by David Wood
As the young woman headed for the door, Crowley said, “Matthew?”
His aunt gave him a smile that had a cheeky edge to it, her eyes sparkling. “You’re not the only one introducing a new partner tonight.”
“Is that so?”
A few moments later, a man appeared at the door to the lounge. They all stood, Gertie moving to squeeze his hand and plant a kiss on his cheek. A tall man, and thin, he bent to receive the kiss and favored Gertie with a warm smile. He had a head of gently curling gray hair, neatly combed, and wore a sharp three-piece suit of dark pinstripes, and a burgundy cravat. The word “dapper” came immediately to Crowley’s mind. His shoes were so shiny they could have been used as mirrors.
Crowley stepped up and offered his hand to shake. “Jake Crowley, Trudy’s grand-nephew.” He chose not to play with the Gertie business, in case it confused this gentleman.
“Matthew Price,” the man said, his shake warm and firm, but not aggressive in that alpha way, so many insecure men seemed to use. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“Is that so? I’ve heard nothing at all about you.” Crowley grinned to show there were no hard feelings, but he turned a raised eyebrow to his aunt all the same. She gave him a mischievous look. “And this is Rose,” Crowley said.
As Rose shook hands, Aunt Gertie said, “There are still lots of things I do for myself, and cooking for family is one of them. You three get acquainted while I see to dinner. It’ll be ready any time now.”
When his aunt went off to the kitchen, Crowley and Rose sat once more. Price joined them.
“Tea?” Crowley asked.
“Thank you.”
“Have you and my aunt known each other long?” Crowley asked, not sure how polite it was to ask, but desperate to know the story.
Price smiled good-naturedly. “We’ve known each other a little while now, yes. We met at a charity lunch where we were both donors, and we hit it off right away.”
“That’s great,” Crowley said, and he meant it. He was pleased his aunt had found company that seemed to make her happy. “And what do you do? Or are you retired?” It was hard, Crowley realized, to guess the man’s age. Gertie barely looked seventy, and he thought perhaps Price had that same well-preserved demeanor, probably associated with wealth as much as genetics. He certainly seemed to be younger than Gertie’s early-seventies, but Crowley had no real inkling by how much.
“Mostly retired now,” Price said. “But I worked in pharmaceuticals and still keep my hand in. I run a company called SaleMed.”
“New York company?” Rose asked.
“All over, really, but I’m from the east coast, yes. I’ve lived in dozens of places, never really had a home town. Even as a child, I moved around. But I live in New York City now, just moved back in the last year or so after traveling for most of my career.”
The man was personable and open, and Crowley found himself relaxing. He had been nervous at first, wondering what this new companion of his great aunt’s might be like. Perhaps he need not worry after all. But he saw Rose’s expression was guarded as she watched Price, and he thought she was less at ease. He wondered why. Only time would tell.
His great aunt called them through to the dining room with its silk-covered chairs and highly polished rosewood table that could seat more than a dozen people comfortably if necessary. The four of them sat amiably around one end of it, and Gertie served up a delicious roast dinner in the old English style. Lamb with mint sauce, roast potatoes, carrots, parsnips, and Brussel sprouts.
The meal progressed well, the four of them chatting about all manner of things, though most of it superficial. Crowley and Rose talked about their road trip and Rose’s first impressions of New York City. They avoided anything to do with why they happened to be in the US in the first place, both wordlessly agreeing to avoid any talk of the Anubis Key or Rose’s sister. But they didn’t get away with that for long.
“I had a work thing over here,” Rose said quickly when Price enquired about the reason for their trip. Then she had gone on to talk about her role as a historian, researcher, and guide for the Natural History Museum in London. She diverted the question nicely. But then Crowley wondered about it if her job was still secure after their recent absences. He knew his own job teaching high school history was probably tenuous by now. They would both have a lot of reparations to make to their employers when they finally returned to London in another week.
Throughout the meal, Crowley noted Rose’s discomfort with Price. He didn’t think his aunt or Price himself would notice, but he knew Rose well enough to recognize her distrust of the man. Her slightly narrowed eyes, her lips pressed a little flatter than usual. It was subtle body language, but there. He didn’t see the problem himself, he thought Matthew Price seemed to be a decent, stand-up guy. He’d ask Rose about it once they were alone again.
Fully sated by the delicious meal they retired back to the lounge and its comfortable couches for nightcaps. Aunt Gertie produced the best Cognac Crowley had ever tasted, and Rose seemed equally impressed. A little tipsy, they eventually hugged and promised Crowley’s aunt they would visit plenty of times during their week in New York City. They would all catch a show one evening and spend some days sightseeing together.
“And any time you get the urge to make another meal like that, you let us know!” Crowley said, kissing his aunt goodbye.
As they left the Dakota, stepping out into the still busy street, Crowley asked, “You don’t trust him, do you?”
Rose grimaced. “Was it that obvious?”
“Only to me, I think. Why not?”
“I don’t know. Nothing I can put my finger on, that’s what was bugging me. There’s just something about him that puts me on edge.” Rose looked back to the building, the large darkened archway of the entrance, and started. She turned quickly, all attention on the shadows.
“What is it?” Crowley looked too but saw nothing.
“There was someone there.” Rose walked back the few steps they had taken, looking carefully around the entrance.
“Someone there?”
“I glanced back, and a man was standing right here, in a three-piece suit and shiny shoes.”
“Was it Price?”
“No, definitely not. Wrong size and shape. But he seemed only half there or something, I couldn’t see too clearly. As I turned for a better look, he was gone.”
“What do you mean, gone?”
“Exactly that! He was there, then he wasn’t. He looked... I don’t know. Sort of old-fashioned.” Rose looked at Crowley, eyebrows raised.
Crowley smiled, put an arm around her shoulders. “All this talk of ghosts and a couple of strong brandies, maybe got your mind spinning overtime?”
“No, Jake. He was there.” She frowned, shook her head, and let out a short laugh. “I think I just saw a ghost!”
Chapter 3
Matthew Price left the Dakota Apartments not long after Jake Crowley, and Rose Black had said their goodbyes. It’s wasn’t especially late, but Trudy always started to wane after ten p.m., and it was almost a full half hour past that already. Taking a deep breath of not especially fresh New York City air, he decided to forego a cab and walk home. He needed the exercise to help him think. Besides, the walk was one of the best in the city. The Dakota Apartments let out onto Central Park West Avenue, directly across the street from Central Park itself, and Price’s current home was in the Upper East Side on East 73rd Street, a casual stroll directly across Central Park, then only three blocks to the other side of Park Avenue. Long enough a stroll to be contemplative, not so long as to be taxing.
As he waited for the lights to change and let him across Central Park West, he let his mind wander, considering the night’s varied conversations. He had things settling into a good routine with Gertrude and loathed any interruption to their lives. But of course, he couldn’t begrudge visits from what little family was still left to her. The crosswalk sounded, and he went across the road and into
Central Park. It cast its magic immediately, the sheer size and bustle of the city instantly cut off. Though the traffic was still audible and the buildings even on the other side visible here and there, towering above the treetops, the calm stillness enveloped him. Price took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh.
He set a leisurely pace, enjoying the deep shadows cast by the trees and before long came to the Bethesda Terrace, midway across the park between west and east. Rather than carry on directly, he went to the stone railings and looked down at the fountain and Central Park Lake beyond. The pale, sandstone steps had intricate stone balustrades and large square posts at the end. The red herringbone tiles below stood out even in the darkness, pools of lamplight turning some parts orange.
Where the central steps led down into the brightly lit gallery, and from there on to the fountain, Price stopped and looked at the large pillars either side, each almost twice the height of a grown adult. One each of the four square faces, intricate indentations had been carved. Each indent, the shape of a three-leafed clover, held a bas relief design; an owl on a branch, an open book with a crescent moon above. Price ran one index finger over the sour-faced witch flying on her broomstick over a church and a carved pumpkin and chuckled to himself. So many memories, so much history.
He turned away again. History had its place, but the here and now was more important, and his evening had left him mildly troubled. Gertrude’s nephew, Jake Crowley, seemed all right, but Price had his doubts about the man’s story of being a teacher. Or at least, that couldn’t be all Crowley had been. No man got that demeanor from life indoors with students. And Price knew beyond a doubt that Crowley’s girlfriend, Rose Black, didn’t seem to like Price himself much at all. She was clearly a strong woman, and strong-willed, no meek partner or quiet wife material there. She had a formidable nature about her that Price found alluring in its own way, but more troublesome than anything. Perhaps the pair of them might cause trouble, and that was something Price dearly wanted to avoid.
Gertrude doted on her nephew, she’d admitted as much. She said how she kept a healthy trust fund running for him to ensure he’d only ever need teaching for the fulfillment, not financial stability. He’d had a tough early life, Gertrude had said, and she intended to see his adult life ran more smoothly. Price smiled. He had a feeling Crowley himself avoided any semblance of an easy life, whether money was an issue or not.
As Price turned to continue on towards home, his phone beeped. Good timing, he thought, as he pulled it out. The message, as he had expected, came from an employee Price had tasked with a little digging. He opened the message and scanned the quite extensive contents.
It seemed Rose Black was indeed the museum historian and guide she had claimed to be. Not that long ago she had ended a long relationship with a woman named Alison Stokes, but was clearly very much in love with Crowley now. Singularly uninteresting in the greater scheme of things, and nothing to give Price too much pause.
Ah, but Jake Crowley’s history was a lot more complicated. A broken home, father died at war before Crowley was born, Crowley himself in the Army for years, quit after his second stint in Afghanistan. Price’s eyebrows rose, and he read the last paragraph again, a small smile tugging at one side of his mouth. Crowley’s exit from the Army was possibly the most interesting thing about the man, and he wondered and how many other people knew. Did Rose Black know about this particular episode in the life of the mild-mannered schoolteacher?
“Well, well, well,” Price said quietly to himself. “Aren’t you quite the bad man, Jake Henry Crowley!”
Chapter 4
When they had arrived back at the Algonquin Hotel the night before, Rose stood outside looking up at the pale stone building with its distinctive green awnings, lit up with bright spots.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Crowley had asked.
To head off the question, she’d answered, “You ever hear about the Round Table here?”
“Arthur and his knights? That’s Camelot, not New York.”
Rose gave him a long-suffering look. “You’re not as funny as you think you are, Jake.”
“I’m bloody hilarious.”
“You’re full of brandy. No, this place, the Algonquin, it’s designated as a New York City Historic Landmark these days, probably because if its architectural significance. But I like to think it’s also because of its journalistic history. For the better part of a decade, back in the 1920s, a whole bunch of journalists, publicists, authors, actors, all gathered here and shared gossip and cutting-edge reports on the New York scene. They became known as the Algonquin Round Table. Privately, they referred to themselves as the Vicious Circle.”
Crowley smiled. “That’s pretty cool. Can you imagine the kind of stuff they talked about?”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking about when you asked me. The history of places like this is fascinating. And because I think I saw a ghost earlier, it reminded me. Quite often, guests at the Algonquin claim to spot members of The Round Table in the halls or rooms. Famous people were in the group, like Dorothy Parker, Robert Benchley, Harpo Marx, Edna Ferber. Loads more I can’t remember.”
“Ghosts, huh?” Crowley asked.
She glanced at him. “I’m telling you what I saw back there was weird!”
“It sure was.” Crowley gestured at the hotel. “So how do you know about that Round Table stuff?”
Rose smiled. “I was here once before, with a journalist friend. She told me all about it.”
Crowley narrowed his eyes. “Did she now?”
“It was a long time ago.”
With that, they’d gone inside and were soon tucked into bed, where they didn’t bother talking for quite a while, and not long after that, they were both asleep.
It had been a long time since Rose was last here. Back then she had been in a relationship with Alison Stokes, and her journalist friend, Jasmine Richards, had tried everything she could to corrupt it. Rose couldn’t help a smile at the memory. There was something undeniable between her and Jazz, that was certain. If it hadn’t been for Alison, who knew what might have happened, but Rose was a loyal lover. And now she was back in New York and back in a relationship, this time with Jake. So she felt a little bad about what she was considering, calling up Jazz, but the reporter was the only local contact she had. Of course, there was Cameron Cray, Crowley’s old Army intel buddy, but that was Jake’s business, even though she considered Cam her friend too now. But Rose didn’t feel comfortable calling him about this. Though she also didn’t feel comfortable ignoring her nagging suspicions about the strange and enigmatic Matthew Price.
Catching up with an old friend in New York was nothing to worry about, after all. It was an entirely reasonable thing to want to do. Just because Jazz was also a damn fine investigative journalist for the New York Sentinel was a bonus. And she didn’t need to feel guilty. If she hadn’t given in to Jazz’s charms when she’d been with Alison, there was no reason to think she would now that she was with Jake. Besides, Jazz would surely have moved on, probably had a partner too, so the whole concern was academic.
Rose had met Jazz the only other time she’d been to New York City. On an exchange program with the American Museum of Natural History on the Upper West Side, she’d spent a week in the greatest city on Earth, mostly in the bowels of the old museum building poring through research papers and retired exhibits. But she’d gone out too, exploring by night, checking out restaurants and bars. She’d met Jazz, quite fittingly, in a small jazz bar. When Rose saw the slim woman sitting alone at the bar, thick black hair held in a loose fat ponytail, dark skin like warm wood under the lights above the bar, she had gravitated to her, sat beside her for security as much as anything. Jazz had smiled, nodded hello, and over the noise of the freeform band had introduced herself.
“Jazz. Like the music,” she’d said, jabbing one thumb back over her shoulder.
“Rose. Like... the flower.”
They’d laughed at that, immediat
ely hit it off, and spent some hours getting drunk and sharing stories of two lives that were quite different on the surface, but that shared similarities.. Rose had been fascinated by the life of an investigative journalist looking into modern news and crimes the way Rose herself looked into old manuscripts and archeological finds. And it was apparent Jazz was into her, so she was careful not to lead the other woman along. She kept Alison front and center of her mind, even told Jazz about her relationship early on in their conversation.
“That’s cool,” Jazz said, “I’m not out to score tonight. Well, you know I wouldn’t it turn it down, but it’s not top of my agenda.” And then she had continued to flirt mercilessly the whole time. Which, if Rose were honest, she had enjoyed.
Sitting on the edge of the hotel bed in the morning sunlight, remembering that night, Rose whispered to herself, “Jasmine Richards. I wonder if you could help me out.” It couldn’t hurt to give her old pal a call.
“What was that?” Crowley asked, emerging from the bathroom.
Rose smiled. “Nothing. Just thinking out loud.”
“Want to come to the gym with me?” Crowley flexed his arms, pumped his chest. “Got to keep this fine machine in shape.”
Rose looked him up and down with a half-smile. He certainly did have a fine physique, fit and strong, and he kept it that way with the discipline he’d developed in the Army. And the truth was, they worked out well together. She stayed in shape too, mostly through kickboxing and amateur soccer. It seemed like years since she’d played and her life back then had been so much simpler. Life now was exciting, sometimes not in a good way. “I think I’ll skip it this morning. But you go on.”
“You’ll be okay?”
“Of course. I can amuse myself for a couple of hours, Jake!”
He kissed her, grabbed a towel, and headed out for the hotel gym. Rose pulled out her phone and stared at it for a minute. It would be good to see Jazz regardless of her concerns about Matthew Price. They had kept in touch, regularly making gags on each other’s Facebook pages and stuff like that, but there was no substitute for genuine human interaction.