9|
Sometime during the night the wind had shifted, and the low-hanging clouds were blown out over the Atlantic. Saturday dawned with a welcoming golden sun. But the air was still unseasonably cold, and the CBS weatherman warned that the clouds would be back and there might even be snow flurries in the afternoon. Neeve bounded out of bed. She had a date to go jogging with Jack at seven-thirty.
She pulled on a sweatsuit, her Reeboks, and tied her hair back into a ponytail. Myles was already in the kitchen. He frowned.
“I just don’t like you jogging alone this early.”
“Not alone.”
Myles raised his eyes. “I see. Moving fast, aren’t we? I like him, Neeve.”
She poured orange juice. “Now, don’t get your hopes up. You liked the stockbroker too.”
“I didn’t say I liked that one. I said he seemed respectable. There’s a difference.” Myles dropped the bantering. “Neeve, I’ve been thinking. It makes more sense for you to go to Rockland County and talk to those detectives before you sit down with our guys. If you’re right, the clothes Ethel Lambston was wearing came from your shop. So that’s the first thing we establish. My guess is that after that you should go through her closet with a fine-tooth comb and see exactly what else is missing. We know homicide is going to zero in on the ex-husband, but you can’t assume anything.”
The intercom rang. Neeve picked up the receiver. It was Jack. “I’ll be right down,” she told him.
“What time do you want to go to Rockland County?” she asked Myles. “I really have to go to work for a while.”
“Midafternoon will be fine.” At her surprised expression, Myles added, “Channel Eleven is covering Nicky Sepetti’s funeral live. I want a front-row seat.”
• • •
Denny had taken up his position at seven o’clock. At seven-twenty-nine he saw a tall guy in a running suit go into Schwab House. A few minutes later, Neeve Kearny emerged with him. They started jogging toward the park. Denny swore silently under his breath. If she’d only been alone. He had cut through the park on the way over. It was almost deserted. He could have wasted her anywhere. He felt for the pistol in his pocket. Last night when he’d gone back to his room Big Charley had been parked across the street waiting for him. Charley had rolled down the car window and handed out a brown paper bag. Denny had taken it, and his fingers had felt the outline of the gun.
“Kearny is starting to cause real trouble,” Big Charley told him. “It don’t matter no more if it looks like an accident. Get her any way you can.”
Now he was tempted to follow them into the park, to hit the two of them. But Big Charley might not like that.
Denny began to walk in the opposite direction. Today he was wrapped in a bulky sweater that hung to his knees, torn chinos, leather sandals, a stocking cap that had once been bright yellow. Under it he was wearing a gray wig; bits of greasy gray hair were plastered on his forehead. He looked like a mainliner with scrambled brains. In the other getup he looked like a wino. But this way no one would remember that any one guy had been hanging around Neeve Kearny’s building.
As Denny put a token into the turnstile at the Seventy-second Street subway, he thought, I oughtta charge Big Charley the money it cost me to change my clothes.
• • •
Neeve and Jack entered the park at Seventy-ninth Street and began jogging east, then north. As they approached the Metropolitan Museum, Neeve instinctively began to cut west again. She did not want to pass the place where her mother had died. But at Jack’s puzzled glance she said, “Sorry, you lead.”
She tried to keep her eyes resolutely forward but could not resist glancing at the area past the still bare trees. The day Mother hadn’t arrived to pick her up at school. The principal, Sister Maria, had her wait in the office and suggested she begin her homework. It was nearly five o’clock before Myles came for her. By then she’d been sure something was wrong. Mother was never late.
The moment when she’d looked up and seen Myles standing over her, his eyes red-rimmed, his expression a mixture of anguish and pity, she’d known. She’d reached up her arms to him. “Is my mother dead?”
“You poor little kid,” Myles had said as he picked her up and hugged her against him. “You poor little kid.”
• • •
Neeve felt tears glisten in her eyes. In a burst of speed she ran past the quiet lane, past the extension of the Met that held the Egyptian collection. She was almost to the reservoir before she slowed down.
Jack had kept pace with her. Now he took her arm. “Neeve.” It was a question. As they turned west and then south, now gradually reducing their pace to a fast walk, she told him about Renata.
They left the park at Seventy-ninth Street. The last few blocks to Schwab House they walked side by side, their fingers linked.
• • •
When she turned on the radio at seven o’clock on Saturday morning, Ruth heard the news of Ethel’s death. She had taken a sleeping pill at midnight and for the next hours slept a heavy, drugged sleep that was filled with vaguely remembered nightmares. Seamus was arrested. Seamus on trial. That she-devil, Ethel, testifying against him. Years ago Ruth had worked in a law office, and she had a fair knowledge of the kind of charges that could be leveled against Seamus.
But as she listened to the newscast and lowered the teacup from her trembling fingers, she realized that she could add one more count: murder.
She shoved her chair back from the table and ran into the bedroom. Seamus was just waking up. Shaking his head, he ran his hand over his face, a characteristic gesture that had always annoyed her.
“You killed her!” she screamed. “How can I help you if you won’t tell me the truth!”
“What are you talking about?”
She snapped on the radio. The newscaster was describing how and where Ethel had been found. “You took the girls picnicking to Morrison State Park for years,” she cried. “You know the place like the back of your hand. Now tell me the truth! Did you stab her?”
An hour later, paralyzed with fright, Seamus made his way to the pub. Ethel’s body had been found. He knew the police would come for him.
Yesterday, Brian, the day bartender, had worked a double shift. To show his displeasure, he’d left the bar sticky and untidy. The Vietnamese kid who handled the kitchen was already there. At least he was a willing worker. “Are you sure you should have come in, Mr. Lambston?” he asked. “You still look real sick.”
Seamus tried to remember what Ruth had told him. “Say you have a touch of flu. You never miss work. They’ve got to believe you were really sick yesterday, that you were sick last weekend. They’ve got to believe you never left the apartment last weekend. Did you talk to anyone? Did anyone see you? That neighbor is bound to tell them you were there a couple of times last week.”
“Darn bugs keep coming back on me,” he mumbled. “Yesterday was bad, but over the weekend I was sick.”
Ruth phoned at ten o’clock. Childlike, he listened and repeated word for word what she told him.
He opened the pub at eleven. At noon the old-timers who were still around started drifting in. “Seamus,” one of them boomed, his jovial face creased in smiles, “sad news about poor Ethel, but grand that you’re off the hook for the alimony. Drinks on the house?”
At two o’clock, shortly after the reasonably busy lunch service was winding down, two men entered the bar. One was in his early fifties, with a beefy build and ruddy complexion, a man who might as well have had a sign on him reading “COP.” His partner was a slim Hispanic, in his late twenties. They identified themselves as Detectives O’Brien and Gomez from the Twentieth Precinct.
“Mr. Lambston,” O’Brien asked quietly. “Are you aware that your former wife, Ethel Lambston, has been found in Morrison State Park, that she has been the victim of a homicide?”
Seamus gripped the edge of the bar with knuckles that turned white. He nodded, unable to speak.
“Would yo
u mind stepping over to headquarters?” Detective O’Brien asked. He cleared his throat. “We’d like to go over a few things with you.”
• • •
After Seamus left for the pub, Ruth dialed Ethel Lambston’s apartment. The phone was picked up, but no one spoke. Finally she said, “I would like to speak with Ethel Lambston’s nephew, Douglas Brown. This is Ruth Lambston.”
“What do you want?” It was the nephew’s voice. Ruth recognized it.
“I must see you. I’ll be right there.”
Ten minutes later a cab was dropping her in front of Ethel’s apartment. As she stepped out and handed the fare to the driver, Ruth looked up. A curtain moved on the fourth floor. The upstairs neighbor who missed nothing.
Douglas Brown had been watching for her. He opened the door and stepped back to allow her to come into the apartment. It was still inordinately tidy, although Ruth noticed a fine layer of dust on the table. New York apartments needed daily dusting.
Not believing that the thought could even cross her mind at a time like this, she stood directly in front of Douglas, noticing the expensive bathrobe, the silk pajamas that peered out from the hem of the robe. Douglas looked heavy-eyed, as though he’d been drinking. His even features would have been handsome if they were strong. Instead they reminded Ruth of sculptures children made in sand, sculptures that washed away with wind and the tide.
“What do you want?” he demanded.
“I won’t waste your time or mine saying I’m sorry Ethel is dead. I want the letter Seamus wrote her, and I want you to put this in its place.” She extended her hand. The envelope was unsealed. Douglas opened it. It contained an alimony check dated April 5.
“What are you trying to pull?”
“I’m not pulling anything. I’m making an even exchange. Give me back the letter Seamus wrote Ethel, and get something straight. The reason Seamus came here on Wednesday was to deliver the alimony. Ethel wasn’t home and he came back on Thursday because he was worried that he hadn’t been able to force the envelope into her mailbox. He knew she’d haul him into court if it wasn’t there.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because last year Seamus asked Ethel to whom she was going to leave all her money, that’s why. She told him she had no choice—you were her only relative. But last week Ethel told Seamus you were stealing from her and she was planning to change her will.”
Ruth watched as Douglas turned a chalky white. “You’re lying.”
“Am I?” Ruth asked. “I’m giving you a break. You give Seamus a break. We’ll keep our mouths shut about your being a thief, and you keep your mouth shut about the letter.”
Douglas felt grudging admiration for the determined woman who was standing in front of him, handbag clutched under her arm, sensible all-weather coat, sensible shoes, frameless glasses that magnified her paleblue eyes, thin, rigid mouth. He knew she wasn’t bluffing.
He raised his eyes to the ceiling. “You seem to forget that the blabbermouth upstairs is telling everyone who’ll listen that Seamus and Ethel had a big fight the day before she didn’t show up for her appointments.”
“I talked to that woman. She can’t quote one single word. Just claims she heard loud voices. Seamus naturally talks loud. Ethel shrieked every time she opened her mouth.”
“You seem to have thought of everything,” Doug told her. “I’ll get the letter.” He went into the bedroom.
Ruth moved noiselessly to the desk. Beside the pile of mail, she could see the edge of the red-and-gold-handled dagger Seamus had described to her. In an instant it was in her purse. Was it only her imagination that it felt sticky?
When Douglas Brown emerged from the bedroom carrying Seamus’ letter, Ruth glanced at it and shoved it deep into the side pocket of her purse. Before she left, she extended her hand to him. “I am very sorry about the death of your aunt, Mr. Brown,” she said. “Seamus has asked me to convey his sympathy. No matter what troubles they had, there was a time when they enjoyed and loved each other. That is the time he will remember.”
“In other words,” Douglas said coldly, “when the police ask, this is the official reason for the visit.”
“That’s right,” Ruth said. “The unofficial reason is that if you keep your bargain, neither Seamus nor I will even hint to the police that your aunt was planning to disinherit you.”
• • •
Ruth went home, and in an almost religious fervor began to clean the apartment. Walls were scrubbed, curtains ripped down and left soaking in the bathtub. The twenty-year-old vacuum whined its ineffectual path along the threadbare carpet.
As she worked, Ruth was obsessed with the realization that she had to get rid of the dagger.
She discarded all the obvious places. The incinerator? Suppose the police checked the building trash. She didn’t want to drop it into a waste bin on the street. Maybe she was being followed and some cop would retrieve it.
At ten o’clock she phoned Seamus and rehearsed him on what he must say if he was questioned.
She could not delay any longer. She had to decide what to do with the dagger. She took it from her purse, ran it under boiling water and rubbed it with brass polish. Even so it seemed to her that it felt sticky—sticky from Ethel’s blood.
She was beyond even a pang of pity for Ethel. All that mattered was to preserve an untainted future for the girls.
She stared with loathing at the dagger. Now it looked brand-new. One of those crazy Indian things, blade sharp as a razor, with an ornate handle, decorated in an intricate pattern of red and gold. Probably expensive.
Brand-new.
Of course. So simple. So easy. She knew exactly where to hide it.
At twelve o’clock, Ruth made her way to Prahm and Singh, an Indian artifacts store on Sixth Avenue. She moseyed from display to display, pausing at counters and poring over baskets of trinkets. Finally she found what she was looking for, a large basket of letter openers. The handles were cheap copies of the ornate design of Ethel’s antique. Idly, she picked one up. As she’d remembered, in a shabby way it did resemble the one she was carrying.
From her handbag, she extracted Ethel’s dagger and dropped it into the basket, then pushed all the contents around until she was sure Ethel’s murder weapon was at the bottom of the pile.
“Can I help you?” a clerk asked.
Startled, Ruth looked up. “Oh . . . yes. I was just . . . I mean I’d like to see some coasters.”
“They’re in aisle three. I’ll show you.”
At one o’clock Ruth was back in the apartment, making a cup of tea and waiting for her heart to stop pounding. No one will find it there, she promised herself. Never, ever . . .
After Neeve left for her shop, Myles had a second cup of coffee and contemplated the fact that Jack Campbell was going to drive with them to Rockland County. Instinctively he liked Jack very much and wryly acknowledged that for years he’d been urging Neeve not to get hung up on the myth of love at first sight. My God, he thought, is it possible that lightning does strike twice after all?
At quarter of ten, he settled himself in his deep leather chair and watched as television cameras relayed the pageantry of Nicky Sepetti’s funeral. Flower cars, three of them overflowing with expensive arrangements, preceded the hearse to St. Camilla’s Church. A fleet of hired limousines carried mourners and those who pretended to mourn. Myles knew that the FBI and the U.S. Attorney’s office as well as the Police Department racket squad were there, taking down the license numbers of private cars, photographing the faces of the people filing into the church.
Nicky’s widow was escorted by a stocky fortyish man and a younger woman who was swathed in a black hooded cape that concealed much of her face. All three were wearing dark glasses. The son and daughter don’t want to be recognized, Myles decided. He knew that both had distanced themselves from Nicky’s associates. Smart kids.
The coverage continued inside the church. Myles lowered the volume and, keeping one eye on
the set, went to the phone. Herb was in his office.
“Have you seen the News and the Post?” Herb asked. “They’re really playing up the Ethel Lambston murder.”
“I saw them.”
“We’re still concentrating on the ex-husband. We’ll see what the search of her apartment turns up. That argument the neighbor heard last Thursday might have ended in the stabbing. On the other hand, he may have scared her enough to make her decide to get out of town and then followed her. Myles, you taught me that every murderer leaves a calling card. We’ll find this one.”
They agreed that Neeve would meet the homicide detectives from the Twentieth Precinct at Ethel’s apartment on Sunday afternoon. “Call me if you pick up anything of interest in Rockland County,” Herb said. “The Mayor wants to announce that this case is solved.”
“What else is new about the Mayor?” Myles asked dryly. “Talk to you, Herb.”
Myles turned up the volume of the set and watched as Nicky Sepetti’s remains were blessed by the priest. The casket was wheeled out of church as the choir sang “Be Not Afraid.” Myles listened to the words, “Be not afraid, I am with you always.” You’ve been with me day and night for seventeen years, you sonofabitch, he thought as the pallbearers folded the casket blanket and hoisted the heavy mahogany coffin onto their shoulders. Maybe when I’m sure you’re rotting in the ground, I’ll be free of you.
Nicky’s widow reached the bottom of the church steps, then abruptly turned and walked from her son and daughter to the nearest television commentator. As her face loomed into the camera, a face weary and resigned, she said, “I want to make a statement. A lot of people did not approve of my husband’s business dealings, may he rest in peace. He was sent to prison for those dealings. But he was kept in prison, for many extra years, for a crime he did not commit. On his deathbed, Nicky swore to me that he had nothing to do with the murder of Police Commissioner Kearny’s wife. Think what you want of him, but don’t think of him as the person responsible for that death.”