Most of these streets were largely residential, although she did find several souvenir shops. In none of them, however, did she see a sign of Indian-style objects. She considered asking at some of these places if they were aware of the kind of shop she was looking for, but she decided against it. If she did succeed in finding the shop, she did not want the Indian clerk forewarned that she was coming.
At noon, she used her cell phone to call Jane Clausen at Memorial Sloan-Kettering Hospital. To her surprise, Mrs. Clausen readily agreed to her request to visit her. In fact, she seemed almost anxious to have her come by. “If you’re free later this afternoon, it would be very nice to see you, Susan,” she said.
“I’ll be there by four,” Susan promised.
She had planned to stop somewhere for lunch, but decided instead to buy a pretzel and a cola from a street vendor, and to eat in Washington Square Park. Although she had removed some of the contents of her shoulder bag, as time passed she became more and more aware of its weight, and of the fact that her feet were getting tired.
The day had started out overcast and chilly, but by early afternoon the sun had broken through, and the streets, almost deserted earlier, were now teeming with people. Seeing all those people—from Village regulars to gawking tourists—made the walking much more pleasant. Susan loved Greenwich Village. There’s no other place like it, she thought. Gran Susie was lucky to grow up here.
Was it this kind of day when Tiffany and Matt walked around here a year ago? she wondered. She decided to continue her search by exploring the area just east of Sixth Avenue and turned onto MacDougal Street. As she walked downtown from Washington Square, she thought of her conversation with Matt Bauer. She smiled at the memory of the elephant god who he said Tiffany had likened to some of her customers at The Grotto.
The elephant god.
Susan stopped so suddenly that the teenager behind her bumped into her. “Sorry,” he muttered.
Susan did not answer him. She was staring into the window of a shop she had just come upon. She glanced quickly at the entrance to the shop, over which there hung an oval-shaped sign that read DARK DELIGHTS.
Dark delights, indeed, she thought as she looked again at the display window. Inside, a red satin garter belt was draped over a pile of videotapes with crudely suggestive titles emblazoned on the boxes. A variety of other supposedly “erotic” paraphernalia was scattered around, but Susan ignored it. Her attention was riveted on an object in the center of the window: a turquoiseinlaid elephant god, its trunk facing outward.
She spun around. Across the street she saw a FOR RENTsign in the window of the Khyem Specialty Shop.
Oh no! she thought. Threading her way through the traffic, she crossed the narrow street to the shop, stood at the door and peered inside. Even though the shop seemed to be fully stocked, the interior had a deserted look. A counter with a cash register was visible directly in front of the entrance. To the left, she could see a large painted screen that acted as a room divider. That must be the screen Matt described, she thought, the one behind which he and Tiffany had been standing when the man came into the shop to purchase a turquoise ring.
But where was the proprietor or clerk who had been there that day? she wondered.
Then she realized suddenly that there was one person who might know. She rushed back across the street to the porn shop. The door was open, and the place seemed to be doing a brisk business. One man was paying at the cash register, and two untidy-looking adolescents with long, lank hair were on line behind him.
His purchase completed, the man eyed her as he came out, but turned his head when Susan stared him down. A few minutes later the two boys emerged, guiltily averting their eyes as they passed her. They’re definitely underage to be buying that garbage, she thought, the ex-prosecutor in her coming to the fore.
Now that she saw no other customers, she went inside. There appeared to be only one clerk, a thin, unattractive man who, like his surroundings, seemed a little seedy.
He looked at her nervously as she approached the counter. She realized instantly that he thought she might be a plainclothes policewoman who was going to give him grief for an illegal sale to minors.
I’ve got him on the defensive, she thought. Too bad I can’t keep him there. She pointed to the Khyem Specialty Shop across the street. “When did that store close?” she asked.
She detected an immediate change in his attitude. The clerk’s nervous demeanor vanished, and a brief, condescending smile twitched at the corners of his lips.
“Lady, you haven’t heard what happened? Abdul Parki, the guy who owned that place, was murdered Tuesday afternoon.”
“Murdered!” Susan made no effort to hide the dismay in her voice. Another one, she thought—another one. Tiffany talked about the shop’s owner on my program.
“Did you know Parki?” the man asked. “He was a sweet little guy.”
She shook her head, while struggling to compose herself. “A friend of mine recommended his shop,” she said carefully. “Someone gave her one of the turquoise rings he made. Look,” she said, and opened her bag and pulled out the ring Jane Clausen had given her.
The man glanced at the ring and then at her. “Yeah, that’s one of Parki’s rings, all right. He was nuts about turquoise. Oh, by the way, I’m Nat Small. I own this place.”
“I’m Susan Chandler.” Susan held out her hand. “I can tell he was a good friend of yours. How did it happen?”
“Stabbed. The cops think it was druggies, although they didn’t take nothing so far as anyone can tell. He was really a nice little guy, too. And do you know, he was lying there almost a day before they found him. I was the one who called the cops, when he didn’t open up on Wednesday.”
Susan could see the genuine sadness in Nat Small’s face. “My friend said he was a very nice man,” she said. “Were there any witnesses?”
“Nobody seen nothing.” Small shook his head and looked away as he spoke.
He’s not telling me something, Susan thought. I have to get him to level with me. “Actually, the young woman who told me about Parki was stabbed to death on Wednesday night,” she said quietly. “I think the person who killed both her and Parki is a customer who bought several of these turquoise rings from him over the past three or four years.”
Nat Small’s sallow complexion turned a deeper gray as he met Susan’s gaze. “Parki told me about that guy. Said he was a real gentleman.”
“Did he describe him?”
Small shook his head. “Nothin’ more than that.”
Susan took a chance. “I think you know something you haven’t told me, Nat.”
“You’re wrong.” His eyes shifted toward the door. “Look, I don’t mind talkin’ with you, but you’re scaring away my customers. There’s a guy hanging around outside, and I know he won’t come in while you’re here.”
Susan looked the little man directly in the eyes. “Nat, Tiffany Smith was twenty-five years old. She was stabbed as she left work on Wednesday night. I have a radio program that she called in to earlier and talked about a souvenir shop in the Village where her boyfriend bought her a turquoise ring that had the sentiment ‘You belong to me,’ engraved inside the band. She described the shop, and she mentioned a man who she said was a native of India. She said that while she and her boyfriend were in the shop, a man—another customer—bought a turquoise ring, just like hers. And I’m convinced that’s why she’s dead—because of what she said she had seen. And I swear to you that Parki is dead as well because he could identify that same man. Nat, I sense that you know something you’re not telling me. You’ve got to tell me before someone else dies.”
Again Nat Small looked nervously toward the door as though he were afraid of something. “I don’t want to get involved,” he said, his voice low.
“Nat, if you know anything, you’re already involved. Please tell me. What is it?”
His voice was almost a whisper now. “Just before one o’clock Tuesday afternoon, a g
uy was kind of hanging around, looking in my window—the way that guy out there is doing right now. I figured he was trying to pick out something he wanted, or maybe even that he was nervous about coming in here—he looked like a real uptown kind of guy—but then he went across the street and into Parki’s shop. After that, a customer came in here, and I didn’t pay attention anymore.”
“Did you report what you saw to the police?”
“That’s just what I didn’t do. The police’d have me going through mug books or describing him for a sketch artist, but it would just be a waste. He was not the kind to be in mug books, and I’m no good telling people how to draw. I saw the guy in profile. He was classy looking, in his late thirties. He had a cap on, and a raincoat and sunglasses, but I still got a real good look at his profile.”
“You think you’d recognize him if you saw him again?”
“Lady, in this business, I gotta recognize people. If I don’t remember what the undercover cops look like, I might get busted, and if I can’t spot a druggie, I might get murdered. Listen, you gotta get out of here. You’re bad for business. The guys don’t want to come in and shop with a classy-looking dame hanging around.”
“Okay, I’ll go. But Nat, tell me—would you recognize this man if I could show you his picture?”
“Yeah, I would. Now will you get out of here?”
“Right away. Oh, and one more thing, Nat. Don’t talk about this—not to anybody. For your own safety, don’t talk about it.”
“Are you kidding? Of course I won’t. I promise. Now get out of here and let me make a buck, okay?”
88
When Douglas Layton went into Jane Clausen’s hospital room at three-thirty, he found her sitting in a chair. She was dressed in a soft blue cashmere robe, and a blanket was tucked around her.
“Douglas,” she said, weariness showing in her voice, “have you brought me my surprise? I’ve been trying to imagine what it could possibly be.”
“Close your eyes, Mrs. Clausen.”
Her irritation was apparent in her tight smile, but she obeyed nonetheless. “I’m not a child, you know,” she murmured.
He had been about to kiss her on the forehead, but drew back. A bad mistake, he thought. Don’t be a fool and go over the line.
“I hope you’ll be pleased,” he said as he turned the framed sketch so that she could see the rendering of the orphanage that showed Regina’s name on the carved sign.
Jane Clausen opened her eyes, and for long moments she studied the picture. Only a tear in the corner of her left eye hinted at the emotion she was feeling. “How very lovely,” she said. “I can’t think of a nicer tribute to Regina. Now when did you people put this over on me, naming the orphanage after her?”
“The administrators of the orphanage begged us to let it be named for Regina. It will be announced at the dedication of the new wing that I’ll be attending next week. We were going to wait and show you this and the pictures from the ceremony at the same time, but my hunch was that it would give you a lift to see this one now.”
“You mean you wanted me to see it before I die?” Jane Clausen said matter-of-factly.
“No, I don’t mean that, Mrs. Clausen.”
“Doug, don’t look so guilt stricken. I am going to die. We both know that. And seeing this does give me great happiness.” She smiled sadly. “You know what else is a comfort to me?”
He knew it was a rhetorical question. He held his breath, hoping that she would talk about his sensitivity, and his devotion to the trust.
“It’s that the money Regina would have inherited is going to be used to help other people. In a way, it’s as though she’ll be living through the people whose lives are touched and bettered because of her.”
“I can promise you, Mrs. Clausen, that every cent we spend in Regina’s name will be carefully committed.”
“I’m sure of that.” She paused, then looked at Douglas Layton, standing tensely next to her. “Douglas, I’m afraid Hubert is getting quite absentminded. I think that I want to see a different situation in place,” she said.
Layton waited. This is what he had come to hear.
There was a soft tap at the door. Susan Chandler looked in. “Oh, Mrs. Clausen, I didn’t know you had company. I’ll stay in the waiting area while you two visit.”
“Absolutely not. Come in, Susan. You remember Douglas Layton, don’t you? You met last Monday in your office.”
Susan thought of what Chris Ryan had told her about Layton. “Yes, I do remember,” she said coolly. “How are you, Mr. Layton?”
“Very well, Doctor Chandler.” She knows something, Layton thought. I’d better stick around. She wouldn’t dare say anything about me while I’m here.
He smiled at Susan. “I owe you an apology,” he said. “I bolted out of your office the other day as though I’d heard a fire alarm, but I had an elderly client coming in from Connecticut, and I’d confused the times on my calendar.”
He’s very smooth, Susan thought, as she took the chair he held out for her. She had hoped he would leave, but he pulled up another chair, signaling his intention to continue his visit.
“Douglas, I won’t keep you,” Jane Clausen told him. “I need to have a few words with Susan, then I’m afraid I’ll have to rest.”
“Oh, of course.” He sprang up, his expression and manner solicitous.
A classy-looking guy in his late thirties, Susan thought, reflecting on the description Nat Small had given of the man he saw standing outside his shop on the day Abdul Parki was murdered. But then, it fits many dozens of other men. And just because he changed his story about a conversation with Regina Clausen doesn’t mean that he murdered her, she thought, reproaching herself for jumping to conclusions.
There was another tap on the door, and a nurse put her head in the room. “Mrs. Clausen, the doctor will be here to see you in just a minute.”
“Oh, dear. Susan, I’m afraid I’ve dragged you up here for nothing. Will you call me in the morning?”
“Of course.”
“Before you go, you must see the surprise I told you Doug had for me.” She pointed to the framed sketch. “This is an orphanage in Guatemala that is being dedicated next week to Regina.”
Susan examined it closely. “How lovely,” she said sincerely. “I understand there’s a desperate need for facilities like this in many countries, and especially in Central America.”
“That’s exactly right,” Layton assured her. “And the Clausen Family Trust is helping to build them.”
As she got up to leave, Susan noticed a bright blue folder on the nightstand next to the bed. It appeared to be identical to the one she had found pieces of in the wastebasket in Carolyn Wells’s home office. She walked over and picked it up. As she had expected, the front of the folder displayed the logo of Ocean Cruise Pictures. She looked at Mrs. Clausen. “May I?”
“Absolutely. That was probably the last picture ever taken of Regina.”
There was no mistaking that the woman in the picture was Jane Clausen’s daughter. The eyes were the same, and they both had the same straight nose; even the widow’s peak on the hairline was similar. Regina was pictured standing next to the Gabrielle ’s captain. The obligatory cruise photo, Susan thought, but it’s a very good one. When she had done the research on Regina Clausen for her radio program, she had seen pictures of her in newspaper clippings, but none had been as flattering as this one.
“Regina was very attractive, Mrs. Clausen,” she said sincerely.
“Yes, she was. From the date on the folder, I know that photograph was made two days before she disappeared,” Jane Clausen said. “She looks very happy in it. Knowing that has been a comfort in some ways, a torment in others. I wonder if her happiness has to do with trusting the person responsible for her disappearance.”
“Try not to think about it that way,” Doug Layton suggested.
“I’m sorry I have to interrupt.” The doctor was standing in the doorway. Clearly he expecte
d them to leave.
Susan could not wait any longer for Layton to depart. “Mrs. Clausen,” she said hurriedly, “do you remember if a passenger list from the cruise ship was among the things found in Regina’s stateroom?”
“I’m sure I saw one in the envelope with other information about the cruise. Why, Susan?”
“Because if I may, I would very much like to borrow it for a few days. Could I pick it up tomorrow?”
“No, if it’s important, you’d better get it now. I insisted that Vera take a few days off and visit her daughter, and she’s planning to leave very early in the morning.”
“I’d be happy to get it now, if you’re sure you don’t mind,” Susan said.
“Not at all. Doctor Markey, I’m sorry to delay you,” Jane Clausen said, her voice suddenly brisk. “Douglas, hand me my purse, please. It’s in the drawer of the night table.”
She took out her wallet and pulled a card from inside. After jotting a note on it, she handed it to Susan.
“I know Vera is there still, and I’ll phone her to let her know you’re coming, but you can take this note just in case; it has my address. We’ll talk tomorrow,” she said.
Douglas Layton left with Susan. Together they went down in the elevator and out to the street. “I’d be happy to go with you,” he suggested. “Vera knows me very well.”
“No, that’s fine. Here’s a cab. I’ll grab it.”
The traffic was typically heavy, and it was five o’clock before she reached the Beekman Place address. Knowing that she was going to have to rush back to her apartment to get ready for the evening, she tried unsuccessfully to persuade the cabbie to wait for her while she ran upstairs.