Murder at the 42nd Street Library: A Mystery (Thomas Dunne Book) (17 page)

She hesitated, tossed her head, smiled. “Nah.… Forget it.”

“Adele, for crying out loud.”

“Okay. Johnny’s mother’s name is Emily.”

Her eyes sparkled as she watched for his reaction. He didn’t get it, which must have showed because the sparkle left her eyes. “She’s the right age. Emily’s not such a common name. She went to the memorial service and denied she was there.”

“You think she’s Emily Yates?”

“She might be. I’m not saying she is. I’ve gotten a sense of Emily Yates from the research I’ve been doing. I thought about what she might be like grown up. I saw her having hard times but being resilient, the spunk she had when she was young. A sense I get of Emily Smith is that there’s something more to her. She doesn’t talk about her past. But you can tell she came from an educated home. It’s like she had had a life different than the one she has now. I know it’s a stab in the dark—except for the memorial service. I’d swear it was her I saw.”

Ambler turned to face Adele. “If her name were Sarah or Eleanor or Barbara, would you have come up with this? Does anything you’ve discovered in the files about Emily Yates lead you to this other Emily … whatever her name is?

“Smith,” Adele said quietly.

“If I remember correctly, you saw someone walking across the campus, not someone attending the service—” He stopped because he saw the hurt in her face. “It might be something,” he said quickly. “Cosgrove would say, ‘You need to rule it out.’”

Anger flashed in Adele’s eyes. “Don’t patronize me.” She started to walk away.

“Wait,” Ambler said. “Please.” She stopped. “If you think you have something here, go back to the files—to the data—see if anything concrete, anything objective, connects the two Emilys. A photo. Physical description. Hair color, even eye color, you can change. Some characteristics you can’t change: Nearsighted? Walk with a limp? Left-handed? Allergies? Propensities. Make a list of anything they might have in common: What type of music did the young Emily listen to? What bands did she like? There are things a person can’t change about herself, some things you do unconsciously so you don’t think to change. Is pink your favorite color? Do you put salt on your grapefruit? Hate cucumbers? You could consider fingerprints, though Emily Yates might never have been fingerprinted.” He paused. “She might have kept things also. But to find out you’d need to look through her things. And you can’t do that based on speculation.”

“Raymond, I’ve done a lot of that. You may be the star detective. I’ve done more library research than you have. I’ve looked and looked for a photo. You’d think there’d be something in Nelson’s files or something on the Internet—but nothing.” She turned to walk away again. “You might find this shocking. There’s nothing in the files about her feelings toward cucumbers.”

Chapter 14

Ambler had run across the high society set at library functions often enough to recognize a member of the species when he saw one. Mrs. Lisa Young, tall, slender, and elegant in a high-strung, over-bred way, swished into the room with a confident stride. A woman about Ambler’s age, she was attractive, along the lines of what magazines once called a handsome woman rather than glamorous.

The room she swept into was the King Cole Bar at the St. Regis Hotel on East 55th Street, off Fifth Avenue. Ambler knew she’d arrive there at about that time because McNulty told him she would. McNulty—whose connections to all strata of society in the city through his bartender cronies were akin to those of the Page Six gossip columnists—tracked her down when Ambler told him about Cosgrove’s plan.

McNulty’s friend, Marcelo, a bartender at the Oyster Bar, told him she was a connoisseur of fine cocktails and New York bars that reminded her of a Marjorie Morningstar past. She made regular stops, besides the Oyster Bar, at Sardi’s, the 21 Club, the King Cole Bar, Bemelmans at The Carlyle, The Blue Bar at the Algonquin, and the Bull and Bear at the Waldorf Astoria. Friday nights during the spring season, it was The King Cole.

Ambler waited until the two patrons at the bar left and she’d finished her first drink before speaking to her. They sat a few seats from one another, she drinking a sidecar, Ambler red wine, studying the eponymous mural behind the bar.

“A merry old soul,” he said.

She looked at Maxfield Parrish’s mural of the king and his merry men, and then at him. Her expression surprised him, the directness of it and how she lowered her eyelashes so she seemed both shy and provocative at the same time. He liked her smile and how easygoing and friendly she seemed. They talked for a few minutes about paintings, Maxfield Parrish, and New York hotel bars.

When the time seemed right, he told her he worked at the 42nd Street Library and waited to see if she’d mention her connection to the library. She didn’t.

“I’m the curator of the crime fiction collection.”

She laughed, an easy, pleasant sound. “What an absolutely perfect job. I envy you.” She looked at him curiously and then signaled the bartender and ordered them both a refill. “It’s ironic, isn’t it, that you’ve had a real-life murder to complement your collection?”

“Two murders,” Ambler said. “I prefer fictitious ones.”

She lowered her gaze; and her expression, which had been mildly amused, softened into something like sadness. “I’m sorry I sounded flip. I don’t mean that at all.”

He told her a little bit about what happened and who was killed. She asked questions, seeming interested, but acknowledged nothing about her connection to the library or to Nelson Yates. Still, despite her lack of candor, he felt duplicitous. The more he talked, the guiltier he felt. More than that, something in her expression, a kind of wistfulness or sadness, struck a chord with him, so he began to like her. He took a swallow of wine and plunked the glass back onto the bar.

“I know who you are, Mrs. Young. I should have told you. I know you’re a member of the library’s Board of Trustees.”

Her lips curled in a wry smile. “Is this a fortuitous accident, meeting me here, or have you been following me?”

“I recognized you when you came through the door. I knew you’d be here.”

“How did you know that?”

He shook his head. “I can’t tell you that.”

“I’ll get to the bottom of it.” She looked him full in the face for a moment while she sipped from her drink. “So you tracked me down. You’re a man on a mission. What’s the mission?”

He told her about the plan to close the reading room and integrate the crime fiction into the overall library collection.

She knew about the plan to make overall changes to the library but hadn’t known about the changes to the crime fiction collection, or even that there was a crime fiction collection. He debated telling her he knew she’d funded the Yates acquisition. Telling her would betray both Harry and Adele, so he hesitated. Finally, he said, “I’m going to level with you.”

She smiled mischievously. “Think twice. That might be dangerous.”

He did think twice. It was dangerous. He went ahead anyway. “What coincided with the murders we were talking about was the library’s acquisition of the Nelson Yates papers—”

Her change in expression gave her away. She knew what was coming. “Go on. Are you reluctant to tell me what you know?”

“Yes.”

Something ominous flickered through her eyes. “You’re not waiting for me to help you, are you?”

“I think I am.”

“Don’t falter now, Mr. Ambler. You’ve been brave, if foolhardy; see it through.”

So he did. “What prompted you to make the donation? Why the Yates collection?”

The guarded expression was firmly in place. “It’s none of your business why and unethical for you to even know about it.” Her tone was biting, her eyes as cold as marble. No matter what else they did, the rich knew how to pull rank when they needed to.

“I’m not going to tell anyone. I want your help.”

“I know who told you.”

“It wasn’t Harry. I found out by accident. You came to Nelson Yates’s memorial service. I was curious.”

“You’re investigating me?”

“No. No. Your secret is safe.”

Her eyes didn’t focus so well when she looked at him. “My secrets are safe. Do you think so?” She smiled, a pleasant and dreamy smile. “Now, sir. I must go. Please ask the bartender to arrange for a cab.”

When he thought about it later, he realized he’d made a mess of his dealings with Lisa Young. He didn’t find out anything that would help Cosgrove, and he didn’t win her support for the reading room. He told her more than he should have and probably cost the library a patron it couldn’t afford to lose—so much for putting your cards on the table. Undercover work wasn’t for him; he needed to become a better liar. McNulty told him telling the truth was overrated. The difficult part would be telling Adele what he’d done.

*   *   *

“It’s water over the dam, now,” Adele said the next morning. She thought about saying more; he could see it in her eyes, the anger—worse, the disappointment. “I’m going to light into Mike Cosgrove for putting you up to this, and I’m going to kill McNulty the next time I see him. He and his bartender cronies are a bunch of busybodies. And I
really
don’t want to be around when Harry finds out you told her you know about the donation.”

When Ambler got back to his desk, he found a message taped to his computer asking him to come to Harry’s office. He stared at it for a long moment. Well, it had to come sometime, but he didn’t think it would be this quickly. He braced for battle and wasn’t all that surprised to find Lisa Young sitting in the chair in front of Harry’s desk, where not long ago Nelson Yates sat after a similar summons from Harry—the conversation that began this trip down the rabbit hole.

“I believe you know Mrs. Young.” Harry smiled. “Pull up that chair and join us. We were talking about you.”

Ambler looked at the two faces smiling back at him. He didn’t know what was coming but chose to take it standing up.

“Mrs. Young is concerned about the closing of the crime fiction reading room. I thought it best if she spoke to you.”

Her eyes fastened onto Ambler’s, her expression mischievous; the shy, bold look from the night before was back. “I’m meeting with the library president in a few minutes and would like to take you to lunch after that, around two.”

He waited for the rest but nothing came. Puzzled, he kept his eyes glued to hers, until she winked. After she stood and shook hands with each of them, she left. Ambler made for the door right behind her.

Harry called him back. “Can we talk for a minute, Ray?” His tone was pleasant, with an ominous undertone.

Ambler halted.

“Sit down. This might take a few minutes.”

This time, Ambler sat. Since he had no idea what went on between Harry and Lisa Young, he hoped Harry would tell him.

“I’d like to know what you discussed with Mrs. Young.”

“I met her by accident.” He’d expected to go in and blurt out the whole truth because Harry would have already heard Lisa Young’s side. Now, her smiles and winks threw him off. “What did she tell you?”

“Never mind what she told me. What did you tell her?”

Clearly, Harry’s cheerfulness and goodwill had been for Lisa Young’s benefit.

“I wanted her to help keep the reading room open.”

“Did she say anything about the Yates collection?”

This was the question he dreaded, the moment of truth … or the moment of falsity. “About the Yates collection?”

“The papers.”

“The papers?”

“The Yates papers.” Harry was about to explode.

“Why are you yelling?”

He was being evasive. Harry had to know that, but he didn’t come in for the kill. He wasn’t built to browbeat, threaten, keep others in the dark, hide his motives, distrust everyone; the pain of doing so was in his eyes. “You don’t want that woman as an adversary, Ray. Be careful.”

Chapter 15

“You need to ditch that library woman.”

“I like her. She’s a friend. I can’t remember the last time I had a girlfriend. That’s what normal women do. They have friends and hang out and talk about clothes, and have lunch and talk about what assholes men are.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “She has a crush on that library guy you had a run in with. He’s too dumb to notice.”

“I told you before. You get close to people; you let your guard down. Next thing, you tell ’em somethin’.” Dominic shook his head.

“It’s not like that. It’s a coincidence she works at the library. She moved into the neighborhood. She doesn’t know anybody. She don’t have any kids. She wants to have a kid, so she sort of took up with Johnny. She’s a do-gooder. So what?”

“I saw her on the street. She was watchin’ your apartment.”

“So what? She lives in the neighborhood. She was probably seeing if Johnny was out.”

“If she doesn’t know who you are already, she’s going to figure it out.”

Dominic picked up the leather shoulder bag next to the chair he was sitting in. He pulled a packet of the letters from the bag. “You got these now. Isn’t that enough? The library’s not going to have them. Max won’t get his hands on them.”

He reached for her hand. She let him hold it but left it limp and didn’t move closer to him. Instead she cocked a hip, a stance like a teenager who’s heard it all before.

“Why don’t we go away for a while? Let this blow over. You could find someplace for the runt. We could have some fun. I got money comin’.”

Her expression softened. “We tried that before, Dom. We can’t take more than a couple of days together. We never could. And I won’t leave Johnny with anyone, for a short time or a long time.”

When Dominic left, Emily finished one beer and got another from the refrigerator. Johnny would be home from school soon, so she started to straighten things up a bit, wash the breakfast dishes, throw away the beer bottles from last night. She got a few things done, stopping when she found a vodka bottle that had a couple of drinks left in it. She got the orange juice from the fridge and sat down with the pile of letters Dominic had left on the table. She was half-drunk and reading the letters when she heard Johnny on the stairs. She stuffed the letters back into the bag and wiped her tears.