A Catered Tea Party (4 page)

M
agda's grandmother lived in Little Russia at 3 Brighton Court, a house in a narrow alleyway between two major avenues. The address wasn't on Bernie's GPS, and after circling around the area for several minutes, she'd given up, stopped, and asked for directions. The first woman she asked had shrugged and shaken her head, but the second one had given her the information she needed.

It took another five minutes after that before Bernie found Brighton Court, and five more minutes until she found a parking space. The spot was a few feet away from an open fire hydrant, and when Bernie exited the van, she stepped into a stream of water running down the street, but she did manage to sidestep the horde of shrieking kids dressed in bathing suits and flip-flops running in and out of the water's spray.

As Bernie turned into the alleyway, a light breeze carried in the salty smell of the Atlantic. Bernie smelled it and smiled. To her mind, that smell was tanning lotion and grilled hamburgers and night-blooming flowers, all the smells of summer wrapped into one. She took another deep breath and thought about how nice it would be to be at the beach before getting back to the business at hand.

The address she and her sister were looking for turned out to be in the middle of the alleyway. It was one of five white clapboard bungalows with gray trim, all lined up with military precision. Each had a small backyard with a chain-link fence around it, and as Bernie walked toward Magda's grandmother's house, she wondered how this row of houses had escaped the developers' wrecking ball, or whether the residents were living in its shadow.

A short, white, wrought-iron handrail ran up either side of the three steps that led up to the front door. Two elderly, heavyset women—both with scarfs tied around their hair, both wearing floral print dresses and orthopedic shoes with Cuban heels—were sitting on the steps talking to one another. They stopped chatting when Bernie and Libby walked around the garbage cans on the curb and came toward them, waiting to see what the sisters wanted.

“We're looking for Magda, Magda Webster,” Bernie said when she and Libby got close enough to talk.

The woman on the far right looked at Bernie and Libby and shook her head. Then she said something to her friend in Russian.

“She's not here,” the friend translated.

“We were told she was,” Bernie countered.

The English speaker translated the sentence for the other woman, who Libby and Bernie assume did not speak English. She shook her head again and began talking in rapid-fire Russian. Bernie and Libby waited. After a minute or so of animated conversation, the second woman asked Bernie and Libby who told them Magda was here.

“Igor and Ivan,” Libby replied promptly.

Bernie decided that the first woman must have understood what she was saying because she leaned over and carefully spit on the ground.

“I guess she doesn't like them too much,” Bernie said to the second woman.

“They are worthless,” the second woman replied. She reached up to her shoulder and tugged her bra strap up. “They should be going to school and making something of themselves instead of running around like idiots with those stupid vests on.”

“You could be right,” Bernie said.

“I
am
right,” the woman exclaimed.

“Okay. You are right. Can we speak to Magda?”

“What you want to talk to her for?” the second woman demanded, not bothering to translate Bernie's request for the first woman. “Are you police? Is she in trouble?”

“Definitely not,” Libby answered. “We're here because we want to speak to her about her boss, Ludvoc Zalinsky.”

“Also scum,” the second woman answered.

“More than scum,” the first woman said, for the first time using heavily accented English. She spit on the ground again. “It is good he is dead.”

“Why are you saying that?” Libby asked.

“Why? Why?” The voice of the first woman, who it now seemed clear was Magda's grandmother, rose in indignation. “He make promises to my Magda, that's why she stay and work for him all this time and then he say ‘no. I never say this'—and poof, just like this, it is gone. Gone. What she supposed to do now with the children? How she supposed to pay for their education?” she demanded of Libby. She looked her up and down. “You can help with this?” she finally said.

“Probably not,” Libby admitted.

“Then why she should talk to you?” the second woman demanded.

“Because we're trying to help a friend,” Bernie told her.

The grandmother leaned forward and let go a torrent of Russian.

“Does that mean you're not going to help?” Libby asked her when the torrent subsided.

“She did not say that,” the second woman replied.

“So what did she say?” Libby wanted to know.

The second woman retucked the hem of her dress around her thighs before answering. “She say Magda, she is at the beach.”

“Maybe we could go talk to her there,” Libby suggested, although she was positive Magda's grandmother had said a great deal more than that.

“It is a big beach,” the second woman told them. “You will not find them. And she is with her children and her cousins. Even if you do, it will not matter because she will not want to talk to you.”

“Do you know when she's coming back?” Bernie asked.

The second woman shrugged. “When everyone is ready to come home.”

“Could you call her?” Libby asked. “Tell her we're here?”

The second woman shook her head. “She no take her phone.”

“Okay then. Can you have her call us when she does get back?” Bernie asked as she dug a pen and a scrap of paper out of her bag and wrote hers and Libby's phone numbers on it and handed it to the second woman, who said something in Russian to Magda's grandmother before handing the scrap of paper to her. Bernie watched the lady fold up the piece of paper she'd given her and slip it into her dress pocket.

“You go now,” she said to Libby and Bernie, dismissing them with a wave of her hand. Then she went back to talking to her friend in Russian. After waiting for a minute, Libby and Bernie did as they were told.

As they walked back to the van, Libby ran her fingers along the wooden fence that demarcated the alley's boundaries. It was dirty, and after a moment, Libby had acquired a fine layer of soot on her fingertips. She wiped her fingers off on a ginkgo leaf and turned to Bernie.

“If Magda's grandmother is telling the truth about Zalinsky reneging on his promise to send Magda's kids to college,” Libby said, “that would be quite a bit of money Magda would have to get her hands on.”

“Hundreds of thousands,” Bernie said.

“The teapot would certainly solve that problem,” Libby noted.

“She'd certainly feel justified,” Bernie observed.

“But if that were the case,” Libby objected, “Magda would want to hire her cousins, not dissuade them.”

“True. And anyway,” Bernie mused. “If Magda were going to steal the teapot, why pick then to do it?”

“Maybe it was locked up in a safe before the performance.”

“Okay. But then how did Magda plan to sell it? Who did she plan to sell it to?”

“Maybe Magda had a partner,” Libby suggested. “A partner with contacts.”

Bernie retied her DKNY wrap dress. “Which brings us back to Hsaio. I think we need to have a chat with her.”

“Definitely,” Libby agreed as Bernie reached into her tote and got out her cell phone.

A
s it turned out, Bernie and Libby were in luck. Hsaio Rosenthal was at Zalinsky's office dealing with paperwork when Bernie and Libby called. She would, she told them, be there for another hour and a half before she had to go down to Columbia University for a meeting with her adviser about her thesis, which dealt with the beneficial effects of exposing six-month-olds to soothing colors.

“No problem. We should be there in forty minutes if the traffic isn't too bad,” Bernie had told her before hanging up.

Bernie and Libby had been to Zalinsky's office before. They'd signed their contract there. His office was in his house, accessible by a separate entrance in the back. The house had originally been a farmhouse built in the mid-1800s. Supposedly, it had been part of the Underground Railroad.

Then it had been purchased and rebuilt by a man named Endicott back in the early 1900s. His wife, who had come from Alabama, had wanted to live in a southern plantation manor, and Endicott had obliged to the best of his ability. The house had gone from a farmhouse to a large, white, columned, two-story affair, with a wraparound veranda filled with wicker furniture that no one ever sat on. The irony was not lost on Endicott. He'd written about it in a letter to a cousin that was now sitting in the Longely Historical Society.

After Endicott and his wife died, the house had fallen on hard times, and by the time Zalinsky had acquired it, there was a leak in the roof and dry rot in the wood. He had spent a considerable amount of money restoring the place. Bernie had heard that the house was full of gold-plated faucets, spa-style showers, Japanese-style toilets, Swarovski crystal chandeliers, a media room, and a ballroom, as well as a separate exhibition space for Zalinsky's burgeoning art collection.

However, Bernie and Libby wouldn't know, because they hadn't seen any of the house. They'd walked around the back and gone directly into Zalinsky's office, signed the contract, and left. Zalinsky hadn't offered to walk them through the house, though they could see an adjoining room through the opened door, and they hadn't asked. The office had been small and spare, consisting of four rooms, probably the maids' quarters in a former iteration, Bernie had speculated.

There had been the entrance room where Magda Webster had sat, a slightly larger room furnished with antique Chinese furniture and blue-and-white pottery, which was where Zalinsky had his desk, a third room that seemed to be for storing files, and a galley kitchen. The walls of all four rooms had been painted cream white and were hung with Chinese scrolls.

Bernie checked her watch as she parked the van around the rear of Zalinsky's office. They'd made it back from Brighton Beach in an hour, which gave them a half hour with Hsaio. Bernie didn't think that would be enough time, but at least it would be a start.

Hsaio had five files spread out over Zalinsky's desk when the sisters entered the office. She turned and smiled at them.

“I'm just trying to get some paperwork in order,” she explained, running a hand through her short, black hair.

Looking at Hsaio, the word coming to Libby's mind was wispy. Hsaio probably wore a double zero, Libby decided. If that. Libby was sure there was a downside to being that tiny, but for the life of her she couldn't figure out what it could be. Today Hsaio was dressed in a white T-shirt, a mid-thigh pleated chambray skirt, and white three-inch platform espadrilles, an outfit that emphasized her smallness.

“So how can I help you guys?” she asked, giving them a quizzical look.

Bernie leaned against Zalinsky's desk and redid her ponytail. “Tell us about the teapot,” she said when she was done with her hair.

“The Yixing teapot?”

Bernie nodded. “How old is it?”

Hsaio laughed, showing a perfect set of white teeth. “Actually, it's modern. It was made by an artist from a province in China out of a special purple clay that can only be mined in a certain village, and the experts say that his craftsmanship compares favorably with the Ming court artisans of the fourteenth century. In addition, the clay from which it is made is supposed to have health benefits. Why are you asking?”

“Just becoming informed,” Libby told her. “Can I ask why the teapot costs so much?”

Hsaio shrugged. “A matter of supply and demand. Lots of Chinese collect them, and these days they have a lot of money. Personally, I think Zalinsky paid way too much—he got caught up in a bidding war, and his ego got the better of him—but I was not consulted. I just did as I was told.”

“Meaning?” Libby asked.

Hsaio pointed to herself. “I was the one who placed the bids for Zalinsky. He didn't want it known that he was the one who had bought it.”

“And then he did want people to know,” Bernie said.

Hsaio concurred. “Yes, and then he did.”

“What made him change his mind?” Libby enquired.

“Personally, I think it was a matter of ego. He didn't want anyone to know if he lost the sale. But that's just me. I really have no idea,” Hsaio told her. “As I said, I just followed orders.”

Bernie picked up a ceramic statue of a horse and rider sitting on Zalinsky's desk. “Nice,” she commented.

“Excellent copy of a Tang dynasty horse,” Hsaio informed her.

Bernie put the statue down. “How come he picked you to place the bids?” Bernie asked her.

“Frankly,” Hsaio said, “I think he confused art ed with art history. And then when he heard I used to work for an antiques dealer—kinda—he assumed I knew about the field, and I didn't correct him.” Hsaio looked sheepish. “I needed the job.”

“So then you would know where to sell the teapot,” Libby observed.

Hsaio laughed. “That's what the police said to me too, and I'll tell you what I told them. I worked for Zalinsky, and I did what he told me, and as for knowing any serious collectors who would buy it, you probably know as many of them as I do.”

“You didn't make any contacts when you worked for your antiques dealer?” Bernie said.

“Antiques is an elastic term. This is the place I worked,” Hsaio said, and she took her cell phone out and went to Safari. “I'll let you be the judge. Here,” Hsaio said, handing Bernie the phone.

“Everything Baseball?” Bernie asked. “Antiques seems like a bit of a misnomer.”

“Hey, there are serious collectors of this stuff out there,” Hsaio told her. “If you'd like, I'll get the owner on the phone for you.”

Bernie put her hands up in the air. “That's not necessary,” she protested.

“No, I insist,” Hsaio said, dialing the number.

Bernie spent the next five minutes listening to the shop owner sing Hsaio's praises.

“Now,” Hsaio said, taking the phone from Bernie when she was done, “if you ask me about baseball cards, that would be a different story. But selling the teapot to someone—that I can't help you with.”

“Not even the Chinese?” Libby asked. “You said it's a hot item for them.”

“It is,” Hsaio told her. “The police asked me that too, but in case you're wondering, I'm adopted. I grew up in Scarsdale. Rosenthal. I'm Jewish. I have no contacts in the Chinese community. None. This whole thing makes no sense to me,” she added.

“Do you mean Zalinsky's death?” Libby asked.

“No. The teapot,” Hsaio told her. “That is what we were talking about, isn't it? The death I understand.”

Bernie raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

“You worked with him,” Hsaio said. “You know what he was like.”

“Oh yes,” Bernie said. “Indeed I do.”

Hsaio laughed for the third time. “Well, there you go. So did everyone else. He was an awful man. I had a terrible argument with him right before the show.”

“So we heard,” Libby said.

“The guards, right?” Hsaio asked.

Libby nodded.

“I saw them.” Hsaio hesitated for a moment, then plunged into her story. “Zalinsky and I had this arrangement, you know. At least I thought I did.” Hsaio shook her head. “I thought I was so smart. My mother told me not to do it, but I didn't listen.”

“I remember a few of those,” Bernie said.

Hsaio shot her a grateful glance. “I should have listened to her,” Hsaio said. “What happened was that Zalinsky and I worked out a deal. Instead of paying me a salary for basically being his gofer, he was supposed to be paying my rent on an apartment he owned on the Upper West Side. I thought it was a fantastic deal.” Hsaio made a face. “Then I found out about a month ago from a neighbor that the apartment building was going into foreclosure.”

“That sucks!” Bernie exclaimed.

Hsaio snorted. “That's certainly an understatement.”

“Did you talk to Zalinsky about it?” Bernie asked.

“What do you think?” Hsaio cried. “Of course, I did. He said there'd been a misunderstanding, and it was being taken care of, and I had nothing to worry about.”

“And you believed him?”

“Definitely. I had no reason not to. I shouldn't have, but I did.” Hsaio's voice trailed off. “That's what our fight was about. I found out he hadn't done anything at all. He swore it was all a misunderstanding and he'd done everything he was supposed to.” She sighed. “Well, it's too late now. I guess I'm going to have to find another place to live. Not an easy thing these days. I'm probably going to have to move back home, God help me.”

Libby gently ran a finger down the tail of the ceramic horse. For a moment, the only sound she, Bernie, and Libby heard was the quacking of the ducks in the pond in the backyard and the whoosh of the overhead fan. “So what's going to happen to Zalinsky's collection?” she asked.

“That's a good question,” Hsaio responded. She bent down and picked up a scrap of paper that had landed on the floor and deposited it in the mesh wastepaper basket next to the desk. “I can tell you what Zalinsky wanted to have happen. He wanted this house to become a museum like the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in Boston.” Seeing the blank look on the sisters' faces, she explained. “The Gardner museum was originally someone's home, and when the lady died, she stipulated in her will that her house and art collection be opened to the public. Of course, she left a big endowment fund.”

“Which I take Zalinsky did not?” Libby asked.

“Nope. Not even a little one,” Hsaio replied. “Or if he did, I don't know about it. But then, as it turns out, I don't know lots of things,” Hsaio concluded ruefully.

“Like the money situation?” Bernie guessed.

Hsaio nodded. “Like the money situation.”

“I thought he was worth billions,” Bernie said.

“So did I. So did everyone. But now I don't think that's the case,” Hsaio replied. “I think maybe he was pulling one of those financial things . . . schemes. Of some kind.” She gave an apologetic shrug. “I don't understand them, but that seems the only explanation. I mean, how do you go from billions to nothing?”

“So he was really broke?” Libby asked. “I find that hard to believe.”

“I think everyone shares your opinion.” Hsaio frowned. “Don't get me wrong, I don't know for certain, but what I
do
know is that there have been a lot of unpleasant calls coming in from people wanting to get paid.”

“So we heard,” Bernie said. According to Clyde, the police had checked out the calls and come up empty-handed.

As Bernie was talking, Hsaio rummaged around in her backpack, took out her cell phone, and checked the time. “Drats. Gotta go.”

Bernie put her hand on Hsaio's shoulder. “One last question. How did you meet Zalinsky?”

Hsaio looked up from zipping up her backpack. “Erin introduced us.”

“I didn't know you knew Erin before the play,” Bernie remarked, slightly confused about the timeline.

“I know Magda from when she worked at Starbucks, and Erin is Magda's cousin. I think she's her third . . . or is it fourth cousin. I can't get the genealogy straight. Now if you want to talk about someone getting screwed over by Zalinsky.” Hsaio gave a mournful shake of her head. “I feel so bad for her. She gave up so much for him . . .”

“Zalinsky?” Libby clarified.

Hsaio nodded. “He treated her so badly.”

“What did he do?” Bernie asked, thinking of the scene she'd witnessed right before the play between Erin and Zalinsky.

“Ask her,” Hsaio replied as she turned off the office lights. “She'll be more than happy to tell you, I'm sure. I'm sorry, but I'm late already.”

She hurried out the door with Bernie and Libby trailing behind her. On the way out, Bernie noticed that Hsaio hadn't bothered to activate the house alarm.
Probably in her rush to leave she's forgotten,
Bernie thought.
Should I tell her?
she wondered
. Or not?

Bernie wavered for a moment, but in the end the opportunity to get inside Zalinsky's house won out over the shred of guilt she was feeling, so she didn't say anything. Instead, while Hsaio was futzing around, looking for her car keys, Bernie palmed a roll of Scotch Tape.

Once outside, Hsaio and the two sisters parted. Libby and Bernie walked over to Mathilda, while Hsaio trotted over to her old banged-up Civic. Libby got into Mathilda and Hsaio got into her vehicle, while Bernie lingered outside, pretending to take a pebble out of her shoe.

“You know,” Libby said to her, “it occurs to me that we don't know anything about anyone in the cast.”

“Why should we?” Bernie replied, glancing up. “We weren't there much.”