In the wild confusion that followed, Hilda was jostled and propelled backwards as an off-duty cop took charge, shouting, “Police. Get back.”
The sight of the crumpled, bleeding body on the pavement, the elegant suit marked with tire tracks, made Hilda feel faint, but she recovered enough to speak to the reporter. Then she turned and with great difficulty made her way home to her apartment. Once inside she made tea and, hands shaking, sipped it slowly.
“That poor girl,” she kept murmuring, as she relived the incident over and over again.
Finally she felt she had the strength to call the police station. The desk sergeant who answered was one she had spoken to several times in the past, usually when she reported panhandlers approaching pedestrians on Third Avenue. He listened to her story patiently.
“Hilda, we know what you think, but you’re mistaken,” he said soothingly. “We already talked to a lot of the people who were on that corner when the accident happened. The press of the crowd when the light turned green caused Mrs. Wells to lose her balance, that’s all.”
“The pressure of a hand on her back deliberately pushing her forward caused her to fall,” Hilda snapped. “He grabbed the manila envelope she was carrying. I’m exhausted and going to bed now, but leave word for Captain Shea. I’ll be in to see him the minute he gets in tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock sharp.”
She hung up indignantly. It was only five o’clock, but she needed to go to bed. She felt a tightness in her chest that only a nitroglycerin tablet under her tongue and some bed rest would ease.
A few minutes later she was dressed in her warm nightgown, her head propped up on the thick pillow that aided her breathing. The darting headache that for a few minutes always accompanied the pill began to subside. The chest pain was fading.
Hilda sighed with relief. A good night’s rest and she would go to the police station to give Captain Shea an earful and register a complaint about that boneheaded sergeant. Then she would insist on sitting down with the police artist and describing the man who had pushed that woman. Vile thing, she thought, remembering his face. The worst kind—well dressed; classy-looking; the type of person you would think you could trust. How was that poor girl doing? she wondered. Maybe it would be on the news.
She reached for the remote control and turned on the television just in time to see and hear herself on camera as the witness who claimed to have seen a man push Carolyn Wells in front of the van.
Hilda’s emotions were decidedly mixed. She felt an undeniable thrill at being a celebrity, but there was also a sense of annoyance at the comment the broadcaster had made, which clearly suggested she was wrong. Then that lunkhead sergeant had treated her like she was a child. Her final thought as she began to doze off was that in the morning she’d stir them all up.
Wait and see. Sleep overcame her just as she began to say a Hail Mary for the gravely injured Carolyn Wells.
16
When Susan left Nedda, she walked home through the twilight to her apartment on Downing Street. The penetrating chill of the early morning, relieved temporarily by the warmth of the afternoon sun, had returned.
She thrust her hands into the generous pockets of her sackstyle jacket and picked up her pace. The weather brought to mind a long-forgotten line from Little Women. One of the sisters—she couldn’t remember whether it was Beth or Amy—said that November was a disagreeable month, and Jo agreed, commenting that that was why she was born in it.
Me too, Susan thought. My birthday is November twenty-fourth. The Thanksgiving baby, they used to call me. Sure. And this year I’m a thirty-three-year-old baby. Thanksgiving and birthdays used to be fun, she mused. At least this year I won’t have to jog between two dinners, like someone stealing from one enemy camp to another. Thank God this year Dad and Binky are going to St. Martin.
Of course, my domestic problem is small potatoes when compared with the way Jane Clausen is living, she thought, as she reached her street and turned west. After they had acknowledged that “Karen” was not going to keep the appointment, Mrs. Clausen had stayed at the office for another twenty minutes.
Over a cup of tea, she had insisted that Susan keep the turquoise ring. “If something were to happen to me, it’s important that you have it just in case the woman who phoned you contacts you again,” she had said.
She doesn’t mean if something happens to her; she means when, Susan thought, as she turned in to her own building, a three-story brownstone, and began the climb to her apartment on the top floor. It was a roomy place, with a large living room, generous kitchen, oversized bedroom, and small den. Handsomely and comfortably furnished with the items her mother had offered when she moved from the house the family had lived in to a luxury condo, it always felt warm and welcoming to Susan—almost like a physical embrace.
Tonight was no exception. In fact, this evening the place felt particularly soothing, Susan reflected, flipping the switch that turned on the gas-burning log fire in the fireplace.
An at-home night, she decided emphatically as she proceeded to change, slipping into an aging velour caftan. She would make herself a salad and pasta, and pour a glass of Chianti.
A short time later, as she was rinsing watercress, the phone rang. “Susan, how’s my girl?”
It was her father. “I’m fine, Dad,” Susan said, then grimaced. “I mean, I’m fine, Charles.”
“Binky and I were sorry you had to leave so soon yesterday. Party was a blast, wasn’t it?”
Susan raised an eyebrow. “A real blast.”
“Right.”
Oh Dad, Susan thought. If you only knew how phony you sound.
“Susan, you certainly caught Alex Wright’s eye. He kept talking to us about you. Guess he was praising you to Dee as well. Told us Dee wouldn’t give him your home phone.”
“My office number is in the book. If he wants to, he’ll call me there. I thought he seemed like a nice guy.”
“He’s a lot more than that. The Wright family is up there with the best of them. Very impressive.”
Dad’s still in awe of important people, Susan thought. At least he hasn’t managed to convince himself that he was born with a silver spoon. I just wish he didn’t need to pretend that he was.
“Let me put Binky on. She wants to tell you something.”
Why me, Lord? Susan thought as she listened to the phone being handed over.
Her stepmother’s trilling “Hello” grated on her ear.
Before she could respond, Binky began to sing the praises of Alexander Wright. “I’ve known him for years, darling,” she chirped. “Never married. Just the kind of man Charles and I envision you or Dee with. You’ve met him, so you know he’s attractive. He’s on the board of the Wright Family Foundation. They give away tons of money every year. The most generous, most philanthropic person you’d ever want to meet. Not like these selfish people who only care for themselves.”
I can’t believe you said that, Susan thought.
“Darling, I did something that I hope you won’t mind. Alex just phoned and practically demanded I give him your home number. And I’m pretty sure he’s going to call you this evening. He said he didn’t want to bother you at your office.” Binky paused, then coaxed, “Please tell me I did the right thing.”
“I’d rather you didn’t give out my home number, Binky,” Susan said stiffly, then softened. “But in this case, I suppose it’s all right. Just please don’t do it again.”
She managed to cut short Binky’s gushing reassurances and hung up feeling as though her evening had suddenly turned sour.
Less than ten minutes later, Alexander Wright phoned. “I put the hit on Binky for your home number. I hope that was okay.”
“I know,” Susan said, her tone remote. “Charles and Binky just called.”
“Why don’t you refer to your father as ‘Dad’ when we talk? It’s okay with me.”
Susan laughed. “You’re very perceptive. Yes, I will do that.”
“I made a poin
t of catching your program today and thoroughly enjoyed it.”
Susan was surprised to realize that she was pleased.
“I was seated at the same table as Regina Clausen at a Futures Industry dinner six or seven years ago. She struck me as a lovely person, a very intelligent lady.”
Wright hesitated, then said apologetically, “I know this is last minute, but I just finished a board of directors meeting at St. Clare’s Hospital and I’m hungry. If you haven’t had dinner and don’t have plans, could I possibly interest you in going out? I know you’re on Downing Street. Il Mulino is minutes away.”
Susan eyed the watercress she had been washing. Somewhat to her surprise she heard herself agreeing to be picked up in about twenty minutes.
As she walked to the bedroom to change to a cashmere sweater and slacks, she convinced herself that the real reason she was going on this impromptu date was to hear any impressions Alex Wright might be able to offer about Regina Clausen.
17
Upon reflection, Douglas Layton acknowledged that Jane Clausen would not take kindly to his failure to stay with her at Dr. Susan Chandler’s office.
As a lawyer/investment broker, for the past four years he had been working for the firm that handled the Clausen interests. He had begun his career there as assistant to Hubert March, the senior partner who had known and tended to the Clausens for some fifty years. As March approached retirement, Layton had become the on-the-spot person whom Jane Clausen clearly favored to replace her failing old friend.
To have been named a director of the Clausen Family Trust after so short a time with the firm was an awesome coup, one which Douglas Layton fully appreciated, and with it came significant obligations.
But I had no choice this afternoon, he reminded himself as he entered the elevator at 10 Park Avenue and smiled pleasantly at the young couple who had just bought an apartment on the ninth floor of his building.
He still rented, although with his income he easily could have afforded to buy his own place. As he explained to his friends, “Look, I’m thirty-six. At some point, believe it or not, I’m going to find the right girl and settle down. When I do, we’ll shop together.
“And anyhow,” he would point out, “while I don’t know the guy who owns this place, I sure do like his taste. And even though I could buy my own co-op, I couldn’t afford one quite like this.”
His friends could not deny the truth of that observation. Without the headaches of ownership, Layton lived in an apartment with a mahogany paneled library, a living room with a dazzling New York view that included both the Empire State Building and the East River, a state-of-the-art kitchen, a large bedroom, and two full baths. It was comfortably furnished with deep couches, inviting club chairs, sufficient drawer and closet space, tasteful wall hangings, and excellent reproductions of fine Persian carpets.
Tonight, as he closed and locked the apartment door, Douglas Layton wondered how long his luck would hold out.
He checked the time; it was quarter past five. He made a beeline for the phone and called Jane Clausen. She did not answer, which was not unusual. If she was going out to dinner, she often would nap around this time, in which case the phone was always turned off. The gossip around the office was that she used to leave the phone on the empty pillow next to her, just in case a call from her daughter Regina came in the middle of the night.
He would try Mrs. Clausen again in an hour or so. In the meantime there was someone else he hadn’t spoken to in at least a week. His face suddenly softening, he picked up the phone again and dialed.
His mother had moved to Lancaster, Pennsylvania, ten years ago. Long separated from his father, who had disappeared from their lives, she was much happier to be back among her own numerous cousins.
She answered on the third ring. “Oh, Doug, I’m glad you caught me. In another minute I’d have been gone.”
“The hospital? The homeless shelter? The Emergency Hotline?” he asked, his tone affectionate.
“None of those, smarty. I’m going to the movies with Bill.”
Bill was her longtime friend, an amiable bachelor whom Doug found very likable and completely boring.
“Don’t let him get fresh.”
“Doug, you know very well he wouldn’t,” his mother sputtered.
“You’re right—I do know very well. Good old predictable Bill. Okay, Mom, I’ll let you go. I just wanted to check in.”
“Doug, is everything okay? You sound worried.”
He chided himself. He should know better than to call his mother when he was upset. She could always see through him.
“I’m fine,” he said.
“Doug, I worry about you. And I’m here if you need me. You know that, don’t you?”
“I know, Mom. I’m fine. Love you.”
He hung up quickly, then went to the bar in the library and poured himself a stiff scotch. As he gulped it down, he could feel his heart pounding. This was not the time to have an anxiety attack. Why was it that he, who usually was so absolutely in charge of his actions and emotions, got hit like this every so often?
He knew why.
Nervously he flipped on the television and watched the evening news.
At seven o’clock he once again dialed Jane Clausen’s number. This time he reached her, but by her reserved tone knew he was in trouble.
At eight o’clock he went out.
18
Alexander Wright spotted his car double-parked outside St. Clare’s Hospital on West Fifty-second Street and was in the backseat before his driver was able to get out and open the door for him.
“A long meeting, sir,” Jim Curley volunteered as he started the engine. “Where are we heading now?” He spoke with the familiarity of a longtime employee, having been with the Wright family for thirty years.
“Jim, I’m happy to say that as of five minutes ago, we’re picking up a very attractive lady on Downing Street and going on to dinner at Il Mulino,” Wright answered.
Downing, Curley thought. Must be a new one. Never been there before. Curley took pleasure in the fact that as a good-looking and wealthy bachelor in his late thirties, his employer was on everyone’s A list. Within the confines of his extreme care for Alexander Wright’s privacy, Curley enjoyed mentioning to his friends that musical comedy star Sandra Cooper was just as nice as she was beautiful, or how funny Lily Lockin, the comedienne, had been when she chatted with him in the car.
But these discreet tidbits were mentioned only after items appeared in the newspaper columns indicating that this or that woman had been at dinner or a party with sportsman and philanthropist Alex Wright.
As the car made its way through the slow Ninth Avenue traffic, Curley glanced several times in the rearview mirror, observing with some concern that his boss had closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the soft leather of the headrest.
Whoever said that it can be as hard to give away money as it is to earn it was right, Curley thought compassionately. He knew that as chairman of the Alexander and Virginia Wright Family Foundation, Mr. Alex was constantly besieged by individuals and organizations pleading for grants. And he was so nice to everyone. Probably much too generous as well.
Nothing like his father, Curley mused. The old guy was a tough one. So was Alex’s mother. She’d bite your head off for nothing. Always on Alex when he was a kid. A miracle he turned out so fine. I hope this lady on Downing Street is fun, he thought. Alex Wright deserved to have some fun. He worked too hard.
As usual, Il Mulino was busy. The scent of good food mingled with the cheerful voices of the diners. The bar was filled with people waiting for tables. The overflowing harvest basket of vegetables at the entrance to the dining room gave a countrylike coziness to the restaurant’s simple decor.
The maître d’ escorted them to a table immediately. As they wended their way through the crowded room, Alex Wright was stopped several times to greet friends.
Without consulting the wine list, he ordered a bottle of Ch
ianti and one of chardonnay. At her look of consternation, he laughed. “You don’t have to have more than a glass or two, but I promise you, you’ll enjoy sipping both. I’m going to be honest. I skipped lunch and I’m starving. Do you mind if we look at the menu right away?”
Susan decided on a salad and salmon. He chose oysters, pasta, and veal. “The pasta is what I would have had for lunch,” he explained.
As the captain poured wine, Susan raised her eyebrows and shook her head. “I cannot believe that only an hour ago I was in my favorite, somewhat ragged caftan, planning a quiet evening at home,” she told him.
“You could have worn the caftan,” he suggested.
“Only if I was trying to impress you,” she said, eliciting a laugh from Wright.
She studied him briefly as he waved at someone across the room. He was dressed in a conservative dark gray suit with a faint pinstripe, a crisp white shirt, and a small-patterned gray-and-red tie. He was attractive and impressive.
Finally she realized what it was that was puzzling her about him. Certainly Alex Wright had the authority and poise that were the product of generations of breeding, but there was something else about him that intrigued her. I think he’s a little shy, she decided. That’s what it is. She liked that about him.
“I’m glad I went to the cocktail party yesterday,” he told her quietly. “I’d decided to stay home and do the Times puzzle, but I’d accepted the invitation and didn’t want to be rude.” His smile was fleeting. “I want you to know I’m grateful to you for coming out to dine with me on such short notice.”
“You said you’ve known Binky quite a long time?”
“Yes, but only the way you know people who go to the same parties. Small ones. I can’t stand the biggies. I hope I’m not stepping on your toes when I say she’s an airhead.”