Manhattan Mayhem (10 page)

As yet another mourner got up and started to tell a story, Sam saw Mrs. Windsor give a sharp sign to the minister to get his attention. Then she pointed to the organist, making it clear what she wanted.
Almost immediately, the music rose to Bachian heights, drowning out the testimonials. Ushers walked rapidly into place at the ends of pews and began to move the big, and now boisterous, crowd out of the sanctuary.

Shocked, Sam realized he might have just heard evidence of Priscilla Windsor’s bucket list:
Tell the truth.
He wondered,
If this was what she did with strangers, what was on her list for people she knew well?

“Now, that was more like it,” Mrs. Darnell said approvingly as they rose to their feet. “Even if Maggie hated it. Did you see how fast she got that minister to move? Oh, well, at least we had a little fun, and that dear girl would be glad, I’m sure of it. You’re going to the reception now?”

“No. I wasn’t invited. I don’t know the family.”

“Oh, well, bosh to that. You just crook your well-tailored arm and let me hold your elbow, and I’ll get you in as if you live there. I’m assuming Priscilla was your patient, although I know you won’t tell me so. You know us better than our husbands do, and that makes you at least as close to her as family. Closer, in the case of
her
family, and don’t you ever tell anybody I ever said so!”

Sam smiled at her. “I won’t.”

A few pews from the exit, he managed to ease away when Mrs. Darnell wasn’t looking and lose himself in the crowd. He wanted to chase down the last person who had risen to speak, the one who had been defeated by Bach.

A floral dress, puffy hair, a round face.

He spotted her standing between two younger women, and immediately he intuited whom they might be: teachers at the preschool where Priscilla had worked, a school so unfashionable that it didn’t even have a waiting list. They looked unfashionable themselves amid the chic crowd. The older woman looked like somebody a child might run to for a hug.

She didn’t smile when he said, “Excuse me.”

“Yes?”

“You started to get up, in the sanctuary just now, to say something about Priscilla—”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry you didn’t get to. Would you mind telling me what it was?”

“Who are you?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. My name is Sam Waterhouse. I was her doctor.”

“Oh.” She looked tired, harried, and a lot less huggable up close. “I was only going to say that the children and parents at our preschool adored her. I thought it might bring us some business. Do you have grandchildren?”

He was taken aback by her cold words and sharp eyes—and by her assigning grandchildren to him before his time.

“I have a son in fourth grade.”

“Really?” The single word had an amused tone that offended him, as if it tickled her that a man his age could have a child that young. He thought the woman tactless and unpleasant; no wonder her preschool didn’t have a waiting list.

“I liked her,” he said on Priss’s behalf. “I liked her very much. I thought maybe you were going to tell a funny story about her.”

She snorted and eyed the young women on either side. What she didn’t see was how they eyed each other the moment she turned her attention back to him. “The story I could tell wouldn’t be so nice,” she said. “I fired her last week.” She finally smiled, but it had a smirky edge. “Maybe not the right story for a funeral, hm? What kind of doctor did you say you are?”

“Ob-gyn.”

“Oh. I was sure you’d say psychiatrist.” She smirked again and walked away.

One of the young women went with her, but the second woman lingered and said quietly, “Don’t pay any attention to her. She was always jealous of how much the kids and parents liked Priss more than her. And she’s still furious about what Priscilla did.”

“What did she do?”

“She read a couple of parents the riot act. Which they
so
had coming!”

“When was this?”

“The day she died.” Her eyes filled with tears. “It’s so awful, to think her last memory of us was of getting fired, but I think she knew that the rest of us loved her for it. Susan”—she pointed a thumb back over her shoulder in the direction the floral dress had gone—“won’t cross our parents for any reason, because she doesn’t want to lose their money. It drives us crazy. The parents Priss yelled at used to pick up their kids any ol’ time they wanted to, even if they were two hours late, or even later! No call ahead, no making plans with our permission. No consideration for us at all, and their poor kids felt abandoned, even though we lied and told them their mom and dad weren’t the jerks they really are.”

“And Priss—Priscilla—told them off?”

“Did she ever! It was beautiful! Shocked the heck out of them. And us! They pulled their kids out of the school right then, even though Susan fired Priss in front of them and apologized until I wanted to puke.”

“Did Priss say anything to you about a bucket list?”

“Isn’t that something people do when they know they’re going to die?” Her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, my gosh. Do you think she had a premonition?”

“No, no, I just—”

“She did say that telling off those people was something she’d always wanted to do. Well, not
always,
but you know what I mean.” That sounded very bucket list–like to him, especially when combined with the incidents involving the hot-dog vendor and taxi driver.

He wanted to ask the young woman a question that was going to sound rude no matter how he phrased it, so he just said it plainly: “Why did Priss go to work there, do you know?”

She smiled a little. “You mean, when she had all this?” She swept her right arm in an arc, indicating the signs of money around them, in the clothes, in the hair colors, in the address of the church, in the limos and cabs waiting at the curb outside.

“I guess I do mean that. And also—” He gestured in the direction
of the floral dress.

“Oh, she’s nice when she interviews you,” the young woman said. “All cookies and teddy bears. You only find out later how she really is. And we never knew about this.” Her glance took in the crowd. “We thought Priss was just like us, only nicer.” She smiled again, a sweet smile. “All I knew was that she had a degree in early childhood education, and she needed a job, just like us. Well, I guess she didn’t
need
one, but she wanted it. I have a theory, now that I’ve seen all this …”

He cocked his head, the way he did to encourage patients to tell him all their symptoms.

“I think she walked into DayGlow DayCare and saw the real situation: a witch of an owner, an unhappy staff, the effect that had on the kids. And she decided she could change it. Change us. I think she went to work there because she was one of those people who makes other people feel good just to be around her.”

“And did she have that effect?”

The woman nodded. “Slowly. It was happening. We—the staff—were happier. The kids were having more fun and learning better. Susan was the roadblock, and parents like those two that Priss told off.” She started to cry openly. “I’m going to miss her so much.”

If she’d been his patient, he would have hugged her.

He hugged her anyway.

“Are you ready?”

He turned at the sound of Bunny Darnell’s voice and told her he was.

“Who was that cute little thing?”

“She teaches at the preschool where Priscilla worked.”

“Ah.” For the first time, her face and her voice softened. “Priss was a nice child.” Then her expression and tone turned wry again. “How she came out of
that
family, I’ll never understand.” She gave him a slanted look. “Oh, I could tell you stories.”

“I wish you would.”

“Really? I’ve
never
heard you gossip about your patients. It’s one of the reasons we all go to you, you know. You keep our secrets. Are you going to change my idolatrous image of you?”

“God forbid.” He smiled. “But I’m not the one who would be telling the stories, and I wouldn’t be passing them along to anyone else.”

“Oh.” She laughed a little. “Good points. In that case, get in our car and prepare to be shocked.”

But he wasn’t shocked. Not by the stories of Priscilla’s father’s shady business practices, and not by the stories of how her mother lavished big salaries on herself and her staff toadies instead of spending all she should on the charitable organization she led. Even when Mrs. Darnell confided that Priscilla had gotten pregnant at sixteen, he didn’t react with surprise.

“You’re not even surprised at that?”

“I was her doctor. Even teenagers get stretch marks.”

“So you could tell.”

He didn’t acknowledge her statement.

“Did she tell you that her parents kicked her out of the house? If you must know, she came to me for help. I took her in and gave her spending money. And then, may God forgive me, I left her with my housekeeper and fled to Europe and didn’t return until it was over. She put it up for adoption, you know. It was a terribly lonely time for her, I’m sure.”

It amused him that she’d said “If you must know,” as if he were pressing her to tell him all these things that flowed out as if she’d kept them locked up a long time and was glad at last to say them aloud.

“Why did she go to you for help?” he asked.

She looked surprised at the question. “Well, because I was her godmother. Didn’t you know?”

He did know. It was why he’d sat down beside her. “I guess I’d forgotten.”

He glanced at her husband, who was driving the Jaguar through Central Park from the west side to the east.

“Then …” Sam left his awkward question unasked.

She laughed. “You’re thinking of the godfather who left her the three million? That was my first husband, George. It wasn’t easy for George to give money away. I nearly had to threaten to kill him if he didn’t put her in his will. She was cut out of her parents’ will. I wanted her to have something, even if it took her a long time to get it. Then, when George got so sick, I had to tell him, please, she isn’t in so much of a hurry for it. But it was too late. He was gone, and she wasn’t broke anymore.”

“But then she gave it all away.”

“I should have realized she might. She didn’t want to be anything her parents are, including rich. And she took to heart that Bible verse that causes so many of us anxious nights.”

“Which one?”

“The one about how it’s harder for a rich man to get into heaven than for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle.”

Her husband smiled at the traffic ahead of him.

Sam stared out a window. “Do you think she’s in heaven?”

“She’d better be, or what’s a heaven for, if it won’t take angels?”

“Do you want to end up in heaven?”

“Why do you think we take all those trips to Egypt? I’m searching for pygmy camels.”

He laughed. “That’s still going to take a very big needle, isn’t it?”

For the first time, her husband spoke. “You’ve never heard of the Seattle Space Needle?”

Sam laughed again. He liked these people.

After a bit, he said, “I understand why you can’t stand her parents.”

She nodded. “Loathsome people. No mercy. From them to her, or from me to them.”