Tender Death Read online

  8.

  “I’M JUST GOING out for a short walk,” Hazel said, opening a dark blue ruffled parasol, and she brushed aside the enormous sunflowers and stepped off the parapet of the terrace they were standing on.

  “Wait ... no, you can’t,” Wetzon shrieked, reaching for her, catching Hazel’s beautiful white hair, which came off in her hand. Terrified, holding the white curly wig, she watched Hazel float calmly away like Mary Poppins and disappear beyond the gleaming gold tower of the Chrysler Building.

  Wetzon awoke panicked, drenched in sweat, her hand clutching the fuzzy blue mohair throw that she used as an extra blanket. She was trembling. It was still dark. And cold. The little white digital box that was her radio alarm said five-fifteen.

  She lay there, eyes closed again, thinking about Hazel, gradually untensing. The radiator in the kitchen coughed. She turned off the alarm and put on the light.

  The red cover of A Perfect Spy, at the top of a huge stack of books on the painted American country washstand she used as a night table, caught her eye. She was about a third of the way through it, and it was hard work. John le Carré was not Danielle Steel, Smith’s current favorite writer. But Wetzon was a snob about literature and preferred the intellectual rewards that came from meeting a good writer halfway.

  It was funny about what people read. Silvestri read biographies, autobiographies, war stories—any war—and Westerns. Carlos read show business biographies and autobiographies and mysteries.

  She read about ten pages in A Perfect Spy, moving with Magnus and Rick and Mary and Jack, full of respect for how le Carré was peeling away the layers. Then, reluctantly, she marked the page.

  Nothing is what it appears, she thought, inhaling the steam of the hot shower, not in le Carré, not in this world.

  She towel-dried her long hair, leaving it loose, slipped on her sweats, and checked the time. Six o’clock. She had an hour or maybe a bit more if she could be sure of getting a cab to Rockefeller Center.

  After getting the coffee started, she did a simple workout at the barre, running slowly through the positions, and ended feeling tall and lean. Lean was real, but tall was the impossible dream. Smith always laughed at her, but Wetzon’s self-image was tall until she got caught in an elevator surrounded by men, who towered over her, stepped on her as if she weren’t there.

  She unlocked her door and bent to get the morning papers from the doormat. Next to the Times and the Wall Street Journal was a yellow rose wrapped loosely in cellophane, tied with a yellow ribbon. She picked it up. It was probably just a promotion from the newspaper delivery service, but it made her feel good, so it succeeded in whatever they were trying to do.

  The yellow rose went into a bud vase, which Wetzon carried into the bedroom and put on the painted chest of drawers, where she could see it while she dressed in her pin-striped uniform of the day. It was too early to call Hazel. That would have to wait until after her breakfast interview with Tormenkov.

  At her kitchen counter, a mug of hot coffee in front of her, she scanned the newspaper headlines. Nothing unusual. The latest insider-trading scandal, the dollar had fallen against the yen and the deutsche mark, the trade protectionists were insisting on more sanctions against the Japanese, Texaco was rumored to have received a buy-out offer, and another Wall Street guru was predicting doom and gloom and advising the purchase of gold. She moved quickly from page to page, scanning.

  In the “Obituaries” section of the Times she found what she had been looking for:

  EVELYN M. CUNNINGHAM, 72,

  DIES IN TWENTY-STORY FALL

  Evelyn Morton Cunningham, socialite and widow of the late S. Alden Cunningham, attorney and presidential adviser, died in a fall Thursday from the terrace of her twentieth-floor apartment at 999 Fifth Avenue. She was 72 years old and had been in poor health.

  Authorities say they believe Mrs. Cunningham’s fall was an accident or suicide. She had been under a doctor’s care for depression and Alzheimer’s disease. She was fully clothed in a dark blue dress and high-heeled bedroom slippers and may have lost her balance while trying to close the doors to her terrace.

  Sgt. E. D. O’Melvany of Manhattan North said that the French doors leading from Mrs. Cunningham’s bedroom to her terrace had been open and the railing of the parapet was low. He said it was possible that a gust of wind could have knocked her over the edge.

  Investigators are seeking to question a woman named Ida, described as Russian, about five feet five inches tall, blonde hair, about 35-40 years old, who was acting as a nurse or nurse’s aide for the deceased. They are also seeking information about two women who visited Mrs. Cunningham shortly before her death, a Ms. Osborn and a Ms. Whitman.

  Wetzon put the paper down. Her hands left wet patches on the paper. She stared at the coffee mug. “High-heeled bedroom slippers?”

  “Hazel,” she said out loud, putting the mug down hard. Hot coffee sloshed over on the counter and her hand. Abstractedly, she put her hand under cold water and wiped up the spilled coffee from the counter. What to do? It was quarter to seven. She had to get going.

  In the bathroom she rolled her hair up into a dancer’s knot on top of her head and put gray shadow on her eyelids. A touch of lipstick and her diamond stud earrings. Her movements picked up speed.

  After folding the newspaper into her carryall, she wrapped herself in the long black coat and the leopard-patterned scarf, pulled the lavender beret down over her ears, and was set to brave the elements.

  Frowning, she stopped at the door, thought for a minute, then turned and went back to her bedroom. She took the small dark blue Gucci walking shoe off the television set and put it in her carryall, slipping it into the fold of her newspaper.

  “Morning, Ms. Wetzon.” Larry, her doorman, was sitting near the radiator, smoking. Ashes flecked his uniform jacket. “Your ride is waiting.”

  “Ride? What ride?” Wetzon squinted into the dim morning. Everything outside, in fact, looked deeply gray. Bits of snow floated and flurried in the small gusts of wind.

  Silvestri, wearing a red down jacket and a wool watch cap, leaned against his car, which was double-parked in front of her building. He was blowing into his gloved hands.

  “What are you doing here at this hour?” she said, staggering toward him as a sudden gust of wind caught her.

  “You told me not to call.” He was grinning at her boyishly. “But I left you a message anyway.”

  “I didn’t get a message” she said, checking him out. He looked tired and had a dark stubble of beard. But his eyes, which were slate when he was impersonal and on the job, and turquoise when he let his feelings show, were now the deepest of turquoise. “You never write notes, you never call. You just show up.”

  “Oh stop grumbling,” he said, opening the door for her. “What was on your doormat besides the goddam newspapers this morning?”

  The yellow rose. Of course.

  “You constantly surprise me, Silvestri,” she said truthfully.

  He put his hands on her shoulders, and she felt the familiar little shock she always felt when he touched her, even through all the masses of clothing she was wearing. She pressed her face against the soft cold of his jacket and hugged him.

  “Good morning, Les,” he said.

  9.

  “BECAUSE I DIDN’T think. I had to get Hazel to Lenox Hill. I saw it. I just picked it up.”

  Silvestri put his cardboard container of coffee on the narrow ledge of the windshield and dropped the half-eaten jelly doughnut into the cardboard box on the seat between them. He wiped his hands on his jeans, leaving white smudges.

  Wetzon opened a small packet, pulled out a folded wet Wash ’n Dri, and handed it to him. “Semper paratus,” she said.

  “Christalmighty, Les, you’re a pistol,” Silvestri said, wiping his sticky hands, then taking the dark blue Gucci walking shoe from her. “How do you know it’s this woman’s—”

  “Peepsie Cunningham. I mean, Evelyn Cunningham.”

/>   “Whatever her name is. How can you be so certain it was her shoe? There are a lot of ladies all over the Upper East Side who wear Gucci shoes.”

  She didn’t answer him, but when he looked back at her, she didn’t waver.

  “Okay, okay. Don’t look at me like that. I know when I’m losing.” He leaned across the cardboard box, kissed her lightly, and pulled back, leaving her with the sweet taste of powdered sugar on her lips and her heart playing games in her chest.

  They were parked in Rockefeller Plaza behind the skating rink, near the cafe where she was meeting Peter Tormenkov for breakfast.

  “And look at this, Silvestri,” she said, determined to stay on the subject of Peepsie Cunningham. She loosened her scarf and pulled off her gloves. From her carryall she took the folded newspaper and held it out to him.

  “Aw, Les,” Silvestri groaned, turning back in his seat and taking up the container of coffee. “I’m off duty. I haven’t been home in two days—”

  “It’ll only take a minute. Please, Silvestri.”

  “You are so goddam single-minded,” he said, taking the newspaper. He read quickly, rubbing the stubble on his face. “Oh Christ,” he said, finishing the article and looking at her, his eyes cold and flat. “How come you always get involved in this crap?”

  “What do you mean ‘always’?” she said, insulted. “Only once before. And that wasn’t my fault either. And you know it, Silvestri.”

  “I like things simple and uncomplicated when I’m not working,” he said, thumping his hand on the steering wheel, “otherwise I can’t come down. And you—you are like a complication waiting to happen.”

  She turned her back on him and stared out the steamed-up car window, seeing nothing, blinking rapidly to keep from crying.

  There was a long silence while they both stared out of their separate windows.

  “Oh shit, Les,” Silvestri said gruffly, at last. “I’m sorry. I’m tired. I’m grungy. I just wanted to see you, touch you.”

  “I’m sorry, too. I know you’re tired. I guess I should have waited. Or handled it myself.”

  “Oh no, you shouldn’t have. You had to tell me and we have to deal with it.”

  He uncovered the second container in the cardboard box and held it out to her.

  “What’s this?” He knew she didn’t drink Sanka and that was the only kind of decaf coffee the doughnut shops he favored served. She took it from him, their fingers touching. “Oh, fresh orange juice for forgiveness,” she said, intentionally paraphrasing Ophelia.

  At least they were facing each other again.

  “Okay,” he said, “let’s talk about this.”

  “What do you think?”

  “‘Ms. Whitman,’ I presume,” Silvestri said, looking at her, tapping the article with his fingertip.

  “Yup.”

  “And the Russian lady?”

  “Ida something or other. A home care attendant. Hazel might know more about her.”

  “And Hazel is at Lenox Hill?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sloppy work, not asking questions, not getting a statement from the two of you, not combing the area around the scene,” he said, more to himself than Wetzon. “You just walked away from it and no one even stopped you.” He shook his head. “Sloppy,” he said again, staring out the front windshield.

  “Silvestri,” she said softly.

  “You’re not drinking your orange juice,” he answered.

  She put the container to her lips. It was fresh and pulpy, the way she liked it.

  “Oh my,” she said, closing her eyes. “Heavenly. Almost as good as—־” She felt the flush begin in her neck moving up above the collar of her coat into her cheeks. “As chocolate. I was going to say chocolate.” She smiled at him, suddenly shy. “This is bad, Silvestri. I have to do an interview in a few minutes.”

  His eyes laughed at her.

  “I have to go,” she said, reluctant to leave him, or the warmth of the car, even for the short walk to the glass elevator that would take her downstairs to the underground plaza and the cafe.

  “What are you going to do about the shoe?” She knotted her scarf and slipped on her gloves.

  “Leave it with me. I know Eddie O’Melvany.” Silvestri’s tone was now detached, professional. “I’ll talk to him. You and Hazel will have to make statements. If it’s a clean suicide—”

  “A clean suicide ...” What was a clean suicide, for godsakes?

  “I’ll check it out. Then I’m going to sleep. I’m beat.”

  “Do you have to go back to work after that?” she asked cautiously. She didn’t want him to think she was making plans, but as she spoke, her right arm in the black alpaca coat, moving without a thought, reached across the seat to him.

  “Nope, we made an arrest this morning. I have a couple of days.” His fingers met hers, moved upward into her sleeve, and rested just above her wrist. They were leaning awkwardly across the cardboard box to touch each other. “What about tonight?” he said.

  “Smith is having a party tonight. I have to go.” She hesitated. “You could come,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t want to. His fingers played lightly around her wrist.

  “Don’t want to,” he said, his eyes locked with hers.

  “I could leave early,” she said, trying to stay cool. The clock on his dashboard said seven-thirty. “I’m going to be late,” she whispered. “I’ll leave my key with the doorman.”

  He nodded. They twined fingers briefly, then let go of each other. She stepped out of the car and closed the door, weak in the knees.

  10.

  PETER TORMENKOV WAS late, which was no surprise. Brokers were always late. She spent her life waiting for brokers. She had left her name and Tormenkov’s with the hostess and asked to be seated at a table near the skating rink.

  “Decaf coffee, please,” she told the waitress. “Someone else will be coming and we’ll order then.” The waitress left two menus and returned immediately with a small pot of coffee and a basket of mixed muffins. Wetzon took a sip of the coffee—it was scalding hot—and slipped out of her scarf and coat, carefully removing the beret so as not to mess her topknot. She rubbed the tips of her cold ears to warm them.

  The cafe was nearly empty, but soon it would begin to fill up for the “power breakfast” meetings that went on all over the city. It was her favorite early meeting place in midtown because it was less frenetic than the Rendezvous or the Drake or even the Crystal Fountain in the Grand Hyatt.

  A motorized unit like a combination vacuum cleaner and lawn mower was being driven over the ice on the rink, readying it for the early skaters. The tentative flurries from earlier that morning had become the real thing, scattering in the quickening northwest wind.

  Smith was going to be irate if the weather ruined her party. She had been planning this party for weeks.

  Voices caught her attention as two people were being seated near her. A very attractive, light-skinned black woman, perhaps about Wetzon’s age, impeccably dressed in a black Chanel knit suit, a mink-lined coat over her shoulders, and a younger man, bearded, wearing a foreign-looking brown fur hat and a long L.L. Bean coat over a business suit.

  “Ms. Wetzon?” a man in a tan raincoat asked, looking around the cafe at the other tables. He was tall, very thin, with curly brown hair badly in need of cutting, and very young. He had a barely discernible accent. Eastern European, perhaps.

  “Peter?” Smiling, Wetzon put out her hand. He had a limp, damp handshake. “You must be cold. How about some coffee right away and then we’ll order.”

  A second pot of coffee and a basket of sweet rolls arrived with speed.

  “I really appreciate your seeing me on such short notice, Ms. Wetzon,” Tormenkov said nervously. Under the raincoat he was wearing a finely tailored blue pin-striped suit, rather like Wetzon’s, and a crisp white cotton shirt.

  “Everyone calls me Wetzon, without the Ms.,” she said, trying to put him at ease. “Howie tells me you’re a winner.�
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  “Howie? Oh yeah, right, Howie Minton.” He fiddled with a sugar packet, opened it, refolded it, opened it again, and emptied it into his coffee.

  “Let’s order so we can talk,” she suggested, impatient to move the interview along.

  He ordered scrambled eggs and bacon and she ordered her usual, yogurt and fresh fruit. After the waitress left, Wetzon said, “You didn’t tell me very much about yourself on the telephone. How can I help you?”

  “You know I’m at L. L. Rosenkind ...”

  She nodded. Two aging, overweight skaters came out on the ice and began a waltz, spinning and twirling effortlessly around the rink.

  “We are basically ... you know ... a stock and bond house, and I do a good clean business ...”

  They all say that, Wetzon thought. The next thing he would say is that he did a lot of listed business. She waited for him to begin again, but he stared down at his blueberry muffin, mute.

  “So you do a mix of both stocks and bonds?” she prompted.

  “Oh no, I do a lot of ... you know ... listed stock, you know ... the Dow stocks and ... you know ... options. No bonds.”

  “What did you do before you came to L. L. Rosenkind?” If he said “you know” again, she would go mad.

  “I was with a penny stock house. Randall, Patchin. You heard of them?”

  “Yes.” Randall, Patchin was a disreputable firm that was constantly in trouble with the SEC, always on the verge of being closed down.

  “I know,” Tormenkov said, reading her face. “I know what you think of Randall, Patchin. I thought so, too, but no one else would give me a job on Wall Street, so I went there and I left as soon as I could get another job.”

  Wetzon nodded. She had met many brokers who had started their careers in bad houses and had succeeded at the majors, but many brokers from the penny houses could not make the transition. They were unable to sell the quality stock and product. “And where were you before Randall, Patchin?”