Dearly Departed (13 page)

CHAPTER 20

“M
acGregor's doorman has a nicer uniform than yours.”

Marcus had to agree. “Maybe.”

They had just announced themselves at the front desk and were now in the center elevator of 142 Sutton Place, on their way up to the penthouse floor.

“Of course, I may not have that uniform much longer.”

Fanny waved away his concern like she would a gnat. “Nonsense.”

Marcus had spent the last day researching the proposed Bublé proposal and come to the conclusion that it was indeed impossible. The Empire State Building would not allow the private use of its most famous space, and Michael Bublé, according to his agent, was booked for the next eighteen months at venues slightly larger than an observation deck. Perhaps they could get away with a Bublé impersonator. Perhaps. But an Empire State Building impersonator was, well, impossible.

“No one's going to fire you,” Fanny insisted.

“Whatever alternative I come up with is going to disappoint. He made that clear. And Gavin's just waiting for me to screw up.”

“Nonsense.” She had thought this through and saw a glimmer of hope. “You keep telling your billionaire that it's all set up and ready. Grand piano. Orchestra of fifty. And then you maneuver the situation so that he cancels it.”

“He's not going to cancel. His fiancée has her heart set—”

“Cancel the wedding. Make him call it off.”

“That's a bit harsh.”

“The woman likes Michael Bublé. She has it coming.”

“True.” The elevator doors opened, and they stepped out. “How do we get him to call it off?”

Fanny slapped him on the arm. “Ingrate. I just changed your situation from impossible to annoyingly difficult. Try to meet me halfway.”

When they arrived at the white penthouse door, they paused. Or rather, Marcus paused. “Our law firm?” he asked quickly as he watched one of Fanny's red fingernails hit the bell. They had gotten through the Ellis Eyewear incident in one piece, but it could have been easier. This time he had insisted on preparation. They had even printed a business card.

“Brummel, Brown, and Associates,” answered Fanny. Brummel & Brown was Fanny's favorite margarine, and so it was easy for her to remember.

“And the firm's relationship to MacGregor?”

“Marcus, please. I'm better on the fly.” Those words were barely out of her mouth when the door eased open.

Miss Archer stood in the doorway, looking both bored and formidable. “I suppose you're the lawyers.”

“We are,” said Marcus, employing his best concierge charm. The woman grudgingly stepped aside and let them in.

The first minute went smoothly enough. Amy had told them about Archer, so they were unfazed by the homey clutter of the maid's maid. Amy had failed to mention the cats, Fanny noted, so perhaps they were new. Out of the corner of her eye, she counted three, one scooting into the kitchen, one settled on a window seat, and a third, oblivious to their arrival, making long, deep claw marks on the arm of a white leather sofa. The general sheen of every surface was now dimmed by a thin, even layer of fur.

They had called ahead, lawyers representing the MacGregor estate, coming to take an inventory of the apartment and its contents. With the arrival of “lawyers,” they had expected Archer to clean up her act. But Archer remained unapologetic. “I have every right to be here.”

“Absolutely,” Marcus agreed. He brandished his clipboard and pen and dazzling smile, trying to make her lift her eyes from their card. Why was Archer studying it so intently? And why in the world had he agreed to the name? Here was a woman undoubtedly familiar with margarine brands.

“We need to start listing the deceased's household possessions,” Fanny said, pointing to the clipboard.

“Has the will gone into probate?” Archer's tone suggested she knew more about the legal system than they did.

“That depends.” Instantly, Fanny knew it was the wrong thing to say. “I mean, the will hasn't officially been read, but that's a formality.”

“This is just a kind of pre-probate inventory,” Marcus suggested.

“Are you the executors?” Archer asked, checking the card again. “This isn't the firm Ms. MacGregor used before.”

“They hired us for the inventory,” said Marcus. “As a security measure.”

“Security? Do they think I'm going to steal something?”

“No, no,” Fanny said. “Actually, we don't know. We were just hired for the job. And the sooner you let us do it . . .”

“Go knock yourself out.” Archer extended her right arm and used the business card to point. Marcus wanted to grab it back but didn't dare take the chance. They were lucky enough to gain access. Unsupervised access. Even better.

Marcus thought about it for a moment as they walked in—how uncharacteristic it seemed for the sour, suspicious Archer to leave them alone. Just like that. But he credited it to their natural good luck and breathed a sigh as he nudged the bedroom door so that it almost closed behind them.

“So,” Fanny whispered, also accepting their luck. “If someone gave MacGregor an ‘if I die' note, she'd open it. I don't know any self-respecting woman who wouldn't. The envelope somehow fell into the piano, which no one ever played until Peter came along. Then MacGregor read the note and, we assume, hid it someplace for safekeeping. She was a snoop, yes, but a loyal snoop.”

“That's our theory,” Marcus whispered back. He was already at the bookshelf, leafing through each volume, his eyes geared for anything bigger than a bookmark. The woman seemed to have the complete collected works of Jackie Collins and Danielle Steel, all in hardcover, with a few Barbara Cartland paperbacks thrown in between.

“Marcus, come here.”

Fanny was across the room, at a section of wall that wasn't a wall at all but a door—not a secret door, just a closet door for people who didn't like the look of closet doors. She was standing in the open doorway, fists on her hips, an upturned chin, in a pose reminiscent of Columbus standing on the shoreline of a new world. Marcus could see why.

It was a large walk-in, large even by millionaire standards, although the lack of shelves and rods and drawers made it look more like a storage unit—a rather festive storage unit. Almost half the boxes crammed in there were still in wrapping paper, with fading ribbons and squashed bows, sitting on top of each other like the remnants of a hundred lost birthdays. The others appeared to be gift boxes, some taped shut, some with the flaps folded.

They stepped inside the closet, and Marcus reached down to a glossy Santa-wrapped parcel the size of a shoe box. He read from the gift tag. “To Paisley, Merry Christmas. The Pepper-Sands.”

“What's a Pepper-Sand?” Fanny asked, bending over to see.

“Don't know,” Marcus replied. “But if the note is somewhere in here, we've got our work cut out for us.”

Fanny frowned. “We can't open all these.”

“Yes siree. For one thing, it's illegal.”

Fanny was shocked to hear these prudish words. So was Marcus—because it wasn't he who had said them.

Lieutenant Rawlings was leaning against the lid of the bedroom's white piano, a broad, closed-mouth grin replacing his usual open Midwestern smile. Directly behind him was Archer, arms folded across the front of her blousy pink cardigan.

“Lieutenant,” Fanny chirped, even though it was a lost cause. “So good to see you.”

“I thought you might show up,” Rawlings said, not moving from the piano. “After our little talk, I came by to see Miss Archer.”

“You gave her our photo,” Marcus deduced. “From the diner.”

So this had been Rawlings's plan all along: not just to warn them, but to goad them into leading him somewhere. It felt to Fanny like entrapment, although she didn't know exactly how.

“Worth a shot.” His voice was brimming with false modesty. “If Amy is protecting someone from a murder charge in India, I figured it might have something to do with the woman who sent them to India. So I dropped by and asked Miss Archer to keep an eye out.”

“Brummel and Brown?” snorted Archer, still clutching the business card. “I knew from the second you called.”

“And at the risk of repeating myself . . .” Rawlings took a step toward them and the closet. “What evidence are you withholding? Was one of the tour members involved in Mr. Strunk's death?”

“We don't know,” said Marcus.

“Then what are you looking for? Why are you here, rummaging through . . . ?” He grunted and turned to Archer, genuinely puzzled. “What are they rummaging through?”

“A closet of unopened presents,” said Archer, making it sound almost normal.

Rawlings cocked his head, but that seemed as far as his curiosity was willing to go. “Marcus, come on. This is your last chance. If you two don't cooperate, I can't help you.”

Marcus had to ask. “Help us do what?”

“Get out of this mess. Impersonating officers of the court . . . That's what lawyers are, officers of the court. Plus, gaining entry under false pretenses and conspiracy to commit a felony. I'm not sure I can get that to stick, but I have to assume you came here to steal something.” He glanced past them, into the closet of colorful wrapped boxes. “Or re-gift something, which isn't officially a crime, unless it's not yours.”

“Lieutenant Rawlings!” Fanny pulled herself up to her full five-foot-one. “I need to speak to my daughter.”

Rawlings nodded. “Fine with me. But I would suggest saving that phone call for a lawyer, a real lawyer. You're both under arrest.”

“Under arrest?” Fanny didn't understand. For what? Telling little lies? Getting into places where she wasn't allowed? She did it all the time.

“I didn't bring the handcuffs,” Rawlings said, finally stepping up to meet them at the closet door. “But I trust you'll come along peacefully.”

CHAPTER 21

B
arbara Corns had always been afraid of China, at least the idea of China. In her mind, it was this ancient third-world mystery that had morphed into a bureaucratic juggernaut nurturing untold billions of mysterious humans. Okay, maybe she had been “told” how many billions of humans there were, so it wasn't quite “untold,” but she had a lot on her mind these days and couldn't be expected to remember little things like numbers. Somewhere in the billions.

China, at least so far, hadn't been all that daunting. True, Beijing Capital International Airport had been predictably shiny and monumental, with ceilings the height of European cathedrals and concrete posts the size of sequoias. And the drive from the airport into the countryside had been almost surreal, with their black limousines crawling painfully along a three-lane highway, wedged in between endless numbers of trucks, tractors, and buses, all spewing gray plumes of exhaust.

But once they'd left the highway and turned onto the back roads, it had been quite pleasant. The countryside became suddenly, mercifully lonely, fragrant with the scent of pine and eucalyptus. When they turned off the road into the hotel property, they found it to be a sprawling enclave of hilly trails sprinkled with shockingly modern villas of stone and wood and glass. And the Great Wall. You couldn't miss the Great Wall. It was right there, visible from half the windows, snaking across the valley below, only a few minutes' walk from any of the far-flung villas. For that was the whole point of being here, wasn't it? The Great Wall of China.

This evening was to be devoted to recovery, with an undemanding buffet laid out on a pair of lazy Susans in the middle of a round table set for nine. It was the first time they had eaten family style as a group, and it was fascinating for Barbara to watch the dynamics unfold.

Some of them were considerate sharers, like Laila Steinberg.
Perhaps
timid
would be a better word
, Barbara thought as she watched her hesitate over the fried green beans with sesame seeds, not wanting to take too much or leave too little, her hands floating, always wary of the next turn of the turntable. Some were greedy, like Nicole Marconi and, she was embarrassed to note, her own husband. Evan and Nicole sat directly across from each other. The lazy Susans spun back and forth between them as each one tried to fish out the last prawn or clump of lobster meat or the nicest-looking tidbit of steak.

Barbara and Evan Corns stayed on after the bowls of lychee ice cream had been taken away, after their fellow travelers had all yawned their way back to their own villas. They were now thirteen hours ahead of New York. That was what Evan had said, although his math baffled Barbara. How could you be thirteen hours away from anything, if your clock contains only twenty-four hours? She preferred to think of them as eleven hours off—behind or ahead. What difference did it make?

From the next room, the estate's modest business center, Barbara could hear her husband on the phone, or at least his vocal tone. From twenty-plus years of listening through walls, she could distinguish the subtleties of his voice even when she couldn't make out the words—speaking to a subordinate, to a superior, to a client, to a call center, to a friend, to a female friend. They were all different. In this case, it was a hybrid tone, speaking to a subordinate whom he was pretending to treat like a friend.

Barbara sat by herself in the dimly lit dining room, listening and watching out of the corner of her eye a waiter doing something that obviously needed doing. It took her a while to finally focus and a while longer before she realized. He was standing at a table covered with red plastic chopsticks, the same ones they'd just used, rolling them between two napkins to remove the leftover oil and bits of rice, then placing them back in the same “hygienic” sleeves they'd come out of. She made a vow then and there never to use anything in this country without personally washing it first.

When Evan emerged from the business center, he was not looking happy. “Let's go,” he said and grabbed his jacket from the back of a chair. “I have to pee and I want to do it back in the room.”

“You always have to pee. What did Miss Archer say?”

“The police are interested in MacGregor's apartment,” Evan whispered. They were making their way along the stone path between the main building and their villa. There was no need for whispering, given their isolation. But they kept whispering.

“The police? Why?” asked Barbara. The air had turned cold, but not crisp. In fact, the great outdoors felt a little musty. Another Chinese mystery.

“Archer didn't know,” said Evan. “My best guess? I think they made some sort of connection between the murder in India and Paisley MacGregor.”

“Oh.” Both of them kept their flashlights aimed at the winding path, although Barbara wished she could see her husband's face right now. What was he thinking? “Did they search the apartment?” she asked. “Did they find . . .”

“They can't get a search warrant,” Evan said, delivering the only good news of the night. “Not yet. Not without probable cause. Archer said something about two people disguised as lawyers trying to search the place, too.”

“Disguised as lawyers? Is she sure they're not real lawyers?” A sign in Chinese and English—FOREST HOUSE—pointed their way up a smaller path. “What did Archer say about your offer?”

“My offer?” In the darkness, without looking, Barbara could tell her husband was annoyed. “You mean my kind offer to race over as soon as we get back, and search the place ourselves?”

“Not search. Help her pack things up for storage.”

“Even Archer's not that dumb,” he snapped. “People are coming out of the woodwork to search the place, and suddenly we're volunteering to help her pack?”

“So you didn't even mention it?”

“I did not mention it.”

“So, what's your plan?”

There she went again, Evan thought, with “your” instead of “our.” “Your” problem, not “our” problem. Why had he let her talk him out of the bomb? he wondered. If they'd done the bomb, this would all be over. They'd be dead and happy by now, off creating another life instead of facing more complications. Or worse. Horrible shame and a trial and years in prison.

“You need to have a plan,” Barbara insisted. “Maybe Paisley named you her executor. You never know.”

They had been through this before, fantasizing about the odd chance that, without telling him, MacGregor had chosen them to execute the terms of her will. “We would have heard by now,” Evan argued.

“Not necessarily,” said Barbara, maintaining some optimism. “Nothing's in play until the will is read. And if she made you the executor . . .” It was a soothing thought, for them to have the legal power to go through the dead woman's things. “You used to do legal work for her. Why not?”

“We'll see.”

They had come to the top of a ridge. Below shone the lights of their villa, and beyond the big picture windows, beyond and below, lay the shadowy outline of the Great Wall. Much of this section was unrepaired. It was still so enormous, stretching in an uninterrupted line as far as the eye could see. But scrubby trees dotted the roadway on top, where once a team of four horses had pulled supplies and where sentries had kept guard against any barbarian hordes that might want to invade the Middle Kingdom.

Evan eyed the wall and for a moment became philosophical. He was certainly not the first person to wonder which way the wall actually worked. Did it keep trouble out or keep it in? Did it repel invaders or imprison a people? Evan wasn't even sure which side of the ancient wall they were on technically, Chinese or barbarian.

All he knew was that he was on one side of things and had to get to the other. With Barbara or without her. He could go either way.