“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You were blackmailing her, weren’t you?”
“Leave me alone.”
“Did you make her bring the red dress?”
“You’re crazy.”
“What did you know about her?”
“Nothing, nothing. She jush like doing porno.”
Claire leaned forward. “Jackie had a bruise on her cheek. Why did you strike her?”
“She wouldn’t shut up.”
“Why wouldn’t she shut up?”
“She kept on about someone following her. I didn’t believe her.”
“Maybe you were following her. Maybe you killed Jackie.”
He stared down at the broken lavender shoes. “No, no. Not Jackie.”
She leaned closer. “Don’t you want to find out who did?”
A sloppy triumphant grin spread across his face. “I don’t need to.” His eyes became like two slivers of glass; then, like a large, downed animal, he rolled over on his side, crushing the pink carnations, and passed out. The bed cried.
Twelve
“‘I DON’T NEED TO,’” Claire repeated. “Does that mean Goldie knows who killed Jackie or that he killed her or that he’s simply not interested? I do wish people could be more precise with the English language.” We were on our way back to the Parkfaire.
“Goldie didn’t kill Jackie,” I stated astutely.
“How do you know?”
“Because he loved Jackie. He was honestly grieving.”
“I have seen men and women cry with the utmost honesty over the loss of the very people they have murdered, Miss Hill.”
“If he was involved in blackmailing Sarah Grange,” Boulton said, “he might’ve had a very good reason for killing Jackie.”
“Okay, so much for heartfelt grieving.” I sighed.
The car phone rang. It was Gerta. She informed me that Paul Quentin would like Claire Conrad to call him as soon as possible at the Reynolds residence. I dialed the number.
“I’m glad I reached you, Ms. Hill,” he said. “Elizabeth Reynolds would like to speak with Claire Conrad. I’m afraid that means a drive out to Shadow Hills Sanitarium. It’s near Greenwich, Connecticut.”
“Hold on.” I relayed the message to Claire.
“After the Duke Hotel, I think a breath of fresh air is needed.”
“She’s looking forward to the fresh air,” I told Quentin.
“Fresh air? Oh yes, of course. Would you mind coming to Avenue 8000 first? Her daughter, Alison, would like to drive out with you.”
“We’re on our way.” I turned to Claire. “Elizabeth Reynolds’s daughter wants a lift. Didn’t Cybella also stay at Shadow Hills?”
“It seems we have turned over another rock.” Excitement shone in her eyes.
“If we keep on, we could have an avalanche.”
“Allow yourself the thrill of the hunt, Miss Hill.” She almost beamed.
The Reynoldses’ building was on Eighty-fifth and Park. A modern tower of black tinted glass, its circular drive was more reminiscent of Century City than Manhattan. A greening bronze statue of a woman the size of a midget stood in the curve of the drive. Windswept and homeless, she looked like she needed a tin cup in her hand. She did have perky little breasts but they seem to have been applied by a plastic surgeon after the sculptor had given up and gone home.
Boulton stayed with the car. The lobby was done in black granite and black leather furniture. It had all the warmth of a savings and loan. The reception desk was a massive curve of black stone with a row of built-in monitors that flickered a deathly blue-gray. A sign on the counter warned: ALL VISITORS MUST BE ANNOUNCED. A man, wearing a brown uniform with the panache of an SS sergeant, sat behind this barricade.
“Claire Conrad to see Paul Quentin,” I told him.
“Just a minute, please.” He announced her name into a speaker, then said, “You may go up. The penthouse elevator is to your right.”
We were swept skyward in an elevator designed to make the passenger feel like cheap jewelry in an expensive box. We stepped into the foyer of the Reynoldses’ penthouse. The walls were lined in a burgundy and black striped fabric. A chair, too old and too expensive to sit in, was displayed under a gilt-framed painting of ballet dancers by Degas. For a moment I forgot where I was. That’s the power of art and the power of the money that owns the art.
“It’s the best of his ballet series.” A man, about my age, sauntered toward us. He extended his hand. “I’m Paul Quentin, Mr. Reynolds’s assistant.” His straight ash-blond hair was trimmed short. The blue eyes were unassuming, even slightly apologetic. So was his charming smile. He wore his expensive sports jacket and jeans with a confident ease.
We exchanged greetings and entered the living room. A vast expanse of limestone floor was scattered with the silkiest Oriental rugs. Neoclassical columns were placed strategically around the enormous room but they didn’t appear to be holding anything up. Fat black velvet sofas heavy with gold fringe were grouped into conversation areas. A Bonnard and a Renoir shimmered and fought for space on the walls with the slashing boldness of contemporary art. Claire peered at a large painting of wavy grotesque people, their huge mouths wide open.
“This is a Beirborn, isn’t it?” she asked.
“One of his best,” Paul proclaimed.
“You know he was an obese man with a slight palsy. Alas, in his case, art didn’t triumph over affliction.”
“Contemporary art is an acquired taste,” Quentin replied coolly, then flashed another charming smile.
He had the kind of easy smile women adored, the kind of smile they could interpret any way they pleased. And if the crooked slide of his lips made them feel uneasy, they could always change it with kisses. I know, I’m one of those women who has tried to change a man with kisses. Why do we think we have such power? Avoiding the smile, I decided to take a look out the window. We were so high up that the cabs were as small as slices of Kraft cheese. People shouldn’t live this high in the air. It makes them feel too close to the angels and not close enough to their fellowman.
“Please, sit down,” Quentin offered.
We settled into the black chairs. It was like sitting in the velvet lap of a plump widow.
“Alison will be out in a moment.” He crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair. I was waiting for Town and Country to rush in and take his picture.
“I hope that Mrs. Reynolds’s request to see you doesn’t seem odd. She was concerned that at this delicate time there should be no publicity … any unnecessary focusing on … the situation. Well … you can understand.”
“Situation?” Claire repeated.
“The tragic death … suicide.”
“Oh, that situation. Mrs. Reynolds is allowed to have visitors?” she asked.
“Yes. She’s always been emotionally fragile. Shadow Hills has become like a retreat for her. I must say, after you left your message, I did some research and found that you’re highly respected. Mrs. Reynolds thought it best to talk with you herself. If you were just any private detective she wouldn’t be seeing you.”
“I’m flattered. And where is Mr. Reynolds?”
“He’s staying at his club. The Horizon Club,” he added, with the same pompous inflection he used for the Degas and the Beirborn.
“I had dinner there with Graham Sitwell,” Claire said.
“I believe they allow women to dine on certain evenings.” He smiled, but there was disdain in his voice.
Claire peered at me with a wicked glint in her eye. “Did you say something, Miss Hill?”
“No.”
“I could’ve sworn I heard you say something about men and women.”
“No.” I was working on my discretion.
“Mr. Reynolds needs to be alone right now,” Quentin explained. “Her suicide was very difficult for him. I thought it best he shouldn’t be disturbed. I’m sure you can understand. Of course, it’s an awkward situation
for the entire family.”
Without mentioning her name, Quentin talked softly, as if Cybella were lying in her coffin right next to him. She was the situation. Maybe that’s what all mistresses become, a situation to be dealt with.
A young woman with long auburn hair curling around her small delicate face came into the room. She wore a gray sweater and matching slacks. “Claire Conrad? I’m Alison Reynolds.” She extended her hand.
“How do you do? This is my assistant, Maggie Hill,” Claire said.
Alison gave me a firm handshake. Her manner was straightforward, hazel eyes steady and bright, but it was her left hand that got my attention. A diamond engagement ring, as big as the one the hustler had tried to sell me yesterday morning, flashed on her finger. The only difference was that this ring was real; and it didn’t cost any twenty bucks.
“I’ll come right to the point. I tried to talk Mother out of seeing you. She’s not well and I don’t want her upset,” she said to Claire. “I know about Cybella.” The name was finally spoken. None of the paintings fell off the walls. “What is it about her suicide you want to know?”
“May I speak freely in front of Mr. Quentin?” Claire asked.
“Of course.” Alison sat on the arm of his chair and put her hand in his. His fingers stroked the diamond. So the ring was Quentin’s. One of us was making the wrong salary.
“Miss Hill, show them the photographs.”
I displayed the pictures. They both decided that they recognized Sarah but not Jackie.
Without going into detail, Claire gave a general description of Jackie’s visit and murder. Paul listened with his lips slightly parted, as if he were trying to find the proper moment to offer us one of his smiles. Alison’s pointed chin jutted forward. Her eyes watched Claire with all the anxious intensity of a student being quizzed for an exam by her professor. When Claire finished, it was Quentin who spoke first.
“What does the death of this Jackie have to do with the Reynolds family or Cybella?”
“That’s what I would like to find out. It’s possible that Cybella knew why Sarah Grange was being blackmailed. That knowledge might have led to her being murdered. And Jackie might have had the same knowledge—which also might’ve led to her death.”
“Cybella murdered?” Alison looked at Quentin.
“Why don’t you talk to Sarah?” he asked Claire.
“How well do you both know her?” Claire asked.
“We don’t know her, I mean, personally,” Alison said.
“When do you think I could speak with your father?”
“That’s impossible right now.” There was a protective tone in her voice. “My father is grieving. He loved Cybella deeply.” She spoke without rancor. “Paul, would you call down and have my car brought around?”
“That won’t be necessary. My driver is waiting for us,” Claire said.
“It’s no problem. Our Greenwich home is near the sanitarium. I’m used to the drive.”
Claire became agitated. The thought of driving in a car other than her own Bentley, or a leased one, put her in a state of anxiety. I know, having driven her in my Honda. “You don’t drive a Bentley by any chance, do you?” I asked.
“A Range Rover.”
“Miss Conrad can only ride in a Bentley,” I explained, trying not to sound like a lunatic.
They stared at her as if she’d just stepped off another planet. “How nice for you,” Quentin mumbled.
“I’ll just get my coat and purse.” Alison hurried out of the room.
“Well, shall we go? I’m looking forward to a day in the country.” Oblivious to her own peculiarities, Claire tapped her stick on the limestone floor, then strode into the foyer ready to ride to the hounds, or chase a fox, or go to the devil, or whatever it is they do in Connecticut.
The Degas had so commanded my attention that I hadn’t noticed the rest of the foyer. A wall next to the elevator was painted burgundy and held an arrangement of black-and-white photographs. There were pictures of a Victorian brass pull on a weathered door, a black lantern burdened with years of paint, the wheel of a hansom cab, and the curve of a deco stairwell. The bits and pieces of the city were drenched in the glamorous lighting usually saved for beautiful women.
“Alison did those. She’s rather good, isn’t she?” Paul observed. “Sheridan built her a dark room. I think that’s where she’s most happy.”
I realized that Alison’s vision of the city was how one should view it—in a blink of the eye, in a snap of the lens. Out of the camera’s range a drunk might be pissing on one of the steps of the deco stairwell but it didn’t matter. The gliding curve of the wrought-iron railing endured.
“New York should only be observed in fragments. Otherwise it can be overwhelming,” Paul explained.
“It’s the same with solving a murder,” Claire replied.
He put his hands in his pocket and jingled some change. Alison came into the foyer, a camel’s-hair jacket thrown over her shoulders, carrying a canvas tote bag filled with a camera and attachments.
“We’re discussing your work,” Claire informed her. “You’re quite talented.”
“Thank you.” She spoke too quickly, dismissing the compliment.
“You really are,” I said.
“It’s just a hobby.” She turned to Paul. “I’ve decided to stay at the house tonight and take the afternoon train in. I have a fitting at Bergdorf’s at two tomorrow afternoon.” She blushed. “Modern Bride.” She tilted her face up to his and kissed him. He gave her another wonderful, self-deprecating smile. It was as if he knew he was worth the girl and her money but, God, he just couldn’t believe his good luck. As the elevator doors closed, he was still jingling his change and smiling.
Thirteen
IN LESS THAN TWO hours the Bentley was turboing quietly down a narrow country road. Expensive homes squatted like monuments behind rows of piled rocks. These houses shared a kind of colonial nobility—as if they’d all been designed with the Mayflower, the American Revolution, the Constitution of the United States of America, and the Federal Reserve Bank in mind.
I sat in the front seat. Alison was in the back with Claire. When we left the city Alison had begun chatting nervously about her love of photography, which she persisted in calling a hobby, and her upcoming wedding. Then her voice had turned somber and she had said: “I was obsessed with Cybella when I was about twelve years old.”
“You knew she was your father’s mistress at that age?” I’d asked.
“I think I’ve always known. When parents fight they forget their children are listening. Besides, Mother would talk to me about her. She had to talk to someone. I’d sneak off to the library, look at old copies of Vogue and Bonton, study Cybella’s pictures. I wanted to see what my father saw in her, but I discovered something I wasn’t looking for.”
“And what was that?” Claire had asked.
“Instead of understanding Cybella or my father, I began to understand photography. There was something mysterious happening between Cybella and the camera, something creative.” She paused, brushing some unruly strands of hair back from her face. The diamond ring gleamed.
“Mother would’ve been furious if she ever found out.” Then she had looked nervously at Claire. “You won’t tell her?”
“Tell her what? That when studying Cybella’s photographs for some clue to your parents’ unhappiness, you discovered the unexpected—the artist in yourself? Your mother should already know that about you.”
“I mean that I was sneaking off to look at Cybella’s pictures in the library. It would hurt her. She’d feel betrayed,” she had said.
Now we drove in silence, I stared at the houses. The sun danced in and out of the trees, scattering its light on the road and the hood of the car. I turned in my seat. Alison’s fingers played with her ring.
“That’s some diamond,” I said.
She smiled. “It’s kind of embarrassing.”
“Only if you think the guy who gav
e it to you is embarrassing.”
Instead of defending Paul Quentin, she laughed. I liked that.
“Lemmings,” Claire muttered. “Laughing all the way to the altar.”
“Claire doesn’t share the dark humor women have about men,” I said.
“Nor do men,” Boulton said under his breath.
“I want my marriage to work more than anything,” Alison said simply.
I wanted to ask her, Why? At what cost? But I was thirty-five and divorced. She was young and beginning her life. There was no cost, only Paul Quentin’s easy ingratiating smile. Boulton swerved the car. A deer lay dead in the road. Its long graceful legs crumpled under its body. Its dark melancholy eyes stared straight up into the spring sky. I put on my sunglasses.
“They’re dumb animals. They run right out of the woods into the cars,” Alison said. “There’s the sanitarium. Turn right.”
A modest wood sign declared we had entered Shadow Hills. The car’s tires crunched the gravel as it followed the driveway to an old portly home covered in layers of white paint so thick it looked like icing. Beyond the home, newer structures and cottages were scattered over the vast grounds. These buildings were perfectly square and made out of wood as gray as a bureaucrat’s imagination.
Two women jogged past me as I got out of the car. Their bodies were lean and aerobicized but their faces were gaunt with tension and their eyes nervous with memory.
Boulton stayed with the Bentley. The three of us walked up the steps of a sweeping verandah. Once, corseted and bustled ladies had sat stiffly in wicker chairs along this porch waiting for their husbands to come up from the city. Now emaciated women, mouths drawn tight across their bloodless faces, sat on plastic chairs. They no longer needed corsets to force their bodies into a shape they were never meant to be.
“You’ve come a long way, baby,” I said.
“You’re not going to give a speech are you, Miss Hill?”
“I’ll try to restrain myself.”
“Some women have empty lives,” Alison stated earnestly. The hall of the sanitarium had a frayed majesty. Mahogany walls were graced with intricate moldings. Two large stained-glass windows, faded with dust, mirrored their pallid colors on the brittle parquet floor. Gray industrial runners laced across the floor like footpaths to the modern dysfunctional world. Near the stout mahogany staircase a woman, stiff as her starched white uniform, sat behind a metal desk. Attendants, nurses, and doctors walked with brisk purpose through the hall.
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