The Body In The Big Apple (18 page)

The first thing Faith noticed was that Emma was beginning to show the strain of the last weeks. She'd pulled her hair back and her face looked pinched and tired. She was wearing makeup, yet she still looked pale. She was picking at her cuticles again.

Faith had missed the first course and the waiter was serving lamb chops. They looked good—rosy, not overdone.

“How did they get in touch with you? What did they say?” she asked Emma.

“By phone again. Late in the afternoon. After I saw you. It was so quick, I barely had time to take it in. Just, ‘Same time, same place. If you don't happen to have the cash, bring jewelry.' Then whoever it was hung up. I was terrified. Michael was home, working in his study. Thank God he didn't answer the phone.”

Again a Sunday, at a time when the spot would be deserted.

Emma looked anguished. Faith turned, so that anyone glancing their way would see more of Faith's quilted back than Emma's face.

“It's the hang-up calls. I can't stand them, and now maybe they'll stop. I wrote another note saying this is absolutely the end.”

“From now on, if you hear anything at all from them, anything, call me. Leave messages at home and work. I check them all the time. Maybe I should get a beeper.”

“Delicious. And so much fun to catch up with everybody. Did you see all those yummy desserts?”

Emma answered quickly—now flushed with the effort—when the woman next to her suddenly remembered her manners and turned to say a few words to the guest on her other side. Having satisfied this social obligation, she turned back to the other conversation, having apparently not noticed Emma's untouched plate or total lack of catching up.

“Eat something,” Faith ordered. “And try to smile.”

Obediently, Emma the good girl cut off a tiny piece of meat and choked it down.

“What jewelry did you give them?”

“I had the money.” Emma sipped some of the white wine at her place.

“The odd ten thou just lying around?” Faith was incredulous. The rich really were different.

“After you told me they probably wouldn't stop, I took some more out—just to be on the safe side.”

Emma Stanstead wouldn't be on the safe side unless Faith could figure this all out, but if it made her feel more secure to have stacks of Ben Franklins under her camisoles, so be it.

“I was very careful to notice everything so I could tell you, but there wasn't much to notice. It was a different cabdriver, but I wrote his number down anyway. And there wasn't a soul at the construction site. Luckily, I had the garbage bags left over from the last time.”

Lucky, lucky, lucky. Faith sighed. She had to get back to work. This was neither the time nor the place to tell Emma about Harvey Fuchs and Faith's new suspicions about a Harvey-Todd Hartley combo. It was much more likely than anything involving Arthur Quinn. Agents didn't murder their clients. It was bad for business.

“I'm going to hit the ladies' room, then be on my way. Tell Michael everything, please. Get some sleep, and call me.” She felt like a physician.

Emma didn't address the first part of the prescription. “I am tired. There's so much going on.”

Faith gave her a swift hug and walked across the room. The dessert buffet had been set up on a large round table in the middle of the dance floor. Bird-boned women were circling it, taking “just a taste” of the fabulous-looking concoctions on their plates: St.
Honoré cakes, almond tarts, pecan tarts, blueberry crisps, crème brûlées, praline soufflés. Everybody loves dessert.

Poppy Morris was in the ladies' room, reapplying her makeup with a practiced hand. She looked striking, as usual; her suit by whomever was apple green and made all the rest at the luncheon look unoriginal.

“Faith, dear, how lovely to see you. I was going to give you a call after the party. It was wonderful, and I'm so impressed. You're a very clever girl.” She patted the low seat next to her and Faith sat down. For a moment, Poppy was intent on her lip liner; then she glanced about the room. Apparently, the sole other occupant, a woman of a certain age applying rouge to cheeks resembling crushed tissue paper, was not someone Poppy cared about overhearing their conversation.

“Emma looks terrible. Do you know what's bothering her?”

Faith had dreaded this moment, predicting it when Poppy had fixed her with her gimlet eye the moment she walked through the door.

“I think she's tired. They go out so much, and she has all these other things—her charity work, political events.”

Poppy wasn't buying it. “She's always had those. True, it takes a great deal of stamina to be married to someone in politics, but she doesn't entertain much. It's merely a question of showing up and behaving pleasantly.” Clearly, Poppy felt her own role as trend-setter much more demanding—and important.

Faith knew she had to give her something else. Poppy wasn't buying fatigue.

“Well,” she said drawing the word out, “I know she's
worried about not getting pregnant.” Nothing to hurt Emma in this revelation, and she hoped her feigned reluctance would convince Poppy that this was all that Emma was worrying her pretty little head about.

Poppy snapped her Chanel bag shut. “I knew it! And she simply makes it all worse by agonizing! Not that I'm in any hurry to be a grandmother at my age.” She managed to make it sound as if forty were still a speck on the distant horizon.

Faith nodded in agreement. “She told me the doctor said she should relax, but I imagine that's hard when you want something as much as this.”

“I don't know why she's having all this trouble. With me, all you had to do was lay a pair of men's trousers across the bottom of my bed and there I was. Not literally, of course.”

“It's all right, Mrs. Morris. I know where babies come from. My mother explained it all to me when I was in third grade by using Del Monte pear halves—womb, et cetera. Emma knows, too, because I told her myself.”

Faith still remembered their joint shocked wonderment and giggles. She'd never been able to eat those pears again—not that she would now, in any case.
Canned
pears!

Poppy stood up and smoothed her skirt. Once more, she glanced around the room and for the moment, they were alone.

“Michael's going places, and he's the perfect husband for Emma.” She gave Faith an air kiss and stepped back. “You know there's nothing I wouldn't do for my daughter—
nothing.
” Then she was gone, leaving Faith to speculate about what the hell had just happened.

 

Faith went over the scene with Poppy all the way back to work. This was a side Faith had never seen before—the mother lion and her cub. Cubs, if you counted Lucy, but Lucy could more than take care of herself, and Poppy knew it. It was Emma she'd had to go rescue from the commune in the Village, Emma she'd dragged to Dr. Bernardo, and Emma she'd safely married off to “the perfect husband.” What did this intensity mean? And why now? What did Poppy know? She'd been at Fox's service and had looked bereft. She and Lorraine had been the only two, Faith noted. But what if Poppy knew about the book, knew that Fox planned to name names? There was nothing she wouldn't do for her daughter. Did this include murder?

 

Before she threw herself into her work—something she was longing to do—Faith pulled the phone book from the shelf and called Arthur Quinn. He answered immediately.

“Arthur Quinn?”

“This is he.”

“Hello, my name is Karen Brown and I'm doing some research on the sixties, specifically on Nathan Fox, for my thesis. I was wondering if you'd have any time to talk with me. I'm hoping to use my material for a biography of Fox.”

“Sure, I don't mind helping. What's your time frame?”

“I'm working pretty intensively on it”—she should have said “desperately”—“so, the sooner the better.”

“How about tonight? You want to meet me for a drink and we can talk? Maybe a little supper after
ward? I know a great little place on the West Side. Very cozy.”

Oh no, thought Faith. Just what she didn't need.

“I'm so sorry. Tonight isn't good for me. How about if I stop by your office tomorrow or the next day?”

“Tomorrow's no good for me. Let's say Thursday. Lunch?”

He seemed determined to make it a social affair. But then meals and doing business are one and the same to agents, Faith reflected. She could be wrong. Maybe he wasn't trying to ask her out. With the weather lately, a “cozy” spot could simply mean he wanted to keep warm.

“Great, but why don't I meet you at your office first? I'd like to see where you met with Fox.” What she really wanted to see was what kind of setup Quinn had. How large an agency, furniture by Knoll—or Ikea.

“Better meet at the restaurant. You like deli? We'll meet at the Stage at one.”

Didn't the man have an office? And he'd totally ignored her bit about wanting to see where he'd met with his client.

She hung up and gave her full attention to her work—for once.

 

Lorraine Fuchs had said to come early, and Faith took her at her word. She was heading against the crowd, leaving the city at seven o'clock Wednesday morning. With luck, she'd be back at work no later than nine, and she'd have some new reading material. She let her eyes close. The motion of the train and the sound it made on the tracks was soporific, even though she'd gotten enough sleep for once.

She stopped at a bakery and bought some muffins.
At one time, this section of Brooklyn had been completely Scandinavian, she recalled, but the doughnuts and muffins in the case didn't resemble Danish pastries in the slightest. Still, they smelled good, and Faith firmly believed it was always better to talk about touchy subjects while eating.

Lorraine's street was quiet. No dog walkers. No commuters. She climbed the steps to the front door and pushed the bell. And waited. She pushed again. And waited. She'd been warm enough while she was walking, but now the cold crept through her coat. It wasn't her warm one. That was at the cleaner's.

She pressed the bell harder. It was working. She could hear it ring inside. She should have called, but Lorraine had been specific, telling her to return Wednesday morning. It was Wednesday morning. Besides, Faith hadn't wanted to take the chance of getting Harvey. It wasn't just hearing his voice—although that alone was enough to put her off—but also the thought that he could make things difficult for his mother. More difficult.

Faith leaned over and tried to peer through the front window. She walked around to the side and then to the back of the house. She looked in the back door. The kitchen was immaculate. Either Lorraine hadn't had breakfast yet or had cleaned up immediately. Faith knocked. There was no response. Could the woman be an extremely sound sleeper? Maybe she should find a phone and call. She kept walking around the house. She was by the garage now—and in an instant, she was at the door, pushing it up with all her strength. A motor was running inside.

Lorraine was in the driver's seat, slumped over the wheel. The door wasn't locked, and Faith dragged the
woman out into the open air. She was in her nightgown; her hair once again in a neat braid. Faith started CPR immediately, then stopped. It was too late. The woman's face was bright pink, but she was definitely dead.

“I can't say I'm surprised. Not with the life she led.” An older woman in a housecoat with a parka thrown over it was standing looking down at the body in disapproval. She zipped her jacket up. Now it matched her lips.

“Made her parents' life a living hell. They did everything for her. Sent her to college. I'm not one to butt into other people's affairs, but I did say something to Irene—that was her mother. ‘Why waste the money? She'll get married. She knows how to type. She can get a job until then. Help you out.' But they were set on it, and now look at her.”

Tears of outrage—and grief—spilled down Faith's cheeks. Who the hell was this old harpy? Poor Lorraine. She deserved so much better than this. The saddest part was that the woman was right. Where
had
college gotten Lorraine? She was doing typing jobs at the time of her death. Her death! Had what she'd read in Fox's book been so overwhelming that she'd had to end it all? Or was this “suicide” really murder?

The woman narrowed her eyes. “Who are you, anyway? And what are you doing here?”

“I'm a friend of Lorraine's,” Faith stammered in real confusion. “We met at a temp job. We were supposed to have coffee this morning.”

“You have a name?” She was leaning over the body now, close to Lorraine's mouth. “Don't smell any booze, but they weren't none of them big drinkers.”

“My name is Karen Brown.”

“Well, Karen, I'll stay out here with the poor girl and you go call nine one one.” She fished a ring of keys out of her pocket, pulled one forward, and handed them to Faith. Faith started off in the direction of the house next door, which she presumed belonged to the woman.

“Not
my
house. Use their phone. We exchanged keys when we first moved in. I took mine back when Lorraine inherited the place. She's got this son, you know.”

Faith flushed angrily. What did the woman think? That she was going to case her place while she used the phone? Walk off with her Oneida teaspoons?

She walked unsteadily back to the front door. She'd never seen a dead person before. The odd part was how alive Lorraine looked. Just like the cliché said—as if she were merely asleep. Faith shuddered. Death was something she'd planned to think about when she was much, much older, and until then it could stay crammed way in the back of her mind. But it was going to be very hard to keep Lorraine's still face from creeping forward. Still. The corpse was absolutely still. Not the tremor of a breath, the twitch of an eye. Finally, unalterably, irretrievably still. Faith opened the door with a shaking hand.

The phone was in the kitchen, and after taking a few deep breaths, she dialed 911. The bored voice that greeted her report told her that what was a cataclysmic event in her young life was soon to be just another statistic in a file somewhere.

“An officer will be right there. Don't touch anything.”

And that was it.

She hated leaving Lorraine alone with the woman next door, but she had to look for the manuscript. Emma was still alive—for the moment. What if the blackmailer thought Emma knew more about his identity than she did? There were two deaths now, and Faith was certain they were connected. Certain this, too, was murder. For one thing, Lorraine had made an appointment with Faith for this morning and Lorraine was a very conscientious type. The ultimate good girl, despite her illegitimate child and belief in overthrowing the United States government. If she was going to kill herself, she'd do it on a day when she hadn't invited a guest to her home. She knew Faith was coming and that she'd be there early. She'd have intended to offer coffee, not a corpse. It wasn't simply a bizarre question of manners; it was the way Lorraine had lived her whole life—for other people.

But more significant, Lorraine would never willingly have left Harvey. Strange as that might seem to Faith, she knew it was true. Lorraine had been devoted to her son. She wouldn't have abandoned him. And wouldn't a suicide have locked the car doors? To make it that much harder to be rescued?

Keeping her warm gloves on, Faith went into the living room to start searching. She didn't have much time. The police would be here soon and the neighbor would start to get suspicious.

When Faith had last seen Lorraine's collection of Nathan Fox memorabilia, it had been spread out on the floor. Lorraine had grabbed a thick envelope from the top of one pile, which tipped over. She'd scattered it more, pulling at the papers to either side, kicking them. It had been a mess. Apparently, she'd put it all back, but the thick envelope—the one she'd waved about, saying, “I'll show you a book!”—was missing. Faith looked again, but it wasn't there. She made a quick search of the room, lifting sofa cushions, opening the coat closet. Nothing. The kitchen and dining room were the same. It had been a thick parcel, and there weren't too many hiding places. She ran to the basement. It was neat as a pin and bare save for the furnace, a washer and dryer, empty clothes basket, and a few tools on a shelf.

Upstairs, there were two bedrooms and a bath. It was hard to go through Lorraine's pitiful wardrobe, feeling under a stack of well-worn turtlenecks, tights that had been darned, and flannel nightgowns soft with wear. On the bureau, there was a large photograph of Fox and Lorraine, taken many years ago. They both had their fists raised and they were smiling. There was a baby picture next to it, a truly repellent-looking infant, who could only be Harvey. A wedding picture, presumably of Lorraine's parents, was the sole additional object.

Faith felt under the mattress. The bed had been slept in—there was a deep impression in the pillow—but by now the sheets were ice-cold. She glanced involuntarily toward the window. Like Lorraine.

The bathroom yielded nothing save a confirmation of Faith's suspicion that Lorraine had not been aiding in any way what God had given her. Not even lipstick.
The second bedroom in the rear was tiny—room for a single bed and bureau, as well as a small desk and bookcase. The drawers were filled with young Lorraine's schoolwork. Papers on the life cycle of the fern and the use of metaphor in
Moby-Dick.
She'd gotten
A'
s. The bookshelf was filled with treasured childhood volumes:
Little House on the Prairie, Misty of Chincoteague, Anne of Green Gables,
and the like. Incongruously, pristine first editions of the works of Nathan Fox were set alongside them. But no unpublished book. The window had eyelet curtains, and Faith felt a stab of pity thinking of the little girl who had lain there reading and dreaming. The only sign that Harvey had ever occupied the room was a Metallica poster taped to the rosebud wallpaper.

Faith was getting angry. She wished Lorraine had never met Fox—or Harvey's father. Again the words “She deserved better” returned—as they would every time she thought of Lorraine Fuchs, Faith realized. Natasha, the owner of the bookstore, had refused to talk about the woman. “It's too sad,” she'd said. And she was right.

Nothing under the bed or mattress here, either. A hall closet held linens, a shabby suitcase—empty—and a vacuum cleaner. There was no attic. Faith raced down the stairs, convinced that the manuscript wasn't in the house. She had to get back outside. She'd already been gone too long.

“You took your time.” The woman from next door looked at Faith accusingly. She'd dragged a lawn chair from the garage and was sitting next to the body in a crude parody of a summer's day. Lorraine might as well be a sunbather.

“I was looking for an address book, so we could call her son and other relatives, but I couldn't find one.”

This was true, and the oddness of it struck Faith even more forcibly out here in the clear light of day. Comrades didn't send Christmas cards, but Lorraine must have had some phone numbers, some addresses.

“He lives in Jersey. Hoboken. But don't expect the brokenhearted son. He's the scum of the earth, that kid. Always has been, but Lorraine would never admit it. ‘Too sensitive,' she'd say. ‘Misunderstood.' They'd come to visit now and then. We'd all be sure to lock our doors and keep our own kids away from him. Harvey Fuchs never cared about anybody or anything except himself and getting high.”

From what she'd seen, Faith was sure the woman was right. A voice nagged at her. What Lorraine knew, Harvey would have gotten out of her eventually, if not immediately. Which included knowing about the manuscript. It was worth a lot of money—possibly in blackmail alone. But he would have had to get his mother out of the way. She would never have let it be used like that. Harvey might have tattoos, but
integrity
had been indelibly stamped across Lorraine's face. Harvey would inherit the house, too, Faith realized. Unless Lorraine had willed it to some politically acceptable group, it would go to her son. Knowing Lorraine, it was probably going to her boy. Were all women this crazy about their sons? Faith hadn't had a whole lot of experience with mothers, and the mothers she knew best all had girls.

The woman continued: “And she doesn't have any relatives. An only of only.” She sounded scornful, as if there was something genetically wanting in their bloodlines. “Never saw any friends come to the house, neither. Probably has some Commie friends, but they wouldn't be in the book.” She laughed at her joke.

“Communist.” She spat out the word. “That's what she was—a Communist.” In case Faith hadn't picked up on the allusion.

There wasn't much Faith could think of to say to this.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Got in with the wrong crowd in college.” She made it sound like binge drinking. “Broke her parents' hearts. Bunch of bullshit, if you ask me. There was a man, of course. If he'd a been a Teamster, she'd a learned to drive a rig; a bookie, she'd a run numbers. That was Lorraine.”

Faith knew she was right.

“The cops are taking their sweet time, as usual. I'm going in if they don't come soon. It's freezing out here,” the woman complained.

“I hear it's bad all over the country,” Faith commented. Weather. A nice safe topic, and the nation
was
gripped by the most intense cold in decades. She knew it would take wild horses to drag the neighbor away from the scene, no matter how low the temperature dropped. She was the ghoulish type, someone who not only slowed down to look at an accident but pulled over and stopped.

Faith began to walk up and down to keep warm. She wanted to leave, yet she knew she couldn't. She didn't want to draw any attention to Karen Brown at all, and this woman was sure to point out who had found the body.

“Haven't seen too many, have you? You look kinda sick.”

“Not really.”

“This is nothing. Harry was so eaten up by cancer at the end that even the undertaker had to look away, but
they can do wonders. He was a beautiful corpse. Everybody said so. Of course, my father was the best-looking one. People still mention it to me. So natural, you'd think he would sit up and climb right out of the coffin. People were pinching him to make sure he wasn't being nailed in by mistake.”

Thankfully, the police arrived before she could go into further detail—and Faith knew she would have. They got right to work. Another car pulled up. It was the medical examiner. “Bumper crop today,” he said cheerfully, buttoning up his heavy black wool coat to his neck.

He waved the neighbor away. She had risen from her chair and had been crouching by his side, next to the body.

She joined Faith, who was standing at the end of the driveway. “Any note?” one of the officers asked.

Faith shook her head. While they had been waiting, she'd ignored the 911 directive and looked in the car, thinking the manuscript might be there, opening the trunk, even the glove compartment. She had, in fact, told the neighbor she was looking for a note.

“She seem troubled lately? Know of any previous attempt?”

Before Faith could say anything, the neighbor took over.

“She's been real depressed since her mother passed—moved in to take care of her—and lately she's seemed worse. I saw her yesterday, and she couldn't keep from crying. Out here on the sidewalk. She's got a bum for a son, and I'm not surprised she took this way out. She didn't have a thing to live for.”

The police took it all down and appeared satisfied. They were zipping Lorraine's mortal remains into a
body bag, and Faith looked away. Another image that would haunt her for the rest of her life.

The officer turned toward her. “Anything to add?”

“I didn't really know her that well. I think she was a bit depressed, but I wouldn't have said she'd take her own life.”

“Well, you really
didn't
know Lorraine, then, did you?” The neighbor snapped. “She's always gone to one extreme or another, and she's done it this time. Maybe she just meant to get Harvey's attention. It would take something like this to get him to even look her way.”

Once more, the woman had the Fuchs family to a tee. She told them where Harvey lived and that the last time she'd seen him in the neighborhood had been on Monday. “Rides a Harley. He's hard to miss.”

“Where's the key to the house? You called from there, right?” an officer asked.

Faith had given the keys back as soon as she had returned. It was hard not to. The woman had had her hand stretched out. Now she slipped it off the ring and gave it to the police. One of the officers went inside.

“I got to get to an autopsy,” the medical examiner said, walking past them on his way to his car. He stopped. “Bring her in, but I don't think there's any doubt here. Carbon monoxide poisoning. Classic suicide.” He looked over at Faith with sympathy. “She didn't suffer at all. She got drowsy and slipped away. One of the ones I brought back described it as feeling like all his cares were floating away from him and then he fell asleep.”