Gretchen’s face lit up. She shoved the soggy handkerchief into the pocket of her black pantsuit. “You can’t imagine how even more beautiful it is with all the work I’ve done, both inside and out. And I’m growing plants and vegetables in my conservatory,” she said enthusiastically. She looked over at her mother, whose expression did not change. “Mama, it doesn’t matter if I show Celia some pictures, does it? I mean she’s already seen pictures of the house.”
Lottie did not answer. She simply watched as her daughter stepped out of the receiving line, hurried over to a seat in the front row, and reached for her pocketbook. Then Lottie turned her attention back to the people in line. Soon Hannah was before her.
Before Hannah could express her sympathy, Lottie, her voice so low that Hannah had to lean forward to hear her, said, “The police are convinced that Gus and Kate intentionally set that fire.”
“They’re suspicious, yes,” Hannah said quietly. “I don’t think they’re convinced by any means.”
“I don’t know what to think,” Lottie replied fiercely, “but I do know my husband is dead. If your sister convinced him to set this fire, it would be better off if she dies, unless she would prefer to spend years in prison.”
Heartsick, Hannah realized that Lottie was afraid that Gus and Kate had set the fire. Was she telling that to the fire marshals? Knowing now that Lottie wanted no part of her sympathy, Hannah turned away. Gretchen, seated in the first row with Celia Ramsey beside her, had her iPad on her lap and was enthusiastically pointing out details in the pictures she was displaying on the screen.
Marshal Frank Ramsey had quietly slipped into the seat on Gretchen’s other side so that he, too, could see the pictures of her beautiful home in Minnetonka, Minnesota.
At that moment Hannah heard a plaintive moan and spun around in time to see Jessie try to grab and hold on to Lottie Schmidt as the frail woman collapsed to the ground in a faint.
31
As Clyde Hotchkiss had scrambled to get away from the complex early Thursday morning before the cops and fire engines arrived, he frantically threw just about everything into his cart and opened the back door of the van.
He could see that all the buildings in the complex were on fire. Thick clouds of smoke were being blown around by the wind. His eyes began to water and he began to cough. In the distance he heard the sound of sirens. Sobered up by the shock of the explosion, he had been desperate to get out of there and reach the subway station. He was pretty sure that he smelled of smoke. But he was lucky. He always kept a fare card for one subway ride and he was able to lift his cart over the turnstile gate and get down the stairs and onto the subway platform just as a Manhattan-bound train was pulling in. With a sigh of relief Clyde got on. The train was almost empty.
He closed his eyes and began to think. I can never go back to that place in Long Island City. When the fire is over, they’ll surely move the vans and if they look inside the wrecked one, they will know someone had been holed up in it. They might even try to blame the explosion on me. He’d read enough papers to know that street people were often blamed if they had been hanging out in an abandoned house or building where a fire occurred.
Then he had begun to think about the girl who climbed in his van that time. For some reason he had been dreaming about her when the explosion happened. I don’t think I hurt her, he thought. I did take a swing at her when she kept talking and asking questions and I needed her to be quiet. But I don’t know . . . I just don’t know . . . I think I punched her . . .
He panhandled all that day on Lexington Avenue. That night he went back to one of his old spots. It was a garage on West Forty-sixth Street that had a ramp from the street to the underground parking area. Between 1 A.M. and 6 A.M. the garage was closed and the overhead door at the end of the ramp was lowered and locked. Clyde could sleep next to the door, protected from the wind and out of sight of the street.
He hung around about half a block away until he saw the attendant come up the ramp, then he scurried to settle in there. It worked out okay because he usually didn’t need much sleep, but he realized how much he missed the comfort of the van.
On Friday morning he left before dawn and wandered down to panhandle on West Twenty-third Street. Enough quarters and dollar bills were dropped into his cap that he was able to buy four bottles of cheap wine. Two of them he drank in the late afternoon. That evening, he dragged his cart back up Eighth Avenue to Forty-sixth Street, keeping a sharp eye out for the do-gooders who might try to force him into a shelter.
He had drunk even more wine than usual and he grew impatient waiting for the parking attendant to leave. It was nearly 1:15 A.M. before Clyde heard the slam of the overhead grate as it hit the ground. Seconds later the attendant came up the ramp and disappeared down the street.
Five minutes after that, Clyde was settled by the grate, newspapers beneath and over him, sipping the wine with his eyes closed. But then he heard the sound of another cart coming down the ramp. Furious, he opened his eyes and in the dim light saw that it was a real old street guy whose name was Sammy.
“Get out of here!” Clyde shouted.
“Get out of here yourself, Clyde!” a raspy voice shouted back, the words slurred. Then Clyde felt the bottle he was holding yanked out of his hand and the contents spilling on his face. In an instant his fist shot up and caught Sammy on the jaw. Sammy staggered back and fell, but then managed to get to his feet. “Okay, okay, you don’t want company,” he mumbled. “I’m going.” Sammy put his hand on his cart, started forward, but then paused long enough to knock over Clyde’s cart before hurrying up the ramp.
Clyde’s last bottle of wine rolled out of the cart and landed next to him. He’d been about to spring up and chase Sammy. He knew he could catch him and he was aching to get his hands around Sammy’s throat. Instead he paused and reached for the wine bottle, unscrewed the top, and settled back onto the newspapers. With the sleeve of his filthy outer jacket, he wiped the wine Sammy had spilled on him from his face.
Then he closed his eyes and began to sip from the bottle. Finally, when it was empty, with a satisfied sigh Clyde fell into a deep sleep.
32
Early Friday evening, Doug Connelly and Jack Worth met in the parking lot of the funeral home and went in to pay their respects to the late Gus Schmidt. Lottie, ghostly pale, who had returned to the receiving line after a brief rest, greeted them with the same coldness she had shown to Hannah.
“Gus never was himself after he was let go from Connelly’s,” she told Jack. “He wasn’t too old to work. He was a perfectionist and you know it.” To Doug she said, “Kate took advantage of him. He was devoted to her because she fought for him to have a year’s salary when he was fired.”
Both men listened, then Doug said, “Lottie, we know what the media is saying. It’s public knowledge that Gus hated Jack and me. We have no idea why Kate met him at that hour in the museum. For all we know, she may have reached out to him to see how he was doing. They were good friends. The truth will out. And now, again, I extend my deepest sympathy for your loss and this whole tragic situation.”
Recognizing that it was time to leave, Doug simply nodded to Gretchen and began to walk toward the door. But he didn’t get far, because most of the people there were his own employees, and many of them had worked with Gus. They were all extremely anxious to know if Doug was planning to rebuild the complex.
“I am moving heaven and earth to make that happen,” Doug assured them.
He’s lying through his teeth, but he does it with style, Jack Worth thought. He knew it was his own turn to step in. “Mr. Connelly,” he said, his tone respectful, “you’ve had an exhausting day at the hospital at your daughter’s bedside. I know you want to talk to everyone, but they’ll understand if you have to leave now.” His firm tone conveyed a clear message to the men whom, until yesterday morning, he had supervised on a daily basis.
“Of course . . . certainly . . . we’re praying for your daughter Kate, Mr.
Connelly.”
Followed by Jack Worth, Doug left the funeral home and walked across the driveway to the parking lot.
Jack opened the door of his Mercedes for him. “No driver tonight?” he asked.
“It’s going to be an early night and I don’t intend to have more than one scotch at dinner. Did you make a reservation at Peter Luger’s?”
“Yes, I did, Mr. Connelly.”
“Good. See you there in ten minutes.”
It was less than a half hour later that they were seated at a corner table in the famous Peter Luger Steak House. They both ordered a scotch on the rocks, then Doug said, “Lottie just gave me a very good idea—in fact a perfect idea. Kate’s cell phone will show that she called Gus on Wednesday afternoon, but nobody knows what they said to each other. Maybe Gus planned to trap her in the explosion.”
Jack looked across the table at the handsome face of his boss. “Doug, do you think that anyone would believe that?”
“I don’t see why not,” Doug said promptly. “Anyone who knows Kate would vouch for the fact that she was prone to exaggerate for emphasis. For example, did she ever say to you that she’d like to blow up the whole damned complex?”
“Yes, she did, when she was out there a couple of weeks ago and saw that the security cameras still weren’t working.”
“Did you think she meant it?”
“No, of course not.”
“There you are.” The drinks arrived. Doug Connelly took the first sip of his and smiled. “Perfect.”
“You can’t do much to foul up a scotch on the rocks,” Jack remarked.
“Sorry, but I think you’re wrong about that, Jack. Too much ice in a drink can ruin it.”
There were some subjects that Doug had forbidden Jack to ever bring up. “Don’t even think about them,” Doug had ordered.
That was why Jack carefully phrased his next question before he asked it. “If Kate recovers, do you think she would go along with saying that Gus set her up by asking her to meet him?”
“Jack, Kate is a very smart young woman. She’s a CPA. She also has been extremely anxious to receive her ten percent share of the proceeds of any sale of the property. If Gus is blamed for everything, the insurance will be paid, including the insurance on the antiques. Arson by a disgruntled former employee is hardly unusual.”
Dismissing the topic, Doug looked up to catch the waiter’s eye. “I’m having steak, Jack,” he said. “How about you?”
33
Kate’s condition did not improve over the weekend. Hannah knew that Dr. Patel considered that to be a setback. Hannah spent most of Saturday in the hospital, finally leaving when Jessie dragged her out for dinner.
Sunday morning she was back. Dr. Patel had also stopped in to check on Kate. Seeing the dark circles under Hannah’s eyes, he said emphatically, “Hannah, you can’t sit here all day again. If there is any meaningful change in your sister’s condition you will be notified promptly. After all the rain we’ve had, it’s a beautiful day. Go for a walk and then go home and rest. I doubt if you’ve had much sleep since Thursday.”
“I’ve already decided that I’ll leave, at least for a few hours,” she told him.
That was not enough to satisfy the doctor. “Hannah, Kate could go on in this condition for months. I’ve had other cases like this, patients in a deep coma, and I tell all families to live as normally as possible. Go to work tomorrow. Don’t cancel your usual activities.”
“But Kate spoke to my father on Thursday afternoon.”
“Even if she seemed to be able to say a few words, I would suggest that they were probably meaningless.”
If they were meaningless, Kate didn’t know what she was doing when it sounded as if she admitted to setting the fire, Hannah thought with a faint ray of hope. Is that possible?
She realized she was fighting back tears of exhaustion and worry when she thanked the doctor for his care of Kate.
“I’ll stop by again in late afternoon,” he assured her. Then with a smile he asked, “Which part of my advice are you taking, a long walk or a rest at home?”
“I’m afraid neither,” Hannah said. “It occurred to me that I had better check Kate’s apartment. There’s probably food in the refrigerator that should be thrown out.”
“Yes, I suppose there is.” As Dr. Patel nodded, his cell phone rang and with a slight wave of his hand, he stepped outside.
For thirty agonizing seconds, Hannah was sure that he was being summoned back to Kate’s bedside, but then through the large interior window she could see out to the corridor. She watched as the doctor, speaking on his cell phone, broke into a smile as he walked away. It is time I got some fresh air, she thought. I’ll walk through the park to the West Side. It will do me good. Then I’ll come back here later to check on Kate.
After the mostly cold and rainy week, Central Park was filled with joggers, strollers, and bicyclists enjoying the sunshine even though the temperature was still a brisk fifty-four degrees. As she walked, Hannah inhaled deeply, trying to force her mind to restore some sense of balance. As Dr. Patel had warned, Kate’s condition might stay the same for a long time, she reminded herself. If the police try to blame the explosion on Kate, I’ve got to have a clear head to work with Jessie to defend her. Yesterday Jessie gently suggested that I might want to have my own lawyer in case they try to drag me in, too. She recommended another attorney that she says is tops. I’ll look into it if I need to in the next few days.
Involuntarily she smiled at the sight of a pretty young mother pushing her two children in a double stroller. The smaller one was about two years old, the taller one about a year older. Hannah thought about the pictures of her and Kate with their own mother when they were little. Some of them had been with her in Central Park. In all of them, their mom, like this young mother, had been so pretty and looked so proudly happy of her babies.
What would it have been like if she had lived? Certainly Dad would have been much more involved with us instead of being out or away so much. Yesterday he had stopped at the hospital in the late afternoon, staying only a half hour or so. He had told her then that his big concern has been whether Kate might have muttered anything more about the fire within hearing of the hospital staff. If he shows up when I’m there this afternoon, she reminded herself, I’ll tell him that Dr. Patel said that anything Kate might say while she is still in the coma is probably meaningless.
She left the park at West Sixty-seventh Street and walked up Central Park West to Sixty-ninth, then turned left. A block and a half later, she was in front of Kate’s building, a few doors west of Columbus Avenue. She and Kate had given each other a spare set of keys to their apartments, and it was a good thing we did, she thought. Kate’s shoulder bag with her keys inside had not been found. It had probably been torn from her and destroyed by the force of the explosion.
The doorman opened the door for Hannah. She did not recognize him. Over the past year she had gotten to know some of the regular staff. The desk clerk recognized her at once, and by rote, she gave him the same answer she was giving to everybody: “Kate’s condition is serious. We’re hoping and praying for the best.”
She picked up Kate’s mail and stuffed it in her shoulder bag, then took the elevator up to the apartment. At first glance everything was still in its usual pristine order. Jessie had warned her that it was very probable that, as the investigation developed, the police would regard Kate as an active suspect in setting or planning the fire. In that case, they would certainly obtain a warrant to search her apartment. And Gus’s home, too. Poor Lottie if that happens, she thought.
She shook off her coat, and as she walked around the living room, she saw a folded blanket and pillow on the couch. The Bose radio that was usually in the kitchen was on the end table next to the couch. She pushed the alarm button and could see that it had last been set for 3:30 A.M. That made sense, she thought. The explosion happened an hour later. She walked into the bedroom. It was in immaculate order. She opene
d the walk-in closet. At the hospital they told her that Kate had been wearing a running suit and an outer jacket when she was found in the parking lot of the complex.
She must have changed into the running suit when she came back from dinner with Doug, Hannah thought. Then she got a blanket and pillow, set the alarm, and lay down on the couch. But why did she meet Gus at that ungodly hour?
She looked around Kate’s bedroom seeking answers. Even the way it was furnished was a rebellion against the Connelly fine reproductions décor. There were three white throw rugs on the polished fruitwood floor. The four-poster metal bed held a white comforter. The navy blue and white dust ruffle was repeated on the pillows that were propped on the headboard. White valances with narrow blue and white panels framed the two wide windows, one of which gave Kate a bird’s-eye view of the Hudson River.
Modern bedside tables, a television set on a swivel, a desk, and a large club chair with an ottoman were the only other furnishings in the room. The walk-in closet had been custom-designed to hold shelves of sweaters, scarves, and gloves, and racks of shoes. And God knows what else, Hannah thought. Kate could not abide clutter.
Feeling like an intruder, Hannah walked over to Kate’s desk. The narrow drawer under the surface was a study in perfection. The usual trappings were there. A letter opener, an extra pen, a roll of stamps, personal writing paper, an address book, the kind people used before email and text messaging.
The large bottom drawer contained the kind of files used by any bill-paying adult, except the last file. It was marked WILL—COPY.
Her hands trembling, Hannah took out the file and opened it. On the inside cover was the name and address of the attorney Kate had used for estate planning purposes. She had written underneath it “original in safe deposit box.” Besides the copy of her will, there was a sealed envelope marked HANNAH in the file.