The Body In The Big Apple (5 page)

“I ran into Emma Stanstead the other night at a job on the East Side.” Faith threw out the line, hoping for some kind of bite.

“Her husband's going to be president someday. We'll have a friend in the White House, although it's hard to imagine Emma there. But he's a very smart cookie. He'll get all sorts of people to keep her on track. She'll just have to smile and produce a few kids, of course.”

Faith hadn't thought of this, yet political dynasties meant offspring, and Michael Stanstead seemed like a dynastic kind of guy. Most of the Michael Stansteads of the world were.

“Emma didn't look pregnant. In fact, she's thinner than she was the last time I saw her, but she's still beautiful.”

“I see them in the paper all the time. Where have you been? They're one of New York's golden couples.”

In a kitchen of one sort or another, Faith thought, answering Hope's question silently.

“So, he really is being put forward by the party as a serious contender for future presidency?”

“Absolutely. That's all I've been hearing, and he wouldn't be bad.”

Faith and her sister studiously avoided discussing politics, but each was aware that in many elections they were canceling out each other's votes.

“Get a date and have dinner with us next week. I'm dying for you to meet Phelps.” Hope tried to sound plaintive. She knew it was a busy time for her sister.

“I'll try. I did meet a cute guy on the bus the other day. He was singing carols.”

“On the bus! Are you crazy?”

“Not all of us can afford cabs, sweetheart.”

“You know very well I didn't mean that. I take the bus sometimes myself. I mean getting involved with a total stranger—a stranger who's singing to himself.”

“I'll be careful.” Faith was smiling. There were any number of men who'd be happy to get her call, yet the idea of someone new was appealing. For months, she'd been telling her friends—and herself—that she was too busy to get involved with anyone, but New York during the holidays was so romantic. She pictured the older couple in the horse-drawn carriage that had passed by when Emma and she were in the park. Nice to take one of those carriages under a starry winter sky after a
long, leisurely meal at one of those bistros on the East Side with a fireplace.

“So, you'll let me know when?”

She hadn't been listening to her sister. She hadn't been dicing apples, either.

“I'll try. If we can't get together before then, bring him to Chat's party.”

“But you'll be working.”

“And socializing. I plan to do both. It's the last one she's giving in the apartment. I'm really going to miss that view.”

Chat's apartment in one of the San Remo towers on Central Park West had been a fixture in the Sibley girls' childhood—and adulthood. They'd watched every New Year's and Fourth of July fireworks from Chat's windows high above the city and every Macy's Thanksgiving parade from one of Chat's neighbors' windows in an apartment closer to earth. It was a ritual.

“Got to go. Call me,” Hope said before hanging up.

Faith put the phone down.

“Phelps,” Josie said, having eavesdropped expertly, as usual. “Sounds like money. Think he'd be interested in investing in a restaurant?”

“Not unless you have plans to franchise in all fifty states, I'd imagine,” Faith said wryly.

 

Josie had gone to deliver the order and Faith was about to leave when the phone rang. She debated letting the machine pick up, but she shut the door and crossed the room instead. It was Emma. And she was frantic.

“I just got another Christmas card!”

“Where are you? Are you home?” Faith asked tersely. Of course Emma had received another demand. It wasn't a question of waiting for the other shoe to drop. This was Imelda's whole closet. She had to make Emma realize what a dangerous game she was playing.

“Yes, I'm at the apartment.” Emma was speaking quickly, breathlessly. “The card was in the newspaper. The doorman leaves it on the mat, and usually Michael gets it first thing, but he left for Albany early this morning. I left the back way when I went out and didn't think about the paper. Then when I came home, there it was. I picked it up and the card dropped out.”

“I'll be right there. Are you sure you don't want to call the police while you're waiting for me? I'll be there with you,” Faith pleaded.

Emma's voice lost its tremulous quality. “I'm sure. And I'm also sure I don't want to stay here one minute more. Meet me at Rockefeller Center. At the café. That's halfway for both of us. I'm leaving as soon as I hang up.”

Faith agreed and headed for Fifth Avenue. Emma was safe inside her apartment, but Faith could understand how frightening the large, empty, silent rooms were at the moment. The bustle—and anonymity—of the city's crowded sidewalks would be infinitely preferable.

It didn't take Faith long to get to Rockefeller Center. Strange to think it had been open pastureland until the early 1800s. Now herds still gathered, but human herds intent on snaring tickets for a Letterman taping, the sight of the tree, a blowout at the Rainbow Room, or some very expensive shopping. She pushed her way through the crowds gathered around the Channel Gardens, those huge raised beds running from Fifth to the ice-skating rink. Tourists were posing for pictures next to the wire angels sounding their horns, poised in the masses of greenery. This whole business with Emma is definitely putting a damper on my Yuletide spirit, Faith thought sadly. Normally, it was her favorite time of the year. She looked straight ahead at the towering seventy-foot Norway spruce rising toward the winter sky, the GE Building behind it. Oddly, the tree seemed to grow smaller as she moved down the promenade and the view widened to include the incongruous forest of skyscrapers to either side, the rink below. Garlands of lights hung from the tree's boughs, tossing flickering colors over the skaters and Manship's huge statue of Prometheus, the gold leaf thinning in places, the fountain beneath stilled until spring. She turned to go down the stairs to the American Festival Cafe, still gazing at the tree. The ultimate Christmas tree, befitting the city that was, in Faith's opinion, the planet's shiniest ornament at any time of year.

Despite the urgency of the situation, she couldn't
stop herself from watching the skaters for a minute. As usual, they were all ages, all shapes, all sizes. Stumbling, laughing beginners, ankles wobbling. Serene-faced experts gracefully gliding in perfect time to the “Skater's Waltz.” Around and around they went. If she hadn't been meeting Emma, Faith would have joined them.

But she was meeting Emma, and surprisingly, Emma was inside already, a pot of steaming tea and two cups on the table in front of her.

“They're bringing some scones and tea sandwiches. I thought you might be hungry.”

Emma was paler than Faith had ever seen her. The faint sprinkling of freckles across her nose had emerged and her hair was more red than gold, in contrast to the flat white of her skin.

Faith took off her coat, hat, and gloves, then sat down, extending her hand across the table. “Let me see the card.”

Emma had it ready in her lap and silently gave it to Faith. Once more Faith had a vague feeling that she shouldn't be touching it. That it should be dusted for prints. She shook her head. The whole situation was insane, and the way Emma and Faith herself were handling it was even crazier. What did they know about crime?

It was another card from the same pack, a Currier & Ives snow-covered barn this time, and like the first missive, it got right to the point. But this one was scarier. Much scarier.

“When is Michael getting back?” It was abundantly clear why Emma didn't want to stay in the apartment alone now. There was no mistaking the threat implied by underlining the word
touch.

“Tonight. He just has time to change before we have to go to some fund-raiser.”

The waiter came with the rest of the order and fussed about with the scones and sandwiches. The delay was maddening. Finally, he left, but not until both women had thanked him profusely and falsely.

“You do see that they'll just keep upping the ante. Blackmailers don't stop, especially when they get what they want. This could go on for the rest of your life—or until you run out of money. And how
did
you come up with that much cash so fast?”

Emma looked down at her untouched plate. “Well, I do have rather a lot.” She sounded apologetic. If giving into these demands was some sort of perverse rich girl's guilt over her assets, Faith could think of any number of better recipients for her largesse. “Poppy was worried that Jason would figure out a way to cut me off without her finding out, so she set up a trust for me out of her own money. It's supposed to be a secret.” Emma looked even more mortified, if that was possible.

“Don't worry. I'm not sure I would even recognize your stepfather if I saw him, let alone tell him anything at all. You know that.”

Emma nodded absently, smiling slightly. “Then when I was twenty-one, I came into the money left by my grandparents. A good bit of it is real estate. They thought Poppy had enough—and so did she—so everything went to Lucy and me.”

Real estate. Nothing like putting your money into
land. Especially on the island of Manhattan. Faith dimly recalled hearing from her own mother, who could tell you the owner and price of virtually every building in the city, that Poppy had been born not with a silver spoon in her mouth, but a platinum one. By the time her two daughters were shoveling in the Pablum, the utensil had apparently become encrusted with diamonds.

But back to the issue at hand. It was nice for Emma that she had such bushel baskets of money, yet there was no reason for her to watch it all get dumped out.

“Even so, you can't keep paying,” Faith said firmly. “And what about your safety? They were able to get into your building, past the doormen, and up to your floor!”

Tears came into Emma's eyes and she poured the tea with an unsteady hand. “Yes, I'm scared. Terribly frightened, in fact, but I'd rather die than betray my husband, and that's what it amounts to.” She offered Faith the cup.

Faith took it, noting that Emma had been worrying the cuticles on her thumbs. Reflexively, she began to pick at her own, then stopped in annoyance. There was really nothing she could say after Emma's impassioned declaration, but Faith gave it a try. “You can't live like this. It's only going to get worse. Think about it! You have got to do
something!
”

Emma poured herself some tea, peered into the cup, and, despite the lack of tea leaves, announced her decision. “I'll tell Michael everything when things calm down. After he's elected next fall.” The matter dismissed, she moved on. “You've seen the papers?”

Faith had. She'd been buying all of them, even and especially the tabloids, since Thursday. Fox's murder
was still all over the front pages and the press had been pulling up file photos from Nate's radical salad days. In one of today's papers, there had been a large blowup of Fox leading chanting demonstrators in front of the Federal Building. A young woman linked to his arm, someone who could have been Emma's twin, was obviously Poppy Morris. So far, however, there hadn't been a word connecting either Poppy or Emma to Fox.

“I'm learning all sorts of things about my father from the articles,” Emma said wistfully. “Mother would never talk about him. But I've read all his books.”

If ever anyone wanted proof of filial devotion, here it was. Faith well knew that Emma's favorite book had always been
Charlotte's Web,
and even in adulthood, her reading, other than periodicals, tended toward idyllic—and usually bucolic—fiction. Family sagas with happy endings.

Faith had been learning things from the papers, too. She'd wondered how Fox had gotten his books published without either revealing his whereabouts or implicating his publisher. An extensive interview in Sunday's
Times
with Arthur Quinn, his longtime agent, had provided the answer. Quinn claimed not to have seen or talked with Fox since his disappearance. The manuscripts and various instructions would arrive in the mail with postmarks from several different South American countries and no return address. Quinn might get one a year, then nothing for two or three. As per Fox's wishes, all the royalties went to charities that he would update from time to time.

Faith tried a new tack. “Your father would never have put up with blackmail, and think how upset he would have been to know he was the cause of so much
unhappiness for you.” It was the right button. Emma immediately burst into heartrending sobs that people at neighboring tables professed not to notice. It was New York City, after all. Besides, most of the café's customers were weary shoppers close to tears themselves.

“Don't you think I've thought of all this? There's no choice but to wait and see what happens. I can't tell Michael and I
really
can't tell the police. Oh, I wish Daddy hadn't died! He'd know what to do.”

If Daddy hadn't died—and it certainly wasn't Daddy's idea—Emma would be in only a slightly less awkward position. Faith sat up suddenly. There had been something in Emma's tone that—

“You did find him, didn't you!”

Emma took out a handkerchief trimmed with an inch of the kind of lace that took French nuns a year to create. She dabbed her eyes. Her nose didn't get red when she cried, Faith had noted with some envy, but her whole face was pink now. Emma had never been a good liar.

“Todd took me to him. Before my mother found me and made me return home. My father was living someplace upstate. Neither he nor Todd told me the name of the town. For all our protection. Before that, he'd been out in Oregon, then Minnesota. He moved around a lot, of course. But if I hadn't found him through Todd, I would have kept looking. I
had
to see my real father—and he wanted to see me. It was his dream, he told me.”

“Did you know he'd moved into the city?”

Emma nodded.

Faith blew at a strand of hair that had fallen into her eyes when the door to the frigid outside opened. One thing was clear. Whether it had occurred to Emma or not—and possibly not—if she went to the authorities
now, she could be charged. Concealing the whereabouts of a wanted felon was itself a crime. In any case, she'd certainly make the headlines. And no one would be happy. Not the Stansteads, not the party—and, most especially, not Michael.

“He thought he would be safe enough after all this time, and he'd changed his name.”

Yeah, Faith thought, to Fuchs, German for Fox. She began to wonder just how clever a man Fox had been. One would have thought that number one—or at most, number two—in the
Instructions for Going Underground Manual
read, “Do not assume a name resembling your own. Avoid the same initials.” So, Nathan Fox decided to become Norman Fuchs. Maybe he had luggage.

“‘All old Jewish men look alike,' Daddy said. He'd grown a beard and cut his hair. It was very gray. I would never have recognized him from the old pictures. He was terribly good-looking back then, don't you think?”

Outside the large windows, the skaters endlessly circled the rink, leaving sharp trails and occasionally tracing intricate figures in the ice. A group of schoolkids sent a spray of chips flying up against the glass as they came to a sudden stop before racing off again.

“Very good-looking. Handsome as all get-out, but Emma, weren't you afraid someone would see the two of you together?”

“We never went outside. He never did go outside much anyway. He thought too much fresh air was bad for people,” Emma smiled reminiscently. “I used to bring him bialys. There's a good place near where he lived. He liked to eat them when they were still warm. His grandmother made the best ones, ones you could
really sink your teeth into, he said. That was my great-grandmother.”

Faith wasn't sure she could stand the pathos. And it was true: Like a real bagel, it was hard to get a good bialy these days.

“I'd have brought him more food, but there were some weeks when I couldn't come, and I didn't want him to depend on it. So he stuck to his own shopping. He went out to shop once or twice a week. Daddy didn't care about what he ate.”

Faith knew there were people like this, but she preferred not to hear about them.

“I couldn't call him. He didn't have a phone. We arranged that he'd be home at three o'clock on Tuesdays. Not that he had other places to go, but this way, we'd be sure. If I could make it, fine; if not, fine. Daddy was very nonjudgmental.”

Of his daughter, perhaps. Few others, apart from some of the working class, had escaped his scathing view of the world. Fox had once put the entire United States of America on trial in a mock version staged in Central Park. Since they didn't have a permit, the trial ended before a verdict could be reached.

Emma was buttering a scone. We seem to be developing a pattern here, Faith observed to herself. Emma unburdens herself, feels better, perks up, and I inch closer to prematurely adding Nice 'n Easy to my shopping list.

“They didn't name the amount of money they wanted in the note,” Emma pointed out. “And my name hasn't been in any of the papers, or someone would have told me by now, so there really is nothing we can do at the moment.”