The Girl in the Face of the Clock (12 page)

“I just got in,” said Jane, not comprehending. “You said you were from the police?”

“Yes,” said Detective Folly. His voice was sibilant and mellow, almost like a loud whisper. “I'm very sorry about your father.”

“Thank you,” said Jane. “I'm sorry, Detective …?”

“Folly.”

“I'm sorry, Detective Folly, but why exactly are you calling me?”

“I know this is a very difficult time for you, Miss Sailor, but I'm afraid that I need to ask you some questions. Do you know if anyone would profit in any way by your father's death?”

“No. My father has been dead for all practical purposes for many years.”

“Did he have any enemies?”

“What is this about, Detective? Before I answer anything, I want to know what this is about.”

“There are certain problems with your father's death.”

“Problems? Being dead isn't a problem enough?”

“Your father could have lived for decades longer in his state,” said Detective Folly, “but it didn't surprise anyone that he had died. Didn't surprise anyone, that is, except for one doctor, an endocrinologist, who stopped in on his way out last night and who was familiar with your father's condition. A Dr. Gregory King. Says he knows you.”

“Yes,” said Jane. “His wife is my father's dealer. Was.”

“Dr. King noticed some symptoms,” said Folly. “Rapid heartbeat, shallow breathing, sweating. Nothing that appeared dangerous, but something to keep an eye on, he thought. Something he had seen before. When he learned that your father had died in the night, Dr. King suggested to the doctor who was doing the routine autopsy that he consider an insulin overdose as a possible cause of death.”

“An insulin overdose?” repeated Jane. “I don't understand. Why would they be giving my father insulin? Isn't that for diabetics?”

“They weren't giving your father insulin, Miss Sailor. But an insulin overdose can result in rapid heartbeat, shallow breathing, sweating. Later, the patient goes into shock and coma, resulting in death.”

“My father was already in a coma.”

“Which is why his death probably would have been put down to natural causes were it not for Dr. King,” said Detective Folly. “When a healthy person loses consciousness and falls into a coma, it is a very alarming event. But as you say, your father was already in a coma, so there was no dramatic change in his condition that would alert anyone that something was wrong. Also, insulin metabolizes very quickly. If the autopsy hadn't checked for elevated levels right away, it would never have been found. No one would have ever known.”

“Are you saying that you believe that someone did this to my father deliberately?”

“Because insulin is an enzyme that is naturally present in the body, there is a certain amount of uncertainty,” said the soft voice. “The medical examiner, however, now believes that insulin overdose is the most probable cause of your father's death. And this insulin would have had to be administered to him intentionally by someone. Do you understand, Miss Sailor? Do you see what this means?”

“Yes, I do,” said Jane, her voice suddenly very calm, the tears entirely gone from her eyes.

Aaron Sailor had been murdered. Again.

The funeral was Friday morning.

“
Murder
is the loss of love,” Valentine Treves had written in his sonnet. Jane already knew all about the impact of death, but its logistics were something else entirely. Again Perry Mannerback came to her assistance with another display of spontaneous generosity. Not only did he put the formidable Miss Fripp at her disposal to assist with the details of the funeral, he insisted on paying for it.

Jane was too dazed by events to mount an effective protest. The service was held at Frank E. Campbell, the toniest funeral parlor on the Upper East Side, a fitting nonsectarian arrangement for a half-Jewish, half-Catholic artist who had pretty much rejected all religion.

Thanks to the previous week's article about Aaron Sailor and the follow-up coverage in the wake of his death, a surprisingly large crowd showed up. There was no mention of murder in any of the news stories—though Jane wasn't sure whether the police had arranged this out of consideration or cunning.

The obituaries all took a respectful tone, repeating personal information that had been included in the
Sunday Times Magazine
just a few days before: how Aaron Sailor's mother had fled Belgium during World War II, how the artist had been raised by his father but left the family's cabinetry business to become a society portraitist, then rejected the security of that life to paint what he wanted. The failed show of a decade ago was touched on. So was the current retrospective at the Fyfe. His wife had died eighteen years ago. He was survived by a daughter, Jane L., of Manhattan.

“I'm so sorry, Jane,” said Miss Fripp afterwards. She was actually a small woman, no more than five feet two, which always surprised Jane. On the phone, Barbara Fripp sounded like she was eight feet tall.

“Thanks,” said Jane, wondering who all these people were. Some of the faces looked vaguely familiar, but the somber room was largely filled with strangers who now converged around her, waiting to shake her hand and murmur their condolences.

“Perry's outside,” said Miss Fripp. “He'll meet you in the car.”

Jane nodded, not looking forward to the drive to the cemetery in the Bronx. The crowd surged forward. Jane nodded and listened and smiled politely. It was amazing how many East Side ladies had come with stories of how Aaron Sailor had painted their portraits.

“We're so, so sorry,” said Gregory King a few minutes later, rescuing Jane from yet another woman with an endless anecdote about her sitting.

“Thanks.”

“Elinore was crushed,” Dr. King went on, “simply devastated by the news. She's still out in Seattle and couldn't get away. She promises to call.”

“That's really not necessary,” said Jane unhappily. Leave it to Elinore to try to use Aaron Sailor's death as a lever to get back into business.

“How are you holding up?” asked Dr. King, looking genuinely concerned.

“Fine. I guess I owe you my thanks. For figuring out about the insulin, I mean.”

Gregory King reddened. He laughed an embarrassed laugh.

“No, no. I'm sure they probably would have found it anyway. Look, I wish you wouldn't mention it to Elinore. That I got involved and all.”

“Why not?” asked Jane.

“Well, Elinore has some funny ideas, you know,” said Gregory King, searching nervously for a place to put his hands, finally settling on his pockets. “She doesn't like to get … I mean … for us to be involved and all. And now the police have had to talk to her out there, ask her where she was and all that. If Elinore found out that it was because of me … well, she'd probably be pretty peeved.”

“You haven't done anything wrong,” said Jane. “You shouldn't be afraid of her.”

“Oh, no,” said Dr. King with a chuckle and an exaggerated headshake. “I'm certainly not afraid of Elinore. No, no. No way. I just know how to handle her after all these years, that's all. Elinore has her little routines, and I can hold my own, believe me. But sometimes if you try to fight her head-on … Well, it's just easier … I mean, sometimes it's difficult to … It's just better not to set her off, if you know what I mean.”

Jane nodded. Elinore's poor husband was so beaten down that he couldn't even see the problem.

The crowd surged around her again and Gregory King faded back. Jane listened to condolences until the words stopped making sense and the faces in the room began to coalesce into a blur—except for one man who didn't seem to fit in at all.

He was not the only African American in the room—there was also her father's former accountant and a few artists and their wives—but this man somehow felt different from everyone else. He seemed aloof, remote, as if he were indifferent to both life and death. He was very tall and very thin. He sat quietly in a pew at the back of the room, his long legs sticking out into the aisle. It was impossible to tell whether he was watching the proceedings or simply staring off into space. His face was a hard, impenetrable mask.

“Jane, darling, my poor little
draga
,” said a giant of a man, stepping forward and giving her a bear hug.

“Uncle Imre!” said Jane with delighted recognition.

Aaron Sailor's old friend still worked hard to look like he imagined an artist was supposed to look. This meant that today Imre Carpathian had draped his six-foot five-inch frame in a black cape and sported a hat that might have been made for a Russian czar or perhaps a character from Gilbert and Sullivan. He had let his graying hair grow to shoulder length, which made his deeply lined face look even craggier and more forbidding. He smelled of turpentine and peanut butter.

“I should have come to see you before this,” he said, holding her at arm's length. “Now Aaron is dead. I am hateful louse. You have permission to break my legs. Go ahead, break.”

He stuck out a leg.

“Sorry. This isn't my leg-breaking day.”

“It is I who am sorry, Janie. Verrrry sorry.”

“Thanks, Uncle Imre.”

The old artist's expression grew soft.

“Is good to see you wear your mother's cross,” he said in a subdued voice. “Imre has not seen this cross for many years.”

Jane fingered the dragonfly on its black ribbon around her neck. It had seemed fitting that she wear it today.

“My father gave it to her,” she said. “It was a family heirloom.”

Imre nodded solemnly.

“You have someone to be with you today?”

“Sure,” lied Jane, looking around. The room had finally begun to empty. The mourners had come only to pay tribute to Aaron Sailor, not to console her. Jane barely knew anyone in New York any more and didn't have any close friends. Her acquaintances from the theatre lived in places like Minneapolis, Chicago, Denver. A few people with whom she had worked had called over the past few days. Others probably were off on tour and hadn't heard or didn't feel they knew her well enough to intrude.

“Is not good to be alone at time like this,” said Uncle Imre, shaking his finger. “You need company, you call me, okay?”

“Sure.”

“You call me, you hear? Now you talk to these other people. I hate funerals.”

“Thanks for coming,” said Jane. A group of men from the funeral home began to wheel the closed coffin out of the room. Most of the mourners had left. When she turned, the tall, thin black man who had been sitting in the back was standing right beside her. He spoke in a soft, familiar voice.

“Miss Sailor. I'm Octavio Folly.”

“Oh, yes,” said Jane, surprised. “Detective Folly. Nice to meet you.”

She had spoken with him several times on the telephone since getting back from Seattle Tuesday night—had it only been a few days ago? It felt as if months had passed. From his soft voice, Jane had expected someone more gentle-looking. There was nothing gentle-looking about Octavio Folly, however. His chin and cheekbones looked chiseled out of rock. There was a long, shiny scar on his neck. His eyes were like two tiny coals.

“I need to ask you some more questions,” he said, holding up his gold shield and identification. “I'm sorry that it has to be now, but we're looking into a few things, and time is of the essence in an investigation like this.”

The remainder of the mourners filed out. They were suddenly alone.

“Who were all these people here today?” Folly asked. “Were any of them close to your father?”

“Only Uncle Imre really,” said Jane, relieved the crowd was finally gone but wary of the hard-faced, aloof detective. “He was my father's best friend. The others were mostly acquaintances of my father, too. I didn't know he had so many.”

“Uncle Imre would be the tall man who hugged you?”

“Yes.”

“What's his full name?”

“Imre Carpathian,” said Jane. Folly had taken out a little notebook and was jotting down the name.

“Where does Mr. Imre Carpathian live?”

“In a loft on Broome Street. Do we really have to do this now?”

“I wanted to see these people with my own eyes,” said Folly. “It won't take much longer. We're still trying to come up with someone with a motive to harm your father.”

“What about a nurse?” said Jane, who had given the matter some thought herself over the past few days. “There are always stories in the papers about nurses who decide to play angel of mercy with hopeless patients. My father certainly qualified.”

“We're looking into that, though there's no pattern of suspicious deaths at the hospital. Let's talk about the fall down the stairs eight years ago that put your father into his coma. Did you ever consider that it might not have been an accident?”

Jane didn't answer.

“Did you ever speculate that someone might have pushed him down the stairs?” repeated Folly.

“Maybe,” said Jane reluctantly. “But there's no way to be sure, no way to prove anything.”

“Who might have had a motive to push your father down the stairs eight years ago, Miss Sailor? Did Mr. Carpathian benefit in any way by your father's accident?”

“Absolutely not,” said Jane, indignant. “I told you. Imre was his best friend. He'd known Dad forever. He knew my mother.”

“What about Dr. King's wife, the art dealer?”

“Actually, Elinore was probably the one who lost the most by my father's incapacitation,” said Jane, trying not to make a face. “At least in terms of money. Nobody wanted the paintings that Dad had done for her show, but the contract had another three years to run. If Dad had gone on working, he might have come up with something more sellable. Elinore had spent a lot of money promoting him, according to her. When Dad fell down the stairs, she lost whatever chance she had to recoup—which she would have done out of his share of any sales, naturally.”

Folly wrote into his book and spoke again, not looking up.

“Does she still have any financial interest in your father's work?”

“I own all the paintings,” said Jane. “Contractually, Elinore would still get a big cut if we sold anything, but I intend to donate everything to museums. She won't get a nickel now. Besides, Elinore couldn't have anything to do with my father's death. She was in Seattle.”

“Yes,” said Folly, nodding. “I've checked that. She was out with her daughter at a restaurant in Seattle Monday night. A group from Microsoft at the next table corroborated her story. Apparently, she tried to sell them a Picasso or something. I'm just going through a process of elimination, Miss Sailor. The only name on my list that I haven't eliminated is Peregrine Mannerback, known as Perry. Was Perry Mannerback here?”

“He was at the service, yes,” said Jane uncomfortably. He was outside right now, waiting for her in his limousine, only Jane didn't want to mention that.

“He was the slight man with the bow tie, right? High forehead?”

“Yes.”

“Dr. King claims that Aaron Sailor was calling out this Perry Mannerback's name in his coma,” said Folly.

“That's not exactly accurate,” said Jane, flustered.

Folly raised an eyebrow and turned the pages of his notebook.

“King said you told him so at dinner last Saturday night.”

“My father was calling out the name Perry, yes,” said Jane. “I don't know that Perry Mannerback was the Perry he was referring to.”

“What did your father say?”

“He was just raving.”

“Perhaps,” said Folly. “But I'd like to be the judge of that. Just tell me every sentence you heard him say, every phrase you can remember. Exactly as he said it.”

Reluctantly, Jane told him. No, Perry, no. Don't do it, Perry, Don't do it. You're a liar, Perry. I know the truth.

“Did your father know anyone else named Perry?” asked Folly, after jotting down Jane's comments in his notebook.

“I don't know,” said Jane.

“But your father knew Perry Mannerback eight years ago.”

“Perry bought one of my father's paintings.”

“Wouldn't that painting be more valuable now that your father is dead?”

“It's not like my father was ever going to paint anything else, even if he had lived.”

“But after the article last week, his death could increase demand, couldn't it? Prices would go up. The value of Perry Mannerback's painting would go up.”

“I suppose,” said Jane, “but that doesn't matter. Perry already has more money than he knows what to do with.”

A dark-suited man from the funeral home had come into the room. He glanced at Jane, then at his watch.

“My experience is that folks never have enough money,” said Folly with a wry smile. “The more money a person has, the more he seems to want.”

“Is that all, Lieutenant?” asked Jane. “I have to go to the cemetery.”

“I'm sorry to have had to trouble you today, Miss Sailor. I'll be in touch. If you think of anyone else who might conceivably have wished your father ill, or profited in any way from his incapacitation or death, please call me.”