Dead by Any Other Name (14 page)

thirty-five

I headed right over
to Collier Denton's place. He answered the door wearing that same dressing gown, took one look at me, and said, “What do
you
want?”

“Answers from
you
.”

I showed him a picture of Graham digging on Goat Island. His coloring grew even more sepulchral, but he came back with, “That picture means nothing to me.”

“I wonder if it would mean something to the police?”

There was a long pause and then he exhaled with a deep sigh, the fight seeming to leak out of him, at least momentarily.

“What do you want?”

“I want to know who killed Natasha Wolfson.”

He looked over at Bumpland, his eyes filled with a mix of suspicion, rage, and longing. Then he turned and walked into his house, leaving the door open. I followed through the half-furnished rooms and into his study. He sat in his wing chair—surrounded by the detritus and essentials of his life. I remained standing.

“You could at least have brought a bottle of champagne,” he said, like a petulant child.

“I'll make you a deal—you level with me, I'll buy you the bubbly.”

“Veuve?”

“Sure.”

“You're smart.”

“Dogged maybe.”

“Pavel is over there right now, isn't he?”

I wanted to play these characters off of each other, get each one suspicious of the other, thinking I knew more than I actually did.

“Yes, he is. He and Octavia are planning their wedding.”

A little involuntary cry escaped him. It was almost touching.
Then his mouth curled in disgust. “The little shit. I
made
him. …
Do you want to know the worst part?”

I nodded.

“I still want him back. More than anything in the world. Believe it or not, my blackened heart can still love.”

I didn't believe it.

“Pavel told me about the drugs.”

He waved a hand in dismissal, his sleeve rode up, revealing that ill-concealed burn scar on his forearm, “That was a
good
deed. He told me she was having trouble sleeping, so I sent along an oxy. Arrest me.”

“Oxy and Vicodin and Adderall and Xanax and Ritalin.”

“One thing led to another.”

“You wanted her dead.”

“And I got my wish.”

“Where did you get the drugs?”

He seemed taken aback, but just for a blink, and then smiled slyly, “I have my sources. At my age, you know, one
accumulates
things. Including obliging doctors who understand how
trying
old age can be.”

I pulled up one of the sex photos. “Why did you take this?”

He looked mildly shocked for a moment. “Those were for my personal pleasure.”

“That's pretty sick.”

“I am what I am.”

“A murderer?”

He laughed. “Only in my dreams.”

“Is there arson in your dreams?”

His mouth dropped open and he tipped back in his chair as if pushed by an invisible hand, but recovered in a breath, “Have you taken leave of your senses?”

“That scar on your arm … Ian Stock dies in a tragic fire. You're hired to replace him.”

“That was all in another lifetime. Ian was a
dear
friend of mine, a fearful alcoholic, his death was caused by an errant Winston.” His confidence restored, he grew cavalier, “As for this scar,
never
try to make banana flambé after four martinis. Now
that
was a memorable dinner party.” He laughed, a little too loudly.

Graham walked into the room wearing nothing but a jockstrap and carrying a can of beer. He had a muscular body, one that looked like it had been earned in hard time, not the gym. And the tattoos that spread across his arms and torso had that primitive done-in-prison look.

“Not now, darling, I've got company.”

“W'ever,” he mumbled.

“Wait a second.” I showed him the picture on Goat Island. “Yo
u take a nice picture.”

He actually smiled and said, “Eh, thanks.” Then it sunk in. “That was you?”

I nodded.

His jaw set, his black eyes turned to hard coal, he reached for the camera, I stepped back.

“There are other copies, so cool it.”

He looked over at Denton, made fists, bounced on his heels.

“She wins, I'm afraid.”

“I want every stolen artifact returned. Drop them off at the State Police Barracks on 209, attention of Detective Chevrona Williams. Got that?”

Denton nodded wearily. His none-too-bright thug-du-jour still looked like he wanted to take me out.

“We'll talk,” I said, turning to leave.

“Wait. I leveled with you, now where's my Veuve?”

“You get that when I get the
whole
truth.”

It was a bluff but, hey, champagne ain't cheap.

thirty-six

It was later that
evening, and I was helping Abba get ready for the Clark Van Wyck fundraiser. We were in an open-sided tent on the grounds of Opus 40, which is one of the crown jewels of the Hudson Valley. Set a few miles outside Sawyerville, it's an
amazing
six-acre outdoor sculpture made entirely of native bluestone, with pools, walkways, ramps, all centered around a central monolith. The site had originally been a quarry and sculptor Harvey Fite built the whole shebang without mortar, using old quarrymen tools and techniques. It was his passion and lifework, and he dubbed it Opus 40 because he figured it would take forty years to finish. The place has a sad and ironic coda: in 1976, in year thirty-seven of forty, Fite was killed in an accident as he worked on the project.

It was a gorgeous evening, warm and dry, and in the distance the Catskills rose up from the valley. The Van Wyck campaign was expecting about two hundred people so Abba had hired some local kids to help out. It wasn't a sit-down, so she was serving hors d'oeuvrey things like individual quiches, bacon-wrapped figs, various small kabobs. As usual, just about all the food was local. A jazz trio was setting up, and a couple of campaign aides were bustling about tacking up “Building A
New
New York” banners.

The guests were going to start arriving in about forty-five minutes and I was putting out platters on a long table. A tall, fit woman in her late thirties strode into the tent—no make-up, great bone structure, wearing elegant slacks, a drapey silk blouse, and a narrow belt. She radiated money, intelligence, drive, and looked like she spent half her life in vigorous athletic pursuits and the other half making the rest of us feel inadequate about ourselves.

She strode over to me, “Alice Van Wyck. Are you in charge?”

“No, that would be Abba,” I said, pointing in her direction.

She walked over to Abba, pointed to the plastic forks and knives and asked, “Are these utensils biodegradable?”

“I don't know,” Abba said.

“You
don't know
?”

Abba shook her head.

“We can't use them then,” Van Wyck said, throwing up her hands in frustration, then muttering under her breath, “I have to do
everything
myself.”

“I don't think we've got time to replace them,” Abba said, keeping her cool.

“Melanie?!” Van Wyck called to a young woman outside the tent. Melanie, who looked about nineteen and was wearing a power suit, ran in, a look of foreboding on her face. “Did you check to make sure the utensils were biodegradable?”

Melanie flinched and said, “I'm sorry.”

“Do you know what my husband stands for?”

“A better, stronger, greener New York, a
New
New York.”

“That's right—a
greener
New York! He has enemies
everywhere
—there will probably be opp research people here this evening. Can you
imagine
what will happen if this gets out? It will be spread all over
The Post
, YouTube, Hannity, right-wing blogs, it will be a
debacle
.” Her voice was rising and her color right along with it. “This is just the kind of mistake that can
destroy
a career these days! I want you to go find us two hundred biodegradable knives, forks, and spoons.
Right now!
”

Melanie looked like she was about to cry.

“Most of this is finger food, I don't think­—” Abba began.

“Is the
salad
finger food?” Van Wyck demanded.

“Obviously not, but I don't think we need two hundred—”

“You're being paid to provide the food, not to think.”

“Would you please let me finish?”

Van Wyck reared back like a startled horse, rendered momentarily speechless.

Abba took advantage of that moment, “Let me call a friend in town, he should be able to help us out.” She had her cell out and punched in a number. “Hey, George, it's Abba, I know you're coming to the fundraiser, but can you possibly head over to Chow, grab as much silverware as you can and bring it all out to us right now?” She lowered her voice, “It's a red-alert situation. … You're a doll.” She hung up. “He'll be here in about fifteen minutes with more than enough to get us through.”

“Are you
sure
?”

“No, I just said it to mess with your head.”

Van Wyck's mouth dropped open, incredulous. “This is the last time you work for us.”

“I could have told
you
that,” Abba said.

Van Wyck narrowed her eyes, gauging the situation. Then she came to a decision, gave a little shrug of dismissal, and walked out of the tent. “Someone is
not
getting it at home,” Abba said.

“Ain't that the truth,” I said.

Melanie tried to suppress her smile.

The crowd had an educated/artsy upper-middle-class look—lots of long flowing clothes on the women, who all looked like they got weekly massages and read the latest books. The men were a mix of the lean and well-fed look—jeans with oxford shirts and loosened ties—and laid-back Woodstock types with bellies, cool shirts worn loose, and sandals. While the waiters passed trays, Abba and I stood behind the main serving table. George was nearby, regaling a small clutch of listeners with a somewhat exaggerated version of the Goat Island story. Clark and Alice Van Wyck made their separate ways through the crowd, working it full tilt.

“Those two are slick,” she said.

“And a little creepy, don't you think?” I said.

“The more I see him, the less bright he seems. She's a living reminder that not
all
a-holes are Republicans.”

“So she doesn't have a career?”

“
He's
her career. She's a non-practicing lawyer, writes a little, gushy pieces on organic apple farms, stuff like that, they have three young kids, and she's on every board you can name.”

“Where do they live?”

“On one of the big old estates south of Kingston—I think it's called River Hill—they bought it about five years ago and did some amazing reno, it's been in magazines. They're definitely working a Kennedy/Clinton/Obama vibe: idealistic hubby, dynamic wife, gorgeous family.”

An older woman, distinguished looking, approached and said warmly, “Hello there, Abba.”

“Hi, Helen. Helen Newcombe, Janet Petrocelli.”

“What a pleasure,” she said in an old-money voice. “This food is divine, no surprise. I saw your write-up in the
Times
. So exciting. I hope you're not going to forsake our dear valley now that you're famous.”

“Not a chance.” Abba turned to me, “Helen's family goes back even before mine. They own half of Kingston.”

“Oh, that's ridiculous. We own three-quarters.”

“My mom and Helen walked picket lines together back in the early days of the Civil Rights Movement.”

“And we still meet for lunch when Liz comes East. I was distraught when she decamped to Berkeley. Have you met Liz Turner, Janet?”

“I haven't.”

“Oh, you have a great treat in store.”

Alice Van Wyck appeared, all over Helen Newcombe, “Helen, we're
so
glad you could make it.”

“The smartest thing you've ever done, Alice, is hire this woman,” Helen said, reaching up and patting Abba on the cheek.

“Isn't she fabulous?” Alice said, without missing a beat. “We consider her the campaign's official chef.”

Abba just smiled.

Clark Van Wyck appeared. When he saw me his face fell, but he picked it up pronto.

“Clark, look who's here—Helen Newcombe.”

“Your support means an awful lot to me.”

Helen Newcombe gestured to the view, “We have a piece of heaven here and we have to save it.”

I made a quick decision to plunge in, “Wasn't it terrible about that girl dying up on Platte Clove two weeks ago?”

Both Van Wycks suddenly looked a little gray.

Abba got it instantly and came to my aid, “Yes. And apparently there's some question as to how she died. It may have been murder.”

Helen Newcombe perked up—murder always has that effect. She moved a step closer and said, “Oh really? I hadn't heard that. I thought it was an accident, or that perhaps she'd committed suicide.”

“Her cellphone has been recovered,” I said. “It may contain some evidence.”

Alice Van Wyck's left eye twitched. Her husband picked up a bacon-wrapped fig.

“We don't eat pork,” his wife snapped.

“It's organic, was humanely raised down in Gardiner,” Abba said.

Clark Van Wyck defiantly popped it into his mouth; rage flashed across his wife's face. “It's time for you to give your speech, darling,” she said, putting her arm through his and pulling him away.

Helen Newcombe watched them go and then turned to us, “Ambition is not pretty.”