Also by Leslie Glass
BURNING TIME
LOVING TIME
TO DO NO HARM
MODERN LOVE
GETTING AWAY WITH IT
A Bantam Book
Bantam hardcover edition published October 1995
Bantam paperback edition / October 1996
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1995 by Leslie Glass.
LORD BYRON
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I want to thank everyone at Bantam Books who wanted this author. Irwyn Applebaum, Nita Taublib, my editor Kate Miciak, Jamie Warren-Youll, Linda Biagi. And others in publicity and sales whose names I don’t know. Years ago, when Bantam was showing the world a whole new way of packaging books, I worked there as a copywriter. It was at Bantam that I first thought I might try to write a novel. No one I knew then is there now, and publishing is no longer a small, gentlemanly, family business. But some things I experienced in the old Bantam are still there: teamwork; a fierce fighting competitive spirit that I fervently hope will never die; and the love of books as well, occasionally, as of those who write them. Thank you, Bantam, for having me back.
Even in fields such as journalism and science, where a person ought to be able to count on a few solid facts, there is very little absolute truth. With no apologies, the novelist tries for the best view of a relative truth. Those who guide her in her studies toward that end are precious and deeply appreciated. Perpetual thanks to Dr. Richard C. Friedman, my psychology professor and consultant on human behavior. Thanks to Arthur Goldman, D.D.S., odontologist and former President of the American Academy of Forensic Science. Thank you, Acting Dean Lawrence Kobilinsky, John Jay College of Criminal Justice. Thank you, Nick Petracco, dust and fiber expert, and Captain George Cockburn for details and corrections. Thanks to Thomas Lacalamita, computer expert, for his recovery skills.
And always first and last: thank you, Lindsey, for the trip, thank you, Alex, for growing up. Thank you, Sarah Jane Freyman, my agent, for waiting so long. Thank you, Edmund, for the photo ops.
1
It was the dog that caught Maggie Wheeler’s eye and ended her life. If it hadn’t been the cutest dog she’d ever seen, she wouldn’t have spoken to the woman. The very last thing she intended was to smile, pull the latch, and open the door for another customer. At six minutes past seven on a hot August Saturday night the cutesy boutique called The Last Mango was closed. Maggie was finally tidying up after a long, exhausting day that started badly at ten when Olga Yerger, the other salesgirl, didn’t show up and never called to say why. Maggie figured Olga had met some guy and taken off for the weekend. It wouldn’t be the first time. Olga was a blond beauty from one of the Scandinavian countries, who was in New York to find a rich guy to marry. Even when she was in the store she didn’t do much work. And now Maggie couldn’t find the store keys. If she left without the keys, her boss, Elsbeth Manganaro, would kill her. Maggie just couldn’t imagine what she had done with them. They were always right there, either on the counter or in the drawer. Shit.
Maggie wasn’t feeling good about the human race. Her legs ached from running up and down the tight circular staircase all day, attempting to please difficult customers who wanted to try on more expensive originals than could be displayed in the tiny showroom downstairs. The staircase to the loft storeroom was so narrow it caught the sides of hangers and sleeves, and Maggie’s arms and elbows, too. She had a number of bruises. In addition, in the great long-ago of last winter, the owner of the store had enticed her into taking the job by promising Maggie she would never have to work on Saturdays in August.
“The Last Mango will always be closed on weekends in August,” Elsbeth had said vehemently, clutching a fox coat around her shoulders even though the heat was on high in the boutique. “My customers and my girls always go away Friday nights.”
Mrs. Manganaro wore many noisy accessories with her skirts and blouses, had the strangest hair color Maggie had ever seen, and made it seem as if she and the salesgirls were all so well off they didn’t need to work.
“Call me Elsbeth,” she had said. “I like close relationships.”
Well, she lied about weekends off in summer, and a few other things, too. Maggie’s mouth soured as she remembered. Nothing was going well for her just then. She wouldn’t mind taking off for a weekend to think things over. She looked around to see what else needed to be done before she could get out of there.
The store was attractive in a spare, trendy kind of way. But nothing was efficient about it. The space was cramped. The display area for clothes was not nearly big enough. Maggie had to keep running up and down the circular staircase to the storeroom upstairs to show the stock, and then to put the rejects away.
The good things were the store was on Columbus Avenue near where she lived, and the owner was lazy, let her do almost everything. Maggie figured she was learning a lot. Hurriedly, she folded the last of the gauzy, wildly colored printed skirts and glittering hundred-dollar T-shirts, sequin-studded with the stars and stripes and other stirring symbols on them. All afternoon she had kept hoping Olga would find it in her hard foreign heart to turn up after all and cover for her so she could go out for something to eat. But Olga never did.
Maggie didn’t dare close the boutique on her own, in case Elsbeth came by to check up on her. She was more
