coffee machine chugged.
“Well, you can have a bitty snack with us, sugar. I can hear your tummy all the way over here.”
“I just have to confirm with Hazel that I’ll be there at seven.” She watched Mark put a small omelet on each dinner plate. “This looks great, Mark.”
“Sit down, honey bunny, and eat,” Smith said, kissing the top of Mark’s dark curly head. “You need a haircut, baby.”
“Aw, Mom.” He rolled his eyes at her. His voice cracked, going from high tenor to manly croak in two words.
Smith would soon have an adolescent boy in her midst. Wetzon wondered how she would handle it.
Smith yawned. “By the way, First Westchester is hiring that old geezer of yours.”
“Oh, Smith, that’s lovely news. Doesn’t that make you feel good?”
“Hardly.”
“Well, it makes me feel good.” Pulling out the aerial on the phone, Wetzon dialed Hazel again.
“I forgot the fries.” Mark started to get up.
“Sit, baby. Eat. I’ll get them.”
“No potatoes for me.” The phone rang three times. Wetzon cut into her omelet and pale melted Swiss cheese oozed out. “This looks delicious, Mark.” It was delicious.
“Hello.” The voice was barely audible.
“Hazel?”
“Leslie ...”
“Hazel, I can hardly hear you. We’ll be over at seven.”
“Lovely. I have to go now, dear.” Hazel raised her voice to normal.
“Wait! Your home care service—is it Tender Care?”
Smith came back into the dining room with a serving plate of French fries. “Mark, honey, why don’t you serve everyone?”
“Yes.” Hazel’s line disconnected.
“Damn!” Wetzon swallowed what was in her mouth without chewing and choked.
“Tender Care? Did I hear you say Tender Care?” Smith poured coffee for Wetzon, who began coughing, and patted her on the back gently.
“Yes.” Wetzon shrugged off Smith’s arm and stood up, rushing into the foyer to get her coat. Tender Care was the company Peter Tormenkov had told Teddy about. He had specifically mentioned Tender Care. Which meant Hazel was in danger.
“Where are you going in such a rush, Wetzon?”
“Dammit, Smith, I’m afraid for Hazel. That’s the company involved in some kind of stock fraud and Peepsie Cunningham’s murder.”
“Oh, but that can’t be, sugar.” Smith beamed. “That’s Arleen Grossman’s company.”
Wetzon clutched the frame of the archway of Smith’s dining room. “What?” Her head began to spin. “What did you say?”
“I mean, it was Arleen’s company.” Smith looked like the cat that swallowed the canary.
“Was? What are you talking about, Smith? This means Arleen Grossman is a thief and maybe a murderer.” Wetzon’s hand was on the door.
“Wetzon, you have to be mistaken” Smith’s features began to swim together, breaking up under her makeup. She followed Wetzon into the foyer. “Wait, please.”
“What’s the matter, Smith? I have to go. I’m really worried about Hazel.”
“I wasn’t going to tell you about this, Wetzon. I tried to get you involved—we are partners—but you are so overly cautious—” Smith’s mouth was stiff and wooden. “Arleen—oh dear God, I bought the company last summer. I’m the owner of Tender Care.”
50.
WETZON HAD HOPED to find the ubiquitous Michael Stewart downstairs waiting for her, but she was disappointed. She stood under the canopy in front of Smith’s building, looking up the street for a cab, holding the collar of her coat closed at the throat.
“Cab, miss?” Smith’s doorman came out and stood beside her. “Cold night, isn’t it?”
“Yes, a cab, please, and, yes, it’s a cold night.”
“There’ll be one along soon, I’m sure.” He turned a switch that lit a cab light on the front of the awning. “There always is at this time.” He slapped his hands together in his leather gloves and turned up his coat collar.
But he was wrong. She waited impatiently, hunching her shoulders against the cold, then gave up. “I’m going out on Third Avenue. Thanks anyway.” She moved off in almost a trot, veering around a fur-wrapped woman in dark glasses carrying a heavy briefcase in one hand and a Chinese take-out bag from Pig Heaven in the other.
At the curb on Third Avenue an old woman was being helped out of a cab by an old man, and from the corner of her eye, Wetzon saw a well-dressed young couple across the avenue dart in front of traffic toward the cab, weaving and screaming. Wetzon put on a burst of speed and got there first in a flurry of raccoon. The old man, dignified in a cloth overcoat and English tweed cap, smiled at Wetzon and held the door open for her after depositing his wife on the sidewalk.
She settled into the cab and he slammed the door closed. The disappointed couple shouted at her angrily and cursed out the driver, who shrugged. “Where to?”
“Ninety-second, between Park and Madison, as fast as you can.”
She sat back. Smith was the owner of Tender Care, and Arleen Grossman was running it for her. What a mess. How could Leon have possibly let Smith get into it? What kind of lawyer...? No ... wait ... how could she blame Leon? It was, after all, a profitable company. Oh my, was it ever profitable. She wondered how the money from the sale of the stock certificates was fed into the company. Or was it? Maybe it just went into Arleen’s and her partners’ pockets. Arleen had certainly manipulated both Smith and Leon.
But now what? Arleen had said she might have to take an extended trip. She would try to leave the country to avoid being arrested.
Why had she worked so hard to befriend Wetzon? Because Smith had probably told her about Peepsie Cunningham’s death. Arleen had wanted to confuse Wetzon, make her doubt Smith, perhaps even make Smith look guilty.
Damn, what was taking so long? The red light seemed endless. “Please, please hurry.”
Smith had bought a company whose purpose was to defraud. Did that make Smith responsible, liable? What were the legal ramifications of all this? Poor Smith.
For once, Wetzon’s caution had worked to her benefit. How much money had Smith paid for the company? The cab stopped and didn’t continue. “What’s holding us up?” She crossed and uncrossed her legs.
“There’s some problem up ahead,” the driver said. He rolled down his window and stuck his head out. “Traffic’s backed up on Ninety-second Street. Street’s blocked.”
“Problem?” She rolled down her window and peered out. What was happening up ahead? She saw rolling red-and-blue lights of police cars. It was Hazel’s block. What if it was Hazel? Her hands began to tremble. “I have to get out here.” She paid the driver and got out.
As all the residential streets in upper Manhattan were, Ninety-second Street was narrow. There were frozen banks of snow, cars parked on both sides of the street, and also police cars, an emergency van, lights, people. Curious bystanders clustered on the street or leaned out of apartment house and brownstone windows. Tragedy, even in New York, was an event.
The activity was concentrated in front of Hazel’s building. A fat woman in a purple all-weather coat, with a c
hild in a stroller, blocked the sidewalk. What the hell was she doing out in this cold at this time of the evening? The child was bundled in a bright red-and-blue snowsuit and hat, its face pale in the streetlights, its eyes round and frightened. The woman, whose mittened hands rested on the curved handle of the stroller, was dark-skinned and appeared too old to be the mother. She was probably a nursemaid or baby-sitter, drawn outside by the noise.
Wetzon pushed by the woman, angry that she had to run an obstacle course to get to Hazel’s building. She dodged two boys in torn jeans and Jets jackets, one holding a skateboard, and was stopped by a policewoman. “You can’t go any farther,” the woman said, blocking her.
“Please, Officer—” Something caught in her throat. “Please. My friend is in that building.”
She saw O’Melvany first. You couldn’t miss him—he was that tall. Men in street clothes, probably detectives, were milling all over the area. Police in uniform were stopping foot traffic. An EMS van was parked on a slant near the front of the building, its lights flashing.
“Please, please, let me through. I have to get through.” She felt herself panicking. “Sergeant O’Melvany!”
Two blue-coated EMS men wheeled someone out of the building on a stretcher. A man in a red down jacket was with them, bent over, talking to the person on the stretcher. It took her several seconds to process Silvestri.
In the eerie-colored lights, the raised voices, police car radios squawking, it seemed a scene from Walpurgisnacht. Silvestri was scrunched down over the figure on the stretcher. A scream rose up from the cold pit of her stomach and filled her, spilling out, “Silvestri,” in a wail of pain. She was oblivious to the people around.
Detectives, police, onlookers, heads swiveled in her direction. Silvestri straightened, looking for the source, and she saw him as another pale face above the red down jacket. Round-eyed and pale like the child. He was holding someone’s hand. Someone on the stretcher. His eyes swept the crowd.
She saw the IV then and another EMS attendant. Silvestri spotted her, waved, and pointed, and they were escorting her through the throng, and she was rushing, stumbling toward them—toward Silvestri, toward the figure on the stretcher, about to be moved into the van.
Tender Death Page 32