by Leslie Meier
Lucy thought of Dante’s claim that Beth was demanding a huge divorce settlement in exchange for silence about some shady business deals. She wondered who this guy sitting across the table from her really was. Was he truly grieving the loss of the woman he loved, or was he relieved to be rid of an expensive problem? Was he an honest dealer or a crook? That heavy jaw, those bristly brows and sweep of jet black hair didn’t offer any clues, and she wasn’t getting anywhere with this polite chitchat. She decided to press him and was about to ask him if the police considered him a suspect when he glanced at his watch and then stood up.
“I’m so sorry, but I have to go. I have an appointment.”
“Of course,” said Lucy politely. “It’s been a pleasure. Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome.” He was looking toward the exit and anxious to be on his way. “Do stay and finish your drink, have another if you want. I have an account here.” He pulled a twenty from a money clip and laid it on the table; Lucy set the complimentary dish of salted nuts on it, acknowledging it was for the waiter. “Well, uh, have a nice day,” he said, throwing the words in her direction as he hurried out of the bar.
Lucy remained, waiting a moment or two, then followed him. She was just in time to see him greet a very tall, very curvaceous blond wearing a white, sleeveless dress so tight that it seemed she must have been sewed into it, and a pair of pointy-toed five-inch heels. Lucy slipped behind a handy potted palm and watched as the gilded couple seemed to glide across the carpeted lobby to the elevators, where they waited. The elevator was slow and Jeremy impatient. He slipped his hand around her waist, and when the doors slid open, cupped her derriere and gently pushed her inside, stepping beneath the glowing arrow that indicated the elevator was going up.
The doors closed and they disappeared from view. Lucy proceeded on to the ladies’ room, wondering what exactly one wore under such a tight dress, and decided the answer was probably nothing. Nothing at all.
She took her time in the well-appointed ladies’ room, admiring the painted paneling and gleaming sinks with gold taps. The soap smelled like almonds and the towels were cloth, neatly folded and stacked on porcelain trays. A mirrored makeup counter was just inside the door, offering a selection of expensive scents, and Lucy combed her hair, applied some fresh lipstick, and treated herself to a squirt of Chanel No. 5. She remembered hearing somewhere that it was all that Marilyn Monroe claimed to wear to bed and wondered what was going on upstairs; she was smiling to herself as she stepped out into the lobby.
“Lucy! Lucy Stone! What are you doing here?”
Startled, she stopped in her tracks and turned to see her friend Sam, along with her husband, Brad. The two were dressed formally, he in a suit and she in heels and a cocktail dress, and Sam was leaning rather heavily on her husband’s arm for support.
“I’m in the city for a week,” Lucy replied. “What about you?”
“Wedding! Little Suzie all grown up!” declared Sam, slurring her words.
“Our friends’ daughter,” explained Brad. “Suzanne Fogarty.”
“Married ver’ well,” added Sam. “Inveshment banker. Li’l Suzie’s gonna live in London.”
“There was an open bar.” Brad caught Sam as she stumbled. “I think we better find some coffee for Sam. There’s a Starbucks around the corner.”
Lucy nodded and took Sam’s free arm, and together they led her out of the hotel and into the coffee bar. She sat with Sam at a table while Brad ordered a Trenta iced coffee for his wife and a couple of bottled waters for himself and Lucy.
Sam was feeling no pain and offering a commentary on the wedding in a loud voice. “Pershonally, I don’ like those strapless dreshes, no’ for a bride. She was in whiy, ’coursh, but no’foolin’ an’body sinche she’s prac’ly forty. If shesh a day.”
“Here you go, sweetie,” said Brad, bringing the cup of iced coffee to her lips. “Drink up.”
He shook his head ruefully while Sam slurped noisily. “It’s really not her fault. She rarely drinks and the waiter kept topping off her wineglass, running up the bar tab.”
“ ’Lishus sea bass,” volunteered Sam, pushing away the coffee. “But those purple dresshes, yuck.”
“It’s a nice surprise, running into you,” said Brad. “We thought you’d gone back to Tinker’s Cove.”
“I did, but I came back. I just arrived this morning.”
“Where are you staying?”
“I got an Airbnb, a studio. It’s not far from here, on the other side of the park.”
“Whish ya coulda shtayed wif ush. Contractor sho shlow.”
Brad raised the cup to his wife’s lips again and she sucked up more of the cold liquid. “Does coffee work?” he asked Lucy. “I’ve got to get her home somehow.”
“I think so. Give it time.”
“Thaw I saw Jerrr’my.” Sam had slipped down in her chair and seemed to be nodding off.
“You did. I had a drink with him. There was a ceremony in the park, thanking him for restoring a gazebo.”
“Saw a gurrrl . . .” Brad was quick to offer the cup once again but Sam pushed it away. “Probly call gurrrl.” Sam nodded seriously. “Woulda cost him in divorsh.”
“Please, Sam,” protested Brad, looking nervously around the Starbucks where a good number of people had settled in for the afternoon. Some were pecking away on laptops or swiping smartphones, others were reading newpapers or the occasional book, and some were engaged in conversations. A couple of loners kept glancing at them, unable to resist observing an amusing spectacle. “We’re in public.”
“Is that true?” Lucy asked Brad, keeping her voice low. “Is he known as a philanderer? Is that why they were getting divorced?”
“I can’t really talk about it. Client confidentiality.”
“Your client is dead.”
“True, but her husband is very much alive. . . .”
“Frishky fellow,” volunteered Sam, giggling. “Ever’body knowsh.”
“And very litigious. He’s got swarms of lawyers, influential connections, and deep pockets. All of which could make my life miserable.”
“He seemed pretty upset when I was with him. I got the feeling that he really loved Beth, but then I saw him at the elevator with . . .” She leaned in and whispered, “Was that really a working girl?”
Brad nodded. “Most likely.”
“She didn’t look . . . Well, not like I’d expect a girl like that to look.” Lucy wasn’t sure what she thought a New York call girl looked like, but Jeremy Blake’s companion had a polished appearance that seemed at odds with her profession. Maybe she was thinking of the flashy clothes and ripped plastic boots Julia Roberts wore in the movie Pretty Woman.
Brad smiled. “A lot of these girls are college students or millennials saddled with student debt, sick of trying to eke out a living as interns or working at Starbucks.”
Lucy thought of her daughters, Sara and Zoe, who she’d insisted go to Winchester College, which offered discounted tuition to townies and was an easy commute, allowing them to live at home. She certainly wouldn’t want them prostituting themselves to get an education; no degree was worth that.
“There’s no shame these days,” added Brad. “They make good money and they make good connections. Intimate connections with powerful, influential men.”
“Goodness me,” said Lucy, shocked to her core.
Sam was snoring, sunk down in the comfy armchair. Brad wouldn’t be going anywhere soon.
“Dante said his mother was upset about Blake’s shady real estate deals, but maybe it was really the other women. At bottom Beth was a very loyal person; she would’ve expected loyalty from her husband.”
“They were separated, had been for a couple of years. I don’t think even Beth would have expected him to remain loyal to a marriage that was merely a legal technicality. They weren’t living together anymore.”
Lucy thought of Beth living alone in that luxurious aerie above the city, and couldn’t
accept the idea that she’d voluntarily stepped off her balcony into thin air. “When was the last time you saw her? What was her mood? Did you think she was considering suicide?”
Brad leveled his gaze and looked at her, a serious expression on his face. “You’re having a hard time with this, aren’t you? Sam is, too. She can’t believe Beth killed herself, and she’s always coming up with theories. Maybe it was an accident, maybe she was reaching too far, deadheading a climbing vine or something. Maybe it was a robbery gone wrong.” He paused, glancing at his slumbering wife. “What it all comes down to is that she thinks she could have saved her, if she’d only known.”
“That’s exactly how I feel,” admitted Lucy. “I need to know what happened.”
“And that’s why you came to New York? To investigate?”
“To find out as much as I can in a week,” said Lucy. “Pretty hopeless, hunh?”
Brad smiled. “Yeah. And dangerous.”
Lucy stared at him. “So you do think there was foul play?”
“No.” His voice was firm. “Not at all. But the case is closed. It’s officially suicide and, trust me, nobody wants to see it reopened. Just let it alone. For your own safety. Don’t tangle with Jeremy Blake.”
“Is that your professional opinion, as a lawyer?” asked Lucy, in a teasing tone.
Sam snorted, and outside the window they saw a cab pulling up and discharging a passenger. “Grab that cab for me, Lucy. I’ve got to get Sleeping Beauty home.”
Lucy popped up, grabbed her bag, and ran out the door, waving at the cabbie, who was just pulling away. He stopped and she leaned in the window. “Thanks, my friend is coming.”
Then Brad appeared, supporting a very groggy Sam. Lucy opened the door, Sam collapsed on the seat, and Brad lifted her legs into the cab. “Remember what I said: don’t mess with Blake,” he said, before running around to the other side and hopping in beside his wife. Lucy watched as he gave the cabbie his address and then raised his hand in a small wave. Lucy waved back as the cab pulled away.
Her phone rang and she was relieved to see that Dante was returning her call. “Hi. How’s it going?” she asked, retreating to the front wall of the hotel where she was out of the stream of busy pedestrian traffic.
“Better, much better.”
“That’s good to hear. I’ve been worried about you.”
“No need to worry.” He paused. “I’m really sorry about that call. I was just a little down and had one too many. But things are really okay. I’ve got a new gig, in San Francisco actually. I’ve never been, so I’m pretty excited about it. I leave at the end of June.”
“That’s wonderful. You’ll love the West Coast.”
“That’s what I hear. So don’t worry about me. I’m moving on.”
“Well, I’m here for the week, so maybe we can get together.. . .”
“Sure.” Dante sounded hesitant. “I’ll have to check my schedule and get back to you.”
Lucy smiled tolerantly, used to her daughters’ social manipulations and their reluctance to commit to an engagement in case something better came along. “Fine. You’ve got my number.”
“Righto. Talk to you soon.” He paused. “Oh, and I really want to thank you for, well, being there. It made a big difference.”
Lucy smiled. “Ciao. And take care.”
Chapter Nine
Lucy stood on the sidewalk for a moment, wondering if Dante was really doing as well as he claimed and watching the endless traffic jam that seemed to be a fact of life in the city. For a moment she missed Tinker’s Cove, with its single traffic light and plenty of parking. Only in Maine, she thought, would the town’s single most attractive spot, the harbor, be designated as a parking lot.
She wasn’t in Maine now, and she wasn’t at all sure what to do with the rest of her afternoon. She had come to the city to investigate and, while she’d already managed to interview her prime suspect, she had to admit she hadn’t gotten much out of him. Not that she’d expected him to blurt out a heartfelt confession, she thought, as she started walking toward the stop for the crosstown bus, but she did feel as if she’d wasted an opportunity that would not come her way again.
Of course, it wasn’t what people said as much as what they did that counted, at least that’s what her mother always told her. “Beauty is as beauty does” was what her mother actually used to say, and she’d meant it as a reproof when teenage Lucy fretted about a pimple or moaned about her impossible hair. That being said, there was an underlying truth to the adage, which, when applied to Jeremy Blake, seemed to indicate a lack of character.
Where was his human decency? she asked herself, as she approached the cluster of people waiting on the sidewalk for the crosstown bus. Sure, Beth had been his soon-to-be ex-wife, but she was someone he had professed to love and had once vowed to honor and protect, but now he seemed indifferent to her death. Even hardened New Yorkers were horrified by Beth’s gruesome end, and her friends were deeply shaken, coping with guilt as well as grief. But not Jeremy, once her nearest and dearest, who was happily bopping around the city collecting awards and consorting with call girls.
Maybe I’ve got this wrong, thought Lucy, checking the sign with the bus schedule and comparing it to her watch, concluding the bus should be pulling up to the stop but was nowhere in sight. And judging from the number of people who were waiting, the last bus hadn’t come, either.
“Weekend. They always run late on the weekend,” advised a friendly, older woman dressed in sensible shoes and a neat pantsuit.
“Thanks,” said Lucy, concluding she might as well walk. It was a pleasant spring day and she could use the exercise. Walking always helped her think, and she had plenty to think about after her meeting with Jeremy.
Picking up her earlier train of thought, she wondered if Jeremy’s seeming indifference to Beth’s death was really a cover-up for his true feelings. Maybe he was absolutely devastated and was choosing to drown his sorrows in martinis and sex. That woman in the white dress would certainly be distracting, if only for a while.
By now Lucy had reached Fifth Avenue, where an entrance to Central Park was on the opposite side of the street. She never would have considered walking through the park alone when she was a girl; back then it was considered far too dangerous. But today, the leafy green of the park beckoned and everybody said the city was much safer. People flocked to the park, rollerblading and jogging or simply sitting on the benches that lined the paths.
When the light changed she crossed and went in, joining the throng making their way through a cluster of vendors selling ice cream, balloons, T-shirts, and hot dogs. There was a scent of freshly mown grass in the air, and a light breeze rustled the leaves as Lucy walked along, fascinated by all the different people. There were young, athletic types zipping along on skates and bikes, moms pushing strollers, elderly women walking small, fluffy dogs, and very fit young men with shaved heads walking large pit bulls. She saw veiled Muslim women, bearded and turbaned Sikhs, Orthodox Jews in hats and long black coats, and lots of kids of all ages. All that movement, and the brightly colored clothes, was somewhat dazzling and reminded her of the impressionist paintings, vibrating with light and color, that hung in the Met.
She knew the way, had taken this path to Wollman Rink for ice skating and hot cocoa with friends many times as a girl, and back then they’d always held hands and screamed as loud as they could when they ran through the dark pedestrian underpass that went under the busy road connecting Fifth Avenue to Central Park West. Her steps slowed as she approached the shadowy underpass and she wished that her old school friends were with her today. Looking around, she realized the crowd had disappeared and she was almost alone, except for a couple of shady-looking guys. There was a simple explanation, she realized. The rink was closed this time of year and most people had stuck to the north-south path that paralleled Fifth Avenue rather than venturing into the depths of the park.
The guys, two bearded men in hooded sweatshirts, we
re walking slowly, smoking and speaking in some language she didn’t understand. They were foreigners, immigrants or visitors, she didn’t know which, but she certainly didn’t want to be alone with them in that dank, dark space where they could easily confront her and snatch her purse. Or even worse, she thought, remembering her mother’s dire warnings.
What to do? She considered taking the path that led to the road above and trying to hail a cab, but figured that would be absolutely pointless since all the cabs would be occupied, carrying passengers to the West Side. She could try to find another route, heading south to Fifty-Ninth Street, but that would take her miles out of her way and she was already beginning to feel tired. There was nothing for it but to make the dash through the underpass, so she took a deep breath and grabbed a firm hold of her purse and marched on, screaming silently. When she emerged into the sunshine the two men were standing to the side of the bridge, as if waiting for someone. For her?
“Good afternoon,” said one, looking concerned. “Are you okay?”
“We thought you might be ill,” suggested the other, in a crisp British accent.
“I’m fine, thank you,” said Lucy, smiling and keeping her distance as she continued on her way. Maybe they were really Good Samaritans, maybe they were attempting to lure her close enough to do her harm. That was the trouble in the city, she thought. Everyone was a stranger and you never knew who you could trust.
It was a relief to step inside her little studio apartment, where she carefully locked the door behind her before collapsing on the futon with a big glass of water. There were lots of kilim pillows on the corduroy spread and she arranged them so she could raise her swollen feet above her head and reached for her phone, wanting nothing more at that moment than to hear Bill’s voice, but either one of the girls would be fine, too. What she got was her own recorded voice, advising her to leave a message. She did, reporting that she’d arrived safely and missed everybody, and then she asked for a return call and ended with love to all.