The Body In The Big Apple (4 page)

The bus came and, mercifully, she got a seat. It was crowded with holiday shoppers, bags making the aisle difficult to negotiate. An elegant elderly woman was occupying two seats with aplomb—one for herself and one for an enormous Steiff giraffe, the head craning out of the FAO Schwarz bag. The sight of the incongruous pair was causing the whole bus to smile. It was still early enough in the shopping season for New
Yorkers to feel the holiday spirit. Outside, the whole city was decked out in its finest. Faith was sorry she wasn't walking. Each shop window rivaled the next in glittering offerings. If you can't get it here, you can't get it anywhere—that's what the song lyric should say. The bus stopped, and through the open door, she could hear the Salvation Army Band's rendition of “Good King Wenceslas.” The man next to her was humming along, and at her look of pleasure, he began to sing in a surprisingly strong tenor:

“That's as far as I go by heart,” he said apologetically.

“Me, too,” Faith said. “It's something about ‘“Hither, page”' and ‘“Bring me flesh, and bring me wine.” ' I'm a caterer, so I tend to remember the food details. I can do all the verses of the ‘Wassail Song.'”

“A caterer. That must be hard work, especially at this time of year,” he said. Faith was mildly impressed. Usually, she heard inanities like “That must be fun” or “How do you stay so thin?” He wasn't bad-looking—and he had to have terrific circulation. The only concession to the weather he'd made was a muffler on top of his tweed sports jacket. She looked at his hands. No gloves. No wedding ring.

“It is a busy time, thank goodness. I've only been in business since the fall, and it's been going well.”

“Great. Well, this is my stop.” He dug in his pocket. “Want to trade cards? I might suddenly remember the rest of ‘Good King Wenceslas' and wouldn't know how to find you.”

“True.” Faith laughed as she fished a business card from her purse. “Or you may need a caterer.”

“Absolutely,” he said. “Take care.”

She watched him out the window before the bus pulled away. Not bad-looking at all. “Richard Morgan,” his card read. The address wasn't far from her apartment. What does Richard Morgan do? she wondered. It wasn't anything on The Street. Financiers didn't wear tweed jackets. A professor? The bus started with a lurch and he was lost to sight. Without the distraction of carol singing, Faith's thoughts reverted once more to the problem at hand. The major problem at hand.

Emma, Emma, Emma. Presumably, she was now at her luncheon, breathlessly apologizing for her lateness as the crème brûlée was served, only to be politely nibbled or politely refused by the ladies present. Eating dessert in public was a no-no. Bingeing on Mallomars at midnight and throwing up was not. Much as everyone exclaimed over Barbara Bush's inner beauty and lack of pretension, it was Nancy Reagan's size-four red suits that set the standard. This was a crowd that didn't need the Duchess of Windsor's maxim—“You can't be too rich or too thin”—embroidered on any of their pillows as a reminder.

It was difficult, almost impossible, to imagine Emma Stanstead as an increasingly high-profile politician's wife. Yes, she had the beauty and grace—and
figure. Yet, she was quite shy. Growing up with Poppy—and Lucy—Emma preferred candlelight to limelight. When they had traveled in the same circles during adolescence and occasionally later, Faith recalled the change that would come over her friend when she was thrust into uncomfortable social situations. More often than not, Emma would say the first thing that came into her head, and it was often the last thing that would have come into anyone else's. At ease only with her most intimate friends, she would certainly find the campaign trail and the glare of publicity torture. Emma as a politician's wife is almost as ludicrous an idea as my being married to a minister, Faith said to herself as she reached up and swiftly pressed the strip for her stop.

 

There were moments over the next several days when Faith wondered if she was cut out for the two jobs totally occupying her life—professional caterer and amateur but increasingly expert worrier. She'd leave a message on Emma's machine, one sufficiently circumspect so as not to raise any suspicions on Michael's part, then turn to yet another tray of chocolate mousse cakes or yet another pork loin stuffed with winter fruits—the two most popular dishes of the season. She fretted over not being able to leave as many messages as she wanted—one every hour—and she fretted over Emma's not calling back. She knew Mrs. Stanstead was alive and kicking—although since it was Emma, Faith amended it to “alive and meandering”—because there had been a picture of her in the paper attending the premiere of Wagner's
Der fliegende Holländer
at the Metropolitan Opera House.

“Is there a particular reason you're so jumpy, or does
being in business for yourself do this to a person?” Josie asked after Faith made a mad and fruitless dash for the phone. It was yet another liquor supplier wanting their business.

Faith had thought she was presenting a markedly calm exterior to the world around her and was surprised at Josie's words.

“Jumpy? I'm not jumpy. Okay, maybe I'm a little strung out. But if we weren't getting steadily busier, I'd be even worse. I mean, I haven't particularly noticed anything myself, but if you say so…” She stopped. Josie was right. She was jumpy—and incoherent. Damn Emma's soap-opera life. And would it hurt her to call?

The phone rang. Josie answered, “Have Faith, taking care of all your catering needs. Josie Wells speaking.”

She looked at Faith and raised an eyebrow. “No, she's not particularly busy. She's right here.”

As Faith walked over to the phone, Josie covered the receiver. “Someone with guilt to spare. ‘Please don't bother her if she's busy. Are you absolutely sure I'm not interrupting her work?'”

It was Emma.

“Emma! How are you? What's been happening?”

“I'm so sorry I didn't get back to you sooner. It was sweet of you to leave all those messages, but I'm almost never home; then when I am, it's to get ready to go to another party or opening or some other stupid thing. I shouldn't say that. Some of them aren't, but then most of them are. I don't know how Mother has done it all these years. And anyone who doesn't think Brooke Astor has energy to spare…well, I'd like a little of it, that's all.”

Emma did sound exhausted, yet Faith was not interested in her friend's social schedule.

“But what's going on? You know, the issue we discussed late last week.”

Josie was busy layering phyllo dough, but her hearing was excellent.

“Not a thing to worry about anymore. I would have called you as soon as everything was settled, but it's so hard to find a phone, and then there's always someone waiting right next to you.”

Faith wanted to scream into the phone, “Get to the point!” but, mercifully, Emma kept talking and returned to the matter at hand.

“We can forget all about it. It's such a relief.”

Faith was confused. “You mean it was a hoax? A bad joke?”

“Oh, no, it was real enough, but I gave them their money. Too complicated about where to put it and when.”

“You gave them the money!” It hadn't occurred to Faith that Emma would simply pay them off. First of all, where does one lay hands on that kind of dough so quickly, and second, didn't Emma realize they would simply keep asking for more?

“It was the only way. Michael was beginning to notice that something was bothering me. I was even having trouble sleeping.”

Trouble sleeping! Faith thought about the previous few nights, when she'd been tossing herself, exhausted from work, yet worried about her friend. It had been impossible to put it out of her mind. Every newspaper in the city screamed headlines about Fox's murder and now the magazines were coming out with their in-depth analyses, complete with cover photos.

“I'm not sure that was the best way to go,” Faith said as evenly and calmly as she could manage. “These events have a way of repeating themselves. You know, as in coming back for more.”

Emma got the message. “Of course I thought of that,” she reassured Faith. “I enclosed a very stern note and told them it was simply too much and this was the end. That should do it, and I haven't heard a peep out of them since. No nasty cards. No calls. Now all I have to do is think about what to get my dearest Michael for Christmas.”

Ten thousand dollars poorer, Emma might want to head for Crazy Eddie's, Faith thought. It was so typically Emma to do what she had done. And who knew—maybe these were ethical, or one-shot, blackmailers. Faith sighed. She did want to hear all about it, though. How had they contacted Emma and where had she made the drop? And again, how had she come up with a bundle like that so easily? She couldn't exactly have asked her husband for it—tips for the doorman, the mailman, the maid. Just as she was trying to think how to phrase her queries in a form intelligible to Emma, but Greek to Josie, Emma said, “Oops, sorry, have to run. Lunch soon? I will call. I promise. Couldn't have done it without your help!”

Big help, Faith thought somewhat despondently. She hadn't even figured out who was blackmailing Emma. Didn't even have a list. Probably her evil sister. Faith brightened at the thought. It made sense and it was fun to consider. Lucy, the girl you loved to hate. Lucy had been at college when all this was happening, but it was possible she'd have heard about the pregnancy. Emma had made a scene in Dr. Bernardo's office, and that was the kind of gossip that got around.
Faith was surprised she hadn't heard about it at the time herself. Lucy had also been at the party and could have dropped the card in the hall where it was certain to be found. The blackmailer had to be someone who'd known that Emma would be there.

She turned back to her work. She was chopping apples for the pork loin. It wasn't for a party—or rather, not one that she was catering fully. The hostess had ordered it cooked as a full main course. Josie would deliver it with instructions for reheating late in the afternoon. It
was
a good dish, and when the meat was sliced, the apple and prune stuffing made a tasty little circle in the middle of the juicy meat. She served it with two side dishes: red cabbage, more apples, with a hint of onion and new potatoes that had been quartered and steamed, then sautéed in butter until brown and crispy on the outside. A city tired of
cuisine minceur
had been tucking into this comfort food with a ferocity. She paused and asked Josie, “Why is it New Yorkers always do everything in extremes? Fads, fashions, foibles—we're so intense.”

Josie answered promptly, “That's easy. You put way too many people in one place and they have to start moving fast just to keep from getting stepped on, bumped around. The rest of the world has opinions, too, but they're operating at play and New York is fast forward.”

Made sense to Faith. They worked in companionable silence until the phone rang again. It was Hope.

“I'm in like, maybe love,” she announced joyously.

“And who might the lucky object of your affections be this time?” Faith asked, crooking the phone between her chin and shoulder while she continued to work. It could be a long conversation.

For a sophisticated New Yorker, Hope Sibley was extremely naïve when it came to men, Faith had always found. In high school, her sister had gravitated toward the misunderstood loners, the unrecognized geniuses, the substance abusers. A budding Dr. Joyce Brothers, she was always on the phone saying “Uhhuh” and nodding so constantly that Faith had begun to envision her sister as one of those rear-window car ornaments, heads bobbing around like crazy on a spring. This phase had passed, yet still Hope often failed to vet a new beau with the same thoroughness, obsessive at times, that she turned on a potential stock option. Never one to intrude in her sibling's life, and therefore ensuring a lifetime of closeness, Faith had felt compelled to have a little chat with Hope after observing her last heartthrob stuffing his pockets with the host's expensive cigars at a party Have Faith catered in early November. She'd been discreetly hidden from his notice, gazing through a slight opening in the kitchen door. “So tacky, sweetheart,” she'd told Hope. “So not you.”

Now Hope had found someone new. “Who is it and what does he do?” In a city where you were what you did, Faith tried to make a point of remembering to at least ask for a name first.

“His name is Phelps Grant and he's a commodities broker. I met him at a party last weekend. We started talking and things just clicked, Fay.”

For years, Faith had been vowing to tell Hope how much she disliked the nickname, but for years she'd been putting it off.

“Phelps—prep school, right? You don't do that to your kid unless you're very sure he's going to be surrounded by Bancrofts and Chadwicks.”

“Choate, if you must know. Anyway, he can't help his name, and I like it. Very traditional. We played squash together on Sunday and had brunch afterward. We're going out again Friday.”

Faith wanted to ask, “Why not Saturday?” The prime spot. But she didn't wanted to rain on Hope's parade. Maybe Phelps had a prior commitment—passing around the drinks tray for Mater. Or maybe he was seeing another woman.

“He looks like Tom Cruise. Very hunky.”

Once Hope was out of her missionary period, appearance mattered a great deal, and Faith hadn't seen her with a homely short guy in years. Tall, with thick brown hair and deep green eyes that were the envy of her blue-eyed sister, Hope turned plenty of heads. When both sisters went out together, the effect was more than doubled. Faith was as fair as her sister was dark, but their faces were just similar enough to proclaim a family connection. Fortunately, their mother, Jane, had never considered dressing them alike. Not even the same style in two colors.