The Oxygen Murder (21 page)

“What’s his first name?”

She raised her eyebrows and said nothing.

Lori had told me that we should use a side entrance to the museum and follow the signs to the café on the fifth floor. Thanks to the sweeping, airy design, some of the museum’s collection was visible though the galleries were closed. I was impressed by the largest Monet I’d ever seen, a three-part mural. Rose was proud that I recognized a water lily painting, and she took full credit for my art education, as was correct.

Rose pointed out the wonders of the Sculpture Garden and Rodin’s figure of Balzac. I was more taken with the building itself and wondered how they—whoever they were—managed to requisition all this open space in the middle of Manhattan.

The café was as crowded as close-packed molecules. Except for one or two holdouts in contemporary styles, the gathering of women was a testimony to power dressing. I’d seen so many unusual fashions this week, from the strangely slanted neckline on the NYPD secretary to the various wraparound blouses and abbreviated sweaters worn by women I’d observed around town. I’d wondered if anyone bought plain wool suits any more, or slacks that fit at the waist, or classic blazers.

And here they all were.

Lori found us in the crowd very quickly. I hoped it wasn’t my travel-store burgundy knit that pinpointed us so easily. She’d succumbed to tradition and wore a brown gabardine suit with a knee-length skirt and a velvety lapel. Her plain, crewneck blouse was an off-white that reminded me of what Rose called her eggshell kitchen walls.

“The professional look becomes you,” I told her.

She fingered her pearls. “My mother’s,” she said. “I dressed around them.”

“Wonderful choices,” Rose said.

Lori brought us to a round table near the podium. Our names had been printed in calligraphy on place cards in spite of short notice.

I was thrilled when Tina Miller took the seat next to me.

Lori’s doing, I knew. Such was the prerogative of the setup committee.

“Nice to see you again, Dr. Lamerino,” Tina said, though she couldn’t have read my place card, which was turned away from her. She must have noticed my surprise and guessed the reason. She smiled. “It’s my business to remember names.”

“You’re good at what you do. I read the wonderful article in
New York City Today.
”

“They did a nice job. I was very pleased with it,” she said, with a modest shrug.

“Congratulations on being chosen for this award. I’m sure you worked very hard for it.”

“Thank you, and I did.”

Tina’s outfit looked like the same one I’d seen in the magazine spread—a tailored black suit and white blouse. I figured this was the only such suit in her wardrobe, as opposed to a broader collection of turtlenecks, corduroys, and belt buckles.

Despite Lori’s good intentions, the seating arrangement did nothing to further my inquiry into the Dee Dee Sanders–Amber Keenan–Tina Miller connections. Our conversation was stilted and uncomfortable. It didn’t help that it took place amid the din of waiters (the only males in the room) plunking down plates and pouring ice water and guests
chatting, laughing, and shouting congratulations to each other across the room.

“How’s Dee Dee?” I asked in a voice too loud to carry my concern. “Such an unfortunate thing to have happened to her.”

Tina
tsk tsked.
If she was surprised that I knew so quickly, she didn’t let on. “It’s terrible that you can’t even go jogging in the world’s greatest park without being attacked.”

“I thought the attack on Dee Dee was related to Amber Keenan’s murder,” I said.

Tina gave me a broad—if not quite sincere—smile. “I see you’re still on the case, in a manner of speaking.” She broke off a piece of her blueberry muffin. “Funny, I’ve been working with the NYPD myself for years and
I
haven’t been deputized.”

“Shall I put in a good word?”

One good dig deserved another, I figured, but my smart-aleck comment sent her away, mentally and physically.

“Could you please pass the butter?” she asked. Then quickly, “Is that Renee Duboscq two tables over? Please excuse me. I’ve been trying to reach her for days.”

The next time I saw Tina Miller, she was behind the podium accepting her award. She never came back to her crepe and sausages.

On the other side of me, a young, attractive black woman was showing Rose a portfolio of her company: Alida’s Personal Shopping and Custom Designs. Rose had made a friend.

I hoped Alida didn’t do wedding receptions.

Before we left, Lori introduced us to several other women, some of whom I recognized from the magazine piece. Rose had kept busy giving and receiving business cards.

Near the coat check counter, Lori pulled us aside. “In the interests of your becoming familiar with people involved with the ozone issue, I want to point out Rachel Hartman.” She nodded her head in the direction of a tall blond woman in a sleek black suit. “Pardon me for being catty, but she really shouldn’t be here. She’s the PR woman for Blake Manufacturing, which owns at least four facilities in the tristate
area. Hardly a
small
business, but the rules have loosened up and now it’s sort of—any woman with a job can join.”

“And no PR person would miss an opportunity like this,” Rose said.

“Everybody needs a little welding now and then,” Lori said.

As we left the building I caught a glimpse of Tina Miller on a bench, changing from pumps to what looked like safety shoes.

C
HAPTER
E
IG
TEEN

S
till in my power breakfast clothes, I rode the elevator with Matt to my second of three special meals on Wednesday—Lori’s luncheon. The third would be dinner at the Sassos’ in the evening. I thought I was ready to face Karla without feeling as though I’d read her secret diary.

This trip was doing nothing for my weight control, but I reminded myself that another chance for a New Year’s resolution to that effect was less than a month away.

Matt and I made a cozy twosome on the elevator in Lori’s building, especially with our newly purchased, enormous poinsettia on the floor between us. I was glad the janitor had left his bucket and mop somewhere else this time.

“This is pretty small,” Matt said, running his hand along the elevator’s accordion door. Something I thought I’d made clear in my many iterations of that Sunday morning adventure, but I guess he needed the personal experience.

Despite an enthusiastic effort on my part, first thing in the morning, Matt had had no trouble shrugging off my ideas and questions about Dee Dee. In the very cold light of day, they’d faded into the back of my mind and began to seem preposterous to me, too. So I’d abandoned my circuitous reasoning and looked forward to lunch with Amber Keenan’s brother. The least I could do was be nice to the family of a woman I’d failed in her last hour.

I suppressed a queasy feeling as the old box creaked its way up to the fourth floor. I leaned back against Matt. I’d hoped to ask the loft some questions, to see something missed by the NYPD forensics experts, but my secret euphoria at revisiting the crime scene was gone.

Rose had declined Lori’s invitation in favor of meeting Karla’s mother for shopping. They’d start at Trump Tower on Fifth Avenue and head north and east to Bloomingdale’s, she’d said, as if I’d be envious. I knew that Grace Sasso would be a more appropriate shopping companion for Rose, and I was happy for her.

“I can’t wait to tell Grace about your upcoming wedding reception,” Rose had said.

“I agreed to a
party
,” I’d said.

“A party with a wedding theme,” Rose had answered, picking a piece of white lint off my jacket. “I’ll be keeping that in mind while we’re shopping. Maybe I’ll see something new in bride-and-groom decorations.” Instead of responding, I busied myself searching for a foreign speck on her outfit. None to be found.

Lori was at the door to greet Matt and me, as if she’d heard the elevator and knew exactly when we’d be exiting. “I’m so glad you came,” she said. She led Matt to a table where he could set the plant and then hugged us both, though I’d left her only a short time ago.

I assumed the tall young man following her was Billy Keenan. I had a strange reaction to him, imagining that he looked like his sister, though I’d never seen her full front, in an upright position.

Billy was a big man, with lighter hair than Amber’s, worn in a bowl cut so that large strands of it fell in front of his eyes. I pictured him on his farm, his thumbs hooked in the straps of his denim overalls, his boots covered in who knew what. The result of my never having set foot in Kansas, or on a farm, I suspected.

“Billy flew in on Monday night. I wish he’d have called me then,” Lori said. “Anyway, he’ll stay here until . . . he has to leave.” She ended weakly, then disappeared into the kitchen.

“I didn’t want to be a bother,” Billy said, shaking our hands in turn. “Nice to meet you all.”

“We’re all so sorry about Amber,” I said.

“Anything we can do to help,” Matt said.

“Thank you, ma’am.” Billy’s voice was soft, his manner respectful. He shook Matt’s hand. “And, sir, there
is
something you can do.”

Before Matt could ask what, Lori came in from the kitchen with another young man, leaving me to wonder what Billy wanted. Burning
with curiosity as I was, you’d think he’d asked me for a favor instead of Matt.

“This is Craig,” Lori said. “He and Billy got to know each other last night, so I thought it would be nice to have him over, too. Craig’s the guy who does both the sound and the editing for me.” She patted his back and shrugged her shoulders. “It’s a small company,” she said with an apologetic tone, answering a question no one had asked.

Craig uttered an enthusiastic “Hey” to each of us and returned to kitchen chores. Before he left he assigned Billy the task of arranging chairs in a circle.

Lori’s long dining room table, which looked also like a worktable, was laden with food: roasted chicken, pepper and olive salad, pasta primavera, and a basket of crusty bread. The smell of anise from the assortment of Italian cookies held its own against the aromas of garlic and vinegar.

I was curious about Lori and Craig’s relationship, especially since he seemed to be playing the role of cohost. When Matt and I were assigned a task—to haul in drinks from an extra refrigerator in the back hall—I took the opportunity to quiz him.

“Is Lori seeing anyone special at the moment?” I asked.

“She just broke up with a guy she’s known since before college,” Matt said in a low voice. “Sean Mahoney. He wanted to move back to Boston, which he did, but Lori would never leave New York, and she wasn’t interested in a long-distance relationship.”

“What about Craig?” I whispered.

Matt shrugged and gave me a strange look, as if I’d suddenly taken over the role of Rose in our group. “I’m sure we’ll find out.”

I wasn’t sure myself why I’d bothered to ask about Lori’s love life. I’d lived a few decades as an adult without a partner and certainly didn’t think it odd or unpleasant for anyone to live singly, but Lori seemed very connected to social matters and to people.

“I’m just curious,” I told Matt, answering his unspoken question. “I want everyone to be as happy as I am.”

“I can’t wait for the wedding,” he said.

We reentered the main part of the loft laughing.

To keep myself from staring at the spot in front of the couch, now right side up, where Amber’s body had been, I wandered around the loft. I estimated it to be at least sixty feet long and about thirty feet wide. I noticed that our gift was the first sign of Christmas to enter the loft and wondered if Lori had been having a particularly bad holiday season even before her home became a crime scene.

Decorative screens and draperies marked off space here and there. One of the few real doors, in the southeast corner, had a sign:
GO
. I assumed it was a darkroom with a
STOP
sign on the other side of the placard. The brick interior walls were a perfect backdrop for nicely framed prints and fabrics. Every few feet a painted white post dotted the high-gloss hardwood floors, ending at the ceiling. I hadn’t appreciated the ideal chameleon space the first time I saw it, under less than ideal conditions.