Dearly Departed (18 page)

CHAPTER 30

T
hey'd been home five days now, and Amy hadn't called. She had e-mailed him twice, both times in response to some work-related matters. He had always been more into her than she was into him. He accepted this, although he'd hoped that eleven days together, with no Fanny and no Marcus in sight, might help change things. While still on the plane going home, he had promised himself not to be the first to call.

Peter broke the promise in the middle of day one and left a message. But having been the first to call, he absolutely refused to be the second. So far, this promise was holding. He knew how much he missed her, because just now, as he was glancing out his street-level window, he could swear he saw her mother waddling by on East Sixty-Fourth. Good Lord, things were bad. He was even missing Fanny.

“There's a woman here,” Claire said, easing open the door to his inner office. He was both reassured that he hadn't been imagining Fanny on the street and distressed that she'd shown up out of the blue. This couldn't be good.

“I was in the neighborhood,” Fanny said as she sneaked under Claire's outstretched arm. “You can leave us alone, dear. Petey and I are old friends.”

“Mrs. Abel.” It was the only thing he could think of to say.

She waited until the door was firmly closed. “Actually, I wasn't in the neighborhood. I came to apologize for my daughter. She hasn't treated you well, not at all.” Without being asked, she seated herself in the brown leather chair opposite his desk.

“Would you like some coffee? No, I forgot. You and TrippyGirl switched over to tea. Claire!” he yelled through the door. “Two cups of Earl Grey.”

“You see?” Fanny said with a soothing nod. “So thoughtful. And she didn't even send you a thank-you note, I'll bet. Go on. Sit down. Make yourself comfortable.”

Peter sat, but it took several minutes for him to start to relax. Meanwhile, Fanny swooped into her monologue, one that he interrupted with a syllable every now and then, when he had the chance. It seemed that Amy's Travel was grateful for everything he'd done, whether or not Amy admitted it. He had given them a nice influx of cash, given Amy a much-needed trip, and absorbed much of the PR fallout from the volcano incident. Fanny only wished that all the men in Amy's life could be so mature and considerate.

“Frankly, just between us . . .” And here she leaned forward, so sincere that it was almost a parody. “Marcus has become a real pain.”

“I thought you liked Marcus.”

“Whatever gave you that impression?” Fanny seemed befuddled. Of course, Marcus was irreverent and fun and easy to talk to. He was also proactive and knew how to get things done. Oh, and he was dashingly handsome in an adorable, roguish way. Great hair, too. But—and it seemed to take her forever to get to the “but”—Marcus was an irresponsible liar and not at all the man she would wish for her brilliant and gorgeous and lovable daughter.

“I couldn't agree more,” Peter said. “When it's just Amy and me, we get along perfectly.”

“I think it's a matter of proximity.” Fanny pretended to give it some thought. “Marcus lives a few blocks away, and he's always at the house. We should figure out a way for you and Amy to spend more time together.”

“We spent eleven days together,” Peter pointed out.

“I know. But there was a murder and a volcano. Amy finds those things distracting.” Her eyes fell on his darkly polished desk, which led her seamlessly to her next objective. “By the way, I just love your offices. I've never been here before.”

Peter preened. “I'll have to give you a tour. Did you notice the interactive display on the Madison Ave. side?”

“I noticed it, yes.”

“I'll show it to you before you leave.”

The display, he said, had been his innovation. Rather than relying on window cards to entice the would-be traveler, Peter had installed a state-of-the-art video system. All the curious passerby had to do was type in a destination and the screen would come alive with a virtual tour of the world's most exotic travel experiences.

“We do get some homeless usage,” he had to admit. “But that's generally at night. They think we're like the Travel Channel.”

“You see?” Fanny gushed and laughed. “We could learn so much from you. Your Web site, by the way, is amazing.”

“Thanks. But the shop is crucial. I find that folks at a certain level are reassured by a brick-and-mortar presence. Or, in my case, a mahogany-and-marble presence.” He brayed at his clever turn of phrase, and Fanny brayed along.

After Claire delivered and poured and sweetened the tea, Fanny reminded Peter about the tour, and he eagerly took her around. There wasn't much to see, just the reception area, the front desks, and Peter's inner sanctum. But Fanny made the experience last, oohing and aahing over the rugs and the crown molding and whatever fancy booking system that had just been installed.

“I'm so glad you're not opening a branch in the Village,” Fanny said in mock horror. “You'd put us out of business.” They had finished their second round of tea and were lingering by the door. Behind them, Claire was dealing with a pair of walk-ins interested in taking their five dogs to London on the
Queen Mary 2
.

“I've actually thought about expanding,” Peter said. “Either the Village or SoHo.”

“Oh, no,” said Fanny. “That would break Amy's heart.”

“Just a thought,” Peter said quickly. “It would be nice to have a presence. . . .”

Five minutes later Peter brought up the subject of a merger. “It would solve so many problems,” he said, warming to his own idea. He and Amy would get to work together on a daily basis. He would gain a ready-made presence in the Village, with three more years on the lease. And Marcus would be gradually elbowed out of the picture. “Why did it take me so long to think of this?” Peter asked himself out loud.

Fanny had exactly the same question. She had suffered and smiled her way through two cups of over-sugared tea in order to maneuver Peter to the place he should have been in the middle of cup one. “What a fabulous idea!”

“Well, it's just an idea.”

“Of course,” she said, moderating her enthusiasm. “Amy may not be in favor, and the finances may not work out. But it's definitely worth thinking about.”

“You think she'll be against it? Against partnering with me?”

Fanny had forgotten how easy he was to manipulate. “We'll have to plan it carefully. Have a nice dinner with several bottles of wine and then all look at the finances together. I think we might talk her into it.”

CHAPTER 31

T
he gas fireplace in the bedroom gave off more heat than Joy Archer had expected. She stood back and absorbed the warmth on her outstretched hands. To her, the idea of a roaring fire in a Manhattan penthouse was the epitome of luxury. And a chilly, overcast morning like this provided her with the perfect excuse.

She returned to the kitchen and put her cereal bowl in the overcrowded mess of a sink. Then she got to work, continuing her project from last night, searching for the music box. She had no idea what it was or why Barbara Corns wanted it. But the fact that she wanted it made it worth finding. Was it antique? Did it hold diamonds or a gold bar? That was unlikely, since it had been a present from the Corns, people not known for their generosity.

For the most part, she was treading well-trodden ground. The paralegals had already scoured the apartment. But Paisley MacGregor had kept a few special places. Archer had run across them over the years, when the maid was off cleaning houses and she was supposed to be doing the same. There was the old dumbwaiter behind a cabinet in the pantry, left over from when the penthouse had been a two-story affair. There were various cubbyholes, like the empty panel box in the library and the attic-like storage space in the hallway ceiling, with an almost invisible handle to pull down the trapdoor. These big prewar apartments were filled with such oddities.

Archer had left the most promising for last—the floor safe hidden under a parquet trapdoor under a rug in the big bedroom. The square, shallow safe had been part of the original 1920s structure. The apartment's current owners probably had no idea it was there, but MacGregor had found it shortly after moving in. An old locksmith had spent two hours opening the iron door, only to find the safe empty. MacGregor had had him reset the combination before he left.

Settling in with a fresh cup of coffee and a few pillows, Joy Archer hovered over the floor safe and, by the flickering of the fire, tried various numerical combinations: MacGregor's birthday, backward and forward and European style; the woman's e-mail password; all the possible variations of her Social Security number.

Crinkles brushed up against her leg, distracting her. “Not now.” The old dear chose about one hour a week to be affectionate and always at the worst time. The maid banished her favorite cat to the living room, topped off her coffee, and started again.

She was beginning to fear that it might just be a random number when, on a whim, Archer input her own birthday. It was a silly time waster of an idea, but . . .

“Why would she set it to my birthday?” she muttered. That was her first thought as the gears clicked into place and the handle turned. “That's weird.” And the weirdness of it kept her from enjoying the moment as much as she might have. “It's like she knew I would try to open it.”

On top of the pile preserved in the hollow iron square were old documents and photos. “MacGregor used to be a child?” she mused as she leafed through the ancient pictures: a flaxen-haired girl on a swing, the same girl staring stone-faced at the camera with her parents. Archer placed to one side a cheap gold-plated broach dangling from a black ribbon.

Directly under a batch of legal-looking papers she found it: a rectangular box of dark mahogany. Inlaid on the lid was a marquetry panel, the image of a diamond made from pieces of mother-of-pearl.

Archer opened the lid. Four slow musical notes played from the mechanism.
To our diamond in the rough. Happy birthday. Evan and Barbara.
This was handwritten on an engraved card, sitting lonely in the empty box.

“I don't get it,” Archer mumbled. She would have to take it in to an appraiser to see if it was really as worthless as it looked.

The maid removed the music box and was about to close the safe. Then it occurred to her that everything in this black hole must be priceless in some way, and that made her continue rummaging through.

The photos and love letters held no more than sentimental value, of course, although Archer was surprised to see a photo of a young suitor who was not as homely as she might have expected.

The letter was handwritten on three pages of a yellow legal pad, stapled in the top left corner. Archer had to read the entire thing—well, skim the entire thing—several times before she realized what was being said. Luckily, she had paid just enough attention to Paisley's ex-employers over the years to be able to put a face to the name signed at the bottom of page three.

This next time she read the letter slowly. The facts were stated clearly, as if the writer were addressing a rather slow and literal-minded cop. She was amazed that someone would actually put all this in writing. Well, Paisley had that kind of power over people. She made you trust her. Paisley would take care of everything.

Archer treated herself to two healthy slugs of whiskey in her coffee, then returned to the glowing warmth of the bedroom, where she sat in a Louis XV chair, toasted her own cleverness and, in light of this new information, tried to devise the most lucrative course of action.

Paisley's cell phone was still at the bedside, still attached to its charger. It didn't take her long to figure out how to access the directory and scroll down the numbers to the one she wanted. She was just about to press CALL when the doorbell rang. With a sigh, the maid put down the phone and lumbered out toward the foyer. Who the hell could it be? The police again, maybe this time with a search warrant? Barbara, making up another excuse to paw through the apartment?

“Who is it?” Archer peered through the peephole. She recognized the face, although it took several seconds to accept the reality of the fish-eye distortion peering back at her, smiling and looking so ingratiating. Well, speak of the devil . . .

“Just a minute,” she said. “Give me a minute.”

It took her closer to three minutes to dump the music box and the letter back inside, close the safe, lower the parquet trapdoor and slip the area rug back on top.

Then she returned to the door and removed the chain.

 

Javier Martinez had been the maintenance engineer at 142 Sutton Place for almost two decades and didn't appreciate his judgment being questioned, especially not by a young, gum-chewing Con Ed worker who had probably gotten his cushy job through some highly placed relative in the union.

The problem had begun around noon, when Mrs. Daniels in penthouse 1 called the front desk, complaining of a gas smell. Javier had arrived within three minutes, no more. He had checked all the fittings—stove, both fireplaces, clothes dryer—then gone out into the hall, where he'd discovered the smell was stronger. When no one answered the door at the only other penthouse, Javier tried the penthouse 2 phone. No answer. Finally, he'd telephoned Con Ed.

“The minute she said ‘gas,' you should have called,” the muscle-bound Guido scolded between snaps of his gum. “That's Safety one-oh-one.”

Javier didn't respond. But it crossed his mind that no one ever made an argument by talking about course 102. Everything seemed to be taught in 101. He himself had never been to college, but he imagined that all the things people said were a part of blah-blah-blah 101 would probably fill up more than a year's worth of classes, even at a good school.

When the elevator doors opened on the penthouse floor, the smell was stronger than before. Luckily, Mrs. Daniels, a cautious woman, had already taken her poodle out for a walk.

“I'm calling the police,” Javier said, pulling a cell phone from his jacket.

“No,” the Guido scolded again. “Even the current from a cell phone . . . Does this floor have a shutoff valve?”

Javier led him from the elevator toward the utility closet, which had been transformed into a storeroom for the residents' recyclables. The valve was still there, behind the bin for plastics, cans, and glass.

“There,” the Guido said after he'd turned the gas valve tightly shut. “We'll give it five minutes, then go in and open some windows.”

“What if someone's in there?” Javier protested.

“Not my problem. I gotta follow protocol.”

“To hell with your protocol,” Javier said.

At least that was what he later told the
Daily News
reporter he said. He actually said nothing. But he did take the keys from his belt, did find the right one, and did place a handkerchief over his face before approaching the door to penthouse 2.

It wouldn't have mattered one way or the other.