Body in the Big Apple

She killed Fox to prevent him from publishing his book. A book that would have wrecked your political career. She’s eaten up with guilt over the patricide and in despair takes her life on Christmas Eve, unable to stand the happiness of others at the holiday. You become the object of sympathy and in a few years, find a more suitable mate.”

Just as Faith thought he had reached the point where her words had driven him to pull the trigger, Emma pitched forward and caught him off balance. He fell heavily onto the floor.

But he still held the gun.

Faith leapt forward and groped on the counter for the implement she’d seen out of the corner of her eye.

She grabbed the wooden pestle with its sharp point and drove it directly into Michael Stanstead’s left eye with all her strength. He screamed in agony, bringing both hands to his face and dropped to his knees. She picked up the gun and raced to the phone, punching in 911.

Emma was on the floor, too—a few feet away from her husband.

“You certainly know your way around a kitchen,” she said to her friend, and then she passed out.

The room was dominated by Maxfield Parrish’s Old King Cole mural, which ran the full length of the wall behind the bar. The sky at the top of the painting was indeed the artist’s signature blue, but the king, his fid-dlers three, and other attendants were autumnal—browns, scarlets, and golds. Emma sat across from Faith, leaning back against the banquette, slowly sipping a martini.

“Well, I’m not in the Caribbean,” Emma said pensively, “but then, neither is Michael.”

“No,” Faith concurred, savoring her own drink.

Some occasions—and places—call for martinis. Both this venerable Big Apple bar at the St. Regis Hotel with its vague suggestion of not just one but many bygone eras in the city’s history and the chance to sort things out with Emma qualified.

No, Michael Stanstead was dressed in an orange jumpsuit or some other prison garb, far from any beaches. Even the Stanstead Associates team of lawyers hadn’t been able to arrange bail. At the apartment, screaming in pain, Michael had alternated between cursing Faith and insisting he had the right to kill his own wife if she deserved it and that it was nobody’s business but his. Hearing his Miranda rights seemed to incense him even further. Possibly a clever attorney might have been able to explain away the latex gloves, the rubber raincoat, his wife bound with bed sheeting so as not to leave marks, but even a neo-Clarence Darrow couldn’t have done much with a client who kept insisting on this wild droit du seigneur.

“Do you know who I am?” he kept repeating.

Bobby, the doorman, had come up before the police arrived, after Faith’s frantic call, and had responded automatically with his boss’s name the first couple of times, then given up, wide-eyed. His first act had been to untie Emma, who had come to almost immediately, while Faith kept the gun steadily aimed at Michael.

“Why don’t you go to the Caribbean anyway?” Faith asked. It was the day after Christmas, late in the afternoon. Both Emma and she had been spending long periods of time both at police headquarters and with lawyers. And when they weren’t there, neither of their families had let them out of their sights. This was the first time the two of them had been alone together.

Michael’s father and Jason Morris had had a long meeting Sunday night, which included Adrian Sutherland, and apparently all three men called in a lot of chits. The newspapers were busy covering the overthrow of Ceausescu in Romania and trying to insert a bit of holiday coverage into the grim news of world affairs. Michael’s arrest got buried in the Metro section of the Times. Faith knew the story would break sometime, but maybe not. Certainly not the whole story.

Powerful people were involved. They’d decided there was no way Michael Stanstead would be running for anything except exercise under the eyes of guards in watchtowers.

“People kept asking me how I was in these very heavy, meaningful voices and I was getting all these flowers. I just thought maybe I looked a little tired and the flowers were because of the holidays. Now I know that Michael was spreading it all over the city that I was, you know, sick.”

It had been a clever plan, Faith reflected. Michael would rid himself of a wife he didn’t want and get his hands on her money, which he wanted very much.

Since Sunday, she’d learned it was true Michael had lost a great deal of money in the crash and that he hadn’t recovered yet. His parents had always believed what was theirs was theirs. Emma’s continued insistence on not touching hers was literally driving him crazy. So, spread a few subtle hints around about his wife’s state of mind, add some “Puff the Magic Dragon” stories in the right places as well, and then all he had to do was play the part of the noble, bereaved husband after her tragic suicide. He’d had no idea his wife was that seriously depressed. He’d make some tearful speeches about not ignoring warning signs and the need for more mental-health programs. Emma would at last become the perfect political partner—

docile and quiet as the grave. With such a perfect plan in place, Faith had wondered why Stanstead had attacked what he thought was his wife with the car. Apparently, he’d meant to scare her, have the doormen see her distraught, but he’d gotten carried away in the actual act. It was part of the crescendo—resulting in her absence at the luncheon the next day, for one thing—that would lead to Christmas Eve and her “suicide.” Faith shuddered.

It was interesting that Emma, so compliant, had been stubborn about giving Michael the money.

“A couple of things have been bothering me,” Faith said, nibbling on one of the giant Brazil nuts from the assortment the bar provided—fresh, crisp, and not too many peanuts. “Wasn’t the whole money thing arranged in your prenup? Michael must have known he couldn’t touch it.”

“We didn’t have a prenup,” Emma confessed.

“Funny to think about it now, but he wanted one and I didn’t. It seemed so unromantic, so businesslike.” No prenup! With this kind of money involved! Then it hit Faith. If they had had one, Michael would have known that on one subject Emma was firm—finan-cially safeguarding her children’s future. She’d had the wind knocked out of her own sails and wanted to be sure no one ever did that to her offspring. Would Stanstead have married her if he’d known he could never touch her money? True, she was gorgeous. Every head had turned when they’d walked into the bar, and Faith was used to this happening when she was with Emma. And yes, Michael must have thought he could mold her, but money was money. He probably wouldn’t have married her and then . . . well, then none of this would have happened.

But it had.

“Easy for him to write the notes and plant them. He must have dropped the first one at that party, knowing someone would pick it up and give it to you, thinking you had dropped it. But how did he manage to make the call telling you where and when to bring the money when he was home at the time? Oh, I’m being stupid—”

“Separate line,” she and Emma said at once, hooked pinkies for luck, and ordered two more martinis, plus some very expensive food from the bar menu.

“I was really in love with him,” Emma said. “It’s like there were two Michaels. Mine and the one, you know, the one in the kitchen. This last week, he was so affectionate, so caring—bringing flowers, little gifts. I was thrilled. His schedule has been so packed that these last months we haven’t had that much time together, even in bed.” She looked a little embarrassed.

“Not this week, though. It seemed to be all he wanted, which was fine with me.”

Great, thought Faith in revulsion, picturing Michael getting his kicks from the ultimate “good-bye sex.” The drinks came, and Emma wanted to hear about Lorraine Fuchs. Faith told her, and both women felt a deep sadness at the path Lorraine’s life had taken—and where it led at the end. The police were now treating her suicide as a homicide. As she’d told Faith, she’d seen Nathan Fox the day before he was killed. He must have called her to come get the manuscript and put it someplace safe. Faith could imagine his saying that he wasn’t planning on going anywhere but that he wanted her to keep it—and keep it sealed until his death. The death that was waiting for him on the other side of his door the very next afternoon.

“We know Lucy told Michael about your pregnancy, but how did he find out Nathan Fox was your father?

Do you think she knew?”

Emma shook her head. Faith had been interested to note that alcohol had the opposite effect on Emma from that of most people. It made her more lucid.

“I wondered the same thing. The lawyer said Michael had found one of my postcards when we were on vacation a year and a half ago. I’d used it as a book-mark and hadn’t mailed it, but it had the address, and I’d written, ‘Dear Daddy.’ Michael didn’t know then who Norman Fuchs was, but he’s very smart. He figured it out. I had all of Daddy’s books when we got married, and Michael used to tease me about them.”

“But how did he know that you’d be at the apartment?”

“He looked in my appointment book and followed me a few times, apparently.”

“You mean you wrote, ‘Go see Dad’ after ‘Have Manicure’ and before ‘Tea at the Plaza’!” This was a bit much even for Emma.

“No, don’t be silly. I wrote in code. Don’t you do this? Like a little star when you get your period, that kind of thing? I would never forget when I was supposed to see him, but I still wrote a little d on Tuesdays at three o’clock.”

And after a team of top cryptographers worked for several weeks, this arcane code was cracked.

“What do you think happened to the book?” Faith asked.

“What book?” It was Poppy Morris. She sat down next to her daughter and a waiter instantly appeared.

“What they’re having, but no olives, a twist. And very dry.”

Her hair was pulled back in her trademark chignon.

She was wearing a long, full dark skirt and a Valentino shearling-lined jacket with hand-painted suede appliqué designs. Beneath the jacket, Faith could see several ropes of nonfaux pearls and a few gold chains. She looked like a very chic, very rich gypsy queen.

“Oh, that book,” she said, answering her own question, then began picking the cashews out of the mixed nuts. “I would love to have read it, before I burned it, that is. See what he had to say about people I knew, about moi. And probably Michael did what I would have done. It’s not something he would have kept around. Evidence, you know.”

Faith was sure Poppy was right. Michael’s remark about Poppy’s anatomy revealed he must have at least skimmed it before he tossed it on the Yule log. She wondered what else Fox had written about Poppy.

There was still the unanswered question of who had driven the getaway car during the bank robbery. Poppy at the wheel with her Vuitton driving gloves? They’d never know.

Poppy was addressing Faith. “Of course, I know what you did in the kitchen, dear, and you do know what I’m so inadequately trying to say.” She patted Faith’s hand—and Faith did know. “I suppose that’s why they call it batterie de cuisine,” Poppy added as an afterthought. “Now, Jason and Lucy have gone to Mustique. Emma, I thought we might head off for Gstaad, stop in Paris on the way. You need a trip. It’s been horrible, I know, but you’ve got to put it behind you. That’s what I always do. And just think, darling, there won’t be any question about grounds for divorce.”

Emma looked stricken. Faith could read her mind.

One more thing on an increasingly nasty “To Do” list—testify against Michael, find new apartment—

too, too upsetting to walk into the kitchen—get divorce.

“I’m sure the lawyers will handle everything, and going away for a while is a terrific idea,” Faith advised.

“It’s settled, then—and you’ll come, too, Faith.” Poppy drained her drink and stood up.

“I have to work, sorry,” Faith said—and she was.

Just for now. Just for a moment.

“He really was the most divine man. I miss him.” There was no question about whom she was speaking.

“I miss him, too,” Emma said.

Poppy nodded briskly. Things were getting a bit too mushy. “Now, call me and tell me where you’ll be after you leave here. I’m off to Marietta’s. You know how to reach me.” When they’d met at the St. Regis, Emma had called her mother right away. Poppy was keeping a close eye on her daughter.

Emma kissed her mother good-bye.

They talked some more, but after a while fell into their own individual reveries. It would be the New Year soon. A new decade, and in not too many years, a new century. You can’t stop time, no matter how much you do or don’t want to, Faith reflected. Richard had been right about one thing: Nathan Fox’s murder was tied to his past. A line from Shakespeare’s Tempest—she’d been Miranda in college—popped into her head: “what’s past is prologue.” She looked over at Emma. She was shaking the snow globe Faith had given her and watching the flakes swirl about the tiny city inside.

Epilogue

How could I have thought I was so invulnerable? How could I have taken such a thing on? At the end, lives were lost, reputations destroyed, peace of mind shattered forever. But we were safe. Emma and I. Does she see what I see in my dreams? As we’ve grown older, we’ve become the kind of friends who don’t keep in touch. Looking at each other is too painful. We know too much—know how close we came to never knowing what we have: small arms reaching up for us, large ones reaching down, encircling, engulfing.

How could I have taken such a risk?

But there really wasn’t ever any question.

Sometimes life lets us make choices. Sometimes it reaches out and chooses us.

Author’s Note

The Big Apple. Jazz musicians coined the city’s familiar moniker in the twenties. There were plenty of apples to pick from the tree, but only one Big Apple, only one New York. If you had a gig there, you had it made.

The ultimate destination.

Growing up in northern New Jersey, I felt much the same. As teenagers, my friends and I used to say we lived “just outside the city,” omitting the fact that we had to cross a state line to get there. At twelve, we were deemed old enough to take the DeCamp bus together to Port Authority—in the daytime. Armed with the small penciled maps my mother would draw, we’d head for Manhattan. One Saturday, it would be museums. My cousin John convinced me to stand in line with him for several hours outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art to catch a sixty-second glimpse of the Mona Lisa, on loan from the Louvre. It’s the wait I remember best now, the mix of New Yorkers and out-of-towners, the jokes, the stories—holding places while people dashed off for a dog from the Sabrett’s “all beef kosher franks” stand. Another Saturday, we’d go from box office to box office on Broadway until we got tickets to a matinee (prices were much lower in the early sixties). We saw everything from Richard Burton in Hamlet to Anthony Newley in Stop the World, I Want to Get Off. Sometimes we’d just wander, walking miles, entranced by the dramatic changes in the neighborhoods from one block to the next. Bialys and bagels gave way to egg rolls, followed swiftly by cannolis as we moved uptown.

No time of year was more magical than December, and from the time I was a small child, there was always a special trip during the season to look at the Rockefeller Center tree and the department store windows.

Other times of the year, my parents took us to the ballet, opera—the old Met with the “cloth of gold” curtain—concerts, and special exhibits at the museums—the Calder mobiles, like nothing anyone had seen before, spiraling in the enormous spiral of the Guggenheim.

Then there were the restaurants—or rather, one restaurant: Horn and Hardart’s Automat. My 1964 Frommer’s guide advises: “Inquire of any passer-by, and you’ll be directed to one that’s usually no more than a block-or-two away.” Sadly, they have all disappeared, and trying to explain the concept to my fifteen-year-old son—you put nickels in the slot next to the food you wanted, lifted the little glass door, snatched it out, and watched the empty space revolve, instantly producing another dish—is well nigh impossible. Fortunately, there are old movies. Just as difficult is describing the food—the superb crusty macaroni and cheese with tiny bits of tomato, the warm deep-dish apple pie with vanilla sauce, the baked beans in their own little pot. Most New Yorkers of a certain age wax nostalgic about Automat food—the meat loaf! And a whole meal for one dollar.

My husband is the genuine article. A native New Yorker, born and bred in the Bronx. “The Beautiful Bronx” when he was growing up, and we have a book of the same name to prove it. When he meets someone else from the borough, talk immediately turns to the Grand Concourse, the “nabe,” and egg creams. Where he lived is now part of the Cross Bronx Expressway, but he can still point out his elementary school as we whiz past. New Yorkers are very sentimental.

And to continue in the manner of Faith’s sweeping generalizations, New Yorkers are also very rude, very generous, very funny, very stylish, very quirky, and very fast. Genetically, they have more molecules than most other Americans. The moment I step off the train or plane from Boston, my pace quickens in imitation, my gaze narrows, and my senses sharpen. Forget all those New York designer fragrances. The essence is adrenaline, pure and simple.

This book is a paean to New York City past, present, and future—written about the end of one very distinctive decade as the city is poised for another—and a new century at that. At the close of 1989, the last thing Faith imagines is that in a few years she’ll be in exile—living in the bucolic orchards west of Boston.

She’ll keep her edge, though, will continue to read the Times and make periodic journeys back to Bloomies, Balducci’s, and Barneys, always keeping in mind what the comedian Harry Hershfield said: “New York: Where everyone mutinies but no one deserts.” 1900 or 2000—some things never change. It’s a wonderful town.

EXCERPTS FROM

HAVE FAITH

IN YOUR KITCHEN

BY Faith Sibley

A WORK IN PROGRESS

PORK LOIN STUFFED

WITH WINTER FRUITS

41⁄2 to 5 pounds boned pork

3 tablespoons

loin, center cut

vegetable oil

1 large apple, peeled, cored,

Salt

and cubed

Freshly ground black

Juice from 1⁄2 lemon

pepper

Approximately 12 pitted

3⁄4 cup dry white wine

prunes

3⁄4 cup heavy cream

3 tablespoons unsalted butter

Ask your butcher to cut a pocket in the center of the pork loin and tie it at one-inch intervals, or do this yourself at home.

Preheat the oven to 350°F.

Toss the apple cubes with the lemon juice to prevent dis-coloration. Then stuff the pork, alternating apple cubes and prunes.

Put the butter and oil in a large casserole with a lid, a Dutch oven or Le Creuset–type cookware is good. Place the casserole on top of the stove over medium heat. When the butter has melted, add the loin, turning it so that it browns evenly on all sides. Season with the salt and pepper as you cook it. Remove the fat with a bulb baster.

Pour in the wine and cook in the center of the oven for approximately an hour and a half. Use a meat thermometer to check to be sure it’s done, but not overdone.

Place the loin on a heated platter and finish the sauce by first skimming off any fat produced during the cooking, then bringing the remaining liquid to a boil. Reduce the heat and add the cream, stirring constantly. Serve the sauce separately in a gravy boat.

A cranberry chutney or Scandinavian lingonberries go well with this dish. Serves six to eight.

WALDORF SALAD

1 cup diced crisp celery

1⁄4 cup sour cream

11⁄

1

2 cups cored (but not

⁄4 cup mayonnaise

peeled), diced Granny

Pinch of salt

Smith apples

Freshly grated nutmeg to

3⁄4 cup coarsely chopped

taste

walnuts

Combine all the ingredients and mix well. Refrigerate for at least one hour before serving; then let it warm slightly. Serve as is or on a bed of greens. This recipe tastes best with a slightly tart apple, and Granny Smiths are also pretty with the green celery.

The original recipe was created by Oscar Tschirky, the maître d’, not the chef, at New York’s famous Waldorf-Astoria Hotel. It called for equal parts of diced celery and apples combined with mayonnaise and served on lettuce.

Walnuts were a later addition. Faith has altered it still more, and on occasion she replaces the walnuts with pecans, adds seedless green grapes or golden raisins, and often a slight squeeze of lemon. Serves six.

BIG APPLE PANCAKES

3⁄4 cup milk, plus 2 tablespoons 2 tablespoons sugar 2 tablespoons unsalted butter, 1⁄4 teaspoon salt melted

1⁄4 teaspoon cinnamon

1 egg

1 Empire apple, peeled,

1 cup all-purpose flour

cored, and cut into thin

2 teaspoons baking powder

slices, halved

Put the milk, butter, and egg into a mixing bowl and beat lightly. Sift the dry ingredients together and add to the liquid ingredients, stirring just enough to mix. Add the apple slices and stir. Cook on a griddle or in a frying pan, making sure that the apple slices are evenly distributed in the batter.

Makes sixteen four-inch pancakes.

Serve with warm maple syrup—they don’t need much.

FRENCH APPLE CAKE

2 cups sliced, peeled cooking

1 tablespoon cassis

apples

(optional)

Juice from 1⁄2 lemon

4 tablespoons unsalted

1⁄2 cup sugar, plus 1⁄3 cup

butter, melted

1⁄4 teaspoon grated nutmeg or

1 teaspoon baking powder

cinnamon

1⁄4 teaspoon salt

1 cup all-purpose flour, plus

1⁄4 cup milk

1 tablespoon

1 egg, plus 1 egg yolk

Preheat the oven to 400 °F. Grease a cake pan. Toss the apples with the lemon juice and arrange in a spiral on the bottom of the pan. Cover the pan completely, overlapping the slices if necessary. Sprinkle with 1⁄2 cup sugar and the nutmeg. Cover the apples with 1 tablespoon of flour and driz-zle with the cassis, if using, then with 3 tablespoons of the melted butter. Set the pan aside while preparing the batter.

Sift the 1 cup flour, 1⁄3 cup of sugar, the baking powder, and salt together. Beat the milk, egg, egg yolk, and 1 tablespoon of the melted butter together. Add the liquid mixture to the dry ingredients and stir until you have a thick, smooth batter.

Spread the batter on top of the fruit and bake for twenty-five minutes. Do not overcook. The cake should be light brown on top. Cool slightly and invert on a serving plate.

Serve warm or at room temperature with a small dollop of whipped cream. This cake is also delicious when made with peaches or pears.

MANHATTAN MORSELS

1⁄2 cup unsalted butter

2 eggs

2 1-ounce squares semisweet

1⁄2 cup white sugar

baking chocolate

1⁄2 cup brown sugar

1 cup all-purpose flour

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1⁄2 teaspoon baking powder

1⁄2 cup applesauce

1⁄2 teaspoon baking soda

1⁄2 cup chopped walnuts

1⁄4 teaspoon salt

Preheat the oven to 350°F. Grease a 13 x 9 x 2-inch baking pan and set aside.

Melt the butter and chocolate in the top of a double boiler.

Cool slightly. Sift the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt together. Set aside. Beat the eggs, sugars, and vanilla together. Then add to this the chocolate-butter mixture and the applesauce, mixing well. Stir in the dry ingredients and mix well again. Add the walnuts, stir, and pour into the greased pan.

Bake in the middle of the oven for approximately twenty-five minutes. Cool in the pan on a rack. This recipe makes twenty-four squares.

One of Faith’s favorite apple recipes is the apple version of Denouement Apple/Pear Crisp found in the recipe section of The Body in the Cast. Make it with New York State apples to give it a Big Apple twist.

As always, all of these recipes may be modified, substituting Egg Beaters, margarine, low-fat milk, and low-fat sour cream. The only exception is the sauce for the pork loin. It doesn’t need to be heavy cream, but it does need to be creamy—light cream or half-and-half.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank Dr. Robert DeMartino once again for his invaluable medical advice and our years of friendship.

Many thanks also to Faith Hamlin, my agent, and Zachary Schisgal—an editor who edits.

And I am especially grateful to Patricia Hero of Arlington, Virginia, who suggested the title years ago at a bookstore signing!

About the Author

KATHERINE HALL PAGE is the author of thirteen previous Faith Fairchild mysteries. Her first book in the series, The Body in the Belfry, received the Agatha Award for best first mystery novel. She also won an Agatha Award for her short story “The Would Be Widower,” and The Body in the Lighthouse was nominated for a Mary Higgins Clark Award. She lives with her husband and son in Massachusetts. You can visit her website at www.katherinehallpage.com.

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

Praise

THE BODY IN THE BIG APPLE

“New Yorkers and suburbanites alike should enjoy this fast-paced mystery; and gastronomes will relish the aptly apple-flavored recipes.”

—Publishers Weekly

And praise for Agatha Award-winner KATHERINE HALL PAGE’s previous

Faith Fairchild mysteries:

“Scrumptious suspense.”

—Boston Herald

“This highly entertaining series effectively mixes modern-day moral dilemmas with

charm, warmth, and humor.”

—Booklist

“Her literary concoction is satisfying and surprisingly delicious.”

— Los Angeles Times

“Page has kept her Faith Fairchild series fresh by making each novel distinctly different.”

—Ft. Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel

“Murder most delicious!”

—Tulsa World

Other Faith Fairchild Mysteries by

Katherine Hall Page

THE BODY IN THE BOOKCASE

THE BODY IN THE FIORD

THE BODY IN THE BOG

THE BODY IN THE BASEMENT

THE BODY IN THE CAST

THE BODY IN THE VESTIBULE

THE BODY IN THE BOUILLON

THE BODY IN THE KELP

THE BODY IN THE BELFRY