I waved up at them. They waved back.
“We’re hanging in there, babe,” I said to the wind. “By a toenail, maybe, but what can we do? I love you, though, if that’s any consolation.”
When I went up to my apartment, Mary Catherine met me at the door. Something was wrong. I could see a troubled look wavering there in her usually stoic blue eyes.
“What is it, MC?” I said.
“Seamus,” she said gravely.
I followed her into my bedroom. Seamus was beached on top of the covers. His eyes were closed and he looked even paler than usual. For a second, I honest-to-God thought he was dead. Then he let out a string of gasping coughs, his thin chest shaking beneath his Roman collar.
Oh, Lord, I thought. Really not good. He’d finally caught our flu. Which, for an eighty-plus-year-old like him, was extremely dangerous. It suddenly hit me how stupid I’d been to even let him come around. I panicked for a second. What would I do if I lost him, too?
But I would lose him anyway, one of these days, an evil little voice whispered in my ear. Wouldn’t I?
I shook off the thought, went to the kitchen, and got the bottle of Jameson’s from the cupboard. I poured a couple of fingers into a Waterford crystal tumbler and added some heated milk and sugar.
“God love ya, boy,” Seamus said to me, after taking a couple of sips. “Now give me a hand out of bed, and I’ll be on my way back to the rectory.”
“Just try to get out of here, old man,” I said. “I dare you. Lay there and finish your medicine before I call an ambulance on you.”
Chapter 67
I was still standing over Seamus when my oldest boy, Brian, ran in.
What now?
“Dad! Mary Catherine! In the kitchen! Quick!”
I raced after him into the hall. The kitchen had gone dark. That was all we needed right now – some kind of blackout. Damn prewar building’s wiring was falling apart just like everything else. It would probably start a fire. I sniffed for smoke in the walls and tried to remember where I’d put the fuses.
“Psych!” yelled all my kids as the light flicked on.
On the kitchen island, two plates were set up with Tombstone pizzas on them. They’d even made a salad. Trent was pouring Diet Cokes with the dish towel draped over his arm, like a three-and-a-half-foot-tall sommelier.
“Now, hold on a second. You guys are supposed to be in bed,” I said as Mary Catherine and I were ordered to sit. “And what did you do with all the dirty dishes?”
“Chill, Pops. It’s all being taken care of,” Jane said, pushing in my chair for me. “We’re feeling better now. We decided you and MC need to take a load off already. You work too hard. You guys should learn to relax a little.”
After we were done, coffee was prepared, and we were led into the living room.
What happened next was incredible. The vacuum came on. Assembly lines formed. Toys and art supplies miraculously rose from the floors and furniture and returned to their proper places. One of my little jokers started to sing “It’s the Hard-Knock Life” from Annie as he scrubbed at a puke spot with a wet paper towel, and the rest of them joined in.
As I sat there on my beat-up sectional, sipping my too-sweet coffee, something brightened in my chest. Though Maeve was gone, she had accomplished a miracle. She’d taken the best of herself – her sense of humor, her love of life, her ability to do for others – and somehow injected it into my silly kids. That part of her would never die, I realized. That could never be taken away.
“Dad, stop! This is supposed to be making you happy,” Julia said.
“What are you talking about? I’m thrilled,” I said, wiping my wet face. “It’s just the Pine-Sol. It always irritates my eyes.”
Chapter 68
It was coming on eight P.M. when I got back to the Blanchettes’ building on Fifth. I parked at a hydrant on the Central Park side, and before crossing the street I rapped a hello on the party rental van where the Emergency Service Unit guys were staked out.
My buddy Petie, the doorman, waved to me as I stepped under the awning. He had a new partner with him now. I grinned when I saw the face underneath the ridiculous green hat. It was ESU Lieutenant Steve Reno.
“Good evening, sir. May I get you a psycho?” he said, touching the hat brim with a white glove.
“I wish somebody could,” I said. “No sign, huh?”
“Not yet, but I did make ten bucks in tips. Mike, did you know these Blanchette people are holding a charity fund-raiser tonight? How does that make sense when our guy’s only joy in life is offing filthy rich New York types?”
I was stunned. “Are you kidding? A fund-raiser? Is that right, Petie?”
He nodded. “It’s been scheduled for months. Too late to cancel.”
I shook my head. I still couldn’t believe it.
“Which part of ‘your psychopathic son-in-law is coming to gun you down’ aren’t they getting, do you think?” I said as I headed for the elevator. Not to mention that they just learned that their daughter and granddaughters had been brutally murdered.
When the butler opened the penthouse door, I spotted Mrs. Blanchette out by the pool. A maid was standing beside her, and an elderly Latino man in maintenance clothes was sitting at the pool’s edge, apparently about to slide into the water.
“What’s going on out there?” I said.
“Mrs. Blanchette dropped an earring in the deep end,” the butler explained as the maintenance guy submerged himself.
“Why don’t they just drain it?” I said.
“It wouldn’t be refilled by the time the first guests arrive at nine, sir. Mrs. Blanchette insists on tea lights during the cocktail hour.”
“Of course,” I said. “The tea lights. What was I thinking?”
The butler’s face had a peculiar, pained expression. “Detective, perhaps you should have a word with Mr. B.,” he said. “I’ll fetch him, shall I?”
I nodded, wondering what that was about. As he hurried off, I walked out to the pool to try to talk sense to Mrs. Blanchette.
“Ma’am?” I said.
She whirled around like a sequined cobra. The contents of the big martini glass she was holding sloshed onto the maid’s dress. I could tell from her eyes and her breath that she’d already downed several of them. Maybe drinking and staying busy were her ways of working through her grief.
“Get me another one,” Mrs. Blanchette said impatiently, thrusting the glass at the cowed maid. Then she turned her attention to me.
“You again. What is it now?” she said.
“I must not have been clear about the danger you and your husband are in,” I said. “Your son-in – I mean, Thomas Gladstone – is targeting you, without question, as we speak. It’s not a good time to have people over. I’m going to have to ask you to postpone.”
“Postpone?” she said furiously. “This is the Friends of the Congo AIDS Benefit – in planning for the last year. Steven is flying in from the coast just for tonight. Sumner actually cut his vacation short. Do I have to supply last names? There’ll be no postponing anything.”
“Mrs. Blanchette, people’s lives are at stake here,” I said.
Instead of responding to me, she ripped a cell phone from her bag and flipped it open.
“Diandra? Hi, it’s Cynthia,” she said. “Could you put Morty on?”
Morty? Oh, Lord, I hoped it wasn’t the Morty I thought it was. I didn’t need that name dropped on me. Not even an ounce of it.
She stalked away, talking. The maintenance guy, up for a breath of air, stared at her back and muttered a Spanish word that was not used in polite company.
“You said it, amigo,” I told him.
When she came back a moment later, she shoved the phone at me, with a look of triumph on her face.
“Who is this?” came a harsh male voice.