Chapter 21
The decorator stepped back to the office door, turned and examined her work through narrowed eyes. "Well, Mr. Starrett," she said, "how do you like it?"
Clayton, standing alongside his new stainless steel desk, looked around the refurbished office. "That painting over the couch," he said, "shouldn't it be a bit higher?"
"No," the decorator said decisively. "You're a tall man; the painting seems low to you. But it's actually at the eye level of the average person. The proportions of the wall composition are just right, and a Warhol over a Bieder-meier lends a certain je ne sais quoi to the room."
"Yeah," he said, grinning happily, "that's exactly that I wanted-a certain je ne sais quoi. I think you did a beautiful job."
"Thank you," she said, and discreetly placed her bill, tucked into a mauve envelope, on a corner of his desk. She took a final look around. "I just adore the ambience," she breathed, and then she was gone.
Clayton thrust his hands into his pockets and strutted about the office a moment, admiring the black leather directors' chairs set at a cocktail table with a top of smoky glass. The entire office, he decided, now reflected the importance and prosperity of the occupant. As the decorator had said, the ambience was right: a wealthy ambience; good-taste ambience; up-to-date ambience.
He opened the mauve envelope, glanced at the statement, blanched, then smiled. His father, he knew, would have had apoplexy at a bill like that for redecorating an office. But times change, as Clayton well knew, and if you didn't change along with them you were left hopelessly behind.
And he had changed, was changing; he could feel it. He had lived in the shadow of his father so many years. He had been a follower, a lackey, really nothing more than a gofer. But now he was living his own life, he was doing. In the midst of his glittery office, he felt a surge that made him take a deep breath, suck in his gut, stand tall. Now he was creating-there was no other word for it.
He used his new phone, a marvelous instrument that had been coded with frequently called numbers so he had to touch only one button to call home.
"Charles?" he said. "This is Clayton Starrett. May I speak to my mother, please."
While he waited for her to come on the line, he slid into his "orthopedically correct" swivel chair that cushioned him like a womb. It was a sensual experience just to relax in that chair, enjoy its soft but firm comfort, close his eyes and drift, savoring the rewards of his creativity.
"Mother?" he said. "Clayton. Are you going to be in for a while? Good. Has Eleanor gone out? Also good. There's something important I'd like to talk to you about. I'll be home in twenty minutes or so. See you…"
He hung up briefly, then lifted the handset again and touched the button labeled H.P.
"Helene?" he said. "Clayton. Will you be in this afternoon? Oh, in about two hours. Good. I'd like to stop by for a few minutes. I won't be able to stay long; my advertising people are coming in later. Fine. See you…"
When he arrived home, Mrs. Olivia Starrett was in her flowery bedroom, seated at a spindly desk, working on correspondence. Clayton leaned down to kiss her downy cheek.
"I'll never get caught up," she said, sighing. "All the letters of condolence after father passed. And then Christmas and New Year's cards and letters. It's just too much."
"You'll answer them all," he assured her, pulling up a cushioned armchair too small for him. "You always do. Did Eleanor say when she'll be back?"
"I don't recall," his mother said vaguely. "Something about planning a dinner-dance on a cruise ship. Does that sound right, Clay?"
"Probably," he said. "I want to talk to you about Eleanor, mother. Eleanor and me."
Olivia removed her half-glasses and turned to him. "Oh dear," she said, "I do hope it's not a quarrel. You know how I dislike quarrels."
"I'm afraid it's more serious than that," Clayton said, and plunged right in. "Mother, you know that things haven't been right between Eleanor and me for several years now. Since little Ernie died, she's been a changed woman. Not the woman I married. You're intelligent and sensitive, mother; you must have realized that things weren't going well between us."
Mrs. Starrett made a fluttery gesture. "God's will be done," she said. "We must learn to accept pain and sorrow as part of the holy oneness."
"Yes, yes," Clayton said impatiently, "but I can't go on living like this. It's-it's hypocritical. My marriage is a sham. There's just nothing to it. It's putting up a front at charity benefits and everything else is empty. I can't live that way anymore. It's tearing me apart."
She stared at him, her big eyes luminous. "Have you spoken to Eleanor about the way you feel?"
"Eleanor and I don't speak about anything. At least nothing important. We've become strangers to each other. Mother, I'm going to ask for a-for a divorce." The word caught in his throat.
He was returning her stare but had to turn away when he saw her eyes fill with tears. She reached out to put a soft hand on his arm.
"Please, Clayton," she said. "Please."
He stood abruptly and stalked about the room, unable to face her. "It's got to be done," he said roughly. "Got to be. Our marriage is a great big zero. Eleanor has her charity parties, I have the business to take care of, and we have nothing in common. We just don't share. I want a chance at happiness. At least a chance. Don't you think I deserve that? Everyone deserves that."
"Have you considered a marriage counselor?" she said timidly. "Or perhaps you could talk to Father Callaway; he's very understanding."
He shook his head. "This isn't a temporary squabble. It goes deeper. We've just become incompatible, that's all. I know this is a shock to you, mother, but I wanted to tell you what I plan to do before I spoke to Eleanor about it. I wanted to get your reaction."
"My reaction?" she cried. "Another death in the family-that's my reaction."
"Come on!" he said heartily. "It's not that bad. People get divorced all the time and survive. Sometimes it's the healthiest thing to do. A loveless marriage is like a wasting disease."
She lowered her head, looked down at her hands, twisted her wedding band around and around. "What will you do then?" she asked. "Marry again?"
He had not intended to tell her. He had planned to take it a step at a time: inform her about the divorce at an initial meeting; then, after giving her time to adjust, he would tell her about Helene in another intimate conversation.
But now, because she did not seem unduly disturbed, he suddenly decided to go all the way, get it all out, thinking that she might be mollified if she knew that he wanted to remarry and would not be alone.
He sat down alongside her again and clasped her hands in his. "Mother, the first thing I want to do is end an impossible situation and divorce Eleanor. Believe me, she'll be well taken care of; she won't have a thing to worry about for the rest of her life. I'm talking about money worries. You know I'll make certain she's financially secure."
She nodded. "Yes, you must do that."
"Of course. And when the divorce becomes final"-he took a deep breath-"I want to marry Helene Pierce-if she'll have me."
Olivia raised her eyes to his, and he saw something that surprised him: a kind of peasant shrewdness. "How long has this been going on?" she asked.
He concealed his guilt by feigning bewilderment. "How long has what been going on? You've known Helene as long as I have. She and her brother have become good friends to all of us. I think Helene is a lovely, sweet, sensitive person-don't you?"
"She's awfully young, Clayton-for you."
He shook his head. "I don't think so. Perhaps she does. Naturally I haven't even hinted to her about the way I feel. Maybe she'll turn me down."
"She won't," Mrs. Starrett said, the peasant again. "She's not that foolish."
He shrugged. "But that's all in the future. I just want you to know that I hope to remarry. I have no intention of living the rest of my life as a bachelor. When I remember how happy you and father were for so many years, I know that marriage
-the right marriage-is what I want."
"Yes," his mother said.
He leaned toward her, serious and intent. "I know this must come as a shock to you, and a disappointment. I'd do anything in the world to keep from hurting you. I love you, and I know you love me."
"I do, but I love Eleanor, too. What you're doing to her seems so-so unkind."
He gave her a sad smile. "You know what they say: Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind. Eleanor will be happier without me."
"You don't know that."
"Mother! She'll still have her life: her friends, her charities, her benefits. And perhaps she'll remarry, too. That's possible, isn't it?"
"I don't think so," Mrs. Starrett said.
He straightened up, trying to keep anger out of his voice. "If you don't want me to divorce Eleanor, I'll continue that miserable marriage the rest of my life. Is that what you want? Doesn't my happiness mean anything to you?"
Then she did weep and bent forward to embrace him. "Yes," she said, sobbing, "oh yes, I want you to be happy. I'd give my life to make you happy."
"I know you would, mother," he said in almost a croon, soothing her, stroking her wet cheek. "What's most important to me is that this doesn't come between us. I don't want to risk losing your love, and if you tell me not to do it, I won't."
"No," his mother said, "I can't tell you that. It's your life; I can't control it. Clayton, please let's not talk about it anymore. Not now. I'm so shaken I can't think straight. I think I'll take an aspirin and lie down for a while."
"You do that. And try not to worry about it. I know it's hard for you to accept, but things will work out-you'll see."
He said again that he loved her and then he left. On the way down in the elevator he thought of additional arguments he might have used, but generally he was satisfied with the way things had gone. On the way to Helene's, he had his chauffeur stop at a florist's shop where he ordered a dozen roses to be delivered immediately to his mother with a signed card that read: "I love you most of all."
He was still energized when Helene opened the door of her apartment. He embraced her, laughing, and really didn't calm down until she persuaded him to take off his hat and coat and sit in a living room armchair while she poured him a vodka. He gulped it greedily as he told her of the conversation with his mother.
"She'll go along," he predicted confidently. "Maybe it knocked her for a loop at first, but she'll get used to the idea. I'll hit her again in a day or so, and gradually she'll accept it."
"Then she's not going to fire you?"
"No," he said, grinning, "I don't think so."
"I hope you're right, Clay," Helene said. "I'd hate to be the cause of a breakup between you and Olivia."
"You won't be. She thinks you're too young for me, but I told her that's your decision to make."
"And what did she say?"
"She said you won't turn me down; you're not that foolish."
Helene's smile was chilly. "Sometimes you and your family treat Olivia like she was a bubblehead. She happens to be a very wise lady."
"If you say so. Are you ready to become Mrs. Helene Starrett the day after my divorce is granted?"
"Oh Clay, that's months and months away. It seems to me you're rushing things."
"Look, if you're going to do something, then do it. You still haven't answered my question."
"You really want to marry me?"
"Absolutely!"
She came up close, pressed her softness against his arm, caressed the back of his neck. "Then why don't we go practice," she said throatily. "Right now."
"You're on," he said at once and stood up. He put his drink aside and began to take off his jacket.
"What about your advertising people, darling?" she said, unbuttoning his shirt.
"Let them wait," he said. "I own them; they don't own me.
Chapter 22
The phone rang a little before eight o'clock, and Dora roused from a deep sleep. "H'lo," she said groggily.
"Did I wake you up, kiddo?" Mike Trevalyan said. "Good. That makes my day."
"Yeah, it would," she said, swinging her legs out of bed. "Is that why you called-just to wake me up?"
"Listen, you asked me to check on which managers got canned from which Starrett branch stores a year ago."
"You got it?"
"Nope, I struck out on that one. My contacts in the jewelry business were no help. I even had a researcher go through jewelry trade journals for the past few years, but she came up with zilch. Sometimes those magazines publish personnel changes in the business, but only when the company involved sends them press releases. I guess Starrett didn't want to publicize the firings."
"Thanks anyway, Mike. I appreciate your trying."
"How you coming on the Starrett claim?" he asked.
"Slowly," Dora said. "It gets curiouser and curiouser the deeper I dig. By the way, I found that statement in my report that gives a good motive for Father Brian Callaway killing Lewis Starrett."
Trevalyan laughed. "You should read your own reports more often. You think Callaway aka Sidney Loftus did the dirty deed?"
"I don't know," she said doubtfully. "He's got a perfect alibi for the Solomon Guthrie murder."
"Maybe the two killings aren't connected."
"Come on, Mike. The two victims were old friends and worked for the same company. There's got to be a connection."
"Then find it," her boss said. "Now go back to sleep."
"Fat chance," Dora said, but he had already hung up.
She sat on the edge of the bed yawning and knuckling her scalp. She reflected, not for the first time, that she really should do morning exercises. Maybe a few deep knee-bends, a few push-ups. The thought depressed her, and she went into the bathroom to take a hot shower.
She was standing in the kitchen, drinking her first decaf of the day and thinking of what Mike had said, when she realized where she might be able to get the information she wanted. She phoned Detective John Wenden and was surprised to find him at his desk.
"What are you doing at work so early?" she asked.
"I didn't get home last night," Wenden said. "We had a mini-riot down in the East Village, and all available troops were called in."
"What was the riot about?"
"About who can use a public park. How does that grab you? This city is nutsville-right? What's up, Red?"
"John, you told me the Department was going through employment records from Starrett Fine Jewelry to find someone who was fired and was sore enough to snuff Lewis Starrett and Solomon Guthrie."
"Yeah, we're working on it. Nothing so far."
"Well, about a year ago Starrett terminated a bunch of managers at their branch stores. Could you check the records and find out how many managers were canned and at which stores?"
"I could probably dig that out," he said slowly, "but why should I?"
"As a favor for me?" Dora said hopefully.
"Red, this isn't a one-way street, you know. It can't be caviar for you and beans for me. If you want that information, you better tell me what's percolating in that devious mind of yours."
She hesitated a moment. "All right," she said finally, "I can understand that. If you get me what I want, I'll tell you why I need it."
"You're all heart," Wenden said, sighing. "Okay, Red, I'll get the skinny for you. But only on condition that I deliver it in person. I want to see you again."
"And I want to see you."
"Just so you can pick my brain?"
She didn't answer.
"Well?" he said. "I'm waiting."
"No," Dora said faintly, "I just want to see you."
"That's a plus," he said. "A small plus. I'll let you know when I've got the info."
She hung up the phone, wondering why her hand was shaking. It wasn't much of a tremor, but it was there. To stop that nonsense, she immediately called Mario. There was no answer. He was probably at work, and he didn't like to be phoned there. So Dora had another cup of
coffee and resolutely banished John Wenden from her thoughts. For at least five minutes.
She spent the day doing research at the public library on Fifth Avenue. She started with the basics: The atomic number of gold was 79, its symbol was Au, it melted at 1064°C and boiled at 2875°. It had been discovered in prehistoric times and used in jewelry and coinage almost as long.
She then started reading about the mining and smelting of gold, and its casting into ingots, bars, and sheets, including gold leaf so thin (four millionths of an inch) you could tear it with a sneeze.
She took a break at 12:30, packed up all her notes, and went out into a drizzly day to look for lunch. There was a vendor on 42nd Street selling croissant sandwiches from an umbrella stand, and Dora had one ham and one cheese, washed down with a can of Diet Dr Pepper. By the time she returned to the library, she figured she was two pounds heavier, but half of that was in her sodden parka.
In the afternoon she concentrated on jewelry: how it was designed and fabricated, the metals and alloys used. By four o'clock, eyes aching, her shoulder bag crammed with photocopies and notes, she left the library, slogged over to Madison Avenue, and bused uptown to the Bed-lington.
She peeled off her cold, wet clothes, took a hot shower, and popped a couple of aspirin, just in case. Then she made a pot of tea, put on her reading glasses, and settled down in her bathrobe to try to find some answers in her research. She found no answers, but she did find a new puzzle and was mulling over that when John Wenden called around 7:30.
"Miserable day and miserable night," he said. "You eat yet, Red?"
"No, not yet."
"Neither have I, but I wouldn't ask you to come out on a lousy night like this. You like Chinese food?"
"Right now I'd like anything edible."
"Suppose I stop by a take-out place and pick up some stuff. I'll get it to the hotel while it's still warm."
"Sounds good to me," Dora said. "I have a thing for shrimp in lobster sauce. Could you get some of that?"
"Sure, with wonton soup, fried rice, tea, and fortune cookies."
"You can skip the tea," she said. "I can provide that. But load up on the hot mustard."
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