Do You Promise Not to Tell? (22 page)

“Meryl Quan had to go—she knew too much and was ready to tell. I’d think you’d be gratified that I had her taken care of.”

“And Victor Paradise?”

“Victor was a stooge. Useful for pruning and clearing away the deadwood—but actually it’s cleaner this way. With him gone, there’s one less person to trip us up. Victor was no brain surgeon, and sooner or later he might have given something away. He served his purpose, getting rid of Meryl, and I’m sure that the police will be satisfied that her murderer is lying on a slab down at the morgue.”

Clifford was stupefied by his visitor’s cold audacity.

“Now, the doorman needn’t be killed, even if he did see poor Victor walking out with Meryl to the freight elevator.”

“You are one cold customer,” Clifford observed.

“Yes. And I want my cold, hard cash. Cut me my check now.”

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“Come again?”

“I can’t just write you a check for six million dollars. It has to be done through the accounting department. The last time I inquired, they hadn’t gotten the money from the buyer yet.”

“Who is the damn buyer, anyway?”

“I’m not telling you. I’m more afraid of the buyer than I am of you.”

The visitor tried not to lose control.
Keep calm, don’t lose your temper.

“Clifford, you don’t seem to understand. Let me explain it to you again. If you don’t give me that money, I am going to let the feds know everything. Anonymously, of course. And you and your precious Churchill’s will be ruined.”

“But you won’t have your six million dollars, either.” Clifford smiled at the thought.

The visitor decided it was time to take a conciliatory tack. “Look. Let’s work together here. We’ve always been able to work things out in the past. We can figure this out. I don’t know who bought the egg, and frankly, I don’t care. As I see it, the only real
problem we have here is if the real Moon Egg turns up.”

“If you knew who bought your fake egg at auction, you damn well would care.”

Palm Sunday

Farrell spread a flowered cloth over the round table and set it for two. A fresh peach-scented candle perched in a brass candlestick, and a bunch of white tulips stood at attention in a glass vase that she placed in the middle of the table. That was about as Martha Stewart as she got. Take it or leave it.

She surveyed the apartment and realized that it looked inviting now. With Pat’s help, the touches they had added created a whole new feel for the room. Salmon and seafoam-green colors lay beneath the coffee table. Her books were now off the floor and arranged with care in the bookcase. Two large brass sconces hung on the wall on either side of the bookcase, apricot candles flickering welcomingly from them. A tiny oil painting of an old man reading a newspaper, a monkey sitting on his shoulder, rested on a wire easel on a mahogany butler’s table, another Consignment Depot find. Farrell hadn’t spent a lot of money, but the results of the few careful purchases made a big difference.

When Jack arrived, he kissed her and smelled the Pleasures perfume she had sprayed on the front of her neck and behind her ears. As she led him into the living room, he eyed the table in the small dining room beyond, appreciating the effort.

“Drink?”

“You have any scotch?”

“Dewar’s on the rocks, coming right up.”

Farrell poured the tawny liquid over a glass of ice and added a lemon twist.

“Ah, this hits the spot. Thanks.” Jack eased himself into the couch beneath the window. He stretched out his long legs and let out a deep sigh of relief.

“So what do you think, Jack? Did Victor set the fire at Olga’s?”

“Don’t know. We’ll have to get a picture of him and show it to the old lady.”

“When will that be done?” Farrell pressed, as she stood over him.

“Hey, you,” he smiled, putting down his drink and pulling her down into his lap. “Let’s just enjoy each other’s company tonight, shall we? I think we deserve a little rest and relaxation.”

“Not to mention a little fun, I see.” Farrell kissed him hungrily, then pulled away. “But let’s not get too distracted. I have a dinner all planned and you’ve got to realize that, for me, this is a major undertaking. I mustn’t be distracted.”

Jack laughed. “Okay. I can wait for dessert until later. What are we having?”

“Lamb. Lamb and asparagus and roasted potatoes.”

“Farrell, I had no idea I was in the presence of such a culinary master.”

“Don’t make fun of me. I’m really trying here.”

“I know you are,” Jack relented. He stood up and walked toward the kitchen. “How can I help?”

“I thought we’d start with some of Olga’s eggplant caviar. It’s in the fridge.”

As Jack went to the refrigerator to take out the mason jar filled with the old woman’s homemade concoction, Farrell flinched with recognition, feeling the skin tingle on the back of her neck.

Eggplant—plant the egg!

Range Bullock caught the late local television news Sunday evening before turning in for the night. The lead story gripped him.

“Double murder at Churchill’s,” trumpeted the New York anchor, who went on to recount that a female employee and, now, a patron had both been killed at the exclusive auction house in the past two weeks.

It was time to do the story for national broadcast. As Range switched off the light, he resolved to talk to Farrell about it first thing in the morning. He hoped he hadn’t made a mistake in not encouraging her to do the Fabergé egg story sooner.

Monday of Holy Week

She could tell she was waking him up.

“Hello,” Peter croaked groggily.

“Peter, it’s Farrell. I’m sorry to have wakened you. I thought ten
A.M.
would be a safe time. I forgot what it is to be a college student.”

“No, no. That’s okay, Farrell. I have to get up anyway. I have one more midterm before spring break and I need to get a little more study time in. I was up late last night cracking the books. What’s up, anyway?”

“Just a quick question.”

“Shoot.”

“Did you get at that jar of Olga’s eggplant caviar yet?”

“Are you kidding? I polished that off a long time ago.”

“Nothing out of the ordinary about it?”

“No, it was as good as ever. I love that stuff. Isn’t it great news about Olga? She’s getting out of the hospital this week!”

“Yeah, Peter. Your mom told me. That is great news. Before you know it, she’ll be making caviar for you again.”

“Can’t wait.”

“Peter, one more thing. Do you have Professor Kavanagh’s home number?”

“Nope. But I think he lives in Maplewood. Maybe the operator has it.”

“Thanks, Peter. I’ll see you Sunday. Your mother invited me for Easter dinner.”

Farrell took the elevator down to the
Evening Headlines
studio, answering Range’s call summoning her to the Fishbowl. She felt nostalgic. This was her last week at KEY News.

The poignant feeling that swept over her, changed to disgust when she saw that old suck-up Dean stationed on the couch across from Range’s desk. She couldn’t even bring herself to acknowledge him.

Range got right to the point. “Farrell, I think, with the Churchill’s murders, there is enough to make a piece now, Moon Egg or no Moon Egg. I see it as ‘What’s Happening at Churchill’s?’ You’ll have to be careful, have the facts to back up whatever you allege. Do you think you can get it together by Friday? I’d like to pencil you in for the ‘KEYhole on America’ slot. Two and a half minutes.”

Farrell listened to Range’s directions. How ironic! Her last story for KEY News would be a “KEYhole” piece, the coveted slot on the broadcast. It would air on Good Friday. The anniversary of the crucifixion. Perhaps it was a sign she would rise again, another life after KEY News.

She mentally smacked herself.
Cut it out. Don’t read anything ridiculous into the timing of this.

“I can get it together by then,” she answered determinedly.

Farrell remembered she probably wouldn’t have to deal with directory assistance to get the number in Maplewood, New Jersey. She called Westwood instead.

“Hello?”

“Pat, it’s Farrell.”

“Now, I told you already, you don’t have to bring anything on Sunday.”

“No, it’s not about Easter. I should have remembered, I need Tim Kavanagh’s number at home. I’ve been trying to reach him at Seton Hall, but it’s Holy Week, and spring break begins on Wednesday.”

“What’s up, Farrell?”

“Oh, it’s just a hunch, Pat, and I’m going to feel pretty silly when it doesn’t pan out. I promise to tell you all about it when I see you on Sunday.”

After scribbling it down, Farrell dialed the number that would give her the last chance to prove her theory. She listened, frustrated, to the beep of Tim Kavanagh’s answering machine. Where was the professor?

Jack had looked at her skeptically when she told him her suspicion about the eggplant caviar as a hiding place. “That’s what I’d call a long shot, Farrell,” he said dismissively, “especially because the play on words only works in English.”

Farrell had explained that she didn’t think Olga had chosen the eggplant because of its semantic properties. In any event, Farrell didn’t think it was that improbable.

“Tim, this is Farrell Slater. . ..” She began to leave her message. “I know this may sound crazy, but would you please check that jar of eggplant caviar Pat gave you the day we went to Olga’s apartment? Let me know if you find anything out of the ordinary inside. Call me back anytime. Thanks a lot.” Farrell ended by giving him her office and home phone numbers.

It was worth a shot.

He made no move to pick up the phone, even as he listened intently to Farrell Slater leave her message.

He had no intention of keeping it. He had just wanted the pleasure of admiring it for a while. Imagine him, Timothy Kavanagh, having the last Russian Imperial Easter Egg! If only for a little while, he wanted to relish having the work of art with him.

Of course, he had told no one what he had found when he’d opened the mason jar. At first he had been incredulous; after all, he had watched the sale of the egg with his own eyes. Then, as he had carefully studied the glittering beauty of the milky-white egg, the treasure became real to him. There were no accidents in life. He was
meant
to have his time with the Moon Egg.

Now, a stack of essays on Russian history to correct sitting menacingly before him, Farrell Slater’s message signaled that time was up. He would not call her back right away.

It would be better for it not to look as though Farrell was forcing him to give up the egg, that her call was the reason for coming forward. It had to appear that he was voluntarily giving it up to the proper authorities as he had planned to do all along.

In his darkened den, the drapes drawn closed to guard his secret, Tim had positioned a halogen lamp
to warm the Moon Egg in its own special light. He looked at it now, as he had done every night since he had made the discovery, watching the diamonds and sapphires dance and sparkle. He stared at the Moon Egg, his guest for the last eleven days. His delightful, welcome houseguest. How sorry he would be to see it go!

He picked up the telephone. If he hoped to have any real future with Pat, he had to tell her what he’d found.

Tuesday of Holy Week

The two old women sat together in the lounge on Olga’s floor at Pascack Valley Hospital. Olga was able to walk now, and the trip down the hall to the reception room was good exercise for her.

Nadine Paradise, dressed in a beautifully-cut lavender wool suit, talked somberly to her sister.

“Now that I’ve lost my son, you are all I have left, Olga. I’m so grateful to God that I’ve found you. And so glad that you will be coming home in a few days to live with me.”

“Do you have a picture of Victor?” Olga asked from her blue Naugahyde chair. “I never had a child of my own. I would like to see my nephew.”

Nadine opened her smooth leather purse and carefully took a photograph from the zippered compartment inside. She looked at it sadly as she handed it to Olga.

Olga stared silently. She could not bring herself to tell her sister that the face in the photo was familiar to her. It was the face of the man who had taken care of her when she had fainted in the pharmacy. The man who had come to her apartment the day of the fire.

“Spy” Wednesday

It was a small group that gathered for the graveside service of Victor Paradise.

His mother stood erect, dry-eyed. Her face did not reveal the torture she felt within. How could she have raised a child capable of murder?

Nadine felt someone gently take her arm. It was Stacey. Her eyes were red-rimmed.