The Body In The Big Apple (24 page)

“Eventually,” Richard said, “you can tell me what this has all been about. Now brandy here or someplace else? Yours or mine, for instance?”

“Stanstead, the guy whose party we did a week ago, is up on the dais, but your friend, his wife, isn't with him,” Josie said as she came through the door to the kitchen of the community center where the luncheon was being held. “There's an empty place setting next to him. He must be one of the honorees or he's going to give out the awards. Isn't he in politics?”

Faith's heart sank, then began to beat rapidly. She had tried calling Emma this morning, but the line had been busy, and Faith hadn't had a moment to spare herself—jumping out of bed, throwing on her clothes, and rushing straight to work. Josie had grinned and said, “My, my, my, we don't often see the boss so disheveled.”

Now the rest of the staff was back in the room after serving the first course, awaiting instructions. “Clear the soup, but remember—not until everyone at the table appears to be finished.” Faith hated it when plates were cleared while some of the people, usually including her, were still eating. In some restaurants and at
many parties and events, it seemed there was someone in the kitchen with a stopwatch and the wait staff was all competing for the blue ribbon. On more than one occasion, she'd literally had to hold on to her plate.

“Meanwhile, be sure water and wineglasses are full and that there's plenty of bread. We're running low on the buckwheat walnut rolls, but there are plenty of the sourdough ones and Parmesan bread sticks. Josie, when you clean the guest of honor's table, remove the extra place setting.” It would look a little tacky, and very obvious, to do it now. Maybe it wasn't for Emma. Maybe there was another no-show.

The staff scattered and Faith looked around the kitchen. Jessica was doing the salads. Almost everyone had ordered the Waldorf ones. The desserts were ready as well, and the fish mousse, the main course, was keeping warm, awaiting the shrimp sauce. She had a few minutes. Coming in, she'd noticed a pay phone by the rest rooms. And now, grabbing some change from her purse, she went to call Emma.

Just as she was punching in the number, Michael Stanstead emerged from the men's room. His hair was glistening ever so slightly with water from his comb. He really was extremely attractive. Photogenic. Telegenic.

“Faith! I might have known. That soup was superb!
Finocchio?
” He kissed her on the cheek. Apparently, they had reached that stage.

She nodded. It was nice to be appreciated. “It's not an Italian recipe, so I simply call it fennel soup.”

“I'm sure there's nothing simple about the stock—or the rest of it. Emma and I spent a week in Tuscany taking cooking lessons last fall. I didn't even know what
finocchio,
or fennel, was. Now I've become fa
mous for my
tagliatelle alla bolognese.
Actually, I've only made it once since, but I do know how. And I've enlarged my food vocabulary enormously.”

Faith was having trouble picturing Emma in a
cucina
of any kind, even one in the luxurious
castello
where this was sure to have been located—a program complete with side trips to vineyards, more extraordinary houses, and the odd Giotto or Piero della Francesca that happened to be tucked away nearby at the dear contessa's little house—one with a moat.

As if reading her mind, Michael said, “Emma spent most of the week sunbathing in the courtyard.” A frown crossed his face. “She hasn't been all that well, you know. She was supposed to be here today, but I insisted she stay in bed.”

“What do you think is wrong?” Faith wanted to hear his version, especially after watching from afar last night. It wasn't likely that he would mention his wife was being blackmailed—even to her old school chum—but he might say something about trying to get pregnant.

He did. “She's been getting despondent over the whole baby thing. I've told her, the doctor's told her, not to worry so much. It'll happen. But she's going back for a full work-up of all systems after Christmas. Could be merely not enough iron or whatever. Could be something else.”

It was something else.

“Duty calls. For both of us, I imagine. Can't wait to see what's for dessert? Zabaglione? Biscotti? What are you going to give us?”

“Think a little farther to the west. Be surprised,” Faith said in a slightly teasing voice. “I'll give you a hint. It's seasonal.”

Michael laughed. “Just so long as it's not fruitcake.”

Faith shuddered. The mere thought.

The moment he was gone, she dialed again. She'd been reassured, but she still wanted to talk to Emma.

“Oh, Faith, I just left a message on both your machines. I should have listened to you ages ago! I have the best husband in the world!”

“I just talked to him. I'm catering the luncheon he's attending. He said he told you to stay in bed.” Emma hadn't seen her the night before, and Faith decided to let her friend have the pleasure of telling all—or all that was applicable.

“I didn't even wait until after dinner to tell him, just blurted it all out right away. Michael couldn't have been more understanding, and he was upset that I hadn't told him sooner. Hadn't told him about the miscarriage especially. I know I'm going to get pregnant now. He said that psychologically this had probably been what's kept me from it so far. That somehow I didn't want to go through it all again—I mean that deep inside I was afraid something would happen again and I'd lose the baby.”

There was something to that, Faith thought. “I'm glad it worked out. I felt sure it would. What did he say about”—a woman teetering unsteadily on her high-heeled Charles Jourdans, even though it was only noon, was making her way to the ladies' room—“about the rest of it, you know.” No matter how tipsy the woman might be, the word
blackmail
would be a splash of cold water, and in New York, the six degrees of separation were reduced to about one in this circle.

“He was a lamb about that, too. He couldn't believe what I've been going through. He was teary when I told him about the baby—right there at the Post
House—but he was really angry about the blackmail. He's going to put a stop to it immediately. I should have realized it would all be fine. Michael knows the police commissioner very well and he's going to get in touch with him. He's having something done to the phone right away so the calls can be traced. And he wanted the blackmail notes to take to the police, but of course I'd thrown them all away, since I didn't want him to find them.”

Faith felt an enormous sense of relief. Somebody else could be in charge now. She didn't have to shoulder the responsibility for Emma's well-being single-handedly anymore. At the same time, she felt a bit let down. She had convinced her friend to do the sensible thing. But she hadn't figured anything out. Of course, the most important thing was that Emma was safe and sound—and would continue to be.

“Since he knows the commissioner, don't you think you can tell him everything?”

Emma had sounded giddy before; she sobered up immediately. “Maybe in a little while. Not right now. Things are too perfect. Maybe when we're away. And Faith?”

“Yes?” What was coming next? With Emma, it could be anything from another revelation, like she'd set up a trust fund for the blackmailers so they absolutely wouldn't bother her again, to a surefire tip to prevent cap hair in the wintertime.

“I told Michael I hadn't told anyone else, because I thought he might be hurt that I'd confided in a friend first and not in him. I'm sure he would understand I was trying to protect him, but it just seemed better to make him feel that he was the only one. Kind of an ego thing.”

Faith understood completely. She pictured the scene last night—champagne and roses, figuratively, although she wouldn't be surprised if there were a dozen long-stemmed American Beauties in a crystal vase next to Emma right now. The setting wouldn't have lent itself to the revelation that one's spouse had been second in line.

“Tomorrow's Christmas Eve; then we fly out the next night straight to the Caribbean. I'd forgotten what being happy feels like, Faith. And I owe it all to you.”

“And Michael,” Faith added.

“And Michael.” Emma agreed.

“I've got to run. There's a large roomful of people waiting for food.”

“Will I see you before we leave?”

“Today is crazy, and tomorrow we have a brunch that suddenly came up. I think it was Henri, your caterer again, who, by the way, had had multiple warnings from the Department of Health. You don't even want to know what they found in his kitchen! Then I'm making supper for the family before church, but maybe I can stop on my way over there. I'll call you.”

“That would be great. And if not, Merry Christmas, Faith.”

“Merry Christmas, Emma.”

 

Faith couldn't decide whether or not to invite Richard for Christmas Eve dinner. As she worked back at her own kitchen after the luncheon, she kept returning to the thought. It made a statement. Bringing a man home to meet her parents for the Good Sibley Stamp of Approval was not something she'd done before. Her parents had known some of her dates when she'd been a teenager, and the biggest thing in the holiday season
hadn't been what Santa would bring, but who would take you to the Gold and Silver Ball—a benefit for the Youth Counseling League. She remembered doubling with Emma, who had also been home for the holidays during their freshman year at college—the last year they'd been eligible to attend. They had looked at the tenth graders, the youngest attending, and marveled that they had ever been that young. They'd also marveled at how very sophisticated a few of those young New Yorkers had looked—pretty babies with Mom's makeup and Dad's charge cards.

Maybe she was making too big a deal out of all this. It was a simple family dinner. Hope had invited Phelps, or at least Faith thought she had. That will solve everything, she decided. If Hope's beau would be in attendance, she'd invite Richard. She'd call her sister this afternoon before she left to do tonight's dinner.

“Do you want me to do some more packing?” Josie asked. “There's time.”

“No, we're in good shape—and the movers are going to do all the china, as well as the big stuff. Why don't you grab an hour for yourself? Howard will be back at five, and it's just the three of us tonight.”

“I hope it's early. I plan to start celebrating early. And you—you need to get some more sleep, not that the alternative is disagreeing with you, but you know what happens when you burn your candle at both ends.”

“You get a ‘lovely light,' “Faith said, quoting the Edna St. Vincent Millay poem.

“No, you get a whole lot of wax,” Josie amended, “and it's a bitch to clean up.”

“Go. Go out among the desperate throngs looking for something original, something not a tie or perfume, and spread your words of wisdom.”

Josie made a face. “It's too cold to walk from store to store. And I'm waiting to do my Christmas shopping the day after, when they have the big sales. But I will get out of your hair. I have to get some sweet potatoes for my pies. I'll make them at home tomorrow after the brunch. Do you think four will be enough?”

“Plenty.”

“Then I'll make five. See you in an hour.”

Faith sat down at the counter and looked at her doodles on the packing sheet of paper from the day before. She'd drawn thin lines from Emma to everyone else. The result looked like the wheel of an imported sports car. She stared at it some more and then started to crumble it up. She didn't need it anymore. Case closed.

But the case wasn't closed. She still didn't know who had been blackmailing Emma—and she was sure they'd try again. Then there was the big question behind everything else. Who had killed Nathan Fox and Lorraine Fuchs? And who had been at the wheel of the car last night? Could she be sure it was Harvey? Could she be sure of anything?

The phone rang. It was Richard. Case in point.

“Hi, know you're busy, but I wanted to hear your voice.”

When someone says something like that, it makes it hard to say anything next. Thou witty, thou wise—thou banal.

“Well, hi there.” Brilliant, Faith.

“How late are you working tonight? Could we get together?”

“I have no idea. It's dinner, but sometimes people linger. Certainly not before midnight.”

“Then midnight it is.”

Whoa, she thought. Last night, tonight? Tomorrow night?

“I really have to get some sleep. I've—”

“Sounds fine to me.” His voice was warm and the enthusiasm was neither over-nor underdone.

“Okay, why don't I call you when I'm leaving. The apartment is up on Central Park West.”

“See you later.”

She hung up, then realized she hadn't invited him to her parents'. Somehow in the course of the conversation, she'd decided to—Phelps or no Phelps.

 

Sunday morning dawned gray and cold. And brownish green. The only snow they'd have for Christmas was what was in store windows, and the unsightly mounds left by the plows that hadn't melted yet and were serving as dog loos, with occasional garlands of trash. The apartment was warm, but Faith didn't feel like leaving the nest of her bed. Not for a long time. Last night had been a disaster. She roused herself. Coffee. Much coffee. Maybe not a disaster, but certainly a downer. The dinner had gone well and she'd showered her cards like confetti upon the complimentary guests. One man had offered to put money in the business and had given her
his
card. Then she'd gone to meet Richard at the bar at the Top of the Sixes—666 Fifth Avenue, his choice.

“The view used to be better. They're putting up too many buildings in the city.”

Faith had agreed. The restaurant had been a favorite of Aunt Chat's when Faith was a child, and they'd celebrated special occasions there. She remembered one time when Chat had let Faith and Hope take turns wearing her new white mink stole—the tangible result of a whopping new account—all through dinner, ap
parently unperturbed by the catsup they were amply using to cover their fries. The Top of the Sixes was a man-made mountain aerie; they floated not above the clouds, but above the hordes. It had always been hard to come away from the windows to concentrate on the food. As Faith got older, she determined the view
was
the draw. Not necessarily the food.