To the Manor Dead (11 page)

“All right, there’s a
bed in here somewhere,” I said, gesturing to my spare room, which was an explosion of … collectibles. Sputnik, with Bub aboard his rump, was following us, both in a state of excitement. Even Lois had come upstairs and hopped up on the dining table, where she was sprawled out pretending not to be interested.

“I won’t stay long,” Josie said.

“You’ll stay as long as it takes for you to find a safe place to live. Now, listen—I’m going out to a friend’s for dinner, there’s stuff in the kitchen, just help yourself.”

“Thank you.”

“The best way you could thank me is to get a social worker, find out what kind of assistance there is for you out there, and start to pull your life together. See ya later.”

It was Saturday evening
and I was in the alley behind Chow, helping Abba load up for Vince Hammer’s dinner party. I was semi dressed-up, which for me means a clean blouse and a skirt. Skirts bug me. One reason I got into the junque biz is because it’s famous for tolerating slobs and slackers. My great ambition is to be a slacker.

We were loading Abba’s station wagon with plastic bins and orange crates filled with food when George appeared, breathless.

“Listen, I just heard some hot skinny on Beth Rogers, the town supervisor with the deciding vote on River Landing. Apparently her husband has a humungozoid gambling problem, practically lives at the Turning Stone Casino up near Syracuse. They say he’s got over a hundred thousand dollars in debts.”

“So Beth is ripe for a little payoff,” Abba said.

“That’s the kind of math even I can grasp,” I said.

“I think we should pay her a visit,” George said. “Just to let her know we’re watching her.”

“I’ll bake her a cake,” Abba said.

“Speaking of cooking, I gotta split,” George said. “I’m making Dwayne coquilles St. Jacques. You guys have fun tonight.”

“I wouldn’t call it fun,” I said.

“I guess I’m just in Pollyanna mode. Being in love does that.”

“When are we going to get to meet this guy?” I asked.

“We’re still at that we-don’t-need-the-world stage, content just to be together, sit around, watch TV, and, of course, make mad passionate Brangelina love.”

Abba and I exchanged a glance.

“I saw that look,” George said. “You know, ladies, it’s easy to be hard … wait, let me rephrase that. Cynical—it’s easy to be cynical. Some of us still believe in true love. And, for your information, we’re all being very adult—I’ve met his wife.”

“That’s healthy. And she knows what’s going on?” I asked.

“We haven’t discussed it yet.”

“What did you discuss?”

“Well, we didn’t actually
talk
.”

“You met, but didn’t talk.”

“I didn’t actually
meet
her. I
saw
her.”

“Okay. Where did you see her?”

“Coming out of her house.”

“And where were you?”

“Across the street.”

“Across the street?”

“I was taking a walk and I happened to find myself across the street from Dwayne’s house.”

“Did Mrs. Dwayne see
you
?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I was behind a tree.”

“Behind a tree?”

“There happened to be a tree there.”

“So you’re stalking Dwayne’s house.”

“Abba, would you please tell Janet that I’m not speaking to her. You can also tell her that if I
was
speaking to her, I would tell her that for a former therapist she’s a hard-nosed, insensitive, inconsiderate bitch and I feel deeply sorry for all of her former clients, most of whom have probably committed suicide by now.”

He turned on his heels and stormed off.

“I’ve met Dwayne,” Abba said when he was safely out of earshot.

“And?”

“He’s one chromosome away from riding the special-ed bus.”

“Love is blind.”

“In this case it’s also dumb.”

We drove out through Woodstock—the village green was filled with it usual mix: gray-haired dudes with potbellies and ponytails wearing tie-dyed T-shirts, restless teenagers, rasta drummers of every race, latter-day hippie chicks, and full-blown wackos pacing around having way-deep tête-à-têtes with themselves.

We drove west and then turned up Ohayo Mountain Road. The houses got bigger the higher we went. At the very crest of the mountain we came to an enormous, too-perfect stone wall, bisected by an ornate gate. One of its pillars had a surveillance camera, the other a gold sign reading “Casa Cielo.” Abba pulled up to the intercom.

“Yes?” came the disembodied voice.

“Abba Green, here to make dinner.”

“Go to the service gate, it’s about fifty feet up the road.”

Abba let go of the intercom and said, “Well, excuse us.”

We drove down to the service entrance, where a less ornate gate rolled open for us. We headed up a long curving drive toward a huge house that sat at the very top of the mountain. The architecture was very Aspen macho, lots of wood and glass, soaring angles and stonework. The grounds were landscaped to within an inch of insane—the place looked like a Four Seasons, with three levels of pools, waterfalls, gardens. But Vince Hammer knew enough to hire the best and it was all pretty stunning, in a strange nobody-really-lives-here way.

My anxiety kicked up a notch. I couldn’t believe I was actually going to snoop around this house looking for evidence connecting Vince Hammer to a murder. This guy played in the big leagues, I was just a junque dealer who lived off the grid. My left leg started bouncing, my short hairs prickled, I wished I had a cigarette.

“You okay?” Abba asked.

“Yeah.”

“You sure you know what you’re doing?”

“No.”

We smiled at each other.

“If you need any cover let me know,” she said.

“Thanks, amigo.”

A majordomo was waiting to greet us in the service driveway. He was wearing a dark suit, young and clean-cut, too clean-cut, almost spooky, the Stepford aide. He had an earpiece in his left ear. Maybe it was just his iPod. Oy.

“Marcus,” he said.

“Abba.”

“Janet.”

“I’ve got my wait staff arriving in an hour,” Abba said.

Marcus nodded. Guy was a regular Chatty Cathy.

He led us into a huge garage carved into the down-slope. There was an elevator at the back and we loaded our stuff in and were whisked up to a cavernous kitchen that could feed the Kazakhstan army with counter space to spare. Then Marcus left us alone—although a mini-Marcus dropped in for a look-see every ten minutes or so. The whole vibe was cold, silent, efficient, and very very luxe.

For the next hour I helped Abba with her prep work. She was serving an all Hudson Valley dinner—cold tomato soup, brook trout pate, free-range chicken breasts sautéed with vegetables and peaches, whipped turnips, salad of every green grown, and apple cobbler with organic ice cream. It all looked delicious but I had zippo appetite—in fact my stomach was clenched like a fist.

The elevator opened and Marcus led off three college-age kids, all wearing black slacks and blue oxford shirts.

“These are my able and adorable waiters—Sam, Siobhan, and Tiff,” Abba said, and we all exchanged greetings. “Marcus, the guests will be arriving soon, can you give us a little tour so we know the lay of the land.”

Marcus nodded and we followed him down a wide corridor into the dining room. It had a pitched ceiling and a window wall that looked out to the Ashokan Reservoir—glowing cobalt in the early twilight—the valley, the mountains. We seemed to be hovering over it all in a spaceship. The table could seat about forty and looked almost cartoonish set for six.

The dining room bled into a three-story front entry hall that gave way to a vast living room with another towering window wall and fireplace that slept six. The décor was masculine to the point of parody, with leather couches and chairs so huge they almost looked surreal, a balcony above, and a massive bar at one end done up to look like Ye Olde Pub. The whole place had a very Donald Rumsfeld feng shui feeling.

“Bar,” Marcus said, pointing. I was starting to admire his economy of speech.

“Sam will be tending bar,” Abba said, and he went over to it.

A voice boomed down at us from the balcony: “Greetings to my peeps.”

We all looked up and saw Vince Hammer standing there, shirtless. His torso screamed Bowflex, his face screamed bronzer, his hair just screamed—it was meticulously tousled, in one of those just-done-fucking looks favored by pseudo-rebellious young TV actors. The guy was total fromage.

“Here’s the drill, kids,” he said. “This little dinner is
very
important to me, my guests are people I …
love
. They are
aristocrats
, and aristocrats were the original celebrities. So treat them beautifully. There’s a big tip waiting if things go well.”

A young woman joined him on the balcony. She was sleek and stunning—long glistening hair, artful make-up—poured into a hot little dress and radiating a fierce predatory intelligence.

“This is Marcella.”

Marcella phoned-in a little wave and said, “Hi, gang.” She wasn’t going to waste any energy on us serfs.

“Get to work, team!” Vince exhorted us, before playfully tweaking his nipples and making a naughty-me face.

When we got back to the kitchen I stood around pretending to help Abba prep and trying to figure how I was going to sneak away and snoop around.

Mini-Marcus appeared. “The guests have just pulled up out front.”

“We’ll send the hors d’oeuvres out in two minutes,” Abba said.

I went out to the dining room and pretended to be checking the place settings. Half hidden behind a candelabra, I could see out to the foyer. Marcus opened the massive double doors for the Livingstons.

“Welcome to Casa Cielo,” he said.

Rodent, in a flimsy sundress, immediately ran into the middle of the entry, squatted down, and let loose a stream of steaming piss. No one said anything.

“Who does a girl have to blow to get a drink around here?” Maggie bellowed, marching across the foyer, past the pisser, and into the living room. She had gotten dolled up for the occasion, and was resplendent in an old pink chenille bathrobe polka-dotted with joint burns and accessorized with an exploding-star rhinestone brooch the size of a dinner plate. She was wearing high-heeled cork-soled mules and had pulled her frizzy hair into a band on top of her head—it looked like a mini-geyser was spouting up there.

Godfrey was lugging a huge black tube,.“I brought along a tiny section of my Map of the Unknown World, it’s only six by forty.”

“Wow, cool hotel,” Becky said, wandering over to a huge bouquet and asking, “Are these flowers flowers?” There was something touchingly Farrah Fawcettesque about her.

“Claire Livingston, how do you do?” Squeaky clean and wearing a tasteful summer dress, Claire looked like she was on her way to hear Yo-Yo Ma at Tanglewood.

“Vince and Marcella will be down shortly,” Marcus said. “Please make yourself at home.”

Seeing the Livingston menagerie lessened my anxiety—with that circus in full swing who’d notice that one member of the catering crew was missing for a few minutes?

“Check out this motherfucking view!!” Maggie screamed, and her words ricocheted through the rooms—Casa Cielo had superb acoustics. “I’m tripping out!!” Then she reached into her carpetbag and pulled out a joint the size of my forearm.

Godfrey crouched on the floor and reverentially opened the tube that held his map, Rodina crawled up on a couch and started bouncing up and down, Becky was at the bar ordering a rum-and-diet-coke and flirting with Sam, and Claire was perched on the edge of a chair with a strained smile on her face.

Siobhan and Tiff appeared carrying trays of hors d’oeuvres.

“Wass this?” Maggie asked between tokes.

“Shad roe,” Tiff said.

“
Shad
-rack … Shadrack, Meshack, Abednego,” Maggie wailed off-key. Then she stuck the joint between her teeth and started dancing around singing “Shadrack, Meshack, Abednego” and clapping her hands like she was at a gospel revival.

When Tiff approached Godfrey, he wrapped his arms around the tube and barked, “
Get away!
This is
priceless!
” Becky, wearing a loose low-cut shift dress, was leaning over the bar so that her breasts were on full display. and running her fingertips down Sam’s cheek. Claire was munching on a shadrack and pretending she was in a different movie.

Vince appeared, arms outstretched. “It’s the Livingstons!”

Nobody paid much attention to him. Except Claire, who stood up and said, “Claire Livingston, how do you do?”