To the Manor Dead (12 page)

Vince enfolded her in his arms. “You’re the only Livingston I haven’t met. But I’ve heard all about you. You’re the brilliant one. I’m huge into history. This house was built in 2007. This is Marcella Sedgwick, my lady.”

Marcella air kissed Claire. “What a pleasure. I’m so glad we’re all able to be together … to get to know one another,” Marcella said, oozing fauxcerity, scanning the room and trying to disguise her alarm.

“Are you a Sedgwick Sedgwick?” Claire asked. “Because Clickie Sedgwick was in my class at Brown.”

Marcella looked momentarily taken aback, but quickly recovered with, “I
love
Clickie. Distant cousins umptimes removed.”

“Well, you certainly have a colorful family,” Claire said. “Of course, I’m one to talk.” Then she laughed too loudly.

Maggie’s corner was starting to fill with smoke and she was still dancing around belting out, “Shadrack, Meshack, Abednego.”

Godfrey bellowed, “NOBODY LOOK YET!!!”

“Bartender, champagne,” Vince said, nonplussed. This guy was keeping his eye on the prize.

Champagne glasses appeared, corks popped, some sort of hip-hoppy music poured out of hidden speakers. Suddenly the place was party central.

It was time to make my move.

I slipped into the
kitchen, down a short hall, and up a back staircase. Hotel-size hallways led to hotel-looking bedrooms, one after the other. I finally turned a corner and came face-to-face with the master suite. It had double doors, which were open. I walked in. There were so many bells and whistles I wished I’d brought earplugs—wet bar, stone fireplace, hot tub by the window, TV the size of Delaware, mini-gym, mood lighting, mirrors.

There were bathrooms opening off either side of the room. One was all rose marble with gold accents. The other looked like a men’s room in a private club, white marble with dark wood accents. I walked in—there was another fireplace, a built-in aquarium, spa tub, steam shower, swinging saloon doors to the toilet, a trompe l’oeil bookcase at the far end filled with leather-bound volumes.

I suddenly felt completely ridiculous—what was I doing in this man’s bathroom? I looked at the faux-book titles:
Fanny Hill, Lady Chatterley’s Lover, The Story of O
. I was starting to think that Vince doth protest too much. I’d learned in my practice that a guy who claimed to be a super-sexed stud was usually covering up one of the following: erectile dysfunction, bi-curiosity (a.k.a. he’s gay), misogyny, premature ejaculation, or a four-inch pecker. I opened the medicine chest—sure enough, there was the Viagra, Cialis, and Yohimbe.

But having a little sex secret was hardly a crime. If it was, the whole planet would be in prison. Maybe it already was.

Cool it, Janet, now is not the time to get all Simone de Beauvoiry!

Then I noticed that the faux bookcase looked a sliver off-kilter. I gave one end a little push and it swung open. A hidden room! I stepped inside and closed the bookcase behind me. My heart, which had been thumping, started pounding.

The room was small and windowless. A safe room. Probably lined with steel. There was a generator, a kitchenette, bottled water, a TV, a safe, a small sofa, and a desk with a computer. The computer screen was black but the computer was on. I clicked on the space bar—a half-played game of solitaire appeared. It took all my willpower not to play it out. (I took solitaire off my own computer because I had a tendency to play, oh, three-to-four hundred games in rapid succession.)

There was a large leather-bound datebook on the desk, inscribed VH. I opened it. The entry for tonight read: “Livingston dinner. Nail it!”

For Monday: “Package to BR.” BR could be Beth Rogers, the deciding supervisor in the River Landing permitting. George would be interested in that. I pulled out my cell phone and took a quick picture.

Nothing else looked relevant to Daphne or Esmerelda Pillow. I skimmed through the weeks past—nothing that I could decipher. Then I reached April 19: EP and DL. Esmerelda Pillow and Daphne Livingston? I took another picture.

I closed the book and tried the desk drawers. All locked. Just for the hell of it, I tried the safe. Locked. There was small gym bag next to it. I looked inside.

Cash.

Lots of cash.

More cash than I’d ever seen in my life.

Enough cash to buy me a small pied in Paris
and
a shack on Maui—no problems, no worries, no people. My breathing grew shallow. I wanted that money. I touched one of the little bundles—oh-so-crispy. I
needed
that money. Vince Hammer didn’t. It was probably all earmarked for bribes anyway, dirty money that would be used to grease the slide of the Hudson Valley into Anycondo, USA. More houses, more energy, more of the planet’s resources squandered. In fact, this cash would goose global warming and lead directly to the extinction of the human race. Hammer was evil, the devil, he made Hitler look like Mary Poppins with a moustache. I had a
moral
responsibility
to take the money. I’d give 10 percent to the Sierra Club. I was Robyn Hood. Besides, he probably wouldn’t even miss one or two little stacks.

I sighed and carefully closed the gym bag.

I tiptoed down the
back stairs and at the bottom I ran right into Marcella, who was carrying a long thin box.

“What were you doing upstairs?” she asked in an ice-cube voice.

“… just gawking.”

“See anything interesting?”

“It’s all pretty amazing.”

She eyeballed me. I tried to look inscrutable.

After a moment, she shook her hair, pouted her lips, and purred. “It
is
pretty amazing, isn’t it?
Architecture Digest
is featuring us next month.” She held up her right hand and checked out her nails, showing off a
serious
rock. Then she smiled at me. “Kitchen staff isn’t allowed upstairs.”

Just then Abba appeared, saying, “It’s all my fault. I asked Janet to take a peek and give me a report. It’s not every day I get inside a house like this one.”

Marcella scrutinized us both, then said, “You could have asked for a tour.”

“I’m sorry, I should have, but with all the hubbub …” Abba said.

“Never mind.” Marcella’s face softened. “The dinner is going beautifully. I think it’s very healing for the Livingstons. Did you know the family has produced two senators and six cabinet members? But in recent decades, they’ve been through so much tragedy. I hope that they’ll be able to turn a new page now.” She handed Abba the box. “These are sparklers. Can you put them into the cobbler when you serve it? The Livingstons have a grand tradition of fireworks. From the 1870s all the way up until the Great Depression, they set them off on their lawn every New Year’s Eve. Isn’t the aristocracy
fascinating
? With a careful restoration, Westward Farm will rival Monticello.” She gave us a bright foxy smile, then turned and walked back toward the dining room.

I exhaled with a sigh. “Thanks.”

“How’d it go up there?” Abba asked.

“Mixed bag. How’s it going down here?”

She grinned. “Maggie is on her fourths. Potheads are a caterer’s best friend.”

I helped Abba dress and plate the salad. The waiters took them out and then, anxious to see how the negotiations were proceeding, I skulked down the hallway and hovered just around the corner from the dining room.

“So, my friends, I think we’ve come to an agreement,” I heard Vince say. “I propose a toast to the future of Westward Farm.”

“Here-here!” Godfrey said.

“Where-where?” Becky asked.

“What are you each going to do with your money?” Marcella asked in oily excitement.

“I’m going to open a nudist camp for world peace,” Maggie said. Then she burst into tears.

“I’m building a museum to house the Map of the Unknown World. Frank Gehry is going to design it.”

“Really?” Vince said.

“Yes, Frank and I are in the midst of preliminary telepathic discussions. He’s a great guy, very down to earth.”

“I’m moving back to Kansas maybe probably. I want to build a shrine where the trailer exploded. It’s important for Rodent to know who her father was,” Becky said earnestly.

Suddenly Claire got up from the table. “Excuse me.” She whipped around the corner and was in my face. “I thought I saw you lurking out here.”

“I’m working.”

“Working?”

“I’m helping the caterer.”

“I thought you were an antiques dealer?”

“Not the world’s most successful one.”

“You expect me to believe you’re here because you need the money?”

“You can believe whatever you want.”

“I believe you’re snooping around me and my family.”

I led her down the hallway, out of earshot. There was a half bath and we went inside, closed the door.

“I think your aunt was murdered,” I said.

She flinched. “Really?”

“Yes.”

Claire sat down on the toilet and ran her fingers through her hair.

“Who do you think killed her?”

“There are a couple of people floating around who have pretty strong motives.”

“Like me?”

I didn’t answer.

“You actually think I’m capable of murder?”

“I was a therapist for fifteen years, nothing surprises me.”

“If I was going to murder someone it would be my father.” She laughed. “Oh, this is sweet. Just when I thought I could see daylight.” She tore off a piece of toilet paper and folded it into a tiny napkin on her lap. Then she looked up at me. “You know what? I don’t give a shit if Daphne was murdered. I want
out
of this family, and Vince Hammer is my ticket. I’m going to walk away with four million dollars—after taxes.”

“You each get four mil?”

“Me and Becky get four, Dad gets six, Maggie gets one. I’ll never have to see any of them again.”

“I thought you cared about Daphne.”

“I care about
me
.” She smoothed out the mini-napkin. “Anyway, Aunt Daphne was a degenerate.”

“Who’s
perfect?” I said, giving her what I hoped was a significant look. She picked it up—then dropped it. She stood up, her face suddenly hard and bitter.

“Listen, I’d appreciate it if you’d mind your own business.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Why don’t we just call it friendly advice.”

“It doesn’t sound too friendly to me.”

“Wow, what a brilliant insight. Move over, Dr. Freud. Let me try and be a little less oblique: If you blow this payout for me, I’ll rip your fucking face off. Now if you don’t mind, I have to pee.”

I headed back to the kitchen. Abba was sticking the sparklers into the cobbler.

“You look a little shook up,” she said.

“There’s a lot of rage in the world.”

The dinner party broke up shortly after dessert, but not before I overheard the three blood Livingstons agreeing to meet Vince at his lawyer’s office in Albany on Wednesday afternoon.