“Think about the traffic and the parking.”
“I’m good with it. I’ll meet you there at ten thirty.”
JOHN D’ORFINI THOUGHT I wanted to go to the Doll and Clock Repair Shop to ask the fixer’s cousin what he knew about Hilda and Vinni. If he was with me, I had to be guarded. If Kosinski turned out to be the man in the black limousine, I’d want to either lose John D’Orfini or hide behind his shield.
“I know you,” said a voice behind the screen door. “Can’t you read the sign?”
“I’m doing a fashion story and wanted to talk to the owner of the shop.”
I knew the sleazy nephew would tap into the word fashion, thinking if I mentioned him in the story, he might have his fifteen minutes of fame and get invited to the Oscars or enjoy a private tour of Madame Tussauds wax museum. I pushed harder to get him to open the door. I imagined John D’Orfini was stuck in traffic at the bridge while sipping coffee from a paper cup.
“This won’t take long. I only need fifteen minutes.” The nephew shifted his weight from one foot to the other, wanting me to believe that my interruption was an over-the-top inconvenience.
Little shit, I thought.
I wasn’t going to leave until I heard the owner speak. I hadn’t thought what I would do if his voice matched the sound lodged in my head from the man in the limo.
The nephew unlocked the door, but Kosinski must have heard him, because a chilling voice called out to him, “What are you doing? What are you doing? Stupid boy, I told you I’m working. No people this week.”
The voice—even in the distance—was the same.
Why didn’t John D’Orfini come in to the city last night and stay with me?
I stepped inside to face the man behind the agitated voice. When he saw me, he stopped his rush toward the door. I stared at him. Shock spread across his face, but he quickly recovered, as he exchanged one mask for another.
“Miss, you can see we are closed this week.” There it was— the way he said miss. The dance began like an intricate waltz, sidestepping, dipping, almost bowing to the other as if we were partners.
I had my own mask ready to wear. “I . . . I’m doing a story on antique themes in fashion, and I heard you worked with antique dolls.”
Kosinski glanced down at my foot and back at me. My foot throbbed as a reminder not to step on glass. Did I detect a slight smile from the man with the peppermint breath? A smug turn in his posture?
“What can I tell you? I repair clocks and dolls. You say you’re doing a story on fashion? What can I tell you?” He stroked the skin above his lip with his thumb and forefinger, fanning a nonexistent mustache. He walked over to a large glass cabinet where costumed dolls—many dressed in period Russian garb—smiled through their reflection. The shop’s clocks—at least fifty of them—chimed in unison.
“I’m working on a very expensive doll for someone from the Russian embassy.”
“Just ten minutes. That’s all I need.”
“Then sit.” Kosinski pointed to a chair covered in gold brocade. It seemed out of place in a repair shop where I expected more dust and dirt than light.
“I like my customers to enter a calm place when they come to my shop,” he said.
Was it with a sense of bemusement that he said this?
His nephew had disappeared into the back of the store, slipping behind a brown curtain.
“You closed the shop because of this important doll?” I asked.
“No, no. Three men whose mother is dying of cancer brought in several of their mother’s dolls. The mother hasn’t long to live, and so they come to me . . . to repair the dolls. It is their mother’s final wish that the dolls be restored. They’ll be back the end of the week. I don’t want the sons to disappoint their mother.”
“How kind of you,” I said. My voice dripped with irony.
“The mother is dying, as I told you. A mother deserves a last wish, don’t you think, miss? I don’t think you’ve told me your name. I’ve never seen you in my shop.”
“Maddy. Maddy Stewart.” I waited, but he revealed no sign of recognition, other than the sound of his voice, which proved he was the man in the black limousine.
“I have a child who was stolen from me four years ago.” I stopped as the dull ache in my foot reminded me to slow down. I had found what I’d come for: the man who owned the Doll and Clock Shop was the man who knew where Vinni was. He had sliced off my toe and warned me to stop asking questions. He had given me a photo of what Vinni looked like now, almost five years later from the moment she was kidnapped.
“Ahhh. Miss, I am sorry to hear this.” Kosinski tapped his fingers on the table. Hitting them like quarter notes. “But you’ve come about the dolls. Yes? And I must get to my work . . . so, what you want to know about my ‘patients’?” He was a doll doctor—another kind of fixer, like his cousin. But this Kosinski had a link to Hilda, or at least to someone in the German community who knew where Hilda had taken Vinni. And he had told me I would see Vinni again.
I did the dance.
I pretended to be interested in the dolls in the glass cabinet.
“May I see one up close?” I asked.
Kosinski raised his eyebrows, perhaps surprised I hadn’t run out the door. Instead, he reached for a key in his pocket and walked over to unlock the cabinet. “You’ve come alone?” he asked, without turning to face me, dipping into a sidestep as graceful as a ballroom dancer. Sliding into a much darker conversation.
“I always . . .”
He didn’t wait for me to finish. When he turned, he had yet another mask over his face. He was smiling.
“I like to keep my children locked up safe,” he said. “Some become like family. People bring me their dolls, knowing I will take care of them as if they were my children. Their owners attach themselves . . . I’m not sure how to say it in English . . . they wrap their arms onto the past and squeeze tight.” Kosinski shook his head side to side, as if he were weighing the cost of the past. He did it again when I left and stopped outside the shop to stare back at him through the storefront glass.
THIRTY-THREE
I STUDIED THE RETURN ADDRESS THE WAY MY FATHER used to—with both hands on either side of the number 10 envelope—eyes reading and rereading the numbers and letters until I froze from recognition. Donald Howard. He had shown up at Evelyn’s art exhibit at the end of the evening and snapped up my five paintings.
Howard, Block & Bach
Attorneys at Law
512 Lexington Avenue
New York, New York 10007
An uneasy feeling washed me from head to toe as I tore open the envelope, careful not to destroy the corners.
Dear Ms. Stewart,
On behalf of a client who insists upon anonymity, I am pleased to enclose herewith your original Note and Mortgage, dated April 22, 2012, given to the First National Bank and Trust Company of New York on the purchase of the property located at 219 West Twenty-Third Street, New York, New York. The indebtedness has been satisfied in full, the Note has been marked “Paid in Full,” and the mortgage has been duly canceled of record.
As of Friday last, there were no recorded liens against this property. Payment of quarterly real estate taxes and municipal utilities remains your continuing responsibility.
You may wish to consult with your own tax advisor as to the implications of this matter. I am precluded from advising you in that regard.
With best wishes, I am
Very truly yours,
Donald Howard
Attorney at Law
What if Donald Howard wouldn’t reveal what I wanted to know?
I tore into myself but then exhaled. What-ifs are for writers, not mothers of missing children. I dialed the number on Mr. Howard’s letterhead. A friendly automated voice picked up and connected me after I pressed number 2, as directed by the menu.
Donald Howard told me the same thing three times: “I’m sorry, Ms. Stewart, I can’t disclose who paid the note. Client confi
dentiality. As much as I’d like to help you, I can’t. The same applies to the purchase of your paintings. I’ve already told this to the detective.”
Around 5:00 p.m., I found myself standing outside the building that housed the law offices of Howard, Block & Bach. I needed to talk to him. I had printed out a picture of Donald Howard from his website and folded it into a square in my pocket. The next night, I sat in a booth in the window across the street in Andrew’s Coffee Shop. Grease from a day’s worth of cooking on the open grill filled the air. I returned for two more nights before I eyed Donald Howard leaving his building. I followed him for one block before I caught up to him. What had started out as a fine mist in the morning was now a rainstorm with a cold wind howling across my face.
“MR. HOWARD?” HE walked tall and fast, with a chin squared and strong enough to slice toast. Tiny tufts of white peeked from inside his ears. His jowls had already begun the journey downward. I guessed he was in his late fifties.
“I’m Madeline Stewart. You sent me a letter about an anonymous person paying off my mortgage. My daughter was stolen from me over four years ago, and I think . . . I believe there’s some connection.” Mr. Howard stopped under an awning near the door to a wine shop. As I talked, I followed him into the store. He didn’t speak right away, so I started in again before he interrupted.
“Mr. Howard, I’m the artist from the gallery downtown. My little girl has been missing.”
“I know who you are, Ms. Stewart. As I told you over the phone, I’m sorry for your loss.” Like the inside of a Hallmark card.
Loss meant death. Sorry for your loss. As in, The person you loved is dead and gone and there’s nothing you can do about it, so take the condolences. Go settle on the beach somewhere and string beads.
“As I explained earlier, I cannot divulge the identity of my client. Try to understand. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m late.”
Don Howard reached into his wallet and pulled out a black American Express card. This was a man who did well. He drank the finest wines, paid for by an international clientele. Earlier, I had checked his profile on his company’s website. He was a senior partner, as well as a visiting professor at Columbia Law School. He spoke five foreign languages: Italian, Portuguese, Spanish, French, and German.
He walked away as my heart’s beating bore through my blouse. Faster. Faster. I felt like I could reach in and pull the bloody vessel from behind my bra, lay it in the palm of my hand, and show Don Howard the devastation. “This is a wild heart that beats broken,” I’d say. Instead I walked home, hands shoved into my coat pockets. Someone had taken extraordinary measures to help me. Someone who knew I was having financial problems. Someone compassionate.
Or was it someone remorseful, motivated by guilt?
TUBA HAD BOOKED two tickets for Cologne for December 10. She had stayed much longer in New Jersey, even hiring more help to care for her wheelchair-bound, silent husband. Her decision to postpone her return to Germany in September after the final concert of the series on her estate surprised me. It revolved around the festival and her desire for us to fly there together. Her plan was to stay on afterward and travel to Munich for the Christmas holiday.
“Will you be alone?” I had asked.
“Not quite,” was all she had answered.
The festival included works by seven emerging artists from around the world. The theme was “beauty, pain, and loss.” It would be at the Käthe Kollwitz Museum. The opening was on Saturday night, with a panel of seven artists speaking on process the following afternoon. There would be translators for those of us who did not speak German. All I knew at the time was that a hand had led me to the art patron Tuba Schwimmer—Evelyn’s hand. I continued to trust that Germany was where I belonged.
At first, I had refused to go to Cologne.
“I’m not ready for something like this,” I told John D’Orfini and Kay after my showing at the estate.
“You should go,” Kay said. “You wouldn’t be invited unless the curators liked what they saw. It’s too great an opportunity.”
“I’ll be gone for at least a few weeks,” I said.
“Why is that a problem? Is it Hot Style? Do they need you to cover a story?” Kay asked.
“No, no, that’s not it. I don’t like the idea of the only home Vinni knew in the city left empty.”
What if Kosinski brings Vinni back and I’m not here?
“Maddy,” Kay said.
“No, I mean it. It’s a big decision for me to make.”
“Don’t turn your back on this chance,” Kay said.
“I told you. I don’t know if I’m ready.”
A WEEK LATER, I met John D’Orfini on the steps of the New York Public Library. The weather was getting cooler, and I wanted to get in a few more outdoor lunches at Bryant Park. John D’Orfini had picked up sandwiches, along with two bottles of sparkling water and two chocolate truffles from Lilly O’Brien’s chocolatier across from the park. I alternated between putting on my red leather gloves and taking them off because of the bite in the air. The tip of my nose felt cold.
“Let’s go somewhere indoors and have a hot drink,” I said.
“Sure.” He took my paper bag with the half-eaten sandwich and tossed it with his flattened bag into the trash can.
“Aioli makes everything taste European,” he said.
“It does?”
“Sure. It’s the subtlety of spice and cream,” he said. “When am I going to get you to enjoy food more?” He laughed and then added, “When do you leave for Germany?”
“December tenth,” I said.
I limped a little as we stood up to walk across the street. The cold air affected my foot. I had been warned arthritis might flare up in the joint. John D’Orfini looked at my foot but said nothing as my regular pace picked up after a few steps. It was a small price to pay for silence.
“Okay?”
“I’m good,” I said. “It’s cold, that’s all.”
I wanted to slip my arm through his, but I held back. The park was full of people with stories. I thought how it could be with a man at the kitchen table at night—someone whose naked back I could place my cheek upon as he slept next to me on a matching pillow. Life was returning as long as I believed Vinni was still alive.
I had three freelance jobs to wrap up before Tuba and I flew together to Germany. Hot Style magazine wanted stories on two new designers who without caution used real fur, advocating a strong distaste for faux anything. My deadline for filing the stories was December 8—two days before I was set to leave from Newark Airport. Tuba was to meet me there, and together we would make the trip to her homeland. And to Hilda and Rudy’s.
“LET’S STOP IN and light a candle,” I said. The doors to St. Patrick’s Cathedral opened to a steady stream of visitors. A wedding ceremony was about to end. John D’Orfini and I stood with the crowd at the back, gawking at the bride and groom in the distance on the altar. The cardinal of New York was giving his final blessing to the newly married couple. His red robes were the only way I knew the man leading the ceremony was higher than a priest.
I whispered in John D’Orfini’s ear. “I heard from that attorney, Donald Howard.”
“What did he want?” he said, as he kept his eyes on the bride at the front of the altar.
“He has a client who paid off my mortgage. He won’t tell me who it is.”
The bride and groom turned to face the guests sitting on both sides of the massive church. Women dressed in shiny necklaces and high heels carried envelope clutches. Men in suits— some in tuxedoes—walked as if stuffed into Ziploc bags. The bride wore a strapless off-white gown fitted three-quarters of the way down her slender body. Like a trumpet, it flared out into a long train trailing yards and yards of silk and lace behind her as she headed down the aisle.
D’Orfini said nothing.
“Did you hear what I said?” I asked.
“I heard you. I’m watching the groom, that’s all.”
I
turned my attention to the front of the cathedral.
My mother’s voice novenaed her way in. Don’t believe common men can bless us, Madeline. It’s nonsense. If you want to feel blessed, sit in your backyard and listen to the birds.
John D’Orfini nudged my arm. “Where are you?” he said, “Other than a million miles away.”
The bride had her husband’s hand in hers as she raced—no, just about ran—down the aisle. I wanted to shout out to her, Take your time. Don’t rush through this, because you can’t walk these steps again.
“Too fast,” I whispered to John D’Orfini.
“What?” he said.
“The bride. She’s walking too fast. God, she’s going to regret this.”
“Why?”
The cardinal said something to the newly married man and woman. Words of advice? Another blessing?
What good would it do them now to have one more blessing?
They had already sealed the deal. Vowed for better or for worse.
“She’s not smiling,” I said.
“Neither is he,” John D’Orfini said, as he removed his leather gloves and stuffed them into the pockets of his jacket.
“She just about pulled him down that aisle.” We headed over to the other side of the cathedral, where the Christmas manger would be set up a week before Thanksgiving.
“He let her.”
“How could he stop her?”
John D’Orfini smiled. “You don’t really know that much about men, do you?” It was his smile that made me want to throw my arms around him and say, Come with me to Germany.
“I’m not sure I know much about anything these days.” I stopped and turned to him on the street. “What about Donald Howard?”
“He’s right. He doesn’t have to tell you who his client is.”
“But he has to tell you, Detective, doesn’t he?”
“No.” John D’Orfini tilted his head. “I fear a bull coming into the arena.”
“Not a bull, a mother beast.”
We walked in silence past shoppers carrying bags filled with gifts. How many of them needed what they couldn’t afford? I wondered.
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