few bottles of red and white wine. Champagne gave some people a headache.
For dessert, there would be Stilton and pears, as well as a plateau of other English cheeses—Wensleydale, Cheshire, Cheddar, and biscuits. She added several bottles of Cockburn port to the list. Nobody wanted to be bothered to crack walnuts unless he or she was lingering after dinner at a long table in a stately home.
She’d made several batches of sugared ones and a few spiced. A spectacular trifle that had taken Josie hours to concoct was waiting in one of Have Faith’s refrigerators. It had to be made the day before, and knowing it was there in all its glory was setting Faith’s mind con-siderably at rest. To fill in the cracks, if anyone could possibly still be hungry, they’d done miniature versions of treacle tart, Maids of Honor, Chelsea buns, and, with a nod across the Channel to the Sceptered Isle’s ancient enemy, dark chocolate and Grand Marnier souffles.
“You think people will like it? It’s not too theme park? Not too ‘Tom Jones takes a bite of the Big Apple’?” Faith asked anxiously.
Josie was quick to reassure her. “They’ll love it.
People are tired to death of all that Yuppie food—you know, mixed field greens and caramelized rutabagas.
After this party, they won’t have to gorge themselves on Ring-Dings when they get home. And you know how nuts New Yorkers are for anything with the slightest trace of an English accent. Why do you think Ralph Lauren has made it so big with all his
conversations. The whole country is a sucker for the accent. What was it Hope had said about Adrian Sutherland? That anything he said sounded important because of it?
“Just so long as we don’t have to dress up as wenches or wear those tall pointy hats with the scarves drooping out the back,” Josie said.
Faith laughed. They’d been working since seven o’clock and it was almost time for her to meet Arthur Quinn for lunch. Josie had tuned the radio to WQXR
and they’d been playing Christmas music all morning.
The thought of adopting her false identity and plung-ing back into the dark morass that had opened up when she’d met Emma at the first party was profoundly depressing. She felt truculent. This is Christmas. We’re doing a great party tonight. I’m not supposed to be running around trying to solve a murder. Two murders.
And blackmail.
She got up and went into the bathroom to change.
She didn’t have a choice.
“You okay?” Josie asked when she came out.
“Possibly,” Faith answered.
It wasn’t a day for walking. A light snow was starting to fall and the sky was a dense gray, but Faith got off the bus at Times Square to finish the trip to the Stage Deli on foot. She wasn’t claustrophobic, but suddenly she needed to breathe some fresh air—a term used lightly to describe the atmosphere hovering over the city.
She’d come down to the Square a few New Year’s Eves when she’d been a teenager, been to innumerable Broadway shows, but had never developed any sort of fondness for the neon sleaze that others were bemoan- 200
ing now that the redevelopment plan spoken of for years was finally going to happen. Replacing porno flicks and arcades where strung out runaway teens sold drugs or themselves with a visitor’s center, new theaters, and hotels didn’t upset her in the slightest.
She looked up into the sky. The flakes were getting thicker, falling in a dizzy, random pattern. Who would arrange for Lorraine’s burial? She couldn’t imagine Harvey taking charge, speaking to a funeral home, selecting a casket, planning a service. The neighbor might. She seemed to have a real feel for death—a mortuary groupie. It upset Faith to think that Lorraine would go out of this world in much the same fashion that she’d lived in it. There was only one way to express it—the woman had been totally screwed.
Yesterday and today, Faith had said several prayers for the dead woman, but she found no ease. She’d called her father and asked that at the next church service he add the name Lorraine to those “newly gathered.” “A friend of yours?” he’d asked. She’d answered, “Yes.” He’d waited for her to say more and when she hadn’t, he’d said, “You know I’m here.” Faith had replied gratefully, “I know, thank God.” He’d given a low laugh and said, “I do.” Who killed Lorraine Fuchs? As she made her way uptown, her steps fell into rhythm with the words. Who killed Lorraine Fuchs? Who killed Cock Robin? Not I, they all said. She pulled her hat down farther over her ears. Was this matricide? Harvey? Or someone else?
Someone so eager to get his hands on Fox’s manuscript that he’d kill for it? Someone named in it—or someone who wanted to publish it? Lorraine had been the type who would have blocked publication if there was anything in it that she’d thought would hurt some-201
one—especially herself. Except, Arthur Quinn wouldn’t be worried about that, especially since Fox couldn’t be sued for libel. But a publisher could. It was all so complicated. And how had the murderer gotten Lorraine into the car? There were no signs of any struggle. The neighbor hadn’t smelled alcohol. Maybe an autopsy would show signs of some drug, some nar-cotic. Or maybe someone had roused her from her sleep with some story to lure her out to her car—a need for help. Harvey could have done that. Except she hadn’t been wearing a coat. Yet, if she’d thought Harvey was in trouble, she might not have even bothered with that. Or it could have been removed—with her purse—after she was unconscious. But wouldn’t she have tried to get out of the garage, even with the door shut tight? It didn’t have any windows. Faith wished she could tell the medical examiner to look at her hands. See whether she’d tried to lift the door. Again, she would have put her gloves on with her coat. Faith sighed. It just might have happened this way. Or some other way that hadn’t occurred to her yet. Who killed Lorraine?
She was so preoccupied that she almost walked past the deli. The Stage was on Seventh Avenue at Fifty- fourth Street. It was opposite a cluster of hotels, and when she looked in the windows at the crowd, she wondered how they would be able to get a table—let alone conduct any sort of conversation. She’d told Arthur Quinn that she’d been at the service, so she knew what he looked like. She’d said she would wait for him by the cash register. He came in just after she did.
“Mr. Quinn, hello. I’m Karen Brown.” She put out her hand.
Arthur Quinn was short but well proportioned. He had a gray crew cut and those large black glasses frames that were Carrie Donovan, the
“Mr. Quinn! Come on—good to see you. We have your regular table,” said one of the waiters, hailing him. Quinn gave Faith a big grin.
“I come here a lot. They like me.”
Quinn’s table was for two, a rarity, and wedged in the back, away from the total craziness of the counter.
He didn’t look at the menu.
“You know what I want,” he said to the hovering waiter.
“Yes, and your coffee right away.”
Faith had been surrounded by food all morning, yet until now, yesterday’s visit to Brooklyn had destroyed her appetite. Maybe it was the smell of all the artery-blocking food coming from the Stage’s kitchen or maybe it was adrenaline, but she was ravenous.
“Matzo ball soup and a whitefish-salad sandwich on dark rye—and coffee now also,” she ordered, handing the oversize menu back. “And plenty of pickles.”
“My kind of girl.” The agent beamed. Faith was beginning to like him, too, but it was important to keep her
