Three-Day Town

Chapter


3


They make quite an animated throng as they enter the vestibules or crowd the staircase, or foyer, bowing and chatting to each other, all smiling, all newly garbed, all on pleasure bent.



—The New New York, 1909



Despite all the jokes about Chinese food never filling you up, I wasn’t hungry enough to go splashing out in the rain for dinner. It was coming down quite hard now, but Dwight volunteered to go get us something light from the market’s deli section and said that as long as he was going, he’d pick up a bottle of wine to take over to the party.

We had Googled Luna DiSimone and found some YouTube videos. In the first batch, she and three other kids sang along with Big Bird about the letter J and the number 6. (It was probably catty of me to notice that her hair was a rabbity brown back then.) After leaving Sesame Street, she had played bit parts in several short-lived television series, and three years ago had starred in a bad movie that went straight to DVD. There was a mention of voice-over commercials for a hotel chain and I realized that’s why her lilting voice sounded so familiar.

Kate had given me a key to her owner’s closet and told me to help myself to any of the clothes or supplies I found there. Most days, I just hop in and out of the shower, but with almost four hours till party time, I filled the tub, dumped in some of Kate’s bubble bath for a good long soak, then wrapped myself in her fleecy robe and took a short nap.


Luna DiSimone’s party was well cranked up by nine o’clock and even before we opened our door to join them, we heard laughter and loud talk. Two long metal coat racks now lined the hallway and people were chatting to each other as they hung up their outdoor winter wear. Most of them seemed to be wearing khaki shorts, short-sleeved Hawaiian print shirts, or, in the case of several women, brightly printed sarongs. I watched one woman kick off her boots and slip her bare feet into a pair of orange rubber flip-flops. The door to the third apartment on this floor stood open, too, and as we passed the elevator, it disgorged three ukulele players who strummed a corny Hawaiian tune. They were dressed in frayed straw hats and raggedy jeans.

I clutched Dwight’s arm. “Aren’t they with the Steffingtons?”

Dwight shrugged. He’s not into rock bands, but I’d gone to a Steffingtons concert last summer with some of my nieces and nephews and I was pretty certain that at least two of the ukulele players usually played guitars with that band.

“Keep an eye on them, and I’ll get the camera,” I said and darted back inside the apartment. Dwight had left it on the kitchen counter next to that obscene little statue, and a moment later I was following the flow on down to the end apartment.

Here in dreary, cold, and wet January, it was like stepping into a beach house, a very crowded beach house, even though I later learned that two walls had been knocked out to create the large main room. White rattan chairs and couches were piled deep with coral, hot pink, and lime green cushions. Airy white sheers fell to a whitewashed plank floor bare of rugs. A huge seascape, framed in what looked like bleached driftwood, hung over a white brick fireplace that was filled with a rainbow assortment of candles. Their citronella smell evoked summer evenings on a patio. The ukulele players had staked out that corner. One had a sandaled foot propped on a green Adirondack chair as he strummed and sang in a sweet tenor voice. I wasn’t the only one taking pictures. Several other people had their phones aimed at the group, too.

Dwight and I edged our way through animated clusters of guests and eventually found our hostess and two men lounging amid colorful soft cushions in an old-fashioned white wicker porch swing suspended from ceiling hooks. She was barefooted and wore a necklace of bright plastic flowers, a black bikini, and a soft pink terry beach jacket that swung open to reveal a well-toned body. A pink hibiscus was tangled in her long blonde hair. As soon as she saw us, she jumped up with happy little cries.

“I didn’t realize it was a beach party,” I said, feeling more than a little overdressed.

She laughed. “And I didn’t think you’d come if I asked you to wear a bathing suit in January. This is my To Hell With Winter party.” She pulled one of the men to his feet beside her. “And this is Cam. Cameron Broughton. Now tell me your names so we can start figuring out if you’re kin to each other.”

“Don’t be tiresome, Luna,” the man said.

He appeared to be about thirty. Black hair curled around his ears and halfway down his neck. He wore baggy red-plaid shorts, red flip-flops, a green tank top, and blue swim goggles around his neck. Gold wire-rimmed glasses with round lenses of pale blue made him seem young and vulnerable despite the light age lines around his eyes. I always notice eyes and there was something slightly familiar about his, but I couldn’t quite place him.

Dwight and I introduced ourselves.

“Sorry, Luna,” he said. “No Bryants or Knotts in my family tree.”

“And no Broughtons in mine,” said Dwight.

“Mine either,” I said. “Are you related to the Raleigh Broughtons?”

“Not that I know of,” he said, looking down into his empty glass. “All of my people come from Wilmington.”

Before we could pursue it, he excused himself and melted into the crowd. Luna accepted the wine we’d brought and escorted us to the bar, where she left us in the hands of a hired bartender while she went to see what was holding up the caterers and the hors d’oeuvres.

Neither Dwight nor I have ever had trouble talking to strangers, and soon he was in a deep discussion with two bearded men about brewing one’s own beer, while I found myself discussing Madeleine Albright’s pins with two white-haired women, old-line feminists who, after all this time, were still disappointed that Hillary Clinton had wound up as secretary of state instead of president. “I mean, I like the man we got, but damn it all, this was probably our best chance to see a woman president before we die.”

“Speak for yourself, Celia,” said the older of the two. “I’m good for another three election cycles.”

“And you never know but what a woman may head up the other ticket,” I said.

“Oh please!” she exclaimed.

A waiter in a starched white jacket and red-striped bathing trunks offered a tray of shrimp and pineapple chunks on skewers. I took one and moved on, overhearing snatches of conversation I would never hear back in Colleton County.

“—almost landed the role of the roommate in that new ABC sitcom.”

“Forget about getting an eight o’clock reservation before April.”

“He’ll be curating the show at the Arnheim but—”

“—looked all over the Biennale for you. Where the hell did you go?”

“—three bedrooms and still rent-controlled!”

“When she was on Sixty Minutes last week—”

“—paid three million and will be lucky to get a million-five unless—”

Our fellow guests were an eclectic assortment of old and young and most appeared to be connected to the arts. Although Dwight and I were not the only ones wearing seasonally appropriate wool and fleece, most were dressed as if this were indeed a beach house in the middle of summer.

A girl who turned out to be in the chorus of Mamma Mia! suggested that I get tickets for an off-Broadway show that was getting a good buzz, and when a pleasant-faced man heard that Dwight and I were here on our honeymoon, he produced a pair of tickets to a Wednesday matinee of a Gilbert and Sullivan show that he couldn’t attend and insisted that we use them.

Another tray passed by loaded with colorful fruit. I put a toothpick into a cube of melon that was at its peak of sweetness.

By 10:30, the spacious apartment was so crowded that I had lost sight of Dwight altogether. I had also lost count of how many glasses of wine I’d plucked from various passing trays when I found myself shoved into a trio of art enthusiasts who were trashing a new exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art. I apologized for the bump, but one of the men gave me a friendly smile and moved over so I could join them. Late forties, he was tall and angular and wore hiking shoes, pipestem jeans, and a gray tweed jacket over a blue sweatshirt that advertised Yamaha motorcycles.

Before we could introduce ourselves, his eyes lit up and his smile broadened for someone behind me. “Sigrid? What the hell are you doing here?”

“Hello, Elliott. I could ask you the same thing. Actually I’m looking for—”

I turned and there was a tall thin woman, perhaps three or four years older than me, with soft dark curls and wide eyes that were an unusual smoky gray. She smiled as she took in my red cowl-neck sweater. “Judge Bryant?”

“Knott,” I said, holding out my hand. “Deborah Knott. And you must be Sigrid Harald.”

“Sigrid Harald?” There was almost a reverent tone in the voice of a nearby man who had turned around eagerly upon hearing her name. He had a shaved head and wore yellow-rimmed trifocals. “The Sigrid Harald? I’m Charles Rathmann. I’ve been dying to interview you about Oscar Nauman’s last—”

Her gray eyes immediately turned to chips of ice.

“No,” she said before the man could complete his sentence.

The chilly finality of her tone, coupled with the glares he was getting from the storklike man she’d called Elliott, left Rathmann red-faced and defensive. Even the top of his head turned red.

“I do assure you, Ms. Harald—”

“Not now, Rathmann,” the first man said. His tone was mild, but Rathmann must have heard something more, for he muttered a truculent apology to Ms. Harald and melted back into the crowd.

“Elliott Buntrock,” the man said, offering me a firm handshake, “and I gather from your drawl that you’re not from around here.”

I smiled but didn’t answer, because I didn’t know what their relationship was. Kate had told me that Mrs. Lattimore’s granddaughter, a homicide detective with the NYPD, had inherited the large estate of one of the leading artists of the twentieth century. I could imagine just how many Rathmanns must be buzzing around her like a swarm of mosquitoes. Was Buntrock another bloodsucker or a flyswatter?

“Thanks, Elliott.” Her half smile reached her eyes and melted those chips of ice.

Flyswatter, then.

“Actually, I’m glad you’re here,” she said. “This is Judge Knott, a friend of my grandmother, who seems to have sent my mother a very odd piece of art. Would you take a look at it?”

“Sure. When?”

“Now?” She looked at me. “I’m sorry to take you away from the party, but—”

“No problem,” I assured her.

Easier said than done for three people to move through that crush of people. Near the doorway, Dwight was in animated conversation with two men—one an African-American, the other of Asian descent—and he brightened when he saw me. “Deb’rah! Look who’s here! This is my old friend Josh Cho.”

“From John Jay College?” I asked, taking the hand of the short, slender man whose military posture and immediate appraisal of me would have ID’d him as former Army Intelligence even if I hadn’t known.

He nodded, but his words were lost beneath all the talk and laughter going on around us. I did make out that the second man was with the New York Police Department and that both of them had worked as consultants on an abortive police drama that was to have starred Luna. When I introduced Elliott Buntrock and Sigrid Harald to Dwight, the second man said, “I’ve had the pleasure of working with Lieutenant Harald before.”

She smiled at the tall black officer with what was clearly genuine pleasure. “Sergeant Vaughn. You still with the Six-Four over in Brooklyn?”

He nodded. “But it’s lieutenant now, ma’am.”

“Congratulations.”

“I heard you took early retirement?”

“A premature rumor,” she said as she gave me an inquiring look that reminded me that she was not here to socialize.

I explained to Dwight that we were going over to the apartment to get Mrs. Lattimore’s package. He grinned and said he’d see me when I got back.

We murmured the usual pleasantries to the others and eventually worked our way out into the hall, past the coat racks and the open doorway, where the party seemed to have spilled into the other apartment. The hall was blocked by people waiting for the elevator, and we had to step back as more partygoers arrived.

I had my keys in hand as we edged past the revelers toward Kate’s apartment. Once there, though, I was surprised to see that the door was ajar. In my hurry to get back to the party with the camera, I hadn’t thought to check that it was firmly latched.

Out in the kitchen, surprise was soon followed by dismay. “I left it right here on this counter,” I told the other two. “And a pair of gold earrings, too.”

The countertop was now bare except for the box and the wrappings that had swaddled that bronze sculpture.

I hurried into the master bedroom and was relieved to see no sign that the drawers had been opened and rifled. The little silk travel bag with the rest of my jewelry still lay atop the dresser, exposing the gold-and-blue-enamel bracelet I’d brought with me. A posthumous gift sent down through the years from my mother, its value to me was above rubies.

“Anything else missing?” Lieutenant Harald asked.

“My laptop?”

I darted into the dining room, shivering at the thought of all the lost data. Happily, it was still there on the table.

An instant later, I realized I was shivering as much from cold as from dismay.

“Where’s that draft coming from?” I wondered aloud.

We followed the icy air into the dimly lit living room, where one of the French doors was ajar. Elliott Buntrock crossed the room in long strides and tried to close it.

“Something’s caught in the hinge,” he said and pulled the door toward him to see what it was.

A shoe.

With a foot in it.

Connected to the leg of someone slumped against the railing of the icy marble balcony.