Where Nobody Dies

by Carolyn Wheat

  Time I had. What I didn’t have was Bellfield. I watched in frustration as little knots of people made their way to parked cars. No Bellfield. At last, alone at the graveside, I trudged toward the parking area.

  The minicams were rolling as I approached the parking lot. A solemn-faced Art Lucenti was once again expressing his “tremendous sense of loss” at the “senseless violence” that had cost him his secretary and blackmailer.

  Then I noticed Aida. She leaned against the highly polished gray-and-black Fiat watching her husband charm the newspapers, her face shaded by the wide-brimmed black hat she’d worn in church, her generous mouth twisted into an amused smile. A fond mother who hated sports, I thought, might watch her eight-year-old hit a home run with just such an expression.

  I walked over to her. “Mrs. Lucenti?” I pretended it was a question. “My name is Cassandra Jameson. I was Linda Ritchie’s lawyer.”

  Aida Lucenti turned toward me, her face unreadable, the smile gone, and I sensed a wariness in her, but the huge, tinted glasses she wore made it difficult to judge her feelings.

  “Her death is a great tragedy,” Aida pronounced, her slight accent like a hint of spice. “My husband will miss her a great deal.”

  I traveled back in time, first to yesterday’s conversation with Pat Flaherty, then to the South Bronx in the early seventies. It wasn’t easy to replace the high-fashion Aida Lucenti standing before me with the Aida Valentin Flaherty’d described, but I spoke at last to the South Bronx junkie, not the congressman’s wife.

  “Come off it, Aida,” I said. “Don’t give me the same bullshit your husband’s handing the press. I know what Linda Ritchie was really up to, and it wasn’t taking dictation.”

  The languid amusement vanished. Standing away from the car, muscles tensed, Aida faced me. I could smell the fear under her musky perfume, but none of it showed in her face. Tossing her head, she said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Only the sulky set of her mouth belied her words.

  “Yes, you do,” I replied firmly. “I’m talking about blackmail. Linda knew things about you that you wouldn’t want those reporters over there to find out, and you paid her to keep them quiet. Right?”

  She was a class act. No obvious panic, no whining protests. Yet she drew her breath in sharply and her face was a pale green mask. She looked as though she was going to be sick.

  “How much?” she whispered through stiff lips. “How much do you want?”

  Playing blackmailer for Ira Bellfield would have given me a kind of low satisfaction. With Aida, I just felt low.

  “I’m not a blackmailer,” I said quietly. “For one thing, I’m a friend of Pat Flaherty’s.”

  Her face seemed to go white under her contoured makeup, but her voice was steady. “Does he know?” she asked.

  I nodded. “We talked about your past. Not that there was all that much to talk about,” I went on. “I mean, these days, what’s a couple of drug busts?”

  She forced a laugh, the color coming back to her face. “You’re right,” she admitted. “I’m so used to secrecy, I’ve blown it all out of proportion. Now that Art’s won the election it would not matter so much.”

  “So people would turn on you,” I continued, “but plenty of others would admire what you did. Kicking drugs, getting a good job—that’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  The gratitude in Aida’s face embarrassed me, so I turned away. The television crews were packing cameras into vans, but Art Lucenti was still “on”; tossing a wisecrack to the Channel 2 reporter, blowing a kiss to the attractive Italian woman from Channel 7, he was performing for cameras that had ceased to roll. A born politician, I mused, idly picturing how rapidly the scene would change if I told these same friendly reporters what I knew about Art’s financial dealings. It would be like watching a roomful of cute puppies suddenly gone rabid, tearing at human flesh. Of course I wouldn’t do it, but looking at Art’s beaming face—a face I’d trusted—I felt an overwhelming desire to wipe that smile away. The feeling was strengthened by memories of Dawn. Maybe her hostility toward Lucenti was nothing more than a child’s resentment of her mother’s lover, but somehow I suspected something deeper.

  “I have to talk to your husband,” I said abruptly. It didn’t surprise me that my words brought panic to her face. “You won’t tell him …” she began.

  I shook my head. “No,” I said, “but Linda had business with him too. I need to discuss it with him.”

  “Of couse,” she said, but the words were mechanical. “He’s leaving for Washington in a few minutes. I’m driving him to the airport. Perhaps when he gets back, a meeting can be arranged.”

  Suddenly, Art was with us. I found myself looking into warm brown eyes that crinkled with friendliness, my hand shaken with fervor as Aida introduced me. As he released it, Art gave my hand a little extra caress that carried a sexual tingle. No wonder, I thought, that women voters loved Art Lucenti.

  “Ms. Jameson is a lawyer,” Aida announced. “She would like to see you when you can spare her the time.”

  “Of course, of course,” Art said, his voice expansive. He opened the car door for his wife, bent to enter the driver’s seat, and said, “Just give my secretary a call. She’ll set something up as soon as I get back from Washington.”

  “I’ll do that, Congressman,” I replied with a touch of firmness, “I’ll do that.”

  The congressman closed the door for his wife and climbed into the car. I turned toward the direction I assumed the subway would be, then saw a familiar figure hurrying toward the lone car remaining in the lot.

  “Mr. Bellfield,” I called, running after him.

  He turned and fixed me with a suspicious gaze. “Do I know you?” he asked.

  “Maybe not,” I retorted, “but I know you. I was Linda’s lawyer and her landlady. I know quite a few of her little secrets.” I was hoping I sounded provocative.

  “Just what is it you think you know so much about?” Bellfield demanded shrilly. My provocation seemed to have been enough.

  “Oh, I know about the buildings you own. The ones that burn down so often. And about the burglaries. I even know,” I went on, feeling sick inside but trying for the I-own-the-world smile I’d seen Linda use and now understood, “how Linda met your wife Norma.”

  “You leave my wife out of this!” His high-pitched voice was a near-squeak; I could have laughed except that I knew that voice could issue orders that would be obeyed. Orders I wouldn’t like.

  “I can’t very well do that, can I?” I asked, still smiling. “If it hadn’t been for her, you would never have met Linda.”

  “I wish I’d never met either one of them.” Ira Bellfield ran harassed fingers through his thinning hair. “Broads,” he said hoarsely. “All broads are good for is trouble. First Norma, then Linda, now you.” He poked a skinny finger at my chest. “But you better watch out, sweetheart. You can only push Ira Bellfield so far. Push him too far and—”

  “And you end up in the Safe Haven?” I finished sweetly. But my heart was pounding; I might not get off so easily.

  Bellfield had the same thought. “If you’re lucky,” he said, turning on his heel. The quiet tone in which he’d said the words made them seem all the more menacing.

  In the subway, I consulted the map to figure out the unfamiliar way home. On the map’s Riker’s Island, someone had drawn a high-rise hotel and added the words Playboy Club. I laughed and bought my token.

  My thoughts on the long subway ride home were of fire. I could see my house consumed by flames, and my anxiety grew with every delay. Which is why when I got to Court Street and once again saw flashing lights, I nearly fainted.

  7

  Once again, the flames existed only in my imagination. The reality: a few bent bars on my back office window. Dorinda, who’d been pressure-cooking beans for tomorrow’s burritos, had heard a noise and gone to investigate, armed with a skillet. I had to smile at the image; her pioneer forebears had probably frighte
ned bears and Indians the same way. In any case, she’d scared the burglar, but couldn’t give much of a description to me or the cops.

  “It all happened so fast,” she protested. I nodded. “All I saw was a pair of jeans.” She shrugged. “Probably just a kid looking for dope money.” She turned to the stove, where water for tea was boiling. The Morning Glory was closed, the lunch crowd long gone, but to Dorinda food meant healing, so she cooked.

  “This is the third time somebody’s tried to break in since I opened,” Dorinda went on, popping a batch of scones into the oven. “I’m beginning to think Ezra’s right. I ought to get a gun.”

  I was appalled. “My God,” I said in awed tones, “this is it—the death of liberalism as we know it. Dorinda Blalock gets a gun.”

  “Why should I let some junkie steal everything I’ve worked so hard for?”

  “Dorinda,” I said patiently, “it takes you four months to decide on a blender. How in hell are you going to buy a gun? Besides,” I went on, “I don’t think this particular burglar was after your profits. My money’s on Ira Bellfield. Those tapes in my office safe are dynamite as far as he’s concerned.”

  “Who’s Ira Bellfield?” Ezra Varshak asked, walking in with his quick stride. Dorinda’s latest boyfriend was wearing his usual costume—jeans that looked as though they’d seen every peace march and rock festival ever held and a faded blue sweatshirt with the legend “Vulcan Science Academy” emblazoned in white letters. With his red hair and freckled face, Ezra could still pass for the seventeen-year-old sci-fi freak he’d been twenty-five years ago. Even his name, I sometimes thought, sounded like bad science fiction: “I-am-Varshak-from-the-planet-Greeb,” I could hear a robot voice saying.

  What was unusual about Ezra, especially for one of Dorinda’s men, was that everything he touched turned to money. Take the cheap science-fiction paperbacks and magazines he’d squandered his teenage earnings on, to his mother’s dismay. At the last Sci-Fi/Fantasy Convention, his collection had been assessed at over six figures. The sandalmaking business that had humiliated his father the orthopedist was now a multistate operation, grossing more than Dr. Varshak’s lucrative practice. Ezra Varshak was a hippie conglomerate.

  I explained to Ezra and Dorinda about the blackmail, hoping that Ezra could help me understand the financial aspects. But I knew it was a long shot; Ezra’s business acumen was wholly instinctive, owing nothing to management courses. His first sandal shop had opened on St. Mark’s Place in the East Village’s Day-Glo heyday. It was on the parlor floor of a brownstone, and Ezra, who loved people and excitement, had put his workshop smack in the bay window so he could watch the passing parade. It was unconscious, inadvertent marketing genius. The passing parade had avidly watched him back. He became a stop on the tours of East Village scenes, a human landmark. People came in to watch him hammer leather and left with a pair of his sandals on their feet. The sandals, ugly but comfortable, became a sixties symbol, yet Ezra was too smart to be left behind when more attention to fashion returned. He added lines of boots and shoes, sold handmade bags and briefcases, and introduced vests, skirts, and pants in soft suede. He had shops in all the best suburban malls—each with the workbench in the window—and was now negotiating leases in the Midwest.

  Dorinda poured tea and put a huge plate of hot scones on the table. By the time the cups were drained and the plates empty even of crumbs, I had finished the story.

  “Why Bellfield?” Ezra demanded. “Why not one of the others?”

  “Are you kidding? He commits burglary every day of the week—or at least has it done, which is the same thing. If you’d heard those tapes—”

  “Take it easy, Cass. I’m not the guy’s defense lawyer.” Ezra smiled and I relaxed. “But you just got through telling us you called all the blackmail victims yesterday and made appointments to see them this week. So anybody could have put two and two together and gotten nervous.”

  “Hey, I’m not a fool,” I protested. “I didn’t call these people and say, ‘Let’s talk blackmail.’ I have some sense.” But I was uneasily aware that this was sheer defensiveness; I had gotten myself in deeper than I’d planned, and I was beginning to wonder whether I wanted Linda’s murderer caught this badly.

  Dorinda’s voice held no accusation, but her question was, as usual, uncomfortably penetrating. “Did you mention Linda?”

  “Of course,” I snapped. “The calls made no sense otherwise.”

  “Sure, Cass,” she said soothingly. “But don’t you see, that’s all it would take. Especially if the person called looked in the phone book and found that your office is in the same building where Linda lived.”

  “Oh, God,” I groaned, the reality closing in on me. “What you’re saying is that it’s not finished—that whoever tried to break in this afternoon will try again until they find what they’re looking for.”

  I got two nods. “You’d better find a safe place for that stuff, Cass,” Ezra warned. “A safe deposit box, maybe. And Cass,” he added, his face serious, “you’d better let these people know you don’t have the stuff anymore.”

  I thought about safe places while Dorinda cleared up and she and Ezra bickered good-naturedly about the Morning Glory. My mind was only half on their conversation, but the sound of human voices cheered me. I wasn’t ready to go back to an empty office or apartment—especially with an uneasy dread that they wouldn’t be empty enough.

  “Take-out,” Ezra pronounced, leaning back in his chair with an authoritative air. “Remember in The Graduate when that guy says to Dustin Hoffman, ‘I’ve got just one word for you: plastics’?” It was a rhetorical question and Dorinda, her hands in the suds, knew it.

  “Well, the word for the eighties is take-out. I can see it.” Ezra’s face took on the faintly spaced-out look it got when he contemplated profit margins. “All these singles coming home to lonely apartments. Two-career families where nobody has time to make dinner. They’re tired of eating out, tired of staying dressed from work. They want to relax in front of the TV, but they don’t want McDonald’s, they don’t want Wendy’s. They’re used to eating well. What do they want?”

  Dorinda gave me a grin, so we both joined in the inevitable answer: “Take-out!” we shouted in unison, then laughed. I’d been here before, but it took my mind off bent bars and blackmail.

  “The dishes you already serve here are perfect,” Ezra said with enthusiasm. “Curried vegetables, great soups, all kinds of ethnic foods. Just add a couple of quiches—”

  “No quiche,” Dorinda replied, her tone adamant. “I refuse to be trendy. This is a working-class luncheonette, not a yuppie hangout. No quiche, no butcher block, no kiwi fruit.”

  “Who said anything about kiwi fruit? I did suggest you could cut down on the alfalfa sprouts, but what the hell, it was only a thought. But as for the idea that this place is working class—” Ezra was getting hot under the collar, his face reddening. “First of all, very few workers eat lunch in Cobble Hill. Second, the ones that do grab a hamburger or Kentucky Fried; they don’t eat vegetarian. You can serve all the stuffed cabbage and black bread in the world, babe, but this is not a blue-collar lunch spot. Besides, we were talking about take-out. So don’t serve quiche here, just sell it to go.”

  “Ez, I’m already getting up at five A.M. to open for breakfast at seven. Then it’s lunch and an occasional afternoon snacker. We close at three-thirty and I spend the rest of the afternoon and evening cooking and baking for the next day. When do I make this take-out and how late do I have to be open to sell it?”

  “Good questions,” I put in. It was funny to see Dorinda, my least practical friend, turning into a businesswoman before my eyes. With, it must be said, Ezra’s help.

  Of course, Ezra had answers. Of course, Dorinda didn’t like them. Of course, the argument ended in the usual friendly stalemate.

  Finally, Dorinda’s cooking was done, and we stepped out of the restaurant together. As Ezra kissed me good-bye, he whispered, “Cass, I’ve got
one word for you, too: burglar alarm.”

  “Why is sex always so much better when you’re on trial?” Matt Riordan’s famous courtroom voice was lazy as he murmured the question into my ear. We both knew the answer, so I replied with a quick hug instead of words. The adrenaline that had carried him through the long, rough court day and the brutal press conference that followed had propelled him into bed. Our lovemaking had been as intense as his cross-examination—and just about as tender. I understood. I try cases, too.

  A muffled snore woke me from a light doze. I raised myself on one elbow and turned to see Matt, exhausted from his long day of performing for court and camera, thoroughly asleep.

  Reminded of the scene in Gaudy Night in which Harriet Vane’s sympathy is aroused by a sleeping Lord Peter, I smiled at my slumbering lover. Sleep had taken years from him; gray-flecked black hair, tousled like a toddler’s, fell across his brow. One hairy arm was flung protectively over his head, as if to ward off a blow. It was, I realized, the only time I’d ever seen Matt Riordan vulnerable.

  And yet, vulnerable he was, and growing more so every day. His entire professional life had been spent on a tightrope, with clear lines of demarcation between what he would and would not do for his clients. Now the lines were beginning to blur. Already the press slyly insinuated that hiring Matt Riordan for the defense was itself a confession of guilt. He’d been held in contempt during his last trial, and before that a federal judge had publicly questioned his ethics. There were new worry lines around the shrewd blue eyes, and it was taking two or three more glasses of whiskey to relax him after a day on trial.

  The tightrope on which he’d always performed was swaying now. I’d tried to talk to him, to share my fears for his future, but Matt Riordan, who’d always prided himself on working without a net, had only laughed.