The Crasher (48 page)

By the time Ginny reached the other side of Madison, negotiating construction on the corner, Poppy and Alex were out of sight.

She ran down East Fifty-fifth, panting, into the St. Regis Hotel. No sign of them. She ran to Fifth Avenue, looking left,
right, left. Nowhere to be seen. She crossed over to the West Side, into the Peninsula Hotel, the lobby packed with a crowd
of Japanese businessmen. No Poppy; no Alex.

Had her feverish brain conjured them up? Had she imagined seeing them? Was she finally going crazy as Esme had predicted?

No, the largest dark glasses in the world couldn’t hide the identity of Poppy Gan, with her mop of blonde curls and seductive
glide of a walk. But Poppy with Alex? Together. Going somewhere with a look of purpose? Looking as if they belonged together.
What did it all mean? Did Poppy know about the jewels? Were they in her jewel box now? Or in her toilet?

Depressed, shaking with nerves, Ginny slowly retraced her steps, looking one more time in the St. Regis in the famous King
Cole bar. There was no sign of such a standout pair.

The taxi driver, illegally parked on Madison, was blocking the passenger door with his bulk. He shook his fist, yelling, “What
are you, some kind of fuckin’ nut, trying to get me busted and yourself killed. You’re not getting back in my cab, lady. You
oughta be locked up somewhere. Gimme the fare-” He snatched the twenty-dollar bill she proffered and drove away.

Little did the driver know how much she wished she could
be locked up somewhere, safe, sound, away from the rapists, the Poppys of the world and the double-crossing cousins.

It was one of the most depressing days she’d ever spent, and she’d been through enough of them in her short life. The Barneys
Napoleonic cloak was, she was told by an airy salesgirl, “Just eighteen-fifty and running out of the store-there are only
two left in stock.”

She tried it on. It didn’t have any of the grandeur-or gracefulness-of her design, let alone any embroidered gold bumblebees.
She couldn’t resist saying, “It makes me look like a tent, which isn’t surprising considering the origin of the fabric.” The
salesgirl raised a superior eyebrow, swept the cloak off her back as if she shouldn’t have bothered to waste her time, and
strode away.

As she was all the way uptown, Ginny decided she might as well see if there were any other cloaks on sale. She didn’t doubt
that there would be, knowing how fast some of the more enterprising Seventh Avenue manufacturers could churn hot fashions
out.

They were there all right, in several Madison Avenue boutiques, in every kind of material from stuffed sofa brocade to-perish
the thought-diaphanous curtain sheer in Victoria’s Secret.

She wandered in and out of stores, frequently standing still on street corners, looking up and down, still praying for a sighting
of Poppy and Alex. But it didn’t happen.

She called it a day at Saks, where every window on Fifth showed a cloak along with their seasonal evening looks, but even
the Saks variety, one with a luscious roll collar of satin, didn’t measure up to hers. It didn’t make her feel any better.
It was the first time she realized she missed her cloak. She wanted it back, but not for the price she’d have to pay.

As if fate wasn’t teaching her enough of a lesson, as she descended by escalator she saw a sign in sunny yellow that made
her want to throw up, there and then.

Monday through Wednesday

Personal Appearance on Three at Four.

Come to Tea with Becky Corey,

The hot new designer of

Corey’s California Casuals.

Becky Corey. An escape route. For a few desperate minutes she contemplated calling Lee and asking her to set up a meeting
to see if Ms. Lucky Corey still needed a number one assistant, but the feeling passed. Running away wouldn’t solve anything.
Her past would soon catch up with her. She was a prisoner of fate, destined to press her nose against store windows forever,
if not destined to be locked up one day, just as the taxi driver said.

On the way home, she passed one of her favorite hunting grounds for ideas, an Army and Navy surplus store. Hanging outside
was a long, lean epauletted khaki jacket. I need cheering up, she told herself. At twenty-six dollars it was a steal.

When she let herself into the loft, she felt more jittery than she’d felt since first discovering the jewels. So much so she
even rushed to lift the top off the toilet to see if Alex-or Angus-or any of his accomplices-had paid another visit for safekeeping
purposes. Nothing, and no messages on the machine either.

It was only five o’clock. During the shoot on Long Island, Ginny had promised Lee she’d drop into the first show of her artist
friend, Marilyn Binez, in the Village.

She didn’t really want to go. There were too many unhappy memories linked to Marilyn, the plump girl who’d wanted to trade
one of her paintings for Ginny’s suit with inside-out seams, the one she’d designed for somebody tall and skinny, like herself,
not overweight and short like Marilyn… the artist, who, as Lee had pointed out with a mischievous nudge, she’d met the same
night she’d met Ricardo.

“I’ll be there,” she’d told Lee, part of her determination to “act normal.” Now she didn’t think her nerves were up to it.
To calm herself down Ginny went to her drawing board. She
would design another kind of cloak, more Anna Karenina than Napoleon, tragic as opposed to tyrannical, oppressed as opposed
to opulent.

She went through the ideas pinned to her pegboard-a clip about a Yohji Yamamoto coat, “all asymmetrical angles, uneven layers
and sculptural seams, that looks like a cross between something Flash Gordon and a Bruegel peasant would wear”; a fashion
report from Clairol, which she couldn’t remember saving and now wondered why she had. Probably the color story they were pushing,
equating fashion’s new passion for technicolor oranges and fuschias with a return to funky hair color.

Fashions for the young and restless caught her eye. She was young and restless all right. She went back to the bathroom, staring
at her pale image devoid of makeup, aching suddenly with the memory of the bright young thing who, an eon ago, had been directed
by Alex to “start experimenting with looks.”

Her hair was too long. If she went to Marilyn’s show she had to do something about her hair. She pulled it straight up and
secured it on top with an elastic band, then started to braid it from front to back the way the models had worn theirs at
the Yamamoto show. It was like knitting or sewing-better because she didn’t have to think about it. As she braided the last
few tufts, it took a minute for her to realize the phone was ringing.

Probably Esme calling with another bright idea about a full confession. She waited for the beep. There was a pause. Something
made her pick the phone up quickly before the caller hung up.

“Hello…” She sounded the way she wanted to sound, as if she’d just rushed in after a heavy day’s work.

“Hello, little cheetah.”

She was so overwhelmed, she couldn’t speak.

“Are you there?”

It was Alex, speaking unusually softly.

“I can’t believe it… I can’t believe it,” she gasped. And it
was unbelievable, most of all because she couldn’t think of what to say, first, last and all the dozens of other things in
between.

“I know what you must have thought of me… I know how hard it’s been for you, but…” To her horror, Alex sounded as if he was
struggling not to break down.

“My mother’s dying, did you know that, Ginny?”

“Oh, Alex… no, I didn’t know… oh, my God.” Now it was obvious he was choking back sobs. She started to cry herself, familiar
feelings of love, fear, and anxiety for his well-being, pent-up for so long, sweeping away for the moment her anger and suspicion.

“I’ve been in hell, Ginny. I’m still in hell. I can’t even go to the West Coast to see her, not until… until…”

Until what? There was no time to waste. She had to know the answer to the most vital question she would ever ask him. “Were
you at the library?” she cried. “Were you with Svank at the library?”

There was a pause; then, to her amazement, when Alex spoke it was in the smooth, “just-between-us” tone she’d heard for years.
“I can explain everything,” he said. It didn’t wash anymore.

“That’s not good enough. I must know now. Svank… did you… did you…” She couldn’t bring herself to say “kill Svank.” She didn’t
need to.

“For God’s sake, Ginny, how could you think that of me. I despised the old monster; he made my life a misery for the past
few months, but murder…” He sounded shocked. He sounded as if he was telling the truth, but without seeing him, face-to-face,
eyeball-to-eyeball, she just didn’t know.

“Did you come to pick up… did you come to the loft that night, to pick up the jewels?”

“You don’t sound like my sweet little Ginny anymore. What’s happened to you, Gin?”

“You happened,” she screamed into the phone. “You used me; you know how much I loved you, trusted you; you took me for a sucker;
I was-probably still am-a sucker.” Another
question soared through her grief. “I saw you with Poppy today. What have you got to do with Poppy? Is she hiding your loot
now?”

He answered quickly. “Yes, I saw Poppy today.” Now his voice was serious, full of foreboding as he went on, “I want to take
you into my confidence, Ginny, but there’s too much at stake. Why did you ever, ever in your right mind think that I could
be responsible for Svank’s death?”

“Because I was there, goddammit. I saw everything.” She paused dramatically. “I thought I saw you-” She heard his swift intake
of breath. She took a gamble. “I’m the mystery woman behind the cloak.”

Again there was that sound of gulped breath, of panic and shock at the end of the phone. “Ginny, Ginny, listen to me carefully.
Your life could be in great danger. Who else knows you saw the murder?”

“Arthur Stern…” She was surprised how calm she felt, even if she was signing her own death warrant. “And the murderer.”

“And you thought it was me?”

“Wasn’t it?”

“No, Ginny, you did not see me.” He seemed to be waiting for her to answer. Was he expecting her to apologize? When she remained
silent, he said, “Ginny, you are in a dangerous situation. I promise you I’m going to get you out of it. We’ll meet over the
weekend.”

“Where?”

“I’ll call you, I promise… or if that’s not possible, Poppy will call and tell you where we’ll meet.”

“Poppy!” She was stung, as full of the same old irrational jealousy as ever. “What on earth has she got to do with it? Why
are you involving her?”

“Because she’s very important to me right now. Have faith, Ginny. We’ll meet this weekend for sure, I promise. Meanwhile,
don’t let in any strangers.”

He hung up. She sat, frozen with fear, for the first time
wishing she’d covered the one big window in the loft with curtains to shut out the cloudy sky.

“Don’t let in any strangers.” What did Alex mean by that? Could she trust him? Had he been telling her the truth about his
mother or had he been playing on her sympathy? There was one way to find out; to make that long-overdue phone call to her
Aunt Lil.

A strange female voice answered on the second ring. “May I speak to Mrs. Rossiter?”

“Who’s calling?”

“Her niece, Ginny Walker, from New York. I’ve just… just spoken to Alex, her son.”

“One minute, please.”

One minute, two minutes. The wait seemed interminable. Ginny was about to hang up and dial again when another strange voice
came on the line.

“I’m afraid Mrs. Rossiter’s not up to taking any calls today. Did you say you have a message from Alex?”

“Not exactly. Who am I speaking to?”

“Nurse Dobson, the day nurse.”

Ginny’s throat went dry. Day nurse. That suggested another nurse for night. Round-the-clock nursing for a very sick woman.

“Is there anything I can send my aunt?” she whispered. “Does she need anything?”

“Oh, no, miss,” Nurse Dobson replied briskly. “Her son doesn’t let her want for anything, except, of course, she’d love to
see him. Is he back?”

Back from where? Nurse Dobson seemed to know more than most people about Alex’s movements, which wasn’t surprising.

“No,” Ginny replied quickly. There was no use getting her aunt’s hopes up. “He… he called me from overseas. I didn’t realize
my aunt-”

“Yes, I’m afraid she has taken a bad turn. If you hear from Mr. Rossiter before I do, please tell him to come as soon as possible.”

When the phone went down, Ginny sat staring into space. Alex had told the truth. His mother was dying and yet he couldn’t
go to her bedside until… until… what? The jewels were disposed of? The murder was solved?

She dragged herself to the drawing board, trying to stop thinking about Alex, but it was hopeless. Only when she saw him face-to-face
would she know. Would he really arrive on the weekend?

The phone was ringing again. She rushed to answer it, praying it was another call from Alex, but it was Lee, saying she’d
called for a car and could come by to pick her up if she liked.

Yes, she would like. She had to get out of the loft, away from tapping shutters, frightening shadows on the wall, and the
telephone.

Her new hairstyle was a success and so was the khaki jacket she’d picked up that day. She wore it with jeans. Many people
were in jeans, but “no one wears them better than you, Ginny,” said Lee approvingly. “I swear your legs look as if they start
under your armpits.”

For some reason she was the hit of the evening. It was bizarre. She’d never felt less sure of herself, or her looks. She hardly
spoke, but, she supposed, thanks to the usual endless supply of jug wine at the art gallery, she laughed a lot and received
two, if not three, invitations to go on to dinner after the opening, one from a good-looking Indian, who told her he was a
psychiatrist. Perhaps a shrink was just what she needed, but “acting normal” couldn’t extend to a date with a stranger. Oh,
Johnny, please hurry back.

By the time Lee gave her a lift home, in a car packed with a rowdy, happy group, her jitters had subsided.