THE CHAMPAGNE BAR at the Plaza Hotel was once known as the Champagne Porch. It overlooks Fifth Avenue and The Pulitzer Fountain and has been patronized by the likes of Diamond Jim Brady and the Prince of Wales. These days, it caters mostly to business travelers and tourists. The Plaza, itself, is owned by an East Indian conglomerate, and has been converted into a condo-hotel catering mostly to foreign speculators.
By the time I arrive, Stella Walker is already half-in-the-bag. Not shit-face drunk but blow over-the-limit intoxicated. She sits at the bar looking like a faded dowager, champagne flute raised to a set of Botox-inflated, balloon-like lips. Her long legs cross provocatively at the knee revealing a slice of creamy thigh which, I must confess, looks nice. Bottle-blonde hair sweeps off to the side hardening the line of her jaw and classically-cut cheekbones.
Stella claims the death of her daughter hasn’t taken a toll. But that’s just words. To me, she’s aged a generation since we last met.
After I sit, she orders me Jack Daniels over ice without my asking. “How did you know?”
“You look like a man’s man to me, Detective. I don’t see you sipping champagne from a fluted goblet.”
When it arrives, I swirl the whiskey over the cubes at the bottom of the tumbler. Without swallowing, I touch the liquid to my lips, set aside the glass. “What would Marcus Livingstone drink?”
Stella stares at her reflection in a mirror behind the bar. “Blood,” she says, seeming suddenly much older than when I arrived.
I chuckle. “You’re being cryptic, Stella—is it okay if I call you Stella?”
Stella regains her composure. “Call me whenever you like, Dex.”
“Are you being literal?”
“You’re young, handsome, well-built. Yes, please. Call me whenever you like.”
“About your son-in-law.”
“Ex son-in-law. And before you ask, I don’t fault Marcus his devotion to the children.”
“Marcus admits he would kill to protect them. That’s some devotion.”
Stella waves a hand. “Now it’s you being silly.”
“Am I?”
She smiles, fingering the rim of her crystal flute. “French champagne: thirty-five dollars a glass. A few more of these, I could buy the fucking trip to Paris.”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
Stella sips as if stalling for time. “My daughter was a junkie, Detective. End of story.”
The surroundings are elegant, if unoriginal. A handful of well-dressed out-of-towners are scattered about the room. In the background, a tinkle of piano keys. A tray exits from the kitchen, and I stare, realizing I haven’t eaten since my sausage on the street-corner. Though inebriated, Stella is perceptive just the same.
“Where are my manners. Let me order you something, love.” She places a hand on mine. “I’ve eaten already, but you look famished.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Come now, don’t be silly. I’m not offering you a bribe.”
Not wanting to derail the conversation, I order the Evening Snack, an appetizer of French fried potatoes served with a caviar dip. At fourteen dollars, it’s the cheapest item on the menu.
“Pshaw!” exclaims Stella. “That wouldn’t feed my grandson, and he’s not yet ten years old. You’re a grown man, Dexter,” she says, latching on to my thigh with blood-red fingernails. To the server, she says, “Bring this man a burger, as well. And make it bloody-rare.”
“Much obliged.”
“Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not my daughter.” Realizing what she’s said, she releases her grip and turns to the window overlooking Fifth Avenue. “I apologize, it’s a stressful time.”
“I understand.” My burger and fries arrive, and I tuck in. “Marcus Livingstone tells me you would have helped him to deny Miranda access to her own children if Miranda had asked. Did you really feel that strongly?”
“We only want what’s best for Maddie and Josh.”
“And that means denying them access to their mother?” I ask between mouthfuls.
“Mothers aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, Detective.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I love my own mom.”
“Is she still living?”
“Happily-ever-after with dear old dad in Queens.”
Which is bullshit; truthfully my parents are divorced. They had a hellacious relationship of infidelity and abuse with me leaving home as soon as I was able. They taught me everything I know about the give and take of marriage. Having learned from the best, I remain faithfully unattached.
“Having Miranda back with the children was your husband’s dream scenario.”
Stella scoffs. “If Johnny had done his job well in the first place, things would have turned out different for us all.”
“How so?”
“Growing up, Miranda needed a firm hand. Without backup from Johnny, she was impossible for me to control. He was too busy in the City making money and screwing his secretary. Secretaries.”
Despite an effort, I can’t wrap my head around an image of those spindly old broomstick-legs schtupping anyone.
“If Miranda was as much trouble as you say, how did she ever meet and marry a guy like Marcus Livingstone?” I am genuinely curious to know.
Stella’s face goes dark as if the memory is painful. Then she chuckles. The contrast is unnerving. “Marcus charmed her into submission.”
“I’m a cop, Stella. Charmed or something else?”
“I see where you’re going with this, but it takes two to cha-cha-cha.”
Appetite satisfied, I push back the remains on my plate. I order a Dr. Pepper with ice, surprised to learn they have it in stock. Stella works on her fourth flute of champagne. “Lots of lonely nights out there in Saddle River with Johnny in the City making ends meet, I imagine.”
Stella cackles. “I know what you’re doing. Marcus rang to tell me of the young woman’s salacious insinuations. Tempting as it might have been, Detective, it’s been years since I’ve opened these legs for any man.” Shifting, Stella parts her knees, revealing a glimpse of lace panties.
Holding my eyes level, I say, “You didn’t collude with Marcus to keep Miranda from the children, did you, Stella?”
“We all make choices in life, Detective. We may not understand until much later that we’ve made the wrong ones.” I recall the words of Marcus Livingstone: Stella is a realist. She needed to make a choice; she chose Joshua and Madeleine. Gently, Mrs. Walker places a hand to my forearm. “Now, if it’s confession you’re looking for, please show me to my room.”
✽ ✽ ✽
At the door to her suite, Stella wobbles. “It’s been a while. But it’s like riding a bike, isn’t it? I don’t imagine it’s something you ever forget.”
“Excuse me?”
“Sex, Detective.” Stella moves close. She raises a palm to my cheek. Her skin is warm and dry. “You’re young enough to be my son. But as I don’t have a son, no need for either of us to feel ashamed.”
Her bosom presses to my chest, her heat burning through to my skin. Gently, I remove her hand from my cheek and step back. Brazen, Stella relocates her hand to my crotch. When I fail to respond, she lowers her eyes and moves away.
“I’m being pathetic.”
“The champagne,” I say, making her excuse.
When she raises her eyes to mine, she is crying. Not a sob, more like a strangled whimper, as if giving vent to her emotion would open a floodgate she cannot contain. “If you know nothing else, Detective Fortune, know this: I only want what’s best for the children.”
✽ ✽ ✽
Exiting The Plaza Hotel from the lobby onto Grand Army Plaza, I head for the car-park to retrieve my vehicle. Like a tape, I replay the conversation with Stella Walker over and over in my mind. Stella is devastated by Miranda’s death. I am sure her grief is genuine and undeniable. But there’s something more there, too, something I don’t fully identify until I return home later that night: Fear.