While My Pretty One Sleeps (8 page)

The dusty, crowded apartment suddenly made Neeve feel claustrophobic. She wanted out of this place. “Let's get these clothes put away.”

If Douglas Brown had slept on the couch the first night, it was clear he had been using Ethel's bedroom since then. There was an ashtray full of cigarettes on the night table. Ethel didn't smoke. The antique-white provincial furniture was, like everything else in the apartment, expensive but lost in clutter. Perfumes and a tarnished silver brush, comb and mirror set were scattered on the dresser. Ethel had notes to herself jammed into the large gold-framed mirror. Several men's suits, sports jackets and slacks were draped over a rose damask chaise longue. A man's suitcase was on the floor, shoved under the chaise.

“Even he didn't have the nerve to disturb Ethel's closet,” Neeve observed. The back wall of the fairly large bedroom consisted of an elaborate closet that ran the length of the room. Four years ago when Ethel first asked Neeve to go through her closet, Neeve had told her that it was no wonder she never could put any outfits together. She needed more space. Three weeks later Ethel had invited Neeve back. She had led her to the bedroom and proudly displayed her new acquisition, a custom-built closet that had cost her ten thousand dollars. It had short poles for blouses, high poles for evening gowns. It was sectioned off so that coats hung in one area, suits in another, daytime dresses in another. There were shelves for sweaters and purses; racks for shoes; a jewelry unit with brass extensions shaped like branches of a tree, to hold necklaces and bracelets. A pair of ghoulishly real plaster hands were upraised as though in prayer,
the fingers separated.

Ethel had pointed to them. “Don't they look as though they could strangle you?” she'd asked gleefully. “They're for rings. I told the guy from the closet place that I keep everything in marked boxes, but he said I should have this anyhow. Someday I'd be sorry if I didn't take it, he told me.”

In contrast to the rest of the apartment, the closet was exquisitely neat. The clothes were hung precisely on the satin hangers. Zippers were fastened up to the top. Jackets were buttoned. “Ever since you started dressing her, people keep commenting on Ethel's clothes,” Tse-Tse observed. “Ethel loves it.” On the inside of the doors, Ethel had pasted the lists Neeve had given her, which accessories to wear with which outfits.

“I went through everything with Ethel last month,” Neeve murmured. “We made room for the new stuff.” She laid the clothes on the bed and began to peel the plastic bags from them. “Well, I'll just do what I'd have done if she were standing here. Get this load in place and tack up the list.”

As she sorted and hung the new garments, she skimmed the contents of the closet. Ethel's sable coat. Her stone marten jacket. The red cashmere coachman coat. The Burberry. The herringbone cape. The white wraparound with caracul collar. The belted leather. Next came the suits. The Donna Karans, the Beenes, the Ultrasuedes, the—Neeve paused, the hangers with the two new suits still in her hand.

“Wait a minute,” she said. She peered up at the top shelf. She knew that Ethel's Vuitton luggage consisted of four matching pieces in a tapestry motif. They were a garment-bag carryall with
zippered pockets, a carry-on oversized tote, a large and a medium-sized suitcase. The garment bag, the tote and one suitcase were missing. “Good old Ethel,” Neeve said as she hung the new suits in the closet. “She did take off. That beige ensemble with the mink collar is gone.” She began poking through the racks. The white wool suit, the green knit, the black-and-white print. “So help me, she just packed up and took off. I swear I could choke her myself.” She pushed her hair back from her forehead. “Look,” she said, pointing at the list on the door and then the bare spots on the shelves. “She took everything she needed to get all gussied up. I guess the weather was so lousy, she decided she didn't need light spring things. Well, wherever she is, I hope it hits ninety degrees.
Che noiosa spera che muore di caldo
—”

“Easy, Neeve,” Tse-Tse said. “Whenever you start lapsing into Italian, you're getting mad.”

Neeve shrugged. “The blazes with it. I'll send my bill to her accountant. At least
he
has his head screwed on tight. He doesn't forget to pay on time.” She looked at Tse-Tse. “What about
you
? Were you counting on getting paid today?”

Tse-Tse shook her head. “Last time she paid me in advance. I'm okay.”

•   •   •

At the shop, Neeve related to Betty what had happened.

“You should charge her your cab fare and for personal-shopper assistance,” Betty said. “That woman is the limit.”

At noon when Neeve spoke to Myles, she told him what had
happened. “And I was about to have you check the accident reports,” she said.

“Listen, if a train saw that woman in its path, it would jump the track to duck her,” Myles replied.

But, for some reason, Neeve's irritation did not last. Instead, the nagging, persistent feeling that something was wrong about Ethel's sudden departure stayed with her. It accompanied her when she closed up at six-thirty and rushed to the cocktail party in the St. Regis given by
Women's Wear Daily
. In the glitter of the fashionably dressed crowd, she spotted Toni Mendell, the elegant editor in chief of
Contemporary Woman
, and hurried over to her.

“Do you know how long Ethel will be gone?” she managed to ask over the din.

“I'm surprised she isn't here,” Toni told her. “She said she was coming, but we all know Ethel.”

“When is her fashion article due?”

“She turned it in Thursday morning. I had to have the lawyers go over it to make sure we don't get sued. They made us cut out a few things, but it's still wonderful. You heard about the big contract she has with Givvons and Marks?”

“No.”

A waiter offered canapés, smoked salmon and caviar on toast points. Neeve helped herself to one. Toni mournfully shook her head. “Now that waists are back in, I can't afford even an olive.” Toni was a size six. “Anyhow, the article is about the great looks of the last fifty years and the designers behind them. Let's face it, the subject has been done and done, but you know Ethel.
She makes everything gossipy and fun. Then two weeks ago she got terribly mysterious. I gather the next day she charged into Jack Campbell's office and talked him into a contract for a book on fashion with a six-figure advance. She's probably holed up somewhere writing it.”

“Darling, you look divine!” The voice came from somewhere behind Neeve.

Toni's smile revealed every one of her faultlessly capped teeth. “Carmen, I've left a dozen messages for you. Where have you been hiding yourself?”

Neeve began to edge away, but Toni stopped her. “Neeve, Jack Campbell just came in. He's that tall guy in the gray suit. Maybe he knows where you can reach Ethel.”

By the time Neeve had made her way across the room, Jack Campbell was already surrounded. She waited, listening to the congratulations he was accepting. From the gist of the conversation, she gathered that he had just been made president and publisher of Givvons and Marks, that he had bought an apartment on East Fifty-second Street, and that he was sure he'd thoroughly enjoy living in New York.

She judged him to be in his late thirties, young for the job. His hair was dark brown and cut short. She suspected that if longer, it would have been quite curly. His body had the lean, taut look of a runner. His face was thin; his eyes were the same dark brown as his hair. His smile seemed genuine. It caused small crinkles to form at the corner of his eyes. She liked the way he bent his head forward to listen to the elderly editor who was speaking to him and then turned to someone else without
seeming abrupt.

A real art, Neeve thought, the kind of thing politicians did naturally, but not many businessmen.

It was possible to keep observing him without being obvious. What was there about Jack Campbell that seemed familiar? Something. She'd met him before. But where?

A waiter passed and she accepted another glass of wine. Her second and last, but at least sipping it made her look busy.

“It's Neeve, isn't it?”

In the moment she'd turned her back to him, Jack Campbell had come over to her. He introduced himself. “Chicago, six years ago. You were on your way back from skiing and I'd been on a sales trip. We started talking five minutes before the plane landed. You were all excited about opening a dress shop. How did it work out?”

“Fine.” Neeve vaguely remembered the exchange. She'd bolted out of the plane to make her connecting flight. Jobs. That was it. “Weren't you just starting work for a new publisher?”

“Yes.”

“Obviously, it was a good move.”

“Jack, there are some people I'd like you to meet.” The editor in chief of
W
was plucking his sleeve.

“I don't want to keep you,” Neeve said quickly. “But just one question. I understand Ethel Lambston is writing a book for you. Do you know where I can reach her?”

“I have her home number. Will that help?”

“Thanks, but I have it, too.” Neeve lifted her hand in a quick, self-deprecating gesture. “I mustn't hold you up.”

She turned and slipped through the crowd, suddenly weary of the babble of voices and conscious that it had been a long day.

The usual cluster of people waiting for cabs crowded the sidewalk in front of the St. Regis. Neeve shrugged, walked to Fifth Avenue and started uptown. It was a pleasant enough evening. Maybe she'd cut through the park. A walk home would clear her head. But at Central Park South a cab deposited a fare directly in front of her. She hesitated, then held the door and got in. The idea of walking another mile in high heels was suddenly distinctly unattractive.

She did not see the frustrated expression on Denny's face. He had waited patiently outside the St. Regis and followed her up Fifth Avenue. When she began to head for the park he thought that his opportunity was at hand.

•   •   •

At two o'clock that morning, Neeve awakened from a sound sleep. She had been dreaming. She was standing in front of Ethel's closet, making a list.

A list.

“I hope she melts, wherever she is.”

That was it. Coats. The sable. The jacket. The cape. The Burberry. The wraparound. The coachman. They were all there.

Ethel had turned in her article on Thursday. No one had seen her on Friday. Both days had been windy and miserably cold. There'd been a snowstorm on Friday. But every one of Ethel's winter coats was still in place, in her closet. . . .

•   •   •

Nicky Sepetti shivered in the cable-knit cardigan his wife had made for him the year he went to prison. It still fit at the shoulders, but now it hung loosely over his middle. He'd lost thirty pounds in prison.

It was only a block from his home to the boardwalk. Shaking his head impatiently at his wife's fussing—“Put on a scarf, Nicky, you've forgotten how strong the wind is from the ocean”—he pushed open the front door and closed it behind him. The tang of the salty air tickled his nostrils, and he breathed it appreciatively. When he was a kid growing up in Brooklyn, his mother used to take him down on the bus for a swim at Rockaway Beach. Thirty years ago he'd bought the house in Belle Harbor for a summer place for Marie and the kids. She'd moved here for good after his sentencing.

Seventeen years that ended last Friday! His first deep breath outside prison walls brought on waves of chest pain. “Avoid the cold,” the doctors had cautioned him.

Marie had had a big dinner cooked, a sign, “Welcome Home, Nicky.” He'd been so bushed that halfway through the meal he'd gone to bed. The kids had phoned, Nick Junior and Tessa. “Poppa, we love you,” they said.

He hadn't let them visit him in prison. Tessa was just starting college when he went to jail. Now she was thirty-five, had two kids, lived in Arizona. Her husband called her Theresa. Nick Junior had changed his name to Damiano. That was Marie's maiden name. Nicholas Damiano, a CPA who lived in Connecticut.

“Don't come now,” Nicky cautioned them. “Wait till the press isn't hanging around.”

All weekend, he and Marie stayed in the house, two silent strangers, while the television cameras waited for him to come out.

But this morning they'd been gone. Stale news. That's all he was. A sick ex-con. Nicky breathed in the salt air and felt it fill his lungs.

A baldheaded guy in one of those crazy sweatsuits was jogging toward him, stopped. “Great to see you, Mr. Sepetti. You're looking great.”

Nicky frowned. He didn't want to listen to that stuff. He
knew
how he looked. After he had showered, only half an hour ago, he'd studied himself fully and deliberately in the mirror on the bathroom door. Hair completely gone on top, but still thick around the fringes. When he started serving time, it had been black shot with silver: pepper and salt, the barber used to say. Now what was left of it was a faded gray or a dirty white, take your choice. The rest of the self-examination hadn't cheered him any. Protruding eyes that had always annoyed him, even when he was a pretty good-looking younger guy. Now they stuck out like marbles. A faint scar on his cheek that flamed against the pallor of his skin. The weight loss hadn't made him trim. Instead he looked saggy, like a pillow that had lost half its feathers. A man pushing sixty. He'd been forty-two when he went to jail.

“Yeah, I look great,” he said. “Thanks.” He knew that the
guy who was blocking the sidewalk, beaming at him with a nervous, big-toothed smile, lived two or three houses up, but he couldn't remember his name.

He must have sounded annoyed. The jogger looked uncomfortable. “Anyhow. Glad you're back.” His smile was forced now. “Terrific day, isn't it? Pretty cool, but you can tell spring is here.”