A Catered Tea Party (13 page)

T
wo days after making an appointment with Adam Benson, Libby and Bernie found themselves sitting across from him in his office on Fifty-Sixth Street and Seventh Avenue in Manhattan. It was a corner office on the thirty-ninth floor of a building that housed a variety of financial companies.

The building had been built with an eye to impress, and Libby and Bernie were admiring the view and complimenting Benson on the examples of early Chinese art he had dotted around the office. Bernie and her sister were ostensibly there to talk about an investment strategy for the three million dollars they were about to inherit from their mythic Aunt Pearl.

“She did well,” Libby said, smoothing out her pale blue silk dress with the palm of her hand. It was one of two dresses that she owned. The second one was reserved for funerals.

“Evidently,” Adam Benson said, smiling pleasantly.

Pleasant
was one of the words that came to Bernie's mind when she looked at him. The second word that came to her mind was
expensive
. Benson's haircut was expensive, as were his suit, his shirt, and his tie. Although Bernie didn't know that much about men's clothes, she was pretty sure that Benson's suit was bespoke, his shirt was Turnbull and Asser, and his tie was Italian silk. She decided that everything about Benson and his surroundings screamed money, the subliminal message being
Trust me with your dough and you too can have this lifestyle
.

Bernie was glad she was wearing her white cotton pique Dolce & Gabbana sheath with her cream-color Manolos. It was her grown-up outfit, the one she wore to business meetings when she wanted to be taken seriously. It was also the outfit that made her legs look really good, which didn't hurt. These days one had to use any advantage one had.

Bernie was also carrying her Prada bag, while Libby was carrying a small Valtrex Bernie had loaned her. She and Libby did look pretty good, if she had to say so herself, Bernie reflected. At the very least, they looked like the type of people who had enough money to invest to make this meeting worthwhile for Benson.

Adam Benson steepled his fingers together and smiled blandly as his secretary brought in a tray filled with a pot of coffee and a selection of cookies and put the it down on top of the round, marble-topped table Bernie, Libby, and Benson were sitting at.

“So,” he said after Libby and Bernie had served themselves, “your Aunt Pearl must have been quite the lady.”

“Oh, she was. She was very, very smart,” Bernie assured him. “We knew she was good with money—she was a bookkeeper, you know—we just didn't know she was that good.” She took a sip of coffee. It was excellent. “Sumatran?” she asked.

Benson nodded. “We get it roasted for us in Brooklyn.”

Bernie nodded, lifted a Linzer torte to her lips, and took a bite and chewed. She decided she liked A Little Taste of Heaven's better. This one didn't have enough butter in the dough, and the raspberry jam the baker had used was a tad too sweet. “And the cookies?” she asked.

“From a little place on Thirty-Ninth and Ninth.”

“I'm surprised they're not from Brooklyn,” Libby observed. “Everything else seems to be from there these days.”

“Quite so,” Benson said, doing an imitation of an English banker on the BBC. He gave Libby another bland smile. “So,” he said after a few more minutes of polite chitchat had gone by, “what were you thinking of in terms of investment strategies.”

“Art,” Libby said promptly. “We were thinking of investing in art.”

Benson raised an eyebrow. “Really. That's an interesting choice.”

“Asian art, to be specific,” Bernie added, falling in line with her sister's lead. She made a gesture that encompassed the office. “It looks as if you know something about it.”

Benson bowed his head modestly. “I admit I know a little.”

“And you've done well?” Bernie asked.

“I've been lucky,” Benson told her.

“I'm sure there's a certain amount of knowledge involved,” Libby said.

“A bit,” Benson allowed.

Libby turned to Bernie. “See,” she said. “I told you we came to the right person.” Libby turned back to Benson. “We know someone who made a lot of money collecting oriental art, and we were hoping to follow in his footsteps,” she explained.

“And who would that be?” Benson asked, even though, Libby reflected, he didn't seem at all interested in the answer.

Now it was Libby's turn to smile. “Ludvoc. Ludvoc Zalinsky.” If she'd hoped to get a strong reaction out of Benson, she was disappointed. His expression remained the same. This, Libby decided, might be harder than she thought it was going to be.

“Really,” Benson said. He took another sip of coffee, carefully put his cup down on his saucer, reached for a small butter cookie, ate it, then brushed off a crumb that had landed on his suit jacket. “Of course, I'm familiar with the name. He was in the papers recently.” Benson looked up at the ceiling while he mimed thinking. After a moment he mimed remembering. “He's the one who met an unfortunate demise at the hands of a teakettle, isn't he?”

Bernie and Libby both nodded.

“So bizarre,” Benson said.

“That it was,” Bernie agreed.

“It happened at the opening benefit for The Blue House, didn't it?” Benson asked.

“Correct again,” Bernie replied.

“On which,” Benson put a hand up and stroked his chin, “if I rightly remember, the article said he had lavished a great deal of money.”

It was Libby's turn to reply. “That he did,” she said.

“I thought so.” Benson flicked a speck of dirt off of his jacket lapel. “Of course, the article said he had a lot of money to spend,” Benson reflected. “A lot of these Russians do.”

“You sound as if you didn't know him,” Libby said.

“I don't,” Benson told her.

“Sorry for our mistake,” Bernie said. “I guess we were misinformed.”

“I guess you were,” Benson said.

“We thought you knew him,” Bernie replied.

Libby leaned forward. “We definitely did,” she said, an earnest look on her face.

“I wish I had,” Benson told her. “He sounds like an interesting man, a man I could have done business with, but to my regret I didn't have the pleasure of making Mr. Zalinsky's acquaintance.”

Libby furrowed her brow. “Are you sure?”

“Of course, I'm sure,” Benson said. “I just said that, didn't I?”

“Does the name Louis Zebb ring a bell?” Bernie asked.

“No. Should it?” Benson asked.

” He used that name too,” Libby informed him.

Benson raised an eyebrow. “That's a bit unusual, isn't it?”

“Maybe you forgot you knew him,” Libby suggested helpfully. “You must meet lots of people in the course of a day.”

“I don't forget people,” Benson told her, a note of irritability creeping into his voice. He raised his hand and smoothed back his hair.

“That's a good skill to have,” Libby remarked. “I wish I had it.”

Benson made a show of looking at his watch. “Now, if we could get back to your investment strategy. I think you'll find that a balanced portfolio might suit your needs better in the long run than investing in art. Let me explain my thinking to you.”

But instead of answering Benson, Libby turned to her sister. “I'm sure I heard Erin right.”

“Evidently you didn't,” Bernie replied. She turned to Benson. “You do know Erin, though, don't you?”

“Which Erin is that?” he asked, a slight catch notable in his voice. “I know a lot of women named Erin. It's a popular name.”

“This is the one you were engaged to,” Bernie said sweetly,

Benson licked his lips. The smile on his face was gone. His eyes narrowed slightly. He looked from one sister to the other and back again. “You're not really here to talk about investments, are you?”

“Not really,” Bernie confessed.

“And the three million dollars?”

“A complete fabrication,” Libby told him. “As is Aunt Pearl.”

Benson started to get up. “I don't know what you people want, but I don't have time for this kind of nonsense. My secretary will show you out,” he said.

Looking at Benson, Libby wondered what he'd be like if his façade cracked. She had a feeling she wouldn't want to be around to see it. She put out her hand. “Wait. This will just take a few minutes. We have a few questions we want to ask you.”

Adam Benson swept his hand around his office. “In case you haven't noticed, I'm a busy man.”

Libby made a point of looking around the office too. “Funny, but you don't seem that busy to me right now,” she observed.

Benson glared at her. Libby glared back. A minute went by. Then he laughed. “Okay. You win on sheer gall. So I'm going to ask you why would I possibly give you or your sister any more of my time, especially after you lied your way in here?”

“Because you're curious about why we're here,” Libby suggested.

“I'm not,” Benson assured her.

Now it was Bernie's turn. “Okay then. Because you're a kind, compassionate soul.”

Benson raised an eyebrow. Bernie took that as a sign to continue.

“I have a friend who's been arrested for murdering Zalinsky, and we,” Bernie pointed to her sister and herself, “don't think he did it.”

Benson made a
pffft
sound of dismissal with his lips. “Of course, he didn't do it! Which you know through some sort of feminine intuition.”

“If you want to believe that, that's fine with me,” Bernie told him, ignoring his sarcasm, which only annoyed Benson more.

“This is very sweet and touching, but risking my standing as the kind, compassionate soul that I am, so what? What does this man's murder have to do with me?” Benson asked. “Why would I possibly care about him?”

“We just want to ask you about Erin,” Libby said.

“Erin?” Benson repeated. He blinked twice, then got control of his face.

“The one you were engaged to,” Bernie said helpfully.

“Ah, yes, that one.”

“You mean there are others?” Bernie asked.

Benson didn't answer her question. Instead he brought his palms together and touched his fingertips to his lips. “Been doing a little digging, have you?” he asked pleasantly.

“We didn't have to dig very far,” Bernie told him.

“I bet.” Benson adjusted his tie. “Here's the story. We were engaged and then we weren't, and now you know everything there is to know.”

“Not quite,” Libby said.

“Then the rest will have to remain unknown.”

“I beg to differ,” Bernie said.

Benson brought his hands down and looked at Bernie with frank curiosity. “And why should I talk to you about her? You have no official capacity in this matter.”

Bernie took a sip of coffee and put her cup down. “I'm glad you asked. You should tell us what we want to know, because that way we won't tell people how you lost our three million dollars for us. Social media is a hard force to combat.”

“The imaginary three million dollars?”

“Quite so,” Bernie said, imitating his earlier phrase.

“That's absurd,” Benson told her. He looked at Bernie and smiled. “No one will believe you, and if you do that, I can sue you for defamation of character. I can tie you up in court for years to come.”

“Maybe you can, but it won't do you much good,” Bernie agreed. “Because by that time the seed will be planted and your business is . . . dare I say it . . . fragile. You really can't afford bad word of mouth, and I will make sure it's all over social media.”

“That's blackmail,” Benson protested.

Now it was Bernie's turn to smile. “I prefer to call it negotiating a deal. You tell us what we want to know, and we won't say anything about you to anyone. No. I amend that. We will only say good things.”

Benson thought for a moment. “Oh what the hell,” he said. “I suppose I can spare another few minutes. Now there's a relationship I'd prefer not to revisit,” Benson declared, as he sat back down.

“We heard that Zalinsky took Erin away from you,” Libby said.

Benson laughed, a laugh that seemed genuine to Libby. “Who told you that?”

Libby mentioned the twins.

“Your informants left out a couple of things,” Benson told Libby and Bernie. “First of all, I was the one who kicked Erin out. No one took her away from me.”

“Why?” Bernie asked.

“Why did I kick her out?”

Bernie nodded.

“Simple. Because I caught her fooling around with this guy named Jason. Guy with lots of tattoos and one of those awful ponytails.” He shook his head. “I forget his last name. It was some sort of Italian meat.”

“Pancetta,” Libby supplied.

Benson snapped his fingers. “Yeah. That's it,” he said. “I guess she went from him to the Russian.”

“Are you sure?” Bernie asked.

“No. I'm not sure that she went from Jason to the Russian, but I am sure that she went from me to Jason. That I can tell you. For God's sake, I found them in bed together. I was devastated.”

“You don't seem that way now,” Libby observed.

“That's because I'm not.” Benson looked rueful. “In retrospect, getting rid of Erin was a good thing, one of the best things that could have happened to me, although I didn't think so at the time. Obviously.” He looked at his watch again. A Patek, Bernie noted this time. “And now, ladies, I think our minute is just about up. I have a conference call I have to get ready for.”