“The Dempster residence.” A woman’s voice. Chirpy.
“Could I speak to Mrs. Teresa Dempster, please.”
“Just a moment.”
Long wait. Then:
“This is David Dempster. To whom am I speaking?”
“John J. Dempster was your brother?”
“He was.”
“Well, this is Timothy Cone. I’m with Haldering and Company. We’re investigating a series of industrial accidents at Dempster-Torrey plants, and I was hoping to talk to Mrs. Dempster for a few minutes. And you’re on my list, too.”
“Eve Bookerman informed us you’d probably be calling. I must tell you in all honesty, Mr. Cone, that neither Teresa nor I know the slightest thing about Dempster-Torrey operations. But naturally we’ll be happy to cooperate in any way we can.”
He shouldn’t have said “in all honesty.” Every time Cone hears that, he gets itchy. Also, Dempster has the plummy voice of a priest who’s been unfrocked for waving his dork out a vestry window. Cone wonders what the guy does for a living. His business address on the list is David Dempster Associates, Inc., on Cedar Street.
“Can I see Mrs. Dempster?” he asks.
“As long as you’re not a reporter or policeman,” the other man says. “I rather think she’s had her fill of those.”
“I could be up there in a half-hour.”
“Come ahead then; I’ll tell her to expect you. I’m afraid I’ll be gone by the time you arrive, but you’ll be able to reach me at my office whenever you wish to see me. You have the address and phone number?”
“Yeah, I’ve got them. I’ll probably get to you tomorrow if that’s okay with you.”
“Of course. And, Mr. Cone, please make your meeting with Teresa as brief as possible. She’s been through a great deal in the past week. She’s bearing up well, but we don’t want her unduly disturbed, do we?”
“I won’t disturb her,” Cone promises. “Just a few questions. Won’t take long.”
But before he starts out, he stops at the office of Sidney Apicella, chief of Haldering’s CPAs. As usual, Sid is massaging his nose. The poor guy suffers from rosacea of the beezer. It’s big, magenta, and swollen, and he can’t leave it alone.
He looks up as Cone enters. “Whatever you want,” he says, “I can’t do it. I’m too busy.”
“Come on, Sid; this’ll only take one phone call.”
“The last time you told me that it took four days’ work.”
“One phone call, I swear. I’d do it myself, but you’ve got the contacts. There’s this guy named David Dempster. He’s the brother of that pooh-bah who got blasted on Wall Street last week. Anyway, this brother has a business, David Dempster Associates, on Cedar Street. All I want to know is what kind of a business it is, assets, liabilities, cash flow, and all that financial shit.”
Apicella groans. “And you think I can get that with one phone call? You’re demented!”
“Give it the old college try, Sid. I’ll make sure you get special mention in my final report.”
“Thanks for nothing,” the CPA says. “When are you going to buy yourself a new suit?”
“What’s wrong with this one? Sleaze is in this year-didn’t you know?”
Figuring an outfit as big as Dempster-Torrey isn’t going to quibble about expenses, he takes a taxi up to the Dempster residence on East 64th between Third and Lex. The place is practically a mansion and, scoping it from across the street, Cone figures it was probably originally two five-story brownstones. But now, with an expensive face-lift, it’s red brick with wide plate glass windows.
The old stoops have been removed, and entrance is via a street-level doorway protected with a wrought-iron gate. There’s a uniformed policeman leaning against the gate, eye-balling all the young ginch passing by.
Cone crosses over and gives the cop what he thinks is an innocent smile. It doesn’t work. The blue takes a long look at his black leather cap, cruddy corduroy suit, and yellow work shoes, and says, “Beat it, bum.”
“Hey,” Cone says, hurt, “watch your language. I’m Timothy Cone from Haldering and Company. I’ve got an appointment with Mrs. Dempster.”
“Yeah? Let’s see your ID.”
Cone digs out his Haldering amp; Co. card with his picture attached. Samantha Whatley claims that photo should be on a post office wall with the warning: This man wanted for molesting children.
The officer takes the card, steps inside, and calls on the intercom. Then he opens the gate, returns the ID to Cone, and unlocks the heavy oak door.
“Sorry about that,” he says.
“No sweat,” Cone says. “You guys on twenty-four hours?”
“Yeah,” the cop says. “About as exciting as watching paint dry.”
There’s a young, uniformed maid waiting for him in the foyer, and he follows her up a wide marble staircase to the second floor. Cone tries to keep his eyes on the stairs, with scant success. Down a carpeted hallway to the rear of the townhouse he gets a quick impression of high ceilings, light, airy rooms, plenty of bright graphics, polished wood, and green plants everywhere.
He is ushered into a greenhouse extending from the back of the building. Wide panes of glass are set in a verdigrised copper framework. The whole faces south and east, and sunlight floods in through glass walls and domed roof. A system of bamboo shades has been designed to mute the bright light, but air conditioning keeps the place comfortable.
The greenhouse is crowded with rough wooden tables, bags of potting soil, fertilizer, crushed shell, sand, and gardening tools. On the waist-high tables, in neat rows, is arranged an impressive assortment of bonsai, each dwarf tree in a splendidly proportioned pot of brown, cream, or dark blue glaze. Other pots are decorated, and a few are set on lacquered wood pedestals.
The woman who comes forward, brass watering can in her hands, is tall, reedy, and wearing a long, flowing dress that billows as she moves. The gown is voluminous, made of some thin, diaphanous stuff the color of vanilla ice cream. But no paler than the woman herself.
“Mrs. Teresa Dempster?” Cone asks.
She nods vaguely, looking around at her plants. “And you’re Mr. Timothy?”
“Cone,” he says. “Timothy Cone.”
“Of course,” she says.
“Thank you for seeing me. I hate to intrude in your time of trial.”
At last she looks at him directly. “‘Time of trial,’” she repeats. “What a nice, old-fashioned expression. Are you an old-fashioned man, Mr. Timothy?”
He gives up on the name. “I guess I am,” he says uncomfortably. “About some things. Beautiful plants you have here, Mrs. Dempster.”
“Trees,” she corrects him. “All my babies. But such old babies. This one, for instance, is said to be forty-five years old. It’s a Japanese red maple. Do you like it?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Real pretty.”
She puts down the watering can, picks up the little red maple and thrusts it at him. “Then take it,” she says. “It’s yours.”
He moves a startled step backward. “Oh, I couldn’t do that,” he protests. “It’s probably valuable.”
“No, no,” she says. “If you promise to love it, I want you to have it.”
Getting a glimmer of what he’s up against here, he says earnestly, “Look, Mrs. Dempster, I appreciate your offer. It’s very kind of you. But where I live, there’s no sunlight at all. And I’ve got a nasty cat who’d demolish that thing in two seconds flat. It really wouldn’t be fair to the tree for me to take it.”
She looks so hurt that he’s afraid she might start weeping.
“Tell you what,” he says. “Why don’t I accept the gift in the spirit in which it’s given. But you keep it for me and take care of it. But it’ll be my tree.”
She gives him a smile as simple and charming as a child’s. “I think that’s a wonderful idea!” she says. “I’ll tell everyone it’s Mr. Timothy’s tree, and you can visit it whenever you like. Do you want to name it?”
“Name it?”
“Of course. Most of my trees have names. This juniper is Ralph. That Norfolk pine is Matilda. Would you like your Japanese red maple to have a name?”
“How about Irving?” he suggests, willing to play her game-if game it is.