Stanley found them entertaining.
“I can do better than that,” he finally cried. “I must go on the air!”
Armed with a video camera, he had hit the streets of New York. People took to him, just as his coworkers had. Everyone he interviewed told him their hard luck stories. I should have been a shrink, he often thought. Before long he had a segment called “Gripe du jour” that became very popular. There was no end to the number of people willing to stand in front of the camera and vent.
“The idiot at the deli handed me my coffee in a soggy brown bag and to make matters worse, the lid wasn’t on properly. The bag broke and the coffee went all over my coat,” someone screamed to him the other day. “I hate that!”
Finally, even Stanley had had enough. He thought of starting a show on healing but soon realized there were too many of those already. Then, walking home last week with a camera full of taped gripes, including those of a bunch of tourists in Times Square who did nothing but complain about the subways, Stanley was truly dispirited. He reached his front door, unlocked it, and gratefully walked inside.
He sauntered past the candy machines and put his camera bag down on the all-purpose table. Shuffling through his mail, he dropped the junk letters onto the table one at a time. The last envelope in his hand looked somewhat interesting. He had ripped it open and read the letter from Maldwin Feckles, heralding the beginning of his butler school. Hmmmm, Stanley had thought as he read. Maybe I can turn this into something interesting.
And he had. Just last night, he had filmed the student butlers at work at the Princess of Love’s party for quality singles. He was sorry that the party had ended so soon, after all hell had broken loose across the hall. He’d have to incorporate what happened into his story. Somehow.
Now, as Stanley sat drinking his second cup of morning coffee, he reflected on the fact that if he was going to cover the Settlers’ Club’s big party tomorrow night, if he was going to include it in his piece, then he should really go up and take some footage of Gramercy Park to use in his introduction. I’ll head up there and interview the man on the street, he thought. Maybe the butlers will be around and I can have them stroll around the park.
He took the tape from last night out of his video camera and reloaded. In a half-hour, Stanley was headed uptown.
11
I’m sorry,” the maid was saying. “I was only trying to help.” She turned to Regan and stared at her as if to say, Now what are you going to do?
“Are you all right, Thomas?” Regan asked as he clenched the red box that was stamped PEMROD JEWELERS.
“Regan, tell me this is a nightmare.”
“I’ll agree with you on that.”
“Regan!”
“Sorry, Thomas. You look white as a ghost. Maybe you should sit down.”
Back into the living room they went, the maid, Clara, close at their heels.
“I don’t think I’m up to going back in Nat’s bathroom right now. Clara, will you show Regan the rest of the apartment?”
“Of course,” Clara said with a bright smile. “Come this way. I used to clean Mr. Pemrod’s apartment every week. What a nice man. It’s a shame he’s passed over.”
Regan nodded. “Thomas, just relax here for a minute.”
“Regan,” he said quickly. “I’m having a panic attack. I think I’d be more comfortable in my office. Would you meet me there when you’re finished”
Thomas, don’t lose it, Regan thought. She felt a sudden rush of affection for him. He looked like a deer caught in headlights. “Of course. Go ahead,” she said. “I’m sure Clara will be very helpful.”
Clara beamed. “You know, being somebody’s maid means you get to know a lot about a person. Have I taken care of some slobs in my day. But Nat, he was pretty good. Ya know, sometimes he…”
“Hold that thought,” Regan said as she escorted Thomas to the door. “See you in a few minutes.” She took the red box from his hands and turned back to Clara who was clearly enjoying the drama.
“You were saying…?” Regan prodded.
“Oh, yeah, I had one couple. Always left a mess. Disgusting-”
“I mean about Nat,” Regan interrupted as gently as she could.
“Oh, yeah, Nat.” Clara raised both her hands and looked up to the ceiling as though she’d find some insight there. “So sad after his wife died. She had a thing for all these crazy sheep.” Clara started walking down the hallway toward the master bedroom. At the doorway she stood aside to allow Regan to step in front of her. “Pretty, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Regan noticed the dressing table that Thomas had mentioned, with all of Wendy’s toiletries still there. “Oh, and there is the bathroom,” she said, inching closer. Regan took a deep breath. In the absolute quiet, her senses were heightened, alert to catch every detail of this scene of death.
“I have the worst time keeping that marble clean,” Clara said plaintively. “I’ve tried all sorts of cleaners. But none of them was that great…”
It’s funny what people feel the need to talk about at times like this, Regan thought. But I know she means well. “That’s a big Jacuzzi to scrub,” she said in sympathy.
“Yeah,” Clara said. “But I’ve hardly had to touch it since Wendy died.”
“How come?” Regan asked.
“Because Nat hated baths. He only took showers.”
12
Thomas, now try to think happy thoughts.”
Thomas’s girlfriend, Janey, clad as ever in a cardigan sweater, straight skirt, sensible shoes, her outfit pulled together by her most cherished possession, a single strand of pearls, was doing her best to comfort her agitated boyfriend. They were in his office. She was standing behind him, massaging his temples.
“How could everything have gone wrong
