Jane was too dazed by events to mount an effective protest. The service was held at Frank E. Campbell, the toniest funeral parlor on the Upper East Side, a fitting nonsectarian arrangement for a half-Jewish, half-Catholic artist who had pretty much rejected all religion.
Thanks to the previous week’s article about Aaron Sailor and the follow-up coverage in the wake of his death, a surprisingly large crowd showed up. There was no mention of murder in any of the news stories—though Jane wasn’t sure whether the police had arranged this out of consideration or cunning.
The obituaries all took a respectful tone, repeating personal information that had been included in the Sunday Times Magazine just a few days before: how Aaron Sailor’s mother had fled Belgium during World War II, how the artist had been raised by his father but left the family’s cabinetry business to become a society portraitist, then rejected the security of that life to paint what he wanted. The failed show of a decade ago was touched on. So was the current retrospective at the Fyfe. His wife had died eighteen years ago. He was survived by a daughter, Jane L., of Manhattan.
“I’m so sorry, Jane,” said Miss Fripp afterwards. She was actually a small woman, no more than five feet two, which always surprised Jane. On the phone, Barbara Fripp sounded like she was eight feet tall.
“Thanks,” said Jane, wondering who all these people were. Some of the faces looked vaguely familiar, but the somber room was largely filled with strangers who now converged around her, waiting to shake her hand and murmur their condolences.
“Perry’s outside,” said Miss Fripp. “He’ll meet you in the car.”
Jane nodded, not looking forward to the drive to the cemetery in the Bronx. The crowd surged forward. Jane nodded and listened and smiled politely. It was amazing how many East Side ladies had come with stories of how Aaron Sailor had painted their portraits.
“We’re so, so sorry,” said Gregory King a few minutes later, rescuing Jane from yet another woman with an endless anecdote about her sitting.
“Thanks.”
“Elinore was crushed,” Dr. King went on, “simply devastated by the news. She’s still out in Seattle and couldn’t get away. She promises to call.”
“That’s really not necessary,” said Jane unhappily. Leave it to Elinore to try to use Aaron Sailor’s death as a lever to get back into business.
“How are you holding up?” asked Dr. King, looking genuinely concerned.
“Fine. I guess I owe you my thanks. For figuring out about the insulin, I mean.”
Gregory King reddened. He laughed an embarrassed laugh.
“No, no. I’m sure they probably would have found it anyway. Look, I wish you wouldn’t mention it to Elinore. That I got involved and all.”
“Why not?” asked Jane.
“Well, Elinore has some funny ideas, you know,” said Gregory King, searching nervously for a place to put his hands, finally settling on his pockets. “She doesn’t like to get … I mean … for us to be involved and all. And now the police have had to talk to her out there, ask her where she was and all that. If Elinore found out that it was because of me … well, she’d probably be pretty peeved.”
“You haven’t done anything wrong,” said Jane. “You shouldn’t be afraid of her.”
“Oh, no,” said Dr. King with a chuckle and an exaggerated headshake. “I’m certainly not afraid of Elinore. No, no. No way. I just know how to handle her after all these years, that’s all. Elinore has her little routines, and I can hold my own, believe me. But sometimes if you try to fight her head-on … Well, it’s just easier … I mean, sometimes it’s difficult to … It’s just better not to set her off, if you know what I mean.”
Jane nodded. Elinore’s poor husband was so beaten down that he couldn’t even see the problem.
The crowd surged around her again and Gregory King faded back. Jane listened to condolences until the words stopped making sense and the faces in the room began to coalesce into a blur—except for one man who didn’t seem to fit in at all.
He was not the only African American in the room—there was also her father’s former accountant and a few artists and their wives—but this man somehow felt different from everyone else. He seemed aloof, remote, as if he were indifferent to both life and death. He was very tall and very thin. He sat quietly in a pew at the back of the room, his long legs sticking out into the aisle. It was impossible to tell whether he was watching the proceedings or simply staring off into space. His face was a hard, impenetrable mask.
“Jane, darling, my poor little draga,” said a giant of a man, stepping forward and giving her a bear hug.
“Uncle Imre!” said Jane with delighted recognition.
Aaron Sailor’s old friend still worked hard to look like he imagined an artist was supposed to look. This meant that today Imre Carpathian had draped his six-foot five-inch frame in a black cape and sported a hat that might have been made for a Russian czar or perhaps a character from Gilbert and Sullivan. He had let his graying hair grow to shoulder length, which made his deeply lined face look even craggier and more forbidding. He smelled of turpentine and peanut butter.
“I should have come to see you before this,” he said, holding her at arm’s length. “Now Aaron is dead. I am hateful louse. You have permission to break my legs. Go ahead, break.”
He stuck out a leg.
“Sorry. This isn’t my leg-breaking day.”
“It is I who am sorry, Janie. Verrrry sorry.”
“Thanks, Uncle Imre.”
The old artist’s expression grew soft.
“Is good to see you wear your mother’s cross,” he said in a subdued voice. “Imre has not seen this cross for many years.”
Jane fingered the dragonfly on its black ribbon around her neck. It had seemed fitting that she wear it today.
“My father gave it to her,” she said. “It was a family heirloom.”
Imre nodded solemnly.
“You have someone to be with you today?”
“Sure,” lied Jane, looking around. The room had finally begun to empty. The mourners had come only to pay tribute to Aaron Sailor, not to console her. Jane barely knew anyone in New York any more and didn’t have any close friends. Her acquaintances from the theatre lived in places like Minneapolis, Chicago, Denver. A few people with whom she had worked had called over the past few days. Others probably were off on tour and hadn’t heard or didn’t feel they knew her well enough to intrude.
“Is not good to be alone at time like this,” said Uncle Imre, shaking his finger. “You need company, you call me, okay?”
“Sure.”
“You call me, you hear? Now you talk to these other people. I hate funerals.”
“Thanks for coming,” said Jane. A group of men from the funeral home began to wheel the closed coffin out of the room. Most of the mourners had left. When she turned, the tall, thin black man who had been sitting in the back was standing right beside her. He spoke in a soft, familiar voice.
“Miss Sailor. I’m Octavio Folly.”
“Oh, yes,” said Jane, surprised. “Detective Folly. Nice to meet you.”
She had spoken with him several times on the telephone since getting back from Seattle Tuesday night—had it only been a few days ago? It felt as if months had passed. From his soft voice, Jane had expected someone more gentle-looking. There was nothing gentle-looking about Octavio Folly, however. His chin and cheekbones looked chiseled out of rock. There was a long, shiny scar on his neck. His eyes were like two tiny coals.
“I need to ask you some more questions,” he said, holding up his gold shield and identification. “I’m sorry that it has to be now, but we’re looking into a few things, and time is of the essence in an investigation like this.”
The remainder of the mourners filed out. They were suddenly alone.
“Who were all these people here today?” Folly asked. “Were any of them close to your father?”
“Only Uncle Imre really,” said Jane, relieved the
crowd was finally gone but wary of the hard-faced, aloof detective. “He was my father’s best friend. The others were mostly acquaintances of my father, too. I didn’t know he had so many.”
“Uncle Imre would be the tall man who hugged you?”
“Yes.”
“What’s his full name?”
“Imre Carpathian,” said Jane. Folly had taken out a little notebook and was jotting down the name.
“Where does Mr. Imre Carpathian live?”
“In a loft on Broome Street. Do we really have to do this now?”
“I wanted to see these people with my own eyes,” said Folly. “It won’t take much longer. We’re still trying to come up with someone with a motive to harm your father.”
“What about a nurse?” said Jane, who had given the matter some thought herself over the past few days. “There are always stories in the papers about nurses who decide to play angel of mercy with hopeless patients. My father certainly qualified.”
“We’re looking into that, though there’s no pattern of suspicious deaths at the hospital. Let’s talk about the fall down the stairs eight years ago that put your father into his coma. Did you ever consider that it might not have been an accident?”
Jane didn’t answer.
“Did you ever speculate that someone might have pushed him down the stairs?” repeated Folly.
“Maybe,” said Jane reluctantly. “But there’s no way to be sure, no way to prove anything.”
“Who might have had a motive to push your father down the stairs eight years ago, Miss Sailor? Did Mr. Carpathian benefit in any way by your father’s accident?”
“Absolutely not,” said Jane, indignant. “I told you. Imre was his best friend. He’d known Dad forever. He knew my mother.”
“What about Dr. King’s wife, the art dealer?”
“Actually, Elinore was probably the one who lost the most by my father’s incapacitation,” said Jane, trying not to make a face. “At least in terms of money. Nobody wanted the paintings that Dad had done for her show, but the contract had another three years to run. If Dad had gone on working, he might have come up with something more sellable. Elinore had spent a lot of money promoting him, according to her. When Dad fell down the stairs, she lost whatever chance she had to recoup—which she would have done out of his share of any sales, naturally.”
Folly wrote into his book and spoke again, not looking up.
“Does she still have any financial interest in your father’s work?”
“I own all the paintings,” said Jane. “Contractually, Elinore would still get a big cut if we sold anything, but I intend to donate everything to museums. She won’t get a nickel now. Besides, Elinore couldn’t have anything to do with my father’s death. She was in Seattle.”
“Yes,” said Folly, nodding. “I’ve checked that. She was out with her daughter at a restaurant in Seattle Monday night. A group from Microsoft at the next table corroborated her story. Apparently, she tried to sell them a Picasso or something. I’m just going through a process of elimination, Miss Sailor. The only name on my list that I haven’t eliminated is Peregrine Mannerback, known as Perry. Was Perry Mannerback here?”
“He was at the service, yes,” said Jane uncomfortably. He was outside right now, waiting for her in his limousine, only Jane didn’t want to mention that.
“He was the slight man with the bow tie, right? High forehead?”
“Yes.”
“Dr. King claims that Aaron Sailor was calling out this Perry Mannerback’s name in his coma,” said Folly.
“That’s not exactly accurate,” said Jane, flustered.
Folly raised an eyebrow and turned the pages of his notebook.
“King said you told him so at dinner last Saturday night.”
“My father was calling out the name Perry, yes,” said Jane. “I don’t know that Perry Mannerback was the Perry he was referring to.”
“What did your father say?”
“He was just raving.”
“Perhaps,” said Folly. “But I’d like to be the judge of that. Just tell me every sentence you heard him say, every phrase you can remember. Exactly as he said it.”
Reluctantly, Jane told him. No, Perry, no. Don’t do it, Perry, Don’t do it. You’re a liar, Perry. I know the truth.
“Did your father know anyone else named Perry?” asked Folly, after jotting down Jane’s comments in his notebook.
“I don’t know,” said Jane.
“But your father knew Perry Mannerback eight years ago.”
“Perry bought one of my father’s paintings.”
“Wouldn’t that painting be more valuable now that your father is dead?”
“It’s not like my father was ever going to paint anything else, even if he had lived.”
“But after the article last week, his death could increase demand, couldn’t it? Prices would go up. The value of Perry Mannerback’s painting would go up.”
“I suppose,” said Jane, “but that doesn’t matter. Perry already has more money than he knows what to do with.”
A dark-suited man from the funeral home had come into the room. He glanced at Jane, then at his watch.
“My experience is that folks never have enough money,” said Folly with a wry smile. “The more money a person has, the more he seems to want.”
“Is that all, Lieutenant?” asked Jane. “I have to go to the cemetery.”
“I’m sorry to have had to trouble you today, Miss Sailor. I’ll be in touch. If you think of anyone else who might conceivably have wished your father ill, or profited in any way from his incapacitation or death, please call me.”
He handed her a white business card with his phone number, then said good-bye.
Jane waited for a few minutes until she was sure he had gone, then slowly made her way outside to Perry Mannerback’s waiting limousine.
“I’m so sorry about this, Jane,” said Perry, patting her hand as she got in beside him. “So very sorry.”
Jane nodded. No wonder Lieutenant Folly was suspicious of Perry—Perry was the obvious suspect and he wasn’t exactly acting like an innocent man. Jane searched his face for some clue. Perry looked away.
Following the hearse with Aaron Sailor’s casket, they drove in silence to the quiet cemetery in the Bronx where Irving Berlin, Fiorello La Guardia, and Bat Masterson were buried. Aaron Sailor was laid to rest beside Jane’s mother, a few green hills away from the mortal remains of his parents.
Jane and Perry Mannerback barely exchanged ten words on the drive back into Manhattan. When Leonid pulled the limousine up in front of her brownstone, Jane didn’t move to get out.
“You don’t have to come back to work until you’re ready,” said Perry. “Take a week. Take two. I’ll just have Fripp send you your check.”
“Perry—”
“No, no, I insist.”
Jane swallowed hard.
“You’ve been incredibly kind to me, Perry, which makes what I need to say very difficult. I don’t think I can go on working for you.”
Perry looked genuinely surprised.
“You’re quitting? You can’t quit. I need you.”
“You don’t need me at all. I’m not doing anything.”
“Yes, you are. You’re doing a great deal.”
“Like what?” asked Jane.
“You’re guarding me. And assisting. You could have bought that clock in Seattle for me if Willie the Weasel hadn’t beaten us there.”
“I’m sorry, Perry. It isn’t right. This isn’t what I want. This isn’t what I do.”
He didn’t say anything right away, just sat there. Jane bit her lip. Taking the job with Perry had seemed like such a smart idea two weeks ago. It didn’t seem so smart now.
“There’s nothing I can say to convince you to stay?” he asked in an earnest voice. “I’ll give you a raise.”
Jane shook her head. It wasn’t fair to continue working for Perry just to spy on him. Jane hadn’t meant to like him
, but she did. She also didn’t trust him an inch.
“I don’t understand why you want to give me so much for so little in return,” she said. “You’re acting like you feel guilty about something.”
“No, that’s not so,” protested Perry too quickly, his voice too loud. “I don’t have anything to feel guilty about, nothing at all.”
“Why was my father calling out your name in his coma?”
“I don’t know,” said Perry, looking away.
“Why won’t you tell me about the woman in the painting?”
“Never met her. Don’t know who she is. Don’t know her at all.”
Jane opened the door and got out of the car.
“Thanks for everything, Perry.”
“I’m very sorry,” he said in a quiet voice, without looking up. “Truly. Very sorry.”
Then the car drove away.
It was only a bit past two o’clock in the afternoon. What do you do after you bury your father? Jane wondered, as she trudged up the steps of her brownstone and opened the front door. She wasn’t hungry. It would hardly do to go to a movie. Jane wished she could go back to work right now, but that was impossible, too. Fight directing wasn’t something you could do by yourself. It could take months to line up a job. Until then it would be the unemployment office. Or temp work.
Wearily, Jane climbed the four flights of stairs to her apartment. When she got to the fifth-floor landing, something looked wrong. The door to her apartment was partially open. The doorframe looked like something had crashed into it.
Jane pushed open the door all the way and stared into a shambles. It took her several more seconds to make sense of the picture, to understand what had happened.
While she had been burying her father, someone had broken in and turned the place upside down. She’d been robbed!
Ten
“So, what you think?” asked Imre Carpathian, studying the eight-foot-high twisted mass of metal, rubber, and polyvinyl chloride piping.
The crazy old artist had changed out of the flamboyant outfit he had worn to the funeral. He was now dressed in his work clothes—a torn T-shirt and khaki pants that were so covered with paint they could serve as a color chart. His long gray hair was speckled with patches of blue. His bushy black eyebrows cried out for gardening.
The Girl in the Face of the Clock Page 11