On What Grounds

entered the hospital and found its elevator bank.

The ascent took the usual four months with orderlies, nurses, and visitors entering and exiting on their appointed floors. During one of these brief stops, the elevator doors opened and I caught a glimpse of a familiar face down one of the hospital corridors—

Madame was sitting in a wheelchair and chatting with a gray-templed white-coated doctor. Before I could step out, the doors closed again.

“Excuse me, what floor was that?” I asked the tall Filipino orderly, who was standing beside me with an empty wheelchair.

“Cancer treatment,” he said.

My stomach dropped.

Cancer treatment. My god.

Madame had indeed seemed more tired lately. And the contracts she’d tricked me and Matt into signing. My god, I thought again, it all made sense now: She was ill. That’s why she wanted the legacy of the Blend in our hands. That’s why she’d had the nerve to give us both permission to live in the duplex— she wanted to see us get back together before she…before she…

My god.

My mind was still processing this awful revelation when the elevator door opened on the floor for the intensive care unit. While I was still reeling from this news about Madame, I knew Anabelle was in even more serious trouble, so, like a triage nurse, I did my best to put my worries about Madame on hold and refocus my attention on Anabelle.

Venturing into the ICU waiting area, I noticed a young woman with a mass of frizzy dark hair and baggy clothes standing at a large observation window, staring at a ward full of beds. It was Anabelle’s roommate, Esther Best (shortened from Bestovasky by her grandfather, she’d told me when we first met).

Anabelle’s bed wasn’t far from the observation window. She appeared to still be unconscious, plugged into an array of daunting-looking medical machines. A nurse sat near the foot of the bed, watching the monitors. Next to the bed, a slender blond woman stood, her back to us.

Through her trendy black-rimmed rectangular glasses, Esther glanced over at me. Like the mother I was, I found myself thinking how lovely the girl’s features were, how beautiful her skin, and yet they were hidden by that too-long mass of frizzy, unconditioned hair and those clunky black glasses.

The truth was, I actually had a soft spot for Esther Best because I’d been just like her in my teen years (albeit a might less hostile). Eventually I grew out of it. I lost weight, made an effort with my appearance, dealt with my anger, and accepted the things I could not change, as the saying goes.

The biggest issue for Esther, as it had been with me, was her attitude. The giant chip on her shoulder usually fell on anyone within earshot, especially members of the opposite sex, whom she puzzled about on a fairly regular basis. From what I overheard in her conversations with poor Tucker, she was “totally perplexed” as to why the few boys who asked her out were so “hostile” after only an hour or two with her.

I greeted Esther. She nodded, and then she glanced back to the window, offering one of her characteristic observations—

“I thought she was supposed to be graceful.”

Gee, how charitable, I thought with a sigh. “Anabelle is graceful, Esther. She’s a dancer.”

“I know she’s a dancer. Everyone does. My god, it’s the first thing that comes out of her mouth in case you haven’t noticed—especially with men—‘I’m a dancer!’ But geez, Clare, I don’t call slipping down a flight of stairs and ending up here graceful. I’d call it stupendously klutzy.”

You know that old saying, If you’ve got nothing nice to say—then slide over here and sit next to me. Well, Esther was definitely comfortable on both sides of that couch.

“Who’s to say she slipped?” I asked Esther.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, she may have been pushed,” I said, watching Esther closely for a reaction. “I think somebody pushed her.”

Esther’s eyes narrowed. “Like who?”

Okay, so the truth is the New York Police Department’s Crime Scene Unit hadn’t uncovered a darned thing to support my “pushing” theory. The only “physical evidence” they found was that JFK luggage tag from the back alley, which to my chagrin, Quinn handed over for the Crime Scene folks to file (even after Matteo identified it as coming from his luggage) along with Anabelle’s jacket and purse.

For a grand total of about thirty minutes, they’d inspected the overflowing garbage can above the staircase, as well as every other potentially clue-filled surface. They found the smudged fingerprints of over a dozen people. Clearly, there was no way to get any leads from prints—unless someone who worked at the Blend had figured their prints would prove nothing.

I cleared my throat and raised an eyebrow to Esther, trying to look shrewd. “I don’t know who pushed Anabelle. But I’m going to find out.”

Esther rolled her eyes.

“By the way,” I said, “where were you last night?”

“At the Words on Eighth poetry reading, why?”

“Then where to?”

“Sheridan Square Diner with some friends. Then back to the apartment. Alone.”

“And when was the last time you saw Anabelle?”

“What are you? Working for the NYPD now? Those cops already asked me that stuff.”

“Just answer me.”

“I last saw her before I left for the poetry reading. She said she was going to the Blend for an eight-to- midnight shift.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Anything else you can remember? Did she mention seeing anyone?”

“Like I told the cops. No, nyet, nada, zippo!”

I sighed, out of questions already, and made a mental note to speak to Lieutenant Quinn about interrogating suspects. Maybe he could give me some pointers.

I looked through the ICU observation window at Anabelle again. The blond woman moved around the bed to talk to the nurse, and I got the first good look at her face.

She was distraught, that was clear. And the lines, creases, and shadows confirmed she was a lot older than her youthfully slender body appeared, probably late forties. The hair that fell just past her shoulders was blond but the roots were dark, and she’d pulled it into a tasteful ponytail. The skin was too tan for a New York autumn and her clothes—tight black designer slacks and a white silk blouse—appeared tailored to fit her perfectly.

“Who’s that woman?” I asked.

“Anabelle’s stepmother.”

“Her stepmother? I didn’t know she was in the New York City area. Anabelle’s employment forms say her next of kin is in—”

“Florida, I know,” said Esther.

“So what’s with the stepmother?”

“She came by the apartment a few days ago. Anabelle didn’t look too happy to see her, I can tell you.”

“Do you know why?”

“Money. I don’t know the particulars, but I do know Anabelle borrowed five thousand dollars from her stepmother to get started here in New York last year. Mommy Dearest was passing through here on some sort of business. I think she wanted it paid back.”

“What happened between them?”

Esther shrugged. “They just kept arguing. Actually, they’ve been arguing back and forth about money for about two months now.”

“Was Anabelle arguing on the phone yesterday, before she left for the Blend?”