Authors: Annette Meyers
Tags: #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Mystery, #Women Sleuths, #Thrillers & Suspense, #Crime, #Financial, #Crime Fiction
It was business as usual at the Caravanserie, no matter that the man who had created it had been brutally murdered only two days earlier. The entrance line stretched all the way down Sixty-fifth Street to First Avenue, but there was very little jockeying for position. Some hopefuls were absolutely straight types in business suits and simple dresses and others were a little more colorful. A tall man in a pink polo shirt with I’M THE CATCH OF THE DAY written across it and a Mets cap on his head chatted with another man, slightly younger, in a white cutaway and black tuxedo pants chopped off at the knee, wearing rolled white athletic socks and high, black Reeboks. There were girls in sequins and glittery miniskirts, and a middle-aged man and woman in black leather and chains. And there was the usual crowd of slummers from SoHo, writers, show-biz folk. Everyone was an original, one step removed. A touch of punk, a little Madonna, and a smattering of S&M.
“Andy Warhol was right,” Wetzon said when they got out of their cab in front of the Caravanserie. The door was manned by two stunning women, one black and one white, and four big, big men in the uniform of a private security service.
“What?” Carlos said, paying the driver.
“That everyone would be famous for fifteen minutes. Georgie the celebrity. Georgie who?”
A massive woman in a long gray skirt and a gray cape pulled over her head, shroudlike, was howling in front of the line, “The broadcast is over! God says everyone can leave the country!” No one was paying the slightest attention to her, and she paid no attention to anyone else.
Carlos took Wetzon’s hand and gave a square invitation card to the black woman at the door, who was wearing a white knit suit, very Chanel, with cascades of gold chains.
“Hi, Carlos, what’s doing, baby?” she said, giving him a high five.
“Hi, Gwen. Meet my friend, Les Wetzon.”
“How do, friend Les.” Gwen winked at Wetzon and dropped the invitation into a huge metal bin that was painted in Picassoesque blue period, clowns and all.
“Hey, Carlos,” the other doorkeeper said, allowing a couple wearing matching gold lame T-shirts and denim overalls through. “Doctor Schweitzer, good to see you again.”
The setting was the great old Episcopalian church, St. Eustis, which had received landmark status. Years earlier, most of St. Eustis’ parish had moved on to Queens, and the church had been used by a succession of other denominations, including the Hari Krishnas and even the Jews for Jesus, but not for very long, and it had actually been empty for some time when Georgie Travers got the idea to make it into a disco, and then added on his exclusive health club above and behind the ornately baroque church building with its large, round rosette stained glass window in the front. There was something almost obscene and sacrilegious about it, and groups of Moral Majority types still picketed from time to time.
Inside the wonderful church was an elaborate glass-brick stairway that split in the middle and curved upward, not so high so you would lose the effect of the beautiful vaulted ceilings with their art nouveau frescoes. At the top of the staircase was a ballroom with banks of seats around, built up like a three-tiered bleacher, but upholstered in velvet.
The startling blend of modern mixed with Deco, melded with the basic baroque of the old cathedral, was breathtaking. Wetzon had never seen anything quite like it, including the sets of the Broadway shows she had done. The noise was equally breathtaking. Music throbbed from massive speakers, like columns, and the lighting effects carried the two of them back onto the stage again. When they joined the multitude on the dance floor, Wetzon felt the music, the lights, and the undulating crowd sweep away the events of the past four days, almost as if they had never happened.
“What a turn-on!” she shouted to Carlos as she gave herself up to the music. God, she and Carlos hadn’t danced together since she’d gone straight, as he was fond of calling her decision to leave show business. And this was wonderful, wonderful.
As they danced, she tilted her head back to watch the fantastic simulation of a fireworks display on the whirling ceiling, changing rapidly like a kaleidoscope, and saw a piece of the ceiling begin to move, descending toward them. She glanced around. No one seemed at all panicky, they just began to back away, slowly, keeping to the beat of the music as if it were expected, and then a set piece—incredibly, a real set piece of what looked like an Asian Eliza and Little Eva crossing the ice from
Uncle Tom’s Cabin
—came down and settled on the dance floor. The scene was like one of the pantomimes in pre-World War I theater.
Uncle Tom’s Cabin
by way of
The King and I
. Its creator was a dancer or choreographer, for sure. There was applause and laughter as Topsy and Eva jumped out of their setting and were immediately claimed as dance partners. The set piece floated back up to the ceiling and disappeared into the spinning fireworks, and the beat went on, with Wetzon and Carlos and the rest twisting and weaving, improvising, through the glittering, multicolored light show, the air a rich incense of smoke and frenzy and perfume.
“Isn’t this the greatest place in the world?” Carlos cried. “See what you’ve been missing.” He looked beatific.
Streamers in Day-Glo colors spilled from overhead. The beat changed, quickened. She was electrified, more alive than she had felt in a long, long time. Had she been sleepwalking in those years since she left the theater? It was something she would have to think about.
“Dear Carlos, you’re right, you beautiful man,” she said, hugging him, their bodies weaving with the music.
Later, much later, downstairs, in a gallery that seemed to run the full length of the building, beginning under the glass staircase, they sat at the longest bar she had ever seen and sipped champagne with fresh peaches crushed in their glasses—Bellinis, Hemingway’s drink. The music swelled overhead, but here one could speak and be heard.
She leaned into Carlos and planted a big kiss on each of his cheeks. Her unexpected move almost knocked them off their high stools. Giddy laughter followed. She was unable to come down. Her heart still pounded, her body heard the call of the music and responded.
“You look ten years younger,” Carlos told her. “Come home. Marshall said he’d find something for you. We could play—”
She put two fingers to his lips, stopping him. “Hush,” she said. “You’re spoiling it.”
“No?”
“No. I am not Annette Funicello and you are not Frankie Avalon. And now, I regret to inform you that, even as we speak, my coach is about to turn into a pumpkin.”
“See what I mean?” Carlos said, mocking her. “All right, party poop. Stay here and I’ll settle up.”
She swiveled on the tall stool and, facing the bar, saw her face reflected in the smoky glass of the long, ornate mirror behind it. Her hair had come loose and fallen around her shoulders. She looked happy and young. If only Silvestri could see her now.
Cut that out
, she scolded herself grimly. She drummed her fingers on the bar, keeping time, humming under her breath.
Idly, she picked the book of matches out of the ashtray on the counter and thought about what it would be like to have Silvestri make love to her. Jesus, this place was having a weird effect on her. She glanced absently at the matchbook in her hand, saw the silhouetted palm tree, and felt her heart stop.
Déjà vu.
She had done this before, seen this before. Somewhere, sometime. Important.
She saw Carlos coming back for her, and she slipped off the bar stool and went to meet him, clutching the matchbook.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I think I have,” she said. “I’ve just figured something out.”
“What?”
“Come home with me and I’ll show you. Can you?”
“My darling, that’s the best invitation I’ve had in months.”
“Come on, crazy,” she said fondly, pushing him past a couple in sequins and toward the glass staircase. “I just want to make a quick stop....” The real night people were beginning to crowd in, and the hypnotic, thumping beat of the music could be heard, luring them back. It was as if they were in the middle of a tribal rite. Voodoo. “...in the ladies’ room.” She tucked the matchbook safely away in her little string bag.
“That’s easy,” Carlos said. “It deserves a visit anyway.... Wait till you see it. Come with me.”
Taking her hand, Carlos led her back into the gallery with the endless bar. They cut in and out through the boisterous mass. At the end of the bar—it actually did come to an end—was a door that led into a small lounge, which was painted in waving lines of Day-Glo pinks and blues. The lighting was muted. There were three glass sculptured doors in the lounge. One said GENTLEMEN and one said LADIES and the third said PRIVATE CLUB, MEMBERS ONLY.
“That’s the entrance to the health club upstairs,” Carlos said.
“Now how would you know about that?”
“Oh, I have my sources. Not everyone in a three piece business suit is hetero, you know,” he said, stretching his vowels.
“Why, Carlos, you sly one. I never knew suits turned you on.”
“Never the suit,” he said, twisting his shoulders, turning his head, “always the man.”
“Okay, man,” she said, touching his cheek. She studied the door marked PRIVATE CLUB, MEMBERS ONLY. Unlike the other two doors, this one had no knob, only a narrow slot where the knob would be. It was one of those horizontal locks that could only be unlocked with a special magnetic card. “Shucks,” she said.
“What ‘shucks’?”
“I just had the thought that maybe the mystery key unlocked that door.”
“Think again. This was one of Georgie’s special touches. Adds cachet. You can only get in with a special card, a magnetic card programmed for this door, like a bank card.
Anyone
could have a key....”
“Georgie, yes,” she said, thinking out loud.
“What about Georgie?”
“His murder must have something to do with Barry’s. Maybe it was for the stuff Barry was holding for him?”
“Who knows? Georgie had his enemies—might have nothing at all to do with Barry the sleazolo.”
“I don’t think so. Let’s go,” she said abruptly, pulling him to the door.
“I thought you wanted to use the facilities?”
“I’ll wait till we get home.”
Her apartment had a warm glow from the light of the pale orange art glass globes of the Mueller Freres chandelier in the foyer. It played softly over the off-white walls, highlighting the old “Geese in Flight” patterned crib quilt framed on the right hand wall, and spilled onto the worn oriental rug, once rust colored, now faded, of undefined pedigree.
“I love your apartment, especially at night,” Carlos said. “It’s like a cocoon.”
“It’s my safe haven, and I wouldn’t have it if I hadn’t gone straight,” Wetzon said, putting the string bag and her coat down on the small white park bench. “So there.”
“I know, I know.” Carlos threw up his hands. “I give up.”
“Coffee?” she asked.
“Naa, how about a tall Perrier and a slice of lime,” Carlos said, taking off his shoes and settling himself on the sofa, feet up.
“I don’t have any limes.”
“Oh yes you do, darling, look in the bin.”
She brought the two Perriers, set them down on the coffee table, and sat opposite him, on the floor.
“You’re terrible, you know,” she began. “You spoil me.” Her voice cracked suddenly. “Oh, God, what am I doing? I’m falling apart.” She saw Carlos sit up, worried, saw him come around the coffee table, a blur through her tears. “I’m sorry, I’m such a dope. You’re my friend and my family. What would I do without you?” He put his arms around her and kissed her forehead. “And I love you very much, you know,” she said.
“I know. And I love you,” he said. “And it’ll be all right. Honest. Not to worry. You’ll see. Here.” He handed her a black silk handkerchief from a back pocket of his tight black pants.
She looked at it and laughed, sniffling. “I can’t use this, you nut. It’s much too elegant for nose and eye wiping.” She went into the kitchen for a Kleenex. When she came back, Carlos was once more majestically ensconced on the sofa.
“Now, my girl,” he demanded, “let’s talk about this brainstorm of yours.”
“God, how could I forget?” She tapped her forehead with her forefinger. “Wait a minute.” She brought the string bag from the bench and pulled out the Caravanserie matchbook. “Look at this.”
“Wow! Gee! Oh, golly! It’s a matchbook from the Caravanserie.” He fluttered his dark lashes over his wicked eyes.
“Will you stop? I know that. Just wait a minute and you’ll see.” She went into the bedroom, put on the light, and fished around in the drawer of the washstand. Then she looked on the top of the chest of drawers, in the basket where she kept odds and ends. Nothing.
“I know this is crazy,” she moaned, coming back into the living room, scratching her head, dismayed.
“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” Carlos watched her shrewdly.
“Okay. When I found the key in my pocket after the murder, it was sticking out of a matchbook like this one.”
“So?”
“So I threw it across the room because I was angry and upset.”
“The matchbook?”
“The matchbook and the key.”
“And?”
“I don’t remember what I did with the matchbook. All I thought about then was the key.” She felt weepy again. God, what was wrong with her tonight?
“Are you looking for that matchbook, is that what you’re trying to tell me?” He was grinning now.
“Yes, and this is not funny.”
“Well, birdie, if it was a perfectly good matchbook, where would Hazel put a perfectly good matchbook when she was cleaning up the next day?”
“Carlos! You! Of course. You came the next morning.” She dropped to her knees, took the tall, pressed glass celery vase that stood on the coffee table and tipped it over. Matchbooks of every variety tumbled out.
With maddening ease Carlos reached over and plucked up the duplicate matchbook to the one in her hand. “You were looking for this, Sherlock?”
“Yes,” she said, grabbing the matchbook, staring at it intently, turning it over. “It’s just like this one,” she said, disappointed.
“Well, what did you expect?”
“I don’t know. Answers. Something. Anything. A message maybe.” She opened the matchbook, and choked. Written on the white inside flap, in ink, were some numbers:
2105-14R-28L-2R
. The matchbook trembled so violently in her fingers that she almost dropped it. “I knew it!”
“What is it?” Carlos leaned forward, serious.
“Look at this.” She extended the matchbook to him across the coffee table. “Like in my dream—the key is not the key. Silvestri said it. It was staring me in the face all the time.” She was rocking back and forth on her knees, gulping with excitement.
“Well, well, well,” he said, drawing out his words. “The notorious Barry Stark’s last will and testament.”
“Written in a matchbook. How typical. What does it mean, do you suppose?”
Carlos squinted at the numbers. “It looks like a lock combination.”
She frowned. “For a safe?”
“You’ll make lines,” Carlos warned, reaching across the coffee table, smoothing her forehead reprovingly.
“Oh shush. Well, it’s not for his locker at the Caravanserie.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Georgie told me he’d searched it. All it had was workout stuff.”
“I don’t know, then, but it sure looks like a locker number and a combination to me, old dear.”
“Damn, so near—” She scrunched up her face. “The key is not the key. The locker is not the locker.” She scrambled to her feet. “What if Barry had a second locker—that no one knew about?”
“I think she’s got it!” Carlos said, doing his imitation Pickering again, English accent and all.
“What do you suppose we’re going to find in the locker?” She was dancing around the room excitedly.
“We’re not going to find anything, birdie,” Carlos ordered. “We’re going to let the police handle it.”
She danced over to the sofa. “No, we’re not, my sweet,” she said, tickling him. “I’m going to make points with my detective. Come on, I’ll bet the tapes are there. And his autobiography—maybe? And Georgie’s stuff. God, it’s mind-boggling.”
“I don’t approve,” Carlos said, worried. “I think it’s too dangerous. Someone’s murdered three people for this—” He held up his hand to stop her interruption. “And tried to get you, too.”
“No. I think that was pure coincidence.” She felt a surge of confidence. “No one’s going to kill me until he gets this.” She touched the matchbook to the tip of his nose.
“Now who’s crazy?”
She sighed, suddenly exhausted. “If I’d only put it together sooner, Mildred Gleason might still be alive.”
“You can’t do that to yourself, you know. Forgive yourself for not being perfect. You would have had to tell the heart-throb cop if you had found it. You wouldn’t have given it to Mildred Gleason regardless.”
“You’re right, I guess.” Her manic feeling of triumph deteriorated, leaving her with an oppressive sense of sorrow. So much death and for what?
Carlos yawned. “Oh, well, I guess the excitement’s over. Listen, my love, I’ve got an early meeting with Marshall tomorrow.”
“I’ve got a full day tomorrow, too,” she said. She stared wearily at the matchbook.
“Let me know what you’re doing, will you?” he said, putting on his shoes.
“I will,” she replied, her thoughts meandering. “We’re a great team, you know ... Annette and Frankie.... We could—”
“We are a great team. We always were.” He smiled sleepily. She knew he was deliberately misunderstanding her. His second yawn was extravagant.
“I’m sorry I’m keeping you up,” she said.
He chucked her under the chin. “Be nice. Remember I have the key card to the health club.”
“Yes, and I have an invitation to a networking party at the Caravanserie tomorrow.”
“Hmmmmm. How convenient.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” she promised.
She closed the door, satisfied. She put the matchbook on the table in the dining room and then noticed the little blinking light on her answering machine.
Sighing, she turned it on to answer-play. When would the reporters give up?
“Hi there, it’s me, your pal.” The sweet voice of Xenia Smith filled the quiet room. “I just want to tell you I’m thinking about you and I love you.”