Authors: Annette Meyers
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Women's Fiction, #Contemporary Women, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Crime, #Financial, #Contemporary Fiction, #Crime Fiction
Tender Death (3 page)
P
EEPSIE
C
UNNINGHAM LIVED
in an elegant old Fifth Avenue building across from the Metropolitan Museum.
A stout middle-aged doorman in a gray wool uniform, who had been standing inside away from the draft, came forward when he saw them approach and swung open the ornate glass and carved iron outside door for them.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Osborn,” he said courteously, touching his hand to his hat. “I’ll let Mrs. Cunningham know you’re on your way up.”
“Thank you, Edward.” Hazel was leaning heavily on Wetzon’s arm, exhausted by their short walk. “This is my friend, Ms. Wetzon.”
Edward nodded at Wetzon, went to a vertical switchboard, put a plug into a numbered outlet, picked up a phone, and waited.
“Yes. Ms. Osborn and Ms. Whitman coming up.”
Hazel and Wetzon looked at each other and exchanged a smile. No one ever seemed to hear Wetzon’s name correctly the first time.
“Elevator bank to your right,” Edward said automatically, and then had the grace to look embarrassed when Hazel softly thanked him.
Together, slowly, Hazel and Wetzon moved through the beautiful old lobby: marble floors, deco-patterned, a wide expanse of window looking out on a garden laid out geometrically, somewhat similar to that at the Frick Museum farther down on Fifth Avenue. Several huge arrangements of fresh flowers stood on brass and wood side tables near upholstered armchairs and sofas. It all spoke of another time, of grace and dignity and a quiet, understated grandeur.
Wetzon pressed the button for the elevator while Hazel sank awkwardly down on the quilted brown leather bench opposite.
The elevator door opened and an elderly couple suitably encased in furs and heavy winterwear exited. A lanky young man in the gray staff uniform grinned at them from the mahogany-paneled elevator. “How you doing today, Ms. Osborn? Cold enough for you?” The question, as these weather questions usually were, appeared to be rhetorical, for he stepped aside to let them enter without waiting for a response. He pressed “20” and the door closed behind them.
The little lobby on the twentieth floor also had a patterned, marble floor. Bright red paisley paper decorated the walls. An antique light of etched glass in a leaded shade hung on a brass chain from the ceiling. There were two doors, one to the right and one to the left.
Hazel rang the bell to the one on the right, and as the echo of the chime faded, they heard a small stifled cry. There was a faint click behind them. Wetzon turned, but the other door stayed shut. Perhaps someone was watching them through the peephole. Not so odd in a paranoid city like New York, Wetzon reflected, where even the wealthy elderly were afraid.
The door swept open and an apparition said, “Hello, hello, my dollink. See,” she continued to someone over her shoulder, “see, your friend is here. I told you she vould come, my dollink. And you must be Ms. Veetman. So happy to meet you.” She grasped Wetzon’s hand and pumped her arm vigorously. “Come, I take your coats, it is so cold, is it not, and the vind, such a vind, tch, tch, tch.” All this was said at breakneck speed in a thick Russian accent. The speaker was a small, pigeon-breasted woman in a white uniform. A mass of bleached platinum-blonde curls was piled haphazardly on top of her head. She had dense false eyelashes on eyes outlined thickly in black and smudged with gray-blue gold-flecked eye shadow, brightly rouged cheeks, and shiny red-glazed lips. Heavy gold earrings dangled from stretched earlobes.
She hung their coats in the hall closet, still talking. “I make us some nice hot Russian tea,” she announced, and swayed off on spike-heeled backless shoes.
“Leslie, you can close your mouth now,” Hazel murmured wickedly, more like the old Hazel. “That’s Ida.”
“God, Hazel, what a piece of work.”
“She’s the home care person who looks after Peepsie. Let’s go inside.”
Wetzon, trailing after Hazel, was overwhelmed by the opulence, the gold Chinese wallpaper, the antique oil paintings in heavily carved frames, the fine old English furniture, and Chinese porcelains. A muted old runner ran down the beautiful parquet floor. Two huge urns stood on either side of the spacious archway.
Peepsie Cunningham was a very wealthy widow.
When Wetzon passed under the high, wide archway, she found herself in an enormous square room with more of the same: old English side tables, a rug in the palest blues and beige and rose, an important chinoiserie secretary, more porcelain, a fat down-filled rose damask sofa. Club chairs picked up the pale blues of the rug. Thick draperies in a deeper rose covered the windows on the far wall, which undoubtedly overlooked Fifth Avenue and the Museum.
Hazel had already sat down on the sofa next to a tiny doll-like woman who wore a ranch mink coat and a wide-brimmed mink hat. She was clinging to Hazel’s arm, her eyes focused fearfully on Wetzon. “It’s all right, Peepsie dear,” Hazel said gently, “this is my friend, Leslie. I know you’ll like each other. Leslie, this is my oldest, dearest friend, Peepsie Cunningham.”
“Peepsie, Peepsie,” Peepsie Cunningham chirped, wide eyes on Wetzon, and obediently put out her hand, like a little girl.
Wetzon came closer, bent, and took the tiny hand.
“I haven’t seen you in such a long time,” Peepsie Cunningham said, clinging to Wetzon’s hand. Her fingers were icy cold. “You never write. I don’t know where you are. I’m so lonely.” Tears spilled down her round little cheeks and sank into the mink collar of the coat.
“Oh dear, Leslie, I think she thinks you’re Marion, her niece,” Hazel said sadly.
“Marion, sit here,” Peepsie Cunningham said, patting the rose damask cushions and pulling Wetzon down on the sofa next to her with surprising strength. “Peepsie,” she said to Hazel, “tell Willie to bring us some tea.”
“Willie isn’t with us anymore, dear,” Hazel said. “Ida is getting us some tea.” She touched her tiny friend’s shoulder. “Why don’t you take off your coat, too, dear? It’s so warm in here. And your hat.” Docile, Peepsie Cunningham complied.
Under the fur coat Peepsie Cunningham wore a dress of dark blue silk and a long lustrous rope of pearls. She had matching Gucci walking shoes with the gold stirrups on her tiny feet.
Without the big hat she looked even more doll-like. Faded brown ringlets of hair framed her baby face with its wide childish eyes, the color of fall leaves.
“Marion,” Peepsie Cunningham said; her fingers scrabbled on Wetzon’s arm. “I gave her the ...”
She fell silent as Ida reappeared. The woman carried a large silver tray holding the tea service, cups and saucers, a plate of tea cakes, linen napkins, and silver spoons which rattled noisily.
“Vell, my dollinks, vhat nice things are girls talking about today?”
Ida spoke with a vulgar familiarity, placing the tray on the round tea table near the sofa. “How you like tea, Ms. Veetman?”
“Straight,” Wetzon said.
“And you’re one sugar and lemon,” Ida said to Hazel without looking at her. “And vee know you like with milk and honey, don’t vee, my little dollink,” Ida said to Peepsie Cunningham, who smiled slyly up at her. Ida handed them their cups, then poured one for herself, adding generous dollops of honey and milk, and settled into one of the club chairs. With a loud sigh she shook off her shoes and tucked her feet up under her.
Hazel’s dark left eyebrow rose almost up to the brim of her burgundy felt hat, which Wetzon suddenly realized she hadn’t removed. Every wisp of Hazel’s snowy-white hair was tucked up under the hat. All at once she was afraid. It wasn’t arthritis that was sapping Hazel’s strength. The cancer had come back.
Wetzon’s reverie was shattered by a clattering noise. Peepsie Cunningham’s arm was still extended in the air. She had flung her spoon across the room. Hazel’s face registered shock.
“Oh my, vhat naughty girl you are,” Ida scolded, shaking her finger at Peepsie. She rose grudgingly and slipped her feet back into her shoes. “I bring another. Tch, tch, tch.”
Fascinated, they stared at Ida’s rolling walk in the spike-heeled shoes, her protruding rear end broad in the tight white uniform.
“So clever, so clever,” Peepsie Cunningham said nastily. She took a big swallow of her tea and turned to Hazel, pleading, “I can’t find them. I brought them home, and I can’t find them. Please, Peepsie, help me.”
Hazel leaned toward her. “Can’t find what, dear?”
“You know,” Peepsie Cunningham said. “Tell Marion.” She turned and gaped at Wetzon. Her voice rose in terror. “Who are you? What are you doing in my home?”
Hazel looked apologetically at Wetzon. Peepsie Cunningham giggled and thrust her teacup at Hazel.
“Want to sleep now, Peepsie, Peepsie, Peepsie,” she intoned, yawning widely. She seemed to be having trouble keeping her eyes open.
“Time for nap now, my dollink,” Ida said, returning.
“I guess we should go.” Reluctance threaded Hazel’s words.
She and Wetzon both rose, watching uncomfortably as Ida gathered Peepsie Cunningham up in her arms and carried her out of the room.
Like a bag of laundry,
Wetzon thought.
“You let yourselves out, no?” Ida said without looking back.
Silently, they bundled themselves up again for the cold. In the little red lobby Hazel said, “You see why I’m so worried.”
“Yes. Is being so panicked a symptom of Alzheimer’s?”
“I don’t know. But she is terribly frightened, isn’t she?”
“No question. Can’t her niece come back and take care of her?”
“Peepsie doesn’t seem to know where she put Marion’s last letter. And I can’t remember her married name.”
“I’m so sorry, Hazel. My God, all that wealth and all that sadness.”
The elevator took them back to the main lobby.
“Cab, ladies?” Edward asked.
“Yes, please,” Hazel said. She looked at Wetzon, who shook her head.
“I’ll walk up to Eighty-sixth Street and take the crosstown bus.”
They stood inside the entrance listening to the wind, watching pedestrians battling the vicious gusts swathed in coats, hats, and mufflers, bent with the effort. It was not a day for strolling. Even the steps of the Metropolitan Museum, usually thick with people sitting and talking, were deserted.
Edward, clutching his cap, was dancing on the sidewalk outside trying to flag down a taxi. Trash, bits and pieces of newspapers, twigs from trees and shrubbery spun helplessly in the wind. A large, dark object hurtled past the doors, seemingly windblown from way above. Edward stopped and jerked around. His hand shot out, snapped back, covering his eyes. For a moment, he seemed frozen, then he whirled and rushed toward them. A blast of cold air hit them as he threw the door open.
“Jesus, Mary,” he screamed, “it’s Missus Cunningham!” He pushed past, his face ashen. “Jesus, Mary.” Panting, he grabbed up the receiver and punched three numbers. “Come at once, come at once to 999 Fifth Avenue. One of my tenants just jumped.”
“H
AZEL WAS DISTRAUGHT
,” Wetzon said. “Hell,
I
was distraught.” She was lying on her bed fully clothed except for her boots, which she’d pulled off the minute she walked into her apartment.
Smith clucked sympathetically on the other end of the phone line. “That poor woman. What did the body look like?”
“Smith, you are a ghoul, you know that?”
“No, come on, Wetzon, you’ll feel a lot better if you tell me,” Smith said. “You know how these things fester if you don’t get them out.”
“There isn’t that much to tell. By the time we left the building they had taken her away—”
She shuddered at the memory. She and Edward had pulled Hazel away from the door. “This is a mistake,” Hazel kept saying. “A mistake.”
Somehow they managed to get her to one of the lobby sofas. Wetzon shrugged out of her coat and tucked it around Hazel’s shoulders. Edward disappeared and returned with what looked like a painter’s drop cloth. Wetzon knew he had gone out to cover what was left of Peepsie Cunningham’s mortal remains. Then the police had arrived ...
“They came fast,” Smith said, interrupting.
“I guess it helps if you live on Fifth Avenue.”
“Oh ho, she was one of the superprivileged, then.”
“You might say that. I’ve never seen such an incredible apartment. It was like a museum—”
“Tell me—”
“Not now. It’s been an awful afternoon.” Wetzon closed her eyes and saw the shoe again. The small dark blue Gucci with the gold stirrups.
“What did you do with Hazel?” Smith’s voice was distorted by something she was eating. “I wish you would open up, sweetie. You know it’s going to give you nightmares if you don’t talk about it.”
“I just can’t,” Wetzon said. “At least not yet, not now.”
And maybe not to you,
she added silently. Why did Smith always want her to share her every thought and feeling? “I called Hazel’s doctor and brought her over to Lenox Hill. He wanted her admitted for observation.”
“Oh my, she must have been in bad shape.” The munching sound continued.
“Smith, she was in shock. Peepsie Cunningham was one of her oldest friends—whatever are you eating?”
“Potato chips. Peepsie, what kind of name is that? A turn-of-the-century version of Muffie?”
“Smith, you’re so callous. They could be us in thirty or forty years.” She pulled the afghan up around her, chilled.
“Oh hardly, Wetzon. I’m not about to take a walk out of my window, especially not on a cold night. And neither are you.” Wetzon heard the crackle of crumpled cellophane.
“But what if we were ill and alone, and we didn’t know what we were doing?” A funny little pulse fluttered her eyelid. She was depressed by what had happened to Peepsie.
“Wetzon,” Smith said impatiently, “you just got finished telling me there was a woman with her, looking after her.”
“Right. Ida. A very peculiar Russian lady, who acted as if she were a member of the family. She actually took off her shoes and had tea with us.” Wetzon had forgotten all about Ida. Wherever had Ida been when Peepsie Cunningham jumped? “I don’t know where she was, and in the confusion I didn’t see her again.”
“Didn’t you talk to the police?”
“No one talked to us, and Hazel was in such bad shape. A lot of the tenants came downstairs and were standing around trying to see what was going on. The lobby got very crowded. So after I talked to Hazel’s doctor, I called a cab service and we left.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
Except for one thing,
Wetzon thought. As she helped Hazel into the cab, she had seen the small dark blue Gucci walking shoe with the gold stirrups in the gutter. Without thinking, she had bent down and dropped it into her big Mark Cross leather carryall, a combination of purse and briefcase. What had possessed her to do so, she couldn’t imagine. It had been instinctive. And in her concern for Hazel, she had quite forgotten about it until just now.
“I can’t get over that no one stopped you,” Smith was saying.
“I think people could see that Hazel was sick—” She choked. “Oh, Smith, it’s more than that. Hazel’s cancer has come back. She’s having chemotherapy, and she can hardly walk.”
“I’m really sorry, Wetzon,” Smith said. “I know how you feel about her. But she
is
old—”
“Forget it, Smith. Don’t say another word.”
“Really, Wetzon, what did I say now?” Smith sounded wounded. “You are getting so sensitive.”
Wetzon didn’t know why she bothered. She and Smith would never see eye to eye about most things. “It’s all right, Smith, I guess I’m just upset about what happened. I’m going to lie here and try to catch up.”
“Wait, before you hang up, you had some calls—”
Wetzon looked at her watch. It was five o’clock. She groaned. “Okay, let’s hear.”
“Evan Cornell.”
“He’s looking for something in management. He calls every couple of months. It can wait till tomorrow.”
“Mary Ann Marusi. I hope she’s not in trouble again. Kidder hasn’t even paid us yet.”
“I don’t think so. She said she would call me for a drink or lunch after she got settled.”
“I hope so, but considering her record ...”
“What record, Smith? Really, I don’t know why you have it in for Mary Ann. She hasn’t done anything wrong.”
“No, just dummied up her runs from Sontheimer and Company.”
“That’s not true. You’re taking Don Schwartzman’s word for that, and you know damned well Don’s a liar. He’s lied about the end-of-year production of everyone we’ve placed there. He cheated us. That, if you remember, is why we’re not working with Sontheimer anymore.”
“How could it slip my mind. I must be losing my grip.” Smith laughed lightly.
“Any more calls?”
“Yes. Peter Tormenkov, confirming breakfast tomorrow at seven-thirty at the American Festival Cafe.”
“Oh shit. I’d forgotten all about that.”
“Who’s Peter Tormenkov?”
“Someone Howie Minton referred.”
“Jesus, Howie Minton, the great mover,” Smith said sarcastically, tweaking Wetzon for always believing Howie Minton when he called her and swore that
this
time he was
really
ready to change firms. Wetzon would set up interviews for him with various firms, they would all make him offers, and then he’d stay on with L. L. Rosenkind.
“Well, you’re right there. I admit it.” Wetzon laughed. “Anyway, this Tormenkov person works for L. L. Rosenkind and he’s unhappy—”
“Just like Howie, I suppose.”
“Maybe not. Howie says he really wants to leave and that he has a nice book for a rookie.”
“A rookie? God, I hate to work with rookies. You spend as much time with them, more, than with a big producer where we can really earn a fee,” Smith complained. “Couldn’t you have gotten him to come to the office? It’s a waste of time and money buying a rookie breakfast.”
“He was so paranoid about confidentiality, I thought what the hell.” Wetzon didn’t look forward to a seven-thirty breakfast either. She had never gotten used to the Wall Street clock, where the day often started at the crack of dawn and brokers were sitting at their desks at seven o’clock. The day officially began at nine-thirty when the Market opened, but a lot of brokers were on the phone with clients considerably earlier. And those who prospected for new clients knew that the corporate honchos were usually at their desks by seven, without a secretary around to run interference. But Wetzon, who’d spent all those years in the theater, still felt as if her heart didn’t even start beating until ten o’clock. “Anything else?”
“Yes, one more. Kevin De Haven. No message. Just a phone number. Looks like a Merrill number.”
“De Haven? Does that name sound familiar to you?”
“No. Don’t you know him?”
“No.” Her curiosity was piqued, despite her fatigue. “I wonder if it’s too late. Let me try him and I’ll call you back.”
She hung up the phone and dialed the number Kevin De Haven had left.
“De Haven.”
“Hi, this is Leslie Wetzon. You called me this afternoon.”
“Oh yeah. I was returning your call.”
“I didn’t call you.”
“But I found your name and phone number on my desk this morning when I got back from vacation.”
“Well, I didn’t call you, Kevin,” Wetzon said, baffled. “What do you do?”
“I’m a stockbroker.”
“You are?” She suppressed a chortle. “What a coincidence. I’m a headhunter.”
“Hey, pal, what field do you headhunt in?” De Haven asked, warming up. Brokers loved to talk. Salespeople loved to talk. So long as you kept the conversation going, you still had a shot at closing the sale.
“Your field. Stockbrokers. Maybe we should talk.”
“Maybe we should. I may be interested in using your services.”
“What kind of business do you do in numbers?” Wetzon asked casually.
“Oh three quarters of a mil or so.”
“No kidding. You’re not a stockbroker. You’re a gorilla. When can we sit down and talk?” With the average stockbroker doing somewhere between two hundred and fifty and three hundred thousand in gross production, De Haven was indeed a gorilla.
“How about tomorrow? After the close.”
“Great. Where are you located? My office is on Forty-ninth, off Second.”
“Well, I’m at 200 Park. Maybe I’ll come to see you. Why don’t you call me tomorrow at four?”
“Great, Kevin, I’ll do that.” She hung up the phone and shouted, “Wowee! Gold!” She dialed the office, and when Smith answered, she said, “Guess who lives right?”
“What? Tell me. Who is he?”
“Oh just a little old three-quarters-of-a-million-dollars producer.”
“Holy shit, how did we get so lucky?”
“I don’t know, but I’m sure going to find out. He says I called him and left my name and number, but I know I didn’t. Someone is watching out for me.”
“I’ll let you know after I check the cards tonight,” Smith said, referring to her tarot reading. “When are you meeting him?”
“Tomorrow, after the close. Maybe at the office sometime after four o’clock.”
“Damn it, Wetzon, my party is tomorrow night. You know I have to leave early.”
“You don’t have to meet him, Smith.”
“But I want to. It’s not right.” Smith was petulant.
“Would you rather I put him off and lose him?” Smith sometimes could get so ridiculous. Even though she was older than Wetzon, Wetzon frequently felt older, or less childish anyway.
Smith’s response was an emphatic, “Humpf!”
“Look, Smith, I’m beat. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Oh, Wetzon, wait a minute. I forgot to ask you. Did she own her apartment?”
“What? What apartment?”
“The one that belongs to the woman who killed herself, of course, who did you think? I want you to ask Hazel about it for me. Maybe I can get it at a good price. If Leon and I should get married ... we’re going to need a bigger place.”