Havoc-on-Hudson

by Bernice Gottlieb

  I took the letter opener from my desk and slit the top of the document envelope open. So now the deed was done and I’d be obligated to do the right thing and share these papers with Chief Betsy. What I learned might well break the case right open and bring Daniel Joseph Farrell to justice.

  The letter I would keep to myself until I was able to deliver it.

  But I set the opened envelope down on the desktop without taking anything out of it. Something about Bally shoes was trying to ring a bell.

  32

  At seven that evening I was to meet Andrew for dinner. I’d been feeling closer and closer to him. As for Andrew, he certainly seemed to be increasingly fond of me. And he knew Petite Auberge, with its brick walls, its authentic tin ceiling, and its rustic French cuisine was my favorite restaurant.

  I took one last look at myself in the Auberge’s plate glass window as I walked toward the carved oak door: not bad, if I said so myself. Today was my birthday, and I’d worn my black silk Armani. The platinum highlights I’d had done that afternoon made my blonde hair sparkle. My brand-new Ferragamos, picked up after I was done at the hair salon, clicked smartly along the sidewalk. Opening the restaurant’s door, I heard the buzz of conversation and smelled the coq au vin. The popular bistro specialized in the chicken dish, and I just about swooned at the delicious odor.

  “Maggie,” Andrew exclaimed when he saw me. “So gorgeous, tonight! Am I a lucky devil, or what?” He had chosen a private corner table and in its crystal vase were red roses tied with a gilded bow. I took a quick glance around. White and yellow daisies on all the other tables. Hmm. “The roses are from you, Andrew, aren’t they? Thank you! I’ll take them home with me, for sure.”

  He smiled at me and signaled to the waiter. Francois, white napkin draped over his arm, brought a bottle of chilled French champagne and filled our flutes.

  “To lives well lived!” Andrew toasted me. “Happy Birthday, my darling Maggie.”

  “Oh, Andrew, I do love you,” I replied. I could feel my smile, wider than a Cheshire Cat’s.

  Then, the dear, sweet boy plucked the linen napkin from Francois’ arm, pinched the top two corners between his thumbs and forefingers, flourished the napkin in the air until it was a wide, floating white square, something like a parachute. Then he leaned over, placed it on the floor next to my chair, and knelt down on one knee.

  Francois stood to one side, grinning. Heads turned toward us. From somewhere, music began to play. Piano. Some Enchanted Evening.

  I gaped at Andrew. “Darling! What is this?” Although I thought I knew. But was I ready for such a commitment?

  Andrew reached into his pocket and took out a small blue Tiffany box tied with a white ribbon. With a big smile, he held it out toward me.

  As I instinctively leaned over and reached for the box, my eyes took him in. What a man! What a handsome man! So distinguished looking, with that gray flecking his thick dark hair. So impeccably dressed, in his custom-made gray tweed jacket, pleated flannel slacks, shiny oxfords. … Shiny oxfords! Oh, my God! Those shoes were Ballys! Bally shoes—like the ones that had made the prints in the house where Amy Honeywell was murdered! The just-now-identified prints that Officer Mike had told me about earlier in the day.

  Then I recalled that Andrew had left a pair of Ballys in my front closet to wear after playing tennis! Were all his shoes made by Bally?

  Slowly I sat back in my chair without taking the little box. My God, what if Andrew had been in that house the day Amy was killed? I knew he’d been in town for meetings that entire day.

  The shock must have shown on my face, because Andrew sat back on his knee, frowning. The Tiffany box was still clutched in his hand. “Maggie? Dear Maggie? What is it? Have I overestimated your feelings for me?”

  Francois stared at us, then began discretely to move away, motioning to the pianist to stop playing.

  I swallowed hard and whispered. “Those are Bally shoes, Andrew.” Was I being stupid? I was in love with Andrew. My darling Andrew. It couldn’t be. I knew it couldn’t be.

  Two deep lines appeared between his eyebrows. “Of course they are. I always wear Ballys. What’s the problem? You don’t like them?” He got up from his kneeling position and resumed his chair. His expression was baffled.

  “N … n … no,” I stuttered. “That’s not it.” Millions of men wore Bally shoes. And eleven was an average size.

  He grinned, trying to make a joke of it. “Because I can always change shoe brands. How do you feel about Canali? Or Maganni?”

  “No, silly,” I repeated. “That’s not it, at all. I have something I need to tell you. Something about the Amy Honeywell murder case.”

  I looked around the room to make certain people weren’t still paying attention to us. Good. Everyone had gone back to his or her meal.

  But when I glanced at Andrew, I got a shock. His face had gone dead white.

  Amy Honeywell? he whispered.

  33

  I watched Andrew for a moment, but he didn’t recover right away. My mind seemed to whirl. What to do? I looked around again. Francois stood by the door to the room, a fresh napkin gracing his arm. He glanced away when he saw me notice him. He was probably wondering if he should ignore us—or ask to take our order. This was such an awkward situation. Should we stay here and talk things over?

  No. I didn’t think so. Andrew had made his intentions to propose so very clear. It was obvious to everyone at L’Auberge that something had gone wrong. And now we were so very public. What to do?

  I placed my hand gently on Andrew’s. “Let’s get out of here,” I said. “We really have to talk. How about a drink at No. 10?” No. 10 was a quiet spot overlooking the river. We could walk there, and we’d have lots of privacy.

  And I, for one, had lost my appetite.

  It was a short and quiet walk to No. 10—five minutes at the most. Downhill, of course. Almost everything in Hudson Hills is either uphill or downhill. Neither of us spoke until we were settled with glasses of Chardonnay in oak booths in the farthest reaches of the posh English-style pub. The place smelled of ale and fish-and-chips.

  “So. …” Andrew, his expression now stern, looked directly into my eyes. “What the hell is going on, Maggie? Have you lost your mind? Or have I done something unforgivable—like wear Bally shoes?”

  I sighed. There was something more he wasn’t addressing; his stunned reaction to the name Amy Honeywell.

  “Oh, Andrew, I’m handling this so badly. But something has come up. Officer Pandolfo just today informed me that the crime lab identified the one set of previously unknown prints in the murder house as being from men’s shoes by Bally. Size eleven.” I swallowed. “That’s the size you wear, isn’t it?”

  He nodded, still staring me straight in the eye. “And …? There’s more, isn’t there?”

  “And … Amy Honeywell. You practically had a stroke when I mentioned her name. That frightens me. You’ve never said a word, either to me or to anyone else involved in the investigation, that you knew her or that you were in that house.” Tears were rolling down my cheeks.

  “Oh my God, Maggie,” Andrew choked out, “believe me when I tell you there’s a simple explanation for why my footprints were there. And believe me when I say I had absolutely nothing at all to do with Amy’s death.”

  “Is that right?’ I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. But I was no fool—as much as I was foolishly in love with him. I thought for a moment, then faltered as I asked him, “Andrew, would … would you be willing to come with me to the Hudson Hills P.D. and make a statement explaining to the police why you were there?”

  He didn’t hesitate for a second. “Of course, I would!”

  I reached in my bag for my cellphone. “I’ll call Betsy. She’ll have to record your statement so you can clear yourself with the authorities.” I bit my upper lip. “And as for me, I
need to be reassured you were not involved in any way at all with Amy.”

  He’d reached for his wine glass, but startled at my last words. Wine sloshed over the side of the glass, soaking the cocktail napkin. “Now look, Maggie, I didn’t say I wasn’t involved in any way with Amy. I just said I had nothing to do with her murder!”

  Huh? “Andrew, just stop there! I’m confused and don’t want to discuss this any further until you talk to Betsy. Late as it is, maybe she can arrange to take your statement this evening.”

  A veil of disappointment came over his face. “I certainly hope so. I want to clear my name as soon as possible. And, as for you … you’re blowing this whole thing way out of proportion.”

  This time his grip on the wine glass was secure. He drank the remaining wine in one gulp. Then he gave me a straight, unblinking look. “I must say, it’s disappointing to learn you have so little trust in me. Perhaps, after all is said and done, we’re not ready for a serious commitment.”

  “Maybe not.” Maggie dialed the Chief’s number without saying another word, but her heart sank down to her new Ferragamos.

  34

  “Mr. Coyne, the time and date of our meeting this evening has already been entered by Officer Michael Pandolfo, and I would like to record the statement you are voluntarily offering involving the ongoing investigation into the murder of Amy Honeywell. Do I have your permission to proceed? For the record, Maggie Mitty is the other person in the room with us and would like to remain. Andrew, are you comfortable having Maggie present during this procedure?”

  “Yes, Chief, both the recording and the presence of Maggie Mitty are acceptable to me.” Stiff and formal, he sounded exactly like the lawyer he is.

  Chief Betsy went on. “During the recent investigation into the murder of Mrs. Honeywell, a number of footprints were found at the house where the incident took place. Among those prints, yours were the last pair to be identified by the crime lab. Can you explain the presence of your footprints at the crime scene?”

  “Yes, and as an attorney, I should have known better than to keep this information from the investigation.” He sighed. “It just seemed to me it would complicate matters unnecessarily if I were to come forward at the beginning.” A long silence ensued.

  “And …?” Betsy urged him.

  “And, to be perfectly honest on a personal note I was afraid it might jeopardize my relationship with …” He glanced at me, a bit sardonically. My heart sank. He continued. “With Ms. Mitty.”

  Another period of silence, and Betsy said again, “And …?”

  “My wife died over five years ago.” He looked down at his fingernails. Studied them as if they mattered. Then he glanced over toward me. “I’d been alone for so long. Then I’d finally met a beautiful woman, a woman of substance and grace. I was so grateful she’d come into my life that I couldn’t risk letting this seemingly random episode—this coincidence of my having met with Ms. Honeywell that morning—worry her in any way.”

  It was quiet in the room. I heard somebody sniff. It was me.

  Andrew turned his gaze back to the police chief and went on. “And so, during the investigation I chose not to mention, either to you, Chief Betsy, or to Maggie, or to the homicide people, that I had known Amy personally. I should have. Even if the details of my meeting with her had come out, it wouldn’t have been an issue.”

  “No?” Betsy asked.

  “No. Since I’m not involved in any way with her horrible demise, and that would be quickly determined.”

  The Chief did not respond to his assertion. “Andrew, can you tell us about the relationship you had with Mrs. Honeywell?”

  I flinched at the Chief’s question, and Andrew’s face grew red.

  “Yes, Chief. Of course. As a real-estate attorney, I attend many events involving lawyers, mortgage people and, of course, brokers. At a conference a couple of years ago, Amy Honeywell and I chatted briefly. Then she asked if I would like to buy her a drink. She was aggressive and sexy, and I was a single guy with no evening plans, so I agreed. We had cocktails at Settepani’s Bistro in Harlem along with some of their famous trout en croute.” He fell again into silence.

  “And then …?”

  “And then we ended up spending a couple of hours at a motel not far from the restaurant.” His voice grew more assertive. “At the time, I had no idea she was a married woman with young children. When she told me, I regretted our tryst.

  “I continued to bump into her at various business functions and was always cordial, but I kept my distance. Affairs with married women who sleep around didn’t quite jell with my romantic values. I was …” He glanced at me again. “And am … searching for a stable relationship.”

  Our mutual gaze held until Betsy spoke again.

  “So what were you doing at the house that day?”

  “It was solely by happenstance. That morning we bumped into each other in Hudson Hills when I was on my way to a meeting at the Town Hall. She looked upset, as if she’d been crying, and she told me she needed a lawyer. ‘I only do real estate,’ I hedged. She asked if she could see me after my meeting anyhow—just for some advice about where to turn to find an appropriate lawyer.

  “The address she gave me was of the house she had an appointment to show to clients at 11:00 am. Could I get there fifteen or twenty minutes before they arrived? Seeing my initial hesitation, she emphasized that it would be strictly business. I obliged because she was so obviously in deep distress. I would do the same for anyone I knew.

  “We talked for less than fifteen minutes. Mostly we sat on a settee in the two-story entry hall. If I remember correctly, it had a blue and white tile floor and some kind of an indoor tree.

  “Then Amy began a sordid tale of a love affair gone bad, one that involved stalking and threats. After hearing her out, I told her to contact the FBI. This man of hers was from out-of-state, and the FBI could protect her and prevent the details from becoming local gossip fodder. I said I would get her some contact information but that her situation was basically more a police matter rather than a legal one.”

  Andrew turned towards me, searching my face. His hand was fisted in his right pocket. I wondered if he was gripping the little blue box that must have an engagement ring inside. I sighed again. I had sighed so many times that evening, it almost felt as if I had forgotten how to use words.

  “Andrew, before the Officer turns off the recording device, is there anything else you would like to add to your statement?”

  “Just that I liked the house and wanted to see more of it, so, when we were done talking, I looked around, both upstairs and down. However, I only peeked into the master bath upstairs, which I’ve been told is where Amy’s body was eventually found.”

  “Hmm, and is that it?”

  “Yes,” he said, and thanked the Chief.

  Chief Betsy removed the disc from the recorder, making notes on an envelope in which she placed it. “That’s all I need for the time being.”

  She then told us that the FBI already had Amy’s stalker in custody, on charges of threatening her with foul play if she didn’t pay him to keep their affair a secret from her husband, a respected cardiac surgeon.

  “Andrew, I want to thank you for your cooperation. I’ll share your statement with both the FBI and the guys at the D.A.’s office.”

  Amy Honeywell was a woman I really had little respect for—a woman, from all accounts, lacking in loyalty and ethical behavior. Oh, yes, like Andrew, she roller-bladed and played golf. He would have liked that. And I was probably twenty years her senior and had never been very athletic.

  I knew, of course, that Andrew hadn’t been wrapped in cotton wool before he met me, but that he had slept with Amy Honeywell, of all people, was difficult for me to accept. And … did he really only have sex with her that one time? I wondered about that.

  But, sigh, I couldn’t be
lieve I was feeling jealous of a murdered woman whose colleagues didn’t even like her.

  I finally spoke up. “Chief, is Amy’s stalker a suspect in her murder? Could he be an unexpected twist in the drama of her death?”

  “No, Maggie,” she replied. “The suspect provided an alibi for that morning and there was no physical evidence at the crime scene incriminating him. However, we do have other serious reasons to hold him. Amy wasn’t the only woman he threatened to blackmail or physically harm; two other victims have come forward to press charges against him. He’s a good-looking gigolo who makes his living by conning vulnerable women.”

  I left the P.D. before Chief Betsy had finished all the paperwork with Andrew and went home with a throbbing headache. Once in the front door, I opened my coat closet and searched for Andrew’s after-tennis Ballys. Then I sat on the floor clutching one of them. The sole of the shoe was a bit worn, but the size was clear.

  My darling Andrew.

  I jumped up, threw the damn shoe back into the closet and hurled the other one after it.

  What a night this had been! Andrew’s shoe prints at the crime scene. A ruined birthday dinner. A spoiled marriage proposal. Not to mention spending the rest of the evening at the police station while Andrew’s alibi was being recorded. What a debacle.

  I’d been childish and less than understanding, but I was pretty grossed out at the thought of Andrew having sex with someone like Amy Honeywell.

  Even though at the time he didn’t know I existed.

  The truth is, I was beginning to realize that I was deeply in love with him. And I was beginning to fear that he would not forgive my mistrust of him.

  I needed a good night’s sleep to get my head around everything that was going on. I needed to right some wrongs.

  35

  Late in March, on a Sunday morning as I was stepping out of the shower, the phone rang. I wasn’t really awake yet, and I felt like just letting the machine take the call. As usual, however, my compulsions wouldn’t let me ignore the ringing. Part of that compulsiveness came simply from owning my own company. Each call might be a prospective client, and each prospective client might morph into a nice commission—the kind that pays the bills.