Sputnik was back on his feet—tough little mutter—by my side, looking a little woozy but crouched and growling.
“Tell Kelly I have a message for her: I don’t give a shit what goes down at her farm, but if one of her customers is a murderer I’m going to bring him in. I’d advise her to work with me on this. Come on, Sputs.”
As we walked away, Sputnik licked my hand.
It’s nice to feel appreciated.
THIRTY-FOUR
I drove home, with a quick stop to pick up a nice filet mignon for Sputs, who seemed to have no memory of his trauma but certainly enjoyed the steak. After calling to make sure she was there, I headed down to the New York State Police barracks on Route 209 to give the phone to Chevrona. I found the detective in her office, surrounded by papers. She stood up as I walked in—what a gentlewoman.
“Is this a bad time?”
“I’m pretty swamped, but … no.” She smiled that knowing little smile of hers.
What was it about being in the same room with Chevrona that just made me feel better about being alive?
I handed her the phone, she immediately took out the batteries. “You did excellent work here.”
“Do you think you’ll be able to retrieve anything?”
“Depends how long this was in the water. The shorter the better, obviously. It’s damp but not dripping, which is a good sign. My guess is Sputnik found it on the bank.”
“How long will it take to find out?”
“I’ll ask the lab to expedite, but since the death hasn’t been classified a homicide, probably a week at least.”
I considered mentioning my little dustup with Mutt and Jeff but decided I should keep that side of the investigation to myself for now.
“Hey listen, Abba is having a party Saturday night to celebrate this amazing write-up she got in the Times. Any chance you could drop by?”
She looked at me and squinted—I went a little jello-y in the knees.
“I’ll do my best.”
From there I headed straight down to Stone Ridge. I needed to talk to Pavel and the pictures I’d found at Natasha’s place gave me some new leverage. I’d photographed them with my cell to protect the originals and to take denial off the table.
I turned down the drive at Bumpland—there was a horde of gardeners around—and headed straight for the garage. Pavel’s motorcycle was outside. I parked and went inside to find the door up to his garret locked. He must be in the main house. I took a deep breath and headed over there.
One of the myriad maids answered the door. She had a feather duster in one hand and a cellphone in the crook of her neck, “… segundo,” she said before looking me up and down, “What you want?”
“I’m looking for Pavel. Is he around?”
She waved her feather duster in the general direction of the sunroom and then turned and walked away, resuming her chat.
I walked through the formal rooms with their priceless antiques and walls covered with Octavia’s splatter art. I reached the sunroom to find Octavia, Pavel, and a coifed-to-the-nines middle-aged woman sitting around the table with all sorts of booklets, swatches, and catalogues spread out in front of them.
“I can get you Kim Kardashian, but her price is $250,000,” the woman said.
“Oh my goodness, look who’s here!” Octavia cried when she saw me. She leapt from her chair and raced over, taking my hands in hers. “Ciao-shalom! A pop visit! How marvelous! How American!”
“Hi, Pavel,” I said.
“Hello,” he said, his eyes flashing triumph.
The woman gave me a big blazing smile, “How do you do. I’m Lauren Parker-Lipschitz.”
“Oh dear, forgive me, I’m so giddy with all this wedding planning that I’ve quite forgotten my manners. Never mind.”
Pavel certainly hadn’t been wasting time. Suddenly the pictures carried new power—and risk.
“Janet, what do you think of Patti LaBelle?” Octavia asked.
“I think she’s a fantastic performer.”
“Oh, I knew you would, you’re so simpatico. I can just hear her wailing ‘Here Comes the Bride’ in four octaves. We’re having a Buddhist ceremony. I forget why. Let’s have some champagne! Delores, dear,” she called in the direction of the kitchen, “bring us a bottle of champagne! … Come, sit down.” I joined them at the table. “Pavel wants Lady Gaga, but I think she’s awfully showy.”
“She’s also ten times as expensive as LaBelle,” Lauren Parker-Lipschitz said.
Octavia waved her hand in dismissal, “Oh bish-bosh, don’t bother me about money.”
Parker-Lipschitz eyes flashed dollar signs.
A maid brought in the champagne and four flutes on a tray. Pavel deftly opened the bottle and poured the bubbly. He handed a flute to Octavia, who gave a quivery shudder when their hands touched. “Oh, thank you, my darling.”
“To the blissful couple,” Parker-Lipschitz said, raising her glass.
We all clinked.
“When’s the happy day?” I asked.
“October 23rd! Rasputin the Fabulous, my phone psychic, picked it! Oh, he went on for hours about omens and energy and vibrations! Vera Wang is doing my dress. At first she demurred but then I sent her a blank check. I’ve only made one stipulation: no panties! My vagina would never speak to me again.” She leaned across the table and kissed Pavel, he returned the kiss and before you know it there some serious tongue action happening.
I shot Parker-Lipschitz a glance, but she wasn’t going to mock this meal ticket and ignored me, beaming in an oh-you-lovebirds way.
The betrothed couple showed no inclination to stop their necking. In fact, Octavia was practically up on the table, running her fingers through Pavel’s hair, down his neck, moaning.
A maid walked by the doorway and muttered, “Puta.”
Octavia was sucking on Pavel’s tongue and her body was starting to quiver.
“I love England,” Parker-Lipschitz said to fill the awkward void. Octavia took one of Pavel’s hands and placed it on her ample bosom. “It has so much class and decorum.”
Octavia was now up on the table, on all fours, crawling across it toward Pavel, making weird growling noises.
“Have you been to England yourself, Janet?” Parker-Lipschitz asked, a growing edge in her voice.
“Once.”
“I can’t get enough of the royal family.”
Octavia made it across the table and slithered onto Pavel’s lap. She unbuttoned his shirt and started to lick his muscular chest.
Parker-Lipschitz’s voice flew up to falsetto. “I collect Princess Anne memorabilia.”
Octavia had Pavel’s shirt off and was sucking on one of his nipples.
“What the bloody hell is going on here?!” Lavinia boomed, walking into the room. She was wearing Wellingtons and men’s tweed hunting attire, an identically dressed Jerome perched on her shoulder.
“Oh hello!” Parker-Lipschitz cried in relief, leaping to her feet. “I’m Lauren Parker-Lipschitz, Octavia’s wedding planner. You must be her brother.” She took in Jerome and her mouth fell open.
Out the picture window a delirious maid ran by, followed by a gardener in hot pursuit.
“I am indeed, Vin Bump, what a pleasure. And this is Jerome. I’m afraid he’s in a mood, his hypoglycemia is acting up.” She pulled out a flask and took a deep pull, then noticed her sister. “For God’s sake, Octavia, rein in your id!”
Octavia looked up from her suckling, lipstick smeared all over her face. She blinked her eyes, like she was coming back to reality, and looked at us all as if for the first time. “Oh, goodness, did I get a touch carried away? No matter.”
“My dear girl, you look like a clown who lost her circus,” Vin said. “Women are so vexing.”
Parker-Lipschitz sat up straight and clapped her hands together, trying to get control of things, “We still haven’t settled on a theme for the wedding.”
“Do I look a fright?” Octavia asked Pavel.
&n
bsp; “You look like love,” he answered.
Octavia moaned.
“The theme pulls the wedding together—you know, unity, the circle of life, hakuna matata.”
“Carmelita, bring Jerome a steak and kidney pie!” Vin called in the direction of the kitchen.
“Joy, or as the French like to say joie, comes to mind,” Parker-Lipschitz suggested.
“Do let me go freshen up,” Octavia said, pulling herself off Pavel’s lap and walking a bit unsteadily out of the room.
Time to move. Fast.
I stood up, “Pavel, could I talk to you for a second?” He smirked. “It’s about some photographs … of you and Natasha.” The smirk disappeared.
Pavel followed me out of the room.
“Joy is modern and eternal and … joyous!” Parker-Lipschitz cried to her dwindling audience.
“What in the bloody hell are you blathering on about!?” Vin demanded.
As soon as we were in the adjoining library I whipped out my camera and pulled up one of the more explicit pictures, “Who took this?” He hesitated. “Maybe I’ll just ask the US immigration service. Octavia will be heartbroken when you’re deported, but she’ll get over it—there are a lot of Pavels in the sea.”
Pavel exhaled in surrender. “Collier.”
“Collier took the pictures, at his house?”
“Yes.”
“Nastasha was taking a lot of pills. Do you know where she was getting them?”
“From Collier.”
“Bullshit.”
“He gave them to me to give to her.”
“And you did it?”
“He threatened me like you just did, with deportation.”
“Why did he want her on pills?”
“He wanted her sick, so he could have me all for him.” He couldn’t resist a smug little smile.
“So you fed her drugs. What an upstanding guy.”
“I did not kill her.”
“Did Collier?”
“I don’t know.”
Octavia appeared, “What are you two tete-a-teteing about?” She threw her arms around Pavel’s neck. “Keep your hands off my man, young lady, or I’ll have to murder you, too!”
Parker-Lipschitz popped her head into the room, “Are we feeling the joie?”
THIRTY-FIVE
I headed right over to Collier Denton’s place. He answered the door wearing that same dressing gown, took one look at me, and said, “What do you want?”
“Answers from you.”
I showed him a picture of Graham digging on Goat Island. His coloring grew even more sepulchral, but he came back with, “That picture means nothing to me.”
“I wonder if it would mean something to the police?”
There was a long pause and then he exhaled with a deep sigh, the fight seeming to leak out of him, at least momentarily.
“What do you want?”
“I want to know who killed Natasha Wolfson.”
He looked over at Bumpland, his eyes filled with a mix of suspicion, rage, and longing. Then he turned and walked into his house, leaving the door open. I followed through the half-furnished rooms and into his study. He sat in his wing chair—surrounded by the detritus and essentials of his life. I remained standing.
“You could at least have brought a bottle of champagne,” he said, like a petulant child.
“I’ll make you a deal—you level with me, I’ll buy you the bubbly.”
“Veuve?”
“Sure.”
“You’re smart.”
“Dogged maybe.”
“Pavel is over there right now, isn’t he?”
I wanted to play these characters off of each other, get each one suspicious of the other, thinking I knew more than I actually did.
“Yes, he is. He and Octavia are planning their wedding.”
A little involuntary cry escaped him. It was almost touching. Then his mouth curled in disgust. “The little shit. I made him. …
Do you want to know the worst part?”
I nodded.
“I still want him back. More than anything in the world. Believe it or not, my blackened heart can still love.”
I didn’t believe it.
“Pavel told me about the drugs.”
He waved a hand in dismissal, his sleeve rode up, revealing that ill-concealed burn scar on his forearm, “That was a good deed. He told me she was having trouble sleeping, so I sent along an oxy. Arrest me.”
“Oxy and Vicodin and Adderall and Xanax and Ritalin.”
“One thing led to another.”
“You wanted her dead.”
“And I got my wish.”
“Where did you get the drugs?”
He seemed taken aback, but just for a blink, and then smiled slyly, “I have my sources. At my age, you know, one accumulates things. Including obliging doctors who understand how trying old age can be.”
I pulled up one of the sex photos. “Why did you take this?”
He looked mildly shocked for a moment. “Those were for my personal pleasure.”
“That’s pretty sick.”
“I am what I am.”
“A murderer?”
He laughed. “Only in my dreams.”
“Is there arson in your dreams?”
His mouth dropped open and he tipped back in his chair as if pushed by an invisible hand, but recovered in a breath, “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
“That scar on your arm … Ian Stock dies in a tragic fire. You’re hired to replace him.”
“That was all in another lifetime. Ian was a dear friend of mine, a fearful alcoholic, his death was caused by an errant Winston.” His confidence restored, he grew cavalier, “As for this scar, never try to make banana flambé after four martinis. Now that was a memorable dinner party.” He laughed, a little too loudly.
Graham walked into the room wearing nothing but a jockstrap and carrying a can of beer. He had a muscular body, one that looked like it had been earned in hard time, not the gym. And the tattoos that spread across his arms and torso had that primitive done-in-prison look.
“Not now, darling, I’ve got company.”
“W’ever,” he mumbled.
“Wait a second.” I showed him the picture on Goat Island. “You take a nice picture.”
He actually smiled and said, “Eh, thanks.” Then it sunk in. “That was you?”
I nodded.
His jaw set, his black eyes turned to hard coal, he reached for the camera, I stepped back.
“There are other copies, so cool it.”
He looked over at Denton, made fists, bounced on his heels.
“She wins, I’m afraid.”
“I want every stolen artifact returned. Drop them off at the State Police Barracks on 209, attention of Detective Chevrona Williams. Got that?”
Denton nodded wearily. His none-too-bright thug-du-jour still looked like he wanted to take me out.
“We’ll talk,” I said, turning to leave.
“Wait. I leveled with you, now where’s my Veuve?”
“You get that when I get the whole truth.”
It was a bluff but, hey, champagne ain’t cheap.
THIRTY-SIX
It was later that evening, and I was helping Abba get ready for the Clark Van Wyck fundraiser. We were in an open-sided tent on the grounds of Opus 40, which is one of the crown jewels of the Hudson Valley. Set a few miles outside Sawyerville, it’s an amazing six-acre outdoor sculpture made entirely of native bluestone, with pools, walkways, ramps, all centered around a central monolith. The site had originally been a quarry and sculptor Harvey Fite built the whole shebang without mortar, using old quarrymen tools and techniques. It was his passion and lifework, and he dubbed it Opus 40 because he figured it would take forty years to finish. The place has a sad and ironic coda: in 1976, in year thirty-seven of forty, Fite was killed in an accident as he worked on the project.
It was a gorgeous evening, warm and dry, and in the dista
nce the Catskills rose up from the valley. The Van Wyck campaign was expecting about two hundred people so Abba had hired some local kids to help out. It wasn’t a sit-down, so she was serving hors d’oeuvrey things like individual quiches, bacon-wrapped figs, various small kabobs. As usual, just about all the food was local. A jazz trio was setting up, and a couple of campaign aides were bustling about tacking up “Building A New New York” banners.
The guests were going to start arriving in about forty-five minutes and I was putting out platters on a long table. A tall, fit woman in her late thirties strode into the tent—no make-up, great bone structure, wearing elegant slacks, a drapey silk blouse, and a narrow belt. She radiated money, intelligence, drive, and looked like she spent half her life in vigorous athletic pursuits and the other half making the rest of us feel inadequate about ourselves.
She strode over to me, “Alice Van Wyck. Are you in charge?”
“No, that would be Abba,” I said, pointing in her direction.
She walked over to Abba, pointed to the plastic forks and knives and asked, “Are these utensils biodegradable?”
“I don’t know,” Abba said.
“You don’t know?”
Abba shook her head.
“We can’t use them then,” Van Wyck said, throwing up her hands in frustration, then muttering under her breath, “I have to do everything myself.”
“I don’t think we’ve got time to replace them,” Abba said, keeping her cool.
“Melanie?!” Van Wyck called to a young woman outside the tent. Melanie, who looked about nineteen and was wearing a power suit, ran in, a look of foreboding on her face. “Did you check to make sure the utensils were biodegradable?”
Melanie flinched and said, “I’m sorry.”
“Do you know what my husband stands for?”
“A better, stronger, greener New York, a New New York.”
“That’s right—a greener New York! He has enemies everywhere—there will probably be opp research people here this evening. Can you imagine what will happen if this gets out? It will be spread all over The Post, YouTube, Hannity, right-wing blogs, it will be a debacle.” Her voice was rising and her color right along with it. “This is just the kind of mistake that can destroy a career these days! I want you to go find us two hundred biodegradable knives, forks, and spoons. Right now!”
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