Dearly Departed (3 page)

She must have mentioned this dream to him at some point. “You're spreading ashes at the Taj Mahal?”

“We'll be throwing MacGregor right into it.”

“Eddie and I always wanted to go.”

“The Taj Mahal at dawn. Something you'll never forget. And we're going to be flying private.” There was a sharp gleam in his eyes.

“I've never flown private,” Amy had to admit.

“A reconfigured seven-fifty-seven. I'm leasing it from some oil sheik. It seats twenty, with a crew of six. Everyone practically has a room. Of course, with us, there'll be only eight. Nine if you come along.”

Amy was prepared to hear more. But then Fanny reemerged from the inner office. She was emotionally composed now, fluffing out the ruffles on her favorite beige blouse and checking the time on her Lady Hamilton.

“Hey, Fanny,” Peter said smoothly. “How is TrippyGirl? I'm a huge fan, by the way.”

Amy was surprised. “You are?”

“It's a great blog,” Peter said, aiming the words at Fanny. “Although I think you may be getting some traffic from people who think it's about drugs.”

“We get a bit of that,” Amy admitted. “But Mom likes the name.”

Fanny's eyes were still on Lady Hamilton. “Amy, dear,” she said. “Don't you have to be somewhere for Marcus?”

“Damn it.” Amy checked her own watch, then gathered her things—her shoulder bag from the desktop, her keys, and a newly purchased pair of Bebe Misfits, black and tortoiseshell. “Peter, I have to get moving. It's Marcus's birthday. Marcus Alvarez?”

“I know who Marcus is. Wish him a happy birthday for me.” Peter was already walking her toward the door. He stopped her in the middle of the door's electric eye, and the door started to buzz. It kept buzzing as he looked deep into her eyes. “Promise you'll think about my offer?”

“Yes, of course. Although I'm not sure—”

“Think about it.”

CHAPTER 2

A
my had only a few dishes in her repertoire—squid in white wine (better than it sounded), beef cheek
barbacoa
(when beef cheek was available), guinea hen with pine nuts (hard to ruin)—all just esoteric enough to persuade her guests that (a) she was a real cook and (b) if they didn't like it, it was probably their fault. She had considered branching out tonight, but the last time you want to try out a new guest dish, she told herself, is when you're cooking for a guest. It was the perfect catch-22.

Her plan for the evening was simple. All day long she had refused to acknowledge Marcus's birthday, either on the phone or in any of their texts back and forth. But when he came home from work, he would open the door to the warm aroma of roasted guinea hens. She would be in the kitchen, wearing nothing but an apron and a smile and maybe a few spatters from the sauce, which would be totally delicious, by the way.

His apartment was on the third floor of an old brownstone. Marcus had given her a key, which Amy considered a positive step. Struggling with the grocery bags up the uneven stairs, she half listened to the muffled sounds filtering out from the other apartments—a playful toddler on the first floor, a pair of male-female voices somewhere upstairs.

It had been six months since Marcus had been free of suspicion by the police, nearly seven since they'd met for the first time in Monte Carlo. In the early days, she felt things were moving too quickly. Did he love her just because she'd believed in his innocence? Was it the excitement of the chase that made things so electric between them? But then, after the case was solved, after all the press and notoriety, then things did get slower. Predictably slower. Annoyingly slower.

This is a good thing
, she kept telling herself. He might indeed be perfect for her, this olive-skinned, sharp-featured man with wavy jet-black hair. But maybe not. He could be so maddening, with his honestly dishonest behavior and his need to keep so much of himself private.

She'd assumed they might have moved in together by now. Over six months. But Marcus's apartment was in his roommate's name, and the idea of him moving into Amy's half of the Abel brownstone, just steps away from Fanny, his coconspirator and new best friend . . . Well, that wasn't going to happen.

Amy lugged the bags up another flight, and the male-female voices grew louder. They were laughing now, sounding more than a little playful. She wasn't paying attention to the muffled words. Her mind was on the guinea hens and whether Marcus might have an old onion stashed away in the back of his crisper.

As she rounded the landing onto the third floor, she realized that the voices—the playful, sexually tinged male-female voices—were coming from his apartment.
That's funny
, she thought.
The roommate's on vacation. Marcus is at work. Supposedly at work.
Her heart began to sink.

Making as little noise as possible, Amy set the bags down on the landing, by the door, took the keys from her shoulder bag, found the right one, and gently inserted it. “What are you doing?” That was the first thought in her head and the first words out of her mouth—although it was fairly clear what Marcus was doing.

He was sitting on the brown herringbone sofa in the middle of his living room, holding the remote, and watching a rather steamy scene in a daytime drama. Alone, yes, but that wasn't the point.

“Why aren't you at work?”

“Hey, babe.” He switched off the set, and the voices disappeared, along with their images. “I got home a little early.”

Amy quickly took stock of the situation—Marcus's slippers, his coffee mug, a sandwich from the deli down the block. He looked so comfortable. “You didn't go into work at all,” she deduced.

He shrugged and nodded. “You're right. I took the day off. It's my birthday, although some people didn't seem to remember.” A boyish, lopsided grin. “Are you making me dinner?”

“I am. Happy birthday.” But something still wasn't right. “When you texted me, you said you were at the office. You complained about Sandra.”

“Well . . .” He shrugged again. “I didn't want to announce my birthday, not if you'd forgotten it. So I pretended it was a normal day at work.”

The logic was slightly convoluted but flawless, which was the only clue Amy needed to know it was a lie. “You were fired, weren't you?”

Marcus didn't take offense or skip a beat. “No, I quit. About two weeks ago, although they're doing me a solid by saying I was laid off. This way I get unemployment.”

“Fine. Whatever. I don't know which is worse.”

“I think getting fired is worse. That's why I said the other.”

“Which was it really? Fired or quit?”

“The job wasn't a good fit.”

“So just last week, when we talked about going to look at apartments together . . .”

Marcus frowned. “I don't think we'll have the money, given your state of business and my state of unemployment.”

“What?” Amy was furious. “You said you were calling up brokers, setting up appointments.”

“I wanted to.”

“But you already knew better. You were already unemployed.”

“Amy, I think you have to put this in context. We were in the middle of a romantic evening and a few glasses of merlot. Remember?”

“Of course I remember,” Amy stammered. It had been a very nice evening.

“Talking about an apartment together . . . Well, that was part of the moment, like asking, ‘Do you love me?' What did you want me to say? ‘Yes, I love you, but I lost my job, and we can't get a place of our own in the foreseeable future'?”

“It would have been the honest thing.”

“Really?” Marcus rubbed his chin. He hadn't shaved in a couple of days, it seemed, which only made him sexier. “Then you're better than me. I was too caught in the moment to ruin it. I'm a romantic. Maybe that's my problem.”

It was at that exact moment when Amy decided she would go around the world on a wake.

CHAPTER 3

A
my did not find MacGregor's penthouse to be as pristine and blindingly white as Peter had described it. She found it a cluttered combination of white and everything else. Cheap patterned throw pillows littered the sofas and chairs. Shoes and the odd piece of clothing lay scattered across the marble floors, along with a dozen glossy magazines with assorted Kardashians popping off the covers. Archer, it seemed, had made the place her own.

The maid who opened the apartment door was no longer starchly dressed. Her hair was pulled back in a loose bun, and her outfit was flowered and, from a couture standpoint, about half a step up from a housecoat. Peter wasn't good at hiding his dismay, but he glossed over it by introducing Amy.

“You wanted something with the pictures?” Archer's accent was still Bostonian, but from a different neighborhood. It seemed odd, almost a mistake, not to find gum lolling in her mouth or a cigarette dangling from her lips.

“We need to borrow a few,” Amy said. “If that's all right.”

“Knock yourselves out,” Archer said and led the way into the bedroom. The woman really needed a dangling cigarette.

The first thing Peter noticed was the huge, empty bed—unmade, with pastel pink sheets. It was the first physical reminder he'd seen of MacGregor's death. Archer followed the line of Peter's gaze and grew defensive.

“Why not? The place is empty. I'm being paid to look after it.”

“What happened here? Miss Archer!” Peter had turned from the bed and was looking across to the white Steinway. Its expansive top was barren.

“The pictures are there,” Archer said, pointing to a pair of large sealed boxes under the piano. “I didn't want them staring at me,” she said with a sniff. “Creeps me out.” And with that, she turned around and retreated into the living room.

It had been Amy's idea. The framed photos had been part of MacGregor's life. They were the whole inspiration behind this worldwide wake. So, wouldn't it be a nice touch, she'd suggested, to enlarge a few and display them at the New York service?

“It was your idea,” Peter said, keeping a lazy distance from the impending chore. Then he softened. “I'll help out. . . .”

“No,” Amy said. “I like unpacking things. It's like Christmas.” She found a box cutter on a windowsill and soon was on the floor by the first box, slicing through the tape, showing no concern at all for the knees of her black skinny jeans. “You can pack them back up tomorrow.”

“Thanks.”

Her idea had been to take the “inspirational” photos, the ones representing the five different stops around the world. But she was leaving herself open. Was MacGregor herself in any of them? Something like that would make a nice centerpiece. Amy began to unwrap each frame, laying the white tissue paper off to one side, half expecting Peter to join her and smooth the paper into a neat pile. But Peter was taking her at her word and not even pretending to help. Instead, he was at the Steinway, easing his long legs under the keyboard, then teasing out a few tentative scales. At least it wasn't “Chopsticks.”

The first unwrapped frame was a marquetry herringbone showing a sunburned family of four on a pink-sand beach, probably in Bermuda.
Definitely not funeral worthy
, she thought and put it off to one side. The second frame was silver, with a happy older couple on a private grass terrace with the unmistakable peak of Machu Picchu looming close in the background. Amy recognized not only the hotel but also the room. Sanctuary Lodge, room 40. She had a similar photo on her bedside table, but of a younger couple who would never grow so old and happy together. This one went into the keeper pile, even though each glance would bring a little pang.

What was it about travel that was so potent? she wondered. People went thousands of miles to wind up with the same views as every other traveler, the same exact experiences repeated a million times. And yet within that rigid form, as you joined the millions posing in front of the same icons, everything wound up seeming unique and personal and worth the trip.

The music brought her out of her reverie. Peter, to her surprise, could play. Not just tunes, but the classics. From memory. She recognized this one as Russian, something romantic. She probably could have named it on a better day, when she wasn't on her knees, pawing through other people's lives. The familiar melody rose slowly to the upper keys. Then a few muffled notes sounded, then stopped.

“Don't stop,” she said, barely aware of having said it.

“Sorry,” Peter said, standing up with a frown. “There's something wrong with these strings.” A few seconds later and he was propping up the lid, looking inside. “Like there's something on top . . .” He squinted and reached around with his right hand. When he removed it, he was holding a standard-size manila envelope, folded in half. He unfolded it and saw that there were a few words written in pen across the center. “Open only in case of my death.” The words hung melodramatically in the air.

“What?” Amy was off her knees now, stumbling over to the piano. “Are you kidding me?” But, of course, he wasn't. There they were, in sloppy, uneven block letters.

“Open only in case of my death,” Peter repeated. Then, with a lift of his eyebrows, he obeyed, inserting his hand in the envelope and rummaging around. “Nothing,” he reported and handed it off to Amy.

The envelope was indeed empty, but they could see from the creases and the open tear across the top fold that it had once held something. “Is this her handwriting?” Amy asked in a whisper, glancing off toward the open door. Archer was nowhere in sight.

“Block letters? Could be anyone.”

“Maybe it's not her.” Amy's mind was racing around the possibilities. “Could this be a used piano?”

“Well . . .” Peter thought. “We can ask Steinway to look up the serial number. But I think she ordered it new.”

“So if it's not from some previous owner . . . ,” Amy thought out loud. She held the envelope at arm's length, like a dead rat.

“She wasn't murdered.”

“I didn't say she was.”

“You're implying it. This was cancer. She had the best doctors at Sloan Kettering working for months to keep her alive.”

“Of course.” But the words still stared up at her. “Peter, we need to call the police.”

“Call the police? Wha . . .” Amy hated it when people laughed and spoke at the same time. It was an irritating affectation. “About what?” he continued, laughing and speaking. “An open envelope?”

“Don't you think it's suspicious?” she argued. “A woman dies, and we find a message saying, ‘If I die, open this.' And it's empty.”

“It could be anything,” Peter reasoned. “It could have been a note saying, ‘Feed my cat' or ‘Here are my computer passwords' or ‘I'm the one who broke your favorite vase.'”

“Someone removed the letter.”

“Yes, just like she told them to. You want to ask Archer about it? Let's ask Archer.”

“Yes. No. I guess so.”

“Why are you reacting this way?” Something about Peter's lack of suspicion was helping to put her at ease. “People leave notes when they die. It's kind of normal. Miss Archer!” He aimed his voice in the direction of the living room. “Will you come in here a minute?”

They stood side by side as the emotionless Archer entered, stopping by the bedroom door. “Yeah?”

Peter held up the envelope and casually asked her about it. Amy saw no reaction on the woman's face, except perhaps a tinge of boredom. No, she had never seen it before. No, Miss MacGregor had never given her any envelope. No, no one had come to visit except the ambulance people. Would that be all?

Yes, that would be all.