Scared to Death (17 page)

Meg was kind enough to leave her car keys right on the counter, so disposing of her little Toyota will be a breeze. With any luck, it'll take a couple of days, at least, for anyone to realize something's happened to Meg Warren—and chances are, they'll never think to start their search here at home.

By that time, the nightmare next door at the Cavalons' will be in full swing, and a missing middle-aged woman will be the least of the local police department's worries.

O
n the west side of Broadway between Seventy-third and Seventy-fourth Streets, the eighteen-story Ansonia is, as Maman has always liked to say, as close as she could get to home without hopping an Air France flight to Charles de Gaulle.

Constructed during the Belle Epoque, the massive historical landmark—with its elaborate balconies, arches, masonry curls, and iron grillwork—evokes a romantic Parisian flair befitting the Champs-Élysées.

To Elsa, as a little girl, it looked more like an oversized haunted mansion, with its looming turrets and mansard roof. There was a time when she dreaded her after-school journey from the lobby to her door. Leery of the creaky old elevators, she'd race instead up the dizzying stack of marble stairways and through the yawning maze of corridors on their floor, lined with shadowy nooks where sinister bad guys and ghosts might be lurking.

Breathless by the time she reached her own door, she'd unlock it in a hurry and slam it closed behind her—only to be scolded by Maman's longtime maid, Monique, or by Maman herself, who had no patience for what she considered silly, childish paranoia.

Looking back now, from a maternal standpoint, Elsa finds it hard to believe that her mother hadn't simply met her in the lobby—or better yet, at school several blocks away—to escort her safely home in the afternoons.

But, then, it was a different world back then; less threatening. And parenting wasn't as hands-on…

And let's face it, Maman wasn't the most nurturing mother.

Then again, maybe she did me a favor.

Forced to deal with her daily childhood anxieties, Elsa eventually got over them. Had she been coddled, she might never have developed the strength that allowed her to survive her worst fears becoming reality in adulthood.

How ironic that Maman largely left Elsa to her own devices in the big, bad city, and nothing terrible ever happened. Yet Elsa herself—the ultra-vigilant parent—couldn't prevent the tragic loss of her child in their own bucolic suburban backyard.

“It's spooky here,” Renny whispers as they climb endless flights of wrought-iron-railed stairs. The elevators have been renovated, but they're out of the question for claustrophobic Renny.

“When I was your age, I thought so, too.”
Still do
—but it's probably not a good idea to admit it. Her goal is to make Renny feel safe—like they're on a fun adventure.

A far cry from Disney World, that's for sure.

A familiar unease steals over Elsa.

The vast stairwell is deserted, as it often seems to be, and their footsteps echo as they ascend toward the shadowy domed ceiling seventeen stories above. Once, it was probably a dazzling glass skylight, though nobody knows for sure. Presumably, it's a relic of
the Second World War, covered in blackout paint for almost seventy years.

At every floor, a wide balcony landing houses the main elevator banks, shut off from the rest of the building by closed doors.

When they reach Maman's floor, Elsa is thoroughly winded—thanks in part to having to carry her bag and Renny's, along with a shopping bag from the Fairway market across the street.

There's no way I could run down these halls the way I used to, even if my life depended on it.

She cringes at the thought, and forces herself to note that the wide corridors are much less foreboding now, thanks to new carpet, wallpaper, and paint.

Still, there are twists and turns, and plenty of niches along the walls that would make perfect hiding places if someone wanted to lurk here. Heart racing—and not just from the strenuous climb—she reminds herself that whoever sent those photographs of Renny can't possibly know they're here.

Not only that, but it would be impossible for a random person off the street to even get up here. If Elsa hadn't been recognized by both Ralph the doorman and Ozzy, the longtime security guard, she and Renny would never have gotten beyond the lobby.

Trying to sound cheerful as they reach Maman's door, she tells Renny, “This is it!”

Yet her voice sounds hollow even to her own ears, echoing through the deserted corridors, and Renny all but cowers at her side.

The sprawling apartment lies in a far-flung corner of a high floor, creating as private a residence as possible in an immense urban apartment building. Like many other residents, Maman bought and combined several apartments as their tenants vacated after the building
went condo. The original entrance doors remain intact along the hallway, but only one is in use. The others, their knobs removed, have become nothing more than recessed decorative panels.

It takes Elsa a few tries to get the key into the lock, all the while fighting the urge to grab Renny and flee.

Her malaise doesn't make sense, really. This is supposed to be a safe haven.

But what if…?

There you go again, being ridiculous. There's no way anyone could be lying in wait for you here. Absolutely no way
.

Though she's careful not to slam the door, the noise seems to echo loudly through the rooms. She half expects a French-accented voice to reprimand her, but of course, no one does. The place is deserted and has been for months, other than the cleaning service that comes in once a week.

She sets down their luggage and flips a light switch to illuminate the overhead crystal chandelier. “There, that's better, isn't it?”

“I guess.” Renny takes in the circular foyer with its seventeenth-century paintings, wall-sized gilt-framed mirror, and French Classical Baroque chairs that always seemed to Elsa as though they might as well have a velvet rope across the seats. “How come this room is round?”

“It's special. A lot of rooms in this building are round,” she tells Renny, who seems more suspicious than intrigued as they make their way across the room.

“It was so loud outside, and it's so quiet in here,” Renny whispers as their footsteps tap on the herringbone hardwoods. The only other sound is the hum of the refrigerator.

“That's because the walls in this building are three
feet thick,” Elsa tells her, repeating a bit of Ansonia lore she frequently heard as a child.

Maybe the measurement was exaggerated a bit, but the apartment is undeniably soundproof.

Evidence: Temperamental Maman's equally temperamental across-the-hall neighbor Lucia—a soprano at the Met ten blocks down Broadway—liked to practice her arias at the same hour Maman needed her afternoon beauty sleep. The dueling divas had their share of confrontations over the years, but never about noise.

“Can I have my snack now?”

“Sure. Come on. And you don't have to whisper.”

“Okay,” Renny whispers, then, with a faint smile, “I mean, okay. Why can't I see out that window?” She points to a large opaque pane in the wall of the hallway just beyond the foyer.

“Oh, that's actually an airshaft.” Remembering how her mother explained it to her when she was little, Elsa tells Renny, “It's like a vertical alley that comes all the way up through the middle of the building from the ground to the sky. On hot days, back before there was air conditioning, people would open these panels and let the fresh air in.”

“Can I see?”

“Sure…if it still works.” It's been years since Elsa opened the airshaft. Maman hasn't used it in decades, squeamishly convinced roaches would crawl in from other apartments.

Surprisingly, it takes little more than a tug to raise the window.

“It's like a tunnel,” Renny comments, standing on her tiptoes to peer into the shadowy column.

“Exactly. When I was your age, there weren't many kids in the building. I always wished I had a friend
living in one of the other apartments on the airshaft, so we could sneak back and forth along the ledges.”

“That would be dangerous! What if you fell all the way down?”

“Ouch!” Elsa says lightly, and closes the airshaft.

As they move on down the hall, Renny asks, “What's behind all those doors?”

“A bathroom and a bunch of closets.” This place has more storage than the Cavalons have had in any house they've ever lived in. Maman needs it, too, for storing half a century's couture and modeling portfolios.

Leading Renny to the kitchen, Elsa can't help but note the utter absence of oohs and aahs and ooh-la-las Maman would have expected if she herself were escorting a first-time guest into her home. Lacking any frame of reference, Renny can't possibly grasp the fabulousness of Maman's quarters in comparison to the traditional cookie-cutter Manhattan apartment.

At two thousand square feet, it feels more like a house, really, with its unique oval living room, ornate moldings, antique hardware, and turn-of-the-century cabinetry. Twelve-foot ceilings and tall French windows make it feel extra-spacious—very important for a small, claustrophobic houseguest. Beyond many of the windows are narrow Juliet balconies with lacy ironwork railings.

The kitchen is outfitted with professional-quality appliances, including a custom-designed Gaggenau fridge and a built-to-order La Cornue range. A collection of shiny Mauviel copper cookware hangs from an overhead rack, and the granite countertop holds a block of Michel Bras chef's knives—none of which, Elsa suspects, has ever been used.

What a waste of a great kitchen
.

She opens a cabinet and finds a juice glass. Baccarat, of course.

Behind her, Renny announces, “I don't like it here.”

“Why not?”

“I like regular square rooms.”

Elsa can't help but smile.

“I like home.”

Elsa's smile promptly fades. “I know you do. But…”

But home is supposed to be a haven, and ours has been violated.

“This place is too fancy, right?” she asks Renny, who shrugs.

Elsa herself isn't particularly fond of the elegant Louis XIV decor: velvet and damask upholstery and draperies, fringe and tassels galore, marble and gilded wood, scrollwork and marquetry…

Growing up in a showplace that rivaled the Palace of Versailles, Elsa used to dream of the kind of home that was comfortable and lived-in.

Now she has it, and she'll take it any day over this—aging Sears appliances and all.

I like home, too, Renny. I know you wish we were there right now, and so do I.

 

“…and the girls really want to stay on the Upper West Side”—Marin toys with the braided piping on a throw pillow—“but I'd almost prefer to start over in a new neighborhood.”

Lauren frowns. “You mean the Upper
East
Side, don't you?”

“Hmm?”

“You live on the Upper East Side, right?”

“Right.” Marin lets go of the pillow and picks up the mug of coffee she's been nursing. It's good coffee—Lauren ground fresh beans to make it—yet she's found herself forcing it down like bitter medicine.

“You said Upper
West
.”

She blinks and looks up to see Lauren watching her, looking concerned.

“Did I? I meant to say Upper East. I guess I'm distracted.”

She
guesses
? The truth is, all afternoon, she's been spacey, her mind a million miles away.

She shouldn't have come here.

She keeps thinking about what happened yesterday, with the rat, and the text message…

Maybe she should just come right out and tell Lauren about it. Maybe Lauren will convince her that it was just a prank, or a fluke, or a mistake.

That was nothing, Mrs. Quinn. Stay tuned
.

It doesn't sound like a mistake.

But kids can be cruel, and she knows Caroline's classmates have been giving her a hard time all year. There's no reason to think there's anything more to what happened than some stupid kids with too much time on their hands now that summer vacation is here.

She should go. She needs to get home, make sure the girls are okay.

Earlier, she called to check in on them, and of course, no one answered the home phone. Annie must have been on her cell, because it went straight to voice mail, and Caroline didn't pick up hers. No surprise there.

Groggy as she was when Marin left this morning, Caroline still managed to express resentment at having to spend the day at home with Annie.

They've probably been making each other miserable.

Yes, Marin definitely has to get back there.

Before she can make a move, there's a jangling of dog tags from Chauncey, curled at Lauren's feet. Head cocked, he looks expectantly toward the foyer.

A split second later, the front door opens.

Lauren glances at her watch. “That must be Lucy.”

“Oh…I should get going. I don't want to get stuck in rush hour traffic.”

Marin carefully sets her mug on a coaster and prepares to make a speedy exit, hoping Lauren doesn't point out that the bulk of the traffic will be coming
out
of the city, not headed into it.

“Mom? Whose car is that out front?” a female voice calls from the foyer.

Lauren's daughter arrives in the doorway a moment later, and it's clear from the look on her face that she immediately recognizes Marin.

“Lucy…” Lauren seems apprehensive. “This is Mrs. Quinn. She's…”

She's the woman whose husband had you kidnapped and nearly killed, and—

And why, oh why, did Marin come here today? This was such a stupid idea. Poor Lucy. Poor Lauren.

Poor me.

“She's a friend of mine,” Lauren concludes innocuously.

“Hi, Lucy.” Marin does her best to offer a friendly smile and holds her breath, unsure she can hold up if Lucy says something hurtful. Caroline certainly would, under the circumstances.

But Lucy smiles and holds out her hand to Marin. “It's nice to meet you.”

“It's nice to meet you, too,” Marin manages to say around the sudden lump in her throat, gratefully shaking Lucy's hand.