The Silent Bride (27 page)

Louis sighed. "It's complicated. We didn't just leave him on Independence Avenue. We took him to the subway. I told him, van or subway—you can't walk to Brooklyn. He chose subway. I haven't seen him since." He grimaced at the lieutenant's purpling cheek but didn't ask how he got it.

"Why didn't you tell us this before?"

"We left the synagogue before three. He didn't know the area. He couldn't have gotten back in time anyway. Why complicate things for everyone irrelevant?" Louis argued. He patted his hair nervously. He was sorry, okay.

"Does Andrea Straka complicate things for everybody, too?" the Chinese said suddenly.

"Jesus." Louis stopped being sorry and took a deep breath. This was getting out of control. "I've never been on a subway in my life. I didn't have anything to do with Tovah's death. You now know everything I know. If you want to arrest me, arrest me. Otherwise, leave me alone. I have a wedding to do."

Thirty-four

I
t rained all Friday night, and it rained Saturday morning. A stranger sat in St. Patrick's, warm and dry at the long information table piled with pamphlets touting Catholicism in different languages. The long table, skirted with green felt, was set back far behind the front doors in the space before the pews began. A TV screen was mounted on a column nearby. Throughout the year different countries had their chance to disseminate at this coveted spot. Now it was the Philippines. Sometimes nuns in gray habits sat at the table with laywomen. Sometimes no nuns. Today there were none.

While a truck moved trees in and young men hurried around hanging baskets of flowers on the very first pews way down in the front, a nine o'clock Mass then a ten o'clock Mass played on the TV screen. At the end of each Mass the small congregation of celebrants who were close enough to each other offered the handshake of peace, and then they left. No one looked twice at the table by the doors where two people gossiped quietly, and a third clicked the beads of a rosary. No one noticed when the rosary went into a pocket, and the lone person got up to examine the chapels of each and every saint, the height of the railing, the darkness of the corners, pausing in front of even the confessionals as if considering whether or not to slip inside.

Whatever the weather, St. Patrick's attracted many different kinds of people. Except on high holidays or when the cardinal was present and politics raged over one issue or another, no one worried about them. On a rainy spring day with nothing political going on no one was fearful.

The rifle was in a carryall under the skirt that hid the legs of the table. No one had looked into it when it was brought inside. When the two women at the information table went out for a break, the rifle was assembled one-two-three. It had a short stock and barrel.

Once the barrel was raised there would be no way to hide it, as there had been in the Bronx. There was no enclosed space to slip into except one of the confessionals, or deep behind the railings in one of the saints' chapels. This was too far away and too uncertain to get off a good shot. Only the front pews way dowm in front were being used. Getting closer would be a problem. A shot from the side might hit others, especially if the guests rose for a better view of the bride, as they often did. More than likely someone else would get hit and the bride might be missed altogether.

Saturday morning on a second day of rain, St. Patrick's suddenly seemed all wrong. The side doors were locked. If Prudence were shot as she entered, the escape from one door would be blocked by her own body. Church people were keeping the public out of the other door. Without the public, there was no way to blend in with the crowd. There was no way to hide behind a column. All the signs were wrong; this was not the right place for killing even though Prudence was destined for a better place, like Tovah.

As the morning lengthened, it became clear that the cathedral would work only if all the pews were filled, if people were standing around the back. Many people. Now only a few people were there gawking at the trees and flowers, and they would have to leave before the wedding began. The killer's nerve faltered. The cathedral was too big, too empty. The rosary beads clicked, but no amount of prayers would fix this. Prudence could not be killed in St. Patrick's. She would have to live on a little while longer.

Thirty-five

E
xhausted from the stress of the long week and her boyfriend's ultimatum, April slept in on Saturday morning. She came downstairs at the impossibly late hour of ten-thirty and found Dim Sum waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs whining to go out. She opened the door, but when the diminutive poodle saw the sleeting rain she changed her mind. April had to nudge her out into the waterlogged backyard, then find a towel to pat her dry after she trotted back in shaking water everywhere and sneezing her disapproval.

No time to eat anything or even leave a note for the Dragon, April showered and dressed quickly. Her hair was still wet as she hurried into the city to meet Citing at the Formal Wear shop on Bowery. A thousand thoughts barraged her as her tires splashed through the rain. The primary one was relief that they had Tovah's killer. Yesterday afternoon they'd clocked two officers from the Five-oh slogging in the wet up the hill to Independence Avenue from Broadway. The time was tight, but there was no doubt that Ubu could have made it in time to slip in and shoot Tovah.

Primary thought two was that Ubu may have been up there. But proving he did it without a confession or a weapon would be another thing. April was glad that the killer wasn't Wendy or anyone involved with Tang, which would have made Ching nuts. She didn't dwell on Andrea Straka.

Her other primary thoughts centered on Ching: happiness for her, trepidation at having to perform at her wedding. Skinny Dragon's new defense maneuvers .. . The pouring rain and her thoughts didn't let up all the way across the BQE and the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan. April left the car in front of a fire hydrant on Bowery and dashed upstairs to the dress shop whose windows she'd been studying all her life.

Up on the second floor, above a huge lighting fixture store, Formal Wear was a veritable warehouse of bridal gowns, evening gowns, tuxedos, and traditional Chinese dresses, jackets, and pants. Every style and age was represented. Gray and heather and silver for the old, red and black and purple and green all shot with gold for the young. Ching was waiting for her.

"Hey, sister," she whooped, giving April a hug. "Thank you for coming. One week to go, can you believe it?"

April grinned and hugged her back. She gazed at Ching fondly. April's lifetime competition—Ching— the big brain with the chunky body, the glasses, and blunt haircut, was wearing contacts and had slimmed down quite a bit. And her face was beaming with delight.

"You look so different! I wouldn't even have recognized you," April cried.

"I'm wearing makeup," Ching confessed.

"I can see you are." April happened to be a big fan of makeup. "It's done wonders for you. Really."

Ching looked a little sheepish. Growing up she'd always been brilliant in school but awkward around the paintbox. And April had the looks. Now they were even—both smart, both beautiful.

"You only marry once, right? I had a makeover." She giggled. "Wait till you see my gown. It's going to be so perfect." She kissed her fingers Italian style. "Tang is having an angel embroidered in it for me; isn't that sweet?"

April nodded absently.

"You're late," an aged saleswoman grumbled in Chinese. "Very busy day. I expected you at ten." She pointed at the clock.

April saw that it was nearly eleven-thirty now. "Oh, my God, I'm sorry"

Ching made a face. "Don't worry; I told her eleven."

The woman went away. Ching hugged April again and didn't say a thing about April's hair, straight and still damp. As usual Ching shuddered when she was bumped by the gun holstered at April's waist, and April was thankful that she didn't probe the specifics of the case.

"Here it is." The ancient padded back. "This one's yours." She held up a see-though garment bag as if it contained solid gold.

April recognized it right away and shivered. The cheongsam Ching had ordered for her was a replica of one she and Ching had seen at a community center concert they'd gone to twenty years ago. The Chinese opera star wearing it had changed her dress four times. The dress in the bag, a horror of mismatched colors and patterns, had been the number-one dress. She and Ching had adored it. The dress was purple. Purple like a pope's robe, purple like a spring hyacinth, the purplest purple on the color chart. Woven into the solid-colored silk was a lavish pattern of peonies, but the cheongsam's high neck, bodice, and short sleeves were of a different silk, one printed with red and pink and white peonies on a field of green leaves. Purple piping around the red and pink married the two clashing fabrics. It was louder than any dress April would dream of wearing, garish beyond belief.

"Isn't it absolutely fabulous?" Ching crowed.

"You bet," April said.

"I could never wear anything like that," Ching murmured.

Neither could I,
April thought as she obediently trotted into a dressing room to try it on.
How can I get out of this?
she thought.

"Can't see like this. Why didn't you bring your shoes?" the grandmother scolded in Chinese when April clunked back in her work shoes and climbed up on the fitting pedestal.

"I don't have them yet," April admitted. For sure she didn't have
any
shoes that would go with this! The dress was formfitting, very constricting, but now very much back in fashion. She hadn't worn a cheongsam in a long time, and never for Mike. Critically, she examined herself in the mirror.

"Just right!" Ching squealed. "Look at her, perfect."

April took a deep breath and lifted her chin. She looked surprisingly good in their little-girl fantasy of ultimate elegance. It was like Cinderella, Chinese style. Ching's choosing this dress sent a strong message April couldn't ignore. Even on her special day, Ching wanted April as visible as she and in a starring role beside her. How many real sisters were that generous?

"Ching, you're too much. Thank you." April couldn't help grinning at herself as she twirled around on the pedestal, high off the ground for fitting long evening gowns. She looked tall and slender in the dress, almost like a movie star. Small waist, small but well-rounded bottom. Long neck. Good legs. She had to admit it. She looked good. She lifted her eyebrows at herself as she kicked the slit open. It was high; every step would show her whole leg. Everyone would look. Generous, generous Ching. How could she repay? April shook her head, tearing up just a little. It had been an emodonal week.

"Beautiful." Even the grumbling, overworked women in the shop admired her as she went to change.

"Ching, thank you for the dress, thank you so much. Got to go to work." In seconds April reappeared in her slacks and jacket, her red blouse for luck. She grabbed the precious package that was all ready to go.

"Same old, same old. No time for lunch," Ching complained, but for once her reproach had no bite.

Thirty-six

A
t noon, the rain still hammered down. The wind had kicked up several notches in the last several hours, driving hard from the north. It slammed water sideways at the long red canopy that covered a slash of sidewalk from Fifth Avenue and traveled all the way up the steps to the very doors of St. Patrick's. The canopy did not fully protect Prudence Hay's party-dressed guests as a steady stream of them emerged from limos starting at eleven-thirty.

Under a poncho that was gray as the stone of the cathedral, Tovah's killer saw a mess. Umbrellas moving this way and that, like in a movie, tilted against the wind. Across the street a sparse crowd huddled out of the rain under the awning at Saks Fifth Avenue. The disparate group, unsettled by the weather, had stopped to watch the parade of fancy people fighting their unruly umbrellas as they scurried to get out of the wet. It was a mess. In a big black slicker a uniformed cop stood on the corner of Fifty-first Street and Fifth. Just stood there doing nothing. Another was on the corner of Fiftieth Street. Both like statues getting pissed on.

The rain was bad luck for Prudence. She would get wet when she got out of her limousine. Her expensive veil would blow off her head. Her white-beaded pumps would get spattered. Nothing could stop it. The rain was bad luck for Prudence, but why not good luck for a killer? The picture was already spoiled; why wait for later?