Body in the Big Apple

Possibly a clever attorney might have been able to explain away the latex gloves, the rubber raincoat, his wife bound with bed sheeting so as not to leave marks, but even a neo-Clarence Darrow couldn’t have done much with a client who kept insisting on this wild droit du seigneur.

“Do you know who I am?” he kept repeating.

Bobby, the doorman, had come up before the police arrived, after Faith’s frantic call, and had responded automatically with his boss’s name the first couple of times, then given up, wide-eyed. His first act had been to untie Emma, who had come to almost immediately, while Faith kept the gun steadily aimed at Michael.

“Why don’t you go to the Caribbean anyway?” Faith asked. It was the day after Christmas, late in the afternoon. Both Emma and she had been spending long periods of time both at police headquarters and with lawyers. And when they weren’t there, neither of their families had let them out of their sights. This was the first time the two of them had been alone together.

Michael’s father and Jason Morris had had a long meeting Sunday night, which included Adrian Sutherland, and apparently all three men called in a lot of chits. The newspapers were busy covering the overthrow of Ceausescu in Romania and trying to insert a bit of holiday coverage into the grim news of world affairs. Michael’s arrest got buried in the Metro section of the Times. Faith knew the story would break sometime, but maybe not. Certainly not the whole story.

Powerful people were involved. They’d decided there was no way Michael Stanstead would be running for anything except exercise under the eyes of guards in watchtowers.

“People kept asking me how I was in these very heavy, meaningful voices and I was getting all these flowers. I just thought maybe I looked a little tired and the flowers were because of the holidays. Now I know that Michael was spreading it all over the city that I was, you know, sick.”

It had been a clever plan, Faith reflected. Michael would rid himself of a wife he didn’t want and get his hands on her money, which he wanted very much.

Since Sunday, she’d learned it was true Michael had lost a great deal of money in the crash and that he hadn’t recovered yet. His parents had always believed what was theirs was theirs. Emma’s continued insistence on not touching hers was literally driving him crazy. So, spread a few subtle hints around about his wife’s state of mind, add some “Puff the Magic Dragon” stories in the right places as well, and then all he had to do was play the part of the noble, bereaved husband after her tragic suicide. He’d had no idea his wife was that seriously depressed. He’d make some tearful speeches about not ignoring warning signs and the need for more mental-health programs. Emma would at last become the perfect political partner—

docile and quiet as the grave. With such a perfect plan in place, Faith had wondered why Stanstead had attacked what he thought was his wife with the car. Apparently, he’d meant to scare her, have the doormen see her distraught, but he’d gotten carried away in the actual act. It was part of the crescendo—resulting in her absence at the luncheon the next day, for one thing—that would lead to Christmas Eve and her “suicide.” Faith shuddered.

It was interesting that Emma, so compliant, had been stubborn about giving Michael the money.

“A couple of things have been bothering me,” Faith said, nibbling on one of the giant Brazil nuts from the assortment the bar provided—fresh, crisp, and not too many peanuts. “Wasn’t the whole money thing arranged in your prenup? Michael must have known he couldn’t touch it.”

“We didn’t have a prenup,” Emma confessed.

“Funny to think about it now, but he wanted one and I didn’t. It seemed so unromantic, so businesslike.” No prenup! With this kind of money involved! Then it hit Faith. If they had had one, Michael would have known that on one subject Emma was firm—finan-cially safeguarding her children’s future. She’d had the wind knocked out of her own sails and wanted to be sure no one ever did that to her offspring. Would Stanstead have married her if he’d known he could never touch her money? True, she was gorgeous. Every head had turned when they’d walked into the bar, and Faith was used to this happening when she was with Emma. And yes, Michael must have thought he could mold her, but money was money. He probably wouldn’t have married her and then . . . well, then none of this would have happened.

But it had.

“Easy for him to write the notes and plant them. He must have dropped the first one at that party, knowing someone would pick it up and give it to you, thinking you had dropped it. But how did he manage to make the call telling you where and when to bring the money when he was home at the time? Oh, I’m being stupid—”

“Separate line,” she and Emma said at once, hooked pinkies for luck, and ordered two more martinis, plus some very expensive food from the bar menu.

“I was really in love with him,” Emma said. “It’s like there were two Michaels. Mine and the one, you know, the one in the kitchen. This last week, he was so affectionate, so caring—bringing flowers, little gifts. I was thrilled. His schedule has been so packed that these last months we haven’t had that much time together, even in bed.” She looked a little embarrassed.

“Not this week, though. It seemed to be all he wanted, which was fine with me.”

Great, thought Faith in revulsion, picturing Michael getting his kicks from the ultimate “good-bye sex.” The drinks came, and Emma wanted to hear about Lorraine Fuchs. Faith told her, and both women felt a deep sadness at the path Lorraine’s life had taken—and where it led at the end. The police were now treating her suicide as a homicide. As she’d told Faith, she’d seen Nathan Fox the day before he was killed. He must have called her to come get the manuscript and put it someplace safe. Faith could imagine his saying that he wasn’t planning on going anywhere but that he wanted her to keep it—and keep it sealed until his death. The death that was waiting for him on the other side of his door the very next afternoon.

“We know Lucy told Michael about your pregnancy, but how did he find out Nathan Fox was your father?

Do you think she knew?”

Emma shook her head. Faith had been interested to note that alcohol had the opposite effect on Emma from that of most people. It made her more lucid.

“I wondered the same thing. The lawyer said Michael had found one of my postcards when we were on vacation a year and a half ago. I’d used it as a book-mark and hadn’t mailed it, but it had the address, and I’d written, ‘Dear Daddy.’ Michael didn’t know then who Norman Fuchs was, but he’s very smart. He figured it out. I had all of Daddy’s books when we got married, and Michael used to tease me about them.”

“But how did he know that you’d be at the apartment?”

“He looked in my appointment book and followed me a few times, apparently.”

“You mean you wrote, ‘Go see Dad’ after ‘Have Manicure’ and before ‘Tea at the Plaza’!” This was a bit much even for Emma.

“No, don’t be silly. I wrote in code. Don’t you do this? Like a little star when you get your period, that kind of thing? I would never forget when I was supposed to see him, but I still wrote a little d on Tuesdays at three o’clock.”

And after a team of top cryptographers worked for several weeks, this arcane code was cracked.

“What do you think happened to the book?” Faith asked.

“What book?” It was Poppy Morris. She sat down next to her daughter and a waiter instantly appeared.

“What they’re having, but no olives, a twist. And very dry.”

Her hair was pulled back in her trademark chignon.

She was wearing a long, full dark skirt and a Valentino shearling-lined jacket with hand-painted suede applique designs. Beneath the jacket, Faith could see several ropes of nonfaux pearls and a few gold chains. She looked like a very chic, very rich gypsy queen.

“Oh, that book,” she said, answering her own question, then began picking the cashews out of the mixed nuts. “I would love to have read it, before I burned it, that is. See what he had to say about people I knew, about moi. And probably Michael did what I would have done. It’s not something he would have kept around. Evidence, you know.”

Faith was sure Poppy was right. Michael’s remark about Poppy’s anatomy revealed he must have at least skimmed it before he tossed it on the Yule log. She wondered what else Fox had written about Poppy.

There was still the unanswered question of who had driven the getaway car during the bank robbery. Poppy at the wheel with her Vuitton driving gloves? They’d never know.

Poppy was addressing Faith. “Of course, I know what you did in the kitchen, dear, and you do know what I’m so inadequately trying to say.” She patted Faith’s hand—and Faith did know. “I suppose that’s why they call it