While My Pretty One Sleeps (10 page)

Neeve suddenly felt foolish. “That's why you're the cop and I run a dress shop,” she said.

But by the time she had showered and dressed, in a boxy cocoa-brown cashmere jacket with bracelet sleeves and turned-back cuffs and a softly gathered black wool midcalf skirt, she had located the fallacy in Myles's thinking. Long ago the Coke hadn't been apple juice, and right now she'd stake everything she had that Ethel hadn't purchased a coat from anyone else.

•   •   •

On Wednesday morning, Douglas Brown awakened early and began to expand his domination over Ethel's apartment. It had been a pleasant surprise on returning from work last night to find it sparkling clean and as reasonably tidy as any human being could make it, given Ethel's massive piles of papers. He'd
found some frozen meals in the freezer, selected a lasagna and sipped a cold beer while it heated. Ethel's television set was one of the new massive forty-inch units, and he'd set up a tray in the living room, eating while he watched.

Now, from the luxury of her silk-sheeted four-poster bed, he eyed the contents of the bedroom. His suitcase was still on the chaise, his suits draped over the back on hangers. Screw it. It wouldn't be smart to start using that precious closet of hers, but no reason he couldn't settle into the other one.

The front closet was clearly a catchall. He managed to arrange the photo albums and stacks of catalogues and piles of magazines so that he could use the clothes pole for his suits.

While coffee perked, he showered, appreciating the sparkling white tile, the fact that Ethel's rubble of perfume bottles and lotions was now neatly arranged on the glass tray to the right of the door. Even the towels were folded in the bathroom linen closet. That thought brought on a frown. The money. Had that Swedish kid who cleaned for Ethel found the money?

The thought made Doug jump from the shower, rub his lean body vigorously, wrap the towel around his middle and rush to the living room. He'd left a single hundred-dollar bill under the carpet near the wing chair. It was still there. So either the Swedish kid was honest or she hadn't noticed it.

Ethel was such a dope, he reflected. When that check came in every month from her ex, she had it cashed into one-hundred-dollar bills. “My mad money,” she told Doug. That was the money she used when she took him out to dinner in an expensive restaurant. “They're eating beans and we're dining on
caviar,” she'd say. “Sometimes I go through it all in a month. Sometimes it piles up. Every so often I look around and send the leftover bucks to my accountant toward clothes. Restaurants and clothes. That's what the stupid worm has kept me in all these years.”

Doug had laughed with her, clicking glasses as they toasted Seamus the worm. But that night he'd realized that Ethel never kept track of how much cash she had hidden around and so would never miss a couple of hundred bucks a month. Which was what he'd helped himself to these last two years. A couple of times she'd half suspected, but the minute she said anything he'd acted indignant, and she'd always backed right off. “If you'd just write down when you spend that money, you'd
see
where it goes,” he'd shouted.

“I'm sorry, Doug,” Ethel had apologized. “You know me. I get a bee in my bonnet and start shooting off my mouth.”

He blotted out the memory of that last conversation when she'd demanded that he run an errand for her on Friday and told him not to expect a tip. “I took your advice,” she said, “and kept track of what I spent.”

He'd rushed over here, sure of his ability to sweet-talk her, knowing that if she dumped him she'd have nobody she could order around. . . .

When the coffee was ready, Doug poured a cup, went back into the bedroom and dressed. As he knotted his tie, he surveyed himself critically in the mirror. He looked good. The facials he'd started having with the money he pilfered from Ethel had cleared up his skin. He'd also found a decent barber. The
two suits he'd bought recently fitted him the way clothes were supposed to fit. The new receptionist at Cosmic had big eyes for him. He had let her know that he was only doing this crummy desk job because he was writing a play. She knew Ethel's name. “And you're a writer, too,” she'd breathed in awe. He wouldn't mind bringing Linda here. But he had to be careful, for a while at least. . . .

Over a second cup of coffee, Doug methodically went through the papers in Ethel's desk. There was one cardboard expansion folder marked “Important.” As he flipped through it, his face drained of color. That old windbag Ethel had blue-chip stocks! She had property in Florida! She had a million-dollar insurance policy!

There was a copy of her will in the last section of the folder. He couldn't believe his eyes when he read it.

Everything. Every single dime she had had been left to him. And she was worth a bundle.

He'd be late for work, but it didn't matter. Doug restored his clothes to the back of the chaise, made the bed carefully, got rid of the ashtray, folded a quilt, a pillow and sheets on the couch to suggest he'd slept there, and wrote a note: “Dear Aunt Ethel. Guess you're on one of your unexpected trips. Knew you wouldn't mind if I continue to bunk on the couch until my new place is ready. Hope you've been having fun. Your loving nephew, Doug.”

And that establishes the nature of our relationship, he thought as he saluted Ethel's picture on the wall by the front door of the apartment.
At three o'clock on Wednesday afternoon, Neeve left a message at Tse-Tse's answering service. An hour later, Tse-Tse phoned. “Neeve, we just had a dress rehearsal. I think the play is great,” she exulted. “All I do is pass the turkey and say, ‘Yah,' but you never know. Joseph Papp might be in the audience.”

“You'll be a star yet,” Neeve said, meaning it. “I can't wait to brag ‘I knew her when.' Tse-Tse, I have to get back into Ethel's apartment. Do you still have her key?”

“Nobody's heard from her?” Tse-Tse's voice lost its lilt. “Neeve, there's something weird going on. That nutty nephew of hers. He's sleeping in her bed and smoking in her room. Either he doesn't expect her back or he doesn't care if she tosses him out on his ear.”

Neeve stood up. Suddenly she felt cramped behind her desk, and the samples of gowns and purses and jewelry and shoes strewn about her office seemed terribly unimportant. She'd changed to a two-piece dress from one of her newest designers. It was a pale-gray wool with a silver belt that rested on her hips. The tulip skirt barely skimmed her knees. A silk scarf in tones of gray, silver and peach was knotted at her neck. Two customers had ordered the outfit when they saw her wearing it on the sales floor.

“Tse-Tse,” she asked, “would it be possible for you to go to Ethel's apartment again tomorrow morning? If she's there, fine. Admit you were worried about her. If the nephew is around, could you say that Ethel wanted you to do some extra work, clean out the kitchen cabinets or whatever?”

“Sure,” Tse-Tse agreed. “I'd love to. This is off-off-Broadway,
don't forget. No salary, just prestige. But I have to tell you, Ethel isn't worried about the state of her kitchen cabinets.”

“If she turns up and doesn't want to pay you, I will,” Neeve said. “I want to go with you. I know she has an appointment book in her desk. I'd just like to have some kind of idea about what plans she may have made before she disappeared.”

They agreed to meet at eight-thirty the next morning in the lobby. At closing time, Neeve turned the lock on the Madison Avenue entrance to the store. She went back into her office for a quiet time over desk work. At seven she phoned the Cardinal's residence on Madison Avenue and was put through to Bishop Devin Stanton.

“I got your message,” he told her. “I'll be delighted to come up to dinner tomorrow night, Neeve. Sal's coming? Good. The Three Musketeers from the Bronx don't get together enough these days. Haven't seen Sal since Christmas. Has he gotten married again, by any chance?”

Just before he said goodbye the Bishop reminded Neeve that his favorite dish was her pasta al pesto. “The only one who could make it better was your mother, God rest her,” he said gently.

Devin Stanton did not usually refer to Renata in a casual phone call. Neeve had a sudden suspicion that he'd been chatting with Myles about Nicky Sepetti's release. He rang off before she could pin him down about that. You'll get your pesto, Uncle Dev, she thought—but you'll also get a flea in your ear. I can't have Myles hovering over me for the rest of my life.

Just before she left, she phoned Sal's apartment. As usual, he was in bubbling good humor. “Of course I haven't forgotten
tomorrow night. What are you having? I'll bring the wine. Your father only thinks he knows about wine.”

Laughing with him, Neeve replaced the receiver, turned off the lights and went outside. The capricious April weather had turned cool again, but even so she felt the absolute need for a long walk. To appease Myles, she hadn't jogged in nearly a week, and her entire body felt stiff.

She walked rapidly from Madison to Fifth Avenue and decided to cut through the park at Seventy-ninth Street. She always tried to avoid the area behind the museum where Renata's body had been found.

Madison Avenue had still been busy with cars and pedestrians. On Fifth, the taxis and limousines and shiny town cars whizzed by quickly, but on the west side of the street, bordering the park, there were few people. Tossing her head as she approached Seventy-ninth Street, Neeve refused to be deterred.

She was just turning into the park when a squad car pulled up. “Miss Kearny.” A smiling sergeant rolled down the window. “How's the Commissioner doing?”

She recognized the sergeant. At one point he had been Myles's driver. She went over to chat with him.

•   •   •

A few paces behind her, Denny stopped abruptly. He was wearing a long, nondescript overcoat with the collar turned up and a stocking cap. His face was almost concealed. Even so he could feel the eyes of the cop at the passenger window of the squad car boring into him. Cops had long memories about faces, could recognize ones they knew even from glimpses of their profiles.
Denny knew that. Now he resumed walking, ignoring Neeve, ignoring the cops, but he could still feel eyes following him. There was a bus stand directly ahead. As a bus pulled up, he joined the cluster of waiting people and got on it. When he paid his fare, he could feel the perspiration forming on his forehead. Another second and that cop might have recognized him.

Sullenly Denny took a seat. This job was worth more than he was being paid. When Neeve Kearny went down, forty thousand New York cops would be on a manhunt.

•   •   •

As Neeve entered the park, she wondered whether it was just coincidence that Sergeant Collins had happened to spot her. Or, she speculated as she walked rapidly along the path, has Myles got New York's finest playing guardian angel to me?

There were plentiful joggers, few bicyclers, some pedestrians, a tragic number of homeless resting under layers of newspapers or ragged blankets. They could die there and no one would notice, Neeve thought as her soft Italian boots moved soundlessly along the paths. To her annoyance she found herself glancing over her shoulder. In her teens she had gone to the library and looked up the pictures in the tabloids of her mother's body. Now, as she hurried with increasingly rapid steps, she had the eerie feeling that she was seeing the pictures again. But this time it was her face, not Renata's, that covered the front page of the
Daily News
above the caption “Murdered.”

•   •   •

Kitty Conway had joined the riding class at Morrison State Park
for only one reason. She needed to fill time. She was a pretty woman of fifty-eight, with strawberry blonde hair and gray eyes that were enhanced by the fine lines that edged and framed them. There was a time those eyes had always seemed to dance with an amused and impish glow. When she turned fifty, Kitty had protested to Michael, “How come I still feel twenty-two?”

“Because you
are
twenty-two.”

Michael had been gone for nearly three years. As Kitty gingerly hoisted herself up on the chestnut mare, she thought of all the activities she'd become involved in during these three years. She now had a real-estate license and was a pretty darn good saleswoman. She'd redecorated the house in Ridgewood, New Jersey, which she and Michael had bought only the year before she lost him. She was active in the Literacy Volunteers. She volunteered one day a week at the museum. She'd made two trips to Japan, where Mike Junior, her only child, a career army officer, was stationed, and had delighted in spending time with her half-Japanese granddaughter. She'd also resumed piano lessons without enthusiasm. Twice a month she drove disabled patients to doctor appointments, and now the latest activity was horseback riding. But no matter what she did, no matter how many friends she enjoyed, she was always haunted by the feeling of aloneness. Even now, as she gamely fell in with the dozen other student riders behind the instructor, she found only profound sadness in observing the aura around the trees, the reddish glow that was a promise of spring. “Oh, Michael,” she whispered, “I wish it would get better. I'm really trying.”

“How are you making out, Kitty?” the instructor yelled.

“Fine,” she shouted.

“If you want to be fine, keep your reins short. Show her you're boss. And keep those heels down.”

“Gotcha.” Go to hell, Kitty thought. This damn nag is the worst of the lot. I was supposed to have Charley, but of course you assigned him to that sexy-looking new girl.

It was a steep climb up the trail. Her horse stopped to eat every piece of green along the way. One by one, the others in the group passed her. She didn't want to get separated from them. “Come on, damn you,” she murmured. She kicked her heels against the horse's flanks.