Body in the Big Apple

“Hope!”

“I’ll think about what you said. Got to run. Love you. Bye.”

If there is a company, Faith thought as she ran a bath. That would definitely solve Hope’s dilemma—if she asked for a prospectus and none existed.

She got into the fragrant, steamy water. Phelps Grant needed money. A lot of it. She’d never really considered him a suspect, but he was always there in the back of her mind with everyone else. He’d been at the party and could have left the card. He could have been at the first party, too; Faith had stayed in the kitchen that night. Then there was the second card. The one in the newspaper outside the Stansteads’ apartment 150

door. The threatening one. Someone who looked as presentable as Phelps, particularly if he’d been there before, could easily get into the building. There were always times during the day when the doorman was away briefly. The Stansteads’ building had a rear entrance and stairs next to the service elevator. She’d noted them when they were catering the party. Having evaded the man at the door, you could avoid the one in the elevator by slipping into the rear and up the stairs.

Where there was a will, there was a way. And Phelps definitely aspired to riches and power. He could be in the hole for any number of reasons—rent on a tony apartment he couldn’t afford, picking up the tab at Mortimer’s to impress a little too often, treating everyone to lines of the good stuff . . .

She’d have to find somebody new for Hope after the holidays. It wasn’t the season to break up, although from the sound of it, Hope shouldn’t expect much in the way of a gift from Phelps. It was nice to have someone at the holidays. New York was so romantic.

Twinkling lights everywhere. Red, green, gold—the city was swathed in the colors of the season. She added some more hot water.

There was no sense in going back to Garden City, even if she hadn’t been literally thrown out of the real estate office. She wouldn’t be able to find out anything more about Todd Hartley there. She smiled. He’d have a hard time finding her. The car was registered to Jane, age fifty something. In the last years, her mother had grown a bit vague as to the exact number. There was nothing to link Faith Sibley to Karen Brown. She had nothing to fear from the man.

She let her mind wander. Fox was killed to blackmail Emma. But did that really make sense? There was 151

already enough to blackmail Emma about well into the next century. Why kill Fox?

The apartment had been trashed. Maybe by junkies, as both Josie and Richard had suggested. But what if that hadn’t been the case? What if it had been somebody looking for something other than stereo equipment and jewelry?

Something like a tell-all book. A magnum opus.

Something that would blow the lid off—blow the lid off somebody’s secret. Somebody other than Emma.

Richard’s book was going to blow a southern town sky-high. What was it with men—success had to be measured on the Richter scale?

Faith suddenly decided she had to get into Fox’s apartment. Emma had a key. Surely the police would be finished with it by now. A key didn’t mean breaking and entering. She wanted to see the place for herself.

See how it had been searched.

And it was time to talk to Lorraine Fuchs again. Lorraine, the faithful companion. Find out if Lorraine knew anything more about that “very important book” Fox had been working on at the time of his death.

Lorraine Fuchs had sounded thrilled that Faith—or rather, Karen—could drop by the next day.

“It’s so important. I’ve thought of doing it myself, only I’m not a writer. Oh, maybe the odd pamphlet, but not a whole book! You were at the service. You heard Arthur. Nathan’s words were his legacy. But his life was, too, and you’ll be putting it into words!” Faith arranged to be there at 2:00 P.M., took down the directions, and felt like a heel.

Next, she called Emma.

“I want to get into your father’s apartment.” She 152

came right to the point. It was the best way with Emma.

“What! You don’t want me to go with you, do you?”

“No, but I do need the key.” Faith thought they should assume that Emma’s movements were being closely followed, and the last place she should go was to Fox’s apartment. She wondered if the blackmailers had pictures of Emma on the day Fox was killed. Well, even if they did, there was no need to supply them with any more opportunities.

“It’s best to do this sort of thing during the day. Less suspicious. I’d like to go over in the morning.”

“You sound terribly professional,” Emma remarked admiringly.

“It’s common sense—and television.” You could learn a lot from Cagney and Lacey.

They arranged that Faith would drop by Emma’s apartment and pick up the key the next morning on her way downtown. “I have to go to a breakfast with Michael, and if I’m already gone, I’ll leave it in an envelope with Juanita,” she told Faith. “If I leave it with one of the doormen, Michael might be with me when he said something like ‘Your friend got the key all right.’ Then it would be ‘What key?’ and everything will be ruined. Michael and Juanita never talk.” Faith’s next call was to Josie.

“It’s about time! I’ve been worrying my head off about you all day,” Josie complained.

“Why didn’t you call? And what’s going on? You just saw me last night?”

“Didn’t want to bother you. Maybe was taking a little nap myself. Yeah, I know,” Josie muttered.

“But what’s wrong?”

“You know. That phone call you got last week. The 153

one we’re not talking about. I’m not asking any questions—not that I don’t want to—but when you’re working the way we are, you know when something heavy is going down. One look at you is all I need.”

“I’m okay.” Faith wished she could add that everything else was, too, but she couldn’t lie to Josie. Besides, Josie would know the minute she saw Faith.

“Any new jobs?” Josie asked.

“No, but don’t forget we have a million party platters, some buche de Noël, and several main courses to do this week. I don’t know which is more work—a whole dinner or assembling all those for the do-it-yourselfers.”

“I’ll be in bright and early. What do you want me to start on—pastries or pâtés?”

Faith felt a little embarrassed. “I won’t be able to get there until later, and I have to be away for a while in the afternoon, but I plan to work late. I’m going to ask Jessica to come in. She can clean up and do some of the simple prep work—wash fruit, cut up cheese.

Why don’t you start on the desserts?” Faith knew Josie preferred making bite-sized pecan tarts, tiny profiteroles, and white chocolate mini-cheesecakes to putting together the vegetable terrine, pâté de campagne, duck with armagnac pâté, and others that, along with an assortment of breads, went into that offering.

They talked business some more; then Faith realized she’d better be getting ready for her date with Richard.

“I’ve got to meet Richard in an hour,” she said.

Josie voiced her approval. “I liked him. Good appetite. You can tell a lot about a man by the way he eats. This is good. If you’re with him tonight, I won’t have to worry.”

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Faith was a little annoyed. She could take care of herself. “You don’t have to worry in any case.”

“Whatever you say.”

Monday morning, Faith breezed past the doormen, who were getting to be old friends, and went straight up to Emma’s apartment. She was anxious to get downtown, get a look at Fox’s apartment, then get some work done before she had to leave for her appointment with Lorraine Fuchs. Busy, busy, busy.

It was sunny and several degrees warmer than it had been lately. People looked happier. Maybe there was something to this sunlight-deprivation business. After getting the key, Faith walked briskly to the subway entrance. Richard and she had been talking about the decade again last night at the Algonquin. Faith supposed every era had spawned a variety of popular notions—fads, even—but they seemed on the increase, and they seemed to be taken more seriously. Like the sunlight theory or the Yuppie fatigue thing. Then her own personal favorite—that an unmarried thirty-one-year-old woman was as likely to find a mate as she was to win the New York State Lottery and/or be awarded the Nobel Prize for anything.

“That’s not something you’ll have to worry about,” Richard had said, reaching for her hand. They were drinking Manhattans and Connick was playing Cole Porter—“Easy to Love,” to Faith’s delight and discomfort.

“Which part?” Faith had asked.

“The married part. You’ll be married long before your thirty-first birthday.”

“What makes you so sure?” she’d asked.

Richard had signaled the waiter for more drinks and 155

the menu. “Because you’re the type. Aside from being very lovely and smart, you’re a head-over-heels kind of lady. And that’s irresistible.”

It had been on the tip of Faith’s tongue to ask, “To you?” but for once she’d kept quiet. Maybe she wasn’t ready to hear the answer.

Now, leaving the subway and walking along the sidewalk, she cast a longing glance at the Grand Dairy restaurant. No time for blintzes today. She passed the place where her father bought his pure English lisle black socks by the dozen and turned off into Fox’s street.

The building was run-down. There was a small area in front, just big enough for a few lawn chairs, which would sprout in the spring, their elderly occupants passing time by watching what passed. The front door looked secure, but it opened with a push. Faith looked at the mailboxes. None of them had the name Fuchs.

Emma had given her the apartment number. It was on the third floor, and she walked up the stairs, key in hand.

It wasn’t hard to find the apartment. Not hard at all—with its bright yellow crime-scene ribbon taped across the door. And her key was worthless. The apartment had been secured by the police.

“Can I help you, dear?” An incredibly short woman who looked to be in her eighties came out of the apartment next door.

“I’m . . . I’m a graduate student and I’m doing my thesis on Nathan Fox, his life, his writings.” Faith fum-bled for words and quickly put the key in her coat pocket. “I thought maybe some of his neighbors might have had some contact with him.”

“You’d better come in,” she said. “I’m Sadie Glickman. What’s your name?”

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“Karen. Karen Brown,” Faith didn’t dare look the woman in the eye. She’d be lost if she did. It was a whole lot harder to lie to a little old lady than to someone like Todd Hartley. Fooling him had been exciting and fun, in a way—at least at the beginning. Reeling off whoppers to someone her grandmother’s age conjured up Dantesque visions of what might await her in the hereafter. I’m doing this for Emma, she repeated to herself. It was becoming a mantra.

“You want something to eat, Karen? I have some nice pound cake.”

“No, no thank you. This probably wasn’t a good idea. The papers said he kept to himself.” Sadie sat down in a chair by the window in her tiny living room and motioned Faith into another. The largest piece of furniture was a television set. Besides its function as entertainment, it served to hold more photographs than Faith had ever seen assembled in one place. “My family,” Sadie said, waving her hand.

“Now that’s true—Mr. Fuchs did keep to himself. The police questioned me. A very nice young man.” She looked at Faith in an appraising way and Faith was tempted to pipe up, “No, I don’t have a steady.”

“I was here when it happened,” she continued. “But when they asked, the only thing I could tell them was that I thought I might have heard a backfire then. Of course, I’d see Mr. Fuchs now and again on the stairs, in the hall, but Live and Let Live is my motto. There are plenty like him in the building. Stella—that’s my upstairs neighbor—she used to get a little smile and a hello out of him. She’s younger than I am,” Sadie said pointedly.

Faith laughed.

“Are you sure you don’t want some cake?” 157

“Why not?” Despite the photo gallery, the woman was obviously lonely, and Faith felt she owed her something for the lies she was telling.

They settled in with cake and tea. Faith heard about the achievements of various Glickmans and a great deal about Leona Helmsley, who had been sentenced the previous Thursday.

“An old lady! An old lady like me! And they’re going to send her to prison for four years! When I say

‘like me,’ I mean, you understand, that we’re in the same time of life, not the same type of person.”

“I’m sure you have never been driven in your life by

‘naked greed.’ That’s what the judge said. Why he was so hard on her. He accused her of thinking she was above the law.”

Sadie nodded solemnly. “No, greed was never a problem for me. I never had enough to be greedy about. Not that I’m complaining. Abe and I had a good life. All the children went to college and are doing well. Maybe she did think she was above the law.

Harry, of course Harry can’t even think these days. You have to feel sorry for another human being. He spoiled her maybe. Too many fur coats. It went to her head.

But above the law? There are a lot out there”—she pointed to the street—“who think that. And what about Mr. Fuchs when he was Nathan Fox?”

And what about Mr. Fuchs? Faith had momentarily forgotten her mission. A mission impossible, and she’d better get going. But Sadie was a smart lady. Nathan Fox had thought himself above the law. Maybe it wasn’t the same kind of self-interest as Queen Leona’s.

Fox had used the old “for the greater good” argument to justify his actions. Always a chilling phrase.

Yet, self-interest was a good part of Fox’s life, self-158

aggrandizing in a way not dissimilar from Leona Helmsley’s ad campaigns. What about all his enfant terrible books? Dinners at Elaine’s—and his society matron groupies.

Sadie was still talking about the verdict. “She’s appealing. I hope she has a good lawyer. What’s the point? She didn’t kill anybody. Take her money away.

Send her here. There’s an apartment on the first floor available. Let her live out her days as one of the little people. It’s wrong to send old ladies to prison.”

“I can’t argue with that.” Faith got up and began clearing their plates and cups. Sadie watched approv-ingly.

“I’m sorry. I have to be going,” Faith told her, slipping her coat from the back of the chair. Sadie got up, too, and put her hand on Faith’s arm. She lowered her voice and, in a conspiratorial tone, asked, “You want to have a look at his place?”

“How? It’s all locked up.” Faith couldn’t believe this was happening. How was Sadie going to get her into Fox’s apartment? A hidden door in the closet? Morph her through the wall?

“You can get onto the fire escape from Stella’s, and it goes right past his window.”

The image of Stella, and maybe Sadie, too, as a Peeping Thomasina was almost too much for Faith. In days that weren’t filled with any laughter, this one was rapidly becoming high comedy.

“Is Stella home?”

“Stella’s always home on Mondays. We’ll go up.” Which was how Faith shortly found herself crouched on a cold metal grid, peering through the grimy locked window of Nathan Fox’s apartment, the apartment where he had met his death.

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The police must have taken various articles away, but Faith didn’t have a clue as to what they were. The small room was a shambles. The card table where he wrote was overturned, the typewriter lying on its side.

Clippings and papers from the file cabinet covered the floor. There was a cabinet over the sink. The door was open and it was empty, except for a saucepan. There was a plate and a glass in the dish drainer. The refrigerator door was closed. There were no postcards on it and nothing lay on the floor beneath. The grill at the bottom had been pried off. The oven door was open. It needed cleaning—since sometime in the forties. Directly opposite the window was a closet. That door was open, too. The hangers were empty and there was a pile of clothes on the floor. A flat pile. No picture of Emma and Michael. She couldn’t see into the bathroom, but she’d seen enough to know how thorough the search had been. She’d also seen enough to know what the person—or persons—unknown had been looking for. The books that filled an entire wall in floor-to-ceiling shelves were virtually undisturbed.

And they looked carefully arranged, separated by metal bookends into groups. If the police had picked them up from the floor, Faith doubted they would have replaced them so carefully. The only volumes that had been disturbed were the oversized ones. True, somebody looking for goods to fence wouldn’t walk out with a stack of books, but they wouldn’t search under the refrigerator, either, or go through the file drawers.

Somebody had been looking for something specific—

something the size of a finished manuscript.

If there was an outline where Fox had fallen, she couldn’t make it out from this angle, but there was a clear space by the door. He’d answered it—expecting 160

whom? Emma—back for a pair of forgotten gloves?

No, he’d have noticed them. Emma back with another treat? Who? Who was it who’d knocked—and entered?

“Are you all right, Karen?” Sadie was leaning out the window. “Don’t get chilled.”

But it was too late for that. Faith was already chilled.

Chilled to the bone.

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Seven

Lorraine Fuchs lived in Bay Ridge, not far from the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. The first thing she told Faith when she opened the door to her tidy brick house was “I watched them build the bridge when I was a little girl—the Verrazano, not the Brooklyn Bridge.” She gave a halfhearted laugh, yet what struck Faith was not the woman’s attempt at a joke, but the enormous change in her appearance. She was positively unkempt.

Both her turtleneck and slacks were wrinkled—as if she’d slept in them. But her red-rimmed bloodshot eyes weren’t indications of a good night’s sleep. Her hair hadn’t been braided, and the result was truly scary.

Faith was tempted to march her off to a decent stylist then and there, subtracting ten years from her age with the removal of a foot or two of hair.

“I didn’t know how to reach you. I was going to tell you not to bother to come, but since you’re here, you might as well come in.”

What had happened to the keeper of the flame? Her desire to help Faith with the “legacy”?

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The house was tidy. Faith was sure Lorraine hadn’t moved a thing since her mother died. The living room was papered with dark green leafy fronds. The matched set of sofa, easy chair, and ottoman sported the original nubbly dark brown upholstery. A bookshelf held the classics. A wedding picture, a graduation shot of Lorraine—with significantly less hair—and several sepia prints of a bygone generation stood framed on top of the bookcase. There was a window seat beneath the largest window, overlooking the narrow driveway and detached garage next to the house—

its twin to the other side, with the repeat of Lorraine’s house next to it. The whole street was the same—

house, garage, garage, house—with an occasional low fence or folly such as a wishing well the only distinguishing features. Even the shrubs looked uniform.

There was a shelf under the window seat, and Lorraine gestured toward it. It was filled with scrapbooks, folders, and boxes.

“There they are. His whole life. My whole life.” She began to cry.

“It must have been such a shock.” Faith tried to comfort the woman. She was glad she had her son left at least. “You must miss him terribly.” Lorraine yanked her head up. “Miss him! That bastard! You want to write about him? You want to see scrapbooks? You want to see a book? I’ll show you a book!” The woman was screeching. She ran to the shelf below the window seat and grabbed a thick manila envelope from the top of a stack of other items. These teetered, spilling out on to the floor. She kicked at them, waving the other parcel about. There was no address on the front of it, just her first name.

‘Be sure I’m really gone, Lorraine,’ he said. ‘Wait till 163

the funeral, Lorraine—if there’s a funeral. Then wait some more.’ Well, I waited. Yes, I waited! For what?

To find out just who he thought ‘Lorraine’ was. That’s what!”

With her tangled hair draped about her shoulders, she looked like a crazed twentieth-century version of Miss Havisham. The cause for the change between last night and this afternoon? It was obvious. Lorraine Fuchs had read Nathan Fox’s magnum opus and blown her lid.

“Who the hell is this?” A young man forcefully pushed open the front door, sending it slamming against the wall, where the torn wallpaper and exposed plaster revealed that this was an habitual form of entry.

Everything about him was large. Tall, verging on obesity, but broad-shouldered, he had a mane of tangled, dirty hair that reached to his shoulders, mingling unpleasantly with his beard on the way. Something about the Fuchses and long hair, Faith said to herself.

His jeans were fashionably ripped at the knee, and when he took off his leather jacket, he revealed a Kurt Cobain T-shirt and several tattoos—a large one of Woody Woodpecker in full Klan regalia on his fore-arm. None of them said MOTHER.

It had to be Harvey.

It was Harvey. “Harvey,” Lorraine mumbled in a voice that was both placating and awestruck, “this is Karen. I met her at . . . at the . . . last job I had. She’s a friend.” The last sentence struck a pleading note.

Faith was willing to bet Harvey wouldn’t let his mother have a pet, either. Lorraine’s luck with menfolk was on a par with Desdemona’s.

Harvey walked past them, leaving his jacket on the 164

floor, and pushed open the swinging door into the next room. He appeared to take no notice of his mother’s di-shevelment or the mess on the carpet. He was back right away with a can of beer, his attention still else-where, his eyes blank, his face devoid of expression.

“Tell your friend to get out. Now.” He hadn’t raised his voice once since entering the house, but his flat monotone was terrifying. It was completely devoid of affect and Faith realized that this was true of the rest of Harvey, as well. He hadn’t even glanced at her once. Never addressed her directly. The two women were objects, like the furniture in the room. He picked up the remote, put his feet, clad in heavy motorcycle boots, on the coffee table, and switched the television on, flicking through the chan-nels until he came to MTV.

Faith had no problem with leaving. Lorraine looked as if she would have liked to go, too—at least for a cup of coffee. As Faith went out the door, Lorraine said good-bye, added something about Harvey being tired, then leaned forward and whispered, “Come back during the morning. Early. He never comes then. Come Wednesday.”

Faith nodded and thankfully made her way back to Manhattan. If every foray out of the city was going to be like the last two, she’d just as soon stay within the confines of the borough for the rest of her life. Maybe a trip or two to someplace like Provence, but definitely she was never going to live anywhere except the Big Apple.

Back at work during the rest of the afternoon, Faith struggled to shake off the sense of deep fear Harvey had provoked. Suddenly, all her other theories were 165

tumbling houses of cards. Whatever Lorraine knew, Harvey knew—and Lorraine knew where Fox had been living, probably knew about Emma. Most certainly after Emma’s upstate visit. Emma’s visit with Todd. Had it been Harvey on the other end of the phone? Faith hadn’t heard enough to be sure. Had they pooled their knowledge and come up with the plot to extort money, a great deal of money, from Emma? It was hard to gauge Harvey’s intelligence, but it didn’t take much to be a blackmailer—and none at all to kill.

Josie and Jessica had had things under control, but Faith still worked at a fever pitch to get all the party platters and several buche de Noël done and delivered.

Howard, who served as van driver when necessary, returned from the last load at six.

“Any changes in the schedule this week? Tomorrow night, we’re on, Thursday night’s your relative’s party, right? Then there’s the weekend. That’s filled, yes?”

“No changes, but with more platters to do and several takeouts, it’s about all we can handle until we move to the new place,” Faith answered, adding silently, Until I take care of this Emma business. Until my life veers from the schizophrenic course it’s on.

The phone rang, and it was the lady herself.

“Don’t be mad, but I had to give them their money again. Yesterday.” Uncharacteristically, she came straight to the point.

Faith’s heart sank. It wasn’t the money—though watching Emma bleed tens of thousands of dollars was gut-wrenching. It was another opportunity lost. If Emma had told her she was going to pay up, Faith could have lurked in the doorway of a nearby building 166

and watched the pickup. Watched Harvey—or Todd—

search the Dumpster? She had to find out what time Emma had made the drop. She had to explain this all, but with her staff in full earshot, it was impossible now.

“Can you meet me for a drink? Or I could come by the apartment?”

“You can’t talk now. You’re working, of course!

How stupid of me. I shouldn’t have interrupted you!” Emma was contrite.

“No, interrupt me anytime, please. We’re all”—

Faith emphasized the word all, hoping Emma would pick up on it—“done here and just about to leave.”

“I have to meet Michael at the opening of Geoffrey Beene’s new boutique. It’s not that Michael’s so interested in fashion, but they go way back. Mother Stanstead won’t wear any other designer, and Lincoln told Michael he’ll be there. Michael wants to talk to him about some fund-raiser.”

Making a swift and firm resolve never to call anybody “Mother” anything, except possibly when referring to the nursery rhyme, Faith tried to think when she could sit Emma down and find out what had happened.

Both of their schedules were typical New York nightmares. Lincoln was Lincoln Kirstein, the cofounder of the New York City Ballet, and it sounded as if the Beene opening was going to be as luminous as the Milky Way. She wished she was catering it.

“How about tomorrow—lunch?” Emma asked. “It’s my Doubles holiday lunch at the Sherry-Netherland and someone canceled at my table.”

Faith thought it was extremely unlikely that they would be able to chat about blackmail and murder at the private club’s well-known and much-sought-after festivity.

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“It’s always very noisy and gay. Nobody will pay any attention to what we’re talking about.” Emma could be right. Faith had certainly been to enough gatherings of this sort to know that people barely listened to one another, let alone a conversation on the other side of a table. The important thing was to see and be seen.

“All right. I can take off for lunch, but I may have to leave early. Meet you there.”

“You’re an angel, Faith. See you.”

Faith wasn’t sure what was particularly angelic about going to lunch, but then every encounter with Emma from the very beginning had had unintended and often incomprehensible results, so lunch with the members of the Doubles Club and their guests should be no different.

She decided to call Richard. The idea of going back to her apartment alone was unsettling. Here, with her staff bustling about her, she’d had a hard time keeping Harvey’s face from her mind. Home alone, the image of this poster boy for sociopaths would be a waking nightmare. Besides, tonight would be her last free evening for a while, and she might as well make the most of it.

“Got anything special on for tonight? Sweet Richard?” Josie asked as she was putting on her coat.

Josie herself was determined to remain unencumbered until she got her restaurant going, but she’d explained to Faith that that didn’t mean she had to take any vows. She’d changed from her work clothes and looked terrific in a deep claret-colored velvet sheath that brought out the rosy glow in her warm brown skin. She wore her hair very short—“Don’t want to fuss with it,” she’d said. It fit her head like a cap, em-168

phasizing her high cheekbones. When she did have her restaurant, she was going to be as much of a draw as her food, Faith predicted.

“If Richard’s busy, I may go to a party.” People, noise, safety in numbers.

“Go to the party,” Josie advised. “Things are getting entirely too intense lately.” She raised her eyebrows in an unspoken question—a question she knew Faith couldn’t answer.

“You may be right.” She’d get dressed up and lose herself in a merry holiday party. It was decided. She could even drop in on the Beene opening. Mother Stanstead wasn’t the only one who favored the designer.

But first she tried Richard. Richard and the party would be perfect. He was home.

“I left a message for you at your apartment,” he said.

“Didn’t want to bother you at work.”

“Bother me. Really. If I can’t talk, I’ll tell you.”

“Okay. Anyway, can I see you tonight? I have to leave town for a few days and won’t be back until the weekend.”

“I was about to call you.” Why was she relieved that he was leaving town? One less thing to think about?

Or was it getting harder and harder not to confide in him? Or, she admitted reluctantly, was it that she had no idea how she felt about him and wanted some time apart?

“Nice words. What had you planned to say?”

“The same thing. Except I’m not leaving town.”

“Excellent—on both counts.”

They arranged to meet at the party and then think of what to do afterward once they were together.

Faith went home and tried on several different out-169

fits before settling on a black velvet coat dress that flared slightly at midcalf. It had a small black lace insert at the bodice. It looked festive and elegant. She pulled her hair back. Richard liked the nape of her neck. He was going out of town for a while. Damn.

She was going to miss him, wasn’t she? She sprayed on Guerlain’s Mitsouko, put on her coat, and went off to the party.

At eleven o’clock, Richard and Faith were walking down Fifth Avenue, which was by no means deserted.

There had been a break in the cold spell and the warmth from the day’s sunshine seemed to linger in the air. Strolling down Fifth, or any number of other avenues, was one of Faith’s favorite things to do. Especially at this time of year, when every window was filled with glittering enticements.

Richard, like Faith, had grown up in the city. It was one of the things they had in common—an unabashed love of New York.

“Where did you go to see Santa?”

“Macy’s, of course.”

“Of course, but then here at Schwarz’s with my grandparents for good measure.” Faith didn’t think her grandmother had ever been in Macy’s—or any other large department store other than Altman’s.

At the giant toy store, every day was Christmas, Hanukkah, and your birthday all rolled into one—the one in your dreams. As usual, the windows were filled with outrageous toys—huge stuffed animals, dolls with designer wardrobes, and kid-size working models of their parents’ luxury cars.

“I had a car you could really drive.” Richard’s face was almost against the glass. “Foot power. If you ped-170

aled like hell and were on an incline, you could pretend you were doing five miles an hour.”

“Maybe Santa will bring you one of these—except bigger.”

“He’d have to bring me a parking place, too,” Richard said ruefully.

They walked on, past Tiffany’s, the windows bright but empty, the contents resting securely in the vault. A stage set waiting for the principals to arrive. Next was Trump Tower. It looked like a giant Godiva chocolate box. They stopped to gaze past the revolving door into the pink marble atrium. Faith had never seen so many poinsettias—and such enormous ones. But, like those at Saint Patrick’s, they went with the place. Excessive, overblown, exorbitantly expensive, it was still a great spot to hang out, gliding up the escalators past the five-story waterfall walls. You could almost convince yourself the brass everywhere was fourteen-carat gold.

Then Steuben. Its curved crystal-clear glass window appeared not to exist at all—fooled you into thinking you could reach in and pluck one of the vases from the display or grab the Excaliber paperweight, complete with sword awaiting Arthur.

“I love New York,” Faith said. The city’s ineffable magic had momentarily erased all the hideous pictures from her thoughts.

“Did you ever consider public relations? I’ll bet someone in the mayor’s office would be interested in a catchy phrase like that,” Richard teased.

She punched him lightly on the arm she was holding. “You know what I mean.”

They walked all the way to the New York Public Library at Forty-second Street, passing the tree at Rockefeller Center.

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“Do you skate?” Richard asked.

“I skate,” Faith replied.

“Then we’ll go skating when I get back.” He was, Faith noted, making the tacit assumption that they would keep on seeing each other. They were climbing the library steps. Faith patted one of the stone lions guarding the portals. They had such great Bert Lahr faces. Each had a festive wreath around its neck.

Richard was smiling at her. He had a great smile—and the rest of him wasn’t bad, either. They had talked about everything and anything, except themselves, and she had no idea if he was getting over a relationship, seeing a lot of other people—although he seemed to be free most nights—or had even been seriously involved before. He was thirty. It wasn’t much older than she was if you simply counted the years, yet it seemed much older. Thirty. Don’t trust anyone over it. That TV show— thirtysomething—she’d watched an episode and found it too self-conscious and boring. Too many whiners. But what would she be doing in six years? What would Emma be doing?

Going to Washington lunches she didn’t want to attend while hubby wheeled and dealed in Congress?

Faith devoutly hoped so.

“A penny for your thoughts. Make that a quarter—

inflation,” Richard put his arms around her. He smelled good—soap, Brooks Brothers spice cologne.

It was what her first boyfriend had worn and she was still a sucker for it—and all the heady firsts it conjured up.

“Oh, I was trying to remember which lion’s name is Patience and which Fortitude.” This had crossed her mind when they’d arrived at the library.

“Can’t help you. It’s one of those things I’ve forgot-172

ten, if I ever knew—like the words to certain Christmas carols. But I have both—patience and fortitude, that is.”

“Where did you get the rest of the Wenceslas verses? Here at the library?”

“I bought a book. It’s in my apartment. Want to stop by and sing?”

As a variation on etchings, it was certainly original, and Faith realized she wanted to sing. Wanted to sing very much.

“Baked butternut squash soup with toasted pignolis, butterflied game hens with asparagus risotto, Bibb lettuce and radicchio with pomegranate seeds in a raspberry vinaigrette, cheese plateau, and individual chocolate mousse cakes.” Faith had arrived at work early the next morning. The soup was done and she was starting the cakes. The recitation of the menu for tonight’s dinner was for Josie’s benefit. She’d just come in and they were alone.

“Two questions. Anything else with the hens? Like a chutney? And, more important, where’d you get that glow? ’Cause if it comes in lotion, I want a truckload.” Josie laughed. “Never mind. Don’t tell, but if it were a cosmetic—like those tubes of instant tan—someone would be a billionaire.”

Faith tried to look stern and professional. “Chutney’s a good idea. We can offer two—one for the fire-breathers.”

As the morning wore on, she let her thoughts wander. Last night had left her more confused about her feelings for Richard than ever. He wasn’t seeing anyone else. Had never been married, but he’d had a five-year relationship that had broken up last summer. It 173

wasn’t a tell-all session, to Faith’s relief. She’d run as fast as she could from men who insisted on detailing their every conquest—and every heartbreak. For her part, she simply told him she had several good male friends—guys she’d gone to school with, some she’d met since—but she’d never been seriously involved with anyone for too long. As Josie was wont to put it,

“I don’t hear chimes.”

As the morning passed, thoughts of Richard receded and the cast of characters occupying her life, the cast she couldn’t mention, resumed their prominent roles.

She’d see Lorraine tomorrow morning and ask if she could borrow the manuscript. The earth-shattering tell-all book. It had to be what Lorraine was talking about.

It had to be in one of those precious stacks of memorabilia under her window seat. Obviously, there were things in it that freaked out Lorraine. Who and what had been mentioned? There was something sickening about Fuchs sitting at his shaky card table, hammering away at his old Underwood, filling sheet after sheet with his own particular venom. Faith thought of the recent craze for Mommie Dearest books. Fox would skewer those hostesses, Poppy for sure, as well as his comrades in the struggle. Politicians, of course, perhaps even his family. Those two cousins at his service—Irwin and Marsha. Maybe they’d taken his sand pail away on an outing to the Jersey shore. Faith had a feeling it was that kind of book. The kind of book a lonely, embittered, disappointed older man writes to get back, to point blame—anywhere but at himself—

for his life. Did it mention Emma? Would he do that to his own daughter?

Faith had become convinced that Fox’s Marxism consisted mainly of “To me according to my needs.” 174

He wouldn’t have cared what kind of havoc he’d be wreaking after his death—would have positively enjoyed the prospect. If he thought about Emma at all, and possibly he did care for her, he’d have convinced himself that he was doing her a good turn—extricating her from her marriage to a major capitalist pig. Bringing Stanstead down—and who knew how many others in the pages of his book?—was what Nate Fox would have considered a magnificent legacy.

She wondered about his other literary efforts. There had been best-sellers, but in recent years his efforts had barely raised a ripple—a mention in the “Books in Brief ” column of the Times Book Review at best. It was quite a comedown. Fox had genuinely seemed not to care about money—look at how he’d lived—but he’d cared about fame. And fifteen minutes didn’t begin to be enough. He’d had it and wanted it again—

even if he wouldn’t be around to enjoy it. Envisioning the effect his book would have was enough—mental masturbation.

But what about his agent? Surely he cared about fortune—and fame as a result. The big advance, the multiple printings, the translations, the movie. Faith didn’t have a moment to spare to see Quinn, but it was time. Past time. A blockbuster posthumous book—

that was money in the bank. Joining some sizable de-posits from blackmailing Fox’s daughter? But would he be capable of helping his client—a client with steadily dropping sales figures—on his way to push the publication date up? “Agent from hell” was usually an appellation from the publisher’s perspective.

This might be a new variation. Faith resolved to call Arthur Quinn after lunch and set up an appointment as soon as possible.

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Emma had mentioned finding out about Todd Hartley from a bookstore in the Village. Faith took down the Yellow Pages. It was a name you didn’t forget. Sure enough, Better Read Than Dead was still alive and kicking. She looked at her watch. She had an hour before she had to meet Emma, and tonight’s dinner was under control. She’d be back in time to finish up the rest of their jobs after the luncheon.

“Do you mind if I duck out again?” she asked Josie.

“It’s so hard to get good help these days,” she quipped, then added, “look, Faith, I know your friend’s in trouble, serious trouble, and you can’t tell me about it, but whatever you need to do, just do it. I can look after things here.”

Faith threw her arms around her assistant.

“When you open that restaurant of yours, I’m going to be there every night with everyone I can think of.”

“Once, twice a week will be fine. Now, you go take care of business.”

Better Read Than Dead was the type of bookstore Faith loved. It was small, yet the owner had managed to wedge in several comfortable easy chairs and a couch. There were books everywhere and many had little tags on them—“Recommended by Natasha,” or

“Recommended by George”—which gave a familial feel to the place, as did the large ginger cat curled up in the window. There was no cappuccino, and used books outnumbered new ones. There were no computer terminals. The cash register was original. The woman behind it was, too. She was by Botero—or Rubens. Large, lush in appearance, with a deep gold paisley scarf wound around the neck of her volumi-nous dark caftan, she wore several strings of amber 176

beads that had become tangled with the glasses resting on her large bosom. Her hair was gray and short. She was very beautiful.

“Looking for anything in particular or just brows-ing?” she asked. She had a slightly husky voice. Too many cigarettes? She was lighting up now. The voice reminded Faith of something. She couldn’t remember now, though.

“Have you got anything by Nathan Fox?” The woman smiled quizzically.

“I’m doing my thesis on the sixties,” Faith lied.

“Oh, that explains it.”

Faith bristled. Was it so obvious that the stack next to her bed consisted of Gourmet, Vogue, The New Yorker, an Alice Hoffman novel, and a book of Ellen Gilchrist’s short stories?

“I had quite a run on Fox the week after he was killed, but I have plenty of books left. Got a good deal on remainders. Take your pick. Five bucks apiece. I got ten the other week, but the demand is down, so I’ll give you the regular price.”

Faith felt compelled to buy one of each title. Nagging at her was the thought that the key to this whole ugly mess lay in Fox’s personality, but she wondered if she’d glean much wading through his rhetoric.

“Did you know Nathan Fox?”

“We all knew Nathan Fox. But this was his favorite bookstore—until he became famous and started going uptown.” Natasha related this matter-of-factly. If she was bitter, she wasn’t revealing it to Faith. “He used to hold court over there.” She pointed to the largest easy chair. “I can see him now. You’ve probably seen news videos. He could hold a room—or a stadium or a park—for hours. But I don’t know why you’d want to 177

waste your time on him. He never contributed anything meaningful either to contemporary neo-Marxist political theory or to the movement. Nathan Fox cared about Nathan Fox—not anyone in Vietnam, Cambodia, or all the people killing themselves in dead-end jobs in this country.”

Faith wasn’t surprised. She had another question, and she asked it obliquely.

“He looks very attractive in the old pictures. He was supposed to have a way with women, in particular.” Natasha laughed. It was deep, throaty, and conta-gious. “He was a cocksman, if that’s what you’re getting at. In the beginning, he’d screw anything in skirts, except we were seriously into pants, khaki pants, in those days.” She looked at Faith. “And to answer your next question, no, he wasn’t my lover, although he would have liked to have been. I started this store with a dear friend. We lived together from the day we met until the day he died last year. Nathan Fox was nothing compared to what I had. Drove him crazy. Then he went uptown—

and we didn’t see him so much anymore.” So much for solidarity, Faith thought.

“I should put the books in the window,” Natasha said. “Somebody’s bound to write Nate’s biography now. Even before all this, somebody was around last summer asking about him.”

“A man or a woman?” Faith asked quickly.

“A man,” Natasha answered.

Faith picked up the bag of books. An interesting parcel to check at the Sherry-Netherland, her next destination.

“Did you ever meet somebody named Lorraine in those days?” Faith wasn’t sure why she asked this. It just popped out.

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“I don’t want to talk about Lorraine. It’s too sad.

Now you’d better go and do whatever it is you do,” Natasha said pointedly.

Faith left the store, and looking back, she saw that the woman had flipped the sign on the door to CLOSED.

The red-walled private dining room at the Sherry-Netherland Hotel was filled with poinsettias and pine boughs—and women. The women were greeting one another with squeals of delight. Dress ran heavily toward Adolfo suits in red or green, with Faith having opted for a Betsey Johnson quilted peplum jacket and skirt in soft gray. At the last minute, she’d grabbed a felt hat with roses from Charivari. It was festive.

Emma was waving from her table, and Faith hurried over.

Doubles was a private club and an invitation to one of their holiday lunches was a coup. Fun and familial—without the complications that family events often brought. And Emma had been right: With the buzz of conversation and a spirited performance, complete with sleigh bells, by the West Side Madrigalists, they could safely talk about anything without fear of detection—especially since the seat next to Faith was empty.

The first thing Faith noticed was that Emma was beginning to show the strain of the last weeks. She’d pulled her hair back and her face looked pinched and tired. She was wearing makeup, yet she still looked pale. She was picking at her cuticles again.

Faith had missed the first course and the waiter was serving lamb chops. They looked good—rosy, not overdone.

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“How did they get in touch with you? What did they say?” she asked Emma.

“By phone again. Late in the afternoon. After I saw you. It was so quick, I barely had time to take it in.

Just, ‘Same time, same place. If you don’t happen to have the cash, bring jewelry.’ Then whoever it was hung up. I was terrified. Michael was home, working in his study. Thank God he didn’t answer the phone.” Again a Sunday, at a time when the spot would be deserted.

Emma looked anguished. Faith turned, so that anyone glancing their way would see more of Faith’s quilted back than Emma’s face.

“It’s the hang-up calls. I can’t stand them, and now maybe they’ll stop. I wrote another note saying this is absolutely the end.”

“From now on, if you hear anything at all from them, anything, call me. Leave messages at home and work. I check them all the time. Maybe I should get a beeper.”

“Delicious. And so much fun to catch up with everybody. Did you see all those yummy desserts?” Emma answered quickly—now flushed with the effort—when the woman next to her suddenly remembered her manners and turned to say a few words to the guest on her other side. Having satisfied this social obligation, she turned back to the other conversation, having apparently not noticed Emma’s untouched plate or total lack of catching up.

“Eat something,” Faith ordered. “And try to smile.” Obediently, Emma the good girl cut off a tiny piece of meat and choked it down.

“What jewelry did you give them?”

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“I had the money.” Emma sipped some of the white wine at her place.

“The odd ten thou just lying around?” Faith was incredulous. The rich really were different.

“After you told me they probably wouldn’t stop, I took some more out—just to be on the safe side.” Emma Stanstead wouldn’t be on the safe side unless Faith could figure this all out, but if it made her feel more secure to have stacks of Ben Franklins under her camisoles, so be it.

“I was very careful to notice everything so I could tell you, but there wasn’t much to notice. It was a different cabdriver, but I wrote his number down anyway.

And there wasn’t a soul at the construction site. Luck-ily, I had the garbage bags left over from the last time.”

Lucky, lucky, lucky. Faith sighed. She had to get back to work. This was neither the time nor the place to tell Emma about Harvey Fuchs and Faith’s new suspicions about a Harvey-Todd Hartley combo. It was much more likely than anything involving Arthur Quinn. Agents didn’t murder their clients. It was bad for business.

“I’m going to hit the ladies’ room, then be on my way. Tell Michael everything, please. Get some sleep, and call me.” She felt like a physician.

Emma didn’t address the first part of the prescrip-tion. “I am tired. There’s so much going on.” Faith gave her a swift hug and walked across the room. The dessert buffet had been set up on a large round table in the middle of the dance floor. Bird-boned women were circling it, taking “just a taste” of the fabulous-looking concoctions on their plates: St.

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Honoré cakes, almond tarts, pecan tarts, blueberry crisps, crème brûlées, praline soufflés. Everybody loves dessert.

Poppy Morris was in the ladies’ room, reapplying her makeup with a practiced hand. She looked striking, as usual; her suit by whomever was apple green and made all the rest at the luncheon look unoriginal.

“Faith, dear, how lovely to see you. I was going to give you a call after the party. It was wonderful, and I’m so impressed. You’re a very clever girl.” She patted the low seat next to her and Faith sat down. For a moment, Poppy was intent on her lip liner; then she glanced about the room. Apparently, the sole other occupant, a woman of a certain age applying rouge to cheeks resembling crushed tissue paper, was not someone Poppy cared about overhearing their conversation.

“Emma looks terrible. Do you know what’s bothering her?”

Faith had dreaded this moment, predicting it when Poppy had fixed her with her gimlet eye the moment she walked through the door.

“I think she’s tired. They go out so much, and she has all these other things—her charity work, political events.”

Poppy wasn’t buying it. “She’s always had those.

True, it takes a great deal of stamina to be married to someone in politics, but she doesn’t entertain much.

It’s merely a question of showing up and behaving pleasantly.” Clearly, Poppy felt her own role as trend-setter much more demanding—and important.

Faith knew she had to give her something else.

Poppy wasn’t buying fatigue.

“Well,” she said drawing the word out, “I know she’s 182

worried about not getting pregnant.” Nothing to hurt Emma in this revelation, and she hoped her feigned reluctance would convince Poppy that this was all that Emma was worrying her pretty little head about.

Poppy snapped her Chanel bag shut. “I knew it! And she simply makes it all worse by agonizing! Not that I’m in any hurry to be a grandmother at my age.” She managed to make it sound as if forty were still a speck on the distant horizon.

Faith nodded in agreement. “She told me the doctor said she should relax, but I imagine that’s hard when you want something as much as this.”

“I don’t know why she’s having all this trouble.

With me, all you had to do was lay a pair of men’s trousers across the bottom of my bed and there I was.

Not literally, of course.”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Morris. I know where babies come from. My mother explained it all to me when I was in third grade by using Del Monte pear halves—

womb, et cetera. Emma knows, too, because I told her myself.”

Faith still remembered their joint shocked wonderment and giggles. She’d never been able to eat those pears again—not that she would now, in any case.

Canned pears!

Poppy stood up and smoothed her skirt. Once more, she glanced around the room and for the moment, they were alone.

“Michael’s going places, and he’s the perfect husband for Emma.” She gave Faith an air kiss and stepped back. “You know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for my daughter— nothing. ” Then she was gone, leaving Faith to speculate about what the hell had just happened.

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Faith went over the scene with Poppy all the way back to work. This was a side Faith had never seen before—the mother lion and her cub. Cubs, if you counted Lucy, but Lucy could more than take care of herself, and Poppy knew it. It was Emma she’d had to go rescue from the commune in the Village, Emma she’d dragged to Dr. Bernardo, and Emma she’d safely married off to “the perfect husband.” What did this intensity mean? And why now? What did Poppy know? She’d been at Fox’s service and had looked bereft. She and Lorraine had been the only two, Faith noted. But what if Poppy knew about the book, knew that Fox planned to name names? There was nothing she wouldn’t do for her daughter. Did this include murder?

Before she threw herself into her work—something she was longing to do—Faith pulled the phone book from the shelf and called Arthur Quinn. He answered immediately.

“Arthur Quinn?”

“This is he.”

“Hello, my name is Karen Brown and I’m doing some research on the sixties, specifically on Nathan Fox, for my thesis. I was wondering if you’d have any time to talk with me. I’m hoping to use my material for a biography of Fox.”

“Sure, I don’t mind helping. What’s your time frame?”

“I’m working pretty intensively on it”—she should have said “desperately”—“so, the sooner the better.”

“How about tonight? You want to meet me for a drink and we can talk? Maybe a little supper after-184

ward? I know a great little place on the West Side. Very cozy.”

Oh no, thought Faith. Just what she didn’t need.

“I’m so sorry. Tonight isn’t good for me. How about if I stop by your office tomorrow or the next day?”

“Tomorrow’s no good for me. Let’s say Thursday.

Lunch?”

He seemed determined to make it a social affair. But then meals and doing business are one and the same to agents, Faith reflected. She could be wrong. Maybe he wasn’t trying to ask her out. With the weather lately, a

“cozy” spot could simply mean he wanted to keep warm.

“Great, but why don’t I meet you at your office first?

I’d like to see where you met with Fox.” What she really wanted to see was what kind of setup Quinn had.

How large an agency, furniture by Knoll—or Ikea.

“Better meet at the restaurant. You like deli? We’ll meet at the Stage at one.”

Didn’t the man have an office? And he’d totally ignored her bit about wanting to see where he’d met with his client.

She hung up and gave her full attention to her work—for once.

Lorraine Fuchs had said to come early, and Faith took her at her word. She was heading against the crowd, leaving the city at seven o’clock Wednesday morning.

With luck, she’d be back at work no later than nine, and she’d have some new reading material. She let her eyes close. The motion of the train and the sound it made on the tracks was soporific, even though she’d gotten enough sleep for once.

She stopped at a bakery and bought some muffins.

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At one time, this section of Brooklyn had been completely Scandinavian, she recalled, but the doughnuts and muffins in the case didn’t resemble Danish pastries in the slightest. Still, they smelled good, and Faith firmly believed it was always better to talk about touchy subjects while eating.

Lorraine’s street was quiet. No dog walkers. No commuters. She climbed the steps to the front door and pushed the bell. And waited. She pushed again. And waited. She’d been warm enough while she was walking, but now the cold crept through her coat. It wasn’t her warm one. That was at the cleaner’s.

She pressed the bell harder. It was working. She could hear it ring inside. She should have called, but Lorraine had been specific, telling her to return Wednesday morning. It was Wednesday morning. Besides, Faith hadn’t wanted to take the chance of getting Harvey. It wasn’t just hearing his voice—although that alone was enough to put her off—but also the thought that he could make things difficult for his mother.

More difficult.

Faith leaned over and tried to peer through the front window. She walked around to the side and then to the back of the house. She looked in the back door. The kitchen was immaculate. Either Lorraine hadn’t had breakfast yet or had cleaned up immediately. Faith knocked. There was no response. Could the woman be an extremely sound sleeper? Maybe she should find a phone and call. She kept walking around the house.

She was by the garage now—and in an instant, she was at the door, pushing it up with all her strength. A motor was running inside.

Lorraine was in the driver’s seat, slumped over the wheel. The door wasn’t locked, and Faith dragged the 186

woman out into the open air. She was in her nightgown; her hair once again in a neat braid. Faith started CPR immediately, then stopped. It was too late. The woman’s face was bright pink, but she was definitely dead.

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Eight

“I can’t say I’m surprised. Not with the life she led.” An older woman in a housecoat with a parka thrown over it was standing looking down at the body in disapproval. She zipped her jacket up. Now it matched her lips.

“Made her parents’ life a living hell. They did everything for her. Sent her to college. I’m not one to butt into other people’s affairs, but I did say something to Irene—that was her mother. ‘Why waste the money?

She’ll get married. She knows how to type. She can get a job until then. Help you out.’ But they were set on it, and now look at her.”

Tears of outrage—and grief—spilled down Faith’s cheeks. Who the hell was this old harpy? Poor Lorraine. She deserved so much better than this. The sad-dest part was that the woman was right. Where had college gotten Lorraine? She was doing typing jobs at the time of her death. Her death! Had what she’d read in Fox’s book been so overwhelming that she’d had to end it all? Or was this “suicide” really murder?

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The woman narrowed her eyes. “Who are you, anyway? And what are you doing here?”

“I’m a friend of Lorraine’s,” Faith stammered in real confusion. “We met at a temp job. We were supposed to have coffee this morning.”

“You have a name?” She was leaning over the body now, close to Lorraine’s mouth. “Don’t smell any booze, but they weren’t none of them big drinkers.”

“My name is Karen Brown.”

“Well, Karen, I’ll stay out here with the poor girl and you go call nine one one.” She fished a ring of keys out of her pocket, pulled one forward, and handed them to Faith. Faith started off in the direction of the house next door, which she presumed belonged to the woman.

“Not my house. Use their phone. We exchanged keys when we first moved in. I took mine back when Lorraine inherited the place. She’s got this son, you know.”

Faith flushed angrily. What did the woman think?

That she was going to case her place while she used the phone? Walk off with her Oneida teaspoons?

She walked unsteadily back to the front door. She’d never seen a dead person before. The odd part was how alive Lorraine looked. Just like the cliché said—as if she were merely asleep. Faith shuddered. Death was something she’d planned to think about when she was much, much older, and until then it could stay crammed way in the back of her mind. But it was going to be very hard to keep Lorraine’s still face from creeping forward. Still. The corpse was absolutely still.

Not the tremor of a breath, the twitch of an eye. Finally, unalterably, irretrievably still. Faith opened the door with a shaking hand.

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The phone was in the kitchen, and after taking a few deep breaths, she dialed 911. The bored voice that greeted her report told her that what was a cataclysmic event in her young life was soon to be just another statistic in a file somewhere.

“An officer will be right there. Don’t touch anything.” And that was it.

She hated leaving Lorraine alone with the woman next door, but she had to look for the manuscript.

Emma was still alive—for the moment. What if the blackmailer thought Emma knew more about his identity than she did? There were two deaths now, and Faith was certain they were connected. Certain this, too, was murder. For one thing, Lorraine had made an appointment with Faith for this morning and Lorraine was a very conscientious type. The ultimate good girl, despite her illegitimate child and belief in overthrow-ing the United States government. If she was going to kill herself, she’d do it on a day when she hadn’t invited a guest to her home. She knew Faith was coming and that she’d be there early. She’d have intended to offer coffee, not a corpse. It wasn’t simply a bizarre question of manners; it was the way Lorraine had lived her whole life—for other people.

But more significant, Lorraine would never willingly have left Harvey. Strange as that might seem to Faith, she knew it was true. Lorraine had been devoted to her son. She wouldn’t have abandoned him. And wouldn’t a suicide have locked the car doors? To make it that much harder to be rescued?

Keeping her warm gloves on, Faith went into the living room to start searching. She didn’t have much time. The police would be here soon and the neighbor would start to get suspicious.

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When Faith had last seen Lorraine’s collection of Nathan Fox memorabilia, it had been spread out on the floor. Lorraine had grabbed a thick envelope from the top of one pile, which tipped over. She’d scattered it more, pulling at the papers to either side, kicking them. It had been a mess. Apparently, she’d put it all back, but the thick envelope—the one she’d waved about, saying, “I’ll show you a book!”—was missing.

Faith looked again, but it wasn’t there. She made a quick search of the room, lifting sofa cushions, opening the coat closet. Nothing. The kitchen and dining room were the same. It had been a thick parcel, and there weren’t too many hiding places. She ran to the basement. It was neat as a pin and bare save for the fur-nace, a washer and dryer, empty clothes basket, and a few tools on a shelf.

Upstairs, there were two bedrooms and a bath. It was hard to go through Lorraine’s pitiful wardrobe, feeling under a stack of well-worn turtlenecks, tights that had been darned, and flannel nightgowns soft with wear. On the bureau, there was a large photograph of Fox and Lorraine, taken many years ago. They both had their fists raised and they were smiling. There was a baby picture next to it, a truly repellent-looking infant, who could only be Harvey. A wedding picture, presumably of Lorraine’s parents, was the sole addi-tional object.

Faith felt under the mattress. The bed had been slept in—there was a deep impression in the pillow—but by now the sheets were ice-cold. She glanced involuntar-ily toward the window. Like Lorraine.

The bathroom yielded nothing save a confirmation of Faith’s suspicion that Lorraine had not been aiding in any way what God had given her. Not even lipstick.

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The second bedroom in the rear was tiny—room for a single bed and bureau, as well as a small desk and bookcase. The drawers were filled with young Lorraine’s schoolwork. Papers on the life cycle of the fern and the use of metaphor in Moby-Dick. She’d gotten A’ s. The bookshelf was filled with treasured childhood volumes: Little House on the Prairie, Misty of Chincoteague, Anne of Green Gables, and the like. Incongruously, pristine first editions of the works of Nathan Fox were set alongside them. But no unpublished book. The window had eyelet curtains, and Faith felt a stab of pity thinking of the little girl who had lain there reading and dreaming.

The only sign that Harvey had ever occupied the room was a Metallica poster taped to the rosebud wallpaper.

Faith was getting angry. She wished Lorraine had never met Fox—or Harvey’s father. Again the words

“She deserved better” returned—as they would every time she thought of Lorraine Fuchs, Faith realized.

Natasha, the owner of the bookstore, had refused to talk about the woman. “It’s too sad,” she’d said. And she was right.

Nothing under the bed or mattress here, either. A hall closet held linens, a shabby suitcase—empty—

and a vacuum cleaner. There was no attic. Faith raced down the stairs, convinced that the manuscript wasn’t in the house. She had to get back outside. She’d already been gone too long.

“You took your time.” The woman from next door looked at Faith accusingly. She’d dragged a lawn chair from the garage and was sitting next to the body in a crude parody of a summer’s day. Lorraine might as well be a sunbather.

“I was looking for an address book, so we could call her son and other relatives, but I couldn’t find one.” 192

This was true, and the oddness of it struck Faith even more forcibly out here in the clear light of day.

Comrades didn’t send Christmas cards, but Lorraine must have had some phone numbers, some addresses.

“He lives in Jersey. Hoboken. But don’t expect the brokenhearted son. He’s the scum of the earth, that kid.

Always has been, but Lorraine would never admit it.

‘Too sensitive,’ she’d say. ‘Misunderstood.’ They’d come to visit now and then. We’d all be sure to lock our doors and keep our own kids away from him. Harvey Fuchs never cared about anybody or anything except himself and getting high.”

From what she’d seen, Faith was sure the woman was right. A voice nagged at her. What Lorraine knew, Harvey would have gotten out of her eventually, if not immediately. Which included knowing about the manuscript. It was worth a lot of money—possibly in blackmail alone. But he would have had to get his mother out of the way. She would never have let it be used like that. Harvey might have tattoos, but integrity had been indelibly stamped across Lorraine’s face.

Harvey would inherit the house, too, Faith realized.

Unless Lorraine had willed it to some politically acceptable group, it would go to her son. Knowing Lorraine, it was probably going to her boy. Were all women this crazy about their sons? Faith hadn’t had a whole lot of experience with mothers, and the mothers she knew best all had girls.

The woman continued: “And she doesn’t have any relatives. An only of only.” She sounded scornful, as if there was something genetically wanting in their bloodlines. “Never saw any friends come to the house, neither. Probably has some Commie friends, but they wouldn’t be in the book.” She laughed at her joke.

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“Communist.” She spat out the word. “That’s what she was—a Communist.” In case Faith hadn’t picked up on the allusion.

There wasn’t much Faith could think of to say to this.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Got in with the wrong crowd in college.” She made it sound like binge drinking. “Broke her parents’

hearts. Bunch of bullshit, if you ask me. There was a man, of course. If he’d a been a Teamster, she’d a learned to drive a rig; a bookie, she’d a run numbers.

That was Lorraine.”

Faith knew she was right.

“The cops are taking their sweet time, as usual. I’m going in if they don’t come soon. It’s freezing out here,” the woman complained.

“I hear it’s bad all over the country,” Faith commented. Weather. A nice safe topic, and the nation was gripped by the most intense cold in decades. She knew it would take wild horses to drag the neighbor away from the scene, no matter how low the temperature dropped. She was the ghoulish type, someone who not only slowed down to look at an accident but pulled over and stopped.

Faith began to walk up and down to keep warm. She wanted to leave, yet she knew she couldn’t. She didn’t want to draw any attention to Karen Brown at all, and this woman was sure to point out who had found the body.

“Haven’t seen too many, have you? You look kinda sick.”

“Not really.”

“This is nothing. Harry was so eaten up by cancer at the end that even the undertaker had to look away, but 194

they can do wonders. He was a beautiful corpse.

Everybody said so. Of course, my father was the best-looking one. People still mention it to me. So natural, you’d think he would sit up and climb right out of the coffin. People were pinching him to make sure he wasn’t being nailed in by mistake.” Thankfully, the police arrived before she could go into further detail—and Faith knew she would have.

They got right to work. Another car pulled up. It was the medical examiner. “Bumper crop today,” he said cheerfully, buttoning up his heavy black wool coat to his neck.

He waved the neighbor away. She had risen from her chair and had been crouching by his side, next to the body.

She joined Faith, who was standing at the end of the driveway. “Any note?” one of the officers asked.

Faith shook her head. While they had been waiting, she’d ignored the 911 directive and looked in the car, thinking the manuscript might be there, opening the trunk, even the glove compartment. She had, in fact, told the neighbor she was looking for a note.

“She seem troubled lately? Know of any previous attempt?”

Before Faith could say anything, the neighbor took over.

“She’s been real depressed since her mother passed—moved in to take care of her—and lately she’s seemed worse. I saw her yesterday, and she couldn’t keep from crying. Out here on the sidewalk. She’s got a bum for a son, and I’m not surprised she took this way out. She didn’t have a thing to live for.” The police took it all down and appeared satisfied.

They were zipping Lorraine’s mortal remains into a 195

body bag, and Faith looked away. Another image that would haunt her for the rest of her life.

The officer turned toward her. “Anything to add?”

“I didn’t really know her that well. I think she was a bit depressed, but I wouldn’t have said she’d take her own life.”

“Well, you really didn’t know Lorraine, then, did you?” The neighbor snapped. “She’s always gone to one extreme or another, and she’s done it this time.

Maybe she just meant to get Harvey’s attention. It would take something like this to get him to even look her way.”

Once more, the woman had the Fuchs family to a tee. She told them where Harvey lived and that the last time she’d seen him in the neighborhood had been on Monday. “Rides a Harley. He’s hard to miss.”

“Where’s the key to the house? You called from there, right?” an officer asked.

Faith had given the keys back as soon as she had returned. It was hard not to. The woman had had her hand stretched out. Now she slipped it off the ring and gave it to the police. One of the officers went inside.

“I got to get to an autopsy,” the medical examiner said, walking past them on his way to his car. He stopped. “Bring her in, but I don’t think there’s any doubt here. Carbon monoxide poisoning. Classic suicide.” He looked over at Faith with sympathy. “She didn’t suffer at all. She got drowsy and slipped away.

One of the ones I brought back described it as feeling like all his cares were floating away from him and then he fell asleep.”

“If I’d gotten to her earlier, could I have saved her?” She gave voice to the fear that had been plaguing her since she’d dragged Lorraine’s body from the car, a 196

shiny 1975 Ford Galaxy that must have belonged to her parents.

The man shook his head. “You would have to have been out and about in the middle of the night. I think she must have gone to bed, felt overwhelmed, and waited until no one was likely to be stirring. Say two, three this morning. Then she went out to the garage.

She would have been beyond help of any kind in an hour, hour and a half.”

They were taking Lorraine away, and there was no need for Faith to stick around. She was seized by an overwhelming desire to get back home, to get back to Manhattan.

“Is it all right to go now?” she asked. The officer looked weary.

“Yeah, we know how to reach you, right?” Faith nodded. She had given the false name and an address, and a phone number two digits off from her own. She was certain they would never be in touch.

The lies had come easily—at this point, she was even beginning to feel she was Karen Brown.

The ride back to the city was interminable. The train lost power several times, with subsequent starts and stops, flickering lights and darkness. It suited the day.

Faith wanted her aunt Chat’s party to be perfect. It was a swan song for the fabulous apartment in the San Remo, a swan song for the Manhattan chapter in Chat’s life—a lengthy and good read. It was also a swan song for the eighties—this hectic decade where fortunes had been made, lost, and made again. Chat had been a player, a rueful one, but still a player, and she’d sold her advertising agency for a very tidy sum.

She’d told Faith she didn’t want anything trendy—no 197

kiwi, no sushi, and definitely no quiche. Faith and Josie had decided to do a dinner buffet on a Merrie Olde England theme—except, Faith said, with edible food. There’d be roast beef—it had proved popular at the Stansteads’ and other parties Faith had catered—

but not overcooked in the traditional English manner.

She’d serve it with horseradish sauce or gravy and individual Yorkshire puddings. Chat, a devout An-glophile, was thrilled with the notion and insisted on her two favorites: angels-on-horseback and potted shrimp. She also ordered brussels sprouts. Faith was happy to comply, but for those who wanted their angels (oysters) cold and not wrapped in crisp bacon, she planned a large fruits de mer station. Potted shrimp and a large assortment of pâtés were fine, yet brussels sprouts were not what people wanted to see at a dinner party, even sophisticated New Yorkers. She wasn’t worried, though. She had a wonderful recipe that never produced leftovers. It was a simple one. The sprouts were steamed until just tender, then quickly sautéed over high heat in hazelnut oil with a dash of balsamic vinegar before mixing them with finely ground hazelnuts. It worked well with walnut oil and walnuts, too.

Josie was all for a suckling pig with an apple in its mouth, but Faith felt that was a bit too Henry VIII and decided to serve Scottish salmon with a light hol-landaise for the non-meat eaters. The staff would circulate with a variety of hot and cold hors d’oeuvres.

Chat had decreed that champagne and claret cup would be the only libations offered. “If they want anything else, they can go to another party.” Faith doubted anyone would, but she resolved to tuck in some British ale and a few bottles of red and white wine. Champagne gave some people a headache.

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For dessert, there would be Stilton and pears, as well as a plateau of other English cheeses—Wensleydale, Cheshire, Cheddar, and biscuits. She added several bottles of Cockburn port to the list. Nobody wanted to be bothered to crack walnuts unless he or she was lingering after dinner at a long table in a stately home.

She’d made several batches of sugared ones and a few spiced. A spectacular trifle that had taken Josie hours to concoct was waiting in one of Have Faith’s refrigerators. It had to be made the day before, and knowing it was there in all its glory was setting Faith’s mind con-siderably at rest. To fill in the cracks, if anyone could possibly still be hungry, they’d done miniature versions of treacle tart, Maids of Honor, Chelsea buns, and, with a nod across the Channel to the Sceptered Isle’s ancient enemy, dark chocolate and Grand Marnier soufflés.

“You think people will like it? It’s not too theme park? Not too ‘Tom Jones takes a bite of the Big Apple’?” Faith asked anxiously.

Josie was quick to reassure her. “They’ll love it.

People are tired to death of all that Yuppie food—you know, mixed field greens and caramelized rutabagas.

After this party, they won’t have to gorge themselves on Ring-Dings when they get home. And you know how nuts New Yorkers are for anything with the slightest trace of an English accent. Why do you think Ralph Lauren has made it so big with all his Brideshead rip-offs? Like his cowboy stuff. Live the fantasy.” Josie’s right, Faith thought happily. New Yorkers love anything British. Look at what happens when any of the royals come to town. And she’d grown up hearing her grandmother’s friends casually insert little references to “dear Wallis and the duke” into their 199

conversations. The whole country is a sucker for the accent. What was it Hope had said about Adrian Sutherland? That anything he said sounded important because of it?

“Just so long as we don’t have to dress up as wenches or wear those tall pointy hats with the scarves drooping out the back,” Josie said.

Faith laughed. They’d been working since seven o’clock and it was almost time for her to meet Arthur Quinn for lunch. Josie had tuned the radio to WQXR

and they’d been playing Christmas music all morning.

The thought of adopting her false identity and plung-ing back into the dark morass that had opened up when she’d met Emma at the first party was profoundly depressing. She felt truculent. This is Christmas. We’re doing a great party tonight. I’m not supposed to be running around trying to solve a murder. Two murders.

And blackmail.

She got up and went into the bathroom to change.

She didn’t have a choice.

“You okay?” Josie asked when she came out.

“Possibly,” Faith answered.

It wasn’t a day for walking. A light snow was starting to fall and the sky was a dense gray, but Faith got off the bus at Times Square to finish the trip to the Stage Deli on foot. She wasn’t claustrophobic, but suddenly she needed to breathe some fresh air—a term used lightly to describe the atmosphere hovering over the city.

She’d come down to the Square a few New Year’s Eves when she’d been a teenager, been to innumerable Broadway shows, but had never developed any sort of fondness for the neon sleaze that others were bemoan-200

ing now that the redevelopment plan spoken of for years was finally going to happen. Replacing porno flicks and arcades where strung out runaway teens sold drugs or themselves with a visitor’s center, new theaters, and hotels didn’t upset her in the slightest.

She looked up into the sky. The flakes were getting thicker, falling in a dizzy, random pattern. Who would arrange for Lorraine’s burial? She couldn’t imagine Harvey taking charge, speaking to a funeral home, selecting a casket, planning a service. The neighbor might. She seemed to have a real feel for death—a mortuary groupie. It upset Faith to think that Lorraine would go out of this world in much the same fashion that she’d lived in it. There was only one way to express it—the woman had been totally screwed.

Yesterday and today, Faith had said several prayers for the dead woman, but she found no ease. She’d called her father and asked that at the next church service he add the name Lorraine to those “newly gathered.” “A friend of yours?” he’d asked. She’d answered, “Yes.” He’d waited for her to say more and when she hadn’t, he’d said, “You know I’m here.” Faith had replied gratefully, “I know, thank God.” He’d given a low laugh and said, “I do.” Who killed Lorraine Fuchs? As she made her way uptown, her steps fell into rhythm with the words. Who killed Lorraine Fuchs? Who killed Cock Robin? Not I, they all said. She pulled her hat down farther over her ears. Was this matricide? Harvey? Or someone else?

Someone so eager to get his hands on Fox’s manuscript that he’d kill for it? Someone named in it—or someone who wanted to publish it? Lorraine had been the type who would have blocked publication if there was anything in it that she’d thought would hurt some-201

one—especially herself. Except, Arthur Quinn wouldn’t be worried about that, especially since Fox couldn’t be sued for libel. But a publisher could. It was all so complicated. And how had the murderer gotten Lorraine into the car? There were no signs of any struggle. The neighbor hadn’t smelled alcohol. Maybe an autopsy would show signs of some drug, some nar-cotic. Or maybe someone had roused her from her sleep with some story to lure her out to her car—a need for help. Harvey could have done that. Except she hadn’t been wearing a coat. Yet, if she’d thought Harvey was in trouble, she might not have even bothered with that. Or it could have been removed—with her purse—after she was unconscious. But wouldn’t she have tried to get out of the garage, even with the door shut tight? It didn’t have any windows. Faith wished she could tell the medical examiner to look at her hands. See whether she’d tried to lift the door. Again, she would have put her gloves on with her coat. Faith sighed. It just might have happened this way. Or some other way that hadn’t occurred to her yet. Who killed Lorraine?

She was so preoccupied that she almost walked past the deli. The Stage was on Seventh Avenue at Fifty-fourth Street. It was opposite a cluster of hotels, and when she looked in the windows at the crowd, she wondered how they would be able to get a table—let alone conduct any sort of conversation. She’d told Arthur Quinn that she’d been at the service, so she knew what he looked like. She’d said she would wait for him by the cash register. He came in just after she did.

“Mr. Quinn, hello. I’m Karen Brown.” She put out her hand.

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Arthur Quinn was short but well proportioned. He had a gray crew cut and those large black glasses frames that were Carrie Donovan, the Times’ fashion editor’s trademark. He looked owlish and very literary, which was probably the effect he was cultivating.

“Mr. Quinn! Come on—good to see you. We have your regular table,” said one of the waiters, hailing him. Quinn gave Faith a big grin.

“I come here a lot. They like me.”

Quinn’s table was for two, a rarity, and wedged in the back, away from the total craziness of the counter.

He didn’t look at the menu.

“You know what I want,” he said to the hovering waiter.

“Yes, and your coffee right away.”

Faith had been surrounded by food all morning, yet until now, yesterday’s visit to Brooklyn had destroyed her appetite. Maybe it was the smell of all the artery-blocking food coming from the Stage’s kitchen or maybe it was adrenaline, but she was ravenous.

“Matzo ball soup and a whitefish-salad sandwich on dark rye—and coffee now also,” she ordered, handing the oversize menu back. “And plenty of pickles.”

“My kind of girl.” The agent beamed. Faith was beginning to like him, too, but it was important to keep her guard up. What did she know about the man anyway, other than the fact that he gave a helluva funeral oration? Faith had friends who’d gone into both sides of publishing. Springing for lunch, albeit not at the Four Seasons, for an unknown with merely the sketchi-est idea for a book would have been out of character for the agents Faith knew. They’d have told a neophyte to send a query letter.

“So, you’re writing your thesis about Nate—and 203

maybe a book?” He drank some coffee and his cup was immediately refilled.

“I came across him in some research I was doing on the radical movement and thought he’d be a compelling subject,” she lied.

Quinn nodded. “I’ve always thought he would be, and now more than ever, but if you’re seriously thinking of getting something published, you have to work quickly. He won’t be hot for long. The public has a very short memory.”

Faith nodded and asked, “At the service, you spoke about how long you’d known Nathan Fox and how you met. What was he like at that age?” Their food arrived. Quinn’s regular order turned out to be an overstuffed corned beef on rye with a side of latkes, each the size of home plate. Another waiter brought dishes of applesauce and sour cream for the potato pancakes. “Hold the coleslaw for a while,” he instructed. Faith inhaled the strong chicken flavor of her soup and cut into a matzo ball with her spoon.

Baseball metaphors abounded at places like the Stage and the dumpling was as large as what Mattingly hit out of the park, but as light as air.

After chewing contemplatively, Arthur Quinn answered her question. “Nate came to see me. No appointment. Just walked in off the street. Got my name from the phone book. As I said, he was a skinny kid, still in college—he stayed there a long time, the draft, you know—yet there was something about him. Something that made you look twice. Intense, sure. But funny, too. He had the first book right there with him—

Blow Up Along with Me, the Best Is Yet to Come—

wordy, but a catchy title, I told him. After he told me what a parasite I was, we shook hands and had a deal.” 204

“It was a best-seller, right?”

“Mega. There wasn’t a student in the country who didn’t sleep with it under his or her pillow, and the parents all bought it to see what their kids were up to. We made a fortune.”

Faith was curious. “What did Nate do with his money? He wasn’t underground then.”

“No, that came later. Nate was a good Jewish boy, and good Jewish boys take care of their parents. He paid off the mortgage on their house and put most of the rest in mutual funds for them, that sort of thing—

bitching and moaning about investing in a decadent system, but they couldn’t keep it all in a sock. He ra-tionalized that he was getting back what was owed them. Both his parents sweated at low-level jobs to ed-ucate him. He was an only child and he was pretty cut up when they died not too long after he’d done all this.

Then he gave everything to an aunt, Marsha and Irwin’s mother. The Fox family was very religious. Or-thodox, kept kosher. The whole bit. But Nate was a rebel from the start. Wouldn’t be bar-mitzvahed. Told them he couldn’t do something he didn’t believe in, and they respected that, although I know they were upset. His grandfather had written some kind of pamphlet protesting the pogroms and got out of Russia just as the Cossacks were about to bash in his door—and head. Nate grew up on this stuff and identified with him, even though he died before Nate was born. Nate was named for him.”

Faith had brought along a little notebook and was scribbling away. Her sandwich arrived. It could have fed an entire Russian village.

“He sounds like a romantic,” she said.

“He was a romantic—at least when he was young.

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In the beginning. And”—Quinn actually winked—“he certainly was one as far as women were concerned.”

“I’ve heard that,” Faith said, taking a bite of the whitefish salad. It was smoky, but not too smoky. Delicious.

“You have no idea. The guy was golden. He’d leave one of those demonstrations with his pockets stuffed with women’s phone numbers. He was like a rock star.

Then the asshole had to go and shoot himself in the foot.”

And you, Faith surmised. Out loud, she said, “The holdup?”

“It wasn’t much of a holdup. You understand this was the thing to do in those days—redistribution of the wealth, money to fund the revolution, that kind of thing. Maybe Nate was getting bored with his uptown dinner parties. Maybe he wanted to make a big splash.”

“Or maybe he really believed in what he was doing?” Faith suggested. She was supposed to be a student, after all. An idealistic one.

The agent laughed. “There’s always that possibility.

In a weird way, I think he thought he could pull the whole thing off. That he was above the law. He’d still be able to live the way he had been living. He would simply add ‘knocking off a bank’ to his list of accomplishments.”

He turned to his pancakes. The sandwich had vanished. How did he stay so trim? Hours at the gym?

Tapeworm?

“Anyway, he botched it. The other two guys surren-dered to the authorities, did some time, and live in Jersey now with mortgages and lawns like the rest of the world there. Fox had to be dramatic and disappear. Not that it didn’t help sales, at least for a while. He wrote 206

his biggest book—you know, Use This—when he was on the run.”

Faith had forgotten that Fox had had accomplices.

Lorraine had mentioned the driver of the getaway car, too. Were they somehow involved in all this, bearing a grudge against him, perhaps knowing about the tell-all book? But from the sound of it, at least these two were grandfathers growing tomatoes. She filed them away for future thought. She wanted to get Quinn to talk about Lorraine.

“Mr. Quinn—”

“Please, call me Arthur. I’m not that ancient.”

“Arthur,” so be it, “was Nathan Fox ever married?”

“Not that I know of—and I’d know. For one thing, a wife would have wanted to get her hands on the royalties, and no one ever did. There’s poor Lorraine, but they were never married. Too bourgeois.”

“Who was she? It could be an interesting chapter.” Faith prodded.

“Let’s say interesting, but not favorable to Nate. I saw Lorraine at his service, which reminds me that I was supposed to call her. She was a cute thing years ago. Great smile, lots of energy. Didn’t age well. Fox used her like a box of Kleenex.”

Faith hoped she could come up with less tired similes, then remembered she wasn’t actually writing a book.

“Why do you say that?”

He sighed. “Lorraine was the eternal coffee maker.

She’d do anything for Nate. Went into hiding with him and must have supported him. I always suspected she arranged for the manuscripts and occasional letters to get mailed to South America somehow. I mean, Fox couldn’t exactly walk into the post office when his pic-207

ture was on the wall. She gave up her whole life for him and he didn’t give a shit about her. Thought of her as something he was due, the handmaiden to the great man. She had a kid, not Fox’s, though. I remember going to his place once, and she was living there with the baby. First thing Nate said when I came in was that the brat—I think his name was Harold, something like that—wasn’t his. Lorraine was all teary and thankful that Fox was letting them be with him. She didn’t realize that if he could buy a machine to cook, clean, wash, and occasionally fuck him, she’d be out the door.” Faith concentrated on chewing. It was all she could do to keep from screaming that the woman was dead and shut up. But she had to hear—she had to hear more.

“Kid got in some kind of trouble when he was a teenager. Lorraine called me from a pay phone somewhere and told me she had to have money for a lawyer.

Told me to give it to her parents in cash. They lived over in Brooklyn. This explains why the kid never turned Fox in for the reward. Fox must have had something on him. Lorraine, of course, would have died for Fox.”

Did die for Fox, Faith thought dully.

Quinn signaled for his coleslaw and more coffee.

“Nate used to joke about Lorraine, compare her to all the women he was screwing—and believe me, there was a long list. In her head, they were Lenin and Krup-skaya. In his, they were Lenin and, say, that lamppost over there.” He pointed out the window.

“Weren’t you worried that the authorities would find out about giving her the money?”

“Not by that time. At first, everybody who’d ever had any contact with Fox was under surveillance—

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phones tapped. All that stuff the feds like to do. It didn’t make much sense. Nobody had gotten hurt. It wasn’t like he’d killed a cop or something. He didn’t even get any money, but they thought he was involved in some of the other nuttiness of the time—the bomb factories, the whole bit. He wasn’t, and after a while they must have figured that out.”

“So, it was pretty safe for Fox to start living here?”

“Not as it turned out.”

Faith blushed. It had been a stupid question.

Arthur patted her hand in an avuncular way. “I know what you mean. Yeah, if he hadn’t gotten himself murdered, it would have been safe. He used to say he’d been underground all his life, but that was before he really was, and I think he regretted losing his free-dom.”

Faith thought about Emma’s wistful remark: “Besides, he did so miss leaving the country.”

“At the service, you spoke about a book—one that he said wasn’t to be published until after his death.”

“Yeah, he’d been writing to me about this one for years now. I haven’t gotten it yet. I really have to get ahold of Lorraine. If Fox was in the city, then she was, too. Probably moved back home. If not, her mother will know where she is. She doesn’t have to ship over-seas anymore. She can just drop it off.” Either Quinn was a consummate actor or he had no idea Lorraine wouldn’t be mailing parcels of any kind in the future. Or that her mother had died.

“Why do you think Lorraine has the book?”

“It wasn’t in his apartment, and crackheads usually don’t take reading material. I’m his executor, and the police have given me a list of everything they took out of the apartment. It wasn’t on it. They let me look 209

around, and it wasn’t there. Ergo, Lorraine has it—not that any number of people wouldn’t love to get their hands on it, from what I understand. Let’s simply say he names names.” The agent rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation of publishers vying for this last, great book.

Faith pressed further. This remark confirmed her suspicion that Quinn knew exactly what kind of blast-ing powder Fox had used. “Names? What kinds of names? People in the radical movement?” She was fishing.

Quinn tipped his chair back and grinned. An audience—an attractive one.

“Karen, honey. People don’t shell out fifteen dollars to read about hippies and pinkos. In his heyday, Nate traveled high, wide, and handsome in this city—and he was always a boy who kept his eyes and ears open.

Plus, pardon my crudeness, his pants. I know for sure that one major figure will be heading for a fall when the book comes out.”

“Who is it?” If you don’t ask, you don’t get.

Quinn shook his finger playfully and laughed. “How do I know you don’t work for the Post? Besides, I don’t know myself. I have a couple of guesses from what he’d write to me, but nothing for sure. Honest—

on my mother’s head.”

Faith abandoned this line of questioning. Mother or no mother, he wasn’t going to tell her. But at least she had a better idea of what was in the manuscript.

“You said you were his executor, so he left a will?”

“Oh, yes.”

Faith was getting more information than she had dared to hope.

Quinn continued. “Nate was very worried that his 210

name would be erased by the sands of time, and he left a will setting up the Nathan Fox Foundation to edit his unpublished writings, set up an archive at some institute of higher learning. He was savvy enough to know that he’d have to pay to be remembered.”

“Dessert?” Quinn asked as a wedge of cheesecake dripping with gory cherries was placed in front of him.

“Just some more coffee, please,” Faith answered.

Delicious as it was, her meal was beginning to sit heavily—or maybe it was some of what Quinn had revealed that was turning her stomach.

The check arrived, and after a token protest, Faith allowed the agent to pay. Belatedly, she asked him if he’d be interested in her book. That had ostensibly been the whole point of the meeting, hadn’t it?

“It’s pretty sketchy at the moment—an outline,” she said.

“Sure, sure. I’d like first crack at it. Make it a nos-talgia piece. That always goes over big. Don’t waste time, though. His current fifteen minutes are going fast. Still, could be a Movie of the Week docudrama in it or one of those biographies on cable.” Warhol’s fifteen minutes of fame. Fox had had con-siderably more, but the agent was right. A year from now, few would remember and even fewer care.

On the way back to work, Faith’s mind was filled with all the questions she should have asked. Quinn had been voluble, but was it to keep her from asking other questions? Questions about Arthur Quinn? She’d never even gotten him to speculate on who had killed Fox, although his remark about “crackheads” suggested he had bought into the robbery theory—or wanted people to think he had. To preserve her credibility as a possi-211

ble client, she should have asked him who else he represented, where his office was, what his percentage was. She’d call and suggest another meeting, insistent this time that it be at his office—if he had one.

There was no question that this posthumous book, incendiary or not, would sell better than recent books by Fox. Natasha’s bookstore was crammed with remainders, and Faith was sure his titles weren’t on the shelves at Barnes & Noble. Quinn seemed so familiar with the manuscript, maybe he already had it and was biding his time, waiting until the investigation into Fox’s murder was on a back burner. Maybe Fox had been killed in a robbery attempt and then his agent found the manuscript in the apartment. Or maybe Quinn had gotten it from Lorraine—gotten it after turning the key in her car’s ignition and closing the garage door. Faith shuddered. How did it all connect to Emma? To the blackmail? How much did Quinn really know about the life of Nathan Fox?

One thing was clear after this lunch—and it wasn’t the half-sour pickles faintly starting to repeat on her.

What Lorraine Fuchs had learned from Fox’s book was that her idol didn’t merely have feet of clay, but an entire body—with a heart of stone.

Chat had hired a jazz combo. “I know it’s not in keeping with the theme, darling,” she told Faith, “but if I hear one more ‘Hey, nonny, nonny’ madrigal, I’m going to toss my crumpets.”

The combo was setting up and Faith took one last look at the room. She’d done pyramids of red pomegranates and dried hydrangea sprayed a glittering gold, trailing heavy satin ribbons from top to bottom—all set in verdigris urns. She’d used yards more of the ribbon 212

on the pine swags and cones dusted with artificial snow that decorated the mantel and doorways. A table in the hall held a simple flat containing dozens of deep crimson tulips—new, pale green grass carpeting the surface of the soil. Chat had a standing order at Mäd-derlake, and they had outdone themselves for the party with this hint of spring, plus the wonderful overflow-ing vases of Christmas blooms—from large, lush amaryllis trumpets to tiny, tight snow-white ranun-cules—throughout the apartment.

The buffet was Lucullan enough for any Falstaff—

its centerpiece a cornucopia of clementines, lady apples, Seckel pears, and holly entwined with garlands of small gold beads. To complete the decor, Faith had filled the large room, which stretched the full width of the spacious apartment, with candles—votives, candles in candelabras, tall, thick altar-type tapers.

Up this high, there was no need for privacy, so Chat’s windows were bare, framing views of the city that changed with each passing season, each passing hour. Now the night sparkled—a gleaming white crust of snow covering the park, tiny lights in the bare branches of the trees surrounding Tavern on the Green.

Then there were the lights of the avenues, buildings, bridges, stretching as far as the eye could see. The Chrysler Building with its Art Deco curves and the Empire State Building still pierced the heavens, despite the manic building boom on all sides. The Empire State Building sported seasonal red and green lights—

gaudy, like the trappings of the city below, always too dressed up to sleep.

The doorbell rang. The combo started playing Coltrane. The party had begun.

Chat was ecstatic. “You’re a genius, my sweet. Only 213

twenty or so people have raised what they call my ‘de-fection’ or, alternatively, ‘the flight to Jersey.’ You’ve turned what could so easily have descended to bathos into a madcap celebration instead! I’m booked until next fall with weekend guests!” Faith knew her aunt had been anxious about the party and the aftermath.

The apartment had been sold. There was no turning back. She loved her friends—and New York. She simply wanted to try something different.

Faith thought things were going pretty well herself.

No need to mention the pâté that crumbled to pieces when they started to slice it—she had extras. No need to mention the comments made to Faith about Chat’s move to New Jersey: “Surely London would be more simpatico—and convenient.”

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.

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“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 215

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 216

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 in-terrogation 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.

217

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?

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Nine

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 219

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 inclina-tion 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 220

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.

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“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 [see the recipe on page 281], 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 precur-sor 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-222

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 223

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.”

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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 225

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 mois-ture, 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-226

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 be-whiskered, 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.

Emma nodded. “I really think it’s over—at last.” 227

Faith desperately wanted to believe her—and knew she didn’t.

“You can’t wear this. You’ll have to take one of mine,” Emma said, hanging Faith’s coat back in the closet. “You can get it when you’re over this way sometime. Here. This will do.” She took out a fur-lined raincoat from Searle. It had a hood and was appropriately scarlet. Emma had worn it to the luncheon the other day.

Faith was about to ask for something simpler, something cheaper, but just as Emma never had to buy an umbrella on the street corner, she wouldn’t have a Burlington Coat Factory special, either.

“Thank you. I’ll take good care of it and bring it back tomorrow.”

“Don’t be silly. I’ve been wearing it so much lately, I’m tired of it. Keep it as long as you want.”

“Call me?” Faith asked.

“I promise,” Emma replied.

Descending in the elevator, Faith thought about how her hugs with Emma had progressed from swift affection to this last one, a kind of bear hug, each one intent on reassuring the other—reassuring and comforting.

Outside, the rain had let up slightly, but there was enough for Faith to be grateful for the hood on Emma’s coat. Damn, she had meant to give Emma back both the key to Fox’s apartment and the key to this one, which Emma had given her for the party preparations.

She’d do it when she returned the coat.

Halfway down the block, she looked over her shoulder and noticed a dark car pull out from across the street near the intersection, switch on its high beams, and accelerate. Parking on her side was for-bidden at this time of day and there weren’t any cars.

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No one wanted to chance a stiff ticket, or worse—the boot. She walked faster, feeling irrationally nervous at the way the car had now slowed down, slowed down to her speed. Suddenly, it swerved up onto the sidewalk and aimed straight for her. She screamed and tried to run toward the building, but the car cut her off, blinding her with its headlights, chasing her into the street. The surface was slick and shiny from the recent downpour. She ran as fast as she could, but there was no escape. Her heart was pounding and the cold night air stabbed her lungs as she fought for breath. She could feel the heat of the engine. If she reached her arm back, she was sure she’d be able to touch the hood.

I am not going to let this happen, she thought. I am not going to die this way!

She plunged to the right and back up on the sidewalk. The car followed, taking down a small tree gir-dled with wire mesh. If she could just make it back to the Stansteads’, but the car cut off her retreat. All the surrounding buildings were town houses. No doormen.

No open doors. It was all happening so fast! She couldn’t think. Her heel caught in a crack in the sidewalk. She stumbled and her shoe came off. If she fell, she’d be dead. She kicked the other away and splashed on through the icy puddles.

The car bore down upon her. She had only one chance. With a last burst of speed, she raced directly in front of it, crossed the street, and rolled between two parked cars, inching her way under the first one.

Brakes squealed. The car stopped. For a moment, she thought the driver would bash into the parked cars, or worse—come after her on foot. She shut her eyes tight, waiting for the slam of a car door. Waiting for a 229

hand to reach out and grab her. Waiting for a hand with a gun. Nothing. Then it sped off. The driver. The killer.

She lay in the filthy runoff, eyes still closed, panting.

There had been only one person in the car. She’d been able to see that much. It looked like a man, but a man with long hair. A man like Harvey Fuchs.

“I slipped and fell,” she spoke before the bewildered doorman could voice his alarm.

The elevator rose slowly. Emma’s coat would never be the same. Nor would Faith.

Emma opened the door in surprise. She was in her slip.

“Faith! What—”

“Someone just tried to kill me with a car. Tried to kill me, thinking I was you.”

Emma in the distinctive Red Riding Hood coat.

Emma the real target.

“Me? Kill me?” Emma looked as if she was about to faint. She sank onto the seat of a Thonet chair set against the wall.

“I had the hood of the coat up, so whoever was driving must have assumed it was you. We’re about the same size, and I was coming from your building.” The adrenaline that had flooded Faith’s body as she had fought for her life still coursed through her body. She was standing in her stocking feet, numb with cold, dripping dirty water onto one of the Stanstead’s Oriental rugs, but she felt as if she could take on a tiger or two. She was alive. She had saved herself. Now she had to save Emma, save her from herself, save her from the forces of evil. Faith tossed off the scarlet coat, letting it fall in a heap on the floor.

“Emma.” She tried hard not to shout. “Emma! This is very, very serious now. It’s not just Christmas cards 230

and Dumpster drops. They tried to kill me—that is, you! Maybe the idea was just to scare you, but I don’t think so. These are not people we should be dealing with alone anymore. All bets are off. Your father was murdered—and they’re trying to get his daughter! Yes, it’s going to cause some very unpleasant publicity in the short run. But the point is the long run. The point is being around! You have to tell Michael—and the police!”

“Michael. Michael will be waiting at the party and wondering where I am. I have to get ready,” Emma jumped up and looked about the hall wildly, as if expecting her husband to emerge from the closet.

“Haven’t you heard a word I’ve said? Emma, I know this isn’t something you want to think about, but you have to—there are no choices anymore!” Faith was overwhelmed by depression and fear. The adrenaline began to ebb. She wanted to go home. Get cleaned up and pull her quilt over her head for a long winter’s nap. Granted, Emma was crazy in love with her husband, but what use would she be to him dead?

She’d told Emma the truth. Faith was positive the driver hadn’t meant to inspire fear—though it had succeeded. He meant murder. They must think Emma knew something she didn’t—or didn’t know she knew.

She followed Emma into the bedroom, leaving little wet marks on the carpet as she padded after her. At the moment, she didn’t have the energy to both reason with Emma and think about getting dry.

“Look, if Michael had any idea that you were going through something like this and not telling him, how do you think he’d react? He’s your husband, for God’s sake! Somebody’s not just blackmailing you now!

He’d want to protect you, save you! Men are like 231

this—especially about their wives!” Faith knew she was ranting, but her words seemed to have little effect on Emma, who was zipping up her dress and slipping into her shoes, apparently oblivious of her friend—and the fact that she had put on a Versace white linen shift more suitable for Portofino in July than Manhattan in December. She seemed to be in a dream. Drugged, but Faith was sure it wasn’t pharmaceutical. It was Emma’s own particular drug. She’d simply shut down.

Faith grabbed her shoulders and sat her down on the end of the bed.

“Emma, you’ve got to listen to me!” Emma’s eyes—so startling blue, deep blue like a sea of scilla in spring—focused on Faith’s desperate expression. “I have heard you, but I don’t want to. I can’t think about all this. It can’t be happening.” Faith sat down next to her. “But it is,” she said softly.

“Tell Michael. Start there. Tell him tonight, when you come home. Tell him everything.”

There was a long silence and Faith wasn’t sure she’d gotten through; then Emma stood up and walked to her dressing table.

“I’ll tell him about the blackmail, about getting pregnant when I was a teenager.” Emma’s voice sounded surprisingly resolute. She stood looking in the mirror. Faith could see her face: Her lips were pursed and she was frowning with the intensity of her resolve.

She picked up a silver-backed hairbrush with her monogram. “But”—she smoothed her hair back with several swift strokes—“I won’t tell him about Nathan Fox. Not about my father. I can’t do that to him. If I get another threat, I’ll tell them I’ve told Michael all about it and let them assume it’s everything.”

“Are you sure—”

232

She cut Faith off. “It’s a chance I’ll have to take.” She put the brush down and faced her friend. “The worst part is thinking that you could have been killed.

That’s what I can’t face. It was supposed to be me, and if anything had happened to you, I could never have lived with myself. Every step of the way since this has started, you’ve been with me, and maybe I’ve done a lot of things wrong, but you have to believe that I thought I was doing what was right. What was right to protect my husband. I never thought it would end up like this. End up with you almost—” She gave a short sob. “Oh, Faith, weren’t we little girls just yesterday?

Doesn’t it seem that way to you? If I had known what was going to happen, I’m not sure I would have wanted to grow up.”

“We were and you did—admirably,” Faith said firmly, although she’d been having the same feeling.

“But nothing happened. I’m fine. And we’ll be fine.

We’ve come this far . . .”

Emma wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

“And we’ll see it through.” She looked at Faith’s feet.

“You don’t seem to have any shoes on, and I’m afraid to give you anything that might connect you to me, but shoes are shoes. The coat was different. No one knows you’ve been involved in all this, and I swear that no one ever will, as long as I live.” Emma did look like a little girl now and Faith had a sudden vision of a long-ago secret club, another oath. Yes, they were all grown up, but the rules were the same.

Emma was rummaging in her closet, pulling out shoe boxes. Faith was waiting for the right moment to tell her that she needed to grab another outfit for herself, as well.

“Tonight. This can’t go on. There’s no question. It’s 233

just drinks—the thing I’m meeting Michael at—and I’ll make dinner reservations for us afterward.

Michael’s been complaining that we haven’t had any time alone together for ages, so I’ll surprise him.” Surprise him, yes, Faith thought. Telling Michael part of what was going on was better than nothing—it was a start—and she was sure he wouldn’t stand by while his wife was being blackmailed. Maybe Emma was right. Maybe they would assume she’d told him everything, especially after tonight. She’d be frightened enough to do anything.

Emma handed Faith several boxes of shoes. “Try these. We’ll go to the Post House. Michael likes it.” Faith had retrieved Emma’s coat from the hall and was holding it up, examining the damage. It had kept her warm and dry, but it needed a dry-cleaning wizard now. Emma snatched it from her on her way to the bathroom. “Juanita knows some super dry cleaner. But I don’t think I want to wear it again.” Nor did Faith.

The Post House. A good choice. Faith believed it was always better to reveal potentially explosive or emotional information in a public setting, where presumably good breeding will prevent too crazed a reac-tion. She’d broken up a number of times this way. The Post House was one of New York’s newer temples to beef and already was very popular. Michael would be surrounded by any number of men he knew, all order-ing enormous and expensive slabs of meat. It was a place where guys like Michael Stanstead felt at home.

Maybe Emma was a better politician’s wife than she appeared.

“All set. I made reservations for nine o’clock.” Emma blushed slightly. She was in her slip again and reaching for a simple long-sleeved black jersey dress.

234

Apparently, the mirrors in the bathroom had reflected dress white, the fairest in the land, but better off in black for now. She was snapping a simple gold cuff bracelet around her slender wrist. “There’s a phone in the bathroom. Michael—”

Faith finished for her, “likes it.” They both laughed, but it was nervous laughter. Emma glanced out the window. The rain had stopped. But neither woman really wanted to go outside.

The phone was ringing when Faith got out of the shower. She had taken a cab home. Walking into the apartment, she’d shed garments as she made a beeline for the shower, then stood under the hot spray, trying to think of nothing but the warmth seeping into her bones. After a while she began to come to. Had she been in for a half hour, an hour? She’d lost all sense of time. She’d turned the water off, reached for a towel—

and the phone rang. For a moment, she considered letting the machine get it, but she flashed on Emma.

In the street, outside Emma’s building, Faith had lived the seconds of her attack all over again—and again. She’d seen one of her shoes, but nothing on earth could have made her pick it up. She’d insisted on dropping Emma off at her cocktail party, over Emma’s protests that it was only on the next street. Faith had extracted a promise from her that she wouldn’t go out alone—anywhere.

She hastily pulled her terry-cloth robe on and lunged for the receiver, hitting her shin on the corner of the bed in the process.

“Hello?”

“Faith, great! I thought you’d be working or out. I just got back, and my agent has sold the book! Please, 235

please come celebrate tonight. If you have a date, break it!”

It was Richard.

Faith didn’t believe in playing games, yet she also didn’t believe in appearing too available.

“My plans for tonight aren’t definite. I think I might be able to make it.” All of which was true. She was elated. Something good happening to somebody. This alone was cause for celebration. She very much wanted to go out—and, she admitted to herself, she very much wanted to go out with him.

“Fantastic! The sky’s the limit. You pick.” Faith didn’t have any trouble choosing.

“Let’s go to the Post House.”

“You’re a quixotic woman, Faith Sibley. I would never have predicted this as your kind of place. Bouley, yes.

The Quilted Giraffe, of course. Le Bernardin, absolutely. But a steak house—albeit a very plush one—

no.”

Richard was sitting across from Faith, sipping a very dry martini. He was ebullient, and the small amount of alcohol he’d imbibed didn’t account for the one-hundred-kilowatt glow suffusing his face.

“Major milestones call for drama, and what could be more ostentatiously dramatic than this place? The steaks are the size of a turkey platter and we’re surrounded by power brokers, movers and shakers—fitting for an incipient best-selling author. Here’s to you—and the book.” Faith held her glass aloft. She was drinking a kir royale and planned to have at least one more. Then maybe she’d be able to concentrate on Richard and not keep seeing headlights bearing down upon her. “What’s the title—or can’t you tell yet?” 236

“My agent wants to keep it all very hush-hush.

Make a big splash by teasing the public with ads in the weeks before it comes out. Who is so-and-so? What southern town will never be the same again? That sort of thing.” He was clearly enjoying himself. “But what I can tell you is it’s a story of good and evil. Of being tempted—and yielding to temptation.”

“Sounds very Faustian—or biblical. Maybe you can work Eve into the title—or the apple.”

“Or the serpent.” Richard laughed. “Plenty of snakes down in that neck of the woods. Not too many apples.

Not like here. Not like the Big Apple. The biggest, red-dest temptation known to man or woman. If you can’t fall here, you can’t fall anywhere.” The martini was loosening his thoughts—and tongue.

“I couldn’t wait to get back and tell you, Faith.

When I’ve finished the manuscript, will you read it?”

“Of course. I’d be honored.” And she was. She had a sudden vision of herself married to a great author.

Shielding him from his adoring public so he could write undisturbed. Making his favorite foods, coaxing him from the black despair of writer’s block. She drained her glass and caught the waiter’s eye for another.

Wait just a minute! a voice inside her head cried out.

Handmaidens to great men! Think of poor Sophia Tol-stoy. Dorothy Wordsworth. Lorraine Fuchs.

“Want to order?” Richard asked. “I’m starved.” Faith wasn’t very hungry, but she wanted to stretch the meal out. The Stansteads were nowhere in sight, but it was only quarter after nine. Richard and Faith were not in Siberia, but not at an A-list table, either.

Still, it commanded a good view.

“Mixed grill—rare; baked potato—butter on the 237

side; and Caesar salad—do you want to share one?” Faith asked Richard.

“Sure, I love anchovies. Let’s see. Think I’ll go for the prime rib—make that medium rare—sorry, Faith, I know that’s overdone—and baked potato with butter and sour cream—not on the side. How about shrimp cocktails first? We’re celebrating, remember. Plus, we might as well go the whole nine yards if we’re going to have this kind of meal. I plan to have cheesecake for dessert, if I can manage it.”

Faith agreed. She hadn’t had a shrimp cocktail in years. It had been Hope’s favorite as a child and the only thing she would ever eat when the family went out.

“And the wine list, please,” Richard added.

When it arrived, he turned it over to Faith. “You pick. Until recently, springing for a bottle of Blue Nun meant I had a serious date. I tend to stick to beer—

sometimes even imported ones.”

“Have a beer, then, and I’ll have something by the glass.”

“No, pick something. Something French. Something red. I know that much.”

Faith ordered a Gigondas—it was big and oaky enough to stand up to the food—and sat back. The Stansteads had just walked in and were being shown to their table. It wasn’t close enough for Faith to overhear anything, but when they were seated, she could see Emma’s back and Michael’s face, so long as the people at the tables in between didn’t lean the wrong way.

The Stansteads didn’t see her and Richard was facing away from their table. Would Emma plunge right in, or wait for postprandial complacency?

The shrimp were enormous—and tasty. Richard was 238

regaling Faith with tales of different assignments. It should have been a great evening.

By the time their main courses arrived, Faith could see that Michael was holding Emma’s hand. His arm was stretched across the table, snaking around the bread basket, and he was looking at her with a complicated expression of love and sadness. Obviously, Emma was letting the cat out of the bag—or a few whiskers. Faith couldn’t see Emma’s plate, but Michael’s food was getting cold. A waiter appeared to pour more wine and Michael motioned him away. He was looking at his wife intently. Faith stopped chewing. Michael put his other hand over Emma’s. It was hard to tell at this distance, yet Faith was pretty sure there were tears in his eyes.

“So then I asked Prime Minister Kaifu—Faith, are you okay?”

“What? Yes, sorry. I got a little preoccupied there for a moment. Tell me about the Japanese prime minister,” she said, resuming normal functions, savoring the really excellent meat, done perfectly. It wasn’t going to be hard to prolong the meal. She was taking very small bites.

Faith liked to have her salad after her main course, European style, but in deference to the setting, she hadn’t said anything, and it arrived with much aplomb.

Like the rest of the city, the restaurant was bedecked for the season and the comfort of yet more pine boughs and lots of red and green was turning Faith’s thoughts away from her near-death experience and toward her companion. The wine was helping to quell her feelings of dislocation. After all, ’tis the season to be jolly, she admonished herself. And Richard was fascinating. And damn good-looking. Nothing like the aura of success 239

to enhance a man—or woman. She looked around her.

The room was crammed with perfect examples.

“We go up to Westchester to my sister’s for Christmas Day. Watch her kids play with the wrapping paper.

I keep telling her not to bother with presents, just wrap empty boxes, but she seems to think that puts me in a league with Ebenezer Scrooge. She’s got twins, eighteen months old. And believe me, they could care less.” This whole kid thing was more complicated than Faith realized. She thought of the weary mother at the Met whose baby would sleep only when in motion, and now apparently there were little tykes who could be satisfied with crumbling and tearing paper—never mind what the treasure inside might be. She made a mental note to ask her mother about this. Somehow, she couldn’t quite picture it. Not care about the present? She knew reasoning developed slowly—echoes of college psych and Piaget reverberated in her head—but what about emotions? What about good taste?

“I don’t know anyone with children yet—I mean my friends, people my age. It’s probably all going to happen at once. I keep hearing people are ‘trying.’ ” The irony of it all struck her anew. Before marriage, “trying” meant avoiding; after, it meant the opposite.

“I’d like to have a couple of kids someday—but not for a long time. I’m not around enough to be a decent father.”

What were they doing talking about kids? Faith decided to change the subject. She still had her eye on the Stansteads. A waiter had taken Emma’s almost-untouched plate away. Michael had freed his hands and eaten most of his. Now, the sommelier was bringing a bottle of champagne. Michael’s hands were back, locked on Emma’s. Faith thought of the fervent pleas from the class secretary for alumnae news. Between the two of them, Emma and she could fill an entire issue simply by recording today’s events.

“Have you finished your profile of Michael Stanstead?” The question popped out before Faith had time to think about whether she really wanted to introduce the subject or not. But perhaps Richard had un-covered something—something that would help Faith draw some more lines between all those names, find a connection to explain the nightmare Mrs. Stanstead’s life had become. Emma might be telling more than half the story to Michael, if not all, but Faith didn’t plan to stop her own investigation. It wasn’t just Emma, or Emma’s father. It was Lorraine, too.

“No, apparently he’s announcing his candidacy for the House sometime in January, and I want to cover that—the beginning of the campaign. The magazine agrees.”

Faith started to tell Richard that she knew exactly when Michael Stanstead would be declaring, but she stopped herself in time. Richard knew Emma and Faith were friends, but this was insider information, and she didn’t want him asking any follow-up questions.

“Do you think he has a chance?”

“It’s a safe district, and while I wouldn’t say he’s a shoo-in, he’s definitely in the slipper category. Yes, yes, I know it’s spelled differently.” Once more, Faith was struck by the way Richard’s good fortune was affecting him tonight. The man wasn’t simply over the moon; he was orbiting.

“He’s attractive, intelligent, knows the right things to say—tough on crime, soft on pets and babies. Opposed to big government and big taxes. Champion of the little guy. An individualist himself. Came from money but made his own. No, short of some kind of major scandal—like he’s secretly been funding Nor-iega or received tips for bets from Pete Rose—he should win.”

“What do you think of him? What’s he like?”

“I thought you knew him? Didn’t you tell me you went to school with his wife? Stunning lady, by the way, but she doesn’t seem to have much to say. Can’t hold a candle to you.”

“Thank you.” Faith wasn’t sure whether he was complimenting her powers of speech or appearance, but a compliment was a compliment. “I did go to school with Emma. We’re very good friends, but I’ve never gotten to know Michael.” This was true of a lot of her friends’ husbands. They were all still back in junior high, when the boys stayed on one side of the dance floor and the girls on the other. Michael was surrounded by men in suits. There was an occasional woman, women like Lucy, like Faith’s own sister, Hope, but the sexes hadn’t reached that gender meld-ing Faith supposed was the goal—at least when it came to jobs, positions of power, that kind of thing.

Faith intended to hold on to her own idiosyncrasies.

Yet, at the parties she attended, the parties she catered, everyone mixed at the beginning, but by the end of the evening, those who weren’t in matched pairs—or trying to be—had precipitated out into male and female conversational groups. What would it be like in ten years? At the end of the next decade, the end of the century. The great big millennium? She was not given to predictions or pronouncements, but she was sure that the battle of the sexes would still be going its own intriguing, irritating, and irrational way.

Richard was cutting a large piece of romaine lettuce.

Everything about the meal had been slightly oversized, so far. As he ate, he seemed to be phrasing his reply. “I like Michael. He’s very straightforward. Nothing coy about his answers, and he hasn’t refused to talk about anything; plus, it’s all on the record. I told him that at the start and he had no problem with it, he said. Seems to care a great deal about his wife, the rest of his family. But also cares a great deal about Michael Stanstead. He’s very ambitious. But it goes with the territory. You wouldn’t be running the way he is if you didn’t have that drive. He’s ruthless, but so far I haven’t picked up on any cruelty. If he’s stepped on any fingers on the lower rungs of the ladder, I haven’t found them yet, but I’m looking. Works like crazy.

What else? Smokes god-awful cigars, very expensive, and drinks, but not to excess. Frankly, I thought he’d be a more interesting subject.”

This was a surprise. The one thing Faith hadn’t thought was that Emma might be married to someone dull.

“Any hobbies, any passions?”

“Plays tennis and squash. Keeps a sailboat at their summer place in the Hamptons. There is one thing, though.”

“What’s that?” Faith sat up straighter.

“He’s not like a lot of politicians I know who get off on adoration. They need to have the crowd cheering, and if one person isn’t clapping, they take it personally.

Stanstead projects an image of someone who is totally sure of himself. Not conceited, but removed. He doesn’t need everyone to love him, just vote for him.

It’s remarkably effective and makes people want to get close to him all the more. It also gives him a slight air of mystery—and he needs that, because charisma is the name of the game these days.”

Emma and Michael, across the crowded room, which was filled with the noise of holiday cheer, were drinking their champagne. They were both leaning back in their chairs. Faith couldn’t see her friend’s face, but at some point in the conversation, she’d pulled the clasp from her hair and it hung loose, Titian red, the reflected light turning strands to gold. Every once in a while, someone would stop to speak to them.

Earlier, the way they had been sitting signaled, Do not disturb. Now, they were holding court. At least Michael was. He may have manufactured whatever charisma he has, Faith thought, or may not have much to say except about politics or business, but the elixir is working tonight. He looked like a leader.

“They’re here, behind you. Michael and Emma,” Faith said, discreetly pointing her finger.

Richard turned around and stared for a moment, then nodded his head, acknowledging Michael’s slight wave. Apparently, he couldn’t see Faith, or didn’t recognize her.

“Yes,” Richard said. “White House material for sure. I might even vote for him myself. And the people joining them now are his wily factotum, Adrian Sutherland, and Lucy Morris, Stanstead’s sister-in-law, whom you must know. Every great man needs an Adrian Sutherland. Brainy, part British, not a bit dull, and not quite as scrupulous as his boss, from what I’ve been able to pick up.”

Faith craned her neck to peer around the very large woman who was still clinging to her sable coat as she lowered herself into a chair between the two parties.

Adrian and Lucy again. Coincidence? New York is a big city, with more restaurants per capita than any other place in the country. And Adrian and Lucy just happen to walk into this joint? Adrian and Lucy. A waiter was bringing more champagne and menus to the Stanstead table. She gave a sudden start as she felt a warm hand cover her own.

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

Ten

“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 includ-ing 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 famous 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 warn-ings 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 doo-dles 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, apparently 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.

Last night, some of the old childhood magic had been present. For one thing, it was almost Christmas and the restaurant was filled with reminders—not only the decorations but also the guests. Everyone was a bit more dressed up than usual and the conversation sounded sparkling, even if proximity would have revealed it wasn’t. Carols played softly in the background. Faith had changed at work and was wearing a burgundy silk shirt tucked into matching velvet pants—a once-a-year kind of outfit she’d bought on the spur of the moment. She wore the Mikimoto pearl necklace Chat had given her for her twenty-first birthday. As she’d fastened it around her neck, she’d noted the way the beads shone luminously against her throat.

She’d pulled her hair back.

Richard was still celebrating. He’d spent most of the day with his agent. “Perrier-Jouët, don’t you think?” Faith had agreed. Not only were the Art Nouveau bottles lovely to look at, but the champagne was damn good, too. She’d settled into herself. Thoughts of Emma Morris Stanstead—thoughts of everything save the moment—had disappeared from her mind.

“You’ve become very special to me, Faith,” Richard murmured. He was sitting next to her, as close as the chair would allow. He took her hand.

“I want to give you something.”

“Oh, no, Richard, you shouldn’t have,” she’d protested, happily aware that her bag was weighed down with the snow globe she’d bought for him.

“It’s nothing.” He’d smiled.

And it was. A cookbook. A nice one with glossy photographs. But a book. Impersonal.

“You probably have a million of these, but you have to get ideas from somewhere, and this looked great. It’s divided by seasons. You can cook your way through the year.”

Oh bliss, Faith thought, and decided to keep the snow globe for herself.

After some more champagne, she had second thoughts. Men were notoriously bad at knowing what to give women as gifts. Her father was a case in point, appealing desperately to his daughters when those times of the year rolled around, and they were more than happy to save their mother from a blender—Dad’s idea for one Christmas—or a sewing machine—for Mom’s fortieth.

She was just reaching into her bag, Richard nuzzling her neck in a decidedly pleasant way, when she heard him say, “I’m really going to miss you.” Say what? “Miss me? Why?” she said out loud.

“I’m leaving the day after Christmas to finish the book. I’ve cleared my desk of all but the Stanstead profile, so I’ll be gone a month or two, maybe three. I will be back whenever he announces, and we can grab some time then, but for all intents and purposes—and I mean this most regettably—I’ll be gone until spring.”

“Oh,” said Faith. She was not a fan of long-distance romances, especially one that was just getting off the ground, no matter how many stories up they were.

She’d never been one to carry a torch—perhaps because there had never been anyone who had caused one to burn brightly enough. Why hadn’t Richard told her this before? He must have known last night. Clearing his desk meant forethought. But not a thought for her. She looked into his eyes. Yes, there was a little guilt there, embarrassment. Don’t worry, she wanted to tell him. I’m not going to make a scene. I’m not going to try to tie you down.

“Oh,” she said, “that’s wonderful. The sooner you finish the book, the sooner it will hit the best-seller list.”

“I knew you’d understand. Merry Christmas,” he’d said, clinking her glass with his.

He’d taken her home in a cab. She had pleaded fatigue and the brunch the next morning to do. As she’d gotten out, he’d handed her her bag. “What do you carry in this thing? Rocks?”

“Yes,” she’d said, smiled, and waved good-bye.

“That’s it. See you tomorrow. You sure your mother’s oven is big enough for the turkey? I’d be happy to do it here and bring it over,” Josie offered. The brunch was a great success, especially the Big Apple pancakes [see the recipe on page 282], and they’d cleaned up quickly together.

“I’m sure, although all she ever uses it for is to broil a nice piece of fish or, alternately, a nice boneless chicken breast. That’s what they eat—with a little salad or a few vegetables, depending on the time of year.”

“This does not sound like the kind of clergy I know.

Being God’s Go-Between is strenuous work, and they need more than a shriveled-up dry piece of chicken to do it. You bring your daddy over to Josie’s when I open and I’ll give him a real chicken breast—soaked in buttermilk, coated with my special seasoned flour, and deep-fried, with a crust as light as an angel’s wing.”

“It’s obvious you’re going home soon. Your accent is getting deeper and deeper and you’re starting to talk like someone out of a Zora Neale Hurston short story.” Josie laughed. “Nothing wrong with that. Anyway, you need cheering up.” Faith had given her an abbrevi-ated version of the last two dates with Richard. “I think it is positively wicked to dump someone at the holidays. The man has no class whatsoever,” Josie added, fuming.

“I don’t think I was being dumped. More like put on hold.”

“Same thing.”

“Same thing,” Faith agreed glumly. This was a new experience for her. She had never been the dumpee—and she didn’t intend to let it happen again, no matter how many verses the man could sing, or how well. If she hadn’t been so preoccupied with Emma’s problems, she might have paid more attention to the signs Richard had been giving her. They’d been there.

“I’m leaving, ladies. Merry Christmas to you both.” It was Howard. He’d delivered all the surplus food to an agency that fed the homeless. “I’d hate to be on the streets tonight. It is colder than a witch’s—toe. And with that, I’m off to start trolling my Yuletide treasure, or maybe it’s Yuletide carol. Whichever, I’ll be doing it.” What little family Howard had lived in California, but he’d often remarked to Faith that you could make your own families—and he had. The same group had been celebrating all the holidays, plus times in between, for years now.

Faith handed him a brightly wrapped present. “Put it under your tree.”

“Thank you, love. Yours is in your big pocketbook.

I hid it there. Open it whenever you like. Check yours out, too, Miss Josephina.”

Faith had gotten him a camel-colored cashmere muffler at Barneys. Howard was not above brand names.

“You’ll have to wait for yours until tomorrow,” Faith told Josie. “It’s not wrapped.” Nor were any of the other presents she’d gotten for friends and family. She was so used to doing this chore in the wee hours of Christmas morning, after the Christmas Eve service, that it had come to seem part of the day, a tradition.

Wrap presents, fall asleep. Wake up, open them.

“You sure you’re okay here? This thing with Richard hasn’t bummed you out too much?”

“I’m leaving soon to go across town to my parents.

And no, the thing with Richard hasn’t gotten to me, and I think it would have by now if it was going to—that’s a mouthful, but you know what I mean.” Faith was surprised. She really wasn’t that upset. Maybe the cookbook had some good cookie recipes. She needed new ones. They often served cookies and fruit. Maybe fruit cookies? A Big Apple cookie [see the recipe on page 284]—a cookie with an attitude?

“I know what you mean—and count yourself lucky.

You didn’t go spending a fortune on some Christmas present for him. I did that once—beautiful gold-filled pocket watch. I was fool enough to give him his first.

All I got was a black lace garter belt, and you know who that was a present for. Picked his pocket next date—last date, too.”

When Josie had gone, the kitchen felt unusually empty. Faith had taken down the posters and charts she’d put up on the walls when Have Faith moved in.

She allowed herself a nostalgic moment. The new place was bigger, brighter, yet this had been her first place, and it would always be the most special.

She packed the equipment she needed to cook tonight and tomorrow into a large zippered bag. The only thing she couldn’t find was her strainer. She had two of them. They were essential for sauces—metal and shaped like a dunce’s cap, not mesh, but solid.

They had wooden pestles to push the food against the small holes. Josie must have packed them. Then Faith flashed on the party at the Stansteads’. Hope in the kitchen, fooling around with the equipment; Faith taking the strainer and pestle out of her sister’s hands, shoving it out of the way on the counter. The Stansteads’ apartment was close to her parents. She could stop by for it, say Merry Christmas—and return all of Emma’s keys, too, very discreetly if Michael was home. She went to the phone and called. No answer, which was what she’d half-expected. They’d be at the Morrises’ or the Stansteads’, dividing their holiday time.

She sat down again, feeling ever so slightly triste.

Christmas Eve. It would have been nice to have had somebody. She thought of all the couples she knew—happy and unhappy. Hope was bringing Phelps, which left Faith paired with her grandmother. They’d had an uproarious lunch at a much-denuded Altman’s, where Mrs. Lennox had regaled her granddaughters with tan-talizing tidbits of past scandals—most of the chief figures long gone—interspersed with department-store remembrances of things past: percale sheets like silk, the divine hats, and the only china department with all her patterns. Definitely Granny was a great dinner partner, yet the holidays were one of those arklike times, when you felt a bit peculiar if you were a female zebra, say, without a matching male striped creature at your side.

If there was still no one home at the Stansteads’, she’d stop anyway and get the strainer. The only thing resembling one at her parents’ was an ancient colander, and it would never do to strain the shrimp sauce for the fish mousse. She’d saved some of the mousse from the luncheon the day before, but you had to make the sauce up fresh.

No more sighing. No more looking back, she told herself. She had a terrific business and there were a dozen men out there in Gotham who would be more than happy to dance attendance—or more. And there was always that one she hadn’t met yet. It wasn’t Richard. Even before last night, she’d known that. But he existed. It was simply a question of time.

She stood up and reached next to the counter to turn off the overhead light. The list she’d made on the packing paper stared up at her mockingly. A challenge unmet. The names circled around Emma’s. Faith stared at them again. They almost seemed to move. Birds of prey. She picked up the pencil and drew a dark line across Nathan Fox’s name and then across Lorraine Fuchs’s. The two deaths. The two murders. They were out of the running.

For murder, there has to be a motive—or at least a reason. Nathan could have been killed by a junkie.

That would provide a reason. But Lorraine? Faith found herself sitting down again and gazing intently at the sheet. There had been a peephole in the door of Nathan Fox’s apartment. He would never have let a stranger in—and he had opened the door to his murderer. It effectively ruled out the robbery theory. Had there been time for a greeting? For the recognition of what he’d admitted into his home? Death. Or did it happen fast, right away? The door opened, the shot—he never knew what hit him?

But the motive.

She looked at the other names. Who benefited?

What was the legal term? Cui bono. What did Nathan have? He had his manuscript. What did Lorraine have? The same thing. Arthur Quinn wanted it. But it would probably have made its way to him anyway—he’d have no need to kill for it. Who else? Poppy wouldn’t have wanted it published. “You know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for my daughter— nothing.” Nothing she wouldn’t do to get her hands on something she thought would destroy Emma’s happiness, threaten her own? Poppy Morris a murderer? Extremely unlikely. Killer instincts didn’t necessarily translate into the real thing. And what about Todd Hartley and his respectably bourgeois new life? How far would he go to protect it? And Harvey? Harvey was available to the highest bidder.

People kill for money. Neither Fox nor Lorraine had had any. They also kill for revenge. That might apply to Fox in some way, but Lorraine? Yet, people also kill to protect themselves, Faith thought with a start. To keep from being found out. Had Lorraine known who’d killed Fox?

Means, motive, and opportunity.

She stared at the names, crossed some out and willed the rest to sort themselves out, willed them to speak—send a Ouija board message, send one name flying away from all the others.

And they did.

“Opportunity,” she whispered aloud. “Opportunity.”

Traffic was heavy, and by the time she got across town, it was getting late. Her father had very noncosmopoli-tan notions of dining hours. Besides, he had to get to church. She was tempted to keep the cab, but the doorman had his arm out for one, so Faith let it go. It was Christmas Eve, after all.

“Merry Christmas, Bobby,” she said to him. “It’s okay. I have the key.”

“Merry Christmas, miss,” he called back, helping the woman loaded down with parcels into the cab.

Ever since she’d left work, Faith had been repeating the same thing over and over to herself: How could I have missed it? She’d been missing a lot lately. She wasn’t worried, though. She knew exactly what she was going to do. The elevator was in use, so she took the stairs, running up, filled with the kind of energy she hadn’t known for weeks. It was almost over now.

Really over this time.

She let herself in. The apartment was dark and empty. No welcoming fire. No hum of conversation.

She walked down the hall to the kitchen. There was light streaming from beneath the door. She pushed it open and stopped.

Michael Stanstead, assemblyman from New York City, clad in a long rubberized raincoat like cops wear over their clothes, was pressing his wife’s hand on the grip of a gun. The muzzle was in her mouth and she was tied to a kitchen chair with wide strips torn from a bedsheet.

“Sorry, didn’t know you were into bondage. I’ll just be going now,” Faith said, trying to bluff as she backed out the swinging door. Tears were running down Emma’s cheeks, but she wasn’t saying a word. Faith wouldn’t have, either. Not with a Smith & Wesson stuck between her teeth.

Michael whirled around. The gun was now aimed at Faith.

“Get in here. And don’t move.”

She took a step forward and let the door swing shut behind her. “How did you get in the apartment? Nobody called up!”

Faith sincerely hoped he had distributed his Christmas largesse to the staff already.

“They know me. I have a key. From when I catered your party,” Faith stammered.

“Shit!” he screamed over his shoulder at his wife.

“You give the fucking key to everyone!” A slight look of guilt crossed Emma’s face. One more thing she’d done wrong. She probably should have kept better track of the keys.

“What are you going to do now, Michael? You can’t very well stage two suicides,” she whispered.

Three, thought Faith. Three, counting Lorraine. All the names she’d written on the sheet were falling into place now. Falling, leaving only one suspended in the air: Michael Stanstead.

She glanced at the kitchen table. A table like the one where only a little over two weeks ago she’d seen the headlines about Fox’s murder. Now she saw a piece of Emma’s engraved stationery. She didn’t have to read it to know what it said. It was one of those very polite notes saying it was really too much, that this was the end—one of those sincere missives that might have been dictated by the blackmailer himself, the blackmailer—her own husband.

I figured it out, Faith thought in despair, but not soon enough. She’d planned to come in, call until she found out where the Stansteads were, then alert the police.

They’d think she was crazy at first, but she knew she could prove it. The money had to be somewhere. And so would the wig he must have worn Friday night while driving the car in his first attempt—quick and easy—to kill his wife.

His wife! Why hadn’t Faith gotten on to him right away? It’s always the husband!

Emma’s question seemed to be taking a moment to register with Stanstead. He was standing with the gun trained on Faith’s forehead. A strand of hair worked its way down across one eyebrow, but she dared not push it back in place.

Then he exploded. Not moving the gun, he began to swear at Emma.

“You fucking bitch! You haven’t been able to do one single thing right since the day I married you!” Michael Stanstead was definitely insane—and he was on a roll.

“All you had to do was look pretty, smile, and say the right things—not the crazy shit that was always coming out of your mouth. And Jesus! You knew I was in the toilet after Black Monday, and you still wouldn’t give me any money for the campaign! I’m running for office, in case you haven’t noticed! What did you expect me to do!”

Kill me, my father, and two other women totally unrelated to either of us? seemed a wildly inappropriate answer, but apparently not to Michael, thought Faith.

She was watching him intently, willing him to at least pace up and down, so she might have a faint chance of getting the gun away from him. But he kept it trained on her without budging. The man must work out—not a bicep was quivering, although it would have been hard to tell through the coat. No bloodstains on his Armani—that would be for sure. Drop the coat in the river and no one would ever be the wiser.

“Wouldn’t touch your capital! Wanted to keep it for our children! What children! You couldn’t get pregnant if I drilled you from now until next Christmas.” Both Faith and Emma winced.

“You and your pathetic little miscarriage! Lucy told me all about it the summer we got engaged. Wanted me to dump you and marry her. She would have been ten times the wife you’ve been! But no, I wanted you.

Wanted the beautiful golden princess.

“My family warned me. Dad told me over and over again what a whore your mother was, but Nathan Fox! He wasn’t even a Democrat! A Commie! Your father was a Communist!” Spittle dribbled down Michael’s chin. He was literally foaming at the mouth.

“And then that Commie bitch of his tried to blackmail me! Me! Told me he left a book and it might hurt my wife’s feelings. You were young. All sorts of crap like that. Said she didn’t want any money. But they always want money, women like that.”

Michael was raving. Michael was insane. But he was the one with the gun and one of his victims was tied up.

“The whole world was going to know what color nipples my mother-in-law has, for God’s sakes! This Lorraine said she was offering to sell it to me instead of a publisher. Had a list of Commie charities she wanted the money to go to. Sure, sure, I said. Right before I put the pillow over her mouth.” Emma gasped. Faith remembered she hadn’t told her that Lorraine was even dead. Lorraine, the person who had spent the most time with Emma’s father, the person Emma most wanted to meet.

Poor Lorraine, Faith thought. She was trying to do the right thing. Trying to make something good come out of the venomous manuscript Fox had left behind.

Had she deleted the sections about herself? Faith hoped so.

“Okay, okay. You come across Emma trying to kill herself. There’s a struggle for the gun and it goes off.

Or Emma just kills herself and I take you for a ride.” Michael Stanstead was thinking out loud. He ran his free hand through his hair in agitation. “Emma comes home, thinks you’re a burglar, shoots you by mistake, and kills herself when she realizes what’s she’s done.” None of the possibilities appealed to Faith.

Although Michael had been addressing his wife, he had been keeping his eyes on Faith. Now she realized that while he had been talking, Emma had been quietly inching her chair closer to him across the highly polished wood floor coated with many layers of polyurethane. Faith immediately leaned back against the door, swinging it slightly open.

“Stand up! Don’t move or I’ll kill you,” Stanstead screamed.

Emma scuttled closer.

“It’s the same gun, isn’t it? The same one you used to kill Fox.” Faith wanted to keep his attention focused on her. “Your wife had been despondent over her inability to get pregnant. You’ve been playing the caring, concerned husband all over town, all the while hinting that there has to be another explanation. Drugs? You’ve floated that idea? An eating disorder? When the police investigate, they’re going to find erratic withdrawals of large sums of money. Her own personal dealer? Then voilà, the same gun, and all the ends are neatly tied up.