Leap Year (23 page)

“Lucky for her,” said David. “Anyway, I might not go at all. It might conflict with Heath’s trial.”

“You want to watch Heath’s trial?” asked Lillian.

“I’m going to be a witness.”

“What kind of a witness? You weren’t even there.”

“I’m going to be a character witness,” said David. “I’m attesting to Heath’s homosexuality.”

“Couldn’t that get messy?” asked Loren.

“How do you mean?”

“I just mean, well, it’s a very public thing, you know…”

“I know that.”

“Poor Heath,” said Lillian. “Have you talked to him?”

“No,” said David.

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t think he wants me to. I told him to call me if he needed anything, and he hasn’t called.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t call him,” said Lillian. “He’s checking coats at the Wisteria. Loren and I went down there to see him. Only we didn’t. They hide him in the basement.”

They were silent a moment. The subject of Heath made them all a little uncomfortable. “You said before you were going away,” Lillian said to Loren. “Where are you going?”

“I’d rather not say,” said Loren.

“Oh, please,” said Lillian. “Come off it. Where?”

“I was thinking of going to California.”

“It’s a big state,” said Lillian. “Could you be a little more specific?”

“Lillian! Mind your own business.”

“She’s going to see Gregory,” said David. “Right?”

“Yes,” said Loren.

“You’re not thinking of moving again, are you?”

“No. Jesus Christ, I’m just going to see Gregory for a couple of days. It’s no big deal.”

“It’s what you make it,” said Lillian, smiling cryptically at the turkey carcass.

“Speaking of which,” said Loren, “what’s the story with you and the guy?”

“What guy?” asked David.

“Didn’t you hear about Lillian’s romance?”

“No,” said David. “Who?”

“The guy who owns the restaurant in Stone Ridge.”

“Paul?”

“Claude.”

“Oh, right. I thought there was something cooking between you two. Personally, I thought he was a little strange.”

“What’s going on?” asked Loren.

“Your basic nothing,” said Lillian. “Or rather,
my
basic nothing.”

“Have you seen him?”

“No. He invited me up there for today, but I said no.”

“Why did you do that?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t want to, you know, go through that rejection again.”

“What rejection?” asked David. “How come I don’t know anything about this?”

He was ignored.

“Maybe this time would have been different,” Loren said.

“I doubt it. I invited him here, but he wouldn’t come. He said he never comes to New York anymore. I’ve given up on him. Plus, if I saw him now I’d have to tell him about the baby, and I’m just not into discussing that.”

“You’d better get used it,” said Loren, “since you’re showing.”

“I hate that word: showing. It sounds like you’re an exhibitionist or something. Or that it’s something to be kept secret.”

“Are you sure you weren’t you-know-what when you were up there? Maybe that’s what freaked him out.”

“He got freaked out?” said David. “I told you he was weird.”

“He’s not weird,” said Lillian. “Maybe he is, a little, but I like him. I mean, I
liked
him. But I’m not going to pursue a relationship with a man who’s scared of New York.”

“I thought he used to live here,” said Loren.

“He did. But he got freaked out over the crash and bolted.”

“He sounds like a real loser,” said David. “What doesn’t freak him out?”

“Tranquility,” said Lillian, pulling the last shreds of meat off the bones.

“God,” said David. “Remember tranquility?”

Life seemed to stop for an instant while they stood there, silently, each engrossed in a different memory, but then they heard Kate and Judith laughing and racing down the hall, and life picked itself up again and rushed forward.

S
OMETHING WAS WRONG.
Not only had Anton stopped returning her calls, but now his machine was turned off. Amanda decided to investigate and took a taxi uptown. She entered Trump Tower’s darkened foyer and stood for a moment, wondering how to proceed.

Bernard looked up from a pad of doodles. “Good afternoon, Miss…”

“Paine,” Amanda suggested. “It’s so nice to see you.”

“Likewise, I’m sure, Miss Paine.”

“Did you have a nice turkey?”

“Very nice.”

“I didn’t know you were an artist, Bernard.”

“I’m not, Miss Paine. It just helps pass the time. I’m doing a drawing of every resident.”

“Speaking of residents, is Mr. Shawangunk in?”

“Mr. Shawangunk’s left the country.”

Amanda tried not to grimace. “Has he?” she managed to say. “When did he depart?”

“Oh, I’d say a week ago. At least a week. He didn’t let you know?”

“Of course he did,” said Amanda. “We’re colleagues, as you’ll recall. He’ll be back this week, correct?”

“I don’t think so, Miss Paine.”

This is very bad, Amanda thought. She looked down to see her hand gripping the edge of the concierge’s desk, her crimson nails making tiny serific indentations in the soft wood.

“I don’t think he’ll be back for some time,” Bernard said.

“I expected him this week,” Amanda said.

“All I know is what he told us, Miss Paine. He said he might…” Bernard paused, not sure if he should proceed. Miss Paine looked as though she might attack him.

“What?” she hissed. “What did he say?”

“He said he might not be back till the spring,” Bernard muttered.

“You’re mistaken! You misheard! The trial is next week.”

“What trial, Miss Paine?”

“Heath Jackson’s. Mrs. Shawangunk’s murderer.”

“Oh, that. Well, there’s not much question about that, is there? I mean, they caught him with the gun.”

This is true, Amanda told herself: They caught him with the gun. I was never seen entering or leaving the room. She tried to regain her composure by repeating, I was never seen entering or leaving the room, I was never—

“You don’t look well, Miss Paine,” Bernard said. She must have glared at him, because he added, “I mean you look great, really pretty and all, you just don’t look…you look a little sick.”

“I think I need some fresh air,” said Amanda.

“That’s one thing we don’t got in New York.” Bernard tried to laugh and then sighed in relief as Miss Paine disappeared through the tinted glass doors.

Amanda knew better than to fall apart on the street. Only common people fell apart on the street. She would do it in Bonwit’s. She hastened around the corner and felt substantially better upon entering, reassured by the perfumed air and the serene, chimplike faces of the salesladies.

They were having a little fete in cruisewear with tea and canapés and models idling about in bathing suits with gooseflesh on their impossibly slender thighs. Amanda commandeered a cup of tea and disappeared into an empty dressing room. She sat for a moment, sipping tea, considering her reflection in the mirror. Why does it always happen like this? she wondered. Why are men so feeble? She had thought Anton was different, but he was not. He was a typical man—he loved neither properly nor enough. Perhaps Bernard is wrong, she thought. Perhaps Anton is coming back. Or perhaps it is all a story, and he has never really left. She tried for a moment to believe this, but she could not convince herself.

Where does it leave me? Without Anton’s carefully formulated testimony linking Solange to Heath, the case would undoubtedly be weakened. And if Heath were cleared, surely they would begin looking for another suspect, and surely that suspect would be…perhaps I should kill Heath, Amanda thought. If I made it look like a suicide, his guilt would be assumed and the case closed. But no, she thought, I’m not promiscuously criminal. I kill for love and love alone…

Anton’s gone, she reminded herself, swirling the dregs of her tea. Well, she thought, fuck him. God knows I’ve done everything myself so far; there’s no reason I can’t continue alone. I’ll put Heath Jackson behind bars. No one is going to make a chump out of me.

“Before I forget,” said Tammi, “Anita told me to tell you Toinette Menzies called. You’re supposed to call her back first thing in the morning.”

“Colette Menzies,” said Heath. “That’s my lawyer.”

“Maybe she has good news. Maybe they’re calling the case off.”

“I doubt it,” said Heath.

“I think you need a new boyfriend,” said Tammi. “A little romance would take your mind off all this trial shit.” She was on her break and had come downstairs to try on fur coats, smoke, and talk to Heath. “How does this look?” she asked, modeling a full-length mink.

“I don’t think it’s you,” said Heath.

“Of course it’s not me,” said Tammi. “None of these are. If they were me, I wouldn’t be down here trying them on. I’d be upstairs eating fucking veal chops. Listen, I’m serious about this boyfriend thing. What about Howard?”

“Howard? Howard, the waiter?”

“No. Howard Hughes, the deceased billionaire. Of course Howard the waiter. He thinks you’re cute. He told me you reminded him of John Kennedy, Junior.”

“You better take that off,” said Heath. “You’re getting ashes on it.”

“Ashes are good for the pelt. They give it a certain woodsy aroma.”

“Take it off,” said Heath.

“So how about Howie? Do you like him?”

“No. I don’t think he’s my type.”

“What is your type?”

“I don’t know,” said Heath.

“What don’t you like about Howard?”

“He’s too young and, I don’t know…silly.”

“So you want some old turd? Don’t tell me you’re still hung up on el yuppie.”

“No,” said Heath. “I just think he was more my type.”

“So you’re into cruelty?”

“David wasn’t cruel.”

“He ditched you for his wife.”

“He didn’t ditch me—it was a mutual decision.”

“There’s no such thing, bucko.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Heath.

“Anyone can speak for themselves,” said Tammi. “I speak for the community of abandoned lovers. Anyway, if the yuppie was so great, why didn’t you put up more of a fight?”

“I had other things on my mind,” said Heath, “having just been arrested for murder.”

“God, your life has been ultra shitty lately, hasn’t it?” asked Tammi. She sat down beside Heath and patted his back. “I know you won’t believe me, but I think you’re going to get through this, and you’ll be due for some major happiness.”

“If I get through this without having to go to jail, I’d settle for more shit,” said Heath.

“Margot,” said Amanda, “what’s going up next?”

Margot looked up from the pile of holiday cards she was signing. “You know very well,” she said. “Gilberto Arnot. He was postponed from last summer, when we did Heath Jackson.”

“Well, we may have to postpone him a bit longer. There’s a show I want up instead.”

“I thought scheduling fell into my domain,” said Margot.

“Don’t be tiresome, Margot,” said Amanda.

“Well, it’s just that if I can’t direct the gallery I don’t see what the point in being director is.”

“Most girls in your position would be more than satisfied with the title,” said Amanda.

“I’m not like most girls,” said Margot. “Who do you want to put up?”

“Well, the details aren’t finito yet, but I think it could be a stunning—and lucrative—departure for the gallery. I’ve discovered someone who does little doodly portraits of society types. They’re splendidly drawn, and I think they could be a big hit.”

“They sound awful. I think we should stick with the Arnot. He has some very fine new paintings. And he was so devoted to

Solange.”

“Solange is dead,” said Amanda, “and fine paintings keep. We’ll open Bernard Zerener in January and do a big Arnot retrospective in the spring. How would that be?”

“Whatever you say,” said Margot.

“Sit down,” said Colette Menzies. “I’ve good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”

“Is the bad news badder than the good news is good?”

“I think they’re just about equally bad and good.”

“So they cancel each other out?”

“We’ll see,” she said. “They might.”

“The bad news then.”

Colette picked a copy of the
Post
off her desk and handed it to Heath. “Page three,” she said.

Heath opened the paper. On page three was a photograph of a doorman standing beneath the Trump Tower awning. He read the accompanying article.

SHAWANGUNK LOVE NEST: DOORMAN HOLDS THE KEY

A Post Exclusive
—Bernard Zerener, a doorman in the luxurious Trump Tower, has come forward as a surprise witness in the Solange Shawangunk murder case. As
Post
readers will remember, Shawangunk was shot point-black last July 13 at her SoHo gallery during the opening reception for a show of photographs by Heath Jackson. She died of complications two months later. Jackson, who was found with the gun moments after the shooting, has been charged with the murder. It has been the prosecution’s assertion, long denied by the defendant, that he and Shawangunk were lovers.

Zerener told the
Post
in an exclusive interview yesterday that Jackson was a “frequent” visitor to the Shawangunk apartment on the 38th floor of Trump Tower. “I’d say he was there more than twenty times between January and June of this year,” Zerener recalled. “I often saw him leaving or arriving at the apartment late at night, escorting Mrs. Shawangunk. They were real open about it—very physical and everything. I remember it because Mrs. Shawangunk was usually such a dignified woman. I especially remember an argument they had in the lobby on July 13, the day Mrs. Shawangunk was murdered. From what I overheard, it seemed as if she was trying to break the thing off and Mr. Jackson was resisting. He got a little rough with her and I had to interfere.”

Asked why he had waited so long to come forward with this important testimony, Zerener said his conscience had troubled him. “I couldn’t sleep anymore,” he told the
Post.
“It’s kind of an unwritten law for doormen not to get involved in the affairs of the residents, but a decent man can stay silent only for so long. The idea that this punk could go free prompted me to speak out. I heard him threaten Mrs. Shawangunk on the afternoon she was murdered. That’s all the proof I need.”