“They make me sad,” she said. “They’re so afraid.”
“There’s a lot of that going around.”
“They only let me watch certain TV shows, they don’t trust books and they put all sorts of filters on my computer.”
“It’s only for another three years, then you can go away to college.”
She nodded, then looked down.
“You didn’t get the shoes to even out your leg,” I said.
“Their insurance won’t cover it.”
“I’ll cover it, Josie. I want you to call an orthopedist on Monday. I mean it.”
“Thank you. Now tell me everything that’s happening down in Sawyerville.”
I filled her in on the gang and also on Natasha Wolfson. She leaned across the table, hanging on every word, eyes sparkling, her face alive—she looked like a different girl from the one who’d sat on the couch with her hands in her lap.
When I was done, she was silent for a minute, then said, “How sure are you that it was murder?”
“I can’t be 100 percent sure, of course, but my gut—and the fact that Natasha was mixed up with so many dubious characters—has me leaning strongly in that direction.”
“You have to find out who the politician is, of course. And where Pavel was the night she died.” I could see her mind racing over all the possibilities. “Let’s assume it was murder. It’s hard to imagine either Collier or Octavia would be up on a mountain.”
“Then again, when passion is high people find strength they didn’t know they had.” She attacked her roast chicken, took a big bite, and said, “Take me back with you.”
I froze and then managed: “Today?”
“Yeah. Let’s just walk out of here, head to your car, and drive straight down to Sawyerville.”
Whoa. I felt sweat break out under my arms and along my hairline. The idea was thrilling. Just get in the car, floor it, and bring Josie home. I looked her in the eyes—she was throwing me a serious challenge.
I had an impulsive streak a mile wide and over the years it had gotten me into a lot of trouble. It took time and therapy, but I’d learned how to rein it in. I took a deep breath. I didn’t know the intricacies or legalities of the foster-parent system. Would it be breaking the law to just spirit this kid away with me? Was it fair to the Maldens? They were well-meaning in their own constricted way. Plus, did I really want Josie back 24/7? Yeah, she was no trouble and helpful as hell and good company, but I didn’t want to be her goddamn mom, did I?
“Wouldn’t that be breaking the law?”
“No. Foster children have the right to find their own living situation. I would inform my case worker and petition family court. They would pay you a visit. Done deal.”
So she’d looked into the legalities. I just sat there for a moment taking it all in before asking, “How about dessert?”
Josie laughed, hard and deep, and I had to join her. Sitting in the slanted afternoon sun in Chez Fred we shared a laugh that lifted my spirits right out through the roof and tossed them up into the cloud-splattered Hudson Valley sky.
“Janet, you need me. You don’t really care about that shop and you know it. Things don’t really interest and excite you, people do. And, yes, I’ll take the carrot cake. And a bowl of vanilla ice cream with hot fudge sauce.”
“Anything else?”
She leaned across the table, put her hand on mine and said, “Sawyerville.”
I felt a huge wave starting somewhere deep inside me, something so strong it scared me.
“Josie, I have to take a quick walk around the block, I’ll be right back.”
I gulped air as I strode around the side of the building into an alley. Then the tears just exploded, came and came and came, pouring out of me and over me, swamping me, drowning me, I loved that kid, goddamn it, and she loved me and I loved my baby, my baby …
Oh fuck, oh fuck …
I started walking again, the tears drying almost as quickly as they’d come. I was not going down that alley, no-way no-how, not now. I was a big girl, I’d gotten this far, built a decent life for myself, and I was going to protect it. That’s just the way it had to be. I had a lot to give, but I couldn’t give it all. Then what would be left for me?
I took my time getting around the block, used it to compose myself. When I arrived back at the table, Josie’s desserts were untouched. I sat down and looked at her.
“Not today,” I said. “But we’ll keep the dialogue open. Now that you’ve got a cell it will be a lot simpler.”
Josie looked down, her jaw tightened, then she looked up at me and nodded, “Fair enough.”
She was making it easy for me. I should have known she would.
“Hey, your ice cream is melting.”
She picked up the dish and began to slowly swirl the hot fudge into the vanilla ice cream.
I watched her for a minute, then turned and signaled for the check.
TWENTY
Even though it’s got a pretty serious case of the cutes—you know, all historic and gift shoppy—there’s no denying that Cold Spring is a charming village with a fantastic location. It sits on a little peninsula that juts out into the river, smack in the middle of the Hudson Highlands, mountains that rise straight up from the river on both banks and are famous as the home of West Point. The Highlands are gorgeous, mostly protected land; they kind of squeeze the Hudson, creating its narrowest point, so narrow that during the Revolutionary War the good guys strung heavy iron chain across it to stop the British ships from getting upriver.
These days Cold Spring is a hopping little burg that lives on tourists who train up from the city for a day of shopping and strolling. Natasha’s memorial was being held at a place called Glynwood, a farm a few miles out of town.
I turned down Glynwood’s drive—the place was so bucolic it made me want to kill myself. Apparently it was originally some rich guy’s toy farm and now it was a center working to help save farms all up and down the valley. Tip of the hat there, huh? I parked and walked to the large old barn where the memorial was being held. The people milling around were pretty much divided into two groups: youngish hipster/musician types, no doubt Natasha’s buddies; older sophisticate/media types who were her parents’ crowd. I semi-recognized a few semi-famous faces.
Then I spotted Howard and Sally Wolfson outside the barn greeting people. I’d Googled them and knew he was late-fifties, she ten years younger, in person they both looked groomed and botoxed and nip-tucked, not quite real in that way celebrities do in person. He was a handsome guy, had a fatherly schtick going: gray-hair, friendly, going a little soft around the middle. She was working a Martha Stewarty vibe, with highlighted hair in a soft cut, expert make-up, pretty in a nonthreatening way, wearing tasteful black separates. They both looked like they were in mild shock, their faces taut with grief—or some reasonable facsimile.
I knew from my Googling that the Wolfsons had another daughter and there she was, Natasha’s younger sister, Julia, standing a few feet away from her parents. She was tall, blonde, pretty in an upper-middle-class way, but too thin, jumpy, sweaty around the edges, her eyes scanning the arrivals, wearing a short black dress and too-high heels. Her phone rang, she answered it, said a few words, and hung up.
I made my way toward the parents.
“Hi, I’m Janet Petrocelli, a friend of your daughter.”
“Thank you for coming,” Howard said.
“It means a lot to us,” Sally said.
“Natasha was a lovely young woman. I wanted to mention that I owed her some money, and I have some jewelry that belonged to her.”
Sally’s eyebrows went up. And the sister, ears twitching, stepped closer.
“I’m Julia Wolfson, Natasha’s kid sister. She had such cool jewelry. Can I take a look at it?”
Sally Wolfson shot her a frigid glance and said soto voce, “This is not the time, Julia.” Then she turned to me, “Can you come to the house after the service? We’re having just a few people
up,” she said, cunningly making me feel like one of the chosen.
Inside the barn Natasha’s music was playing, her soulful voice enriched by glorious acoustics. There were boards set up with pictures of her life: the family pictures had a posed, slightly forced feel, with Sally and Howard front and center; in shots from Natasha’s early career she was simply stunning, that amazing raven hair, dark eyes, white skin; there were stills from her concerts and TV appearances, rave reviews and clippings, shots of her with people like David Byrne, Beck, Charlotte Gainsbourg, Michael Stipe.
I took a seat. The service started with a woman who’d been a childhood friend, who told stories of Natasha’s little girl tea parties, where the guests included not only dolls but hamsters, guinea pigs, and ghosts, and where the tea was spiced with maple syrup masquerading as rum. I was clocking the Wolfsons in the front row—they were arm-in-arm but at one point Sally leaned against Howard’s shoulder and he leaned away; Julia could barely sit still, she’d slap on a listening face for a few moments, then sneak a glance at her phone, run her fingers through her hair, her crossed leg bouncing.
This kid in his mid-twenties, thin, wearing skinny jeans, sneakers, striped top, hip hat, took the platform.
“Hey, people, I’m Joey Frank, and Natasha was just about the first person I met when I moved to New York from Camden and I didn’t know one single person and I had forty bucks in my pocket. I spent my first week sleeping in Tompkins Square Park, that was fun, all I knew was that I wanted to make music. Natasha heard me playing and man she took my hand and showed me the city, we walked all the hell over the place—like museums, I’d never been in a museum in my life—and at night she took me to the clubs to hear music and introduced me to everyone she knew in the business. She was my downtown angel, my beautiful black-haired angel.” He looked down, bit his lip, the place was pin-drop quiet. “She showed me the city, she showed me the business, she showed me life and art, and she taught me that it was okay to be soft and open and to let people in. Hey, I live in LA now and you know my songs have been done by some pretty big people, I’m doing good, real good, and it wouldn’t have happened, it just wouldn’t have, without my black-haired angel.” He looked up. “Goodbye, Natasha.”
The service ended with a group of musicians singing Love by Any Other Name. I remembered that morning in Phoenicia, just a week ago, her voice, the way she moved around the room, swept up in the music, her kind soulful eyes.
I was going to find out the truth about her death—and if she was murdered, there was no way the killer was going to walk.
Then it was over. Her friends were reluctant to leave and you could feel the reason why: they wanted to hold onto her, to the sweet sad moment of shared loss.
I got in my car and followed a small caravan that was heading to the Wolfson’s house. We drove several miles up into the Highlands before coming to a bold mid-century house that jutted out from the hillside and seemed to hang over the mountain and the Hudson below.
The cars were mostly fancy, the people getting out mostly older, with the sparkly glaze of success, chatting, smiling, already on to the next thing—for most this was clearly a duty call. Julia was in a corner of the drive, facing away from everyone, hunched over, talking on her cell.
The inside of the house was pretty stunning, all swoops and window walls, teak, low couches, abstract rugs, striking accents, a view out over the river that made my breath catch. The sophisticated décor belied the approachable, Middle-American image that the Wolfsons presented as their public personas.
Cater waiters in uniforms were offering up trays of hors d’oeuvres and glasses of wine. Sally and Howard sat front and center on a vast armless couch, receiving condolences. Sally motioned over one of the servers and took a glass of wine. She leaned into her husband and whispered something.
I felt like I was on the wrong planet, underdressed, I didn’t know a soul, I hovered in a corner, grabbed a crab cake off a passing tray and pretended to be really involved in eating it.
“Terribly sad, isn’t it?” a woman said, coming up to me. She was full-bodied, older, gray-hair pulled back into a chignon, chic gray knit dress, fabulous geometric jewelry.
I nodded.
She looked me over, “Do you work for Howard and Sally?”
I made a decision not to be offended—I was here to gather info—maybe she had some. “I’m a friend of Natasha’s.”
“Oh. Are you in the music business?”
“I’m not. Did you know Natasha well?”
“No, I’m a more recent friend of Howard and Sally. We’re on several local boards together.”
“They must be devastated.”
She paused and took a sip of her wine. This gal wanted to get down a little, I could smell it, that’s probably why she beelined for scruffy out-of-place me, it’s always easier to open up to the serving classes—you never have to see them again.
“I hope it brings them together,” she said, giving me a meaningful glance.
Bingo. “I’d heard there were some problems in the marriage.”
“He’s at that age.”
“The now-or-never stage?”
She gave me an almost imperceptible nod. “When my husband went through it I kicked him right out the door.”
“But heir careers are co-dependent, so Sally can’t do that, can she?”
“You certainly understand the situation. I suppose Natasha told you all about them.”
“It wasn’t easy having them for parents.”
“I expect it wasn’t. Sometimes at a board meeting Sally will just start talking about herself, apropos of absolutely nothing. It’s a bit … showy. Strange even. One wonders.” She spied someone across the room and turned and walked away without a word, probably feeling a bit of gossip’s remorse.
And then Julia Wolfson was next to me. Her eyes were bright and shining, kid was definitely on some kind of upper, I guessed coke.
“Natasha died without a will, everything goes to Mom and Dad. Like they need it. Can I take a look at that jewelry? I’m an actress,” she laughed, awkward, “but between jobs I buy and sell stuff, in the city, I work with shops and stuff, downtown, Lower East Side, East Village, Natasha had a great eye, she had a great everything, right.”
“It’s between you and your folks.”
“There’s nothing between me and my folks.”
“Was there with Natasha?”
“Natasha was the star. Even when she fucked up, she was the star. I fucked up and I’m still the understudy.” She laughed, bitter. “Do you have a card?”
Boy, she sure wasn’t mourning her sister much. “My store is in Sawyerville, it’s called Janet’s Planet.”
Howard Wolfson appeared. He looked exhausted and sad but still working the room. A-types never cease to amaze me. “Julia, your cousin is looking for you.” Julia walked away. He smiled at me, “So you owed Natasha some money.”
“Yes, I bought some jewelry from her and she died before I could pay her.”
“How much money are we talking about?”
“Three thousand dollars. Unless you want what’s left of the jewelry back.”
He turned away and said goodbye to a departing guest. When he turned back he seemed distracted, as if I was a minor nuisance.
“Why don’t you send us a check.”
“I’ll do that.”
“Thank you for coming,” he said, dismissing me.
As I left I saw Sally check her watch.
TWENTY-ONE
I hit Chow the next morning and was sitting at the counter waiting (and waiting) for Pearl to get me a cup of coffee when Abba came out from the kitchen with a map in her hand.
“So Kelly’s Farm does exist,” she said, opening the map—which was topographic and detailed, showing every house—laying it out on the counter, and pointing to a tiny dot in what looked an uninhabited corner of Delaware County, “It’s way the hell up here.”
“That’s pretty isolated.”
�
�And it’s going to stay that way, that valley is completely surrounded by state land.”
“Did you find out anything else?”
“Nothing from a customer’s mouth, but there are lots of rumors that it’s a house of pleasure … and pain.”
“Something tells me I’m going to have to pay a little visit.”
“Be careful. You could be mixing with some seriously dangerous characters, Janet.”
“I’ll keep my wits—and my kickboxing—about me.”
“So, how did it go with Josie?”
I filled her in on the visit.
“Why do I get the feeling you’re holding out on me?” she asked.
“Because you have a good imagination.”
“It doesn’t take imagination, it takes being your friend.”
Thankfully my coffee arrived. I added way too much milk and sugar.
“Listen, if there’s ever anything you want to talk about, you know where to find me,” Abba said.
“Yeah-yeah,” I mumbled.
Thankfully George strutted in wearing his jodhpurs, a riding helmet, and carrying a crop.
“Good morning, ladies!” he slapped his thigh with his crop and burst into song lyrics about wild horses that couldn’t drag him away.
“Could a fennel-cheddar omelet?” Abba asked.
“No, but I’ll have one. With a short stack, bacon, grits, and hash browns. I need my strength today, I’m having my first riding lesson with a real horse.”
“Hey, that’s fantastic,” I said.
George puffed up like a little potentate.
“Out at the horse show?” Abba asked.
George gave his head a little shake, almost like a pony tossing its mane.
“Where then?” I asked.
“Janet, you always make me feel like I’m being interrogated by the CIA.”
“Blame the questioner.”
“You’re damn right I blame the questioner. I have met the love of my life and instead of embracing my bliss, you try to diminish it with irrelevant questions.”
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