Six
As much as I hated to, I needed to check in with home. Not sure my mom was in any shape to hold a conversation, I called my grandmother while I sat at a café near Justine’s apartment building and waited for the police to leave. I was certain they were searching her place, as they should be. Scents of some sweet concoction baking in the café’s kitchen poked at me, but I had no appetite. Highly unusual for me.
“Charlotte Donovan, where have you been?” my grandmother said.
“Justine died and I’ve been stuck in town,” I said, running my finger along the edge of the saucer holding my tea cup.
“We know that. I’m sorry to hear about her death,” she said, and paused. I pictured her crossing herself. “Are you okay?”
Scuffling noise came over the phone. She was probably cleaning as she spoke to me. Perhaps sweeping the floor.
“I’m holding up,” I said. “But I’m going to need to stay in town a while longer.” I lifted the cup to my lip and drank my tea.
“Oh sweetie, how will you manage? Everything’s so expensive.”
“I’m staying at Justine’s place.”
She didn’t respond.
“At least until we know what’s going on with the funeral and so on. I need to be here.” I didn’t want to tell her that Justine was murdered. No point in upsetting her. “How’s Mom?” I asked, and then exhaled.
“She’s sober for now,” she replied. “She’s been asking for you. She said she called.”
“I’m sorry, Gram, it’s been crazy here. Please tell her I’m okay and I’ll be home as soon as I can be,” I said. “I’ll call her soon. I don’t want to talk with her if she’s drinking.” A young woman sat down at the table next to me with a huge blueberry tart. The scent of it was giving me a sugar high.
“I don’t understand why you need to be there,” Gram said in an accusing tone.
I swallowed the last of my peppermint tea, which was quality, some of the best peppermint tea I’d ever had. You’d think all of it was the same. But it’s not. “I’m Justine’s assistant. I need to take care of things.” My voice cracked.
“Oh Charlotte,” Gram said in a sympathetic tone. “I’ll never understand your devotion to that woman.”
Gram didn’t care for Justine or her treatment of me. Sometimes, I agreed with her. But now that Justine was murdered, and I’d been there when she died, none of it mattered. Everything else about our relationship fell away. She didn’t deserve to die like that. Nobody did.
I remembered Sergeant Den Brophy and my list of possible murderers. Add my sweet little Gram to the list. Oddly enough, the thought made me smile.
“Like the best caviar or champagne, I’m an acquired taste.”
One of Justine’s favorite expressions, which spoke to the way she lived her life, was “never ask for permission.” “If I waited for permission, I’d never get anywhere.” As a younger woman she’d waltzed right into places she shouldn’t have in order to get the interview or the research she wanted. “The trick is to blend in and act like you’re supposed to be there. If you get caught, be polite and act stupid. Works every time.”
I certainly was testing her motto by staying in her place. But just to be on the safe side, I’d wait until dark before I entered through the back door of the building again. And I’d wait for the cop car to leave. I rose to my feet and slid my bag onto my shoulder, then walked out of the cafe and stood for a moment, with the noise and bustle all around me. A line of cabs trailed on the street. A sausage vendor yelled at a pedicab driver as he whizzed by. I caught the whiff of something sour and rank. It vanished as quickly as it came.
I turned toward Central Park, walking along the clean, wide sidewalks and catching glimpses of the setting sun between buildings. The Upper East Side, with its chic high-rise apartment buildings, classic brownstone neighborhoods, and elegant architecture reminded me of my youth and my dream to be a famous writer like Justine. I imagined I’d live here after writing my first bestselling book. But after my Lyme diagnosis, the city was too much for me. While at one point it had inspired and energized me, after I became sick it did nothing but drain me.
A woman dressed in a short, stunning, peacock blue silk dress walked by me with long leggy strides, the silk fluttering around her. I moved to the corner to cross the street. The light changed, and I marched. Suddenly a bright silverish smear of hair flicked in the sunlight and caught my eye. I followed the gleam. There she was. I was certain of it! The same blonde from the day before, moving at a brisk pace up Fifth Avenue. Spotting this woman twice in two days? More than a coincidence.
I picked up my pace and headed in her direction. Who was she? Did she know anything about Justine’s murder? A surge of energy and adrenaline zipped through me and I moved like a linebacker, dodging swiftly through the sidewalk crowds. “Hey!” I yelled at her. She didn’t turn her head, but her stride hastened to almost a run.
“Watch it, lady!” a man said as I ran by him. Even at that speed, with my short legs I might not have reached her. But I wasn’t ready to give up. I inhaled deeply. My surge of energy was diminishing. I estimated I might make it another block. But wait—where was she? She’d vanished. Probably ducked in to an alley or restaurant. But where?
Sweat poured from me as I found a wall and leaned against it.
After all that, she’d disappeared. Once again.