Tender Death (30 page)

T
HE LAID-BACK ENTRANCE
to the Galleria encouraged unpredictable air currents that billowed scarves and coats and lifted hats unceremoniously. The wind worked pathways through Wetzon’s raccoon coat and froze her freshly processed cheeks, swirling dirt and grit that had lodged in previously frozen snowdrifts into tiny vortexes. She took the lavender beret from her carryall and put it on, pulling it down over her ears.

Smith, who had followed her to O’Melvany’s car, was standing nearby, silent for once, possibly trying to figure out what was happening before forging forward again.

“Sergeant.” Wetzon’s words whipped around her almost lost in the wind. “You said Ida was wanted for questioning in a murder ... does that mean Peepsie—I mean, Evelyn Cunningham’s death is now officially considered murder?”

O’Melvany rested his elbow on the roof of the car. The cold didn’t seem to bother him. “I have nothing official to say about it. They’re calling the shots from the commissioner’s office. There’s a special squad on it—your friend Silvestri has the assignment.” Wetzon shaded her eyes from the wind and looked up at O’Melvany. He sounded envious. He opened the door and got into the car. She tapped on the window and he rolled it down. The younger man at the wheel eyed her with interest. “Sergeant, I think I know where that other shoe may be. You know, the mate of the one I found on the street after Mrs. Cunningham was pushed off the terrace.”

Smith had evidently had enough, grown bored with not knowing what was going on. “Let’s go, Wetzon.” She tugged at Wetzon’s coat.

O’Melvany rubbed his wiry mustache and frowned. “Now how would you know that? We went over that place with a fine-tooth comb.”

“Did you look inside the big urn that was at the entrance to the living room?”

O’Melvany’s wiry orange eyebrows rolled over each other.

Wetzon put her hands up on the edge of the open window and leaned toward him, raising her voice over the wind. “They’re auctioning off her furniture at Yorkeby’s. We were on our way over to the exhibition now.”

“Oh, for pitysake,” Smith said.

O’Melvany stared straight ahead out his front window, then with one long arm, reached behind him and opened the back door. “Get in, Ms. Wetzon. Let’s take a ride.”

“Come on, Smith.” Wetzon got into the backseat of the car and slid over, making room for Smith.

“This was going to be a fun afternoon, Wetzon, just us girls,” Smith grumbled, but she got into the car, as Wetzon knew she would. One thing Smith hated was being left out. She settled in behind O’Melvany and gave him a lovely smile.

Grunting, he rolled up the window and took a cigarette out of a pack of Marlboro’s on the dashboard and lit it. The carbon smell of the match filled the air, giving way to the sharp smell of the cigarette. “Yorkeby’s,” he said to the other detective.

“This is my partner—”

“Xenia Smith,” Smith interrupted in a throaty voice. “So pleased to meet you ... ah, Lieutenant ...”

Wetzon elbowed Smith, who shifted out of the way, smiling a contented smile.
Why did she have to ply her charms on everyone?

“Sergeant,” O’Melvany corrected. “Sergeant E. D. O’Melvany.” He spoke over his shoulder. “This is Detective Galvin.”

Galvin negotiated a U-turn expertly in the midst of the rush hour traffic on Fifty-seventh Street, and they headed east toward First Avenue, reaching Yorkeby’s about twenty minutes before the exhibition closed.

O’Melvany, all long and lanky arms and legs, ducked his head and unfurled himself from the car. He reached down to open the rear door, giving first Smith and then Wetzon his hand. The icy wind coming from the East River was unrelenting. They hurried to the entrance of the modern box of a building where the internationally renowned auction house held the auctions of much of the world’s antiques and artwork.

“We’re closing in fifteen minutes,” a haughty black man in a dark blue guard’s uniform announced. O’Melvany flashed his ID. “Yes, sir, what can we do for you?”

O’Melvany looked at Wetzon. “The Cunningham Collection,” Wetzon said.

“Second floor exhibition room. Take the escalator.”

O’Melvany moved forward quickly and Wetzon, scooting after him, missed Smith. Smith was at the information desk talking to a woman in a severe black suit, with gold-rimmed glasses resting on the tip of her long thin nose. The gray, jewel-neck sweater was a close match to her hair. She was smiling warmly at Smith, who reached into her pocket and handed the woman her business card. Smith fluffed her curls and laughed affectedly. She caught up with Wetzon on the escalator.

“What was that about?” Wetzon didn’t bother trying to keep annoyance out of her voice. O’Melvany was using the escalator as a staircase, going up two steps at a time.

“She’s going to call me whenever there’s a consignment of—”

“What’s this we’re looking for, Ms. Wetzon? Some kind of jar?” O’Melvany suddenly seemed annoyed.

Another uniformed guard stood at the entrance to the exhibition room, to the right of which was a small table with catalogues for sale at two dollars each. A similar catalogue, very well thumbed, hung from a cord attached to a hook in the wide doorframe.

“You can’t smoke here,” the guard said, pointing to the No Smoking sign.

O’Melvany took a long last inhale and put his cigarette out in a tall deco ashtray, where a dead cigar butt stood upended in the sand.

“I don’t exactly know what they’re called—see—” Wetzon pointed to a copy of the ad on the table. “This is it. I think it’s some kind of temple urn.”

Smith wandered ahead of them into the exhibition room, which was arranged somewhat like a grand living room. Oriental rugs were on the floor, furniture was arranged along the walls and in conversation groupings. Lamps and accessories were decorously placed on the end tables and coffee tables. Paintings and tapestries hung from wires on the walls.

A few stragglers were still examining items in the exhibition even though it was so near to closing. A slovenly old man in work clothes, in need of a shave, was studying the underside of an old trestle table. A thickset man with a loupe in one eye was holding a piece of jewelry while a woman in a red sports jacket and pleated skirt watched him, hand on an open glass exhibition case. Smith drifted over to him and looked over his shoulder. The man handed the piece of jewelry back to the woman in red, who replaced it on the glass shelf and locked the cabinet. He ran his hand over his bald spot, put the loupe back in his pocket, and took a turn around the room. Smith followed the man, a seductive smile on her face, as he walked toward the escalator.

“There it is!” Wetzon saw the huge urn with its vivid blues and reds on the far side of the exhibition room. It seemed even larger than she remembered.

“May I help you? We’re about to close.” The woman in red stood next to them, looking from O’Melvany to Wetzon, a question on her face.

O’Melvany flipped his ID at her and put it back in his inside pocket. “Sergeant O’Melvany, NYPD. We’re looking for something that may be inside that urn.”

Wetzon was already standing next to the urn on tiptoes, trying to see into it, but the urn was almost as tall as she was.

“I’d like to upend it,” O’Melvany said.

The woman looked pained. “Morris,” she called in a thin voice to the guard near the entrance. “Would you bring us a flashlight and call Mr. Falkland, please.” To O’Melvany she said, “I don’t think we have to move it.” The guard returned with a long stainless steel flashlight and handed it to O’Melvany. “I’ll be right back,” the woman said. “Morris, please see if you can help Sergeant O’Melvany without disturbing the exhibition.” Her tone implied,
See to it that these boors don’t do any damage.

O’Melvany shone the flashlight into the urn and peered inside. “Nothing here.” He said it as if he hadn’t expected otherwise.

“Are you sure?” Wetzon had been so certain.

“Give me a break, lady.” He handed the flashlight back to the guard as the woman in the red jacket returned, followed by a pale, elegant man.

“I’m Gerard Falkland, the managing director.” The man ignored Wetzon, speaking directly to O’Melvany. “How may I help you?”

“We’re finished here,” O’Melvany said, dusting off his hands.

“No, wait!” Wetzon said. “Where’s the other one?”

“Other what?” O’Melvany shoved his hands in his pockets and headed back toward the escalator.

“The other temple urn.” Wetzon looked around urgently. Smith was engrossed in something in a flat-topped case. Jewelry, of course.

“What other urn?” O’Melvany paused, rubbing his mustache.

“Was there another urn?” The woman turned to Gerard Falkland.

“As a matter of fact, there was. It had a hairline crack near the base. I think we may have returned it.” He ran his forefinger along his aristocratic nose. “Wait—let’s have a look. Follow me.”

He led them to the fifth floor, by an elevator decorated with exhibition notices, and unlocked a double door of staggering proportions with a key from a large ring of keys. They entered a massive storage room, windowless and musty with the smell of old wood and aging upholstery. It was pitch-black. Falkland reached out and pulled a large lever, bathing the room in brilliant light.

“Oh my God,” Wetzon gasped. Furniture was piled many feet high from one end to the other, almost to the ceiling. Shades of
Citizen Kane.

“It may still be here ... somewhere,” Falkland murmured, motionless, eyes searching.

Wetzon walked slowly into the ordered disorder. The sheer abundance was mind-boggling.

“Please, do be careful.” Falkland’s calm demeanor had begun to fray.

“I don’t see it,” O’Melvany said, moving cautiously into another aisle.

“I’m afraid it’s just not here anymore,” Falkland said. “Shall we go?”

“Ms. Wetzon?”

“Please, wait.” Wetzon darted into an area she had not checked and caught her boot on the edge of a worn tapestry. A cloud of dust flew in her face as she clutched at the tapestry to keep from falling.

“Good heavens! I asked you to be careful.” Falkland came down the aisle toward her in high dudgeon.

“I’m sorry. All right ... let’s go,” she said, defeated. She tried to prop up the bulky tapestry to put it back where it had been, when it slipped from her hands and slid to the floor, revealing the urn, gleaming and majestic, next to a large carved open armchair with a damaged seat. Cracked or whatever, it was beautiful. “Eureka!” Wetzon cried.

“May I?” O’Melvany strode over and moved the chair.

“Go right ahead.” Falkland watched dispassionately as O’Melvany rolled the urn to the small clearing near the entrance to the storage room. “There’s only a hairline crack, but of course you understand we cannot sell anything that’s damaged—”

O’Melvany tilted the urn and Falkland grasped the bowl and together they turned it gently on its rim. Wetzon held her breath as they picked it up and righted it.

On the floor where the mouth of the urn had been was a small, dusty blue Gucci shoe.