Dearly Departed (17 page)

CHAPTER 28

“I
thought you were going to tell her.”

“Marcus, she was whistling. She didn't even come back from lunch, which means either a great sale somewhere or a new Woody Allen movie. How could I ruin that?”

Marcus had taken off early and come by the Hudson Street shop in the hope of seeing Amy. Seeing Fanny was almost as good. On their walk home, they stopped by Morton Williams to buy the makings for dinner. Fanny complained about the chicken being too large for just her and Amy. That was her way of inviting Marcus. His way of accepting was to carry all the bags.

As soon as Fanny unlocked the door, she heard the two female voices drifting down from the upper half of the house. Amy was home, her door was open, and she had company.

“Yoo-hoo,” Fanny shouted, giving everyone two flights of warning. Marcus took time to put the groceries away in Fanny's kitchen then followed her up the stairs.

Amy and Samime sat in matching red armchairs, huddled over a low, modern coffee table and lukewarm cups of Earl Grey. Amy made the introductions, trying to keep it quick, although she knew that wouldn't be easy.

Samime was a typically shy Middle Eastern woman, probably halfway between Amy's age and Fanny's. Her height and girth also took a middle spot between the mother and daughter. Her hair was curly brown, shoulder length, and a little frizzy, with a part down the middle. There was a grateful kind of helplessness to her, which Amy almost resented.

“She came all this way,” Fanny gushed. “Of course we'll help.” She spoke as if it were a matter of frequent-flier points. Five thousand miles and you earn a free murder investigation.

“Hold on,” Amy shot back. “There's a lot to take into consideration. The police, for one thing. You don't want to go to jail again.”

“Nonsense,” Fanny said. “Did you go to the New York police? Samime?”

Samime seemed thrown. “I have not seen the police. Do you think I should?”

“Absolutely not. And don't worry. My jail visit had nothing to do with your case.”

“Yes it did,” Amy countered. “If we're going to work together . . .
if
,” she said with emphasis, “then we all have to be honest.”

If Amy was hoping to douse the enthusiasm, she failed. The woman from Istanbul put down her tea and listened as Amy explained the whole situation, from the envelope in the piano to the man in the volcano.

“It's very confusing,” Samime said at the end, even though Amy thought she had done an admirable job of keeping it simple.

“What did your husband do?” Marcus asked. It was his first contribution.

“Bill had money when we moved. He spent it freely, buying a big house for my family, cars, a boat even. But money got tight. By the end he would go to fancy hotels and hire himself out as a guide. He was very good, but sometimes people objected to his tremors.”

“That's dreadful,” said Fanny, even though she could understand. The last thing a tourist wants is a guide who looks like he has some sort of plague. “So what's our strategy?”

Amy didn't want to argue. What was the use? “We need to find a connection between Bill and one of our people.”

“His first wife would know more than me,” Samime said.

“Then we'll have to question her,” said Fanny.

“No impersonating lawyers,” Amy warned her. “Or detectives or police officers or judges or doctors.”

“Why don't you just bind and gag me?”

“Don't give me ideas.”

“Does this mean you'll help?” Samime's tone was so perfectly plaintive, so vulnerable, that it would have taken a stronger woman than Amy to say no. Or a weaker one. She couldn't decide.

“Yes, of course,” said Fanny with outstretched arms. Samime fell into them, and they were suddenly long-lost sisters. “So, where are you staying?”

“I don't have family here anymore. There is this guesthouse in the Bronx that helps out Turkish immigrants—”

“You're staying here,” Fanny interrupted. And just like that, it was settled. Marcus would take the car and pick up her luggage from the Bronx. Amy would change the sheets in the guest bedroom on Fanny's level. And Fanny would call Aunt Madge in Chicago and tell her she would have to make other arrangements for her upcoming trip to see the family.

 

Later that evening, after the chores were done, after the chicken had been transformed into kebabs and the bottle of raki had been dusted off and opened up and drained, Marcus found a moment, right before calling it a night and heading out the door, to take Fanny aside.

“I know what you're doing,” he told her. “I figured it out. You're distracting yourself.”

“Don't know what you mean,” she said, knowing exactly what he meant.

“You're getting involved in this case so you won't have to think about the mortgage. Well, it's going to happen, whether you think about it or not.”

“You don't want to help this woman?”

“Yes, I do. Someone helped me not too long ago. But you can't ignore—”

“I'm not ignoring anything,” she shot back. “I've given it a lot of thought, and I came up with a plan.”

“A plan?” Marcus cocked an eyebrow. “To pay off the mortgage? How?”

“You won't like it.”

His other eyebrow went up. “That's saying a lot, because my bar is fairly low.”

“Amy won't like it, either, which is the reason I haven't told her.”

“You're scaring me now.”

But that was all Fanny would say. A few minutes later Marcus said good night to the three housemates, grabbed his jacket from the hall coatrack, and headed out the door. He was halfway down Barrow Street when Amy caught up with him.

“So . . .” She was a little out of breath. “Are you okay with this?” They had never really discussed what had happened on the tour, and it seemed overdue.

“Seems like every time you travel, there's a murder.”

“It's only twice. You need three to establish a pattern, although I shouldn't tempt fate.”

“Fanny seems up for it,” Marcus said. “I think she needs the distraction.”

Amy smiled and swept off a spot on the Gregsons' stoop. Old man Gregson hated when people sat on his stoop, but Amy had been doing it since she was four. She cleared a spot beside her, and Marcus sat down. He reached out his hand and she laced her fingers between his. It felt good.

“Did you and Petey have fun?”

“We work well together,” Amy said. “He's a better man than Mom gives him credit for.”

“Are you going to enlist his help?”

“God, no!” They both chuckled. “You're a much superior murder buddy.”

“Thanks. Hey, you never said anything about my job.”

“Sorry. It's perfect,” she confirmed. “You're great at solving problems and getting things. And you look dashing in a uniform.”

“A Ritz-Carlton uniform.”

“Twice as dashing. I won't even ask how you got the job.”

“What?” Marcus frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“People don't walk in off the street and become concierges at the best hotel in the city. I know you, Marcus. You did something sketchy.”

“That shows a lot of trust. I thought you'd be pleased.”

“I am pleased. But I know you.” And with that, Amy took his face between her hands, planted a lingering kiss on his lips, then pushed herself to her feet. “See you tomorrow.”

“I should be angry,” he called down the street, at her swaying back.

“But you're not, because I'm right.”

CHAPTER 29

T
he Zuck Studio was on the eighth floor of a redbrick apartment building in Washington Heights. Strictly speaking, the art studio, an extension of Colleen Zuck's one-bedroom condo, was a large terrace closed in like a greenhouse, with slanted panes of glass for the ceiling and three walls of half-length windows, the longest of the walls facing the Hudson River.

The space itself was laid out simply and neatly. A single easel and an adjustable chair dominated the center. Along all four walls were low shelves full of the tools of Ms. Zuck's trade: colorful jars of powdery pigment; oversize art books; jelly jars full of brushes, dozens of brushes; and a row of thin, deep drawers, the kind Amy knew from her favorite print shop on Greenwich Street.

“What a view,” Amy said. They were in the living room, with the French doors to the studio firmly closed, but the vista of the river and the New Jersey Palisades still dominated.

“It's not the view. It's the light,” Colleen replied. “I'm working on a Copley now, and he painted with western light. I'd give you a tour, but I'm a little paranoid about keeping it clean.”

“No problem,” Amy said. “We're just grateful you could take the time to see us.”

The ex-Mrs. Strohman hadn't offered them anything to drink. But she motioned Amy and Samime to the sofa and took a seat in a thinly padded armchair across from them. She was a short, slim woman with a gray bob. “I remember you,” she told Samime in a flat tone. “You were one of Bill's students.”

“No. I mean, yes.” Samime swallowed hard. “I didn't really meet him until after your divorce.”

“Doesn't matter. I divorced him for other reasons, not because of his girlfriends.”

There was a substantial pause, which Amy felt obligated to fill. “Colleen, you're an art restorer.”

“Conservator,” she said. “We don't like to emphasize the restoring part. Our main job is conserving what's already there.”

“Is that how you met Bill?” Amy asked. “Through your work?”

Bill's ex-wife nodded. “I taught a winter studies course in art authentication. Bill was an adjunct professor and was auditing the course. This was close to fifteen years ago. We met for coffee after that first class, and one thing led to another. My studio at the time was at Columbia, and he used to drop by after the light faded with a bottle of wine.” Her voice was warming to the memory. “He showed such an interest. We would sit by the easels, discussing brushstrokes and the pigments the masters used. I know that doesn't sound romantic.”

“His work was a strong part of his being,” Samime said. “I know.”

“I was just starting out,” Colleen explained. “Bill was an expert in the Postimpressionists. At the time a lot of private collectors were bringing them in for cleaning and touch-ups. Pissarro was a favorite. A lot of Pissarros, especially his late English period, when he was so prolific.”

“That's a Pissarro, isn't it?” Samime was focused on a small landscape, perhaps nine by twelve inches, on the wall above Colleen's armchair. It was a bucolic vision of a haystack in a field, with a trio of cows grazing under an olive tree. All the possible shades of green and brown.

Colleen turned to look. “Good eye,” she said. “Pissarro, yes. But that's a copy. I could never afford a real one, not from that period.”

Samime got up to take a closer look. “It's a very good copy.”

“Yes, I have talented friends. Mrs. Strohman, I'm sure you didn't come here to renew your studies in art history.”

Samime looked down at the hands folded in her lap.

“That was rude of me,” Colleen admitted and turned her attention back to Amy. “I'm glad you called. What can you tell me about Bill's death? The police didn't say much, other than he was murdered while visiting the Taj Mahal.”

“It was actually outside the grounds, in a park.” Amy didn't know why she was being so precise. Something about Colleen brought it out in her. “I'm the one who discovered the body. He'd been stabbed. I don't think he suffered much.”

“You weren't with him?” Colleen asked, turning to Samime. “Taking separate vacations?”

“No. I mean, yes. We'd been separated for over a year.”

“Oh, I see,” Colleen said with the hint of a smile. “What's her name?”

“Her name? No, it wasn't another woman. It was more about the money.”

“Bill had plenty of money.”

“Not toward the end. And there was his sickness.”

“Sickness?”

Samime gently explained about the tremors. She had one of those soft, lilting voices that could be annoying in normal conversations but were very comforting at moments like this. Colleen seemed both surprised and saddened.

“Poor Bill,” she said with what seemed like real emotion. “I can't think of a worse affliction for an artist. Although there is a kind of poetic justice, I suppose.”

“Poetic justice?” Amy asked.

“I'm just being cruel. Ex-wives are allowed that.” Colleen stood up. “Well, it was very nice seeing you again, Samime. And, Ms. Abel . . . , I wish I could help. But the police have already been here.”

“No, wait,” Amy said. “We need to ask you about his friends.”

“The police already did. And I'm afraid I can't spare any more light.” She tilted her head toward her greenhouse studio. “I'm already behind for the day.”

“Don't you want the police to catch Bill's murderer?”

“I don't see how. He was killed thousands of miles away.”

“Perhaps by someone he knew,” Amy suggested. “Someone from the old days. If we can just ask a few more questions . . .”

“I'm sorry, no. Now, if you'll please leave . . .”

Meanwhile, Samime was of no help. She didn't plead her case at all but just kept staring at the painting on the wall above Colleen's chair.