Chen goes directly from Sklar’s office to the Sunderlands’ elegant double wide limestone townhouse on East Seventy-third Street. A maid leads him up a sweeping marble staircase to the living room on the second floor.
“Mrs. Sunderland will be right with you,” the maid says.
Left alone, Detective Chen browses around a spacious living room, nearly stifled by plush, tasseled furniture covered in pastel silks and velvets. The walls are dotted with beautiful paintings, but none more impressive than the massive orange and yellow Rothko presiding over the fireplace mantel like a glorious sunset. As he strolls over to look out the French doors at the manicured back garden, he notices a dangerously frayed lamp cord under a gilded console. The tattered old cord looks particularly menacing in the midst of such opulence, a stealthy danger that could burn the whole place down. He thinks about another dangerous secret that great wealth may be hiding. He knows he must tread cautiously because the secrets of the rich are like mercury—poke at them and they will scatter in all directions, becoming impossible to verify.
“Detective Chen?” says a voice from the entrance.
He turns. An attractive, neatly coiffed blond woman in her mid-fifties, wearing a cobalt blue dress and a strand of pearls the size of quail eggs, is cruising toward him with her charm-braceleted hand outstretched. Behind her is an older, distinguished-looking man with thick, fastidiously combed pewter-colored hair and a sharp, coinlike profile. He’s sporting a pinstripe suit, starched white shirt, vest, red and blue club tie, and a clenched attitude. He strikes Chen as vintage Ivy League.
“Hello, I’m Jean Sunderland,” the woman says with vigor, shaking Chen’s hand so firmly the charm bracelet jingles. “This is my lawyer, Squire Huff.”
Maintaining his dour expression, Huff extends a stiff arm to Chen. Chen finds it interesting that Jean Sunderland wants her lawyer present.
Jean politely asks Chen if he would like something to drink. He politely declines. Formalities over, she gestures toward a seating area. Chen sinks down deep into the plush velvet couch, finding himself nearly at eye level with the finely sculpted bronze stag head at one corner of a glass coffee table. Jean and Huff sit on the matching yellow silk upholstered bergère chairs across from him, staring down at him like he’s dangerous game.
“First, let me say how very sorry I am about your husband, Mrs. Sunderland,” Chen begins.
“Thank you.”
“You have a beautiful home.”
“Thank you. We like it.”
Huff interjects impatiently. “Do you have any more news for us, Detective?”
“No, I’m afraid not,” Chen says.
“I’m keeping my fingers crossed,” Jean says.
The vague smirk in her tone makes Chen wonder if she means her fingers are crossed for her husband’s recovery, or his demise. Then, as if realizing the way she came across, Jean quickly adds, “You’re sure he’s doing well, right?”
“Far as I know,” Chen says.
“Why in heaven’s name haven’t you people caught that lunatic Maud Warner yet?” Huff asks accusingly.
Chen ignores him. “Tell me, Mrs. Sunderland, did you and your husband know Maud Warner personally?”
“Yes. Maud was a social acquaintance. I was always on very friendly terms with her. I used to order books from her bookshop and have lunch with her occasionally. I liked her a lot.”
“Do you know of any reason why she’d want to shoot your husband?”
Jean’s hand flies up in protest. “She didn’t mean to shoot my husband! She obviously meant to shoot Burt Sklar. She has a very bad history with Mr. Sklar.”
“I understand that’s what people think,” Chen says.
“That’s what people know, Detective. She’s loathed Burt for years and made no bones about it. She went around saying very inflammatory things about him. I think she even ambushed him a few times. But I’m sure you’ve heard all this already.”
“When’s the last time you saw Ms. Warner?”
“Oh, Lord…let me think…not for ages. Sun and Burt are best friends, so naturally I had to keep my distance from her. I did feel sorry for her, though.”
“Do you think there was there any truth to what she said about Mr. Sklar?”
“I have no idea. I mean, her mother was a very rich lady who died practically penniless, from what I heard. But I don’t know if it was Burt’s fault. He always claimed that Mrs. Warner was a spendthrift. Who knows?” Jean shrugs.
“So Mr. Sklar and your husband are very close,” Chen says.
Jean nods. “As I said, best friends. Sun’s known Burt for years. They knew each other way back when they were both married to their first wives. They both got divorced around the same time. It was a bond between them. Burt was also Sun’s accountant. A few years ago, they formed a company together.”
“That would be SSBS Investments?”
“Correct.”
“What did you think when they went into business together?”
“I wasn’t really consulted about it.”
“Why not?”
Jean musters a tight smile. “You look like an intelligent man, Detective. You must have gathered I’m not Burt’s greatest fan.”
“How come?”
“I don’t know…I guess I just never took to Burt the way some people do. Plus, he and my husband share a long history together that I’m not part of. A wife always likes to feel she’s the closest one to her husband. Don’t you agree?”
“Are you close to your husband?”
“Of course,” she says softly.
There’s an awkward silence while Chen decides how best to frame his next question.
“When did you last see him, Mrs. Sunderland?”
Jean glances at Huff. “At the hospital.”
“Yesterday?” Chen presses.
“Yes,” Jean says curtly.
Huff interjects. “Mrs. Sunderland’s been extremely preoccupied with family and business matters as a result of this terrible tragedy.”
Chen levels a hard gaze at Jean. “Why haven’t you been back to see your husband, Mrs. Sunderland?”
“Dee-tect-ive…” Huff begins with a weary sigh. “Wouldn’t it be a more profitable use of your time to track down Maud Warner? Why are Mrs. Sunderland’s whereabouts of any interest to you?”
“I’m investigating a crime, sir. Everything’s of interest to me—including the young woman who’s been at your husband’s side the whole time he’s been in intensive care. Do you happen to know who she is, Mrs. Sunderland?”
Jean looks to Huff for guidance. He gives her a reluctant nod. Jean clears her throat. “I know who she’s claiming to be.”
“Who is she claiming to be?” Chen asks, as if he knows full well.
“I think I’ll decline to answer on the grounds that it might incriminate my husband,” Jean says with sour smile.
“Well, fortunately, the attending doctor was not as reticent as you are, Mrs. Sunderland. Tell me, did you have any idea that your husband had another wife?”
The phone rings. Saved by the bell!
Jean bolts up from her chair. “Excuse me.”
She walks over to the gilded black lacquer Louis XVI desk in a far corner of the room. Chen watches her closely as she picks up the phone.
“This is she,” she says.
As she listens to the caller, she flinches, clenching the receiver tighter.
“Thank you.” She hangs up.
Jean squeezes her eyes shut and stands motionless for a long moment before turning back to Chen and Huff.
“He’s dead,” she announces without emotion.