“Come on, boss, I want to go home and take a long soak in a hot tub with lots of bubbles.” Faith stood up and carefully placed the paper back exactly as she’d found it. It hadn’t appeared that anyone in this household had read it, either. It was probably the maid’s paper; the Times and Wall Street Journal would be left at the front door each morning by the doorman and read on the way to work—or with white gloves to keep the nasty, smudgy type from one’s manicured hands by wife or mistress left in bed. Nathan Fox’s death wouldn’t affect the market. Therefore, it 16
would have been of only passing interest, good for a crack or two about radicals, hippies, phases outgrown or merely transformed. One of Faith’s recent dates had entertained her for an hour with his elaborate theory that Yuppies, whose “death” was celebrated in the ’87
crash, were the flip side of the coin from hippies.
“Same sense of entitlement, self-interest, self-righteousness, same segment of the population. Graz-ing and arugula versus macrobiotics and grass. Coke versus acid. Different taste in clothes, yet same awareness and disdain for deviations. What, no beads? What, no Rolex? See what I mean?” Faith had, and it made sense. There weren’t any hippies anymore, only “aging hippies,” and that was a pejorative. Nate Fox was fifty-six, an aging radical. She tried to imagine how he must have looked at the time of his death. Significantly different, or he wouldn’t have been able to hide in plain sight. Maybe the FBI had lost interest in him. There were bigger fish in the sea. Maybe they’d stopped looking.
“Ah, I’d hoped you might still be here.” It was the host, rubbing his hands together after pushing through the kitchen door, followed by two other men, almost indistinguishable from himself. They looked to be in their early thirties in well-cut dark suits with well-cut dark hair, and their clean-shaven faces were slightly flushed—but not too flushed—as evidence of a good time. One of them was smoking a cigar.
“Wonderful job, Faith. It all went off rather splen-didly, don’t you think?”
While not above giving herself a pat on the back, Faith wasn’t sure how to reply. A “Yes” was terribly self-congratulatory; a “No” unthinkable.
17
“People seemed to have a good time.”
“Yes, they did, and I thank you. We have something coming up in February for some out-of-town clients.
I’ll call you with the date next week.” He took a bottle of champagne from the refrigerator, confirming Faith’s suspicion that he hadn’t expected her to still be there at all.
She handed him three glasses from the cupboard behind her. “I’m sure we’ll be able to work something out. I’m glad you were pleased with tonight.” One of the men, who looked vaguely familiar, took the cigar from his mouth, tapped some ash in the sink, and said, “Have you got a card? A good caterer is worth her weight in gold these days. Business all right?”
“I can’t complain.” Faith found herself relaxing under his gaze. He was either genuinely interested or awfully good at faking it. She handed him a card.
“My name is Michael Stanstead, by the way,” he said, tucking her card into his wallet.
Of course he looked familiar. Assemblyman Michael Stanstead. Stanstead Associates law firm Michael Stanstead. Society page Michael Stanstead.
Husband of Emma, Michael Stanstead.
“I’m a friend of your wife’s. Emma and I were at school together,” Faith said. A firm believer in convey-ing minimal information, especially to someone’s nearest and dearest, Faith didn’t mention their encounter in the kitchen.
The change in Stanstead was immediate. His smile vanished and his brow furrowed. The host patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’m sure she’ll be better tomorrow.”
“Emma wasn’t feeling well and left the party early,” 18
Michael told Faith. “It’s probably just this flu that’s been going around, but . . .” He paused. “Well, I am worried about Emma. Very worried.”
That makes two of us, Faith thought.
19
Two
Emma Stanstead was not in disguise, as her cryptic, surreptitious words the night before had suggested.
Dark glasses. Garbo hat. Nor was she on time. It was terribly busy for Faith at work. Only the memory of Emma’s frightened face and Faith’s own curiosity had torn her from her vol-au-vents. She was on the point of returning to them when Emma rushed up, starting her apologies from a few feet away.
“These stupid, stupid meetings. They go on and on.
Nothing gets accomplished, except a few people get to hear themselves talk. I wish they’d just call me up and tell me what they want me to do. It would be so much simpler.” Her Ferragamo heels clicked on the museum’s stone floor, punctuating her words. “Let’s go sit in the courtyard in the new American Wing. It’s so peaceful there. Oh, unless you want lunch?” Faith didn’t. The food at the Museum Restaurant had always been nondescript. Now that they’d remodeled and done away with the wonderful fountain in the middle, replacing it with a kind of sunken pit for din-20
ers, she preferred Sabrett’s hot dogs with everything on them from one of the vendors on Fifth Avenue in front of the main entrance. Progress. New York was always acting in haste and being forced to repent at leisure.
Think of Penn Station.
The Engelhard Court in the new wing was filled with plants and an assortment of statuary. Emma by-passed a bench opposite a protective panther and her cubs, selecting instead one beneath towering fronds and art collector/financier August Belmont’s fixed gaze. He had been immortalized in bronze wearing a long fur-lined overcoat, and Faith realized she was feeling slightly chilled. The entire city had entered a state of deep freeze, temperatures plummeting at night to the very low teens. It had put to rest the frightening talk the previous summer about global warming, though. Or maybe it was all part of what the future would bring—fiery summers, frigid winters. Some kind of judgment.
Emma seemed to be having trouble beginning. She sighed heavily, opened her purse, took out a handkerchief, and blew her nose. After her tirade about meetings, she hadn’t said much as they walked through the museum. Her steps did slow as they passed the famous Christmas tree decorated each year with the Met’s collection of intricately carved eighteenth-century Neapolitan crèche figures. She’d murmured, “Remember?” And Faith did. As little girls, the appearance of the tree had marked the beginning of the holiday season for them and they haunted the museum until it appeared like magic. Each had a favorite ornament. Emma’s was an angel with rainbow wings and trailing silken gold robes; Faith’s one of the three kings, in royal robes astride a magnificent white 21