Tender Death Page 3

  The espresso machine gave a wild asthmatic screech. A girl and a young man in a military school uniform took the table next to them and started bickering with an undertone of nastiness.

  “She’s gotten so vague,” Hazel said. Her clear blue eyes were sharp with concern. “She doesn’t remember where she put things. She didn’t even know who I was when I was there yesterday. Well, not quite. She was very frightened. I think she knew me, but she didn’t know me. Oh dear.” She patted the burgundy hat nervously. “I’m afraid I’m not making any sense.”

  “Does she have Alzheimer’s?” Wetzon asked gently.

  “Yes, I think so, but it seems to be getting so much worse.” Hazel’s fingers tapped the table restlessly. “They never had children, you know. She has a niece, a nice girl ... I haven’t seen her in years ... living in Europe somewhere ... married a diplomat, I think. It’s been years ...” Hazel was upset and distracted. It was so unlike her.

  “Is Peepsie Cunningham living by herself?”

  “Yes—no—not really. There’s a woman, a decent sort, I think, who comes in every day, bathes her, dresses her, cooks her meals. You know.” She put her fork down and wiped her lips with the linen napkin. “We used to go out for lunch and a movie ... with our senior citizen discount cards. We really liked that. I remember when we saw Tootsie. We had so much fun.” She broke off. The espresso machine took a long deep breath and whoozed out a hoarse shriek. “We had to stop doing that. She would forget where we were. Once she wouldn’t let the waiter take her empty plate away. She made an awful scene.” Tears filled Hazel’s eyes, and she fumbled in her bag for a handkerchief.

  “Oh, Hazel, I’m so sorry,” Wetzon said. If you have young friends, Hazel always said, you never have to see them wither and die. She shivered.

  “Leslie, do me a favor, please.” Hazel paused and for a fleeting moment an expression of guilt crossed her face. She began creasing the napkin between her fingers. “Never mind. I hate to involve anyone ...”

  “No, please, Hazel,” Wetzon said, “ask me. How can I help? I want to help. I’m your friend.”

  Hazel studied her and breathed a soft sigh. “All right. Could you come over to Peepsie’s with me now? It’s a little hard for me—” She gestured at the cane leaning against the wall behind her chair.

  They divided up the bill and, bundled against the cold, came out on the sidewalk into the arctic wind.

  Wetzon peered up at the dark-edged, angry clouds scudding across the sky and sniffed. “It’s going to snow, I’ll bet.”

  “Please don’t say that, Leslie.”

  Hazel seemed so worried, so sad. Where had her spunky young friend Hazel gone? Right now, Wetzon slowed her pace to match Hazel’s awkward gait, the shuffle of an elderly woman.

  “What’s Peepsie Cunningham’s address?” Wetzon asked brightly, locking her arm through Hazel’s free one.

  5.

  PEEPSIE CUNNINGHAM LIVED in an elegant old Fifth Avenue building across from the Metropolitan Museum.

  A stout middle-aged doorman in a gray wool uniform, who had been standing inside away from the draft, came forward when he saw them approach and swung open the ornate glass and carved iron outside door for them.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Osborn,” he said courteously, touching his hand to his hat. “I’ll let Mrs. Cunningham know you’re on your way up.”

  “Thank you, Edward.” Hazel was leaning heavily on Wetzon’s arm, exhausted by their short walk. “This is my friend, Ms. Wetzon.”

  Edward nodded at Wetzon, went to a vertical switchboard, put a plug into a numbered outlet, picked up a phone, and waited.

  “Yes. Ms. Osborn and Ms. Whitman coming up.”

  Hazel and Wetzon looked at each other and exchanged a smile. No one ever seemed to hear Wetzon’s name correctly the first time.

  “Elevator bank to your right,” Edward said automatically, and then had the grace to look embarrassed when Hazel softly thanked him.

  Together, slowly, Hazel and Wetzon moved through the beautiful old lobby: marble floors, deco-patterned, a wide expanse of window looking out on a garden laid out geometrically, somewhat similar to that at the Frick Museum farther down on Fifth Avenue. Several huge arrangements of fresh flowers stood on brass and wood side tables near upholstered armchairs and sofas. It all spoke of another time, of grace and dignity and a quiet, understated grandeur.

  Wetzon pressed the button for the elevator while Hazel sank awkwardly down on the quilted brown leather bench opposite.

  The elevator door opened and an elderly couple suitably encased in furs and heavy winterwear exited. A lanky young man in the gray staff uniform grinned at them from the mahogany-paneled elevator. “How you doing today, Ms. Osborn? Cold enough for you?” The question, as these weather questions usually were, appeared to be rhetorical, for he stepped aside to let them enter without waiting for a response. He pressed “20” and the door closed behind them.

  The little lobby on the twentieth floor also had a patterned, marble floor. Bright red paisley paper decorated the walls. An antique light of etched glass in a leaded shade hung on a brass chain from the ceiling. There were two doors, one to the right and one to the left.

  Hazel rang the bell to the one on the right, and as the echo of the chime faded, they heard a small stifled cry. There was a faint click behind them. Wetzon turned, but the other door stayed shut. Perhaps someone was watching them through the peephole. Not so odd in a paranoid city like New York, Wetzon reflected, where even the wealthy elderly were afraid.

  The door swept open and an apparition said, “Hello, hello, my dollink. See,” she continued to someone over her shoulder, “see, your friend is here. I told you she vould come, my dollink. And you must be Ms. Veetman. So happy to meet you.” She grasped Wetzon’s hand and pumped her arm vigorously. “Come, I take your coats, it is so cold, is it not, and the vind, such a vind, tch, tch, tch.” All this was said at breakneck speed in a thick Russian accent. The speaker was a small, pigeon-breasted woman in a white uniform. A mass of bleached platinum-blonde curls was piled haphazardly on top of her head. She had dense false eyelashes on eyes outlined thickly in black and smudged with gray-blue gold-flecked eye shadow, brightly rouged cheeks, and shiny red-glazed lips. Heavy gold earrings dangled from stretched earlobes.

  She hung their coats in the hall closet, still talking. “I make us some nice hot Russian tea,” she announced, and swayed off on spike-heeled backless shoes.

  “Leslie, you can close your mouth now,” Hazel murmured wickedly, more like the old Hazel. “That’s Ida.”

  “God, Hazel, what a piece of work.”

  “She’s the home care person who looks after Peepsie. Let’s go inside.”

  Wetzon, trailing after Hazel, was overwhelmed by the opulence, the gold Chinese wallpaper, the antique oil paintings in heavily carved frames, the fine old English furniture, and Chinese porcelains. A muted old runner ran down the beautiful parquet floor. Two huge urns stood on either side of the spacious archway.

  Peepsie Cunningham was a very wealthy widow.

  When Wetzon passed under the high, wide archway, she found herself in an enormous square room with more of the same: old English side tables, a rug in the palest blues and beige and rose, an important chinoiserie secretary, more porcelain, a fat down-filled rose damask sofa. Club chairs picked up the pale blues of the rug. Thick draperies in a deeper rose covered the windows on the far wall, which undoubtedly overlooked Fifth Avenue and the Museum.

  Hazel had already sat down on the sofa next to a tiny doll-like woman who wore a ranch mink coat and a wide-brimmed mink hat. She was clinging to Hazel’s arm, her eyes focused fearfully on Wetzon. “It’s all right, Peepsie dear,” Hazel said gently, “this is my friend, Leslie. I know you’ll like each other. Leslie, this is my oldest, dearest friend, Peepsie Cunningham.”

  “Peepsie, Peepsie,” Peepsie Cunningham chirped, wide eyes on Wetzon, and obediently put out her hand, like a little girl.

  Wetzon
came closer, bent, and took the tiny hand.

  “I haven’t seen you in such a long time,” Peepsie Cunningham said, clinging to Wetzon’s hand. Her fingers were icy cold. “You never write. I don’t know where you are. I’m so lonely.” Tears spilled down her round little cheeks and sank into the mink collar of the coat.

  “Oh dear, Leslie, I think she thinks you’re Marion, her niece,” Hazel said sadly.

  “Marion, sit here,” Peepsie Cunningham said, patting the rose damask cushions and pulling Wetzon down on the sofa next to her with surprising strength. “Peepsie,” she said to Hazel, “tell Willie to bring us some tea.”

  “Willie isn’t with us anymore, dear,” Hazel said. “Ida is getting us some tea.” She touched her tiny friend’s shoulder. “Why don’t you take off your coat, too, dear? It’s so warm in here. And your hat.” Docile, Peepsie Cunningham complied.

  Under the fur coat Peepsie Cunningham wore a dress of dark blue silk and a long lustrous rope of pearls. She had matching Gucci walking shoes with the gold stirrups on her tiny feet.

  Without the big hat she looked even more doll-like. Faded brown ringlets of hair framed her baby face with its wide childish eyes, the color of fall leaves.

  “Marion,” Peepsie Cunningham said; her fingers scrabbled on Wetzon’s arm. “I gave her the ...”

  She fell silent as Ida reappeared. The woman carried a large silver tray holding the tea service, cups and saucers, a plate of tea cakes, linen napkins, and silver spoons which rattled noisily.

  “Vell, my dollinks, vhat nice things are girls talking about today?”

  Ida spoke with a vulgar familiarity, placing the tray on the round tea table near the sofa. “How you like tea, Ms. Veetman?”

  “Straight,” Wetzon said.

  “And you’re one sugar and lemon,” Ida said to Hazel without looking at her. “And vee know you like with milk and honey, don’t vee, my little dollink,” Ida said to Peepsie Cunningham, who smiled slyly up at her. Ida handed them their cups, then poured one for herself, adding generous dollops of honey and milk, and settled into one of the club chairs. With a loud sigh she shook off her shoes and tucked her feet up under her.

  Hazel’s dark left eyebrow rose almost up to the brim of her burgundy felt hat, which Wetzon suddenly realized she hadn’t removed. Every wisp of Hazel’s snowy-white hair was tucked up under the hat. All at once she was afraid. It wasn’t arthritis that was sapping Hazel’s strength. The cancer had come back.

  Wetzon’s reverie was shattered by a clattering noise. Peepsie Cunningham’s arm was still extended in the air. She had flung her spoon across the room. Hazel’s face registered shock.

  “Oh my, vhat naughty girl you are,” Ida scolded, shaking her finger at Peepsie. She rose grudgingly and slipped her feet back into her shoes. “I bring another. Tch, tch, tch.”

  Fascinated, they stared at Ida’s rolling walk in the spike-heeled shoes, her protruding rear end broad in the tight white uniform.

  “So clever, so clever,” Peepsie Cunningham said nastily. She took a big swallow of her tea and turned to Hazel, pleading, “I can’t find them. I brought them home, and I can’t find them. Please, Peepsie, help me.”

  Hazel leaned toward her. “Can’t find what, dear?”

  “You know,” Peepsie Cunningham said. “Tell Marion.” She turned and gaped at Wetzon. Her voice rose in terror. “Who are you? What are you doing in my home?”

  Hazel looked apologetically at Wetzon. Peepsie Cunningham giggled and thrust her teacup at Hazel.

  “Want to sleep now, Peepsie, Peepsie, Peepsie,” she intoned, yawning widely. She seemed to be having trouble keeping her eyes open.

  “Time for nap now, my dollink,” Ida said, returning.

  “I guess we should go.” Reluctance threaded Hazel’s words.

  She and Wetzon both rose, watching uncomfortably as Ida gathered Peepsie Cunningham up in her arms and carried her out of the room.

  Like a bag of laundry, Wetzon thought.

  “You let yourselves out, no?” Ida said without looking back.

  Silently, they bundled themselves up again for the cold. In the little red lobby Hazel said, “You see why I’m so worried.”

  “Yes. Is being so panicked a symptom of Alzheimer’s?”

  “I don’t know. But she is terribly frightened, isn’t she?”

  “No question. Can’t her niece come back and take care of her?”

  “Peepsie doesn’t seem to know where she put Marion’s last letter. And I can’t remember her married name.”

  “I’m so sorry, Hazel. My God, all that wealth and all that sadness.”

  The elevator took them back to the main lobby.

  “Cab, ladies?” Edward asked.

  “Yes, please,” Hazel said. She looked at Wetzon, who shook her head.

  “I’ll walk up to Eighty-sixth Street and take the crosstown bus.”

  They stood inside the entrance listening to the wind, watching pedestrians battling the vicious gusts swathed in coats, hats, and mufflers, bent with the effort. It was not a day for strolling. Even the steps of the Metropolitan Museum, usually thick with people sitting and talking, were deserted.

  Edward, clutching his cap, was dancing on the sidewalk outside trying to flag down a taxi. Trash, bits and pieces of newspapers, twigs from trees and shrubbery spun helplessly in the wind. A large, dark object hurtled past the doors, seemingly windblown from way above. Edward stopped and jerked around. His hand shot out, snapped back, covering his eyes. For a moment, he seemed frozen, then he whirled and rushed toward them. A blast of cold air hit them as he threw the door open.

  “Jesus, Mary,” he screamed, “it’s Missus Cunningham!” He pushed past, his face ashen. “Jesus, Mary.” Panting, he grabbed up the receiver and punched three numbers. “Come at once, come at once to 999 Fifth Avenue. One of my tenants just jumped.”

  6.

  “HAZEL WAS DISTRAUGHT,” Wetzon said. “Hell, I was distraught.” She was lying on her bed fully clothed except for her boots, which she’d pulled off the minute she walked into her apartment.

  Smith clucked sympathetically on the other end of the phone line. “That poor woman. What did the body look like?”

  “Smith, you are a ghoul, you know that?”

  “No, come on, Wetzon, you’ll feel a lot better if you tell me,” Smith said. “You know how these things fester if you don’t get them out.”

  “There isn’t that much to tell. By the time we left the building they had taken her away—”

  She shuddered at the memory. She and Edward had pulled Hazel away from the door. “This is a mistake,” Hazel kept saying. “A mistake.”

  Somehow they managed to get her to one of the lobby sofas. Wetzon shrugged out of her coat and tucked it around Hazel’s shoulders. Edward disappeared and returned with what looked like a painter’s drop cloth. Wetzon knew he had gone out to cover what was left of Peepsie Cunningham’s mortal remains. Then the police had arrived ...

  “They came fast,” Smith said, interrupting.

  “I guess it helps if you live on Fifth Avenue.”

  “Oh ho, she was one of the superprivileged, then.”

  “You might say that. I’ve never seen such an incredible apartment. It was like a museum—”

  “Tell me—”

  “Not now. It’s been an awful afternoon.” Wetzon closed her eyes and saw the shoe again. The small dark blue Gucci with the gold stirrups.

  “What did you do with Hazel?” Smith’s voice was distorted by something she was eating. “I wish you would open up, sweetie. You know it’s going to give you nightmares if you don’t talk about it.”

  “I just can’t,” Wetzon said. “At least not yet, not now.” And maybe not to you, she added silently. Why did Smith always want her to share her every thought and feeling? “I called Hazel’s doctor and brought her over to Lenox Hill. He wanted her admitted for observation.”

  “Oh my, she must have been in bad shape.” The munching sound
continued.

  “Smith, she was in shock. Peepsie Cunningham was one of her oldest friends—whatever are you eating?”

  “Potato chips. Peepsie, what kind of name is that? A turn-of-the-century version of Muffie?”

  “Smith, you’re so callous. They could be us in thirty or forty years.” She pulled the afghan up around her, chilled.

  “Oh hardly, Wetzon. I’m not about to take a walk out of my window, especially not on a cold night. And neither are you.” Wetzon heard the crackle of crumpled cellophane.

  “But what if we were ill and alone, and we didn’t know what we were doing?” A funny little pulse fluttered her eyelid. She was depressed by what had happened to Peepsie.

  “Wetzon,” Smith said impatiently, “you just got finished telling me there was a woman with her, looking after her.”

  “Right. Ida. A very peculiar Russian lady, who acted as if she were a member of the family. She actually took off her shoes and had tea with us.” Wetzon had forgotten all about Ida. Wherever had Ida been when Peepsie Cunningham jumped? “I don’t know where she was, and in the confusion I didn’t see her again.”

  “Didn’t you talk to the police?”

  “No one talked to us, and Hazel was in such bad shape. A lot of the tenants came downstairs and were standing around trying to see what was going on. The lobby got very crowded. So after I talked to Hazel’s doctor, I called a cab service and we left.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that.”

  Except for one thing, Wetzon thought. As she helped Hazel into the cab, she had seen the small dark blue Gucci walking shoe with the gold stirrups in the gutter. Without thinking, she had bent down and dropped it into her big Mark Cross leather carryall, a combination of purse and briefcase. What had possessed her to do so, she couldn’t imagine. It had been instinctive. And in her concern for Hazel, she had quite forgotten about it until just now.