and he knew what had happened to Fox’s daughter.
And that she’d been pregnant by him. Faith put his name on the list of potential blackmailers.
“Was there anybody else who knew who Fox was and knew you? Anyone else around when you went to see him the first time?”
“He was living with some woman. Daddy always had women,” Emma added ruefully. Faith was glad to see it. All this Daddy Fox worship was getting to be a bit much. “I didn’t meet her, though. I think he didn’t want her to know about me.”
Faith made a mental note of this woman. The list could use a few more names. At the moment, it consisted of Lucy Morris and Todd Hartley. Poppy Morris knew about her daughter’s pregnancy and parentage, but it strained credulity to think she would be blackmailing her own daughter. Still, Faith made another note to try to find out if Poppy was paying her Bergdorf’s bills on time. Some of the veteran sales 59
force who had been outfitting Jane Lennox Sibley’s family forever could be counted on to spill a few beans.
Jason Morris obviously knew about Nathan Fox and his wife’s affair, yet he may not have known about Emma’s pregnancy, although Emma had mentioned that Poppy was carrying on about it all over the house.
The only reason he’d have to blackmail his—what, stepdaughter?—would be pure spite. To get his hands on the money Poppy had set aside for Emma behind his back? Faith added Jason to the list. From what little she recalled, he’d never struck her as a terribly nice man, and at the moment, that was enough to fit the profile. Then there was Fox himself—he knew Emma was his daughter and she may have told him about the pregnancy during one of their parent-child bonding visits.
But Fox was already dead when the first card turned up. Even if he’d written it, he couldn’t have orches-trated the delivery of the money or composed the second from the grave. He’d been a vocal force when previously underground, but this time around was decidedly different. Whatever one’s beliefs concerning the hereafter, none included the postal service or even faxes.
“I know I have no right to ask you to do anything else, Faith, when you’ve been such an angel, but there is one more thing. A big favor.”
Emma was putting some money down on the table, over Faith’s protests that they split the bill. “Women aren’t good at this. No one ever has the right change or can figure out who owes what, so it’s easier for me to pay, and besides, I want it to be my treat.” Emma had interrupted herself to settle the question of the bill.
Faith put her coat on and waited to find out what this 60
favor might be. It could be anything from helping her find that perfect little something for sister Lucy—some desk models of guillotines, “conversation pieces” leapt to mind—to breaking into Fox-Fuch’s apartment to be sure the photo and cards were gone. This had already occurred to Faith. And if Emma had a key, it would even be somewhat legal.
“There, that should be right.” Faith looked at the money tucked next to the teapot. If everyone tipped the way Emma did, the waiter could go to Acapulco for Christmas and Easter.
Emma pulled on her long suede gloves and put one hand on Faith’s arm.
“Will you go to the service for me? Daddy’s service? Knowing that you’re there will be the next best thing to being there myself, and you can tell me all about it. I wish I could go, but I can’t. There could be pictures, and soon everybody would be asking why I went.”
“Of course I’ll go. The Times had said Quinn, his agent, would be arranging a memorial service soon.
Tell me once you know when it is, in case I miss the notice.” This was not a big favor. This was nothing.
The big favor that Faith had already taken on—in her mind anyway—was finding out who was blackmailing her old schoolmate.
And going to the memorial service would be the first step in her investigation.
Emma left and Faith made her way to the rest rooms.
There had been talk of placing public conveniences like the coin-operated kind in Paris at various locations throughout the city, but at present one had to grab at any opportunity or go into a department store, which 61
invariably cost much, much more than any pay toilet—
in Faith’s experience anyway. The last time she’d dashed into Bloomies, she’d come out with a Jil Sander jacket—it had been on sale—and a Mary McFadden scarf for her mother—it hadn’t. The cubi-cles on the streets in Paris had occasionally failed to open, trapping the occupant, and Faith had resolved either to avoid them until foolproof or always carry a very long book—something like Proust—that she’d been meaning to read for years.
Returning, she again noted a man with his face buried in the Wall Street Journal a few tables behind where they had been sitting. The few other men in the café at this hour were older with, presumably, spouses or were younger with families. She looked back at him. He was leaving. There was something familiar about him, yet it could just be that they’d been on the subway together, or he could have been at any number of dances and parties over the years. Parties. That was it. He’d been at the party she’d catered last week. He was with the host and Michael Stanstead when they came into the kitchen. He must not have been a close friend of Stanstead or he would have said something to Emma today. Unless he was so intent on his reading that he didn’t see her. Or unless he felt he’d be intrud-ing. His presence continued to disturb Faith. What was he doing alone at the café at this hour? The market had just closed.
She walked out into the bitter cold and took a soft wool cloche out of her pocket, pulling it down over her ears. The hat made her look like a Gatsby girl and filled her hair with static electricity, but it was warm.
She stood on Fifth Avenue, glancing back over her shoulder at the huge tree at Rockefeller Center. It was 62
even more dramatic as the day drew to a close, its lights glowing like jewels against the dark branches.
On the other side of Fifth stood Saks on one corner, Saint Patrick’s Cathedral on the other. God and mam-mon. The front windows at Saks were filled each Christmas with ever-more-elaborate moving figures—
scenes from The Nutcracker, Dickens, the Arabian Nights—glimmering, glistening fantasies. Shoppers filed by in long lines behind the velvet ropes, funneled at the end of the oohs and aahs into the Palace of Goods.
Worshipers at other altars across the street—those dedicated to Saint Anthony, Saint John, Saint Theresa—also moved in lines, walking slowly up the nave to gaze back at the rose window and ahead toward the lady chapel. Today, Faith decided to join this crowd. She crossed, darting between two cabs, only one of which, miraculously, honked at her, and climbed the stairs into Saint Patrick’s marble interior.
Instantly, she knew she had picked the right place and she walked quietly up the side aisle toward the altar, banked with row upon row of brilliant red poinsettias.
The cathedral was filled with a golden glow—tiers of flickering votive candles and interior spots created sudden pools of light against the early dark. The smell of incense mixed with that of burning candle wax and hung in the warm air. She slipped into a row and took a seat on one of the hard wooden pews. She had yet to be in a church—and she’d been in a great many of them over the years—with comfortable seating. She’d mentioned this to her father a few times, commenting that penance of this sort seemed at odds with modern religion. “We don’t beat ourselves with sticks, wear hair shirts, or put pebbles in our shoes. Why do we 63