The Eighth Commandment (26 page)

“Why, that’s wonderful,” she said immediately. “I’ll give Bobbi a call and ask if I can join you. You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not.”

“Won’t it be hilarious,” she said. “We’ll have a real hen party.”

I didn’t know if she was being ironic or not. With her, it was hard to tell.

“Now then,” she continued, “another thing … Luther and I are having a very informal buffet dinner next Tuesday night, and we’d like so much to have you. Do you think you can make it?”

I was tempted to say, “Let me take a look at my appointment calendar.” But I didn’t have the gall. “Yes,” I said, “I’d like that. Thank you very much.”

“Lots of yummy food,” she said. “Plenty to drink, and the handsomest men in Manhattan. I think you’ll have a ball.” She paused a moment, then: “Listen, Dunk, I have a wonderful idea. I’m on my way to Vecchio’s on Madison Avenue to buy some new rags for the party; Could you meet me there at, say, eleven o’clock, and we’ll pick out something wicked and scrumptious for me. We’ll leave in plenty of time for lunch. How does that sound?”

Why did I have the feeling I was being manipulated?

“Sounds fine,” I said faintly. “I’m supposed to meet Roberta at the Russian Tea Room at twelve-thirty.”

“No problem,” she said. “It won’t take me that long to pick out something. And I’d really like to get your opinion. I trust your taste.”

Bull
shit
!

Vecchio’s was the kind of place where they took a good look at you through the plate glass door before they unlocked and allowed you to enter and blow a wad. It was an Italian boutique, Milanese, and if you could find a blouse under $600 or a dress under $2,000, it had to be last year’s styles.

The doorman probably would have taken one look at my denim sack and turned away in horror, but I had walked over through Central Park, and arrived just as Vanessa was climbing out of a cab with a flash of bare thigh. The guard took one look at
her
and practically tore the door off its hinges.

Inside, an Adonis in a black silk suit came running forward to smother her hands with kisses. “Signora!” he kept crying. “Signora!”

“Down, Carlo, down,” Vanessa said, laughing. Then she introduced me.

“Signorina,” he said, bowing. I didn’t even get an exclamation point.

That was some lush joint. Polished marble floors, Corinthian columns, subdued lighting, and sinfully luxurious chairs and couches covered with lemony cowhide. Not a garment in sight. I gathered you told them what you were interested in, and they whisked things out of an inner stockroom to display for the signora’s pleasure.

“Something splashy, Carlo,” Vanessa said. “For a party. You know what I like.”

“But of course,” he said, turned, and snapped his fingers at two assistants hovering nervously in the background. “The red with sequins,” he ordered. “The white Grecian drape. The fringed black.”

They scurried, and hustled back with the three gowns. I’d have given my eyeteeth to own any of them, but of course I could never have gotten into them. I would have looked like an elephant in rompers.

Carlo exhibited them with dramatic flair, caressing the fabrics with his fingertips, shaking the hangers so the dresses billowed and swayed.

“Amusing,” he said. “No?”

“What do you think, Dunk?” Vanessa asked.

“I love them all,” I confessed.

“Mmm,” she said, inspecting the gowns critically. “The drape is a little too full for me, and the sequined red is hookerish—don’t you think?”

This from a woman with a record of loitering for the purpose of prostitution. It was to laugh.

She selected the fringed black: a short sheath with spaghetti straps, cut reasonably high in front and no back at all. Wear that thing backward and you’d be in
biiig
trouble. The fringe hung in tiers, and moved, swayed, flipped as the wearer walked.

“Let’s try it on,” Vanessa said, and I wanted to say, “
Both
of us?”

We went into a dressing room as elegantly appointed as a Roman vomitorium. All right, I’m exaggerating, but it war splendidly furnished, with more mirrors than a fun house. Vanessa began to undress, casually, which made me a little uneasy. Despite my basketball team experience, I’ve never been an uninhibited locker room type.

“Tell me,” she said, unbuttoning, unsnapping, unhooking, “have you found out who ripped off the Demaretion?”

“No,” I said, “I haven’t.”

“Orson’s murder really shook me,” she chattered on. “I didn’t like the man—I told you that—but even so, I was devastated by his death. Do they know who did it?”

“They’re investigating.”

“Tell me about it,” she said bitterly. “I had a two-hour session with the homicide detectives. My God, I hope they don’t suspect
me.
I wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

A zippered fly? I was tempted to ask.

By then she was stripped down to high-heeled shoes, little white bikini panties, and nothing else. I’m one long hunk of cartilage, but she had a body that just didn’t stop. I mean, it
gleamed.
Perfectly proportioned with a narrow waist, flare of hips, a luscious tush, and a really exceptional pair of lungs. Incidentally, I didn’t see that tattoo Orson Vanwinkle had mentioned.

She inspected her practically naked body in the three-way mirror, turning this way and that, lifting her arms.

“What do you think?” she said. “Not so bad for an old dame—right? The thighs are still firm.”

“So is everything else,” I said.

She touched her breasts lightly, a brief caress. “There’s a little silicone in there,” she said, “but that’s just between us girls. Do you think Orson did it?”

“What?” I said, startled. “Oh, you mean steal the Demaretion. No, I don’t think he did it. He couldn’t have.”

“Natalie then,” she said, her voice muffled as she pulled the fringed dress over her head. “She’s nutty enough. Or Ruby Querita. There’s a freak for you.”

She was pointing fingers in all directions, and I wondered if she was just running off at the mouth or had good reasons for her suspicions. But maybe the theft of the Demaretion and Vanwinkle’s murder were the most dramatic things that had happened in her life in a long time, and she was trying to keep the excitement alive. Good party talk.

She turned her back to me. “Zip me up,” she ordered, and I did. Then we both inspected the result in the mirrors.

Some result! The dress looked like it had been painted on her, and the tiers of fringe made it sexier. I don’t know why, but I thought of a striptease dancer with tassels on her pasties.

“What do you think?” Vanessa asked.

“Beautiful,” I said. “But about an inch too long. They can take up the hem.”

She looked at me with astonishment. “You’re absolutely right,” she said. “Will you call Carlo and the fitters, please.”

Within minutes, there were four people hovering around her, clucking and murmuring and rolling their eyes. The hem would be shortened, certainly. “And perhaps, signora,” Carlo said, “if I may suggest it, the straps taken up. Not a lot—no! A trifle. To fit snugly. Ah, what a glory!”

After things had been chalked and pinned, Vanessa undressed, dressed, and we moved out into the main room. She didn’t even flash a credit card.

“Bill me, Carlo,” she said gaily.

“But of course, signora,” he said, bending to nibble on her fingers again. I may have been imagining it, but I could have sworn he passed her a little folded slip of paper—just like the headwaiter at that Tudor pub on Third Avenue. Then he released her hand and shook mine.

“Signorina,” he said, really not interested.

I never did find out what that fringed black cost. Probably more than my entire savings account at Chemical Bank.

I was willing to admit that Vanessa Havistock had a lot of talents, and one of them was obviously the ability to get a cab. She had no sooner stepped off the curb and held up one finger languidly than a Checker pulled up with a screech of brakes. I wish I had that gift.

On our way to the Russian Tea Room, she suddenly said, “Are you a close friend of Roberta’s?”

“Close?” I said, surprised. “Hardly. I think I’ve seen her twice.”

“Be careful,” Vanessa said darkly. “She’s not exactly the Flying Nun, you know.”

Roberta Minchen was at a table, waiting for us. The Christmas decorations were still up, as always, in the back room. The place was already crowded, and the clack of conversation was rising.

“Look what I’ve got,” Roberta said, giggling and holding up a glass. “Peppered vodka. It’s delicious.”

She was wearing one of her high-collared, flowery chiffons, and I tried not to remember what she had looked like in that videocassette I had seen. Not Academy Award material—unless all those men would nominate her for Best Supporting Actress.

Vanessa had her very,
very
dry martini straight up with a single olive, please, and I asked for a vodka gimlet. Then, to keep things simple, we all ordered the same luncheon: avocado stuffed with crabmeat salad. Kiddo, I told myself, you’re
living.

It took about three seconds for the talk to get around to the Demaretion robbery and Orson Vanwinkle’s murder. The Havistock women thought both events were connected.

“It stands to reason,” Roberta Minchen said, rabbity teeth gleaming. “I mean we were all living such a nice, peaceful existence, and then those two awful things happened, one right after the other. There must be a link between them.”

“I agree,” Vanessa said. “And I still think Orson was involved in stealing the coin. He was such a creep.”

“Wasn’t he?” Roberta said, blinking. “I just never did understand why Daddy kept him on. Do you know, Vanessa?”

“Why, no,” she said tightly. “How in hell would I know something like that?”

That was my first intimation that there was a tension between the two. Maybe not outright hostility, at the moment, but a kind of wariness. The sparring kept up after our luncheon plates were served.

“Even Mother didn’t like him,” Roberta said. “But he was Archibald’s nephew, and I guess she didn’t want to say anything. Did you know his girlfriend, Vanessa? Dolly LeBaron?”

“I met her once,” Vanessa said. “Once was enough. You had them over to your place, didn’t you?”

“We tried to be friends. Briefly. But they really weren’t our kind of people.”

“Oh? I’d have thought you’d hit it off.”

I was silent, listening to this dueling with fascination.

“He just drank too much,” Roberta said. “And she’s a flibbertigibbet.”

“Do you really think so?” Vanessa said. “As I said, I only met her once, but my impression was that behind the Marilyn Monroe exterior was a real barracuda.”

“It takes one to know one,” Roberta said, smiling sweetly.

Vanessa stared at her coldly, then turned to me. “Have you met her, Dunk? Dolly LeBaron?”

“Yes, I’ve met her.”

“What was your take?”

“Not too bright.”

“Bright enough,” Vanessa said grimly, “to latch on to Orson and take him for whatever she could get. That’s where all his money went.”

We were silent then, digging into our avocados. But the truce didn’t last long.

“How is Luther?” Roberta asked. “The last time I saw him he looked so pale and thin.”

“Luther is fine,” Vanessa said.

“Is he still biting his fingernails?”

Vanessa glared at her. “Is Ross still cracking his knuckles?”

I prepared to push back my chair if dishes started flying. But their jousting remained verbal.

“After all,” Roberta said, “Luther
is
my brother, and I
am
interested in his welfare. You shouldn’t let him drink so much.”

“Butt out,” Vanessa said, her face becoming almost ugly with anger. “Just butt out. I don’t tell you how to manage that nerd you’re married to, do I? Advice from you I don’t need.”

“Ladies,” I murmured, but it did no good.

“At least,” Roberta said, “Ross is a good provider.”

“I won’t ask what he provides,” Vanessa said nastily. “After all, you’re paying for the lunch, and I never insult the woman who pays the bill.”

“Or the man either,” Roberta said. “You’re always very sweet to the one who picks up the check.”

“What that’s supposed to mean?” Vanessa demanded.

“If the shoe fits, wear it.”

Thank God the waitress arrived just then to remove our empty plates. I swear that if that snarling had gone on much longer, I’d have stood up and stalked out with as much dignity as I could muster. It was embarrassing. But the waitress saved the day, and we all ordered coffee, no desserts, in calm, controlled voices.

“Ruby Querita,” Vanessa said, looking at Roberta with no expression. “What do you think?”

Roberta pouted her lips. “Yes,” she said, “I think it’s very possible she took the coin. Her brother’s in jail, you know. She needs money to get him out.”

They both turned to stare at me.

“And killed Orson Vanwinkle?” I said. “Why would she do that?”

“Maybe he saw her do it,” Vanessa said. “He was going to turn her in to the cops, so she shot him.”

“Yes,” Roberta said, nodding wisely, “that makes sense.”

Again I had the feeling of being pushed in directions I didn’t want to go.

“It doesn’t make sense to me,” I said. “Letters were written to the insurance company, offering to make a deal: the Demaretion returned for cash. I don’t think Ruby would be capable of that.”

“Maybe she got someone to write the letters for her,” Vanessa said.

“Now you’re reaching,” I told her. “Ruby is very religious. She lives by the Ten Commandments. I really don’t think she’d steal.”

“Then it was Natalie,” Roberta said firmly. “She’d steal—as a kind of joke, you know. I hate to say it about my own sister, but she’s capable.”

What a family!

I was never so glad in my life when that awful luncheon finally ended. I told them I had an appointment uptown, and left them together on the sidewalk as soon as I decently could, after thanking Roberta for her hospitality.

“We must do it again soon,” she said brightly.

In about 1998, I thought.

I walked away from them as fast as I could, not looking back. If they started pulling hair after I was gone, that was their problem. And if it came to a knockdown and dragout fight, I’d have bet on Vanessa; she was the ballsier of the two.