Midnight Voices Page 5

  There was no way of telling precisely how old Virginia Estherbrook was—Virgie had never divulged it, and Irene would certainly never ask—but the ravages of time were starting to show badly, despite Virgie’s best efforts with makeup. Her skin, even under a thick layer of powder, looked paper-thin and was deeply wrinkled, and her eyes seemed to be sinking into her skull. She was wearing a cloche, which told Irene that her hair had gone even thinner, and that alone would have been enough to make Virgie keep the lights down, the draperies closed, and the door locked, since her hair—once a thick and wavy mane of auburn that had flowed nearly to her waist when it wasn’t piled up in a regal French twist that had accentuated not only Virgie’s beauty, but her height as well—had always been her pride and joy. In her prime, Virginia Estherbrook had only to enter a room to capture the attention of everyone in it, and when she stepped from the wings of a theatre into the glow of footlights, you knew you were in for something special. Now, though, Virgie had shrunk to a phantom of her former self, but when Irene peered into the depths of her sunken eyes, it wasn’t fear she saw. It was shame, and even as Irene gazed at her, Virginia Estherbrook turned her face away. “Don’t look at me,” she pleaded. “Wouldn’t you lock the doors, too, if you looked like me? Oh, please, can’t you turn off the lights?”

  “It’s going to be all right, Virgie,” Irene replied. “I know it’s going to be all right.”

  Virginia seemed not to hear her. “I should be in bed,” she said so softly that Irene wasn’t certain if the other woman was speaking to her or to herself. “I should be conserving my strength.” Her head swung around, and her eyes fixed on Irene. “But for what? For what?” Reaching out with a withered hand, she weakly closed her fingers on Irene’s arm, and began struggling to her feet. Irene offered her free hand to help her, but Virgie shook her head. “I can do it. I’ve never been carried off a stage yet, and I don’t intend to start now!” With what seemed to be the last of her energy, she pulled herself to her feet, clung to Irene for a moment longer while she caught her breath, then let her hand fall to her side. She started toward the door leading to her bedroom. Irene hesitated, uncertain whether her friend wanted her to stay or go, but then Virginia spoke again. “Do you know what I would like?” she asked, and, as always, answered her question before anyone else could. “I would like a martini, with no more than a hint of vermouth, and a single olive. Be a dear, and bring me one.”

  “And may I fix one for myself, too, Your Majesty?” Irene retorted, but her sarcasm seemed to be lost on the other woman.

  “If you wish.” Virginia Estherbrook moved stiffly through the door to her bedroom.

  Irene followed Virginia a few minutes later, balancing the two martinis on a silver tray. She searched for a place to put the tray down, but every surface in the room was covered with silver frames bearing pictures of men—all of them handsome, and all of them looking theatrical.

  “Is there anyone here you haven’t slept with?” Irene asked, finally using the tray itself to push enough pictures aside so she could set it down.

  “Of course,” Virginia replied, taking no apparent offense whatsoever at the question. She was propped up against a bank of pillows, wearing a peignoir that Irene recognized from a play Virginia had done several decades earlier. She accepted the glass Irene offered her. “Some of them were gay.” Scanning the collection of pictures, she raised the glass shakily. “But for the rest of you, I salute you! You gave me a lot of wonderful memories!” She sipped at the drink, which seemed to lend her a little energy, and patted the empty spot next to her on the bed. “But let’s not talk about me anymore. I’m sick of me, sick to death! So come and tell me all about your day!”

  Irene ignored the invitation to join Virginia on the bed, but drew a chair close. “I think I found someone for Anthony today,” she began, and Virginia’s eyes immediately brightened.

  “Really? Where?”

  “In the park. She’s just about the same age as Lenore.”

  Virginia Estherbrook sighed. “I miss Lenore.”

  “We all do,” Irene agreed. “But there’s nothing to be done, is there? It’s time for Anthony to move on.”

  “Do you think he’s ready?”

  Irene sniffed. “Of course he is.”

  “How do you know?” Virginia pressed. “Did he say something?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Virgie! What would he say? He’s a man. Men never say anything. But it’s time, and I’m sure this is the right woman.”

  Virginia leaned forward, her eyes once again glistening with anticipation. They’d been talking about what the perfect woman for Anthony would be like for weeks now, but until today they hadn’t been able to come up with anyone at all.

  “She’s a year or two older than Lenore was, but much prettier. And she doesn’t look anything like Lenore, which I think is a plus. If a new wife looks just like the former one, she never knows whether the man is in love with her, or the memory of his former wife. And wait until you see the children!”

  Virginia clapped her hands together. “Oh, I do love children! But not too young, I hope. Babies can be such a lot of bother.”

  “The girl’s about thirteen, and the boy a little younger.”

  “Perfect!” Virginia crowed. “Oh, it will be so good to have more children around.” Then her expression turned apprehensive. “But are you sure Anthony will like her?”

  “Well, he didn’t run away when we met her.”

  “He was with you?” Virginia gasped. “Oh, dear, Irene. Do you think that was wise?”

  “It doesn’t matter whether it was wise or not. There we were, and there she was with her little girl, and they both just looked so perfect that I couldn’t resist. Anthony made up some excuse and ran away, but I saw something there! I’m sure I did!”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Irene’s brows arched. “I should think it would be perfectly obvious. I’m going to find out everything about her that I can—which I’ve already begun. She told me where she works, and it couldn’t be more perfect. Now we shall simply rope her in. And wait till you meet her. You’re just going to love her, and the children, too!”

  Virginia Estherbrook fell back against the pillows. “I just hope it works out,” she sighed.

  “Of course it will,” Irene retorted, for the first time losing patience with Virginia. Why did she always have to be so negative? “Doesn’t it always work out, when we set our minds to it?”

  CHAPTER 4

  Claire Robinson’s anger hung even more heavily in the shop than the thick curtains that concealed the bare brick walls. Even as the tinkling door chime faded away, Caroline could feel her employer’s angry eyes boring into her, and the set of her jaw—which wasn’t soft even when she was in the best of moods—warned Caroline not even to attempt an explanation for the fifteen minutes that had passed since the time she had promised to appear. Not that the explanation would have meant anything to Claire anyway, since the importance of the home run that Ryan had hit in the bottom half of the ninth inning of his softball game would be utterly lost on her. To Claire, children were an alien species that she could sometimes enjoy at a distance, but had no tolerance for in close quarters. “The idea of being pregnant is bad enough,” she’d once told Caroline. “But the eighteen years that follow are utterly unthinkable. There has to be a better way to propagate the species than that—it’s barbaric!” Since Claire wouldn’t care how hard it had been for her to leave her kids home by themselves, Caroline held her words to a simple apology, which Claire acknowledged with a terse nod.

  “Let’s both just hope I’m not too late for Estelle Hollinan’s demilune,” she said as she pulled on the worn trench coat that was her stylistic trademark. No matter what the weather, if Claire was outside her trench coat was on, and there had been a time when Caroline wondered not only how the trench coat held together under such constant use, but also how Claire made do with a single wrap, no matter what the elements might be dealing
out. It was Kevin Barnes who finally explained the trick: “She has at least a dozen of them. I think she has some poor Filipino woman locked away in Brooklyn or The Bronx, or one of those terrible places, doing nothing but sewing them up and putting all the same wear marks on them. But all the linings are different—cotton batiste for summer, flannel for fall. Mark swears she even has a mink-lined one she wears to the opera, but I think he’s just being bitchy.” Caroline hadn’t quite believed him until she’d started surreptitiously checking the linings of the trench coats, and sure enough, she found four different ones, all sewn in.

  Cinching the belt of the current coat tight, Claire started out the door, but suddenly paused, eyed a large oriental vase critically, then turned back to Caroline. “Add a zero to the price of this thing. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Without another word, Claire stepped through the door, and a moment later vanished down Madison Avenue.

  “And a very nice afternoon to you, too,” Caroline said to the empty shop. Hanging her own worn coat—that somehow managed to have none of the style of Claire’s—on the hook in the back room, she found a black marking pen in Claire’s desk, and went to the large vase sitting by the door. It had been sitting there since the day Caroline had begun working at the shop almost a year ago, and so far no one had shown the least bit of interest in it. It was nearly three feet tall, celadon green with a pattern reminiscent of bamboo leaves done in a mustardy yellow that Caroline found faintly nauseating. The price tag on it was $90.00, which Caroline thought was fair, but it would still take exactly the right person to want it, even at that price. But to mark it up to nine hundred? Surely Claire must have meant something else. But when she looked around, the only other items Claire could possibly have been referring to were an umbrella stand that was already marked at two hundred, and a coat tree at two hundred fifty. Another zero on either of them would put them so far out of reason that no one in their right mind would ever buy them.

  Hoping she was doing the right thing, Caroline carefully changed the price of the vase, then began moving through the shop, rearranging the collection of porcelain figurines that stood on a Victorian sideboard, polishing a smudge off a silver teapot that bore the mark of Paul Revere himself, and tidying the display cases that were filled with a variety of flatware, snuff boxes, and a mélange of other items that may have been useful in another century, but seemed utterly useless to Caroline.

  “Darling, it doesn’t matter if they’re useful! They’re pretty!” Kevin had explained, but to Caroline the contents of the cases were still nothing more than clutter. It was the big pieces she liked—the Chippendale cabinets and Queen Anne chairs and Duncan Phyfe drop leaf tables, and huge desks with cubbyholes for everything and hidden compartments tucked away in their deepest recesses. She was examining a partner’s desk that had just come in last week, hoping to discover some long-lost treasure behind one of its drawers, when she heard the bell tinkle. She looked up to see Irene Delamond come through the door, raise her hand as if to wave to Caroline, then suddenly stop short, her attention obviously diverted by something. “Why, this is perfect!” she declared, gazing downward. “Wherever did it come from?” Caroline moved closer and saw that it was the celadon-and-mustard yellow vase that Ms. Delamond was admiring.

  In her mind, Caroline could hear Claire Robinson spinning some tale of the vase’s provenance, made up on the spot but told convincingly enough that whoever she was talking to might well wind up believing the vase was worth the price on the tag. And while Irene Delamond was obviously not a poverty case, there was an openness about her admiration of the vase that made it impossible for Caroline to give her the Claire Robinson treatment. “I’m not sure what it is,” Caroline admitted. “I think it’s supposed to look like Chinese Import from the eighteenth or nineteenth century, but I’m sure it’s a reproduction.”

  “Well, it doesn’t matter,” Irene Delamond pronounced. “I think I must have it!”

  “At nine hundred dollars?” Caroline blurted out before she could catch herself.

  Irene uttered a peal of laughter that was almost musical. “Should I offer you half the price, and then argue all afternoon?” Before Caroline could say a word, she answered her own question. “Well, I won’t do it. I don’t really care where the vase came from, but I already know it’s worth nine hundred dollars to me. If we started bargaining, I’d always wonder whether I’d wound up paying too much, or whether I’d struck such a good bargain that you got in trouble with your boss. And I certainly wouldn’t want to do that!”

  “And I certainly wouldn’t want you to,” Caroline agreed. “What on earth are you doing over here? I thought you lived on the West Side.”

  Irene’s laugh pealed again. “I do. But I’m killing three birds with one stone: I love to walk, and I adore shopping. And I quite liked you and your children this morning, so I decided to drop by.”

  “Well, that’s very nice of you.” She eyed the vase balefully. “May I assume you don’t really want the vase?”

  “Of course I want it!” Irene exclaimed. “I think it’s positively wonderful.” Rummaging in her bag—a huge, satchel-like object that was entirely covered with an intricate needlepoint pattern and looked to Caroline as if it might well be an antique itself—she extracted a gold money clip whose ornate engraving was almost worn away with age. “Is there a charge for delivery?”

  “Of course not,” Caroline assured her, calculating the immense profit Claire would be making on the hideous vase even as she made out the sales slip. “I’m sure we can get it to you on Monday. Or if you’d like, I could even bring it to you this afternoon, when I get off.”

  “Oh, no, Monday will be fine,” Irene assured her. “Bad enough that you have to be away from your children all afternoon.” Unfolding the bills the clip held, she carefully counted out the money, recounted it, then handed it to Caroline. “Just send it along to 100 Central Park West.”

  Caroline’s mouth dropped open. “The Rockwell?” she asked as if she could scarcely believe what she was hearing. “You’re kidding!”

  One of Irene’s thin, penciled eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. “You know the building?” she inquired, her voice cooling a couple of degrees.

  Caroline felt herself coloring. “Oh, I’m sorry—I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. It’s just that I was walking by your building this morning and my son—” She faltered, suddenly realizing she was digging herself in even deeper than she already was. But now Irene was smiling again, and she leaned a little closer.

  “Did he tell you it’s where the witches live?” she asked, dropping her voice to an exaggerated whisper and peering around the shop as if searching for hidden eavesdroppers. As Caroline’s blush deepened, Irene’s laugh pealed forth once more. “Believe me, we’ve heard all the stories. My personal favorite is that our doorman is a troll who sleeps under one of the bridges in the park at night. Poor Rodney,” Irene chuckled. “True, he’s not the handsomest man in the world, but I don’t think he quite qualifies as an ogre.”

  “I’m afraid I hadn’t heard any of them until this morning,” Caroline replied, her embarrassment fading away in the face of the elderly woman’s good humor. “What is it they call that? When you hear about something for the first time, and then hear it again right away?”

  “ ‘Synchronicity,’ I believe.”

  “Well, whatever it is, it’s a fabulous old building, and I certainly haven’t heard a word about your doorman being a troll. In fact, I think you’re the first person I’ve ever met who actually lives there. It’s supposed to be even harder to get into than The Dakota!”

  Irene smiled contentedly. “We do love it, and that’s exactly the way we like it, stories and all. Perhaps someday you’ll come and see me.”

  “I’d like that,” Caroline replied. “I’ve always wanted to see the inside of it.”

  “Well, then, that’s settled, isn’t it? If you deliver the vase yourself, I shall be most happy to show you my apartment.” Her eyes wa
ndered over the contents of the shop. “And if you like the things in here, you’ll love the things I can show you.” She glanced at an antique watch that was hanging from a heavily jeweled pin on her dress. “Oh, dear, I must run.”

  A moment later she was gone, but even after she left, her laughter seemed to hang in the air for a few seconds before fading away, leaving Caroline alone once more.

  Four and a half hours later, when Claire Robinson finally walked back into the shop, the first thing she noticed was the sold sticker on the Chinese vase. “I was right!” she exclaimed. “I just had a feeling it was priced far too low, and you see?” Her fingers snapped. “Voilá!” Then: “When are they picking it up?”

  “It’s an elderly lady,” Caroline told her. “I promised her we’d deliver it.”

  Claire’s smile faltered. “Deliver it?” she echoed. “I trust she’s paying.”

  Caroline shook her head. “I thought there was enough profit that we could afford it. I’ll take a cab home on Monday—it’s right on my way.”

  “If that’s what you want to do,” Claire said, shrugging dismissively. “As long as you take the cab fare out of your commission.” By now she was at her desk, and she picked up the sales book, flipping it open. “That’s all?” she asked, her eyes fixing on Caroline. “All afternoon, and you sold just the one vase?”