Murder Melts in Your Mouth (4 page)

We started up the echoing stairwell together, Crewe leading the way.

Coming toward us down the stairs, though, came Tierney Cavendish.

He was in a rush, white-faced and silent. He clattered on the steps, one hand gripping the handrail to keep him from plunging headlong down the stairs. He didn't say a word. I'm not sure he even saw us.

Crewe and I stood aside to let him pass.

“Oh, Crewe,” I said, thinking of the scene on the sidewalk. “He shouldn't see his father like that!”

“Even the two of us couldn't stop him,” Crewe replied, just as hushed. He grabbed my arm, and we raced upward.

On the top floor, the heavy stairwell door was locked from the inside. Crewe pounded on it. When the door opened, we slipped into a rear hallway.

The woman who had let us through the emergency door was Brandi Schmidt, the last person on earth I expected to meet at that moment. A local television personality, she was pretty at thirty-something, although thick makeup and false eyelashes created a kind of mask of vacancy on her face.

For an instant, I thought she'd been sent to cover the story of Hoyt's death for her news station.

But in the next second, I knew it was impossible for any news to travel so fast.

She backed her wheelchair up the hallway to allow Crewe and me to enter. Normally, her chair was discreetly hidden behind her on-camera desk, so it was a jolt to see it in reality, although the whole city knew she used one. The story was she'd been injured as a child and couldn't stand or walk, although she had partial feeling in her legs.

But her disability was not Brandi's most distinguishing trait. She had an unfortunate propensity for malapropisms. If unrehearsed, she often mispronounced the names of rivers and politicians. During a prison riot, she had unfortunately read a story about the state's “penile” system off the teleprompter, which made for hilarious commentary in the newspapers for weeks afterward. After a series of verbal gaffes, she was rarely seen on programs with high ratings anymore. She appeared on the occasional weekend morning show when her frequent mistakes could be covered up by a smooth-talking cohost.

Today Brandi looked nearly incapable of any speech whatsoever.

I guessed she had maneuvered the chair into the service hallway to grab an illicit cigarette during the emergency. She blew a nervous stream of smoke at us from her chair.

“Oh, my God, Nora,” Brandi said. “Poor Hoyt!”

Crewe murmured he'd be back as soon as possible. He ripped off his mustache and dropped his Colonel Sanders jacket on a chair. Then he disappeared down the hallway, leaving me alone with Brandi.

“Are you all right?” I asked. I knew her from a few months ago when she'd acted as the honorary chairperson for a charity ball, and I'd interviewed her for my column.

Holding her cigarette, Brandi's right hand trembled, spilling ash onto the carpet. “It's so awful!”

From the hallway, I could see that the suite of offices was jammed with shaken employees and hysterical clients. Police officers were starting to organize the chaos, but it would be several minutes before order could be established in the confusion of the reception area.

The darkly paneled domain of Lexie's father and his staid partners had once smelled of stale cigars and musty paper. But when Lexie took over the firm, she refurbished the whole building to an architectural wonder full of light and color. Dazzling sunlight streamed through the skylights and cast a dappled light through the huge Calder mobile that swooped majestically overhead. The gloomy portraits of Lexie's esteemed relatives had been replaced by an enormous Rauschenberg that graced the wall behind the main desk.

But today, Lexie's personal art collection went unnoticed by the noisy melee of people.

“Okay, everybody,” shouted a police officer. “Step this way, please.”

Brandi dropped her cigarette on the carpet and rolled her wheelchair over it in a practiced maneuver. Then she used the electronic switch to motor up the hallway. I followed until we reached the main reception area. There, Brandi suddenly swayed in her chair. She put one hand to her face.

I sat down next to her on the edge of a glass-cube coffee table. Still shaken myself, I tried to focus on helping her. “You're not well. Can I get you a glass of water? Shall I call someone for you?”

She shook her head. “I can't leave yet. They told me to wait here. I suppose they'll want to question everyone. Do you think we'll be segued?”

“Sequestered? I doubt it. But the police will certainly question everyone.”

“Well, that's the least I can do for—for dear Hoyt.” Her eyes overflowed with tears.

“I'm so sorry, Brandi.” I handed over my handkerchief.

She used it to mop her eyes. “Did you see him? Down there? Was he on the street?”

“I didn't see much. But he is—he's definitely gone.”

“Dead?”

“Yes. I'm very sorry.”

She slumped in her wheelchair and burst into tears. “I can't believe it!”

I tried to suppress my own emotions and patted her hand. “What went wrong?” I asked. “What happened?”

Brandi blotted her face, but succeeded only in smearing her makeup. She blurted out a disjointed explanation. “I don't know. We—everyone had been arguing in the boardroom, and Miss Paine finally insisted we go to different offices to calm down. Then I heard—we all heard Miss Paine shouting with Hoyt, but I—next thing, someone rushed in and said he jumped from the balcony.”

“He killed himself?”

Brandi dabbed her blotched mascara and blew her nose. “He hasn't been the same since his wife died. He was so devoted to Muriel!”

Hoyt's wife had passed away at least three years ago. It hardly made sense that he'd be overcome with grief today of all days. I wondered if Brandi was trying to gloss over the financial trouble Chad had mentioned.

Brandi babbled. “He's never been the same since her death. I know—he confided in me often. We were—I tried to give him the companionship he cravened. But everything must have overwhelmed him at last.”

“But—why today? What happened here?”

Brandi had worked herself into hysterics. She drew a breath and tried to calm down. “Miss Paine called the meeting. She made it sound like an emergency. We're all clients of Hoyt's. She said there was a—a situation. I can't believe it was true, though. Everyone began shouting. It—it was a personal attack on poor Hoyt! And then Hoyt—he punched the Vermeer!”

I thought I had heard wrong. “He did what?”

“He put his fist through the painting in Miss Paine's office!”

The destruction of a work of art hardly seemed as devastating as the loss of life, but I knew Lexie's reaction to Hoyt Cavendish destroying her best-loved painting would be extreme. In recent years, she had sublimated much of her emotional life into her intellectual pursuit of fine art. And the Vermeer meant more to her than nearly the rest of her whole collection put together.

Brandi said, “After he ruined the painting, Lexie blew up. She sent us to different rooms. But Hoyt stayed in Lexie's office, and they argued some more. He must have been more upset than we thought.”

Steadying myself, I said, “Where's Lexie now?”

“With the police, I suppose.” Brandi blinked her doe eyes tearfully at me. “Do you think I should call the station? I suppose this is an important story. I just—I'm not sure I can pull myself together enough to be coherent on the phone. I was very fond of him. He was such a special person.”

Perhaps I should have stayed with Brandi to calm her down. But I cared about Lexie more than whether or not a television station got first dibs on a morbid death on Market Street.

I said, “Take a few deep breaths while you think about how to handle it. I'll be back as soon as I can.”

“Thank you, Nora. You're so emphatic.”

I left Brandi in the lobby and went looking for my friend.

I
managed to slip past Lexie's support staff who stood around the cappuccino machine answering the questions of a middle-aged policewoman. She jotted rapid notes. Everyone looked very serious.

In a doorway, Lexie's administrative assistant, Carla, wept uncontrollably. One of the secretaries put her arm around Carla to calm her.

It was still only minutes since Hoyt had fallen. The police were just starting to take control of the scene. I knew it would be a short time before the offices would be in total lockdown.

A burly uniformed officer at the door shook his head at me. “Sorry, miss. You can't come in here.”

Beyond him in the office, I saw another officer standing in the French doors that led to Lexie's balcony. He held aside the diaphanous curtains and peered over the wrought iron railing at the street below. A wave of vertigo caught me, but I fought it down.

On the primary wall of Lexie's office, the Vermeer hung crookedly. Even from the doorway, I could see a gaping hole in the canvas. The serene woman depicted in the picture had presided over Lexie's day-to-day business for so long I had almost become unaware of her presence. But at seeing the horrible puncture in such an exquisite painting, I reeled back from the doorway, sick all over again.

Where was Lexie?

Behind the public spaces of the firm lay a labyrinth of smaller offices where less-important employees toiled. I went down the hallway to the door of Lexie's private bathroom. It adjoined her office but also had this door that opened into the hall. The door was locked, but I tapped on it and said softly, “It's Nora.”

Crewe opened the door to me, and I slipped in. It was a spacious retreat with plenty of marble, a heavily framed gold mirror and a brass tray on the counter containing a collection of soaps, lotions and sprays.

Lexie stood leaning against the wall, head bowed, arms folded on her chest. I crossed the marble tiles and hugged her hard. She felt thin, but not fragile. She rowed on the river every morning, and her body showed it. But she shivered as if she'd just spent a day in the Arctic.

“Oh, Lex,” I said. “This is terrible.”

She might have been crying minutes earlier, but she had pulled herself together now and simply looked white-faced and tense. Her black hair was still neat in its ponytail. Her suit—an impeccably tailored silver Armani jacket paired with a black skirt that further emphasized her slim figure—showed no evidence of the catastrophe. Her mouth quivered, though. She was barely in control.

Standing as far away as possible while still in the same room, Crewe said, “The police want to talk to Lexie in a minute. I told her she needs an attorney.”

“I do not,” she snapped. “I can make perfect sense on my own.”

“This situation is complicated,” Crewe said. “I'm not saying you're guilty of anything—”

“Of course she's not,” I said.

“But this thing is going to get ugly.”

“How much uglier can it get?” she demanded. “A man is dead. Not to mention my wonderful Vermeer violated.”

“Oh, Lex.”

She shook off my touch as I reached for her. “The Vermeer will never be the same. Can you believe the bastard did it? He punched my painting!”

My heart went out to her. Lexie wasn't herself. I could see she was redirecting her emotions, and I ached to hug her.

“Lexie,” Crewe said, “you've got to calm down. If Hoyt jumped, there will be questions, probably lawsuits—”

“Lawsuits!” I said. “What does that matter now?”

“He didn't jump,” Lexie said, her voice flat. Crewe and I both stared at her.

“He didn't.” She used both her hands to smooth her hair back from her face, but she ended up pressing the sides of her head as if it might explode. “He wasn't suicidal. He was angry and defensive, but wasn't going to harm himself.”

“Don't say that to the police,” Crewe said. “Don't try to explain. Just say what happened.”

I said, “Brandi Schmidt said it was suicide.”

“Brandi Schmidt,” Lexie snapped. “What does Miss Malaprop know?”

“Did Hoyt fall? Was it an accident?”

“Don't be a fool, Nora. He didn't fall through a closed door and over the railing.”

“What are you saying?” I asked, undaunted by her cold sarcasm. “That somebody pushed him?”

“What else?” Crewe said. “Someone must have barged in there and wrestled him out onto the balcony.”

“Who?” I said, astonished.

“Stop it, both of you!” Lexie clamped her hands on her ears. “The son of a bitch is dead. Just shut up and let me think!”

In the short silence, Crewe said, “Hoyt Cavendish has been called a lot of things, Lexie, but never a son of a bitch. Have you gone crazy?”

“Take it easy,” I said, trying to soothe both of them. “Lex, we're just trying to figure out what happened here.”

Harshly, Lexie said, “We argued, and he punched my painting. I left Hoyt in my office and told my assistant to call the police.”

“Why?”

“Because I wanted him arrested for vandalism! When I went back into my office—look, just let me explain it all to the police. I can have the whole thing settled in a few minutes.”

Although she was struggling to hang on to her composure, I had never seen Lexie so agitated. I could see her pulse beating in a vein on her temple.

“Crewe is right,” I said quietly. “Why not call an attorney before you start making statements?”

She swung on me, furious. “Do you think I killed him?”

“Stop it,” Crewe said. “You know she doesn't. You're in shock, Lexie. You're not thinking straight. We're trying to help you see the seriousness of the situation.”

“This is none of your business. It's a firm situation, nothing you need to know about. There are privacy issues at stake. I've got clients to protect!”

“Will the police see it that way?” I asked.

Lexie's eyes blazed. “This is not the time for you two to gang up on me!”

“We want to help,” Crewe said. “You're in no shape to defend yourself.”

I tried to remember exactly what Hoyt Cavendish's relationship to Lexie's financial firm was. He'd been one of her father's early partners in the venture. Chances were, he still handled a few loyal clients who didn't trust anyone else to manage their investments—probably that swarm of elderly women we'd seen in the lobby. In recent years, Hoyt had primarily appeared in public in his role as a prominent philanthropist. It was hard to imagine how he might have caused trouble for the firm. But Crewe had said Lexie was dealing with some kind of financial problem.

“Lex,” I said, “if you and Hoyt were at odds, and you were the last person to be with him—you definitely need a lawyer.”

“This is ridiculous!” She cut around me and seized the brass handle of the door.

“Lexie, wait—”

She stalked out of the bathroom. I felt like crying, but I held Crewe back as he started after her.

Crewe's face was tense and worried. He said, “She needs to calm down, but she's right—we shouldn't gang up on her. Why don't you stay here, Nora? There's a murderer around here somewhere. Lock the door behind me. You'll be safe until I get back.”

“Don't worry about me. Try to make her see reason!”

I watched him hustle after Lexie. I wanted to go, too. But tag-teaming her had only made matters worse.

I hesitated in the doorway, daunted by the thought that a real killer might be hiding in the maze of offices. But I remembered my promise to return to Brandi Schmidt. By now, she might be even more upset than when I'd left her. It would take only a few seconds to return to the lobby, and I knew the route.

As I stepped out of the bathroom, the toe of my sandal struck a small object caught on the threshold of the door. I bent down and picked up a silver compact. Lexie must have dropped it in her turmoil. Without thinking, I slid it into my handbag to return to her later.

Then I left the private bathroom and headed back down the hallway in the direction of the lobby. I could hear voices ahead of me. My sandals made little noise on the thick carpet underfoot. The heavy oak paneling muffled all sound from inside the offices I passed, making me realize that in any one of them, a killer could be lurking. I quickened my pace.

When I'd nearly reached the open door to Lexie's office, I heard the voice of the newly arrived plainclothes officer as she barked orders.

“I want a list of everyone who's on this floor. And who the hell are all those old biddies in the lobby? Check with the security desk downstairs first, and double-check with the receptionist by the elevators up here. We've got at least forty people to interview—and half of them are still wandering around unsupervised! I want this scene secured right now.”

I turned toward the lobby, but suddenly spotted a puff of cigarette smoke. The small trail of blue vapor seeped out between the closed doors of the coat closet located halfway down the hall.

Brandi, I thought. She must have gone into the closet to have one more calming cigarette.

I put my hand on the doorknob. In that brief instant, I recognized that the smell of the smoke was distinctly not tobacco but marijuana.

Without thinking I might be surprising a murderer as he smoked his last joint, I opened the closet door.

And I froze. In shock.

From inside the closet, a startled man stared back at me. He held a smoldering, hand-rolled cigarette between two fingers and looked anything but furtive.

I stifled a scream before uttering the first word that came into my head.

“Daddy?”