The Body In The Big Apple (21 page)

At eleven o'clock, someone suggested they head across town to the Carlyle and catch Bobby Short's show. People started drifting out.

Faith was collecting dirty plates and glasses from Chat's den when her mother walked in. The Reverend Lawrence Sibley had been unable to attend his sister's party. It was, like Easter, his busy time. Faith was sorry. This was the first time her parents would have been at anything she'd catered. Her mother sat down on a large leather couch and patted the cushion next to her.

“Take a few minutes to rest. You've earned it. The food was delicious and everything looked perfectly wonderful. I'm going to recommend you to all my friends and clients.” Her mother smiled mischievously. “Nothing like nepotism.”

“I wanted it to be very special for Chat.” She sat down and looked around the book-filled room, dominated by a large Biedermeier desk. “I'm going to miss this apartment,” she said.

“Me, too,” replied her mother. She spied a pack of Gauloises someone had left and took one out, looked guilty, and put it back. “I only smoke at parties. You know that.”

“Sure, sure,” Faith said. “But don't let me stop you. I'm not your mother.”

“But
my
mother would.” Jane Sibley sighed.

“Granny looked her usual gorgeous self tonight. We're having lunch at Altman's tomorrow. She's got this thing about saying good-bye to Charleston Gardens.”

“I'm sure they haven't done this much business in years. It's nice of you to go.” Jane lit up, keeping an eye on the door in case her mother suddenly appeared.

“I want to go. Hope is coming, too. What do you think of Phelps?”

Hope and beau had made a brief appearance early in the evening, then dashed off to something Adrian Sutherland had asked Phelps to attend.

“I make it a practice not to think anything of the young men my daughters date.”

“Come on, Mom,” Faith wheedled.

“Well, he seems a little like people I know who are always holding out for something better—an invitation, job, what have you.”

“And in the end they get stuck—like those girls in the dorm who turned down dates early in the week, hoping their Prince Charmings would call on Thursday—of course no one would ever admit to being free if the call came on Friday.”

“I remember.” Her mother laughed. “And nine times out of ten, they'd end up washing their hair on Saturday night!”

Faith was tempted to tell her mother about Phelps's
request to borrow money from Hope, but it was a moot point now. Hope had come into the kitchen and told her sister that he didn't need the money after all. That he'd had a “windfall.”

“I hope she knows what's she's doing, that's all,” Faith said.

“Do you?” her mother countered, stubbing the cigarette out in an ashtray.

“Okay, fair enough. Now, I have to get back to work. I don't want to keep the staff.”

Her mother put an arm around her daughter's shoulders. “Daddy said you'd lost a friend recently. Who was it?”

This wasn't like telling your mother about getting a bad grade in geometry, or the fight you'd had with your supposed best friend, yet Faith wished she could pour her heart out, as she had on those long-ago occasions.

“You never met her. She was older. Someone I just got to know recently.”

Her mother frowned in sympathy. “Heart attack?”

“Something like that.”

Jane gave Faith a kiss. “Take care of yourself, darling. I'm going to take Granny home now—if she'll leave the party.”

At the doorway, her mother stopped. “I had expected to see Poppy here tonight. She's such a friend of Chat's, but then the life she leads means her time is not her own. I always felt sorry for Emma. You were great friends once.”

Why was her mother bringing this up?

“Yes, were—and are. Why did you feel sorry for Emma?”

“Oh, the ‘poor little rich girl' thing. She had everything materially, but not much emotionally. It was how
Poppy had been raised, so I suppose she never noticed that the child was starved for affection. Arrests development, you know. I wonder if Emma will ever grow up—even if she is a happily married lady, from all reports.” Her mother's intonation gave Faith pause and she set the tray down.

“Have you heard otherwise?”

“Madeline Green was talking to me about an hour ago and asked if I had seen Emma lately. I haven't. She wondered if you had mentioned anything to me, and again I was ignorant. You know Madeline is Emma's godmother and has always looked after her.”

“What do you think she was getting at?”

“I asked her, of course.” Jane was a lawyer and interrogation of all sorts came naturally.

“What did she say?”

“That Emma had had bouts of illness and was behaving in a rather disoriented manner. She mentioned that Michael is quite worried about her. Madeline wants to take her to some sort of clinic. Part of it is that she's consumed with not being able to have a child. Madeline is convinced that she's worked herself up to the point where she can't, simply from stress. And Emma is getting very thin. Madeline thinks she may be taking some sort of diet pills.”

“What she's saying is that she thinks Emma is on drugs and/or anorexic,” Faith fumed, any kind thoughts she'd cherished in the past about Emma's godmother vanishing like Cinderella's coach. “I've seen quite a bit of Emma lately. You know I catered a party for her, and she and Michael have been at other events I've done. She invited me to one of the Doubles lunches.”

“Oh, what fun. I went on Monday. Don't get angry, Faith. I wanted you to know what people are saying.
Perhaps Emma is depressed. Infertility is very, very hard on a woman.”

“Please do me a favor. When you hear things like this, especially anything to do with drugs or an eating disorder, deny it on good authority.”

“The good authority being…”

“Me. I can tell you with absolute certainty that Emma is not on drugs, purging, or more than normally depressed about their inability”—Faith stressed the word
their
—“to get pregnant.”

“Thank you. I was sure you'd know.” Her mother left, leaving a Gallic mélange of Arpege and Gauloises hanging in the air.

Emma disoriented—clinically depressed. Emma on drugs. Faith piled dishes noisily and crumpled napkins that had been tossed carelessly about. It was totally unthinkable—wasn't it?

This was a new thought. An insidious thought. Could Emma have made the whole thing up? Faith's head ached. She had sent her staff home, then stayed at Chat's, drinking champagne with her aunt and a few of her closest friends. Now she was trying to find a cool spot on her pillow, turning it over and over. Images from these last weeks were tumbling, too—spinning about in her mind like numbered lottery balls before the drawing. Yes, she'd seen the blackmail threats, but there was a computer and printer in the apartment, tastefully enclosed in an antique secretary in Michael's study, his home office. Easy access for Emma. And the telephone calls. Emma had deleted one phone message and taken the next call herself. Faith had only Emma's own reports of all the hang-ups. She'd dropped off the cash herself—alone. Feeling slightly feverish, Faith turned on the light and got up. The inside of her mouth was all fuzzy. She panicked. What if she was coming down with something! She couldn't be sick now! Advil and Pellegrino—that's what she needed. She hadn't
had that much to drink. Maybe her body was trying to tell her something. Something like slow down. Well, she could do that in 1990. Not now.

She was hungry, too. That was what this was—a hunger headache. She hadn't had the time, nor inclination after that big deli lunch, to eat much. She opened her refrigerator, which, unlike those of her peers, who either ate out or dialed in, contained real food. She grabbed some Gruyère, Westphalian ham, butter, and mustard—moutarde d'ancienne from Fallot. Grainy, spicy, the essence of Dijon. Soon a croque monsieur, the French version of a grilled cheese sandwich, was in the frying pan. Either the Advil had kicked in or simply the smell of food was enough. Her headache was almost gone.

But why would Emma concoct this whole thing? Faith put the sandwich on a plate and poured some more mineral water. The cheese had melted and the outside of the sandwich was crisp and golden. No, Emma hadn't made this all up. Faith thought of Lorraine's body being zipped into the bag by the police. She pictured Emma's fearful face. This whole thing was not the product of an overactive imagination or a disturbed psyche. It was, unfortunately, only too real.

 

Christmas was only three days away. It fell on a Monday this year, which meant all the parties, especially office parties, were over. Have Faith had a large luncheon on Saturday, a smaller dinner that night, a number of take-out orders and platters, but no more big events. Faith was making supper for her own family on Christmas Eve, before the eleven o'clock service. Chat and her grandmother would be there. Hope said she might
be bringing Phelps. Christmas dinner the following day would be bigger. Besides relatives, there were always extras—people in the parish who had nowhere else to go. Over the years, they had become family, too.

There was always this lull in the city before New Year's. The streets belonged to the tourists who poured in from all over the globe to gaze up at the tree, see the Rockettes at Radio City, and stand in line to get into Mama Leone's or the one remaining coin-in-the-slot Horn and Hardart Automat on East Forty-second Street. Poppy Morris's crowd headed for balmier places with white sand or colder ones with fresh powder—making sure they were back in time for the right New Year's Eve celebrations. Faith had three parties that night, fortunately all on the West Side. She planned to dash between two of them, leaving Josie in charge of the third. Then she was closing to give everyone a break. She'd be busy overseeing the move.

At work, they had already started to pack up some of their equipment. When Faith arrived after an early lunch with her grandmother and Hope, Josie was busy dividing utensils—those they'd need over the next week and those they wouldn't.

“Are you sure you don't want to go home for Christmas?” Faith asked. They'd been through this before. “You could leave tomorrow morning—or tonight even.”

“I know I'm expendable, but I want to go the week after and stay. My family is all excited because they're going to get two Christmases this way. Besides, I want to have a good long talk with your mother. Does she know the hours you keep?” Josie was coming for Christmas dinner.

“Just what I need, an industrial spy,” Faith commented wryly.

They spent the rest of the day packing and preparing the luncheon and dinner for the next day. The menus were simple. For the lunch, they'd start with fennel soup garnished with pomegranate seeds, then a Scandinavian recipe Faith had picked up for a fish mousse with shrimp sauce, followed by a variation on that old New York favorite, Waldorf salad, or a simple mixed green salad, and for dessert, mocha buche de Noël. For the dinner, she was preparing a reprise of the roast beef that had been so popular at the Stansteads' and Aunt Chat's.

“I don't know if I can make another meringue mushroom. These French logs are getting on my nerves,” Josie complained. “Why don't we give them some sweet potato pie instead? I have a great recipe—laced with a little bourbon. Give the guests a kick.”

“I know what you mean,” Faith agreed. She had no idea the rich French pastry would prove so popular, but when New Yorkers adopt something, they adopt it wholeheartedly, and this year it was buche de Noël. “Write down the pie recipe. I'll make some for Christmas Day.”

“
I'll
make some—and the oyster stuffing for the turkey, “Josie said. “But not now. Got a date. What are you doing tonight?”

“I'm not sure,” Faith said. She'd been feeling edgy all day. Her headache last night had not been a precursor to any illness, but it did presage a kind of malady of the soul. She couldn't get Lorraine Fuchs out of her mind, couldn't get away from the feeling that she had failed—and was failing—the woman. And all day, she'd been worried about Emma. Obsessively wonder
ing what was going on. She couldn't call when Josie was there. She was also missing Richard. Or someone like Richard. She should be going out tonight, but when she thought of possible substitutions, she lost her enthusiasm.

“Your honey not back yet?”

“No.” Faith managed a smile. This was ridiculous. She'd call a friend, take a pin, and stab at the huge list of holiday concerts and plays in the
Times.
A few days ago, she'd been bemoaning her lack of time to indulge in holiday gaiety, and here at last was an opportunity to revel in the season. Revels. Maybe she'd go to the Christmas Revels.

“You can come hang with us,” Josie offered.

“You're a sweetheart, but I have some more things I want to do here. Then I'm going to make some calls and go out. Don't worry.”

“I'm not, but…” Josie frowned.

“But what?” Faith asked.

“Take care of yourself. That's all.”

The first call Faith made when her assistant left was to Emma. She wasn't home, but Faith left a message, telling her she was still at work and to call back there or try at home. Next she tried Richard on the off chance that he was back. She didn't leave a message.

The sheets of packing paper they'd been using were piled up on the stainless-steel work area and Faith took a pencil from next to the phone, sat down, and started idly listing names: Emma Morris Stanstead, Michael Stanstead, Poppy Morris, Jason Morris, Lucy Morris, Nathan Fox, Arthur Quinn, Lorraine Fuchs, Harvey Fuchs. She paused. Todd. Todd Hartley. Natasha from the bookstore in the Village. Husky-voiced, exotic Natasha. Husky-voiced. One of Emma's messages had
been high-pitched, one deep. Who else? Fox's cousins—Irwin and Marsha. Adrian Sutherland. Phelps Grants. She wrote “Emma” in the middle of the big sheet of paper and began rewriting the names, grouping people around her in constellations. Michael, Adrian, and Phelps. Poppy, Jason, and Lucy. Faith drew a line from Lucy to Adrian. Nathan, his cousins, Quinn, Lorraine, and Harvey. She drew a line from Nathan to Poppy. She put Todd alone. Natasha alone. Emma in the center, Emma the common denominator. Faith stared at her work, trying to think of more lines to draw. Everyone connected to Emma, but what were their links to one another?

The phone pulled her from her speculations. It was Emma.

“You do work terribly hard, but I suppose cooking all those things takes quite a bit of time,” Emma said.

“Yes, it does.” Faith knew that neither Emma nor her mother before her had ever so much as made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Poppy's onetime s'mores had been an aberration, obviously, and quite amazing.

Faith continued. “Just checking in. You've been on my mind a lot today.” She hadn't told Emma about Lorraine Fuchs's death—or her meeting with Arthur Quinn. There was no point.

“I'm sorry we couldn't come to Chat's party. I'd hoped we could get away early and drop by, but things are getting very hectic. Michael's decided to announce his candidacy the first week in January, so when we're not out, he's buried in his office here with Adrian and these other people. That cute guy who was with Hope at our party has been here a lot. He seems nice. At least he smiles a lot. You can't imagine how much the apartment smells like cigar smoke.”

The new Boss Tweeds. Faith had a sudden irreverent image of the Thomas Nast cartoons updated. Make that Hugo Boss.

“Why don't you come over and have a cup of tea? We always seem to be meeting so frantically. I don't have to go anywhere until after six—and that's just around the corner on the next block. The man came and put the tree up today. It looks lovely.”

The idea of sitting in Emma's beautiful living room, tree or no tree—and what man, Saint Nicholas?—was very appealing. I'll decide what I want to do from there, Faith told herself as she accepted the invitation.

 

Faith decided to take the bus uptown, then walk to Emma's. She had by no means had her fill of window-shopping. Plus, she still had a few more presents to buy. She wasn't sure what to do about Richard. He'd said he would be back before Christmas—and his family lived in the city, so she was sure he would. It would be awkward if he had something for her and she didn't have anything for him. It would be
very
awkward if she had something for him and he didn't have anything for her. On Madison, one of those toy stores that's really for grown-ups had a window filled with snow globes. She went in, attracted by one that had the city in miniature, even a tiny yellow cab. The proprietor took one from the shelf and handed it to her.

“It plays ‘New York, New York,'” he said.

Faith wound it up and shook it. The hokey song was perfect. A blizzard of artificial flakes swirled and fell into a heap. She shook it again. Richard would love it.

By the time she got to Emma's, it had started to rain. And she wasn't dressed for it. Her warm waterproof coat was still at the cleaner's. She hadn't had time to
pick it up, and now it looked like it might stay there until spring. She looked around for one of the umbrella salesmen who mushroomed forth at the hint of moisture, but there wasn't a single one in sight. She had about five of these collapsible black umbrellas, but they never did her any good when she needed one, shoved to the back of the closet as they were. The rain began to come down harder. Her hat was plastered to her skull, and whatever her plans for the evening turned out to be, home and a hot shower would be first. She sprinted into Emma's building, almost colliding with the doorman, who was hastening to greet her with an open oversize umbrella.

“Too late, Bobby!” she exclaimed.

He shook his head sadly. If only I'd been at her side at the ready when the first drop had fallen, his expression said. “You're wet right through. Now, you go up and I'll let Mrs. Stanstead know you're on the way.”

The doormen were all sweethearts in this building—and Faith was sure it wasn't just because the Stansteads tipped well.

Emma was at the door. “Come in and get dry. Tea's ready—or a drink, if you'd rather.”

“I'll start with tea,” Faith said. She stripped off her sodden coat, and miraculously, her clothes were mostly dry. She followed Emma in. The fire was a welcome sight and she went over to stand in front of it as she admired the tree.

It was real and the room smelled of balsam, not cigar smoke. Yards of gold and silver beads wound around the boughs. Clear glass balls that looked like shimmering soap bubbles reflected the tiny white lights strung from the top of the tree to the bottom. The only other decorations were the Alice in Won
derland figures from the Gazebo, made by Gladys Boalt. Each cloth character was a work of art—small figures with intricately fashioned garments and hand-painted features. The White Knight, pensive and bewhiskered, rode close to the star near the ceiling, his eccentric accoutrements in miniature suspended from his saddle.

“Emma!” Faith cried in admiration. “Your tree is incredible.”

Emma was pouring tea. “I began buying the Alice in Wonderland ornaments when I was in college—as treats. Michael gave me all the ones I was missing the first year we were married. I like to think of them as the Met's Neapolitan figures of the future.”

“And so they are,” Faith agreed, examining the caterpillar's tiny hookah and the dormouse in a teapot carried by the March Hare.

By tacit agreement, the two friends talked of nothing but the season. Emma had bought Michael a new car, a 325 i, the BMW convertible—black. “I know it's kind of boring, but he'll love it—and be surprised. He thinks I'm getting him a smoking jacket from Charvet. I let him find it. Men are such little boys about presents.”

Faith showed her the snow globe. Emma liked it so much that Faith resolved to go back and get one for her.

Before they knew it, it was six o'clock.

“I wish everything I did could be as nice as just sitting here like this,” Emma said wistfully. “So cozy. So normal.”

“I'm assuming if you had anything to tell me, you would have,” Faith said, hating to destroy the mood.