Murder at the 42nd Street Library: A Mystery (Thomas Dunne Book) (23 page)

*   *   *

“Ray?!” Harry squawked into the intercom when Ambler announced himself after leaning on the buzzer to his apartment. “What in God’s name are you doing here?”

“We need to talk to you.”

“You have no right to … to come here.” His voice trembled. “It’s … it’s … a violation—”

Ambler’s own voice was shaking. “I’m sorry, Harry. This is about Lisa Dolloway.”

A long silence was followed by the buzzing of the entrance door lock. Ambler and Adele trudged up the stairs.

Harry sat stiffly on a straight-backed chair at his glass dining room table; Adele and Ambler sat together on the couch. Harry’s expression didn’t change as Adele spoke.

“It’s true, isn’t it? Lisa Young is Lisa Dolloway. Nelson Yates’s ex-wife provided the funding for the Yates collection.”

Harry tented his fingers, an unconscious priestly pose; he appeared resigned. Adele tilted her head, bending forward to try to meet Harry’s downcast gaze. “Why the secrecy?”

“Lisa didn’t want to create a new scandal. She didn’t want anything to do with Nelson. I don’t think her husband knows about that part of her life.”

“You were the intermediary?”

“I knew them both, Ray. They trusted me.” Harry shrugged. “I expected difficulties. Who would have thought it would come to this?”

Adele leaned forward. “When you said her husband didn’t know about that part of her life, did you mean he didn’t know she had a child?”

Harry nodded. “I suspect he doesn’t know any of it.”

Adele was about to ask something else, but Ambler spoke over her. “What do you mean difficulties?”

“Mary, Nelson’s wife, wanted the collection to go to Max Wagner. James Donnelly said Nelson authorized him to write the biography. Em—”

Ambler and Adele both noticed he’d caught himself.

“Did Emily contact you about her father’s collection?” Adele asked.

Harry looked helplessly from one to the other.

“Are we back to that confession thing again?”

Adele put her hand on Ambler’s arm. “Don’t, Raymond.”

Ambler paced the few feet in either direction in the tiny apartment. “This is a murder, Harry. For God’s sake. Religious beliefs are fine. But—”

“Raymond!” It was a command from Adele.

Ambler stared at her.

“You’re wrong, Raymond.” Her tone was softer.

He didn’t ask again. Nonetheless, there was a connection he hadn’t thought of. The wheels were turning.

Chapter 19

“I’m surprised my first husband’s death keeps coming up in—”

“Someone asked about your first husband’s death?” Cosgrove sat across from Laura Lee, notebook in hand, in an office he’d borrowed from Harry Larkin.

She brushed off the question. “Oh, it’s nothing. One of the librarians fancies himself an amateur detective.”

“You mean Ray Ambler?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” She crossed her shapely legs.

“Yeh, Ray’s a curious guy.”

She raised her eyebrows, catching the double entendre.

“Suppose you tell me what you told him, unless you’ve thought of something new in the meanwhile.”

Her expression changed, the lines in her face deepened; the smile left her lips. “Mr. Ambler had the fanciful notion that Emily Yates might have killed Arthur, my husband. I told him that wasn’t possible.” She met Cosgrove’s gaze. “What I didn’t tell him—what I haven’t told anyone—is that Arthur didn’t fall. He leapt. Arthur committed suicide.”

Cosgrove moved cautiously. He’d opened up wounds questioning witnesses in the past and had things go bad. He didn’t want her to drift off into a funk of painful memories or break down in tears. He wanted her to keep talking. “That’s a tough load to carry. I’m sorry. The police investigating didn’t consider suicide?”

Irritation flashed in her eyes. “Of course, they considered it. Of course, they asked. I don’t know what Emily told them. She would have known. I don’t know why Arthur wanted to be with her when he killed himself.”

“How do you know it was suicide?”

She took a deep breath. “He told me he would. I didn’t believe him. I thought it was a bluff to save our marriage. Arthur was despondent. He took up with the little tramp because his life was in ruins. His academic career was going downhill. We had financial difficulties. Our real life was behind blank walls. I told Arthur I was leaving him. Not something I’m proud of, after the fact. Nothing I wanted to think about or talk about, that my leaving might have deepened his despair, might have been a cause of his death. I preferred being the wronged woman, as embarrassing as that was, to being seen as the cold-hearted woman who drove her husband to his death.”

*   *   *

“I’m going to ask you some questions,” Cosgrove said. “You’re not charged with a crime. If you think you might say something incriminating, you have a right to have a lawyer present.”

The man in front of him was a mess, the panicky, hangdog look of the guilty. “How would I incriminate myself? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Good. Tell me about James Donnelly.”

“I told you the last time you asked.”

“I’ve found out some things since then, a different side of him, say.”

“A different side?”

“What do you remember about Emily Yates?”

“Emily Yates?”

This guy was a trip. Talk about evasive. Don’t volunteer anything; you might not get into trouble. Right. Nice for him if it worked like that. “Emily Yates. What do you know about her?”

Wagner leaned forward, his manner grave. “What do I know about her?”

Cosgrove almost laughed. Wagner didn’t realize what he was doing and how obvious it was. “You know, Professor, in these things, the truth comes out. If you don’t tell me, someone else will. Then, what do you look like? You look like a man with something to hide.”

Wagner tried to resemble the most surprised person on earth. “No. I don’t.”

“You knew James Donnelly. You knew Nelson Yates. You knew Emily Yates. Did you know your wife’s first husband, Arthur Woods?” He’d seen that trapped expression a zillion times before. Usually, he knew why the person he was questioning felt trapped. He knew what he or she was hiding. This time, he had no idea. He didn’t make Max Wagner for either of the killings. No evidence pointed to him, except the academic rivalry Ray talked about. He didn’t buy it. Maybe he’d need to rethink that. More likely, this guy was afraid of something in the past.

“What are you hoping I won’t find out?”

Wagner averted his eyes.

“Did you have sex with Emily Yates when she was a teenager?”

Wagner went rigid. “Of course not. I don’t have to answer a question like that.”

“You just did. You don’t want me to find out you’re lying, do you?”

The first time he’d interviewed Wagner, the guy was arrogant and aloof, as if a dumb cop couldn’t catch the nuances of the answers provided by a learned professor. Now, the professor squirmed like a grade school kid in the principal’s office.

“Did James Donnelly?”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know.”

“I’m pretty sure you would know.” Some liars he could take. This guy wasn’t one of them. “How well did you know Arthur Woods?”

“Arthur Woods?”

This time Cosgrove did laugh. “Were you and his wife having an affair at the time of his death?”

“Of course not. Our relationship developed much later … after a time. She was devastated by her loss.”

“She told me she was going to leave him.”

“She did not.”

Cosgrove laughed again. Wagner was driving him nuts. “Mr. Wagner or Professor Wagner or whatever you prefer to be called, I don’t care about family secrets or indiscretions. I’m trying to catch a murderer. Why don’t you tell me what went on with Emily Yates? She was a teenager involved with older men. You take it from there.” He watched Wagner wither in front of him.

*   *   *

Ambler waited for Lisa Young in front of the library. Floodlights and arc lights for the film crews gave the white marble of the facade a sense of unreality. Women in deep-colored evening gowns, dripping with jewelry, and men in tuxedos exited taxis and limousines and climbed the steps to the library entrance in the ghostly light via a red carpet that had been unfurled for the occasion. He half expected the lions to climb down from their pedestals. They’d fit right in, strolling among the literati and their patrons.

She came by herself, stepping out of a limousine, the car door held open by the driver, whose black suit wasn’t so different from Ambler’s. Other men wore suits and ties, so he didn’t feel as conspicuous as he might have among the gowns and tuxedos; some of the younger men didn’t even wear ties. She wore a floor-length evening gown, deep green, maybe satin, a solid color but it seemed to shimmer and change hues as she walked. A black lace shawl over her bare shoulders, her hair framing her face, that shy and flirtatious smile in her eyes and on her lips, taking long graceful strides, she came toward him. Holding out her hand, she leaned forward, brushing his lips with her cheek, as he reached for her hand.

“Relax, Mr. Ambler—can I call you Raymond?”

“Ray.”

“Ray. This will be fun. You’ll charm the pants off the board members.”

“I hope not.”

She laughed gaily, her eyes locked on his. “They rarely get a chance to hobnob with a real librarian. They’ll love it.” She put her arm through his and gave him a tug. “Give us a break. We don’t have to do this. We care about the library. Everyone will want to speak with you.”

She was right. He strolled beside her among the benefactors, the affair not so different from the few other receptions he’d attended—tuxedoed waiters and waitresses slithering through the crowd with trays of wines and canapés, elegant and relaxed men and women chatting in groups that formed and broke up as new groups formed. The air crackled with self-assurance. Her hand on his elbow, she steered him from group to group, introducing him to people whose names he forgot seconds after hearing them. At each introduction, she talked about the ill-advised plan to close the crime fiction reading room. Most everyone she spoke with seemed interested, asking questions, nodding, wrinkling their foreheads as if this certainly was something to be concerned about.

“See,” she said as they sat down to dinner. The long library tables in the Rose Main reading room, decorated with white tablecloths and vases of flowers, held china plates and crystal stemwear. “Your crime fiction has more support than you thought. By the end of the evening, you’ll have a fan club.”

Ambler wasn’t sure he believed her. Nodding sympathetically, patting a worried librarian on the back, didn’t cost anything. These folks didn’t get rich by letting sentiment overrule business decisions. Perhaps he’d won some support by showing up. Most likely, it would dissipate once he brought up Lisa Young’s past life as Lisa Dolloway and asked about her dead ex-husband and estranged daughter.

All evening, she’d carried herself with an air of cheerfulness and good nature, smiles and tinkling laughter, moving through this sea of evening gowns and tuxedos, money and sophistication, air-kissing cheeks, whispering greetings, embracing everyone she came across. If she wasn’t the belle of the ball, she was close to it. As they took their seats, her expression changed to something warm, and familiar, as if they were old friends and could relax and enjoy their time together now that the formalities were over.

“You seem to enjoy this hoopla,” he said.

“To an extent. I enjoy it in ways I doubt you’d understand.” Her expression shifted; the smile was there but something like sorrow lurked in its shadows. “To whom much is given, of him shall much be required.”

“Was God talking about financiers?”

The smile flickered. “I told you when I was younger I didn’t think I deserved wealth—”

He took a deep breath. “When you were Lisa Dolloway?”

The sorrow lurking in the shadows of her smile took over. Even so, her expression was noble as she gathered her thoughts. “It was a matter of time; I knew that from the evening we met.”

A man in a tuxedo approached her from the side opposite him, kissed her on the cheek, whispered something. A bright flash of smile, a small laugh from her as he straightened up. This time, she didn’t introduce Ambler. “We’ll be interrupted often this evening. Can we wait until after dinner to discuss this?”

Every now and again, someone stopped by the table to greet Lisa Young. Between visits, she chatted easily with the person on her right. Ambler spoke uncomfortably to the person on his left, who’d never heard of the library’s crime fiction collection and complained about so many of the tourists visiting the library on any given day being Asian.

“They must have a lot of money in China these days for so many to be traveling.”

“I’m glad they like the library,” Ambler said. “I wish more American tourists did.”

“Of course, they do.” Her tone was a rebuke. “The Chinese don’t have libraries. That’s why they’re fascinated by ours.”

Lisa Young took a moment to bend closer to him. “Don’t fret. Enjoy your dinner.”

After the dinner and the speeches and presentations, Ambler took Lisa Young or Lisa Dolloway to the Library Tavern, where they could talk. Instead of the booth he suggested, she chose a corner barstool. It was late, the dinner rush over, and McNulty’s late-night regulars were yet to arrive. His greeting, while not formal, was less informal than usual. He made their drinks and moved a discreet distance away, not letting on by as much as a raised eyebrow that anything was different.

“It was simple, really. Nelson wanted to keep his collection away from Max Wagner. He contacted Harry. Harry, at Nelson’s suggestion, asked me for a donation to pay for the acquisition.”

“Why would Nelson think you’d do that? Why would you? How did he know where to find you?”

“I always thought Nelson was a brilliant writer. I never hid from him. I changed my name. Not really a change, I dropped Dolloway—it was a nom de plume—and restored my family name. It’s not difficult to disappear from public view. After a short time, everyone forgets you. If Nelson hadn’t been murdered, no one would have cared where the money came from.” She drank from her snifter of cognac.