Park Avenue (Book Six in the Fifth Avenue Series) (51 page)

“So, what’s
happening?
 
How can I help?”

“You remember yesterday,
when I asked you about James Cullen?”

“Of course.”

“I met with him before
coming here.”

“And how did that go?”

“It’s tough to tell.
 
He was relaxed when I questioned him
about being the executor of Ryan’s will.
 
He told me he and Ryan went to Yale together.
 
And that they roomed together, thus
their friendship.”

“They roomed together?”

“That’s what he said,
which is easy enough to verify, but I don’t doubt him.
 
He exhibited no signs of lying to me
when I talked with him.
 
If
anything, he expressed concern for his own safety.”

“Why would he be
concerned for his safety?”

“There were seven
beneficiaries in Ryan’s will.
 
The
Baron and Baroness of Dorchester, Peter Horrigan, Piggy French, Rowena Clark,
Charles Stout, and Florence Holt.”

Gloria leaned forward in
her chair with concern on her face.
 
“I don’t know Horrigan and Clark, but I certainly knew the others.
 
I especially knew Piggy French and the
baron and baroness.
 
They’re dead,
Marty.
 
All of them.
 
Just recently.”

“I know.”

“I’m assuming Horrigan
and Clark also are dead?”

“They are.”

“So, obviously this is no
coincidence.”

“I’d say it isn’t.”

“You said they were
beneficiaries in Ryan’s will.
 
What
did he leave them?”

“Five million dollars
each.”

Her eyes widened.
 
“I can’t speak for Horrigan and Clark,
but the others hated him.
 
I know
that for a fact.
 
Ryan tried to force
his way into society.
 
He resented
them for not allowing that to happen.
 
I was at one party where Piggy French openly mocked Ryan.
 
A photographer caught the moment.
 
It was on Page Six, complete with
photo.”

“I’ve seen the
photo.
 
I’ve read the cutline.”

“But why would he leave
them five million dollars?”

“That’s the mystery.”

“Something’s wrong here.”

“You think?”

“You said you needed a
favor of me.”

“I do.”

“Do you think this is
related to what’s happening to Leana now?”

“I’m leaning in that
direction.
 
I just need to figure
out how.”

“I’ll do anything to help
Leana.
 
What do you need?”

“I need to speak to
someone who knew all of them intimately.
 
Or at least most of them, since I doubt anyone knew Rowena Clark.”

“Who was she?”

“Ryan’s former
mistress.
 
She left him when he
wouldn’t marry her after eleven years with him.
 
She wound up marrying a teacher instead,
and now she’s dead.”

“It’s as if he’s still at
it,” she said, almost to herself.
 
“It’s as if he’s driving this from the grave.”

Marty didn’t answer.

“Is he?”

“I don’t know how he
could be, but after this and as odd as it sounds, he nevertheless is something
of a suspect.”

“The person you need to
speak to is Fitzy Fertzbergen.
 
Fitzy knows everyone.
 
His
family has been in the book for generations, and despite the fact that he’s
nearly broke—which in their world means he’s down to his last few
million—he’s a player in all the right circles.
 
He’s still a Fertzbergen, which carries
with it a hell of a lot of weight.
 
His father, grandfather, and great-grandfather made much of lower
Manhattan into what it is today.
 
He’s a bit of an eccentric, but when he comes through, he’s
fantastic.
 
And he’s invited
everywhere because of who he is.
 
His connections will help you in ways that I can’t.
 
I can arrange for that meeting.
 
If I know Fitzy, which I do, he won’t be
able to turn away from such a feast.”

“I’m assuming he isn’t
discreet.”

“He isn’t.
 
So be careful with your
questioning.
 
Everything you say to
him will be brought up at the next dinner party.
 
If I can get you in to see him today, he
will share your questions at whatever party he’s attending tonight, assuming
there is one.”

“Actually, at this point,
with Leana’s hotel opening in days, I don’t think it matters if he shoots his
mouth.
 
I just need him to lay it
bare for me.”

“He’ll do that.
 
He’ll bubble over with glee to do that,
because he has nothing other than his lineage and the hope that he can get
himself back on track, which he might.
 
You never know in this world.
 
He could strike the right deal with the right person—someone like
Louis Ryan, if he were still darkening the planet—and make back the money
he once had.
 
But be ready for the
theatrics.
 
Fitzy Fertzbergen brings
them with a force of nature that will knock you on your ass.”

“And still you send me
there?”

“I send you there because
Fitzy knows where the bodies are buried.
 
Consider his mouth a shovel.
 
He’ll happily dig for you.”

“You’ll make the call?”

She stood up from her
chair and went to her cell, which was on the kitchen island.
 
“I’ll call him now.”

CHAPTER
SEVENTY-TWO

Fitzy Fertzbergen’s
townhouse was located at Sixty-Fifth Street and Park, a prime address if there
ever was one.
 
And though Gloria had
said that Fitzy was fixed for cash, which Marty didn’t doubt because these were
the things that Gloria knew that most didn’t, you wouldn’t know it by the looks
of his property.
 
It was a beautiful
brownstone, three windows across and five stories high with a black iron gate
in front and two topiaries on either side of the mahogany door.
 
It seemed at once elegant and
understated, which is exactly what he expected given Fitzy’s lineage and the
expectations that came with that lineage.

He walked down three
steps to the door and rang the buzzer to the right of it.
 
To his surprise, it wasn’t a butler or
an assistant who answered, but an older man in a yellow caftan and a shock of
white hair who must have been Fitzy himself.

“Mr. Spellman?” he said.

Marty couldn’t help but
stare at his face, which seemed unnaturally pulled in a myriad of directions
that made no logical sense.
 
“Mr.
Fertzbergen?”

“That’s right.
 
Please, come in.
 
Your ex-wife told me that you needed my
assistance.
 
It sounded urgent.
 
Naturally, I’m eager to know what the
issue is, and how I can help.
 
Please don’t mind the mess.
 
I’m preparing to give to charity.”

Marty stepped into the
entryway and saw in a glance that the only charity Fitzy Fertzbergen was giving
to was himself.
 
Just inside the
door and running along the length of a long hallway that stretched into a poorly
lit room he barely could see, were stacks of old magazines, newspapers, and
books that soared toward the dim ceiling.
 
On top of them were such oddities as unfolded blankets, a lamp with no
shade, and bric-a-brac gone amuck.
 
Marty had the sense that if he accidentally nudged into any of it, it
all would come tumbling down upon him and likely bury him alive.

Fitzy Fertzbergen was a
hoarder.

“Just this way,” Fitzy
said, cutting through the doorway to his right, his caftan billowing behind him
as if he was a massive butterfly hovering in flight.
 
“Into the parlor.
 
Please ignore the mess.
 
This simply isn’t how I live.
 
For the past month, I’ve been gathering
everything to be hauled away.
 
This
weekend, when it’s moved out of here, I’ll finally be able to
breathe
.”

“I can only imagine how important
that will be.”

“To what?”

To breathe.
 

“To give to charity,” he
said.
 
“It’s very generous of you.”

“It runs in the bones,”
Fitzy said.
 
“It’s who I am.
 
It’s why I’m called upon to sit on
boards and to make critical decisions about the welfare of those who live in
this city.”

“On which boards do you
sit?” Marty asked.

“Oh, that isn’t
important,” Fitzy said.
 

Marty followed him into
the parlor, and faced more junk than he was anticipating, especially after
maneuvering through the cramped hallway.
 
A Steinway grand, apparently forgotten and unplayed for years, was in a
corner of the room and swamped beneath decades of crap.
 
Mountains of useless junk were piled so
high along the walls that they had spilled into the middle of the room,
probably from sheer exhaustion.
 
The
musty smell was suffocating, but worse was a rotten odor underneath it.
 
He didn’t want to know what it was or
where it was coming from, so he just put his mind into another place.
 
He thought of his wife, Jennifer.
 
He thought of her smile; he thought of
the perfume she wore; and he thought of how much he loved her.
 
That made him happy.
 

Fitzy moved toward a sofa
that was riddled with magazines on the right and left, with only a small space
free in the middle.
 
When he sat,
the magazines collided into his thighs, but Fitzy made no fuss about it.
 
He simply shoved them aside and fluffed
out his caftan so it would somehow look elegant amid the turmoil.
 

“Sit there,” he said,
pointing across from him.
 
“In that
chair.
 
The free one, not the other
two, which obviously would be impossible given the state they’re in.
 
I made that one special for you.
 
You can’t imagine how much is leaving
here this weekend.
 
It’s the least I
can do, giving all of this away.
 
What a relief it will be to have it in the right hands, to make a
difference to those who need it.
 
That’s what we Fertzbergens are about.
 
Making a difference.
 
Would you like some tea?”

Marty looked at the dusty
tea service and declined.
 
“I’m
fine, thank you.
 
It’s so hot
outside.”

“Perhaps over ice?”

What does his freezer
look like?
 
Filled with mold?
 
More magazines?
 
A relative?
 
“Really, I’m fine.
 
And I have to thank you for seeing me on
such short notice, Mr. Fertzbergen.
 
You’re very kind.”

“Please.
 
It’s Fitzy.
 
Everyone calls me Fitzy.
 
Tallulah Bankhead called me that at a
party back in sixty-six.
 
Everyone
roared when she said it, even that bitch Piggy French, who was young then, but
who’s dead now.
 
The name stuck,
probably because Tallulah was being Tallulah, which means she was drunk off her
ass.
 
Not that anyone dared to
mention it at the time.”

Marty smiled at him.
 
“Actually, that’s something of a
coincidence.
 
I’m here to talk to
you about Piggy French and a few other people Gloria says you probably knew.”

“Gloria told me about
your interest in Piggy, so it’s no coincidence.
 
I mentioned her name to spark and to
titillate.
 
About these other
people—what do you mean by ‘knew’?
 
‘Knew’ implies death.”

“It does,” Marty said.

“You know,” Fitzy said,
“I’m facing my own.”
 
He touched the
back of his hand to his weirdly molded cheek, and looked up at the ceiling with
a kind of despair.
 
“God only knows
when it’s coming, but I’m preparing for it.
 
First, I need to complete this rush to
charity of mine.
 
Then there’s the
real rush.
 
I need to finish my
memoirs, which will be published after my death because otherwise I’d be sued.”