Part 12 (2/2)
”You sure Bob Schmiller didn't do it?”
Cangemi had absolutely no reaction. His face was either dead from the boring nature of the information or the hard work he put into looking like he didn't have a reaction.
Laura pressed on. ”He called her, yeah, and I know he was away, but if he just put one bad pill in her bottle, he could afford to wait until she took it. Even better if he was away while it happened and he called her like she was alive. He could be patient, right?”
Cangemi held up his hand. ”You can have all the fun you want making guesses. We don't do that.”
Laura was undeterred by his perch at the higher moral ground. ”Bob had to get rid of Thomasina. Ivanah was starting to get involved in his garment business, and they were bound to meet. There's more gossip than a soap opera. The secret would die, and what would happen? A divorce? It would cost him a fortune. That woman isn't stupid; she'd rake him for everything he has. And the fact that you're looking at me like that means I hit on something, doesn't it? I mean, just because I haven't heard you brought him in for questioning doesn't mean you haven't. And whatever he said, you believed him, because he has the money to cover his tracks. And there's Ruby, who has, maybe, a pot to p.i.s.s in.”
”I know you don't get that these accusations are serious. You think you're just talking. And you got this whole problem with not having a filter.”
”Just tell me you spoke to Bob Schmiller. He could have planted poison on Thomasina and left on some business trip and waited it out. The question is, when did he plan that trip? Before or after she threatened to tell his wife about them?”
”Isn't he your backer?”
”So?”
”Maybe you should stop talking about him like that.” He slid the Pandora book back into the envelope and stood. ”You should go before you say something really stupid.”
He unceremoniously walked her to the lobby and left her with Uncle Graham like a father giving away the bride. Then he walked away as though he had more important things to do.
”They're releasing her in an hour, maybe two,” Uncle Graham said, tapping on his BlackBerry. ”You can wait if you want.”
”Have they questioned Bob Schmiller?”
He looked at her suspiciously. ”Why do you ask?”
”Because he was having an affair with her, one. And two, he could have done it.”
He put his phone in his pocket. ”Is this what you did earlier this year? Grasp at straws?”
”As a matter of fact, yes.”
”Thomasina was not having an affair with Bob Schmiller, I promise you.”
”You're hiding something from me.”
”When Ruby comes out, you can ask her about it. But for now, leave it alone.”
”I can't.”
”Yes, you can, and you will. I'll wait here for Ruby and make sure she gets home. Why don't you get some rest?”
”I'm not tired.”
He put his hands on her shoulders. ”Do you trust me?”
”Yes.”
”Then let me get you a cab.”
She let him because he was her uncle, but she didn't go home.
CHAPTER 12.
She held onto a sliver of spite and used it to get her uptown, that and the cab, which had a Jeremy St. James ad on top. Saint JJ. Coming in Spring. As much as her heart tried to hold onto the rage that pushed her to the Schmillers' house, her body kept remembering Jeremy.
Central Park West had never had a renaissance like other neighborhoods. There had been no metamorphosis from dangerous to dumpy to hip to satisfactory to desirable to inaccessible. It had always been a fortress for money, even if the walls around it were in the imaginations of the citizens of the rest of the city. There had always been a doorman, an awning with bra.s.s stands, and a no-parking zone right in front because the residents could not be inconvenienced by a parked car outside their building.
Naturally, the Schmillers lived in the s.h.i.+niest building with the gargoyles and stone bal.u.s.trades on the top two floors overlooking Central Park and 73rd Street. She wondered about Bob's part in choosing the condo. He didn't seem like a polished, s.h.i.+ny guy. He seemed like an ex-football player with the talent for turning lemon-drop companies into lemonade-flavored cash. If she'd been his real estate agent, she would have pegged him as more of an Upper East Side kind of guy.
Laura had a million reasons to be there, yet she still needed to come up with an excuse to show up after sunset. And she needed flowers. She took a detour to a Korean market and bought the loudest, gaudiest bunch she could lay hands on.
”Hi,” she said to the doorman, whose nameplate advertised his name as Harvold. ”My name is Laura Carnegie. I'm here for the Schmillers.”
”Are they expecting you, Ms. Carnegie?”
”Nope.”
”Lovely flowers.” He picked up the handle of a circa-1970s wall phone. He said her name and Ivanah's without judgment, hung up, and pointed her to the elevator. ”Press the b.u.t.ton marked 'P.'”
She did, and the bra.s.s doors slid shut with a rickety creak. They probably paid extra for that little sound of authenticity, like the wood paneling inside, and the wool carpet, and the tungsten light. The elevator coasted, then halted, opening onto a small hallway with one door. Their apartment took up the entire floor. Nice. She knocked.
A short man in a grey wool suit with a blue tie and wireframe gla.s.ses answered. He held a leather folder in his hand and stopped short when he saw her. ”Are you the lady Harvold called up about?”
”Yes. I'm Laura Carnegie?” d.a.m.n that little question mark lilt.
”One of the Sartorial sisters, I presume?”
”Wow, that is such a better name than what we came up with.”
”Not a stretch, actually. She's up in the garden. Would you like to follow me?”
He led her through the biggest apartment she'd ever seen. Quite possibly, it was bigger than Gracie Pomerantz's house, or the same, but more horizontal, and either tasteless or suffering from an overabundance of taste. The crushed velvet couch was as deep a pink as ripe strawberries and the pattern was perfectly not too big or small, with a matching loveseat, and both had black trim that Laura realized was leather. Everything had chrome or Plexigla.s.s, and every room they pa.s.sed had some sort of animal skin.
”I'm sorry,” Laura said. ”I didn't get your name?”
He turned around with his hand out. ”So sorry. I'm Buck Stern.”
She tried not to laugh. Buck Stern was a good name for a deep-voiced radio broadcaster or a soap opera star. Not this pipsqueak.
<script>