Tender Death (7 page)
Authors: Annette Meyers
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Women's Fiction, #Contemporary Women, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Crime, #Financial, #Contemporary Fiction, #Crime Fiction
“I live only about six blocks from here, so it’s no problem. How’ve you been, Wetzon?”
“Great. How about you?” She had never been able to tempt him out of Merrill, but sometimes he called her with a tip about a fellow broker who was unhappy.
“Real well. Listen,” he said in a low voice, “you’ve got a good one with Kevin. He’s going to have to move.”
“Oh?” That sounded bad.
“Don’t worry. No real problems. Just a style of business that doesn’t blend well here. He does a lot with hedge funds.”
“Thanks for the tip, Tom.”
She hung up and walked to the French doors, parting the blinds slightly. The windows were steamy. She cleaned off a spot and peered out. A deep grayness covered the sky and the mounds of snow on the ground reflected grays and pale yellows from the bleary lights in the buildings above.
The window quickly steamed up again, and she drew a big heart and wrote “Wetzon loves Silvestri” with an end of an arrow going in one side and the point coming out the other. A feeling of panic hit her as she realized what she’d done unconsciously, and, embarrassed, she rubbed her fist on the pane, obliterating the words.
W
HEN SHE CAME
out on the street, the ceiling of the sky was so low she felt if she stood on tiptoes, she could actually touch it. It didn’t seem as cold as it had been. A sulfurous aura hung over everything.
The snow was still falling but it was lighter now. Still, at least a foot had fallen already and, blown by the wind, the drifts were deep. Supers or handymen from the surrounding brownstones had made an attempt to shovel the sidewalks, and she could hear the sounds of metal shovels on cement, but walking was difficult. To get the bus uptown on Third Avenue would be a major expedition.
Dim lights made the turn from First Avenue and crawled along Forty-ninth Street toward her. The car pulled up to the house next door. It was a cab, and Wetzon, joyously, got to the door as the passenger disembarked.
“Thank God,” she said to the driver after she’d climbed in. “And thank you.”
The driver, a heavy black woman, with a Mets cap jammed low on her forehead, nodded. “Where to? I’m not going to Brooklyn, Queens, or the Bronx.” She wore red leather gloves with the fingertips cut off.
Wetzon gave her Hazel’s address on East Ninety-second Street.
Traffic was bumper to bumper, creeping up Third Avenue. It took over twenty minutes just to make the turn from Forty-ninth Street, normally a three-minute trip. The side streets were choked with snow, in dire need of snowplows.
Outside Hazel’s apartment building, Wetzon hesitantly asked the driver if she would wait and take her through the Park to Eighty-sixth Street near Amsterdam. The meter already read almost nine dollars.
“Okay,” the woman said pleasantly. “How about I turn off my clock, and we settle on twenty bucks for the works.”
“Terrific.” Wetzon opened the door and promptly stepped into a snowdrift.
The driver leaned out. “But make it fast. I don’t want to get stuck here for the night.” She flicked her flag up, turning off the meter.
Hazel answered her door, wearing a quilted pink robe blooming with pink blossoms and a ruffled pink cap. She was holding a pair of chopsticks.
“Leslie dear, you shouldn’t have come. It’s a terrible night,” Hazel said. Her eyes were bright and two round rosy spots burned on her cheeks. She looked exceedingly pleased with herself.
“Hazel, what are you up to?”
“Your Silvestri bought me shrimp fried rice after we talked with Sergeant O’Melvany, and then he brought me home. He knew just what would make me happy.”
“He’s not my Silvestri,” Wetzon said automatically, thinking that Hazel looked like a turn-of-the-century little girl.
“Well, let’s work on it,” Hazel said cheerfully. “But right now I want you to go home, and I’m going to get into bed with my shrimp fried rice and Woody Allen.”
“Woody Allen?”
“Sleeper
is on television tonight.”
Moments later, satisfied that Hazel was considerably improved, Wetzon was back in the cab, and they were heading for the West Side.
“Is the transverse open?” Wetzon asked, rubbing the vapor from the window, straining to see outside. She remembered the night that Barry Stark was murdered, when she and Silvestri were cut off on the transverse and Silvestri had been shot.
The driver grunted, and the cab turned into the Eighty-sixth Street transverse through Central Park that connected the East Side and the West Side of Manhattan. Here, the winding, sloping road, which in some places became an underpass, could be treacherously slippery. The driver was bent over the steering wheel, wiping moisture off the windshield with her gloved hand. The windshield wipers moved back and forth dully and not too effectively. Twice, when traffic stalled, she got out to clean the wipers.
When they arrived at her apartment building, Wetzon handed the woman a twenty-dollar bill. “Thank you for the safe ride,” she said. “You were great.”
The woman touched the visor of her Mets cap. The eyes that met Wetzon’s for an instant were shrewd. “My name is Judy Blue, and if you ever need a cab for hire, call me.” She proffered a blue business card, which Wetzon slipped into her pocket.
“Thank you, Judy Blue.”
She was singing, “‘The snow is snowing, the wind is blowing ...’” softly under her breath as she searched for her key, stamping her boots free of snow on her doormat. It didn’t take much to make her feel good. Hazel looking much better, Silvestri ...
Her door swung open just as she was about to put the key in the lock.
“Boy, am I glad to see you, little one,” Carlos said, grabbing her and giving her a bear hug.
She dropped her carryall, and they danced around her foyer together in an impromptu Fred and Ginger number, narrowly missing the white bench and a brass footrest. They ended on the floor, tangled in Wetzon’s black coat, laughing.
“You are so crazy,” she scolded. “What am I going to do with you?”
“Stick with me, and I promise you, we’ll stay young forever,” Carlos said, very seriously.
“You will always be young, my man,” Wetzon said. “But I,
au contraire,
am aging rapidly.”
She stood and helped him to his feet. He took her coat and hung it in the hall closet.
“What’s that I smell?” she asked, leaning against the wall to pull off her boots. She put them on the mat outside her door. “Hot cocoa?”
“’Tis that. Made it for you from scratch. Although you didn’t have the grace to return my call.”
“Oh yum,” she said, licking her lips and following him into the kitchen. “God, how I’ve missed you, Carlos.”
“Well, I can see that,” Carlos said sternly. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
She raised an eyebrow at him.
“You are the world’s worst housekeeper. Dust everywhere, no food in the fridge except bagels, the cupboards bare except for tuna fish, pasta, and chocolate.” He stopped. She was grinning at him. “Well, at least
try
to look ashamed.”
She aped ashamed, hanging her head. Then they looked at each other and laughed.
“You are incorrigible,” he said, checking the pot of chocolate heating on the stove.
“So are you,” she responded. “Let us not forget, you deserted me. I relied on you to be my housekeeper, and then you ran back to the stage—”
“My art was calling me,” Carlos intoned dramatically, hand to his brow.
“I’ll bet. Art who?”
He stirred the hot chocolate and poured it into two mugs. “As a matter of fact,” he said very casually, “Arthur Margolies, Esquire.”
“Carlos, you devil. There’s a new love in your life. An esquire, no less.”
Carlos merely smiled and looked smug. “Come on,” she pleaded. “Tell.”
“Yes, a lawyer, and with a big law firm. Very handsome. The truth is, ‘I’m in love again,’” he sang.
“‘I’m in love again,’” Wetzon sang in response, her arm around his slim waist.
“‘We’re in love again ... good news,’” they harmonized, and clicked mugs, toasting each other with hot chocolate.
“I think it’s only right,” she said, smiling at him. She loved Carlos. They were like two peas in a pod, one light, one dark. They had danced together in musicals, on Broadway, in stock, industrials, taken classes together, cried together over men and careers, and had both left the theater about the same time. Or as they viewed it, the theater had left them. It just wasn’t the same anymore. It wasn’t fun after Gower Champion, their mentor, had died.
“This is great cocoa,” she said, licking the mustache of chocolate off her lips. “And I’m so glad to see you.” She checked her watch. “I have to change and get to Smith’s party.”
“You are not going out on a night like this?” Carlos was incredulous. “And to that—”
“I have to. Smith would never forgive me.”
“You don’t have to—you know that.”
“Carlos, don’t butt in. Smith has been so nervous about this party. I couldn’t do it to her.”
“She would do it to you.”
“I don’t believe that. I can’t. She’s my partner, and she’s my friend. She’s just a little eccentric—”
“Ha!” Carlos said. “There’s the understatement of the year.” He poured the rest of the cocoa into their mugs, and they went into the living room and curled up on her sofa.
“It’s going to be hard for you to get back down to the Village,” she said. “Do you want to spend the night?” She didn’t know if Silvestri would be coming now or not. “ ... um ... Silvestri might come by later.” She was trying to be blasé, but it didn’t work on Carlos.
“Well, well, my darling,” Carlos said, pleased. “You don’t think I’d horn in on
that.”
“But—”
He waved her faltering protestations aside. “Besides, Arthur Margolies, Esquire, lives on West End Avenue and Ninetieth Street.” He smiled a very self-satisfied smile.
“How convenient, you little devil,” Wetzon said, kicking him playfully with her toes.
“Listen, my darling, I think it’s only right that the two of us, good clean celibates, have found companions in our old age.” He grinned at her lasciviously.
“To safe sex,” she said solemnly, holding her mug out.
“Safe sex,” he said, touching her mug with his. They looked at each other for a long moment.
“How’s the show?” she asked.
“The show is great. It’s like having an annuity,” Carlos said almost apologetically. “I go in and take out the improvements—you know how these gypsies are.” He chuckled. “They keep trying to make the show better.”
“Now how would I know a thing like that?” Wetzon laughed, knowing that not so long ago, she and Carlos had been guilty of doing that very thing.
“And Marshall’s reading material, looking for another show for us to do.”
“Why Marshall? How about you, solo?”
“Oh, Les, you know I don’t have that kind of ambition. Just give me a little love, a little money, good friends, good health, happy days.”
“Carlos,” she said. “I just love you to pieces.” She pounced on him and kissed him.
Then she told him about Hazel and Peepsie Cunningham.
“Poor Hazel,” Carlos said. “No—wrong—good, decent, wonderful Hazel. I’ll call her tomorrow. Maybe we can get her to tell us the real origin of Peepsie.”
“There’s just one thing I left out,” Wetzon said.
“Uh oh. I knew it was too simple. Let’s have it.”
“Well, there’s this shoe I found—”
“What shoe?”
“I found a small dark blue Gucci walking shoe like the one Peepsie Cunningham was wearing, in the gutter near the building when Hazel and I got into the cab.”
“And?”
“And I picked it up and put it in my bag.”
Carlos groaned loudly.
“I’m sure it was Peepsie Cunningham’s.”
“So?”
“So the newspaper said she was wearing bedroom slippers when she jumped ... or fell.”
“Or fell?” Carlos flung himself backward on the sofa. “My girl, you have done it again. I don’t believe it. You’ve walked yourself right into a murder.”
I
T WASN’T EASY
getting back across town again to Smith’s apartment, although it seemed to have finally stopped snowing. The sky had risen, like a dome, and here and there, stars sparkled.
Wetzon had put on high rubber riding boots, tucked her shoes into a plastic bag and the bag into one of the deep pockets of her coat. There were no cabs in sight, as Edward, the night doorman, had morosely prophesied when she gave him the envelope with the key for Silvestri.
So when she heard the
whack, whack
of the snow chains and saw the lights of the crosstown bus coming toward her, she took it to Second Avenue. Although she had a transfer, there were no buses coming down Second Avenue, so she trudged the nine blocks to Smith’s apartment on Seventy-seventh Street.
It was a beautiful night. All the same, she would rather have stayed home, spent the evening catching up with Carlos, but she knew that Smith would have felt betrayed if she didn’t come to her party. It was murder trying to stay in the middle while Carlos and Smith brutalized each other.
Murder. It was murder. What had happened to Peepsie Cunningham was murder.
She rang the bell to Smith’s apartment.
Smith flung open the door. “Well, Wetzon, at long last,” she cried. She was very hyper, possibly a little drunk. “Where have you been?”
“There’s this little storm outside, Smith,” Wetzon began. She bent to pull off her boots, leaving them with all the other storm equipment piled outside of Smith’s door. Over Smith’s shoulder she could see a glittering array of people, dressed to the nines.
“Don’t stand there, sweetie pie, get right in here.” Smith literally dragged her through the congestion to her bedroom, where a coatrack had been set up. It was crowded with fur coats.
“Hi, Wetzon,” Mark said, helping her off with her coat. He was wearing a smart gray flannel suit, looking very grown-up for thirteen.
Wetzon kissed him on the cheek. They were now the same height. “Hey,” she said. “You’re catching up with me fast, kiddo.” She rubbed the red spot on his cheek from her lipstick.
“How do you like my baby,” Smith said proudly, her arm around her son’s shoulders. “Isn’t he gorgeous?”
Mark looked up at his mother in total adoration. Smith patted him lovingly on the backside. “Go see if anyone needs anything, baby.”
Smith was statuesque in a scarlet sequined sweater with a deep scoop in front and back and black silk pants. She had a matching scarlet sequined band around her curly dark hair.
“You look positively exotic, Smith,” Wetzon said. She slipped on her shoes. “Here am I in my basic black wool jersey ...”
“Plain and fancy,” Smith said, teasing.
“I think I remember that show,” Wetzon said.
“What show? What are you talking about, Wetzon?”
“Never mind, Smith. You wouldn’t understand,” Wetzon said, suddenly weary. She was always forgetting that Smith’s interests were in the business of making money, not in the arts. And somewhere, buried in that teasing, “plain and fancy,” Carlos would have detected a put-down. She looked up and caught Smith eyeing her as if she could read her thoughts.
“Come on,” Smith said, her arm around Wetzon. “I want you to meet everybody. I know you’ll love them. And don’t be so sensitive.” Almost languidly, she pulled herself up even taller than usual. She was wearing very high heels and stood head and shoulders over Wetzon.
“Attention, attention, I want everybody to meet my dearest friend and partner, Leslie Wetzon,” Smith announced to the crowded, noisy room. There was an odd hush, everyone turned to look at Smith and Wetzon, then someone applauded, slowly.
“Leon, dearest, get Wetzon a drink,” Smith said.
“Beer, Leon,” Wetzon said, “and quickly.” She felt as if she were on exhibition. What a strange reaction. When she looked back out over the living room, she realized that everyone was quite drunk.
“Isn’t she beautiful tonight?” Leon handed her a glass and poured a Heineken into it. He was wearing a black cashmere blazer and a yellow foulard tie and managed to look taller and more awkward than ever. His glasses sat at the tip of his nose, and his gray wooly hair clumped Einstein-like around his ears.
“She’s always beautiful, Leon,” Wetzon said, watching Smith move happily about the crowded room.
“What do you think, Wetzon,” he whispered loudly. “I asked her to marry me. Did she tell you?” He gestured with the half-empty Heineken bottle.
“Yes,” Wetzon said. She took the bottle from him.
“Did she say what she’s going to do?” he asked eagerly, leaning close to her.
“No, Leon.” She backed away from him. He looked so crestfallen that she added, honestly, “But she seemed very pleased.”
Uneasily, Wetzon wondered how it would be if their lawyer was the husband of one of them. It didn’t seem right. Maybe, if Smith were to marry Leon, they should have an uninvolved lawyer.
“Leon, sweetie, come over here,” Smith called, and Leon was off at a lope.
Wetzon sighed. She saw an empty spot on the sofa across the room and headed for it, squeezing through the glamorous people. All the women were dressed in beads and sequins, the men in dark suits. One of these elegant ladies spilled a drink on Smith’s carpet and then delicately rubbed it into the nap with the toe of her silver sandal. The not-quite beautiful people, once removed.
“Well, if it isn’t Wetzon-Wetzon, girl headhunter.” The gruff voice was a challenge; a hand closed over her arm and held her.
She turned and stared up at the suntanned face, the piercing blue eyes of Jake Donahue. “Jake Donahue, in case you don’t remember,” he said.
“How could I forget Jake Donahue?” she said, shaken, in spite of the fact that it had been some time since she’d seen him, and then under horrible circumstances. She stared down at his hand circling her arm, and back at him. He removed his hand. She still found him somehow repelling and attractive, at the same time. “You look very well, Jake. When did you get out?”
“Tsk, tsk, Wetzon-Wetzon, nastiness doesn’t become you.”
Jake Donahue had gotten a three-month sentence by dumping on everyone else in the repos scandal that had wrecked his firm. Three months and a light fine of a hundred thousand dollars, and exile from Wall Street for three years. What amounted to a slap on the wrist, just as Wetzon had predicted. He had destroyed a respected old-line brokerage firm, caused at least three murders, swindled thousands of investors, and he’d gotten the kind of punishment that amounted to “There, there, you bad boy. Now don’t let us catch you doing it again.”
“You were lucky, Jake.”
“I had a smart Jewish lawyer.” Leon was Jake’s lawyer, and Leon was definitely smart, if a little smarmy. “It was a little like being at a spa, actually. Played tennis, swam ...”
He was laughing at her, the bastard. She felt angry and helpless crammed in with all these people.
“I’d love to stay and talk with you about old times, Wetzon-Wetzon,” Jake said, “but I am being paged by another beautiful lady.” He nodded and smiled at a large, horsey-looking woman, a wall of black sequins wearing huge diamond earrings. “Barbara Carstairs, Leslie Wetzon”
At least he had stopped referring to her sneeringly as Wetzon-Wetzon.
The two women showed their teeth—one could not call it smiling— and Wetzon squeezed past Jake Donahue, who squeezed back a little too intimately, and headed again for the sofa.
When she broke out of the crowd, there was a woman sitting in the spot she had earmarked.
“Oh, I’ve taken your spot,” the woman said with a warm smile. “Here, I’ll slide over. You’re so tiny, we can both fit.”
Gratefully, Wetzon set her glass and the Heineken bottle she was still carrying on the coffee table and sat down.
“I’m Arleen Grossman,” the woman said with a broad smile. “And I know you are Leslie Wetzon, dear Xenia’s partner.”
Arleen Grossman was a buxom lady, perhaps in her late forties, with sleek, straight black hair rolled back around her face in a thirties’ style. Her hair was so black, Wetzon thought, that it was probably dyed, and the severity of her hairdo was modified by tiny spit curls around her forehead and cheeks. Behind the thin black frames of her glasses were friendly, intelligent amber eyes. A small chin floated on a second chin beneath a fluffy face, somewhat reminiscent of Elizabeth Taylor prior to her stay at the Betty Ford Clinic.
Wetzon sensed an almost coconspirator message from her, a we’re-in-this-together kind of thing. She felt herself being drawn in like a big fish on a line. It was a weird feeling. “I’m afraid you’re one up on me. How do you know Xenia?”
“Ah well, it’s a long story. We met through Leon.”
Wetzon took a swallow of beer and looked at her neighbor with curiosity. She was feeling just a trifle light-headed.
A maid in a black dress with white cuffs, a little ruffled apron, and a little ruffle on her hair came by with a large tray of boiled shrimp and a dipping sauce. There were plates on the tray, and Arleen Grossman filled a heaping plate of shrimp and sauce and set it on the coffee table in front of them.
“For both of us,” she said.
“What do you do, Arleen?” Wetzon asked, settling back with the shrimp and beer.
“I don’t drink,” Arleen Grossman said. “That’s why I’m sitting here away from the madding crowd.” She crossed her legs with difficulty. She was wearing a tight skirt which accentuated her heavy thighs. “I run a small consulting business,” she said. “Xenia has been just wonderful about advice and planning. Of course, you know she’s also one of my backers.”
“Oh,” Wetzon said. “You must be the business Xenia is so impressed with, that was in the black in such a short time.”
“Yes,” Arleen Grossman said modestly. “We are very proud of our record. In fact, we have just received an award from the City—”
“Arleen, I think we ought to be going.” A stocky man with very black hair combed straight back on his bullet-shaped head stood on the other side of the coffee table.
“John dear, this is Leslie Wetzon, Xenia’s partner,” Arleen said. “Wetzon, that’s what everyone calls you, no?” She didn’t wait for Wetzon to respond. “This is my brother, Johnny.”
Wetzon reached over and shook Johnny Grossman’s hand.
“Excuse me for a minute, please.” Arleen Grossman struggled to her feet, a shapely, if plump, woman in a tight black silk evening suit. She spoke quietly with her brother for a moment while he nodded, then, smiling, she came back to Wetzon. Johnny Grossman was swallowed up by the crowd in the living room.
“A buffet dinner is being served in the dining room,” the maid said, moving around the room.
“Well, I guess it doesn’t pay to sit down again,” Arleen said. “Come, Wetzon, let’s you and I fill our plates and chat. I feel we’re going to be great friends, don’t you?”
She held her hand out to Wetzon, who took it and stood up, dizzy. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was. Arleen held onto her hand, drawing her forward. As the crowd in the living room began to thin, Wetzon caught a glimpse of the bulky figure of John Grossman, wearing a hat and overcoat, leaving Smith’s apartment.
“I want to hear all about you,” Arleen persisted. “Xenia is so fond of you, and we’re so fond of Xenia. She’s been like a daughter to me.” She locked arms with Wetzon.
How odd, Wetzon thought, that Smith hadn’t mentioned Arleen Grossman to her, but maybe not so odd. Smith was very proprietary about her friends. She didn’t like sharing.
“Oh, there you are.” Smith bore down on them. “Well, I see you two have met.” She eyed their locked arms with a faint air of resentment. “I’d forgotten what a fast worker you are, Wetzon.”
“Dear, dear Xenia.” Arleen Grossman smiled benevolently up at Smith. “I’m so pleased circumstances have brought us together. I feel it is so right, don’t you?” Her voice and her words seemed to have a soothing effect on Smith, who, as Wetzon watched in total amazement, almost began to purr.
Smith took Arleen’s hand and touched it to her cheek. “Arleen, you are such a love,” Smith said, beaming. “I am honored by your friendship.”
“Mom,” Mark said, breaking the spell. “Don’t you want them to put the chicken out too?”
“What?” Smith looked startled. “Oh yes, sweetie, we’ll go tell them together.”
“Such a wonderful person, a wonderful mother, too,” Arleen Grossman said. “I do so admire what she’s made of her life.”
She turned to Wetzon. At that moment, one of Smith’s sloshed guests, a large white-haired gentleman in a dark blue suit, slipped on a spot of spilled drink on the highly polished floor near the entrance to the dining room and, spinning out of control, fell toward Arleen and Wetzon.
“Look out,” Wetzon shouted, but she needn’t have, because Arleen Grossman sprang with great agility and actually caught the man before he hit the floor and was helping him regain his balance. It all happened in seconds, and no one seemed to think much about it, except for Wetzon, who looked at the motherly woman beside her with a little awe.
“Now then,” Arleen Grossman said, brushing her hands together. “Let’s fill our plates and
talk.”
