She had picked up the affectionate nickname for father on a trip to Italy when she was ten. After that she never called him Daddy again.
Jimmy remembered his answer. “I’d give you star billing in a minute—you know that. But you better check with Steve. He’s got big bucks in Atlantic City too, and I’m leaving a lot of the decisions to him. But anyway, how about forgetting this career stuff and getting married and giving me some grandchildren?”
Heather had laughed. “Oh, Baba, give me a couple of years. I’m having too much fun.”
He sighed, remembering her laugh. Now there wouldn’t be any grandchildren, ever, he thought—not a girl with golden-brown hair and hazel eyes, nor a boy who might someday grow up to take over this place.
A tap at the door yanked Jimmy back to the present.
“Come in, Steve,” he said.
Thank God I have Steve Abbott, he thought. Twenty-five years ago the handsome, blond Cornell dropout had knocked on the door of the restaurant before it was open. “I want to work for you, Mr. Landi,” he had announced. “I can learn more from you than in any college course.”
Jimmy had been both amused and annoyed. He mentally sized up the young man. Fresh, know-it-all kid, he had decided. “You want to work for me?” he had asked, then pointed to the kitchen. “Well, that’s where I started.”
That was a good day for me, Jimmy thought. He might have looked like a spoiled preppie, but he was an Irish kid whose mother worked as a waitress to raise him, and he had proved that he had much of the same drive. I thought then that he was a dope to give up his scholarship but I was wrong. He was born for this business.
Steve Abbott pushed open the door and turned on the nearest light as he entered the room. “Why so dark? Having a seance, Jimmy?”
Landi looked up with a wry smile, noting the compassion in the younger man’s eyes. “Woolgathering, I guess.”
“The mayor just came in with a party of four.”
Jimmy shoved back his chair and stood up. “No one told me he had a reservation.”
“He didn’t. Hizzonor couldn’t resist our hot dogs, I suppose...” In long strides, Abbott crossed the room and put his hand on Landi’s shoulder. “A rough day, I can tell.”
“Yeah,” Jimmy said. “Isabelle called this morning to say the realtor was in about Heather’s apartment and thinks it will sell fast. Of course, every time she gets me on the phone, she has to go through it all again, how she can’t believe Heather would ever get in a car to drive home on icy roads. That she doesn’t believe her death was an accident. She can’t let go of it. Drives me crazy.”
His unfocused eyes stared past Abbott. “When I met Isabelle, she was a knockout, believe it or not. A beauty queen from Cleveland. Engaged to be married. I pulled the rock that guy had given her off her finger and tossed it out the car window.” He chuckled. “I had to take out a loan to pay the other guy for his ring, but I got the girl. Isabelle married me.”
Abbott knew the story and understood why Jimmy had been thinking about it. “Maybe the marriage didn’t last, but you got Heather out of the deal.”
“Forgive me, Steve. Sometimes I feel like a very old man, repeating myself. You’ve heard it all before. Isabelle never liked New York, or this life. She should never have left Cleveland.”
“But she did, and you met her. Come on, Jimmy, the mayor’s waiting.”
2
IN THE NEXT FEW WEEKS, LACEY BROUGHT EIGHT POTENTIAL buyers to see the apartment. Two were clearly window-shoppers, the kind whose hobby was wasting realtors’ time.
“But on the other hand, you never know,” she said to Rick Parker when he stopped by her desk early one evening as she was getting ready to go home. “You take someone around for a year, you want to kill yourself before you go out with her again, then what happens? The person you’re ready to give up on writes a check for a million-dollar co-op.”
“You have more patience than I do,” Rick told her. His features, chiseled in the likeness of his aristocratic ancestors, showed disdain. “I really can’t tolerate people who waste my time. RJP wants to know if you’ve had any real nibbles on the Waring apartment.” RJP was the way Rick referred to his father.
“I don’t think so. But, hey, it’s still a new listing and tomorrow is another day.”
“Thank you, Scarlett O’Hara. I’ll pass that on to him. See you.”
Lacey made a face at his retreating back. It had been one of Rick’s edgy-tempered, sarcastic days. What’s bugging him now, she wondered. And why, when his father is negotiating the sale of the Plaza Hotel, would he give a thought to the Waring apartment? Give me a break.
She locked her desk drawer and rubbed her forehead where a headache was threatening to start. She suddenly realized that she was very tired. She had been living in a whirl since coming back from her vacation—following up on old projects, getting new listings, catching up with friends, having Kit’s kids in for a weekend... and devoting an awful lot of time to Isabelle Waring.
The woman had taken to calling her daily, frequently urging her to come by the apartment. “Lacey, you must join me for lunch. You do have to eat, don’t you?” she would say. Or just, “Lacey, on your way home, stop in and have a glass of wine with me, won’t you? The New England settlers used to call twilight ‘sober light.’ It’s a lonesome time of day.”
Lacey stared out into the street. Long shadows were slanting across Madison Avenue, a clear indication that the days were becoming shorter. It is a lonesome time of day, she thought. Isabelle is such a very sad person. Now she’s forcing herself to go through everything in the apartment and dispose of Heather’s clothes and personal effects. It’s quite a job. Heather apparently was a bit of a pack rat.
It’s little enough to ask that I spend some time with Isabelle and listen to her, Lacey thought. I really don’t mind. Actually, I like Isabelle very much. She’s become a friend. But, Lacey admitted to herself, sharing Isabelle’s pain brings back everything I felt when Dad died.
She stood up. I am going home and collapse, she thought. I need to.
* * *
Two hours later, at nine o’clock, Lacey, fresh from twenty minutes in the swirling Jacuzzi, was happily preparing a BLT. It had been her dad’s favorite. He used to call bacon, lettuce, and tomato New York’s definitive lunch-counter sandwich.
The telephone rang. She let the answering machine take it, then heard the familiar voice of Isabelle Waring. I’m not going to pick up, Lacey decided. I simply don’t feel like talking to her for twenty minutes right now.
Isabelle Waring’s hesitant voice began to speak in soft but intense tones. “Lacey, guess you’re not home. I had to share this. I found Heather’s journal in the big storage closet. There’s something in it that makes me think I’m not crazy for believing her death wasn’t an accident. I think I may be able to prove that someone wanted her out of the way. I won’t say any more now. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Listening, Lacey shook her head, then impulsively turned off the answering machine and the ringer on the phone. She didn’t even want to know if more people tried to reach her. She wanted what was left of the night all to herself.
A quiet evening—a sandwich, a glass of wine, and a book. I’ve earned it, she told herself!
As soon as she got to the office in the morning, Lacey paid the price for having turned off the answering machine the night before. Her mother called, and an instant later Kit phoned; both were checking up on her, concerned that they had gotten no answer when they had called her apartment the night before. While she was trying to reassure her sister, Rick appeared in her office, looking decidedly annoyed. “Isabelle Waring has to talk to you. They put her through to me.”
“Kit, I’ve got to go and earn a living.” Lacey hung up and ran into Rick’s office. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get back to you last night, Isabelle,” she began.
“That’s all right. I shouldn’t talk about all this over the phone anyhow. Are you bringing anyone in today?
”
“No one is lined up so far.”
As she said that, Rick slid a note across his desk to her: “Curtis Caldwell, a lawyer with Keller, Roland, and Smythe, is being transferred here next month from Texas. Wants a one-bedroom apartment between 65th and 72nd on Fifth. Can look at it today.”
Lacey mouthed a thank-you to Rick and said to Isabelle, “Maybe I will be bringing someone by. Keep your fingers crossed. I don’t know why, but I’ve got a hunch this could be our sale.”
“A Mr. Caldwell’s waiting for you, Miss Farrell,” Patrick, the doorman, told her as she alighted from a cab.
Through the ornate glass door, Lacey spotted a slender man in his mid-forties drumming his fingers on the lobby table. Thank God I’m ten minutes early, she thought.
Patrick reached past her for the door handle. “A problem you need to know about,” he said with a sigh. “The air-conditioning broke down. They’re here now fixing it, but it’s pretty hot inside. I tell you, I’m retiring the first of the year, and it won’t be a day too soon. Forty years on this job is enough.”
Oh, swell, Lacey thought. No air-conditioning on one of the hottest days of the year. No wonder this guy’s impatient. This does not bode well for the sale.
In the moment it took to walk across the lobby to Caldwell, her impression of the man, with his tawny skin, light sandy hair, and pale blue eyes, was uncertain. She realized that she was bracing herself to be told that he didn’t like to be kept waiting.
But when she introduced herself to Curtis Caldwell, a smile brightened his face. He even joked. “Tell the truth now, Miss Farrell,” he said, “how temperamental is the air-conditioning in this building?”
When Lacey had phoned Isabelle Waring to confirm the time of the appointment, the older woman, sounding distracted, had told her she would be busy in the library, so Lacey should just let herself in with her realtor’s key.
Lacey had the key in hand when she and Caldwell stepped off the elevator. She opened the door, called out, “It’s me, Isabelle,” and went to the library, Caldwell behind her.
Isabelle was at the desk in the small room, her back to the door. An open leather loose-leaf binder lay to one side; some of its pages were spread across the desk. Isabelle did not look up or turn her head at Lacey’s greeting. Instead, in a muffled voice, she said, “Just forget I’m here, please.”
As Lacey showed Caldwell around, she briefly explained that the apartment was being sold because it had belonged to Isabelle Waring’s daughter, who had died last winter in an accident.
Caldwell did not seem interested in the history of the apartment. He clearly liked it, and he did not show any resistance to the six-hundred-thousand-dollar asking price. When he had inspected the second floor thoroughly, he looked out the window of the sitting room and turned to Lacey. “You say it will be available next month?”
“Absolutely,” Lacey told him. This is it, she thought. He’s going to make a bid.
“I don’t haggle, Miss Farrell. I’m willing to pay the asking price, provided I absolutely can move in the first of the month.”
“Suppose we talk to Mrs. Waring,” Lacey said, trying not to show her astonishment at the offer. But, she reminded herself, just as I told Rick yesterday, this is the way it happens.
Isabelle Waring did not answer Lacey’s knocks at the library door. Lacey turned to the prospective buyer. “Mr. Caldwell, if you don’t mind waiting for me just a moment in the living room, I’ll have a little talk with Mrs. Waring and be right out.”
“Of course.”
Lacey opened the door and looked in. Isabelle Waring was still sitting at the desk, but her head was bowed now, her forehead actually touching the pages she had been reading. Her shoulders were shaking. “Go away,” she murmured. “I can’t deal with this now.”
She was grasping an ornate green pen in her right hand. She slapped it against the desk. “Go away.”
“Isabelle,” Lacey said gently, “this is very important. We have an offer on the apartment, but there’s a proviso I have to go over with you first.”
“Forget it! I’m not going to sell. I need more time here.” Isabelle Waring’s voice rose to a high-pitched wail. “I’m sorry, Lacey, but I just don’t want to talk now. Come back later.”
Lacey checked her watch. It was nearly four o’clock. “I’ll come back at seven,” she said, anxious to avoid a scene and concerned that the older woman was on the verge of hysterical tears.
She closed the door and turned. Curtis Caldwell was standing in the foyer between the library and the living room.
“She doesn’t want to sell the apartment?” His tone was shocked. “I was given to understand that—”
Lacey interrupted him. “Why don’t we go downstairs?” she said, her voice low.
They sat in the lobby for a few minutes. “I’m sure it will be all right,” she told him. “I’ll come back and talk to her this evening. This has been a painful experience for her, but she’ll be fine. Give me a number where I can call you later.”
“I’m staying at the Waldorf Towers, in the Keller, Roland, and Smythe company apartment.”
They stood to go. “Don’t worry. This will work out fine,” she promised. “You’ll see.”
His smile was affable, confident. “I’m sure it will,” he said. “I leave it in your hands, Miss Farrell.”
He left the apartment building and walked from Seventieth Street to the Essex House on Central Park South, and went immediately to the public phones. “You were right,” he said when he had reached his party. “She’s found the journal. It’s in the leather binder the way you described it. She’s also apparently changed her mind about selling the apartment, although the real estate woman is going back there tonight to try to talk some sense into her.”
He listened.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said, and hung up. Then Sandy Savarano, the man who called himself Curtis Caldwell, went into the bar and ordered a scotch.
3
HER FINGERS CROSSED, LACEY PHONED ISABELLE WARING at six o’clock. She was relieved to find that the woman now was calm.
“Come over, Lacey,” she said, “and we’ll talk about it. But even if it means sacrificing the sale, I can’t leave the apartment yet. There’s something in Heather’s journal that I think could prove to be very significant.”
“I’ll be there at seven,” Lacey told her.
“Please. I want to show what I’ve found to you too. You’ll see what I mean. Just let yourself in. I’ll be upstairs in the sitting room.”
Rick Parker, who was passing by Lacey’s office, saw the troubled expression on her face and came in and sat down. “Problem?”
“A big one.” She told him of Isabelle Waring’s erratic behavior and about the possibility of losing the potential sale.
“Can you talk her out of changing her mind?” Rick asked quickly.
Lacey saw the concern on his face, concern that she was fairly certain wasn’t for her or for Isabelle Waring. Parker and Parker would lose a hefty commission if Caldwell’s offer was refused, she thought. That’s what’s bothering him.
She got up and reached for her jacket. The afternoon had been warm, but the forecast was for a sharp drop in temperature that evening. “We’ll see what happens,” she said.
“You’re leaving already? I thought you said you were meeting her at seven.”
“I’ll walk over there, I think. Probably stop for a cup of coffee along the way. Marshal my arguments. See you, Rick.”
She was still twenty minutes early but decided to go up anyway. Patrick, the doorman, was busy with a delivery, but smiled when he saw her. He waved her to the self-service elevator.
As she opened the door and called Isabelle’s name, she heard the scream and the shot. For a split second she froze, then sheer instinct made her slam the door and step into the closet before Caldwell came rushing down the stairs and out into the corridor, a pistol in one hand, a leather binder under his arm.
&nb
sp; Afterwards she wondered if she imagined that somewhere in her brain she heard her father’s voice saying, “Close the door, Lacey! Lock him out!” Was it his protective spirit that gave her the strength to force the door closed as Caldwell pushed against it, and then to bolt it?
She leaned against the door, hearing the lock click as he tried to get back into the apartment, remembering the look of the stalking predator in his pale blue eyes in that instant in which they had stared at each other.
Isabelle!
Dial 911... Get help!
She had stumbled up the winding staircase, then through the ivory-and-peach sitting room and into the bedroom, where Isabelle was lying across the bed. There was so much blood, spreading now to the floor.
Isabelle was moving, pulling at a sheaf of papers that were under a pillow. The blood was on them too.
Lacey wanted to tell Isabelle that she would get help . . . that it would be all right, but Isabelle began to try to speak: “Lacey... give Heather’s... journal... to her father.” She seemed to be gasping for air. “Only to him… Swear that... only... to him. You... read it... Show... him... where...” Her voice trailed off. She drew in a shuddering breath, as though trying to stave off death. Her eyes were becoming unfocused. Lacey knelt next to her. With the last of her strength, Isabelle squeezed Lacey’s hand. “Swear . . . please... man... !”
“I do, Isabelle, I do,” Lacey said, her voice breaking with a sob.
Suddenly the pressure on her hand was gone. She knew that Isabelle was dead.
“You all right, Lacey?”
“I guess so.” She was in the library of Isabelle’s apartment, seated in a leather chair facing the desk where Isabelle had been seated just a few hours ago, reading the contents of the leather loose-leaf binder.
Curtis Caldwell had been carrying that binder. When he heard me he must have grabbed it, not realizing that Isabelle had taken pages out of it. Lacey hadn’t seen it that closely, but it looked heavy, she thought, and fairly cumbersome.
Pretend You Don't See Her Page 3