Her stomach grumbled. HALT. God, she had been conditioned. It was more like brainwashing than substance abuse counseling: Avoid being hungry, angry, lonely, or tired if you want to stay sober. Well, she was all four, when it came right down to it. She stood in line at a pizza place on Columbus and then wolfed down a couple of slices back in the apartment’s library, where a ratty folding table had been set up to review plans. She really should find an AA meeting nearby, but it was getting dark and she didn’t feel like wandering around without having a better idea of the neighborhood, which streets to steer clear of, which were safe. Tomorrow, for sure.
A scratching noise up in the ceiling caught her attention. Mice, most likely. What a field day the critters must have in this building, with its thick, horsehair-stuffed walls and three feet of mud between each story. Plenty of room to make nests from which to make forays into the residents’ kitchens and feast on crumbs. The thought was weirdly comforting.
The mirror on the opposite wall reflected her image back to her. At thirty, after a decade of hard living, the skin around Bailey’s eyes had lost the baby smoothness of her teenage years. But lately her face had begun to fill out, as the hollowness of addiction disappeared. Without alcohol and drugs, she’d started eating again, hence the two slices of pizza.
She’d always thought her hair and eyes to be unremarkable, brown on brown, her mouth too large. As a young girl, people often asked her if she was about to cry when she was just lost in space, thinking about something, minding her own business. Her mother had liked to say she had a “kind” face. Whatever that meant.
Bailey pushed her hair behind her ears. God, that perm. Never again.
She sat back and looked about her, her gaze settling on the spot where Theodore Camden had been murdered. Poor man, struck down in his own home. She hoped his ghost wouldn’t come back and haunt her for the destruction of his property.
Bailey walked back to the kitchen, tossed the pizza box into the trash, and reluctantly stepped into her tiny room. In the darkness, it was no longer cozy or reminiscent of Silver Hill. It was the servant’s apartment, where the kitchen maid, or whoever, had made a tiny life by serving other people, and then probably died after she was no longer of use, with no pension, no security.
That would not be Bailey’s fate. She had her wits about her now, her mind no longer clouded with toxic substances. The cot creaked beneath her as she lay flat on her back, exhausted. After being abandoned in her teens without any guidance at all, she had been shown a world of pleasure and fun by Melinda, and it had been a wild ride. But no more. Bailey had veered toward a dangerous precipice the past few years, and now she had an opportunity to straighten herself out.
The jarring sound of the doorbell woke her the next morning. Bailey opened her eyes. A soft, gray light came through the window of the room. Her watch said it was seven o’clock, too early for the workers to be here. She pulled on her jeans and threw a sweater over her T-shirt.
“Hold on, I’m coming.”
The ringing became incessant. For God’s sake.
She unlocked the door and swung it open. An elderly black man stood before her, wearing suit pants, a crisp white shirt, and purple bow tie. Deep creases lined his forehead and cheeks, and the pouches of skin below his eyes drooped, lending him a sleepy air. Yet his carriage was that of a far younger man: tall, upright, and broad shouldered.
He didn’t look happy.
“Can I help you?”
“I hope you can. I live right below you and water is streaming down from the ceiling of my bathroom.”
Bailey rushed to the bathroom in the master bedroom. The workers had yanked out the grand claw-footed bathtub the day before, in order to replace it with some monstrous hot tub.
A dripping noise came from the floor.
“The pipes must’ve broken,” said Bailey. “I’ll call my guys right now and get them here to fix it.”
“You bet you will.”
Bailey sighed.
What had she gotten herself into?
The plumber agreed to come right over after Bailey phoned him. She reluctantly trooped back down the stairs to tell the other tenant, and realized that she didn’t even know his name.
He answered her knock, his mouth set in a firm line. Bailey had dealt with angry residents in adjacent apartments during other renovations. It was standard practice in New York City to piss off at least two out of four during a renovation.
“Hi, me again.”
He raised his gray eyebrows.
“The plumber will be here in an hour and he’ll figure out what’s wrong. I’ve turned off the water, so at least the worst is over.”
“You think so?”
“Yes. I do. Is it all right if I take a look at your bathroom? That way I’ll be able to figure out which tradespeople to call to put it back in order.”
“You may.”
He opened the door and let her in. The apartment was one of the smaller ones, but with the high ceilings it really didn’t matter. Especially as almost every inch of wall space was covered in framed paintings from multiple eras, a joyful abstract pop art inches away from a stern, nineteenth-century portrait. The Victorian sofa and chairs were loaded with mismatched throws, while rugs of all sizes and colors zigzagged along the floorboards. The effect was dizzying, like being inside a spinning kaleidoscope.
“I’m afraid I didn’t get your name?” She held out her hand.
His grip was soft, his fingers long and delicate. “I’m Kenneth Worley.”
“Bailey Camden. I’m the interior designer slash owner’s rep for Melinda Camden. Pleased to meet you, although I’m sorry it’s under these circumstances.”
“As am I.”
The ceiling of his bathroom looked like a wet diaper, with enormous bubbles of plaster threatening to burst through at any moment. Water stains marred the wallpaper, a gorgeous pattern of wild roses, and obviously antique.
“God, this wallpaper is ruined. I’m so sorry.”
“Yes. It was put up in the roaring twenties. I’m guessing I won’t find its replacement.” Although his voice stayed even, she detected a faint sense of panic behind the words. He blinked a couple of times. Was he on the verge of tears?
“No, sir. You won’t. But I will find something as similar as I can. Or I’ll draw it on the walls myself.”
She was half joking, but he seemed to take her seriously, giving her a nod of his head. “I take it you know Melinda well?”
“I do. We’re related. Very distantly.” That was the best way to put it, probably.
He surveyed the room, as if memorizing it, then turned to her. “I need a cup of coffee. Would you like one?”
Bailey nodded and followed Kenneth into the kitchen, uncertain where she stood with this man.
From what she could tell, the layout consisted of a small bedroom, a living room, and the kitchen tucked back on the other side of the dining room. All the period details remained intact, the cherry floors and fireplace gleaming as if they were encased in ice. Along the top of the kitchen cabinets, he’d arranged a dozen colorful cookie jars.
“Your home is lovely,” she said. “It’s obvious you’ve taken good care of it.”
“Unlike Melinda upstairs, who’s dismantling the place, from what I hear each day.”
“She’s not dismantling. Well, maybe she is. But it’s part of a new look.”
Kenneth poured her a cup of coffee and one for himself. “Sugar or cream?”
“Neither. I think I’ll be needing it black today.”
“You will. Look, I know I sound like an old grump, but Melinda’s no different from the rest of the new generation, or most of them, anyway. No respect for the history of the place.”
“I have to say I agree.”
“You’re just a young girl; what do you know about history?”
“I know that they called this the Dakota because it was so far away from the rest of New York at the time.”
“And you would be wrong.” A sly smile appeared on his face.
“That’s not true?”