“Take the tape out and put a new one in. If I can convince you to go to the police, they’ll want it, and mean-while, I want to listen to it.”
“I erased it,” Emma said softly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I just hit the delete button.”
“Look, we’ll meet for breakfast, okay? Don’t worry about it. It was a natural response. What are you doing tonight? Is Michael home?”
“Yes, he’s not going away again until January, and I’m going with him. Someplace in the Caribbean. And tonight? I think it’s the opening of Tru—you know, Robert Morse doing Capote. No, wait, that’s not right.” She sighed heavily. “I can’t remember, but something.
Michael knows.”
“Just don’t go anywhere by yourself. Stick with him,” Faith knew that Emma wasn’t going to take any solitary walks—not in this subzero weather and not when she was this terrified—but Faith was nervous.
Easy enough to get the Stansteads’ number. It was listed. At breakfast tomorrow, she’d try again to convince Emma to tell someone—maybe even Poppy.
Meanwhile, Faith had many hours to fill with trying to figure it all out. A murderer and a blackmailer, or two separate crimes?
97
After arranging to meet at 8:30 the following morning at the Maximilian Cafe at Fifty-eighth and Seventh Avenue, Faith hung up and turned, to find Josie staring at her, a guarded, worried expression on her face. “Is this something you want to talk about? Because, girl, it sure sounds like something you should be talking about,” she said.
Faith pulled a stool from under the steel countertop and sat down, cupping her chin in one hand.
“I wish I could, but it’s not my story to tell, and I’ve sworn that I won’t.”
Josie came up alongside. She looked straight at Faith. “Remember I’m here. And I thought I had heard it all, but apparently . . .” She smiled and coaxed one from her boss. “Apparently, I was wrong. Just don’t go starting something you can’t finish. I need this job.”
“Me, too.” Faith gave her a hug. “Now, what are we doing for dessert? French apple cake? [See the recipe on page 283.] The host’s allergic to chocolate, right?”
“Now, that’s someone with a real problem.” Yes, thought Faith—and Emma, uptown, opening her closet, laying out what to wear tonight for yet another dinner party, gallery opening, or benefit, would be ecstatic to trade for a problem like this.
Faith was drinking coffee, sitting by the window at Maximilian’s, drumming her fingers impatiently on the red-checkered tablecloth. Like the coffee shop yesterday, the creperie was bedecked with garlands spelling out good cheer—except JOYEUX NOËL had been added, and here the poinsettias were real. Outside, a Salvation Army Santa was vigorously ringing his bell, the little red collection pot swinging merrily on its tripod. Saint Nick had a boom box and Faith 98
could hear “Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town” faintly through the glass. Every once in a while, someone would stop and slip some money in the pot. But only once in a while. Most people were streaming out of the subway and off the buses, single-mindedly heading straight for work, not so eager for the day’s toils as to escape the freezing cold.
There were less than two weeks until Christmas.
Faith wished the events of the last week either far into the future or far into the past. It was Christmas. She should be spending what precious little free time she had at Carnegie Hall listening to Handel’s Messiah, going to see A Christmas Carol somewhere, hearing the Vienna Boys Choir sing “pa-rum-pa-pum-pum,” shopping and more shopping, The Nutcracker for the umpteenth time, of course—and not embroiled in crime.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry. No cabs.” Emma ordered coffee immediately, then glanced at the menu, adding, “An English muffin, butter on the side.” She looked at Faith. “I know it’s a French place, but I like English muffins.”
“I’ll have a plain omelette and whole-wheat toast,” Faith said. She had the feeling she was going to need sustenance today.
“Any more messages?” she asked her friend as soon as the waitress left. The sidewalks were packed, but the restaurant was almost empty.
Emma shook her head. “If there’s another, I’ll save the tape.”
“There’ll be another,” Faith said pointedly. “Do you have any idea, any idea at all who could be doing this?”
Emma looked woebegone. “I’ve thought and 99
thought, but the only person I can think of is Lucy. You know what she’s like, and she’s been even more horrid since I got married.”
“Jealous, of course. I would be more than happy to confront her with you.” Faith brightened. Something concrete to do.
The food arrived. Emma put a millimeter-thick coat-ing of butter on her muffin. “But if I’m wrong, then she’ll know things she didn’t know before. We can’t just say, ‘Are you blackmailing me, Lucy, and if so, cut it out,’ without her wanting to know why, and then I’ll never have a moment’s peace again for the rest of my life.”
“Which you might not have unless you ask her,” Faith pointed out logically.
“But it’s likely that if it isn’t Lucy, she’ll blackmail me over having something someone could blackmail me about.” Emma broke off a tiny piece of her muffin and raised it halfway to her mouth. “How can this be happening to me?” she asked in despair.
She was right—on several counts. The Lucy plan needed more thought. Faith patted Emma’s hand, the one without the muffin. Her cuticles were even more ragged than before. “It’s not about you, remember?
Now, I need to know some things; then I’ll tell you all about the service. It was everything your father would have wished.” Faith was sure of that.
“How did the blackmailers—although we don’t know if it’s more than one; the ‘we’ could have been put in to lead you astray—anyway, how did you find out where to leave the money, and where was it?” Emma sat up straight. She could do this. “I got a call. I was home. It was Sunday afternoon, and as soon as I answered the phone, a voice said, ‘Put the money 100
in a green plastic trash bag and leave it in the Dumpster at the construction site on Forty-eighth and Lex at five o’clock today. Take a cab and have it wait. Then leave. If you screw up, or tell anyone, Christmas won’t be merry this year.’ ”
“Was it the same voice as the voice on the machine?”
Emma flushed. “I should have thought of that. No, it wasn’t, but again, I couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a woman with one of those Lauren Bacall-type voices, husky.”
“So, you took the bag and went to the spot.”
“Yes, first I had to go buy some trash bags. I couldn’t find where Juanita keeps them.” Faith was struck by something. “Wait a minute. This was Sunday. How did you happen to have ten thousand dollars in cash lying around?”
“I know you said paying them wasn’t a good idea, but it seemed the simplest way to me, so I’d taken money out on Friday. Just in case.”
“Who could have known about it? Michael? Someone at the bank?”
“Not Michael. It’s my own account. Technically, it’s joint, but his name isn’t even on the checks. It’s just for my expenses. Anyway, I put the money under my lingerie, and of course I didn’t mention it. It was a very busy weekend, lots of parties, and he had some kind of fund-raiser upstate that I didn’t want to go to. I keep telling him ‘I think I’m coming down with the flu.’
He’s been very worried and made an appointment for me with our doctor, which I guess I’ll have to keep, but I feel like a fraud.”