Pretend You Don't See Her (4 page)

 
          
*

 
          
Two
hours later, at nine o’clock, Lacey, fresh from twenty minutes in the swirling
Jacuzzi, was happily preparing a BLT. It had been her dad’s favorite. He used
to call bacon, lettuce, and tomato New York’s definitive lunch-counter sandwich.

 
          
The
telephone rang. She let the answering machine take it,
then
heard the familiar voice of Isabelle Waring. I’m not going to pick up, Lacey
decided. I simply don’t feel like talking to her for twenty minutes right now.

 
          
Isabelle
Waring’s hesitant voice began to speak in soft but intense tones. “Lacey, guess
you’re not home. I had to share this. I found Heather’s journal in the big
storage closet. There’s something in it that makes me think I’m not crazy for
believing her death wasn’t an accident. I think I may be able to prove that
someone wanted her out of the way. I won’t say any more now. I’ll talk to you
tomorrow.”

 
          
Listening,
Lacey shook her head,
then
impulsively turned off the
answering machine and the ringer on the phone. She didn’t even want to know if
more people tried to reach her. She wanted what was left of the night all to
herself.

 
          
A quiet evening—a sandwich, a glass of wine, and a book.
I’ve earned it, she told herself!

 
          
As
soon as she got to the office in the morning, Lacey paid the price for having
turned off the answering machine the night before. Her mother called, and an
instant later Kit phoned; both were checking up on her, concerned that they had
gotten no answer when they had called her apartment the night before. While she
was trying to reassure her sister, Rick appeared in her office, looking
decidedly annoyed. “Isabelle Waring has to talk to you. They put her through to
me.”

 
          
“Kit,
I’ve got to go and earn a living.” Lacey hung up and ran into Rick’s office.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t get back to you last night, Isabelle,” she began.

 
          
“That’s
all right. I shouldn’t talk about all this over the phone anyhow. Are you
bringing anyone in today?”

 
          
“No
one is lined up so far.”

 
          
As
she said that, Rick slid a note across his desk to her: “Curtis Caldwell, a
lawyer with Keller, Roland, and Smythe, is being transferred here next month
from Texas.
Wants a one-bedroom apartment between 65th and
72nd on Fifth.
Can look at it today.”

 
          
Lacey
mouthed a thank-you to Rick and said to Isabelle, “Maybe I will be bringing
someone by. Keep your fingers crossed. I don’t know why, but I’ve got a hunch
this could be our sale.”

 
          
“A
Mr. Caldwell’s waiting for you, Miss Farrell,” Patrick, the doorman, told her
as she alighted from a cab.

 
          
Through
the ornate glass door, Lacey spotted a slender man in his mid-forties drumming
his fingers on the lobby table. Thank God I’m ten minutes early, she thought.

 
          
Patrick
reached past her for the door handle. “A problem you need to know about,” he
said with a sigh. “The air-conditioning broke down. They’re here now fixing it,
but it’s pretty hot inside. I tell you, I’m retiring the first of the year, and
it won’t be a day too soon. Forty years on this job is enough.”

 
          
Oh,
swell, Lacey thought. No air-conditioning on one of the hottest days of the
year. No wonder this guy’s impatient. This does not bode well for the sale.

 
          
In
the moment it took to walk across the lobby to Caldwell, her impression of the
man, with his tawny skin, light sandy hair, and pale blue eyes, was uncertain.
She realized that she was bracing herself to be told that he didn’t like to be
kept waiting.

 
          
But
when she introduced herself to Curtis Caldwell, a smile brightened his face. He
even joked. “Tell the truth now, Miss Farrell,” he said, “how temperamental is
the air-conditioning in this building?”

 
          
When
Lacey had phoned Isabelle Waring to confirm the time of the appointment, the
older woman, sounding distracted, had told her she would be busy in the
library, so Lacey should just let herself in with her realtor’s key.

 
          
Lacey
had the key in hand when she and Caldwell stepped off the elevator. She opened
the door, called out, “It’s me, Isabelle,” and went to the library, Caldwell
behind her.

 
          
Isabelle
was at the desk in the small room, her back to the door. An open leather
loose-leaf binder lay to one side; some of its pages were spread across the
desk. Isabelle did not look up or turn her head at Lacey’s greeting. Instead,
in a muffled voice, she said, “Just forget I’m here, please.”

 
          
As
Lacey showed Caldwell around, she briefly explained that the apartment was
being sold because it had belonged to Isabelle Waring’s daughter, who had died
last winter in an accident.

 
          
Caldwell
did not seem interested in the history of the apartment. He clearly liked it,
and he did not show any resistance to the six-hundred-thousand-dollar asking
price. When he had inspected the second floor thoroughly, he looked out the
window of the sitting room and turned to Lacey. “You say it will be available
next month?”

 
          
“Absolutely,”
Lacey told him. This is it, she thought. He’s going to make a bid.

 
          
“I
don’t haggle, Miss Farrell. I’m willing to pay the asking price, provided I
absolutely can move in the first of the month.”

 
          
“Suppose
we talk to Mrs. Waring,” Lacey said, trying not to show her astonishment at the
offer. But, she reminded herself, just as I told Rick
yesterday,
this is the way it happens.

 
          
Isabelle
Waring did not answer Lacey’s knocks at the library door. Lacey turned to the
prospective buyer.
“Mr. Caldwell, if you don’t mind waiting
for me just a moment in the living room, I’ll have a little talk with Mrs.
Waring and be right out.”

 
          
“Of course.”

 
          
Lacey
opened the door and looked in. Isabelle Waring was still sitting at the desk,
but her head was bowed now, her forehead actually touching the pages she had
been reading. Her shoulders were shaking. “Go away,” she murmured. “I can’t
deal with this now.”

 
          
She
was grasping an ornate green pen in her right hand. She slapped it against the
desk. “Go away.”

 
          
“Isabelle,”
Lacey said gently, “this is very important. We have an offer on the apartment,
but there’s a proviso I have to go over with you first.”

 
          
“Forget
it! I’m not going to sell. I need more time here.” Isabelle Waring’s voice rose
to a high-pitched wail. “I’m sorry, Lacey, but I just don’t want to talk now.
Come back later.”

 
          
Lacey
checked her watch. It was nearly four o’clock. “I’ll come back at seven,” she
said, anxious to avoid a scene and concerned that the older woman was on the
verge of hysterical tears.

 
          
She
closed the door and turned. Curtis Caldwell was standing in the foyer between
the library and the living room.

 
          
“She
doesn’t want to sell the apartment?” His tone was shocked. “I was given to
understand that—”

 
          
Lacey
interrupted him. “Why don’t we go downstairs?” she said, her voice low.

 
          
They
sat in the lobby for a few minutes. “I’m sure it will be all right,” she told
him. “I’ll come back and talk to her this evening. This has been a painful
experience for her, but she’ll be fine. Give me a number where I can call you
later.”

 
          
“I’m
staying at the Waldorf Towers, in the Keller, Roland, and Smythe company
apartment.”

 
          
They
stood to go. “Don’t worry. This will work out fine,” she promised. “You’ll
see.”

 
          
His
smile was affable, confident. “I’m sure it will,” he said. “I leave it in your
hands, Miss Farrell.”

 
          
He
left the apartment building and walked from Seventieth Street to the Essex
House on Central Park South, and went immediately to the public phones. “You
were right,” he said when he had reached his party. “She’s found the journal.
It’s in the leather binder the way you described it. She’s also apparently
changed her mind about selling the apartment, although the real estate woman is
going back there tonight to try to talk some sense into her.”

 
          
He
listened.

 
          
“I’ll
take care of it,” he said, and hung up. Then Sandy Savarano, the man who called
himself Curtis Caldwell, went into the bar and ordered a scotch.

 
          
HER
FINGERS CROSSED, LACEY PHONED ISABELLE WARING at six o’clock. She was relieved
to find that the woman now was calm.

 
          
“Come
over, Lacey,” she said, “and we’ll talk about it. But even if it means
sacrificing the sale, I can’t leave the apartment yet. There’s something in
Heather’s journal that I think could prove to be very significant.”

 
          
“I’ll
be there at seven,” Lacey told her.

 
          
“Please.
I want to show what I’ve found to you too. You’ll see what I mean. Just let
yourself in. I’ll be upstairs in the sitting room.”

 
          
Rick
Parker, who was passing by Lacey’s office, saw the troubled expression on her
face and came in and sat down.
“Problem?”

 
          
“A big one.”
She told him of Isabelle Waring’s erratic
behavior and about the possibility of losing the potential sale.

 
          
“Can
you talk her out of changing her mind?” Rick asked quickly.

 
          
Lacey
saw the concern on his face, concern that she was fairly certain wasn’t for her
or for Isabelle Waring. Parker and Parker would lose a hefty commission if
Caldwell’s offer was refused, she thought. That’s what’s bothering him.

 
          
She
got up and reached for her jacket. The afternoon had been warm, but the
forecast was for a sharp drop in temperature that evening. “We’ll see what
happens,” she said.

 
          
“You’re
leaving already? I thought you said you were meeting her at seven.”

 
          
“I’ll
walk over there, I think. Probably stop for a cup of coffee along the way.
Marshal my arguments. See you, Rick.”

 
          
She
was still twenty minutes early but decided to go up anyway. Patrick, the
doorman, was busy with a delivery, but smiled when he saw her. He waved her to
the self-service elevator.

 
          
As
she opened the door and called Isabelle’s name, she heard the scream and the
shot. For a split second she froze, then sheer instinct made her slam the door
and step into the closet before Caldwell came rushing down the stairs and out
into the corridor, a pistol in one hand, a leather binder under his arm.

 
          
Afterwards
she wondered if she imagined that somewhere in her brain she heard her father’s
voice saying, “Close the door, Lacey! Lock him out!” Was it his protective
spirit that gave her the strength to force the door closed as Caldwell pushed
against it, and then to bolt it?

 
          
She
leaned against the door, hearing the lock click as he tried to get back into
the apartment, remembering the look of the stalking predator in his pale blue
eyes in that instant in which they had stared at each other.