It was my first task in the morning, before shower, before coffee, before work. I had to figure out how I could possibly tell her all that had been happening. Then I revised my question. What was appropriate to tell her? And then I had to ask myself if I knew what she would consider too private. I missed her so much, yet I was also so glad she was not home in this complicated, confusing period of my life. And then too, maybe I was having, or was about to have, a private life now, for the first time in a long time, and I was glad to be conducting it without her watchful eyes.
I had a note from my boss at the museum. He liked the material I had sent recently, and added, “Keep it coming! We have deadlines. And when are you coming back to work?”
Damn. I thought the big pile of information would keep them happy to a few days at least, a gigantic bone for the dog. No such luck. I had an idea, though, for a move that would stun them into giving me some breathing room. I remembered James Hoyt’s words, to use my friends, and went to find Nettie Rogow’s phone number.
“This is Erica Donato. I don’t know if you remember me,” I began, but this was immediately stopped with, “Why of course I do! You’re that charming young historian. And we talked about my Harry.”
“Yes. You were extremely helpful.”
“And I served one magnificent brunch, too. Don’t forget that.”
I laughed. “I could never forget. I still have the memory around my waist.”
She laughed too, and then said, “What can I do for you?”
“Well, I had an idea. You may not know this, but we historians are really excited by archives. All those boxes of boring, everyday business records actually can add up to telling us a lot. So, I got to wondering if you—I mean the company—have records that go all the way back to the early years.”
“Why, of course we do. My Harry was of the ‘you never know’ school. He kept it all, even his old report cards. I finally had to threaten to leave him if he didn’t get the cartons out of the basement of our house. There were mountains of them.”
I held my breath. “And where are they now? Is there any chance I could take a look?”
“As to where, that’s easy. It’s a warehouse in Brooklyn, down near the docks. As to looking, well, dear, trust me, a nice girl like you really doesn’t want to. Those warehouses are foul places, damp and nasty—I mean, there’s vermin—and no decent facilities, either, if you know what I mean. I was there a few times, years ago, and swore nothing would drag me back. And nothing has.”
“Mrs. Rogow, you make it sound pretty scary, but I need to wow my bosses with my initiative. I’m a historian on a quest, you know, like an archaeologist. It might even be the start of my dissertation. So I’m not going to be turned away by some water bugs.”
She surprised me by saying, “Indiana Jones, are you? Yes, I’ll set it up. Why not? They’ll want permission in writing, which I will send, but you can go ahead and tell them what you need. Probably they’ll have to dig out for you so give it a couple of days. My memory might be shaky but I recall it’s Dock Storage, and I think it’s on Van Brunt, maybe near Snyder.”
I was sure it was right there if she said so. I knew there was nothing wrong with her memory.
“I used to deal with Rosemarie there, but of course, that was years ago. And dear? It’s not at all a nice neighborhood. Visit only in daylight and park right there so you don’t have to walk around on your own. Please be careful. I would never get over it if you got into trouble because I said yes to this.”
“Of course. I am always careful. You know I do have some street sense. And thank you so much.”
“I’ll tell you how to thank me. Come entertain an old lady. I want to hear all about what you found, and any discoveries you make. All right? In person and over a meal. Do you like pot roast? And if you write something—that’s what you scholars do, isn’t it?—say good things about my Harry. He would be so tickled to be in a scholar’s article. It’s such a respectable thing.”
Of course I said yes to everything. I hung up, thinking, if I could look at the records for my own block over the years, I would have a perfect little picture, a microcosm, of neighborhood change. And maybe, with luck, I would find something that would be a clue about our dead girl. Two birds with one stone: I would be keeping my promise to Chris at the same time.
I turned away from my desk but didn’t get more than a step before the computer pinged at me.
Damn. It was a message from my ditsy cousin Tammy. She’s the only cousin I have a sort of friendship with. It’s pretty thin. A few years older than me, she moved way the heck out on Long Island, the true ‘burbs, even before I moved further into the city, and our lives diverged as much as our geography.
“Hi, little cuz. ?4U Still MIRL today? CM ASAP SYS?”
A grown woman sending e-mail in text-speak. Ridiculous. I could translate it, of course—I live with a teen. “Are we still meeting in real life? Call me as soon as possible. See you soon?”
About twice a year something causes her to venture in to “the city” and she remembers how to find her way to Brooklyn, where, incidentally, she was born, raised, educated and married. I had forgotten today was one of those times; we had a lunch date.
I had too much to do and too much on my mind and too little tolerance but it was already way too late to cancel. I called.
“Hey, honey. What did you think of my message? I am learning how to text! Are we still on? I could really go for girl talk and some of that fancy pizza I heard reviewed on the news. My treat.”
Trapped, I told her where to meet me. I had to eat, after all. To tell the truth, I had a soft spot for Tammy. We might have zero in common as adults, but she was the cousin closest to my age when we were kids. She defended me from her tribe of brothers and taught me how to put on mascara and shave my legs. I had warm memories of sleepovers, staying up late reading her copies of
Tiger Beat
, discussing who was the cutest brother on
Home Improvement
, and would we rather grow up to be Brenda or Kelly from
90210
.
The problem was that she was still that person. True, she didn’t read
Tiger Beat
anymore but she did avidly follow celebrities in
US Weekly, People
, and the
Daily News
Page Six gossip feature. I expected that today, reality TV stars, the hot actors du jour, and Brad and Angelina would likely come up. How could I keep myself from telling Tammy I could not care less? That I had a real life of my own to contend with?
She hugged me in a flurry of shopping bags and teased out hair. “I’m so glad to see you! And I am starving.” She wore high suede boots, and a sequined t-shirt and she tactfully did not comment on my non-outfit.
As soon as we had wine in hand, she said, “Tell me, how is your dad? He called my mom from the hospital.”
“He did what?”
She giggled and shrugged. “I know. I guess they must be speaking again.”
We both giggled. Discussing the eccentricities of our respective parents is a bond that never frays.
“So do you think they’re starting over, or what?” And we were off and running with speculation and reminiscence. We discussed our children. She assured me Chris would be less moody in a few years, and then admitted her youngest son was home from college, living in her basement, with a life plan that went no further than a job at Trader Joe. We congratulated each other that we had allowed them to continue living. Then I told her about Chris and camp, and that led to Rick.
The giggling stopped.
“Dear lord. Your dad knows?”
I nodded.
“Then my mom does, now that they’re talking again. Ya know, I remember him from barbecues and stuff at your house? Was he the guy who always organized the water fights?”
I nodded again, unable to speak.
“Now, none of that.” Tammy poured more wine. “You gotta keep remembering those good times. That’s something grandpa taught me, that holding onto the good memories are what get you through the bad times.”
“Tammy, you know, that sort of helps a little.” It was actually the smartest thing I’d heard her say since she told me a boy who didn’t treat me right was a waste of oxygen.
My surprise must have showed because she smiled. “In the immortal words of Marilyn Monroe, I can be smart when it’s important.”
She patted my hand, and changed the subject. “Now, with Chris away, I hope you are managing to have a little fun? Getting out more? According to the
Daily News
, there are some hopping clubs around here now. Wait!”
She dug a tabloid paper out of her bag and turned to photos of, yes, genuine celebrity spotting nearby.
“See? So just tell me that you are taking part in this new local glamour?”
“You want me to lie?” She made a face at me, and then I had an idea.
“Actually, I did meet someone you might know about from reading those trashy rags.” I’d had enough wine by then to not care if I teased her. And she’d had enough not to care either.
“Pfft. It’s harmless entertainment and you know you love to hear all about it. So tell me.”
“What do you know about a guy named James Hoyt?”
“You met James Hoyt? YOU met James Hoyt?” Her eyes opened wide.
“Yes. Yes I did. I, um, know his nephew, sort of, and he introduced us. He’s pretty famous?”
Her look was beyond exasperation. “This has even been in what you call the ‘real newspapers’”—she used fingers to put that in air quotes—“that you read now, Miss Highbrow. He is one of the richest men in New York and was all over the news when he had a messy divorce a while ago. You living in a cave?”
Before I could respond she dove back into her gigantic purse, pulled out a tablet computer and next thing I knew we were online searching for gossip.
Could I have researched James myself? Oh, yes, But this was so much more fun. Like she said, harmless escape. Even if I felt a little cheap
later.
Tammy, being Tammy, zoomed right in on juicy details of the most recent divorce. That wife, his third, was apparently famous for being a serial spouse of powerful men. Could that be a career choice? Tammy assured me it could, with the right combination of looks, ambition and luck. I thought an absence of morals probably helped.
The rags shared all the public details, and also helpfully included pictures of wife number two, a voluptuous minor opera singer, and number one, a cool blond ex-debutante.
There was a glamorous home décor article about wife number three and the glamorous house they were decorating in glamorous East Hampton. Of course that was when they were still glamorously happy together. Or so they told the writer from
Vogue
.
“Tammy! Hey.” I had to get her attention. “This is fun but I’d love to see something with a few more facts?”
“Sure, sure.” She took over on the keyboard. “Here. I’ll send you the link to all this, you can look again at home. And here”—she turned the screen back to me—“here is a long, juicy profile, exactly what you ordered. Whew, I’m done with this. Going back to stuffing my face.”
The article was from
Vanity Fair
, the perfect source for pages of solid information mixed in with the gossip and photos. I was about to learn exactly
who James Hoyt was.
So. He had taken the very comfortable fortune his father had left him and turned it into billions by arcane financial wizardry. Reading about it, I concluded no ordinary person could understand how.
With that fortune, he had taken over failing companies, astutely invested in new ones before anyone else knew about them, was active in politics, and gave both time and money to worthy cultural and educational institutions.
There was plenty to suggest he had enjoyed every minute of it—the battles with regulatory agencies and corporate boards; the homes in Aspen, Bermuda, and Provence; the movie star girlfriends and the three marriages. Or perhaps he hadn’t enjoyed those so much.
There was an unmistakeable undertone that he had been brilliant, charming, and ruthless and remained so even as he grew old. It sounded right to me.
Aha. With three marriages, he had only one child, long dead. There were hints of tragic circumstances but I could not find more details, or an obituary. Was his death not newsworthy, I wondered, or had it been covered up? It was decades ago, long before there was the ability to put every rumor and scandal out in cyberspace.
I sighed, rubbed my eyes, thought about what I had learned, and what I had not.
“Do you want to fight me for that last slice?” Tammy pulled me back to the here and now. “I won’t lie. I’m a believer now. Twenty-five dollars for pizza seemed ridiculous but boy, this is great.”
“Help yourself. I assume you don’t have room for dessert?”
“Who says?”
We put the computer away and returned to the business at hand, which was eating, but I couldn’t wait to get home and take another look. I wanted to know more about this man that I now seemed to be in bed with him. With him and his nephew. Whoops. Interesting metaphor to come crashing into my mind. I was very glad I had not said it out loud. Tammy might be ditsy but as she said, she could be smart. I would have been answering questions I did not want to hear.