The Lottery Winner Read online

  Alvirah went into the kitchen. She raised her eyebrows. A bottle of champagne, standing in a wine cooler which was now half full of water, and two champagne glasses were on a silver tray. The champagne was a gift from the broker who’d handled the apartment sale. The broker had several times informed them that that particular champagne cost a hundred dollars a bottle and was the brand the Queen of England herself enjoyed sipping.

  Willy looked troubled. “That’s the stuff that’s so crazy expensive, isn’t it? No way Brian would help himself to that without asking. There’s something funny going on.” Alvirah opened her mouth to reassure him, then closed it. Willy was right. There was something funny going on, and her antenna told her trouble was brewing.

  The chimes rang. An apologetic porter was at the door with their bags. “Sorry to be so long, Mr. Meehan. Since the remodeling began, so many residents are using the service elevator that the staff has to stand in line for it.” At Willy’s request, he deposited the bags in the bedroom, then departed smiling, his palm closing over a five-dollar bill.

  Willy and Alvirah shared a pot of tea in the kitchen. Willy kept staring at the champagne bottle. “I’m gonna call Brian,” he said.

  “He’ll still be at the theater,” Alvirah said, closed her eyes, concentrated and gave him the telephone number of the box office.

  Willy dialed, listened, then hung up. “There’s a recorder on,” he said flatly. “Brian’s play closed. They talk about how to get refunds.”

  “The poor kid,” Alvirah said. “Try his apartment.”

  “Only the answering machine,” he told her a moment later. “I’ll leave a message for him.”

  Alvirah suddenly realized how weary she was. As she collected teacups she reminded herself that it was 5:00 A.M., English time, so she had a right to feel as though all her bones were aching. She put the teacups in the dishwasher, hesitated, then rinsed out the unused champagne glasses and put them in the dishwasher too. Her friend Baroness Min von Schreiber—who owned the Cypress Point Spa where Alvirah had gone to be made over after she won the lottery—had told her that expensive wines should never be left standing. With a damp sponge, she gave a vigorous rub to the unopened bottle, the silver tray and bucket and put them away. Turning the lights out behind her, she went into the bedroom.

  Willy had begun to unpack. Alvirah liked the bed room. It had been furnished for the bachelor stockbroker with a king-sized bed, a triple dresser, comfortable easy chairs, and night tables large enough to hold at the same time a stack of books, reading glasses and mineral ice for Alvirah’s rheumatic knees. The decor, however, convinced her that the trendy interior designer must have been weaned on bleach. White spread. White drapes. White carpet.

  The porter had left Alvirah’s garment bag laid out across the bed. She unlocked it and began to remove the suits and dresses. Baroness von Schreiber was always pleading with her not to go shopping on her own. “Alvirah,” Min would argue, “you are natural prey for saleswomen who have been ordered to unload the buyers’ mistakes. They sense your approach even while you’re still in the elevator. I’m in New York enough. You come to the spa several times a year. Wait till we’re together; I will shop with you.”

  Alvirah wondered if Min would approve of the orange-and-pink plaid suit that the saleswoman in Harrods had raved over. Looking at it now, she was sure Min wouldn’t.

  Her arms filled with clothing, she opened the door of the closet, glanced down and let out a shriek. Lying on the carpeted floor between rows of Alvirah’s size-10 extra-wide designer shoes, with green eyes staring up, crinkly blond hair flowing around her face, tongue slightly protruding and the missing drapery tieback around her neck, was the body of a slender young woman.

  “Blessed Mother,” Alvirah moaned as the clothes fell from her arms.

  “What’s the matter, honey?” Willy demanded, rushing to her side. “Oh my God,” he breathed. “Who the hell is that?”

  “It’s . . . it’s . . . you know. The actress. The one who had the lead in Brian’s play. The one Brian is so crazy about.” Alvirah squeezed her eyes shut, glad to free herself from the glazed expression on the face of the body at her feet. “Fiona Winters.”

  Willy’s arm firmly around her, Alvirah walked to one of the low couches in the living room that made her knees feel as though they were going to meet her chin. As he dialed 911, she forced her head to clear. It doesn’t take a lot of brains to know that this could look very bad for Brian, she told herself. I’ve got to get my thinking cap on and remember everything I can about that girl. She was so nasty to Brian. Had they had a fight?

  Willy crossed the room, sat beside her and reached for her hand. “It’s going to be all right, honey,” he said. “The police will be here in a few minutes.”

  “Call Brian again,” Alvirah told him.

  “Good idea.” Willy dialed quickly. “Still that darn machine. I’ll leave another message. Try to rest.”

  Alvirah nodded, closed her eyes and immediately turned her thoughts to the night last April when Brian’s play had opened.

  The theater had been crowded. Brian had arranged for them to have front-row-center seats, and Alvirah wore her new silver-and-black sequin dress. The play, Falling Bridges, was set in Nebraska and was about a family reunion. Fiona Winters played the socialite who is bored with her unsophisticated in-laws, and Alvirah had to admit she was very believable, though she liked the girl who played the second lead much better—Emmy Laker had bright-red hair, blue eyes and portrayed a funny but wistful character to perfection.

  The performances brought a standing ovation, and Alvirah’s heart swelled with pride when the cries of “Author! Author!” brought Brian to the stage. When he was handed a bouquet and leaned over the footlights to give it to Alvirah, she started to cry.

  The opening-night party was in the upstairs room of Gallagher’s Steak House. Brian kept the seats on either side of him for Alvirah and Fiona Winters. Willy and Emmy Laker sat opposite. It didn’t take Alvirah long to get the lay of the land. Brian hovered over Fiona Winters like a lovesick calf, but she kept putting him down and letting them know about her high-class background, saying things like, “The family was appalled when after Foxcroft I decided to go into the theater.” She then proceeded to tell Willy and Brian, who were thoroughly enjoying sliced-steak sandwiches with Gallagher’s special fries, that they were likely candidates for heart attacks. Personally, she never ate meat, she said.

  She took potshots at all of us, Alvirah recalled. She asked me if I missed cleaning houses. She told me Brian should learn how to dress, and with our income she was surprised we didn’t help him out. And she had really jumped on that sweet Emmy Laker when Emmy said Brian had better things to think about than his wardrobe.

  * * *

  On the way home Alvirah and Willy had solemnly agreed that though Brian might show a lot of maturity as a playwright, he had a lot of growing up to do if he didn’t see what a shrew Fiona was. “I’d like to see him together with Emmy Laker,” Willy had announced. “If he had the brains he was born with he’d know that she’s crazy about him. And that Fiona has been around a lot. She must have eight years on Brian.”

  Alvirah was drawn back to the reality of the moment by the vigorous ringing of the front doorbell. Mother-in-heaven, she thought, that must be the police. I wish I’d had a chance to talk to Brian.

  * * *

  The next hours passed in a blur. As her head cleared a bit, Alvirah was able to separate the different kinds of law enforcement people who invaded the apartment. The first were the policemen in uniform. They were followed by detectives, photographers, the medical examiner. She and Willy sat together silently observing them all.

  Officials from the Central Park South Towers office came too. “We hope there will be no unfortunate publicity,” the resident manager said. “This is not the Trump Organization.”

  Their original statements had been taken by the first two cops. At 3:00 A.M., the door from the bedroom opened. “
Don’t look, honey,” Willy said. But Alvirah could not keep her eyes away from the stretcher that two somber-faced attendants wheeled out. At least the body of Fiona Winters was covered. God rest her, Alvirah prayed, picturing again the tousled blond hair and the pouty lips. She was not a nice person, Alvirah thought, but she certainly didn’t deserve to be murdered.

  Someone sat down opposite them, a long-legged fortyish man who introduced himself as Detective Rooney. “I’ve read your articles in the Globe, Mrs. Meehan,” he told Alvirah, “and thoroughly enjoyed them.”

  Willy smiled appreciatively, but Alvirah wasn’t fooled. She knew Detective Rooney was buttering her up to make her confide in him. Her mind was racing, trying to figure out ways to protect Brian. Automatically she reached up and switched on the recorder in her sunburst pin. She wanted to be able to go over everything that was said later.

  Detective Rooney consulted his notes. “According to your earlier statement, you’ve just returned from a vacation abroad and arrived here around 10:00 P.M.? You found the victim, Fiona Winters, a short time later? You recognized Miss Winters because she played the lead in your nephew Brian McCormack’s play?”

  Alvirah nodded. She noticed that Willy was about to speak and laid a warning hand on his arm. “That’s right.”

  “From what I understand, you only met Miss Winters once,” Detective Rooney said. “How do you suppose she ended up in your closet?”

  “I have no idea,” Alvirah said.

  “Who had a key to this apartment?”

  Again Willy’s lips pursed. This time Alvirah pinched his arm. “Keys to this apartment,” she said thoughtfully. “Now let me see. The One-Two-Three Cleaning service has a key. Well, they don’t really have a key. They pick one up at the desk and leave it there when they finish. My friend Maude has a key. She came in Mother’s Day weekend to go out with her son and his wife to Radio City. They have a cat and she’s allergic to cats so she slept on our couch. Then Willy’s sister, Sister Cordelia, has a key. Then—”

  “Does your nephew, Brian McCormack, have a key, Mrs. Meehan?” Detective Rooney interrupted.

  Alvirah bit her lip. “Yes, and Brian has a key.”

  This time Detective Rooney raised his voice slightly. “According to the concierge, Brian’s been using this apartment frequently in your absence. Incidentally, although it’s impossible to be totally accurate before an autopsy, the medical examiner estimates the time of death to be between 11:00 A.M. and 3:00 P.M. yesterday.” Detective Rooney’s tone became speculative. “It will be interesting to know where Brian was during that time frame.”

  They were told that before they could use the apartment, the investigating team would have to dust it for fingerprints and vacuum it for clues. “The apartment is as you found it?” Detective Rooney asked.

  “Except—” Willy began.

  “Except that we made a pot of tea,” Alvirah interrupted. I can always tell them about the glasses and the champagne, but I can’t untell them, she thought. That detective is going to find out that Brian was crazy about Fiona Winters and decide it was a crime of passion. Then he’ll make everything fit that theory.

  Detective Rooney closed his notebook. “I understand the management has a furnished apartment you can use tonight,” he said.

  Fifteen minutes later, Alvirah was in bed, gratefully hunched against an already dozing Willy. Tired as she was, it was hard to relax in a strange bed, plus her mind was reviewing all that had transpired tonight. She knew that all this could look very bad for Brian. But she also knew there had to be an explanation. Brian wouldn’t help himself to that hundred-dollar bottle of champagne, and he certainly wouldn’t kill Fiona Winters. But how did she end up in the closet?

  * * *

  Despite the late bedtime, Alvirah and Willy were up the next morning at 7:00 A.M. AS their mutual shock over finding the body in the closet wore off, they began to worry. “No use fretting about Brian,” Alvirah said with a heartiness she did not feel. “When we talk to him, I’m sure everything will be cleared up. Let’s see if we can get back into our place.”

  They dressed quickly and hurried out. Once again Carlton Rumson was standing at the elevator. His pink complexion was sallow. Dark pouches under his eyes added ten years to his appearance. Automatically, Alvirah reached up and switched on the microphone in her pin.

  “Mr. Rumson,” she asked, “did you hear the terrible news about the murder in our apartment?”

  Rumson pressed vigorously for the elevator. “As a matter of fact, yes. Friends in the building phoned us. Terrible for the young lady, terrible for you.”

  The elevator arrived. After they got in, Rumson said, “Mrs. Meehan, my wife reminded me about your nephew’s play. We’re leaving for Mexico tomorrow morning. I’d very much like to read it today if I may.”

  Alvirah’s jaw dropped. “Oh, that’s wonderful of your wife to keep after you about it. We’ll make sure to get it up to you.”

  When she and Willy got out at their floor, she said, “This could be Brian’s big break. Provided that—” she said, stopping in mid sentence.

  A policeman was on guard at the door of their apartment. Inside, every surface was smeared because the investigators had dusted for fingerprints. And seated across from Detective Rooney, looking bewildered and forlorn, was Brian. He jumped up. “Aunt Alvirah, I’m sorry. This is awful for you.”

  To Alvirah he looked about ten years old. His T-shirt and khaki slacks were rumpled; had he dressed to escape a burning building he could not have looked more disheveled.

  Alvirah brushed back the sandy hair that fell over Brian’s forehead as Willy grasped his hand. “You OK?” Willy asked.

  Brian managed a troubled smile. “I guess so.”

  Detective Rooney interrupted. “Brian just arrived, and I was about to inform him that he is a suspect in the death of Fiona Winters and has a right to counsel.”

  “Are you kidding?” Brian asked, his tone incredulous.

  “I assure you, I’m not kidding.” Detective Rooney pulled a paper from his breast pocket. He read Brian his Miranda rights, then handed the paper to Brian. “Please let me know if you understand its meaning.”

  Rooney looked at Alvirah and Willy. “Our people are through. You can stay in the apartment now. I’ll take Brian’s statement at headquarters.”

  “Brian, don’t you say one word until we get you a lawyer,” Willy ordered.

  Brian shook his head. “Uncle Willy, I have nothing to hide. I don’t need a lawyer.”

  Alvirah kissed Brian. “Come right back here when you’re finished,” she told him.

  The messy condition of the apartment gave her something to do. She dispatched Willy with a long shopping list, warning him to take the service elevator to avoid reporters.

  As she vacuumed and scrubbed and mopped and dusted, Alvirah realized with increasing dread that cops don’t give a Miranda warning unless they have a pretty good reason for suspecting someone’s guilt.

  The most difficult part of her task was to vacuum the closet. It was as though she could see again the wide-open eyes of Fiona Winters staring up at her. That thought led her to another one: Obviously the poor girl hadn’t been killed while she was standing in the closet, but where had she been when she was strangled?

  Alvirah dropped the handle of the vacuum. She thought about those fingerprints on the cocktail table. If Fiona Winters had been sitting on the couch, maybe leaning forward a little, and her killer walked behind it, slipped the tieback around her neck and twisted it, wouldn’t her hand have pulled back like that? “Saints and angels,” Alvirah whispered, “I bet I destroyed evidence.”

  The phone rang just as she was fastening the sunburst pin to her lapel. It was Baroness Min von Schreiber calling from the Cypress Point Spa in Pebble Beach, California. Min had just heard the news. “Whatever was that dreadful girl thinking about getting herself killed in your closet?” Min demanded.

  “Buh-lieve me, Min,” Alvirah said. “I don’t know
what she was doing here. I only met her once, the opening night of Brian’s play. The cops are questioning Brian right now. I’m worried sick. They think he killed her.”

  “You’re wrong, Alvirah,” Min said. “You met Fiona Winters before then; you met her out here at the spa.”

  “Never,” Alvirah said positively. “She was the kind who got on your nerves so much you’d never forget her.”

  There was a pause. “I am thinking,” Min announced. “You’re right. She came here another week, with someone, and they spent the weekend in the cottage. They even had their meals served there. I remember now. It was that hotshot producer she was trying to snare. Carlton Rumson. You remember him, Alvirah. You met him another time when he was here alone.”

  * * *

  Alvirah went into the living room and out onto the terrace. Willy gets so nervous if I even step out here, she thought, and that’s crazy. The only thing to be careful about is leaning on the railing.

  The humidity was near saturation point. Not a leaf in the park stirred. Even so, Alvirah sighed with pleasure. How can anyone who was born in New York stay away from it for long? she wondered.

  Willy brought in the newspapers with the groceries. One headline screeched MURDER ON CENTRAL PARK SOUTH; another, LOTTERY WINNER FINDS BODY. Alvirah carefully read the lurid accounts. “I didn’t scream and faint,” she scoffed. “Where’d they get that idea?”

  “According to the Post, you were hanging up the fabulous new wardrobe you bought in London,” Willy told her.

  “Fabulous new wardrobe! The only expensive thing I bought was that orange-and-pink plaid suit—and I know Min is going to make me give it away.”

  There were columns of background material on Fiona Winters: The break with her socialite family when she went into acting. Her uneven career. (She’d won a Tony but was notoriously difficult to work with, which had cost her a number of plum roles.) Her break with playwright Brian McCormack when she accepted a film role and abruptly walked out of his play Falling Bridges, forcing it to close.