Amanda left her binoculars outside my door with a note that said,
I never use. Keep them as long as you want, and have fun.
Mandy
Have fun with binoculars? Though I knew the aim was revenge-rubbernecking, I was more inclined to focus on Times Square and its changing electronic billboards, or to the north, to spy on dogs and tourists in Central Park. Maybe I should rescue a dog—until I remembered I couldn’t walk him or her, and even my fellow residents who hired dog-walkers did at least one shift themselves.
Nonetheless, it was a nice day; hot but with a breeze. I’d bring my laptop, my old cookbooks; maybe do some meal planning, either for catering and/or TikTok posting. Thankfully, Jackleen had stopped campaigning for Skinutrition and Nutritionostalgia, somewhat mollified by my having said yes to her other pet project, compensatory cooking.
Amanda’s advice was what again? Aim my binoculars at the tattletale across the street, hoping to unnerve her? I wasn’t going to wait around all day until my enemy appeared. Besides, I’d been weighing the pros and cons of . . . well, not forgiveness, but moving toward moving on. I trained my binoculars across Seventh Avenue anyway. Nothing. I unwrapped the leaking lunch I’d brought, a TikTok tryout named Salad Sandwich (lettuce, cucumber, capers, mayo), and, between bites, checked out windows in other buildings. More nothing. I saw a cat sleeping on a windowsill; I saw a grandfather clock and a grand piano, but no humans. Was there no hope of my own personal, time-consuming Rear Window?
Working close by was one of the building’s staff, watering the plants and herbs that made our roof the amenity we all bragged about. He nodded and I nodded back. Should I say something horticultural? I didn’t have to, because, pointing his trowel at a large bag at his feet, he pinched his nose.
“Smelly? Is it manure?” I asked.
“Bone meal. You mind while eating?”
“Of course not!” I smiled. “The herbs are coming up nicely. “
“Tarragon, mint, and chives are perennials, so always early, sometimes even March. Thyme, sage, rosemary, oregano over there. Mint is all by itself. Two kinds.” He pointed at my binoculars and asked if I’d seen the falcon’s nest at 909 Seventh. It was kinda famous.
I said I hadn’t. I’d been using them to admire the neighbors’ gardens. Then, to support my friendly and benign claim: “Boy, that’s some farm she’s got over there.”
“Where?”
“Directly across, in The Gloucester, the terrace with all the trellises.” I looked through the binoculars again. “She might be away, because things are looking a little wilty over there.”
“She’s not away. She passed.”
“Did you say passed? As in dead?”
“Dead. And not so old.”
“Over there? The penthouse? How do you know?”
“My brother.”
“Your brother knows her?”
“He found her.”
“Found?”
“He manages the building.”
“Do you know what happened?”
“He hasn’t told me.” He waved his trowel: This is what I’m supposed to be doing.
“He must know something if he found her. Like, how she died? Was it an accident?”
“Miss Morgan, I don’t know. Joe only told me because I noticed that the wind had knocked over her mini cedars, and no one had picked them up.”
I asked if I could have Joe’s contact info.
When Anthony didn’t answer I said, “I don’t know anyone else I could ask how she died or even when.” I opened my laptop and said, “His email would be great.”
He recited it unhappily, and with caveats: Joe was bad at email. He doesn’t check it every minute.
“Could you give him a heads-up? I’ll write in the subject line ‘chatting with your brother at The Margate.’”
“Don’t say ‘chatting.’ Just put ‘Anthony’ in the subject line.”
I did, then identified myself as a shareholder in the building that so fortunately employed his talented brother. Could he tell me the circumstances of Miss FitzRoy’s death?
He wrote back within minutes. “Don’t know yet.”
“There must’ve been an autopsy.”
“The family hears about that, not me.”
“Are they around?”
“Yes.”
“Names?”
“Grabowski a sister & brother they own it.”
Did he mean they owned the apartment from which I was surveilled? Was she just visiting, not even a genuine neighbor, maybe not even a naturalized American citizen when she dialed 9-1-1? I searched online for an obituary but found nothing, hoping my gumshoe excitement wasn’t obvious to Anthony.
Who else would be interested in knowing that my accuser had died? So far it was only my sense of decorum and my grudge that had kept me from communicating with Noah. Unable to resist, I texted merely FYI: the woman who called 9-1-1 on us is dead. BTW, I’m fine.
He wrote back, At work. Sorry. Take care.
What was he sorry for? I knew what “take care” meant. What an asshole.
I sent a PS to Anthony’s brother. “Would appreciate knowing any details. She and I have a history.”
He didn’t answer. Was I hoping she’d died at the hands of someone else whose life she’d ruined? I’d find out. I yelled over to Anthony, now trimming a potted tree, “Do you see your brother often?”
“Like, every night.”
“That’s nice,” I said.
“We’re roommates.”
I said, “I met the deceased when she was still alive. In court, actually. I’m an attorney. She was on the witness stand.”
He didn’t have to ask what she was testifying about, because, thanks to the doorman on duty, the entire staff of The Margate knew about my crime. His back was to me now, avoiding conversation under the guise of more pruning.
“That family?” I called over to him. “It says on Facebook that she was a governess to some counts or dukes or people like that.”
I’d exhausted him. He said, “Miss Morgan, I don’t know nothing.” Whether or not he was finished weeding, watering, pruning, pinching back, and fertilizing, he headed for the elevator with all of his tools and supplies. When I called after him, “Thanks, Anthony!” he sent back a weary wave, one that seemed lacking in motivation and collusion.