Dearly Departed (14 page)

CHAPTER 22

Amy looked up from her mother's blog, pushed her hair back over her ears, and frowned. Fanny had an active imagination and absolutely no scruples about inventing facts. That was probably what had made the TrippyGirl blog so much fun. Hundreds of her fans, maybe thousands, were reading it not as a travel blog but as a kind of outrageous soap opera.

But Fanny was a self-involved woman, and her work always contained elements of autobiography. TrippyGirl's adventures were peppered with updated details from her honeymoon forty years ago or her last argument with Amy, or with glowing descriptions of a rakish, black-haired boyfriend whom she was always mistreating and who happened to resemble Marcus Alvarez to a T.

Amy scanned the next few paragraphs. Despite the typical, Fanny-like coincidence of having her smartphone, plus a Wi-Fi connection, in a Russian jail in the middle of nowhere, the descriptions had an unsettling ring of truth. The perpetual twilight of the cell. The noises coming from all directions at all hours. The routine and the food.

Plus, Amy noted Fanny's description of the waiter. It was different from a few days ago, when they had begun their little game of strip backgammon. Back then he was a young Daniel Craig, all craggy and cool. And an albino, if she remembered correctly. Now he was sandy haired, with a Midwestern smile. Fanny must have lifted his looks from someone. And what was this talk about entrapment?

All of this conspired to make Amy try her mother once again. It had been nearly two days since the woman had returned an e-mail or answered a phone. The lack of response was probably due to the time difference, bad phone connections, and China's limited Internet access. But Amy composed another quick, overly casual e-mail, just to be safe. Hey, Mom. Just checking in. What's new?

She was just about to press SEND when the gooseneck lamp staring down at her laptop flickered a few times and died, along with everything else in her villa. The view of the Great Wall outside her window had likewise fallen into darkness. The second blackout of the night.

Welcome to China.

 

Amy figured she would have the next morning to herself. The electricity was back on. And the service was not scheduled until 1:00 p.m., leaving her plenty of personal time, she thought, to hike the wall. To actually hike the wall was technically impossible in this section, not unless you were into climbing and jumping and maybe rappelling. But she had scoped out a nice four-mile circuit beside the crumbling stone, then back through the hills.

But her hike was destined to remain theoretical. That morning, when she arrived at the front desk in her hiking gear for a last-minute check, she found that no preparations at all had been made for the service. No plan was in place to bar other tourists from wandering onto the memorial scene. No chairs or table or champagne seemed to be available. And, she found out almost by accident, that the wall was scheduled to be closed today for repairs, starting at noon. Repairs? Really? Where would they even start?

It took her until 12:55 p.m. to straighten things out.

 

As the last speaker of the day got further and further into her story, the mourners were no longer concerned about their lukewarm champagne. They had all stopped thinking about the wobbly, uncomfortable folding chairs and the makeshift podium and the lopsided, well-worn photo of Paisley MacGregor staring out at them. Even their own precarious position on top of the slippery stones of the Great Wall had ceased to fill their minds. They were all too focused on Nicole Marconi, the woman at the podium.

“I was just a teenager and—you know kids—I could care less what my parents were fighting about that day. I was mad at them, anyway, for cutting short our vacation. But I remember all the way home on the plane, the two of them huddled in their seats in front of me. Angry whispers back and forth. You know, angry whispering . . .” Nicole adopted a guttural, choked-up voice. “What do you mean . . .? It's your fault.... If the IRS gets their hands on those records . . .”

Amy had no idea why Nicole was telling them this. It was not the usual feel-good reminiscence of Paisley MacGregor. It seemed to have very little to do with Paisley. Plus, it was way too personal, implying all sorts of illegal activity, even though her parents were dead now and the statute of limitations must be long past.

The Marconi family had owned a popular chain of pizza restaurants in the tristate area, a few dozen cash cows, back in a looser era when people didn't charge every three-dollar purchase on a credit card. As Nicole rambled on from her selective teenage memory, Amy and everyone else on the wall were silently jumping to conclusions. Tax evasion, certainly. And perhaps some other related crimes. The narrative came to a head when the Marconi family drove in the middle of the night directly from the airport to their accountant's tiny office in the suburbs, a few blocks from the Cross Bronx.

“As soon as we got off the expressway, you could tell something was wrong. There were sirens and fire engines and a street blocked off. When we finally got there, to the little storefront office, the place was totally engulfed in flames. And the IRS or the FBI was there, too. Some scary official men in suits. It turns out they had been following us from the airport that night, trying to see what Dad would do once we landed. Well, long story short . . .”

Long story short? No! Wait! Why? For once, everyone at the wake wanted the long story. They wanted details. But apparently, there was a limit to how much Nicole was willing to incriminate her late parents.

“The records, or whatever they were, got burned up, the fire got labeled accidental, and my parents were saved by what could only be described as some sort of miraculous intervention. It wasn't until a few weeks later, when Mother was going through the back of MacGregor's cleaning closet, that she found the can. It was smelly, like a paint can. I guess, looking back, I knew it was some kind of accelerant.”

Nicole let the implication hang in the midday chill.

“MacGregor?” Laila Steinberg asked in a stunned voice. “How could she have known?”

“How did she know anything?” Nicole answered. “I suppose the authorities questioned her while we were away. After they found the can, Mother and Father never mentioned it to Paisley. And she never mentioned it, of course.”

Laila was unconvinced. “You're saying that Paisley committed arson? On her own? Without telling them?”

“Would she really do that?” Peter asked.

“I'm not saying anything,” Nicole shot back, her anger echoing over the hills. “I'm just stating what happened. Oh . . .” And here she grinned. “Two years later, when my parents died in a car crash, they left nearly their entire estate to MacGregor. But . . .” She added a smirk to the grin. “I'm sure that was just a coincidence.”

Amy glanced around. All the others looked appropriately dumbfounded. And yet this was totally in keeping with what she knew about the maid—a woman who rearranged your files or redecorated your apartment for your mother's visit and then refused to ever discuss it. Except this time, with arson and an inheritance in play, her behavior seemed to have crossed the line into an unspoken, unacknowledged version of blackmail.

“To Paisley MacGregor . . .” Nicole toasted, but not with her flute. She toasted with her other hand, with a silver spoon of the chicken charcoal that was standing in for MacGregor. “Who so generously spent my family money in order to give us this trip around the world.” And she sent the charcoal drifting over the Great Wall and into the land of barbarians.

Nicole had positioned herself to be last. Even if someone wanted to add a toast now, what could he or she say?

It's not just that she committed arson and risked arrest
, Amy mused as she carefully led the silent mourners off the Great Wall and down the uneven stone steps.
These people are finally realizing how much power this woman had over them.

Peter stepped down from the wall, and he hung back as the others passed.

“Did you know?” Amy whispered.

“Not a clue,” he whispered back. “But I'm so glad I fired her.”

CHAPTER 23

T
he Ohio billionaire pushed right past the French couple, with their maps and designer sunglasses and unending questions about shopping. He leaned across the antique concierge desk. “Alvarez,” he shouted, as if the desk were as wide as the lobby. “All set for Monday? Bublé and the band and a camera crew? I want it private, don't forget. No gawkers.”

“Excuse me,” Marcus said calmly with a subservient smile. “This son of a bitch has no manners. Please wait a minute.” He was addressing the French couple in French. Then he turned to the man from Columbus. “It's all set, Mr. George. And I asked them to make the spire pink for that night. I believe that's Calista's favorite color?”

“Pink?” Mr. Franklin George had to pause and think. “Yeah, I guess it is. How did you know?”

“That's my job,” said Marcus. “Sunset is at seven-oh-two on Monday. So, we'll close the observation deck at six fifteen to give us time to set up.”

Franklin George said, “Okay,” which in his vocabulary seemed to mean “wow.” “Glad to see you're on top of it, Alvarez.”

The concierge desk was around the corner from the elevators, and it was just at this moment that Calista joined her soon-to-be fiancé in the lobby. She was dressed for the weather, an Armani coat with a pink scarf and a chilly expression. Franklin went in for a kiss and got a peck.

“What's the matter?”

“Let's go,” she answered with a snap. And without looking back, the willowy blonde headed through the lobby, followed closely by her substantially built beau. “What were you doing last night?” she said into the air of her wake.

“What?” Franklin asked, racing to catch up.

“While I was at the movies for three hours.” A second later and they were swallowed up by the revolving doors.

Marcus spent five more minutes dealing with the French shoppers—“Yes, it's possible to get good prices in the Diamond District, but there's this great little shop on Broome Street. Here's their card. Mention my name”—then turned to deal with someone new.

It was Fanny in disguise. She was dressed head to foot in her rich-lady drag, a parody of wealth probably adapted from a dowager character in a Marx Brothers movie. Marcus had noticed her following Calista out of the elevator bank.

“Mission accomplished?” he asked.

“This was the easy part,” Fanny said and modestly snuggled her cheeks in her mink stole. “My penthouse suite—well, someone's penthouse suite—is right next to theirs. That's what I told her. Most people will engage in elevator conversation if you seem rich enough and harmless enough.”

Fanny's elevator icebreaker had been short, friendly, and provocative. “Are you friends with Mr. and Mrs. George?” she'd asked the willowy blonde. “I saw you leaving their suite just now. What a lovely couple.”

“Mrs. George?” Calista had said, her brows furrowing for probably the first time in years. “You must be mistaken. Mr. George isn't married. Yet.”

“Oops. I just assumed he was.”

“What made you assume that?”

“Well, I was putting out my room service tray last night just as she came in. Around seven thirty. He was waiting at the door, so happy.” Fanny clutched her pearls and mimed an embarrassed blush. “I shouldn't say this, but I could hear them through the wall.” She tittered. “They were very, very glad to see each other.”

For the remaining two dozen floors, Calista had asked Fanny the expected questions. Was this woman pretty? Did she have big breasts? Did she look like a hooker?

“Don't you feel bad about this?” Marcus asked, feeling just a little bad himself. “I mean, breaking up their engagement?”

“We're saving her from a ghastly mistake,” Fanny reasoned. “And don't act so innocent. You're the one who talked her into going to that Italian movie last night. Alone.”

“That wasn't hard. The girl is pretentious and loves Italy . . . blabbering on about Fashion Week in Milan, throwing around a few odd phrases. Of course, the more she tried to force him to go with her, the more he resisted.”

“And of course you helped.” Fanny lowered her voice and adopted a fawning, obsequious tone. “Mr. George, you'll love the movie too. Not movie, sir, a film. Three hours long, but the subtitles are marvelous.”

Marcus chuckled at her re-creation, then instantly changed gears. “That particular musical is sold out, Mrs. Altengruber. But I'll see what I can do. Saturday night? Two on the center aisle?”

Fanny didn't blink or pause. She instinctively knew that the head concierge must be standing right behind her. “Marcus, dear, you are such a treasure.”

“Is everything all right, Mrs . . . ?” Gavin paused for a split second. “Mrs. Altengruber.”

“After all the times I've stayed here . . .” Fanny turned to face Gavin, pulled herself up to her full five-foot-one, and threw her stole back across her throat. “It's Altenstruder,” she said huffily and marched off through the revolving doors, a Marx Brothers dowager to the hilt.

Gavin's expression turned from smug to crestfallen. “Oh, my God.”

Marcus kept a straight face.
What a woman.
“I'll fix it, Gavin,” he said with reassuring softness and trotted out after Fanny. It was as good an excuse as any to leave and take the rest of the day off.

 

The house on Barrow Street, in the heart of the Village, had been in the Abel family for generations. The block was composed almost entirely of brownstones, many of them still single-family homes. But what made the block stand out wasn't the small-scale comfort of the street or the uniform row of shady ginkgoes. It was the communal garden.

It was a design still fairly common in London, but one that had almost died out in New York. In the center of the Barrow Street block, where one might expect to find small, dusty backyards or sheds or, more probably, home additions nestled right up to the property lines, was a manicured garden, surprisingly large, with benches and a play area and a fountain in the middle. It was accessible only through the houses, and every home owner gladly paid a share of the upkeep.

Fanny sat on the flagstone patio outside her kitchen, a Marlboro Light in one hand, a cordless phone in the other. Amy had called at an unsuspecting moment, just as Fanny had come racing through the front door. That had been five minutes ago, and Amy was still grilling her. “I'm sorry I'm not always here to answer the phone, dear. I do have a life.”

“Mom, it was a simple question. Were you in jail?”

“Of course I'm not in jail. I'm out on the patio, enjoying . . . enjoying the air.”

“Enjoying a cigarette? Mom, are you smoking again?”

“No.” Fanny covered the mouthpiece and exhaled a lungful.

“You're smoking. Is that a habit you picked up in jail?”

“I wish. They don't let you smoke in jail.”

“Aha. You were in jail.”

And so the truth, which Fanny had been cagily avoiding for the past five minutes, fell out into the open. “All right, I was. But just overnight. Uncle Sol bailed me out the next morning.”

Fanny went on to tell her the whole story, leaving out nothing, except the possibility that she and Marcus might have been in the wrong. “Don't worry. Charges were dropped. Rawlings isn't pursuing it,” she said as she lit up a second Marlboro Light. “He was trying to force us to make a statement, say that the Billy Strunk murder might be connected to Paisley MacGregor.”

“Why would he care about that?”

“He thought it would give him probable cause for a search warrant. He's dying to go through the apartment, but the maid's maid turned him down.”

“So why did he drop the charges?”

“Your uncle Sol had a talk with an assistant DA. Rawlings had latched onto this case as a favor to the Indian police—and because he wants the glory. But when you come right down to it, it's just an unidentified body in India that may have connections to New York. I suspect Rawlings lost interest. I don't know whether to be insulted or not.”

“Not,” Amy shot back. “How many times did I tell you this kind of stuff would get you in trouble?”

“I was impersonating a lawyer. What's the harm in that? Your uncle Sol does it all the time.”

“He's a lawyer.”

“More or less. Dear, in a perfect world no one would have to impersonate anyone. But jail wasn't so very terrible. One night. And they were very sweet.”

“So this wasn't like TrippyGirl?” Amy asked. “You didn't have to survive for two days on water and a head of cabbage?”

“I made that part up. At the time I was hungry for coleslaw.”

“Is Marcus there with you?”

“No, dear.” Actually, Fanny had just heard the front door open and close, so she knew Marcus was indeed there, technically. She pretended that Amy had asked the question ten seconds earlier, so it didn't feel like lying.

“Well, tell Marcus to stop it. The two of you together . . . You're dangerous. This time you got arrested. Next time you could get killed.”

A few seconds later Marcus appeared in the doorway, aimlessly flipping through a stack of the newly arrived mail. He stood on the cusp of the tiny patio and waited until Fanny had spoken her last insincere assurances, said good-bye, and hung up on her daughter. “So, that's the end?” he asked. “No more investigating?”

“Not by a long shot,” she said, barely skipping a beat. “We can't go back to Paisley's apartment, obviously, but there's another angle. Billy Strunk, or whoever he was. We have his picture, and we know he was connected to one of our mourners. Enough to get himself killed. I'm guessing that if we show his picture to the right people . . .”

“Why do we care?”

Fanny squinted. She seemed puzzled by the question, so he rephrased it. “If Rawlings doesn't think this case is worth pursuing, why do we care?”

“Because one of our clients is probably a killer.”

“Not to be callous, Fanny, but there are plenty of uncaught killers in the world.” Marcus was prepared to go on arguing, but he was stopped by a flash of bold red lettering. He shuffled the mail back between his hands and found the envelope in question. It was addressed to Amy's Travel, Inc., and was marked COLLECTION DUE. FINAL NOTICE.

Fanny pushed herself up from the patio chair and reached for the mail. “Just junk,” she said too casually and quickly.

Marcus held on. He didn't open the letter. He didn't have to. “How much do you owe?”

“It's just a misunderstanding,” Fanny said. “Accounting error.” Again, she tried to grab the mail.

“Really?” Marcus found himself mildly insulted. “Really, Fanny? We're lying to each other? Not that I object on any moral ground.”

Fanny knew what he meant. If there was anyone whom she could confide in without the risk of judgment or a lecture, it was Marcus, who'd probably done everything she had and more. But she remained silent.

“I've had plenty of debts in my life,” Marcus said, trying to prime the pump. No response. “I was arrested once for check kiting in Miami,” he added, “but they couldn't prove it.” That was, in fact, a lie. “Wound up spending two days in jail, until my mother bailed me out. And then I never paid her back.” What would he have to confess to in order to make her open up? A Ponzi scheme?

For Marcus, her continued silence finally said it all. “My God,” he whispered. His mind had leaped to the only possibility big enough. “Are you losing just the business? Or are you losing the business
and
the house?”