The Body in the Boudoir (18 page)

“Hello, beautiful.”

It was his standard greeting and never failed to charm whatever woman he was addressing. Sky Walfort was a connoisseur.

Faith described the proposed rehearsal dinner plans, and before she could even broach the subject of using the barn, he suggested it.

“Such fun. We'll have some long tables set up and cover them with newspapers or some such stuff. Drip melted butter all over the place. We'll get Tam to sing ‘It Was a Real Nice Clam Bake,' you know, that song from
Carousel
.”

Great-aunt Tammy had channeled Ethel Merman at some point in her life and was known for belting out show tunes, especially Rodgers and Hammerstein's.

“I'll go out and take a look at the place this afternoon,” he said. “You leave it all to me.”

“I feel as if I'm leaving everything to you, Uncle Sky. You're doing so much. I can't thank you enough. And I know this must be a hard time for you. And the news about the Todds was terrible.”

Her uncle was silent for a moment.

“Foolish people. House was a firetrap. Danny mentioned it often. No mystery why they perished. You're not trying to make one out of all this, are you? Or Danny. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I've heard all about your solving Emma's little contretemps in December from Poppy. So, stop meddling, Miss Faith Schuyler Sibley. Put away your no doubt very fashionable deerstalker and magnifying glass accessories.”

Almost being murdered the previous December by a crazed madman who was also blackmailing you wasn't what Faith would term “Emma's little contretemps.” His last words had taken some of the edge off the prior ones, but his tone was uncharacteristically stern. Clearly, he didn't want her to mention any of this further and she changed the subject.

“Are you sure I can't help with the barn? I could come out and start cleaning up.”

“That's very sweet of you, but unnecessary and not what the bride should be doing herself. If you want to drop by to see it—and more important,
moi
—that would be divine. Tomorrow perhaps?”

“I wish I could, but Francesca and I will be tied up here all day getting ready for a dinner Saturday night and a brunch on Sunday. Another time soon, though.”

“Not to worry. I know you need to earn as much pin money as you can now. Tom won't want his wife to work.”

Faith avoided the topic. Her uncle was very old-fashioned both about working wives and pin money. The income from the catering business was Faith's livelihood, and any pins accrued went into a savings account. But the mention of Tom's name triggered a thought.

“I'd love to bring Tom out when he's here next.”

“Perfect. Just let me know and we'll roll out the red carpet.”

They said good-bye and Faith returned to work. Danny had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, the emphasis in Faith's mind at the moment was “wrong place.” What
was
the woman doing in Tammy's boudoir, in Tammy's clothing? Sky wouldn't be providing any answers—that was clear. It wouldn't stop Faith from trying to figure it all out, though.

“T
here. Done.” Saturday's dinner was a small one, only twenty guests, who Faith would seat at two round tables in the host couple's spacious SoHo loft. They had asked for a seafood entrée and loved the idea of paella. The wife was an art dealer and Faith had worked hard to create a colorful meal. The grilled radicchio with balsamic vinegar and shaved pecorino cheese that Francesca had suggested as a first course would bring in deep red, and the saffron rice in the main course would add a splash of bright yellow.

They had been working all day, alternating between food preparation and more packing up. Josie had called at noon asking Faith whether she could fax the menu for Faith to look over one more time before it went to the printer. Josie's grand opening was only a month away. When the fax came through, Faith and Francesca had taken a break. Faith had called Josie back as soon as they finished reading it.

“We want to order everything! And the layout is great, easy to read and attractive. The logo is perfect.” Josie had had a designer create a kind of crest with a crossed knife and fork below the restaurant's name.

“Okay, off it goes. Are you still going to be able to make it? You won't be tied up with wedding plans? And Howard and Francesca?”

“By that time, everything except the knot will be tied—or better be. The last big item I've been worrying about is off my plate. Hope found a photographer who will not make the whole thing into a photo-op circus but will discreetly snap away. And yes, both Francesca and Howard plan to be at your opening.”

They talked a bit more before saying good-bye. Both women had made major life-changing decisions and both would result in being married—Josie's would be to a restaurant, but the commitment, particularly the hours, would be the same.

Francesca was heading downtown to meet friends for dinner and Faith was heading home. They were taking the same subway and walked out together, descending belowground a few blocks away. From the stairs Faith could see that the combination of Friday and rush hour had made the platform more crowded than usual.

“I want to try to get the next train,” Francesca said. “I'm a little late. Let's get closer.” They worked their way to the front and soon heard the sound of the approaching cars. Faith took a step forward. Tom had said he'd call before he had to go out to a talk at the Harvard Divinity School that evening and she didn't want to miss him.

The train was getting closer and the crowd lunged forward. Faith was used to being jostled, even pushed, but what she was experiencing now was very different. She started to panic.

There were two hands on her back, hands shoving her directly toward the tracks in front of the oncoming train.

Chapter 8

A
rms flailing wildly, Faith fought to keep her balance. She could smell the train—oil, grease, something noxious—and feel its heat. Her purse slipped from her shoulder onto the tracks. The conductor caught sight of its movement and looked over toward the platform ahead. His face was now close enough for Faith to see the sudden horror cross it and hear the deafening screech as he applied the brakes. Applied them too late. She was falling—and the train wasn't stopping.

She felt a viselike grip on her shoulder, wrenching it, thrusting her to one side and then down onto the ground. The floor was hard, cold, but it wasn't the tracks, the tracks with the third rail—instant death even before the train hit. She became entangled with her savior, a teenage boy, as they clung together, the cars speeding past close enough to touch before coming to a halt in the station. The doors opened and crowds streamed out; crowds streamed in—stepping around the two prone figures, ignorant of what had almost been a headline in tomorrow's
New York Post:
“Caterer Cooked in Transit Tragedy.” Stepping around them, barely looking down, and avoiding eye, or any other, contact as every New Yorker learned to do if not at birth then shortly after moving to the city. It wasn't callous or uncaring, but simple common sense. A survival mechanism.

“Things can't be that bad, miss.”

The boy looked about seventeen, and dreadlocks hung down the back of a T-shirt that proclaimed
FEAR NO ART
. The Jamaican lilt in his voice attested to the hairstyle's authenticity. He was helping her stand up. She was wearing her work clothes and the only damage to her apparel was a tear at her checkered knee where she'd scraped against the concrete when she fell.

“No, no. I wasn't going to jump. Someone was pushing me!”

She looked around for Francesca. She had been standing next to Faith. She must have seen what was happening. Where was she? The station was beginning to fill up again, but the girl was nowhere in sight.

“This city is crazy,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “You sure everything's cook and curry?” He had large round eyes, like chocolate marbles, and they were searching her face for an answer. “I mean, are you okay?”

“I like the other way you asked the question better,” Faith said. “That's what I do for a living. Cook. But yes, I'm all right.” She'd have major bruises, but nothing was broken. Her legs felt wobbly and she knew she had to sit down. “I owe you my life.” At those words, she really
did
have to sit down and he followed her to a bench by the turnstiles.

“My name is Faith Sibley. Please let me do something to thank you—”

He held up his hand to interrupt her and then offered it to her. She shook it, grateful for the memory of its strong grasp.

“I'm Marley Clarke, and, yeah, named for the man. My parents were big fans. Me, too. And saying ‘Thank you,' that's enough. Anyone would have done the same, Faith.”

“How long have you been in the city?” She was smiling. She could still smile. As soon as she'd sat down, everything around her seemed to come into sharp focus. She felt as if she was seeing, hearing, sensing ten times more acutely than usual. And this young man next to her was the most beautiful person in the world right now.

“Two years. Going on three. Maybe because of my name, but I can sing, play some instruments. My parents sent me to live with my auntie here so I could go to a school for my music. I'm at LaGuardia. Know it?”

Faith knew it well. LaGuardia High School of Music & Art and Performing Arts was one of the city's specialized schools that combined academics with other programs, in this case those for future actors, musicians, composers, directors, and so forth. It was on the Upper West Side and known as the
Fame
school because of the movie loosely based on it. It was extremely hard to get in. Marley must be very talented. She knew now how to thank him. She'd give to the school's scholarship program in his honor.

“Of course. And, as the song said, I'll ‘remember your name,' so when it's up in lights or wherever it may be, I can say I met you. That you were my guardian angel.”

He laughed. “Come to one of our performances now, and then be the judge.”

They exchanged information. Faith found herself telling him she was getting married in June.

“So that makes it for sure. You don't want to be jumping on the tracks until
after
you're married I hear.”

They laughed and said good-bye. Faith needed to sit a bit longer, and he was getting on the train that was now approaching. The sound gave her a moment of fear and she briefly held on tight to the bench.

“You need a band at that wedding of yours, get in touch,” Marley called over his shoulder.

“I just might!” she said as he disappeared into the crowd.

But where was Francesca?

And, noting the absence of its familiar weight hanging from her shoulder, she recalled her purse was gone, too. After the train pulled out, she crept cautiously to the platform's edge and peered at the tracks. Her purse had fallen directly below and the contents hadn't spilled out. It looked pretty flat, but her wallet with all her identification, credit cards, and cash might have survived intact.

Survived. She'd survived. She went to find a transit worker and soon a stocky man was fishing around with a pole, trying to loop the purse strap onto it.

Faith was watching from a safe distance, but could hear him muttering. “Drop all kinds of trash. Their pocketbooks, wallets, coats, hats, baby bottles. What am I? The Lost and Found?”

He held the pole up and slid her purse toward her, dropping it at her feet, still muttering. “Gotta stand close. They
always
gotta stand close and drop stuff. Packages, lunch. A bowling ball.” He shook his head and left.

The purse, a Coach saddlebag, was a testament to the company's workmanship. It was grimy, but it was usable. The apple she'd tucked inside to eat later was sauce, but her wallet was in one piece. She decided to go back up to the street and take a cab home. There was no way she could stand and wait for another train right now. Mounting the stairs, she turned around to look back once more at the station.

Where was Francesca? Now—and when Faith had been pushed?

S
he'd missed Tom's call and for once she was glad. She didn't think she'd have been able to keep her voice from betraying her brush with death and she'd already decided not to mention it to anyone. It happened, it was over, and she was fine. Wasn't she?

Besides the tear, her pants were filthy from the litter on the platform floor and she tossed them, put the jacket in the hamper, and got into the robe her mother had given her. A nap. Yes, she was exhausted. She started to take the decorative pillows from the couch. It was too much trouble to do anything but stretch out on it for the moment. Much too early to make it up and really go to bed. She slipped off her shoes and lay down. Her eyes were closing.

The sound of the buzzer startled her. She wasn't expecting anyone. Her heart was racing. Ordinarily she wouldn't be reacting with alarm—the sound meant a friend, her sister, or a takeout delivery was downstairs and she'd go to the intercom with eager anticipation. Stop it! she told herself and went to the door.

“Yes?”

“It's me, Francesca. Are you all right?
Mio Dio!
I was so frightened . . .”

“I'm fine. Come up and see.”

She pressed the button to release the front-door lock. In the minutes before Francesca arrived at the apartment, Faith stood still trying to think what might have happened. The crowd could have pushed the girl onto the train when the doors opened and she hadn't been able to get off before they closed. That was the most likely scenario. The most unlikely? That for some bizarre reason Francesca herself had pushed Faith. From the ease with which she picked up a heavy pot filled with stock, Faith knew the girl was strong.

She still didn't believe that the girl had told the entire story about why it was so important that she find this Gus Oliver. Why was it so crucial now after all these years? And was it something she didn't want anyone else to know about? The corollary being that Faith already knew too much? She shook her head. Her imagination was running wild. This wasn't a detective story, a
romanzo poliziesco
.

Francesca had run up the stairs. Red-faced and breathless, she threw her arms around Faith and held her tight. When she let go, Faith saw she had tears in her eyes.

“I'm fine,” she said. “A teenager grabbed me in time.”

Francesca nodded. “I saw him and you both fall away from the train together.”

So, she had been close enough to witness the rescue. Then what did she do? Faith wondered. She waited. Francesca still seemed to be struggling to calm herself. She stood twisting her hands together, and just as Faith was about to suggest they sit down, she blurted out, “Someone tried to kill you! I saw them!”

“Them? There were two people?”

“No, no, I'm stupid. I mean her. A woman. Very large, with those sunglasses the movie stars wear to keep the paparazzi from taking pictures of their faces. And a hat, like for the rain.” Francesca was talking rapidly and gesturing, her fingers made large
O
s around her eyes, then darted to her head and formed a visor.

As Faith had made her way closer to the edge of the platform, she had seen the woman out of the corner of her eye. She wished she could remember more. The hat and sunglasses, yes. And she was big—tall, well padded, but that was all. Nothing that could help the police or anyone else track her down. Wait! Beige. The woman had been wearing a beige Burberry raincoat, like the hat. She closed her eyes, willing more details, but none came.

“I'm making tea,” Francesca said, moving toward the stove and sink. “Do you have
camomilla
? Very good for a shock.”

Faith went to one of the cabinets and took down a box of chamomile tea. It was good for all sorts of ailments: stomach upsets, sleeplessness, and now this new one—potential loss of life.

Francesca was filling the kettle and her words continued to pour out as well.

“Someone pushed between us, but I could see you. Then the train was coming and I kept looking at you because I was afraid we'd get separated. I wanted you to come with me to dinner, and if you got on another car I couldn't ask you. I should have said something before, at work. I was thinking all these things and then I saw her! The woman had her hands on your back and I was screaming at her to stop and for someone to help. Then the boy grabbed you away and the woman ran onto the train. I knew you were safe, so I jumped on the train, too. I thought I could get hold of her. And then pull the cord. Stop the train so the police would come.”

It was Faith's turn to do some hugging and she put her arms around the girl, the dark thoughts she'd been having earlier evaporating like the steam rising from the kettle's spout.

“That was so brave.”

Francesca tossed her hair back over her shoulders. Getting ready for her dinner, she'd loosened it after work. The gesture suggested defiance and a willingness to embark on any chase again. Once more Faith wondered how she could have doubted her employee.

“She knew I was after her, oh yes, and ran into the next car. I ran, too, but then the how do you say it, the
conduttore,
stopped me and said it was forbidden to go when the train was moving. He didn't see her. I stood at the door and at the next stop I ran out. But I couldn't find her. She must have kept going to the other cars and was staying on the train. I got back on a car farther up, but still she wasn't there. I did this a few times at each stop. I never saw her get off, but she wasn't in any of the cars. Finally I came back uptown. It was hard to get on the trains. So many people this time of day. But I didn't stop looking. A fat woman like that could not vanish, I was thinking, only poof! She was gone. Just gone. I'm so sorry, Faith.”

They took their tea over to the couch.

“You were wonderful. I wouldn't have known who it was if you hadn't been with me. And pursuing her like that!”

“But I didn't catch her.”

She looked so downcast that Faith hugged her again.

“Here I am. Having a nice cup of tea with you. Everything's all right.”

“But she wanted to kill you! She was pushing you in front of the train!”

There
was
that.

T
here had never been any question about where Eleanor Lennox would host her granddaughter's engagement tea. The Walfort sisters had been active members of the venerable Cosmopolitan Club, the “Cos Club,” all their adult lives, as had their mother before them. In turn, their female offspring, including Faith, had followed suit. Founded in 1909 as a club for working women, governesses to be precise, the club quickly expanded its membership to include, according to a 1910
New York Times
report, “women interested in the arts, sciences, education, literature, and philanthropy or in sympathy with those interested.” That pretty much covered everyone in Manhattan with two X chromosomes, and by 1917 the club had six hundred members with another four hundred on their waiting list. They moved to larger quarters and then moved again to the present location on East 66th Street. Faith loved reading the early membership list—Willa Cather, Helen Hayes, Marian Anderson, Margaret Mead, and Eleanor Roosevelt—as well as the descriptions in the club's records of various performers and speakers: Sergei Prokofiev, Robert Frost, Nadia Boulanger, Lotte Lenya, Count Basie, Edward R. Murrow, Padraic Colum, and Dorothy Thompson. Even the von Trapp family had stopped by. Picasso exhibited at the club in 1917. But Faith's favorite description was the one detailing an early event, “An Evening in a Persian Garden.” Club members donned costumes, listened to a reading of Persian poetry, and, no doubt mesmerized, watched exotic snake dancers. Today's tea, in the Sunroom on the clubhouse's top floor, would be very tame in comparison, although you could never tell with these ladies, Faith reflected. They'd been in the vanguard of Votes for Women and ahead of their time in exploring national and international affairs during several wars, expertly raising relief money, all the while keeping up with classes in everything from exercise to computer literacy nowadays.