Dearly Departed (19 page)

CHAPTER 32

N
ormally, Fanny and her daughter would have their coffee, tea, and croissants in the garden. But the blustery morning forced them to stay huddled in the cozy eat-in kitchen. The only sound to break their groggy reverie, besides their soft sips and the occasional car horn from Seventh Avenue, was the sound of the TV from Fanny's guest room one floor up.

It bothered Fanny more than she was willing to admit. “She spends so much time in her room. This is not what I expected.”

“It's not her fault,” Amy replied. “That's the chance you take when you invite strangers into your home.” Her tone said, “I told you so,” although she purposely avoided using those words.

“I thought it would be nice. We would have adventures and talk about the case, then exchange eggplant recipes for dinner.”

“Mom, this isn't a Lifetime movie. Some people are shy.”

“Did you say something to insult her? Ever since you girls went to visit the first wife, Samime's been even quieter.”

Well, that's understandable
, Amy thought. There had to be something empowering to flying across two continents to try to get justice for a dead man you still loved. It had to be equally empowering to track down Amy and enlist her in the cause. But then came reality: being far from home, with no idea how to find a killer; sitting down with your husband's first wife, who couldn't help you and didn't seem to care.

“I think she was expecting more help from Colleen,” Amy said.

A commercial had just begun to blare on the upstairs TV—“In troubled times like these, gold is a crucial part of your investment portfolio”—and both Abel women paused to take a bite of croissant.

“What's the plan now?” Fanny asked.

“Archer, the maid. She's our only lead. And no, you can't come along.”

“Why not?” Fanny asked, without an ounce of irony. “Archer and I already met. I can introduce you.”

“Mom, she had you arrested.”

“And I'm sure she feels guilty. Come on. I can work her.”

“No. Besides, three visitors would be too many.” Damn. Amy caught herself a second after saying it. You couldn't leave Fanny an opening, no matter how small. It was like a drop of water seeping into a crack in a ten-ton statue. Good-bye, statue.

“Then we'll just leave Samime here.” Fanny clapped her hands. “That was simple.”

“That's not what I'm saying. I'm saying you can't come.”

“Because there'd be three. Understood. I don't know why you're even thinking of bringing Samime. She's a lovely woman.” Fanny lowered her voice. “But English is not her first language.”

“I'll go by myself.”

“Without backup? What if Archer says something incriminating? You'll need a witness.”

“She won't open up to you. She won't. I'll bet you anything.” Damn. Another crack.

“It's a bet,” Fanny crowed. “We can open up the office a little late.” And with that she got up, placed the cups and plates in the sink and headed for the coat closet by the front door. “Come on, dear. Time's a wasting.”

Fanny Abel didn't do public transportation, and parking on the Upper East Side would be nearly impossible. So they cabbed it up to 142 Sutton Place.

Amy was puzzled when she told the desk man their names and told him the apartment number—penthouse 2—and he didn't bother to call up, just motioned them toward the elevators. That should have been a warning.

Two minutes later the faint smell of gas in the hall as they stepped off the elevator also should have been a warning. And the open, tempting door to penthouse 2. There was no yellow tape stretched across the doorway, although there should have been.

“Well, if it's not my two favorite detectives.” Lieutenant Rawlings was just passing by the white oval foyer. He was accessorized with white plastic gloves and blue booties over his shoes. There was a micro-recorder in his right hand, and he had just pressed STOP. “Don't come in,” he added. “Life is simpler when you girls don't contaminate a crime scene.”

“Crime scene?” Fanny said with some excitement. This would be her first actual crime scene. She turned to Amy. “I told you time was a wasting.”

“We have three dead cats and an asphyxiation.” Rawlings joined them in the hall but left the door open. “And what, may I ask, are you doing here?”

“We dropped by to see Miss Archer,” Fanny said.

“Yes, but why? I thought we'd agreed there was no case.”

“We did. But is there a case now?” Amy tried not to sound callous. “Is she dead?”

“Yes, she's dead.”

“And it was a murder?” asked Fanny.

Rawlings lifted the corners of his mouth and resembled even more a patient, boyish waiter ready to recite today's specials. “Ms. Archer was found an hour ago, lying fully clothed on her bed. There were empty pill bottles in her late employer's bathroom—painkillers, sedatives—and a funky smell in her coffee mug. Samples have been taken back to the lab. The front door was dead bolted from the inside, and the chain was on. Cause of death, pending an autopsy, was gas from an unlit fireplace in the main bedroom. That's also what killed the three cats.”

“Was there a suicide note?” Amy asked.

“No note.”

“It seems pretty selfish to take your cats with you,” Fanny offered.

“So, you're thinking accident?” Amy guessed. “Either way, it's not murder.”

Rawlings smirked. “You see? This is where us dumb cops start asking our questions, like, who would take sedatives mixed in with her caffeine? No one planning on killing herself. And no one trying to relax and get back to sleep.”

“You're confusing me, dear,” Fanny said sweetly.

“We checked the kitchen,” Rawlings went on. “From the grounds in the waste can, we know she made two pots of coffee this morning. In the cupboard we found a mug that was slightly damp. On the coffee table there were fresh rings on two of the coasters. When my guys dusted, they found that the empty pill bottles had been wiped clean. Is any of this sinking in?”

Amy knew this scenario from some half-forgotten novel or a long-forgotten episode of
Law & Order
. “Your conclusion is that Archer had a visitor, who touched the pill bottles, had coffee with her, then tried to eliminate all evidence of his or her presence.”

“Very good.”

“So it
is
murder,” Fanny said.

Rawlings confirmed it with a nod.

“How did the killer dead bolt the door from the inside?” Amy asked.

“He didn't. The vic's prints were on the dead bolt. She did it herself—after the killer left.”

“I'm confused, too,” Amy admitted, which was all Rawlings wanted to hear.

“Good. Remember that the next time you think you're smarter than me.” And with that, the lieutenant turned and led them down the hallway, speaking over his shoulder as he went. “Like you said, she had a visitor. Since the doorman didn't let anybody up, we're guessing he gained entry through the basement garage. We're checking the security tapes, but we're not holding out much hope.

“Ms. Archer made a fresh pot of coffee, meaning the two of them had something to discuss. At some point, I figure the visitor used the bathroom and laced her coffee with the pills. When our mystery guest left, Ms. Archer was probably a little woozy but still together enough to lock the door and wander back to her bedroom.”

“How did the killer turn on the gas?” Fanny asked.

“He didn't,” Rawlings said. “Miss Archer's prints are on the gas key. That's probably what gave him the idea, seeing that she already had a fire going. It's a chilly day.”

The homicide detective brought them to the open door of the utility closet. A young female technician was squeezed into a corner, taking samples of something or other, slipping them into little clear vials and labeling them. She didn't look up or say hello.

Rawlings pointed past her to the gas main and the valve six inches off the concrete. “The Con Ed guy said something to me. He was the one who turned off the valve. He said he had expected it to be rusty. These things are turned maybe once every five years. Often he has to whack the damned things with a wrench. But this one was easy to turn. When he said that, it got me to thinking.” The lieutenant stood back and folded his arms across his chest. He was showing off to his audience, so proud of himself.

Whoever did this, he explained, left MacGregor's apartment and simply waited in the hall. The penthouse floor had just two apartments, so there wasn't much chance of being seen. When he figured the drugs had done their job and Archer was unconscious, he forced this gas valve closed, effectively dousing the flaming fireplace. A minute or so later he turned the knob again, and the bedroom in the locked apartment began filling with natural gas.

“And it looks like an accident or suicide. Take your pick. Locked door, pills, gas turned on . . .” Rawlings shrugged. “I'll know more when the reports start coming in.”

“Very clever,” said Fanny.

“Thanks.”

“I meant the killer. But you, too, for figuring it out.”

“Your killer knew a lot about this building,” Amy suggested. “How to get in through the garage, where the gas valves are located. . .”

Rawlings nodded. “We're checking frequent visitors, any friends she may have had in the building.”

“Who would kill an unemployed maid?” Fanny asked.

“That I don't know,” Rawlings said. “All I know is I drew a murder this morning. Could be a big one. And you two are involved again.”

“We're not involved,” Amy protested.

“So let me get back to my question. Why did you come to pay Joy Archer a visit?”

CHAPTER 33

A
my was growing tired of memorials. She had spent the past month planning and attending six of them for Paisley MacGregor, including the first in New York. And now number seven. Evan Corns's memorial, it so happened, was being held in the same reposing room that his deceased maid had used, on the third floor of Frank E. Campbell's.

Although there was no body to repose, the Corns clan had pressed Barbara to hold a service. They wanted to hold some sort of event before summer came and the families all headed off on vacation.

Amy had wound up telling Rawlings everything. The homicide detective had asked for custody of the manila envelope, and she had gladly turned it over.

“So this is it,” Rawlings had said that day at the station as he placed the envelope in an evidence bag. “This is what you were hiding from me.” He'd sounded disappointed.

“That's it.”

Forensics had confirmed his suspicions about a visitor to Archer's penthouse on the morning of her death. But the scene had produced no usable DNA or prints. And Rawlings's superiors at One Police Plaza were accepting his theory, but only for the time being. They would need more in order to officially rule it a homicide.

Rawlings had volunteered to be Amy's plus-one for the Saturday afternoon memorial, and for the first time she learned his full name. Rory Rawlings. What a tongue-twister. She understood why he'd never mentioned it.

It was a measure of the detective's desperation that he was taking this “if I die” note half seriously. “You're making a lot of assumptions,” he told Amy as his eyes swept over the reposing room. “You're assuming this note was still in the apartment, that Archer had found it, and that it was something worth killing her for.”

“Why else would anyone want to kill Joy Archer? I'm waiting for a better theory.”

“So am I,” said Rawlings. His gaze rested on the framed photo of Evan Corns, looking ruddy and full of life. “I'm not even going to guess about this guy's death.”

“Me neither.”

In addition to the Corns and a few close friends, Barbara had invited her fellow tour members. The Hawaii-based Steinbergs were the only ones not to accept, giving Lieutenant Rawlings a chance to meet most of the cast of characters. Earlier Amy had given him a briefing. Now she was just adding faces to the names.

Peter didn't seem pleased by the idea of Amy showing up with another man, but he said nothing. Neither did he blink an eye when Fanny and Samime dropped in to pay their respects and also ogle the suspects.

“That's Nicole Marconi,” Amy whispered to Rawlings.

“Is she stealing food?” he whispered back.

“Um, yes.” Amy couldn't deny it. Nicole was once again at the buffet table, stuffing a row of mushroom tartlets into her purse. “She likes the food.”

“And she's the one who felt cheated by the will.”

“According to her, MacGregor had quasi-blackmailed her parents into giving MacGregor their money. She expected the will to rectify this situation, but it didn't.”

And those, I take it, are the Pepper-Sands?” He tilted his head toward the May-September pairing, who were silently critiquing an exotic-looking floral tribute sent by the Steinbergs in lieu of their attendance. It was in the center of a long table of flowers, set up where the casket would normally be. “The boys look pretty harmless.”

“Either one could have given MacGregor the note,” Amy said. But she agreed that it was unlikely.

“Herb Sands's money is mostly inherited?” Rawlings asked.

“His grandfather founded an investment house back in the twenties. Sands and Sons. The blond, gorgeous one, David Pepper, moved here from Oklahoma. I don't think he's kept any contact with his family.”

“What about the widow, Barbara? Any dirt there?”

The woman in question was across the room, talking to a few teenage nieces. “She and Evan used to do some legal work for MacGregor.”

“Lawyers, huh? Any chance that Evan wrote the note and Barbara pushed him into the volcano?”

Amy gave it a moment's thought. “It's possible. Oh.” She'd just remembered. “Barbara has been asking about a music box.”

“Music box?”

“It was a birthday present she and Evan gave to MacGregor years ago. She was looking for it in the apartment. Maybe that's where MacGregor kept the note. It's possible.”

“Anything's possible when you don't have any pesky facts to deal with.”

“I wish the Steinbergs were around,” Amy said. “If there's one person I think capable of murder, it's Maury Steinberg.”

“Because he fought with his wife and encouraged her to eat an entrée with chestnuts?”

“Pretty much.”

“Well, I'm glad he's not. One less suspect in the Archer case, which is the only angle I'm interested in. Speaking of suspects . . .” The lieutenant cocked his head toward Peter Borg. The East Side travel agent had once again found himself trapped between Pepper and Sands. By this point he'd given up any hope of booking an anniversary tour and was just hoping to get out alive.

“You mean Peter?” Amy asked. She had to laugh.

“If we're suspecting Miss MacGregor's employers, he's on the list.”

“Technically.”

“And he was in the forest by the Taj Mahal. You weren't together when Bill Strohman was stabbed. He could have done it.”

She laughed again. “First off, Peter's too big a wuss to stab anyone. Second, he would never entrust anything important to MacGregor. And third, he's the one who found the envelope. He showed it to me.”

“I'm keeping him on the list.”

As Amy and the lieutenant continued discussing suspects, Fanny and Samime hovered around the buffet, making small talk with the Corns's relatives. Fanny had created a backstory for them, in case anybody asked. They were, she had decided, a lesbian couple, happily bonded for the past thirty years. They'd met Evan when he'd drawn up a living will for them six months ago.

Fanny hadn't informed Samime of this backstory. It made no difference, since the Turkish woman barely spoke to a soul. But Fanny felt this sort of detail, even if left unsaid, would help her own performance.

“We should pay our respects,” she informed her partner. She took Samime by the hand and led her toward Barbara, who was standing beside the easeled photo of her husband. An angular middle-aged man in a cheap suit was in front of them, talking with the widow, and they waited their turn. Fanny let go of Samime's hand. No need to overplay it.

“I don't mean to talk business on a day like today,” the man whispered.

“Brendon, don't be silly,” Barbara replied. “You're family.”

“It's just that you're not returning my calls—not that I'm worried.”

“Of course,” Barbara assured him. “I'm sorry I haven't been more responsive. But . . .” And here her voice caught. “That was always Evan's project, and it's taking me some time to get up to speed.”

“No problem,” Brendon said before she'd even finished. “Just sometime soon I hope we can get an accounting. Maybe a small check. Jennifer is starting college in the fall.”

“Yes, yes. How is Jennifer?”

“She's great. She's fine.” Brendon looked around the room, a little sheepish. “She's in Connecticut with some friends. Couldn't get away.”

“I understand,” said Barbara and patted his hand. The angular man in the cheap suit made his final apology and fled, letting himself be replaced by Fanny and Samime.

Fanny did all the talking, expressing sorrow at Barbara's loss while simultaneously expressing hope that her husband might still be alive. At the end of her condolence speech, she asked if she could refresh Barbara's glass of white wine.

Fanny held the glass by the stem and, as they took the long way around to the bar, placed it in a Baggie that Samime had taken out of her purse. Fanny sealed the Baggie, wrote something on it with a Magic Marker, and placed it gingerly in Samime's oversize purse.

“Is your mother stealing from the buffet, too?” Rawlings asked.

Amy had seen it. She sighed. “She's taking fingerprints.”

“I realize that,” said Rawlings. “But why?”

“I don't know why. I have no idea what my mother does.”