Body in the Big Apple

which you know you eat when you’re depressed.”

“Oh, Fay, life is so simple for you!”

“What!” Faith exclaimed in astonishment.

“Well, you always know what to do.” This was a complete revelation. Faith viewed her younger sib as the one with the Filofax lobe, the life plan. Faith tended to make snap judgments, go on a gut response . . . but it was true, when it came to questions of the heart, that she was quicker to ring in than her well-programmed sister.

“True or not—and we have to talk—the question now is, What are you going to do?”

“Dunno. Stall. Find out more about the company.

Might be a good investment for me, too.” She perked up.

“Hope!”

“I’ll think about what you said. Got to run. Love you. Bye.”

If there is a company, Faith thought as she ran a bath. That would definitely solve Hope’s dilemma—if she asked for a prospectus and none existed.

She got into the fragrant, steamy water. Phelps Grant needed money. A lot of it. She’d never really considered him a suspect, but he was always there in the back of her mind with everyone else. He’d been at the party and could have left the card. He could have been at the first party, too; Faith had stayed in the kitchen that night. Then there was the second card. The one in the newspaper outside the Stansteads’ apartment 150

door. The threatening one. Someone who looked as presentable as Phelps, particularly if he’d been there before, could easily get into the building. There were always times during the day when the doorman was away briefly. The Stansteads’ building had a rear entrance and stairs next to the service elevator. She’d noted them when they were catering the party. Having evaded the man at the door, you could avoid the one in the elevator by slipping into the rear and up the stairs.

Where there was a will, there was a way. And Phelps definitely aspired to riches and power. He could be in the hole for any number of reasons—rent on a tony apartment he couldn’t afford, picking up the tab at Mortimer’s to impress a little too often, treating everyone to lines of the good stuff . . .

She’d have to find somebody new for Hope after the holidays. It wasn’t the season to break up, although from the sound of it, Hope shouldn’t expect much in the way of a gift from Phelps. It was nice to have someone at the holidays. New York was so romantic.

Twinkling lights everywhere. Red, green, gold—the city was swathed in the colors of the season. She added some more hot water.

There was no sense in going back to Garden City, even if she hadn’t been literally thrown out of the real estate office. She wouldn’t be able to find out anything more about Todd Hartley there. She smiled. He’d have a hard time finding her. The car was registered to Jane, age fifty something. In the last years, her mother had grown a bit vague as to the exact number. There was nothing to link Faith Sibley to Karen Brown. She had nothing to fear from the man.

She let her mind wander. Fox was killed to blackmail Emma. But did that really make sense? There was 151

already enough to blackmail Emma about well into the next century. Why kill Fox?

The apartment had been trashed. Maybe by junkies, as both Josie and Richard had suggested. But what if that hadn’t been the case? What if it had been somebody looking for something other than stereo equipment and jewelry?

Something like a tell-all book. A magnum opus.

Something that would blow the lid off—blow the lid off somebody’s secret. Somebody other than Emma.

Richard’s book was going to blow a southern town sky-high. What was it with men—success had to be measured on the Richter scale?

Faith suddenly decided she had to get into Fox’s apartment. Emma had a key. Surely the police would be finished with it by now. A key didn’t mean breaking and entering. She wanted to see the place for herself.

See how it had been searched.

And it was time to talk to Lorraine Fuchs again. Lorraine, the faithful companion. Find out if Lorraine knew anything more about that “very important book” Fox had been working on at the time of his death.

Lorraine Fuchs had sounded thrilled that Faith—or rather, Karen—could drop by the next day.

“It’s so important. I’ve thought of doing it myself, only I’m not a writer. Oh, maybe the odd pamphlet, but not a whole book! You were at the service. You heard Arthur. Nathan’s words were his legacy. But his life was, too, and you’ll be putting it into words!” Faith arranged to be there at 2:00 P.M., took down the directions, and felt like a heel.

Next, she called Emma.

“I want to get into your father’s apartment.” She 152

came right to the point. It was the best way with Emma.

“What! You don’t want me to go with you, do you?”

“No, but I do need the key.” Faith thought they should assume that Emma’s movements were being closely followed, and the last place she should go was to Fox’s apartment. She wondered if the blackmailers had pictures of Emma on the day Fox was killed. Well, even if they did, there was no need to supply them with any more opportunities.

“It’s best to do this sort of thing during the day. Less suspicious. I’d like to go over in the morning.”

“You sound terribly professional,” Emma remarked admiringly.

“It’s common sense—and television.” You could learn a lot from Cagney and Lacey.

They arranged that Faith would drop by Emma’s apartment and pick up the key the next morning on her way downtown. “I have to go to a breakfast with Michael, and if I’m already gone, I’ll leave it in an envelope with Juanita,” she told Faith. “If I leave it with one of the doormen, Michael might be with me when he said something like ‘Your friend got the key all right.’ Then it would be ‘What key?’ and everything will be ruined. Michael and Juanita never talk.” Faith’s next call was to Josie.

“It’s about time! I’ve been worrying my head off about you all day,” Josie complained.

“Why didn’t you call? And what’s going on? You just saw me last night?”

“Didn’t want to bother you. Maybe was taking a little nap myself. Yeah, I know,” Josie muttered.

“But what’s wrong?”

“You know. That phone call you got last week. The 153

one we’re not talking about. I’m not asking any questions—not that I don’t want to—but when you’re working the way we are, you know when something heavy is going down. One look at you is all I need.”

“I’m okay.” Faith wished she could add that everything else was, too, but she couldn’t lie to Josie. Besides, Josie would know the minute she saw Faith.

“Any new jobs?” Josie asked.

“No, but don’t forget we have a million party platters, some buche de Noel, and several main courses to do this week. I don’t know which is more work—a whole dinner or assembling all those for the do-it-yourselfers.”

“I’ll be in bright and early. What do you want me to start on—pastries or pates?”

Faith felt a little embarrassed. “I won’t be able to get there until later, and I have to be away for a while in the afternoon, but I plan to work late. I’m going to ask Jessica to come in. She can clean up and do some of the simple prep work—wash fruit, cut up cheese.

Why don’t you start on the desserts?” Faith knew Josie preferred making bite-sized pecan tarts, tiny profiteroles, and white chocolate mini-cheesecakes to putting together the vegetable terrine, pate de campagne, duck with armagnac pate, and others that, along with an assortment of breads, went into that offering.