A heavyset man in a dark suit, not a gray hair out of place, a wine-colored handkerchief in his breast pocket to match his tie, walked somberly to the podium. He looked down, studying his hands, it seemed, which he’d carefully placed there, maybe checking to see if the girl had trimmed his nails evenly before she’d coated them with clear polish. After more time than it took a Chihuahua to make all gone with a bowl of kibble, he began to speak, still not looking at his audience, a large group of mourners mostly in shades of black and gray, filling the seats of the flower-lined conference room.
“Putting the needs of others before his own, using his wealth for the benefit of the community, helping those who could not help themselves”—slowly, dramatically, he lifted his head, looking around at the attentive faces lined up before him—“this was Henry Knowlton Dietrich, tender caretaker, devoted husband, loyal brother, philanthropist.”
At that point a young man in the front row stood. The speaker came around to the side of the podium, bent his head to listen, then returned to his place and cleared his throat.
“Harry Knowlton Dietrich,” he said, “was, in everyone’s estimation, a good man.”
There was some throat clearing and a few coughs, people trying hard not to laugh.
Whoever the speaker was, he certainly hadn’t known Harry. Still, overcome with grief, he removed the handkerchief from his pocket, took off his aviator bifocals, and dabbed at his eyes.
“A life of giving, not of taking, a life of searching for answers, for others rather than himself, a life of devotion to the memory of his beloved sister, this was Harry Knowlton Dietrich.”
Feeling secure that I’d absorbed the pattern and the theme of the eulogy, enough so that if any of the relatives gave a pop quiz on the way out, I could pass it with flying colors, I tuned out the booming voice as best I could and began to look around the room. I was sitting in the last row, all the way to the left. From there I could see just about everyone in my half of the assembly.
The woman in the front row wearing designer mourning clothes, a dark gray suit with a pale gray blouse, was also dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, only hers seemed to have a lace trim on it. She had to be Arlene Poole, Harry’s sister-in-law. At her left sat a thirty-something woman in a black cloche hat. I couldn’t see much of her face, but I could see the utter perfection of her blond hair and just about a thousand dollars worth of her pearl necklace. To Arlene’s right was her son, the young man who had corrected the speaker’s error, seated again now. A shock of his blond hair kept falling into his eyes, and he’d periodically swing his head to knock it back into place. He didn’t have a handkerchief in his hands, but when he turned toward his mother to catch something she was whispering, I saw that his lips were pursed in annoyance. Hey, he might have given up a tennis date for this, and it wasn’t as if Uncle Harry could even appreciate, or reward, his sacrifice.
Or perhaps his lips were pursed for another reason. Perhaps Bailey Poole was impatient to inherit what would have been his had the original will not been superseded by a later version, a substantial amount of money—enough, I’d say, so that he’d never have to miss a tennis date again.
Of course, all was not lost. The new will left Bailey one of Harry’s cars, the beautiful racing green Jag that probably spent half its life at the shop getting its timing adjusted, but hey, you got a Jag, that’s to be expected. Which may be why Harry had several other cars.
Oddly enough, there had been no chauffeur waiting out front the last day that Harry had headed home, the day he was hit by a bicycle and never got to walk over to Fourteenth Street, hop on the subway, and ride to his apartment on the Upper East Side.
And Janice Poole, I wondered if her lips were pursed too. Instead of inheriting a trust fund that would let her spend her summers in France and might inspire her next husband, should there be one, to retire before he reached his fortieth birthday, Janice was getting some of the lovely antique furniture from Harry’s apartment, French pieces that might not even be to her taste. C’est la vie.
But I didn’t think they knew that yet. Just as I didn’t think Eli Kagan knew what was in the new will. I was only sure that one other person here had read the will, the person who had hired me because she thought her life might be in danger. A good guess from where I sat, still angry over her sin of omission.
I looked around for the Kagans, but I couldn’t see Samuel, so I assumed they were on the other side of the room. What would they be thinking if they knew what I knew? Even if all three of them turned out to be saints, I didn’t think they’d be particularly happy with the new arrangements for Harbor View, those putting Venus White in charge of operations, those requiring Eli Kagan, when he needed something, to have to get approval from a former employee.
The eulogy was coming to a crescendo, the stentorious voice even louder than it had been at the onset, the talk more about the eloquence of the speaker than the accomplishments of the deceased and, as far as I was concerned, much too annoying and much too long.
Everyone was standing, so I stood too, just hanging back as people went to give their condolences to Harry’s sister-in-law, his niece and nephew, and to say some kind words to the Kagan family as well. As the group thinned out, I walked up front. Venus was talking to Eli, and he was nodding, his face soft, his hands not around her throat. I was right. He hadn’t read the will.
Of course not. They would all read the will on Friday, sitting in Harry’s lawyer’s office, each, at last, with his or her own copy, discovering what Harry had done just days before he’d died. That was why the clock was ticking so fast: on Friday, they’d all find out. That’s what was scaring Venus.
I walked up to join her, and she introduced me to Eli, Samuel, and Nathan.
“We’ve met,” Samuel said, his face glistening with sweat the way it had been when he was trying to get the kids to sing along with him.
“I’m sorry I haven’t had the chance to welcome you before,” Eli said. “There’s so much to take care of now. I’ve been keeping irregular hours, sometimes not even coming in at all, just making phone calls from home.”
“I understand.”
“Venus tells me you’ve had some remarkable experiences with our residents already.”
He was short, like his former partner, and no youngster. I thought he was probably a few years older than Harry had been. But unlike his son Samuel, he had a grim face. When I looked at his eyes, I got nothing back but reflected light. And his lips, under a trimmed white brush of a mustache, were drawn. Hey, this was a funeral, what did I expect? But Samuel looked almost cheerful. And Nathan looked as if he were here in body only, his attention very far away. In fact, when I took a better look, his attention wasn’t that far away at all. It was only across the room, on the Poole family.
Nathan was taller than his father and his brother, heavier too, a mountain of a man. Perhaps his mother had been a large woman, more statuesque than her husband. And large boned.
He was dark, with even features, a long, straight nose, a lovely mouth. Perhaps his mother had been dark, with a lovely mouth. A cupid’s bow.
He began to smile. I thought he was finally going to say something to me, but he didn’t. I turned again and saw the Pooles approaching, the mother’s face a mask with the startled look and pointy chin that come from one or two too many face-lifts. Bailey was still pouting. Perhaps that was his normal expression. And Janice looked bored, as if there were dozens of places she could name where she’d rather be. As they got closer, something struck me as almost funny. Like her mother, Janice was wearing gray, a smart little suit with a short, short skirt and black braid trimming along the neck and fronts of the collarless jacket. Her shoes were dark too, black kid, new and expensive looking. But her handbag was red, one of those designer things that cost more than the annual salary of people in third world countries. Perhaps it was as new as it looked, and she couldn’t bear to leave it home.
“Janice,” Nathan said. But she was fiddling with those pearls and didn’t seem to hear him.
Arlene was talking to Eli, and Samuel was talking to Bailey. I gave Nathan the old Kaminsky grin, thinking I could start a conversation. But he didn’t smile back.
“We have to talk,” Arlene was saying to Eli.
Perhaps that was what had snagged Nathan’s attention. He took a step closer to his father, both of them standing with their hands clasped in front of them, like ushers with no one to escort down the aisle.
“Of course, of course. Why don’t we have lunch?” Eli said.
Now it was Arlene’s turn at a farbisen punim. She seemed to pull her lips in so that they all but disappeared, but then she nodded. “Let’s do,” she said. “No sense waiting.”
“Mrs. Poole,” Samuel said, sweating and smiling, “this is Rachel Alexander. She’s doing pet therapy at Harbor View now, and—”
“I’m sure she is, dear,” Arlene said, never looking at me.
I looked at Bailey, who was flinging some hair out of his eyes. I wondered if I should tell him the good news, that someone had invented hair gel, but thought that perhaps this wasn’t the place for it.
Janice had opened her red purse and was fishing around inside. Perhaps she’d talk to me. After all, she looked to be about my age, give or take any work she might have had done—cheek implants, dermabrasion, whatever. But that didn’t happen either. Anyway, Venus was pulling on the back of my jacket, trying in her subtle way to get me out of there.
“Let’s go,” she whispered to my back.
We said good-bye quickly, and I followed her out.
“They don’t seem close,” I said in the hallway.
She rolled her eyes. “Don’t get me started,” she said.
“Get started,” I said, as we headed down the stairs. “I have a job to do. I need information.”
Venus stopped and looked at me, as if that had never occurred to her.
“They’re the kind of rich people that give rich people a bad name, snobs without, in my humble opinion, anything about which to feel superior.”
Finished, she headed down the stairs and out to the street.
“Is that it?”
“Harry didn’t like them,” she said, “but he was always decent to them.”
“Well, they are his wife’s family.”
Suddenly Venus looked grim.
Or was that an angry look? Well, in that case, she had some company.
She walked up to the curb and stuck her arm up. As a cab pulled up, she turned back to me. “They weren’t exactly his favorite charity.” She opened the door and waited for me to get in first.
I knew that, I thought, sliding over to make room for Venus. In fact, I knew a lot more than that.
If Venus wasn’t telling me what she knew, perhaps I should be the one talking. It was high time someone gave out with some information. Besides, it was getting more and more difficult for me to contain myself.
Especially since Friday wasn’t all that far away.