I relayed how I’d secured her number and explained the purpose of my call.
“It’s been an absolute eternity since I’ve heard Fiona’s name mentioned,” Claire said. “I would have assumed she was long forgotten.”
“Did you know her personally?”
“I met her just once, at a party with Richard. She was at least a good ten years younger than he was, but he adored her and was very protective of her. She was quite pretty, though hardly what you’d call dazzling. The London fashion shows had started to take off, and I believe she worked regularly in them, but I don’t think she had much luck with photographic work. I suppose that’s where the problems began.”
“What problems?” I asked, feeling my muscles tense.
“She was anorexic. She apparently convinced herself that being even thinner would help secure more jobs.”
“Omigod,” I said.
“I know,” she replied, not knowing, of course, the real reason for my shock. “She died a horrible death. The family had put her in hospital by that point, and she was all hooked up to feeding tubes and the like—but it was too late.”
“I assume Richard was very upset by her death.”
“Oh, yes. He was devastated. We were no longer dating at that point, but we were still friends, and I did my best to comfort him.”
“There’s just one more thing I need to know. Was Fiona friends with Devon Barr? Or do you know of any connection between the two?”
“Ah, Devon Barr. Everyone here is buzzing about her death. And how ironic that she ended up dying the same way Fiona did. Though not so ironic, I guess, when you think of that world. But I digress. Yes, they were friends at one point. But there must have been some kind of falling-out, because I remember that Richard didn’t want Devon at the funeral service—and in the end she didn’t come.”
“Do you have a clue what the falling-out was over?”
“I didn’t at the time—Richard never said anything—but in hindsight I suspect it was a competitive thing. Devon’s career was already on fire. Everyone wanted her for their campaigns. Fiona, like I said, was probably never destined to be a star.”
“I appreciate your help,” I said.
“Tell Cat I send my best. I’d love to see her—though not when I have my husband with me. Cat has that funny habit of yearning for what other women have and then trying to steal it for herself.”
I signed off with my heart thumping. Did Richard blame Devon for his sister’s death? Perhaps, feeling less successful than Devon, Fiona had begun starving herself. I shook my head at how stupid I’d been. Over the past few days, I’d dredged up what I could on everyone except Richard, dismissing him as someone with no real connection to Devon. But he’d known her and possibly resented the hell out of her. Had he also wished her dead?
I wanted some face-to-face time with Richard, and I needed a decent excuse. I thought for a few moments and dialed his number.
“Well, if it isn’t the plucky Bailey Weggins,” he said, sounding relatively sober when he picked up. “To what do I owe this honor?”
“Oh, just checking in. It’s been a couple of days since we spoke.”
“Oh, please, Bailey. You’ve never just checked in with anyone,” he proclaimed. “I’m quite certain you’ve spent your entire life with an agenda.”
I laughed, pretending to be amused.
“Okay, you’ve caught me. I do have an agenda. I know you’re having second thoughts about doing a story for Vanity Fair, but I’ve stumbled on information that I thought was worth sharing. It’s relevant to both of us.”
“Do tell.”
“Could we meet? I’d like to talk in person.”
I sensed him glancing at his watch.
“I don’t want to pass up a chance for a chat with the infamous Bailey Weggins, but I’m a bit jammed at the moment. Tell you what. I’m meeting a few pals at Hanratty’s for dinner tonight at seven, but right before then I’m going to try to squeeze in a walk in the park. You’re welcome to join me on my walk if you wish.”
“Sure,” I said. “Where and when?”
“I like to stroll about in the Central Park Conservatory. The entrance is on 105th and Fifth. Why don’t I see you there at six thirty?”
“Got it,” I said. That part of the city was like a million miles away from the Village, but if I took the 4 or 5 on the Lex to Eighty-sixth and then the local to Ninety-sixth, it wouldn’t take forever to get there.
“I’ll be meandering around in there. You should see me when you come down the stairs.”
After I signed off, I finally called the precinct in Brooklyn and reported the incident with the gypsy cab driver. Just talking about the experience made my stomach tighten so hard it hurt. Later, I fixed a late lunch, puttered, and thought miserably of Beau.
Finally it was time to meet up with Richard. I made it to Ninety-sixth Street in thirty minutes, bundled up in a down jacket, scarf, and old cloche hat. After ascending the subway station steps, I hurried west on 96th, my hands stuffed in my pockets as I fought a mean, dry wind that blew west from Central Park toward the East River. The street was crowded with grocery shoppers and people hurrying home from work. I passed three different places on the street selling Christmas trees, makeshift wood structures hung with colored Christmas lights. At one a woman about my age stood waiting as her tree was bound with mesh. Her little boy looked on in pure delight.
After crossing Fifth Avenue, I turned north, walking along the cracked sidewalk that bordered Central Park. The wind was less brutal there because the trees formed a barricade. It was less crowded there, too, though periodically someone entered or exited the park, mostly dog walkers with their pets in stupid little coats. Though I’d heard about the Central Park Conservatory, I’d never been up there and didn’t know what to expect. After passing the statue of some New Yorker long forgotten, I saw a large black gate on my left. A sign indicated that I was standing in front of the conservatory.
It appeared to be a park within a park, though instead of grassy spaces it was all gardens, or what would be gardens come spring again. There were several dog walkers and an elderly couple out for a frigid stroll. I spotted Richard immediately, just as he’d predicted. He had his back to me, but I knew it was him. I’d stared at that shaggy head of hair for two hours on a trek through the woods.
The wind was up again, overriding the sound of my booted footsteps, but Richard turned suddenly, as if I’d just opened the door to a quiet room he was standing in.
“Is this place one of your secret pleasures?” I asked, approaching him.
He was wearing an extra-long gray overcoat with a tattered Burberry scarf that had either come from the first batch the company had ever made or been run over years ago by a lorry on the streets of London. His face was already red from the cold, and his eyes were watering.
“Actually, yes,” he said over the wind. “I come here all the time. You know how we Brits love a good shrub or a cluster of foxgloves.”
“Not many foxgloves at this time of year.”
“No, but after a day at my desk, I find a walk around the grounds gets my blood pumping. But enough about me. You said you had something to talk about.”
“Yes, a few details have emerged as I’ve been researching Devon’s story, and there’s one I’d like to discuss with you. I know you’re not pursuing the story yourself, but—”
“Excuse me for mixing negatives, but I never said for sure that I wasn’t pursuing it,” Richard said. “I haven’t decided yet. I’m still keeping a toe in the water. In fact, I’m thinking of going to the funeral tomorrow.”