While My Pretty One Sleeps (7 page)

His smile was beatific. His round face had become puffy in the last years, and now his eyes crinkled till they were lost under
his heavy lids. He and Myles and the Bishop had grown up in the same Bronx neighborhood, played stickball together, gone to Christopher Columbus High School together. It was hard to believe that he too was sixty-eight years old.

There was a jumble of swatches on his desk. “Can you beat this? We have an order to design interiors for scale-model Mercedes for three-year-olds. When I was three I had a secondhand red wagon, and one of the wheels kept falling off. Every time it did, my father beat me up for not taking care of my good toys.”

Neeve felt her spirits lift. “Uncle Sal, honest to God I wish I had you on tape. I could make a fortune blackmailing you.”

“You're too good-hearted. Sit down. Have a cup of coffee. It's fresh, I promise.”

“I know you're busy, Uncle Sal. Five minutes only.” Neeve unbuttoned her jacket.

“Will you drop the ‘uncle' business? I'm getting too old to be treated with respect.” Sal eyed her critically. “You look good, as usual. How's business?”

“Great.”

“How's Myles? I see Nicky Sepetti got sprung Friday. I suppose that's tearing his guts out.”

“He was upset Friday and pretty good over the weekend. Now I'm not sure.”

“Invite me up to dinner this week. I haven't seen him for a month.”

“You're on.” Neeve watched as Sal poured coffee from the Silex on a tray beside his desk. She glanced around.

“I love this room.”

The wall covering behind the desk was executed in a mural of the Pacific Reef motif, the design that had made Sal famous.

Sal often told her about his inspiration for that line. “Neeve, I was in the Aquarium in Chicago. It was 1972. Fashion was a mess that year. Everyone sick of the miniskirt. Everyone afraid to try something new. The top designers were showing men-tailored suits, Bermuda shorts, skinny unlined suits. Pale colors. Dark colors. Ruffled blouses that belonged in boarding school. Nothing that makes a woman say, ‘I want to look like that.' I was just wandering around the Aquarium and went up to the floor with the Pacific Reef exhibit. Neeve, it was like walking underwater. Tanks from floor to ceiling were filled with hundreds of exotic fish and plants and coral trees and shells. The colors on everything—you'd think Michelangelo painted them! The patterns and designs—dozens and dozens, every one unique. Silver blending into blue; coral and red entwined. One fish was yellow, bright as the morning sun, with black markings. And the flow, the grace of movement. I thought, If I can only do this with fabric! I started sketching right on the spot. I knew it was great. I won the Coty Award that year. I turned the fashion industry around. Couturier sales were fantastic. Licenses for the mass market and accessories. And all because I was smart enough to copy Mother Nature.”

Now he followed her gaze. “That design. Wonderful. Cheerful. Elegant. Graceful. Flattering. It's still the best thing I ever did. But don't tell anyone. They haven't caught up with me yet. Next week I'll give you a preview of my fall line. The second-best thing I've ever done. Sensational. How's your love life?”

“It isn't.”

“What about that guy you had to dinner a couple of months ago? He was crazy about you.”

“The fact you can't remember his name says it all. He still makes a pile of money on Wall Street. Just bought a Cessna and a co-op in Vail. Forget it. He had the personality of a wet noodle. I keep telling Myles and I'll tell you: When Mr. Right comes along, I'll know it.”

“Don't wait too long, Neeve. You've been raised on the fairytale romance of your mother and father.” Sal swallowed the last of his coffee with a great gulp. “For most of us, it don't work like that.”

Neeve had a fleeting moment of amusement reflecting that when Sal was with close friends or ready to wax eloquent, the suave Italian accent disappeared and his native jargon took over.

Sal continued. “Most of us meet. We get a little interested. Then not so interested. But we keep seeing each other and gradually something happens. Not magic. Maybe just friendship. We accommodate. We may not like opera, but we go to the opera. We may hate exercise but start playing tennis or jogging. Then love takes over. That's ninety percent of the people in the world, Neeve. Believe me.”

“Was that the way it happened for you?” Neeve asked sweetly.

“Four times.” Sal beamed. “Don't be so fresh. I'm an optimist.”

Neeve finished the coffee and got up feeling immensely cheered. “I think I am, too, but you help bring it out. How's Thursday for dinner?”

“Fine. And remember, I'm not on Myles's diet and don't say I should be.”

Neeve kissed him goodbye, left him in his office and hurried through the showroom. With a practiced eye, she studied the fashions on his mannequins. Not brilliant but good. Subtle use of color, clean lines, innovative without being too daring. They'd sell well enough. She wondered about Sal's fall line. Was it as good as he claimed?

She was back in Neeve's Place in time to discuss the next window display with the decorator. At six-thirty, when she closed the shop, she began the now familiar job of carrying home Ethel Lambston's purchases. Once again there had been no message from Ethel; no response to the half-dozen phone calls. But at least there was an end in sight. Tomorrow morning she'd accompany Tse-Tse to Ethel's apartment and leave everything there.

That thought made her mind jump to a line from the poignant Eugene Field poem “Little Boy Blue”: “He kissed them and put them there.”

As she tightened her hold on the armful of slippery garment bags, Neeve remembered that Little Boy Blue had never returned to his pretty toys.

5|

The next morning, Tse-Tse met her in the lobby promptly at eight-thirty. Tse-Tse was wearing her hair in braided coils pinned over her ears. A black velvet cape hung loosely from her shoulders to her ankles. Under it she was attired in a black uniform with a white apron. “I just got a part as a parlor-floor servant in a new play,” she confided
as she took boxes from Neeve's hands. “I thought I'd practice. If Ethel's there she gets a kick out of it when I'm in costume.” Her Swedish accent was excellent.

Vigorous bell-ringing did not elicit a response at Ethel's apartment. Tse-Tse fumbled in her purse for the key. When she opened the door, she stepped aside and let Neeve precede her. With a sigh of relief, Neeve dropped the armful of clothes on the couch and started to straighten up. “There is a God,” she murmured, then her voice trailed off.

A muscular young man was standing in the entrance of the foyer that led to the bedroom and bath. Obviously in the process of dressing, he was holding a tie in one hand. His crisp white shirt was not yet fully buttoned. His pale-green eyes, set in a face that with a different expression might have been attractive, were narrowed by an annoyed frown. His as yet uncombed hair fell over his forehead in a mass of curls. Neeve's startled response to his presence was replaced by the immediate sense that his tangled hair was the product of a body wave. From behind her, she heard Tse-Tse draw in her breath sharply.

“Who are you?” Neeve asked. “And why didn't you answer the door?”

“I think the first question is mine.” The tone was sarcastic. “And I answer the door when I choose to answer it.”

Tse-Tse took over. “You are Miss Lambston's nephew,” she said. “I have seen your picture.” The Swedish accent rose and fell from her tongue. “You are Douglas Brown.”

“I know who I am. Would you mind telling me who
you
are?” The sarcastic tone did not abate.

Neeve felt her temper rising. “I'm Neeve Kearny,” she said. “And this is Tse-Tse. She does the apartment for Miss Lambston. Do you mind telling me where Miss Lambston is? She claimed she needed these clothes on Friday and I've been carrying them back and forth ever since.”

“So you're Neeve Kearny.” Now the smile became insolent. “Number-three shoes go with beige suit. Carry number-three purse and wear box-A jewelry. Do you do that for everyone?”

Neeve felt her jaw harden. “Miss Lambston is a very good customer and a very busy woman. And
I'm
a very busy woman. Is she here, and if not, when is she coming back?”

Douglas Brown shrugged. Something of the animosity left him. “I have no idea where my aunt is. She asked me to meet her here Friday afternoon. She had an errand for me.”

“Friday afternoon?” Neeve asked quickly.

“Yes. I got here and she wasn't around. I have a key and let myself in. She never came back. I made up the couch and stayed. I just lost my sublet, and the Y isn't my speed.”

There was something too glib about the explanation. Neeve looked around the room. The couch on which she'd laid the clothes had a blanket and a pillow piled together at one end. Piles of papers were thrown on the floor in front of the couch. Whenever she'd been here before, the cushions were so covered with files and magazines it was impossible to see the upholstery. Stapled clippings from newspapers were jumbled on the dinette table. Because the apartment was street level, the windows were barred, and even the bars had been used as makeshift files. At the opposite end of the room, she could see into the
kitchen. As usual, the countertops looked cluttered. The walls were haphazardly covered with carelessly framed pictures of Ethel, pictures that had been cut from newspapers and magazines. Ethel receiving the Magazine Award of the Year from the American Society of Journalists and Authors. That had been for her scathing article on welfare hotels and abandoned tenements. Ethel at the side of Lyndon and Lady Bird Johnson. She'd worked on his 1964 campaign. Ethel on the dais at the Waldorf with the Mayor the night
Contemporary Woman
had honored him.

Neeve was struck by a thought. “I was here early Friday evening,” she said. “What time did you say you arrived?”

“About three. I never pick up the phone. Ethel has a thing about anyone answering it when she's not here.”

“That's true,” Tse-Tse said. For a moment she forgot her Swedish accent. Then it came back. “Yah, yah, it's true.”

Douglas Brown slipped his tie over his neck. “I've got to get to work. Just leave Ethel's clothes, Miss Kearny.” He turned to Tse-Tse. “And if you can find some way to clean this place up, that's fine, too. I'll pile my stuff together just in case Ethel decides to favor us with her presence.”

Now he seemed in a hurry to get away. He turned and started for the bedroom.

“Just a minute,” Neeve said. She waited until he stopped and looked over his shoulder. “You say you came around three o'clock on Friday. Then you must have been here when I was trying to deliver these clothes. Would you mind explaining why you wouldn't answer the door that night? It could have been Ethel forgetting her key. Right?”

“What time did you get here?”

“Around seven.”

“I'd gone out for something to eat. Sorry.” He disappeared into the bedroom and pushed the door closed.

Neeve and Tse-Tse looked at each other. Tse-Tse shrugged. “I might as well get busy.” Her voice was a singsong. “Yumpin' Yimminy, you could clean Stockholm faster than this place with all the junk around.” She dropped the accent. “You don't suppose anything happened to Ethel, do you?”

“I've thought about having Myles call for accident reports,” Neeve said. “Although I must say the loving nephew doesn't seem frantic with worry. When he gets out, I'll hang these things in Ethel's closet for her.”

Douglas Brown emerged from the bedroom a moment later. Fully dressed in a dark-blue suit, a raincoat over his arm, his hair brushed into a thick, wavy coiffure, he looked sullenly attractive. He seemed surprised and not pleased that Neeve was still there.

“I thought you were so busy,” he told her. “Are you planning to help clean?”

Neeve's lips narrowed ominously. “I'm planning to hang these clothes in your aunt's closet, so she'll be able to put her hands on them when she needs them, and then I intend to leave.” She tossed her card at him. “You will let me know if you hear from her. I, for one, am getting concerned.”

Douglas Brown glanced at the card and pocketed it. “I don't see why. In the two years I've lived in New York, she's pulled the disappearing act at least three times and usually managed to
keep me cooling my heels in a restaurant or this place. I'm beginning to think she's certifiably nuts.”

“Are you planning to stay until she returns?”

“I don't see that is any of your business, Miss Kearny, but probably yes.”

“Do you have a card where I can reach you during business hours?” Neeve felt her temper rising.

“Unfortunately, at the Cosmic Oil Building, they don't have cards made for receptionists. You see, like my dear aunt, I'm a writer. Unfortunately, unlike her, I have not yet been discovered by the publishing world, so I keep body and soul together by sitting at a desk in Cosmic's lobby and confirming the appointments of visitors. It's not the job for a mental giant, but then Herman Melville worked as a clerk on Ellis Island, I believe.”

“Do you consider yourself a Herman Melville?” Neeve did not try to conceal the sarcasm in her voice.

“No. I write a different sort of book. My latest is called
The Spiritual Life of Hugh Hefner
. So far no editor has seen the joke in it.”

He was gone. Neeve and Tse-Tse looked at each other. “What a creep,” Tse-Tse said. “And to think he's poor Ethel's only relative.”

Neeve searched her memory. “I don't think she ever mentioned him to me.”

“Two weeks ago when I was here, she was on the phone with him and real upset. Ethel squirrels money around the apartment, and she thought some of it was missing. She practically accused him of stealing it.”