THREE fifty Park Avenue turned out to be one of those multitiered glass buildings. According to the directory on the lobby wall, Stoddard and Weiss occupied the twenty-sixth, twenty-seventh, and twenty-eighth floors. I mentioned Linda Rheingold’s name and handed my business card to the receptionist on the Administration floor. She pushed a few buttons on her telephone console and spoke into her headset. In a flash the elevator door opened, and Jeremy was trotting toward me with an outstretched hand, saying how nice it was to meet a friend of Linda’s. He continued nonstop with consoling words about Casey’s tragic death. Once I pushed “hello” into the conversation, I never had the opportunity to say another word until we were in his mahogany and leather office on the twenty-seventh floor.
Jeremy was far more poised than when he’d gotten out of the cab with Linda the day before. Perhaps he could exude confidence as long as there wasn’t a Rheingold in sight. He ushered me into a comfortable guest chair.
“Now, what can I do for you?”
I went through my genealogy spiel, not varying far from what I had told Mrs. Rheingold.
Jeremy tilted back his swivel chair and steepled his fingers, a look of total concentration plastered on his face. When I finished talking, he dropped his chair forward and rested his elbows on the desktop.
“I never heard Casey mention his family, much less a genealogy chart. If you are looking for family records, I doubt they’re in his office files, but I’ll have someone look and let Linda know.”
“Actually, if you would let me know directly, I could relieve Linda of the burden and pick up the files. She’s still so stressed about the work issues that took up so much of Mr. Rheingold’s time recently.”
“Why on earth…? Oh, who’s to say what will strike a bereaved spouse as important? I shouldn’t be telling you this, but if it will comfort Linda… Casey was concerned about survivor rights, trying to make sure Linda would be well provided for in case, well, you know. As if she isn’t well provided for now.”
I raised an inquiring eyebrow.
“No partner’s surviving spouse will ever have to seek food stamps, that’s for sure. Linda will never have to worry about money. Casey saw to that, but he persistently tried to make her future more secure. Just last week, he had, shall we say, ‘words’ with the managing partner over the partner shares. Nothing serious. Just a small conversation.”
Linda had mentioned Mrs. Managing Partner, so I knew that Mr. Managing Partner’s name was Cranepool. If he and Casey crossed swords, he was another potential suspect. I filed that away and continued on the one authentic lead I had.
“It’s a relief to know that Linda won’t have to worry. However, she is under the impression that her husband was deeply concerned about some problem involving expensive jewelry, and she’s wondering if it was resolved.”
His eyes darted from side to side as if looking for the truth.
“Doesn’t ring a bell. Besides, if it has to do with a client… confidentiality and all that.”
He stood and offered to give my card to someone named Naomi, who would check for family records in Mr. Rheingold’s files and be in touch. Then he escorted me to the elevator bank as if to make certain I got on an elevator heading straight down. Whether I landed in the lobby or hell was of no concern to Jeremy Lycroft. Of that I was sure.
I was crossing the lobby when I heard the security guard say, “Hey, Mr. Cranepool, how was the trip? Rope in any new clients?”
A dapper dresser in a well-cut charcoal gray suit set off by a bright red and yellow striped tie answered. ‘Just shoring up some old ones. Changing planes at O’Hare is usually a nightmare, but not this time, so it was a good trip.”
When I spoke his name, Cranepool turned automatically. As soon as he saw a young woman, albeit one with wild red curls, his eyes awarded me a completely inappropriate up-and-down body survey. Then he offered his hand.
“Yes, Miss…”
“Bannon.” I supplied. “I’m Casey Rheingold’s genealogist.”
I could practically see his mind speculating whether genealogist was the new code word for mistress.
“Mrs. Rheingold sent me here to check for family records.”
“Of course.” He took my arm and started steering me toward the elevator.
Last place I wanted to be. In an elevator. With him. I stood firm and surrounded myself with a confused air.
“Mr. Lycroft is helping me with all that, but there is one other thing…”
He squeezed my arm while pledging he would do anything, anything at all, to assist me. I had no doubt that, although Mr. Cranepool hardly ever missed dinner at home, he surely had reserved some play-time during the workday.
I widened the physical space between us by a few more inches and pulled a hint of Irish lilt into my voice.
“It’s the relatives, you see. The Galway relatives. Within this very week, Mr. Rheingold was on the telephone with cousins who live in the old Claddagh, in Galway City. Mr. Rheingold was most upset about some business venture. The cousins are all hoping the issue was settled and that Casey Rheingold died with peace in his heart. They don’t want to disturb poor Mrs. Rheingold by asking. So can you tell me, have Mr. Rheingold’s recent business problems been settled?”
Cranepool looked surprised. “ Galway? He has family in Galway, Ireland? That explains so much. Recently, Casey was stressed to an extraordinary degree over a trivial matter. He was brokering a contract for a client to loan some jewelry to the Galway Museum. He worked on it constantly, to the detriment of business that was more important to the firm. We actually argued. It was such an inconsequential transaction, but now I understand. He wanted to be sure everything was perfect so he could shine in front of his family. Please assure the relatives. Casey was overanxious. Nothing more.”
Then the gleam of lechery slid back into his eye. “Perhaps I could check more thoroughly. If we have lunch later in the week, I could let you know what I discover.” He definitely oozed that last sentence.
“Thank you kindly, but no.”
I dipped a half curtsey, effectively slipping my arm from the old fool’s grasp.
I walked over to Madison Avenue and boarded the Ml bus home. All the while, I was wondering. Linda knew Casey was stressed about a work project that had something to do with jewelry. Cranepool didn’t understand why Casey was so beleaguered about the jewelry. Yet his assistant Jeremy had feigned complete ignorance about the matter. How could that be?
MY tried-and-true recipe of a drop of Yahoo, a dash of Google, with a soupçon of Ask.com, produced Casey Rheingold’s client in no time at all. Mrs. Anna Curry was a world-famous collector of Claddagh rings. Not the kind you buy in an Irish import shop, but the heavy, hand-crafted rings made in Claddagh village centuries ago. In one picture, Mrs. Curry is holding a velvet-lined jeweler’s tray filled with hefty gold Claddagh rings crafted by Richard Joyce, who, it’s been said, originated the design in the late-seventeenth century. I’d seen many such rings when I was a child in Galway.
The article alongside told of the other rings in Mrs. Curry’s collection. Some bore the jeweler marks of both George and Andrew Robinson, and any number were crafted by all three Dillons. Her entire collection was in the trusting care of her longtime attorney, Casey Rheingold, who stood smiling with his arm around Mrs. Curry in a series of snapshots from her ninetieth birthday celebration. In one of the pictures I caught sight of both Linda and Jeremy in the background. Neither seemed to be having as fine a time as Mrs. Curry.
I leaned back in my chair. This was a job for the crone. She could easily pass for Anna Curry. I typed up a cheat sheet of information and attached some pictures that would help.
I called anyone who might be looking for me over the next day or so and said I’d be out of town on family business. Then I took a shower and went to bed.