While My Pretty One Sleeps Page 8
He’d be late for work, but it didn’t matter. Doug restored his clothes to the back of the chaise, made the bed carefully, got rid of the ashtray, folded a quilt, a pillow and sheets on the couch to suggest he’d slept there, and wrote a note: “Dear Aunt Ethel. Guess you’re on one of your unexpected trips. Knew you wouldn’t mind if I continue to bunk on the couch until my new place is ready. Hope you’ve been having fun. Your loving nephew, Doug.”
And that establishes the nature of our relationship, he thought as he saluted Ethel’s picture on the wall by the front door of the apartment. At three o’clock on Wednesday afternoon, Neeve left a message at Tse-Tse’s answering service. An hour later, Tse-Tse phoned. “Neeve, we just had a dress rehearsal. I think the play is great,” she exulted. “All I do is pass the turkey and say, ‘Yah,’ but you never know. Joseph Papp might be in the audience.”
“You’ll be a star yet,” Neeve said, meaning it. “I can’t wait to brag ‘I knew her when.’ Tse-Tse, I have to get back into Ethel’s apartment. Do you still have her key?”
“Nobody’s heard from her?” Tse-Tse’s voice lost its lilt. “Neeve, there’s something weird going on. That nutty nephew of hers. He’s sleeping in her bed and smoking in her room. Either he doesn’t expect her back or he doesn’t care if she tosses him out on his ear.”
Neeve stood up. Suddenly she felt cramped behind her desk, and the samples of gowns and purses and jewelry and shoes strewn about her office seemed terribly unimportant. She’d changed to a two-piece dress from one of her newest designers. It was a pale-gray wool with a silver belt that rested on her hips. The tulip skirt barely skimmed her knees. A silk scarf in tones of gray, silver and peach was knotted at her neck. Two customers had ordered the outfit when they saw her wearing it on the sales floor.
“Tse-Tse,” she asked, “would it be possible for you to go to Ethel’s apartment again tomorrow morning? If she’s there, fine. Admit you were worried about her. If the nephew is around, could you say that Ethel wanted you to do some extra work, clean out the kitchen cabinets or whatever?”
“Sure,” Tse-Tse agreed. “I’d love to. This is off-off-Broadway, don’t forget. No salary, just prestige. But I have to tell you, Ethel isn’t worried about the state of her kitchen cabinets.”
“If she turns up and doesn’t want to pay you, I will,” Neeve said. “I want to go with you. I know she has an appointment book in her desk. I’d just like to have some kind of idea about what plans she may have made before she disappeared.”
They agreed to meet at eight-thirty the next morning in the lobby. At closing time, Neeve turned the lock on the Madison Avenue entrance to the store. She went back into her office for a quiet time over desk work. At seven she phoned the Cardinal’s residence on Madison Avenue and was put through to Bishop Devin Stanton.
“I got your message,” he told her. “I’ll be delighted to come up to dinner tomorrow night, Neeve. Sal’s coming? Good. The Three Musketeers from the Bronx don’t get together enough these days. Haven’t seen Sal since Christmas. Has he gotten married again, by any chance?”
Just before he said goodbye the Bishop reminded Neeve that his favorite dish was her pasta al pesto. “The only one who could make it better was your mother, God rest her,” he said gently.
Devin Stanton did not usually refer to Renata in a casual phone call. Neeve had a sudden suspicion that he’d been chatting with Myles about Nicky Sepetti’s release. He rang off before she could pin him down about that. You’ll get your pesto, Uncle Dev, she thought—but you’ll also get a flea in your ear. I can’t have Myles hovering over me for the rest of my life.
Just before she left, she phoned Sal’s apartment. As usual, he was in bubbling good humor. “Of course I haven’t forgotten tomorrow night. What are you having? I’ll bring the wine. Your father only thinks he knows about wine.”
Laughing with him, Neeve replaced the receiver, turned off the lights and went outside. The capricious April weather had turned cool again, but even so she felt the absolute need for a long walk. To appease Myles, she hadn’t jogged in nearly a week, and her entire body felt stiff.
She walked rapidly from Madison to Fifth Avenue and decided to cut through the park at Seventy-ninth Street. She always tried to avoid the area behind the museum where Renata’s body had been found.
Madison Avenue had still been busy with cars and pedestrians. On Fifth, the taxis and limousines and shiny town cars whizzed by quickly, but on the west side of the street, bordering the park, there were few people. Tossing her head as she approached Seventy-ninth Street, Neeve refused to be deterred.
She was just turning into the park when a squad car pulled up. “Miss Kearny.” A smiling sergeant rolled down the window. “How’s the Commissioner doing?”
She recognized the sergeant. At one point he had been Myles’s driver. She went over to chat with him.
• • •
A few paces behind her, Denny stopped abruptly. He was wearing a long, nondescript overcoat with the collar turned up and a stocking cap. His face was almost concealed. Even so he could feel the eyes of the cop at the passenger window of the squad car boring into him. Cops had long memories about faces, could recognize ones they knew even from glimpses of their profiles. Denny knew that. Now he resumed walking, ignoring Neeve, ignoring the cops, but he could still feel eyes following him. There was a bus stand directly ahead. As a bus pulled up, he joined the cluster of waiting people and got on it. When he paid his fare, he could feel the perspiration forming on his forehead. Another second and that cop might have recognized him.
Sullenly Denny took a seat. This job was worth more than he was being paid. When Neeve Kearny went down, forty thousand New York cops would be on a manhunt.
• • •
As Neeve entered the park, she wondered whether it was just coincidence that Sergeant Collins had happened to spot her. Or, she speculated as she walked rapidly along the path, has Myles got New York’s finest playing guardian angel to me?
There were plentiful joggers, few bicyclers, some pedestrians, a tragic number of homeless resting under layers of newspapers or ragged blankets. They could die there and no one would notice, Neeve thought as her soft Italian boots moved soundlessly along the paths. To her annoyance she found herself glancing over her shoulder. In her teens she had gone to the library and looked up the pictures in the tabloids of her mother’s body. Now, as she hurried with increasingly rapid steps, she had the eerie feeling that she was seeing the pictures again. But this time it was her face, not Renata’s, that covered the front page of the Daily News above the caption “Murdered.”
• • •
Kitty Conway had joined the riding class at Morrison State Park for only one reason. She needed to fill time. She was a pretty woman of fifty-eight, with strawberry blonde hair and gray eyes that were enhanced by the fine lines that edged and framed them. There was a time those eyes had always seemed to dance with an amused and impish glow. When she turned fifty, Kitty had protested to Michael, “How come I still feel twenty-two?”
“Because you are twenty-two.”
Michael had been gone for nearly three years. As Kitty gingerly hoisted herself up on the chestnut mare, she thought of all the activities she’d become involved in during these three years. She now had a real-estate license and was a pretty darn good saleswoman. She’d redecorated the house in Ridgewood, New Jersey, which she and Michael had bought only the year before she lost him. She was active in the Literacy Volunteers. She volunteered one day a week at the museum. She’d made two trips to Japan, where Mike Junior, her only child, a career army officer, was stationed, and had delighted in spending time with her half-Japanese granddaughter. She’d also resumed piano lessons without enthusiasm. Twice a month she drove disabled patients to doctor appointments, and now the latest activity was horseback riding. But no matter what she did, no matter how many friends she enjoyed, she was always haunted by the feeling of aloneness. Even now, as she gamely fell in with the dozen o
ther student riders behind the instructor, she found only profound sadness in observing the aura around the trees, the reddish glow that was a promise of spring. “Oh, Michael,” she whispered, “I wish it would get better. I’m really trying.”
“How are you making out, Kitty?” the instructor yelled.
“Fine,” she shouted.
“If you want to be fine, keep your reins short. Show her you’re boss. And keep those heels down.”
“Gotcha.” Go to hell, Kitty thought. This damn nag is the worst of the lot. I was supposed to have Charley, but of course you assigned him to that sexy-looking new girl.
It was a steep climb up the trail. Her horse stopped to eat every piece of green along the way. One by one, the others in the group passed her. She didn’t want to get separated from them. “Come on, damn you,” she murmured. She kicked her heels against the horse’s flanks.
In a sudden, violent movement, the mare threw back her head, then reared. Startled, Kitty pulled at the reins as the animal swerved down a side path. Frantically she tried to remember not to lean forward. Sit back when you’re in trouble! She felt the loose stones slide under the hoofs. The uneven canter changed to a full gallop, downhill, over the uneven ground. Dear God, if the horse fell, it would crush her! She tried to slide her boots so that only the tips were still in the stirrups, so as not to get hung up if she fell.
From behind, she heard the instructor yelling, “Don’t pull on the reins!” She felt the horse stumble as a rock gave way under its hind leg. It started to pitch forward, then regained its balance. A piece of black plastic flew up and grazed Kitty’s cheek. She looked down, and an impression of a hand framed by a bright-blue cuff darted through her mind and was gone.
The horse reached the bottom of the rocky incline and, taking the bit between its teeth, galloped flat out toward the stable. Kitty managed to hang on till the last moment, when she went flying from the saddle as the mare came to an abrupt stop at the watering trough. She felt every bone in her body bounce as she hit the ground, but she was able to pull herself to her feet, shake her arms and legs and move her head from side to side. Nothing seemed to be badly strained or broken, thank God.
The instructor galloped up. “I told you, you gotta control her. You’re the boss. You okay?”
“Never better,” Kitty said. She started for her car. “I’ll see you in the next millennium.”
• • •
A half hour later, gratefully reclining in her steaming, churning bathtub Jacuzzi, she began to laugh. So an equestrian I’m not, she decided. That’s it for the sport of kings. I’ll just jog like a sensible human being from now on. Mentally she relived the harrowing experience. It probably hadn’t lasted more than two minutes, she thought. The worst part was when that miserable nag slipped. . . . The image of the plastic flying past her face returned. And then, that impression of a hand in a sleeve. How ridiculous. But still, she had seen it, had she not?
She closed her eyes, enjoying the soothing, whirling water, the scent and feel of the bath oil.
Forget it, she told herself.
• • •
The sharply cool evening caused the heat to go on in the apartment. Even so, Seamus felt chilled to the soul. After pushing a hamburger and French fries around on his plate, he gave up the pretense of eating. He was aware of Ruth’s eyes boring into him across the table. “Did you do it?” she asked finally.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because it might just be better to let it go.”
“I told you to put it in writing. Thank her for agreeing that you need the money and she doesn’t.” Ruth’s voice began to rise. “Tell her that in these twenty-two years you’ve paid her nearly a quarter of a million dollars on top of a big settlement and it’s obscene to want more for a marriage that lasted less than six years. Congratulate her on the big contract she has for her new book and say that you’re glad she doesn’t need the money but your kids sure do. Then sign the letter, and drop it in her mailbox. We’ll keep a copy of it. And if she squawks, there won’t be a person alive who doesn’t know what a greedy phony she is. I’d like to see how many colleges drape her with honorary degrees if she reneges.”
“Ethel thrives on threats,” Seamus whispered. “She’d turn a letter like that around. She’d make the alimony payments sound like a triumph for womankind. It’s a mistake.”
Ruth shoved the plate aside. “Write it!”
They had an old Xerox machine in the den. It took three attempts before they had a clear copy of the letter. Ruth handed Seamus his coat. “Now march yourself over and stick that in her mailbox.”
He elected to walk the nine blocks. His head sunk in misery, his hands jammed into his pockets, he fingered the two envelopes he was carrying. One held a check. He had taken it from the back of the checkbook and written it without Ruth’s knowledge. The letter was in the other envelope. Which one should he put into Ethel’s box? As though she were standing before him, he could see her reaction to the note. With equal clarity, he could visualize what Ruth would do if he left the check.
He turned the corner of West End Avenue onto Eighty-second Street. There were still plenty of people out. Young couples, shopping on the way home from work, their arms filled with groceries. Well-dressed middle-agers, flagging cabs, off to expensive dinners and the theater. Derelicts huddled against brownstones.
Seamus shivered as he reached Ethel’s building. The mailboxes were in the vestibule inside the locked main door at the top of the steps. Whenever he was down to the wire with the check, he’d ring the bell for the superintendent, who’d let him in to drop the check into Ethel’s mailbox. But today that wasn’t necessary. A kid he recognized as living on the fourth floor brushed past him and started up the steps. On impulse he grabbed her arm. She turned, looking scared. She was a bony-looking kid, thin face, sharp features. Maybe about fourteen years old. Not like his girls, Seamus thought. From somewhere in their genes, they’d received pretty faces, warm, loving smiles. A moment of profound regret washed over him as he pulled out one of the envelopes. “Would you mind if I went into the vestibule with you? I have to put something in Miss Lambston’s mailbox.”
The cautious expression faded. “Oh sure. I know who you are. You’re her ex. It must be the fifth of the month. That’s when she always says you deliver the ransom.” The girl laughed, showing gaping spaces between her teeth.
Wordlessly, Seamus fumbled in his pocket for the envelope and waited as she unlocked the door. The murderous rage washed over him again. So he was the laughingstock of the building!
The mailboxes were directly inside the outer door. Ethel’s was fairly full. He still didn’t know what to do. Should he leave the check or the letter? The girl waited by the inner door, watching him. “You’re just on time,” she said. “Ethel told my mother she yanks you right into court when you’re late with her check.”
Panic swept over Seamus. It would have to be the check. He grabbed the envelope from his pocket and tried to force it down the narrow slit in the mailbox.
When he arrived home, he nodded yes to Ruth’s fiercely angry question. He could not at this moment stand the explosion that would occur when he admitted he’d dropped off the alimony. After she stalked out of the room, he hung up his coat and took the second envelope from his pocket. He glanced into it. It was empty.
Seamus sank into a chair, his body trembling, bile rising in his throat, his head in his hands. He had managed to fumble again. He had put the check and the letter into the same envelope, and now they were in Ethel’s mailbox.
• • •
Nicky Sepetti spent Wednesday morning in bed. The burning in his chest was even worse than last night. Marie was in and out of the bedroom. She brought in a tray with orange juice, coffee, fresh Italian bread spread thick with marmalade. She pestered him to let her call a doctor.
Louie arrived at noon, shortly after Marie went to work. “With respect, Don Nicky, you look real sick,” he said.
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Nicky told him to watch television downstairs. When he was ready to go to New York, he’d let him know.
Louie whispered, “You were right about Machado. They got him.” He smiled and winked.
In early evening, Nicky got up and began to dress. He’d be better off on Mulberry Street, and it wouldn’t be good for anyone to guess how sick he really was. As he reached for his jacket, his skin became damp with perspiration. Holding on to the poster of the bed, he eased himself down, loosened his tie and shirt collar and lay back on the bed. For the next hours, the chest pain kept swelling and receding like a giant wave. Under his tongue, his mouth began to burn from the nitroglycerin tablets he kept swallowing. They did nothing to ease the pain, only gave him the familiar sharp, brief headache as they melted.
Faces began drifting past his vision. His mother’s face: “Nicky, don’t hang around with those guys. Nicky, you’re a good boy. Don’t get into trouble.” Proving himself to the mob. No job too big or too small. But never women. That dumb remark he’d made in the courtroom. Tessa. He’d really like to see Tessa once more. Nicky Junior. No, Nicholas. Theresa and Nicholas. They’d be glad he’d died in bed like a gentleman.
From far away he heard the front door open and close. Marie must have come in. Then the doorbell ringing, a hard and demanding sound. Marie’s angry voice. “I don’t know if he’s home. What do you want?”
I’m home, Nicky thought. Yeah. I’m home. The bedroom door swung fully open. Through glazed eyes, he saw the shock on Marie’s face, heard her shriek, “Get a doctor.” Other faces. Cops. They didn’t have to be in uniform. He could smell them even when he was dying. Then he knew why they were there. That undercover guy, the one they’d wasted. Right away the cops had come to him, of course!
“Marie,” he said. It came out a whisper.
She bent over, put her ear to his lips, smoothed his forehead. “Nicky!” She was crying.
“On . . . my . . . mother’s . . . grave . . . I . . . didn’t . . . order . . . Kearny’s wife killed.” He wanted to say that he’d intended to try to get the contract on Kearny’s kid stopped. But all he managed to cry was “Mama” before a last blinding, tearing pain ripped through his chest, and his eyes went out of focus. His head slumped over on the pillow as his agonized breathing filled the house, and abruptly stopped.