Dearly Departed (4 page)

CHAPTER 4

A
fter several tries, Amy had decided on her old black Fendi with the scoop neck and the long-sleeved jacket. She didn't like wearing new things to funerals. It made the clothes somehow sad and hard to wear again. But this wasn't really a funeral, was it? More of a business obligation.

Marcus sat patiently behind the wheel as Amy swung her legs over to the sidewalk and eased on the three-inch heels. He was borrowing the Abel family Volvo. It was for some errand or a job search. Amy hadn't paid much attention, since the odds of him telling the exact truth were about fifty-fifty. She just needed a drop-off first.

“I'll take the subway home,” she said and straightened her eyeglasses, also black Fendis, also old.

“If you feel nervous about this trip, you shouldn't go.”

“No. Peter's right. It's a silly envelope. And she died naturally.”

“Amy, your instincts are good. If you think there's a possibility of danger . . .” Marcus and Fanny had been trying for days to talk her out of this, both for the same reason. It wasn't because of the potential danger, but because they both liked Marcus and disliked Peter. “You shouldn't do it for the money.”

“Of course I'm doing it for the money.” She buckled the last strap. “We have to keep the doors open. And it's good to get away. We both need a break.” Marcus didn't have a response for this, and she mentally kicked herself for wanting one. “How do I look?” she asked.

“Too good for a funeral,” he said. As soon as she was out and the door closed, he put the Volvo in gear and started heading north on Madison Avenue. Amy watched him disappear, then turned and looked up at the imposing gray-brown box.

The Frank E. Campbell Funeral Chapel was an East Side institution. Everyone who was anyone, from Rudolph Valentino to Jackie O to the Notorious B.I.G., had put in a final appearance here. Campbell's was understated, expensive, and clearly stipulated in Paisley MacGregor's rather detailed instructions. Peter was waiting for Amy under the chandelier in the cream-colored lobby, and together they took the stairs. Their employer was waiting for them in one of the reposing rooms on the third floor.

The service that morning would be informal, bordering on the nonreligious. One of MacGregor's bosses had recalled that she had been raised Church of Scotland, but the best that Amy could do on short notice was a Presbyterian minister from a tiny congregation in the Theatre District. His presence would serve to give some structure to the proceedings.

Amy was glad she had gone to the trouble of blowing up the photos and placing them around. It gave the illusion of a few more people having shown up. She was also glad about the catering. The table of wines and hors d'oeuvres provided a much-needed centerpiece, drawing focus away from the open casket and the shriveled head propped up on a powder blue pillow.
Is this what MacGregor imagined?
thought Amy as she examined the peaceful, artificial-looking features, the maid finally being the center of attention, the benefactress of an unforgettable trip.

There were perhaps two dozen mourners, and none of them seemed to be curiosity seekers. Peter, always mindful of publicity, had given the story to the
New York Times
, which had done a charming article, half a page, complete with photos, about the maid sending her former employers around the world. Amy had been wary about the funeral turning into some sort of circus, but it hadn't.

Archer was in attendance, back in her prim, pulled-together disguise, along with two other women. Amy assumed they were fellow maids, then immediately wondered why she had made such an assumption. Perhaps it was the fact that they were chatting so tightly in their little bunch—and instinctively cleaning the buffet table, disposing of the used corks and stacking the plates to one side.

A fourth woman joined them at the buffet. After a few moments, Amy realized that she wasn't subtly cleaning like the others, but subtly herding a row of mushroom tartlets into a plastic bag inside her large black purse. Her hair was ash blond; at least that's what the bottle probably said. Despite her heels, she remained petite, with features that would remain pinched even when she wasn't sneaking food. In her twenties, a little younger than Amy, the woman wore a stylish black dress, one approximately the same age as Amy's. When the woman eased an unopened bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé into the purse, Amy wasn't outraged or annoyed. She was fascinated.

“Are you Nicole Marconi?” Amy gave her a moment to recover before sidling up and introducing herself. “I'm Amy Abel. We've spoken and e-mailed a few times.”

“Yes, Miss Abel. Nice to finally meet you.”

Amy was taken aback by the formal tone, the kind used to address service providers. Of course, Amy was technically a service provider. But then Nicole Marconi was technically a food thief. “I'm sorry we have to meet under such circumstances.” Amy mentally berated herself for sounding like an undertaker.

“No one knew she was sick,” said Nicole, warming ever so slightly. “I have fond memories of Paisley. Of course, my parents adored her. More than they adored me.”

Amy nodded. “I think every girl feels that way about somebody. Not that we ever had a maid.”

“Oh, it wasn't Paisley's fault, but it still hurt.”

Amy didn't know what to say. “Well, I'm glad you'll be able to join us in celebrating her life. It's an unusual bequest.”

“To be honest, I was expecting something like this. Paisley would never let us off so easily.” Nicole's pinched features grew even tighter. “You know of course that it's my money that's paying for this.”

“Your money?”

“My inheritance. Or what would have been my inheritance. But that's not your concern. Your concern is to spend as much as you can, fulfilling the demented last wish of a dying maid.”

“Oh. It was your parents' money. . . .” Amy knew that MacGregor's inheritance had come from one of the families, but she'd never considered the implications. Did Peter know about Nicole's situation? If so, why hadn't he warned Amy? A little information would have gone a long way.

“Yes. They left most of it to the maid. You can imagine having to deal with your parents' deaths. And, on top of that, when the lawyers told me . . .”

“Must have been horrible.” Amy herself had an eccentric mother, but this would have been too much, even for Fanny.

“By the way, when is the will being read? Six years ago, when this travesty happened, MacGregor assured me that the money, what's left of it, would be returned to the Marconi family. Of course, a lot of things are said in the heat of embarrassment. And there was plenty of embarrassment.”

“Um . . . there's a reading of the will set up for the last stop. Part of the grand finale.”

“Not until then? Well, I guess I've starved for this long. . . .” And, as if to illustrate her point, Nicole took a final tartlet from the tray and popped it into her pinched little mouth.

After that, Amy shied away from conversations. She let Peter hand out the condolences and the small talk and wondered how soon the minister would start earning his money—Nicole's money. Amy found it relatively easy to disappear, even in a sparse crowd, to wander among the easel-mounted photos, gazing pensively at some, hiding behind others. This was always her fallback position, a reflex she usually fought against, but not this time. She could only imagine what other land mines might be buried around the room.

To her amazement, all of MacGregor's old bosses had said yes, although the travel dates had become an almost insurmountable challenge. Of the eight tour members, including Peter, six had shown up at the New York service. The Maui-based Steinbergs would be joining them in Paris to help throw the first pinches of Paisley out over the Seine. Amy thought she recognized the Corns, a fleshy, red, slightly oversize couple who always looked like they had just come out of the sun. And, of course, it was impossible not to recognize Herb Sands and David Pepper—not because they were in any way famous, but because they were standing in front of their own photo, inspecting a younger version of themselves, arms around shoulders, posing among the long morning shadows of Stonehenge.

“Eight years ago?” David asked, studying the image from a happier day. He was the younger of the two by about twenty years, although Amy would have guessed a larger gap if she hadn't seen the passports. He looked no more than thirty, at least in this soft lighting, and was incredibly handsome and tanned, with a bright white smile and wavy golden-red locks.

“More like ten,” countered Herb. “Before you started dyeing your hair.” Herb Sands was still an attractive man, but with the usual surrenders that men make to the advancing years—not heavyset but thick, his hair thinning and more gray than brown, features that had once been nicely proportioned now continuing to grow into a slightly saggy face. Amy wouldn't have been so critical of his looks, except that Herb was being so critical of his perfectly beautiful partner.

“I don't dye. I highlight,” David shot back. Amy had been expecting a more sarcastic retort, especially since the man was looking just as perfect as he had eight or ten years ago, while Herb . . . Of course, Herb didn't have to look good. He was the one with money.

In all their correspondence, the couple had called themselves the Pepper-Sands, Herb and David Pepper-Sands, a mouthful that stopped just short of being funny. On their passports, of course, their names were separated. The men had begun their romance while Paisley MacGregor was working for Herb, and true to the MacGregor formula, the three had become a family of sorts, until Herb Sands decided that what their town house needed was a butler—a handsome English butler, it turned out—and the perfect maid made up some excuse to quit. This was all secondhand information gleaned from Peter, who had gleaned it from MacGregor herself.

“I don't think Peter Borg highlights his hair.” Herb's gaze had wandered across the reposing room, seeking out the tall, blond tour operator. Peter was leaning absently on the open casket, his elbow almost grazing MacGregor's face, as he chatted amiably with the Corns. “Of course, he's a little younger than you.”

“There's always someone younger.” David was making a heroic effort not to take the bait—and failing. “If you think I'm going to stand by and watch you hook up with a damned travel agent . . .”

“You were a waiter when I met you.” Herb's smile grew unexpectedly warm. “The most gorgeous waiter in New York.”

Amy listened and couldn't help fantasizing about the upcoming journey—Herb making up an excuse to visit Peter's room on some “tour business,” David becoming a simmering pot of resentment, Peter doing his clueless best to be ingratiating to everyone. She really ought to warn him.

“Stop it. You're not throwing yourself at Peter Borg. Besides . . .” David studied Peter for a second, trying to be objective. The travel agent was indeed younger and taller and blonder, even without chemical assistance. “I think Peter thinks he likes women.”

“We'll see,” said Herb with a sigh and a shrug. “Around the world is a long way.”

It was at this moment that Peter pushed himself up from his employer's resting place, subtly checked his watch, and gently extricated himself from his conversation. When he managed to catch the minister's eye, Peter raised an elegant finger, perhaps a little too elegant. Herb saw it and chuckled. “We'll see.”

The clergyman had been trying in vain to find a mushroom tartlet, anything to help fortify him for a eulogy for yet another unknown corpse. Half the funerals he presided over seemed to be for people who'd never entered a church while alive. He poured one more half glass of the Pouilly-Fuissé—in low supply, like the tartlets—and started off in the general direction of his late hostess.

“Having fun?” Peter asked. He had been keeping Amy on his radar as she hid behind this easel or pretended to be absorbed in that one. He didn't mind that she hadn't been working the room. It would come.

“Fun?” Amy asked. “I can't tell if you're being serious or not.”

“Half and half. Do you think you'll be transporting the ashes as carry-on or as luggage?”

“Luggage, definitely. Again, I can't tell . . .”

“Serious this time.”

She covered her gasp with a little laugh. “Are you sure? Because it would make a funny joke.”

“Serious.” Peter looked serious. “With most countries and airlines, transporting ashes is more or less legal. But I'm not sure about Turkey, and I really don't want to ask. It's not one of those questions you can take back.”

“Do you think many dead people are smuggled into Turkey?”

“Another thing you don't want to ask the authorities.”

“And why am I the one doing this?”

“Because you're an innocent-looking woman. And you have no past history of problems with Turkish immigration.”

“Again, I can't tell . . .”

“Serious. An unfortunate misunderstanding.” Amy's face must have formed some equally unfortunate expression, because Peter reacted with a coy grin and a complete change of subject. “I saw you with Nicole Marconi. She seems nice.”

“She's terrific.” Amy wasn't in the mood to let him off lightly. “You should get her talking about MacGregor and her parents. She's got some great stories.”

Peter's face brightened. “What kind of stories? Do you think she'd tell them at one of the wakes? That might be fun.”

“Loads of fun.” Amy tried to match his coy, reassuring grin. “And Herb and David. You should get to know them, too. I'll bet if you flirt a little with Herb, you can get them thinking about some over-the-top trip. Maybe an anniversary extravaganza?”