While My Pretty One Sleeps (32 page)

A moment later, he realized that the reason the handle was off was not a matter of loose or broken screws. Then he said aloud, “This is absolutely crazy!”

He tried to remember just exactly what had happened the night Sal had burned himself. . . .

•   •   •

On Monday morning, Kitty Conway awoke with a sense of anticipation she had not felt for a long time. Gamely refusing the temptation to grab another forty winks, she dressed in a jogging outfit and ran through Ridgewood from seven until eight o'clock.

The trees along the lovely wide avenues had that special reddish haze that signaled spring was coming. Only last week when she had run here, she'd noticed the budding, thought of Mike and remembered a fragment of a poem: “What can spring do; except renew; my need for you?”

Last week she had looked with nostalgia at the sight of the young husband down the block waving goodbye to his wife and toddlers as he backed his car out of the driveway. It seemed only yesterday that she was holding Michael and waving goodbye to Mike.

Yesterday and thirty years ago.

Today she smiled absently at her neighbors as she approached her house. She was due at the museum at noon. She'd get home at four, just in time to dress and start for New York. She debated about getting her hair done and decided she did a better job on it herself.

Myles Kearny.

Kitty fished in her pocket for the house key, let herself in, then exhaled a long sigh. It felt good to jog, but, oh Lord, it sure made her feel her fifty-eight years.

Impulsively she opened the hall closet and looked up at the hat Myles Kearny had “forgotten.” The moment she'd discovered it last night, she'd known that it was his excuse to see her again. She thought of the chapter in
Pavilion of Women
where the husband leaves his pipe as a sign he plans to return to his wife's quarters that night. Kitty grinned, saluted the hat and went upstairs to shower.

The day went quickly. At four-thirty, she debated between two outfits, a simply cut square-necked black wool that accentuated her slenderness and a two-piece blue-green print that played up her red hair. Go for it, she decided, and reached for the print.

At five past six, the concierge announced her arrival and gave her Myles's apartment number. At seven past six she was getting off the elevator and he was waiting in the hallway.

She knew immediately there was something wrong. His greeting was almost perfunctory. And yet she instinctively knew that the coolness was not directed at her.

Myles put his hand under her arm as they walked down the hall to his apartment. Inside, he took her coat and absentmindedly laid it
on a chair in the foyer. “Kitty,” he said, “bear with me. There's something I'm trying to dope out and it's important.”

They went into the den. Kitty glanced around the lovely room, admiring its comfort and warmth and intrinsic good taste. “Don't worry about me,” she said. “Get on with what you're doing.”

Myles went back to his desk. “The point,” he said, thinking aloud, “is that this handle didn't just come loose. It was
forced
off the pot. It was the first time Neeve used that coffeepot, so maybe it came that way, the way things are made these days. . . . But, for God's sake, wouldn't she have noticed the damn handle was hanging by a thread?”

Kitty knew Myles was not expecting an answer. She walked around the room quietly, admiring the fine paintings, the framed family pictures. She smiled unconsciously at the sight of the three scuba divers. Through the masks it was almost impossible to detect the faces, but it was undoubtedly Myles, his wife and a seven- or eight-year-old Neeve. She and Mike and Michael used to scuba-dive in Hawaii, too.

Kitty looked at Myles. He was holding the handle against the pot, his expression intent. She walked over to stand beside him. Her glance fell on the open cookbook. The pages were stained with coffee, but the sketches were accentuated rather than diminished by the discoloration. Kitty bent over and examined them closely, then reached for the magnifying glass next to them. Again she studied the sketches, concentrating on one of them. “How charming,” she said. “That's Neeve, of course. She must have been the first child to wear the Pacific Reef look. How chic can you get?”

She felt a hand snap around her wrist. “What did you say?” Myles
asked. “
What did you say
?”

•   •   •

When Neeve arrived at Estrazy's, her first stop in her search for the white gown, she found the showroom crowded. Buyers from Saks and Bonwit's and Bergdorf as well as others like her with small private shops were there. She quickly realized that everyone was discussing Gordon Steuber.

“You know, Neeve,” the buyer from Saks confided, “I'm stuck with a load of his sportswear. People are funny. You'd be amazed at how many got turned off Gucci and Nippon when they were convicted of sales-tax evasion. One of my best customers told me she won't patronize greedy felons.”

A sales clerk whispered to Neeve that her best friend, who was Gordon Steuber's secretary, was frantic. “Steuber's been good to her,” she confided, “but now he's in big trouble and my friend is afraid she could be, too. What should she do?”

“Tell the truth,” Neeve said, “and please warn her not to have misplaced loyalty to Gordon Steuber. He doesn't deserve it.”

The sales clerk managed to find three white gowns. One of them, Neeve was sure, would be perfect for Mrs. Poth's daughter. She ordered the one, took the other two on consignment.

It was five minutes past six when she arrived at Sal's building. The streets were becoming quiet. Between five and five-thirty the uproar of the Garment District ended abruptly. She went into the lobby and was surprised to see that the guard was not at his desk in the corner. Probably went to the john, she thought as she walked to
the bank of elevators. As usual after six o'clock, only one elevator was in service. The door was closing when she heard footsteps scurrying down the marble floor. Just before the door snapped shut and the elevator began to rise, she caught a glimpse of a gray sweatsuit and a punk-rock haircut. Eyes met.

The messenger. In a moment of total recall, Neeve remembered noticing him when she'd escorted Mrs. Poth to her car; noticing him when she'd left Islip Separates.

Her mouth suddenly dry, she pushed the twelfth-floor button, then all the buttons of the remaining nine upper floors. At the twelfth floor she got out and rushed down the corridor the few steps to Sal's place.

The door to Sal's showroom was open. She ran in and closed it behind her. The room was empty. “Sal!” she called, almost panicked. “Uncle Sal!”

He hurried from his private office. “Neeve, what's the matter?”

“Sal, I think someone is following me.” Neeve grasped his arm. “Lock the door, please.”

Sal stared at her. “Neeve, are you sure?”

“Yes. I've seen him three or four times.”

Those dark deep-set eyes, the sallow skin
. Neeve felt the color drain from her face. “Sal,” she whispered, “I know who it is. He works in the coffee shop.”

“Why would he be following you?”

“I don't know.” Neeve stared at Sal. “Unless Myles was right all along. Is it possible Nicky Sepetti wanted me dead?”

Sal opened the outside door. They could hear the whirring of the
elevator as it made its way down. “Neeve,” he said, “are you game to try something?”

Not knowing what to expect, Neeve nodded.

“I'm going to leave this door open. You and I can be talking. If someone is after you, it's better if he doesn't get scared off.”

“You want me to stand where someone can see me?”

“The hell I do. Get behind that mannequin. I'll be in back of the door. If someone comes in, I can get a drop on him. The point is to detain him, to find out who sent him.”

They stared at the indicator. The elevator was on the lobby floor. It began to rise.

Sal rushed into his office, opened his desk drawer, pulled out a gun and hurried back to her. “I've had a permit since I was robbed years ago,” he whispered. “
Neeve, get behind that mannequin
.”

As though in a dream, Neeve obeyed. The lights had been dimmed in the showroom, but, even so, she realized that the mannequins were dressed in Sal's new line. Dark fall colors, cranberry and deep blue, charcoal brown and midnight black. Pockets and scarves and belts blazoned with the brilliant colors of the Pacific Reef collection. Corals and reds and golds and aquas and emeralds and silvers and blues combined in microscopic versions of the delicate patterns as Sal had sketched them in the Aquarium so long ago. Accessories and accents, signatures of his great classic design.

She stared at the scarf that was brushing her face.
That pattern
. Sketches.
Mama, are you drawing my picture? Mama, that's not what I'm wearing. . . . Oh, bambola mia, it's just an idea of what could be so pretty . . .

Sketches—Renata's sketches drawn three months before she died, a year before Anthony della Salva stunned the fashion world with the Pacific Reef look. Only last week Sal had tried to destroy the book because of one of those sketches.

“Neeve, say something to me.” Sal's whisper pierced the room, an urgent command.

The door was ajar. From the corridor outside, Neeve heard the elevator stop. “I was thinking,” she said, trying to make her voice sound normal, “I love the way you've incorporated the Pacific Reef look in the fall line.”

The elevator door slid open. The faint sound of footsteps in the hall.

Sal's voice sounded genial. “I let everybody go early. They've all been breaking their necks getting ready for the show. I think this is my best collection in years.” With a reassuring smile in her direction, he stepped behind the partially open door. The dimmed lights sent his shadow looming against the far wall of the showroom, the wall that was decorated with a Pacific Reef mural.

Neeve stared at the wall, touched the scarf on the mannequin. She tried to answer, but words would not come.

The door opened slowly. She saw the silhouette of a hand, the muzzle of a gun. Cautiously Denny walked into the room, his eyes darting in search of them. As Neeve watched, Sal stepped noiselessly from behind the door. He raised the gun. “Denny,” he said softly.

As Denny spun around, Sal fired. The bullet went through Denny's forehead. Denny dropped the pistol and fell to the floor, without making a sound.

Stupefied, Neeve watched as Sal pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and, holding it, reached down and picked up Denny's gun.

“You shot him,” Neeve whispered. “You shot him in cold blood. You didn't have to do that! You never gave him a chance.”

“He would have killed you.” Sal dropped his own gun on the receptionist's desk. “I was only protecting you.” He began to walk toward her, Denny's pistol in his hand.

“You
knew
he was coming,” Neeve said. “You
knew
his name. You planned this.”

The warm, jovial mask that had been Sal's permanent expression was gone. His cheeks were puffy, and shiny with perspiration. The eyes that always seemed to twinkle were narrowed into slits that disappeared into the fleshiness of his face. His hand, still blistered and red, raised the gun and pointed it at her. Spatters of Denny's blood glistened on the shiny fabric of his suit jacket. On the carpet a widening pool of blood encircled his feet. “Of course I did,” he said. “The word is out that Steuber ordered you hit. What nobody knows is that
I'm
the one who started that word and
I'm
the one who gave the contract. I'll tell Myles that I managed to get your killer, but too late to save you. Don't worry, Neeve. I'll comfort Myles. I'm good at that.”

Neeve stood, rooted, unable to move, beyond fear. “My mother designed the Pacific Reef look,” she told him. “You stole it from her, didn't you? And somehow Ethel found out. You're the one who killed
her! You
dressed her, not Steuber!
You
knew which blouse belonged with the ensemble!”

Sal began to laugh, a mirthless chuckle that shook his body.
“Neeve,” he said, “you're a lot smarter than your father. That's why I have to get rid of you. You knew there was something wrong when Ethel didn't show up. You caught on that all her winter coats were still in her closet. I figured you would. When I saw a Pacific Reef sketch in the cookbook I knew I had to get rid of it any way I could, even if it meant burning my hand. You'd have made the connection, sooner or later. Myles wouldn't have recognized it blown up to billboard size. Ethel found out that my story about getting inspiration for the Pacific Reef look in the Chicago Aquarium was a lie. I told her I could explain it and went to her place. She was smart all right. She told me she knew I'd lied, and
why
I lied—that I'd stolen that design. And she was going to prove it.”

“Ethel saw the cookbook,” Neeve said numbly. “She copied one of the sketches into her appointment book.”

Sal smiled. “Was that how she made the connection? She didn't live long enough to tell me. If we had time, I'd show you the portfolio your mother gave me. The whole collection is there.”

This wasn't Uncle Sal. This wasn't her father's boyhood friend. This was a stranger who hated her, hated Myles. “Your father and Dev, treating me like I was a big joke from the time we were kids. Laughing at me. Your mother. High-class. Beautiful. Understanding fashion the way you only can when it's born in you. Wasting all that knowledge on a clod like your father who can't tell a housedress from a coronation robe. Renata always looked down her nose at me. She knew I didn't have it, the gift. But when she wanted advice about where to take her designs, guess who she came to!