17.

PEELING OFF THE paraphernalia of winter and snow in New York City took forever. The boots, the wool knee socks, the leg warmers, the layers of clothing, coat, beret, heavy scarf, extra bulky sweater, fleece-lined sweats. It was endless. Gradually, the small, lithe body of the dancer emerged. Under all she wore a leotard jumpsuit in her favorite shade, violet.

She shivered. The apartment was cold. She hopped into the dining room, pulling her leg warmers back on. She had co-opted part of her dining room for a workout area when she had first moved into the apartment. She slipped the towel from the barre, rolled it, and hung it around her neck. She’d been looking forward to this. She found it easier to think when she worked out. She could separate her mind in two parts. The intense concentration of her workout, and whatever was troubling her. At the moment, what was troubling her was Peepsie Cunningham’s murder.

That poor old woman had not committed suicide.

Ida was the key, wasn’t she?

She put a Chopin étude into her tape deck. The little light on her answering machine was blinking. Damn. She pressed Playback and waited. The tape spun and spun. Either a long message or several short ones.

Beep. “Where are you? I need to talk to you.” It was Smith; her voice was petulant. Wetzon sighed.

Beep. “Guess what, dancing lady? Never got out. Took me five hours to get back to the city last night.” Teddy Lanzman’s voice was scratchy. “How about dinner tonight instead of tomorrow?” He sneezed. “If I live that long.” He left his number.

Beep. “This is Charlotte Killer, Ms. Wetzon. If you have a complaint about me, say it to my face—if you have the guts.”

Wetzon, wide-eyed, stepped back from her machine. The tone of the voice was nasty. She stopped the tape and replayed the message. Had she heard right? Charlotte Killer? Was that what the woman had said her name was? She caught the last two digits of Teddy’s phone number, then “This is Charlotte Kellner ...” She played the rest of the message.

Killer, indeed. Wetzon, what’s with your head? You’re getting carried away with this crime stuff.

One of the purposes of the co-op board was to act as a buffer between tenants. If a complaint was made by one tenant about another, it was to be treated confidentially. At least it was supposed to be.

She had almost forgotten the crudely written threat. Obviously from the loony Charlotte Killer in 12C. She laughed. Screw it and screw her.

She waited. There appeared to be at least one more message. She heard a click, then a disconnect. Probably Smith again.

Beep. “Wetzon, this is Arleen Grossman. I hope you don’t mind my calling you at home, but I did so enjoy meeting you, and I hope you’ll have dinner with me on Monday evening.” She left two numbers. Home and office. Strange woman, this Arleen Grossman. She didn’t believe in giving a body a chance to breathe.

There were no more messages. Wetzon reset the machine and turned it off.

She called Hazel.

“No, I don’t need anything, Leslie dear. Of course, I’m very upset about Peepsie ...”

Wetzon hesitated, then reported her interview with O’Melvany. “Leslie, I don’t know ...” Something else seemed to be troubling Hazel.

“What?”

“Her lawyer says she wanted to be cremated.” Hazel stopped. “I know this sounds foolish, but Peepsie was the only one of us who didn’t want to be cremated. She was so afraid of fire.”

“She could have changed her mind. When is the funeral?” She began to do slow reléves as she spoke.

“Well, with the snow and all ... and no one in her family is left except Marion. I’m the only one in New York. D.C. is closed down, Hartford as well. We decided we would have a memorial luncheon after the weather settles down.”

“Good idea.” She peered outside. It was still snowing. “Call me if you need anything. Otherwise, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Wetzon hung up. Eventually she would have to tell Hazel her suspicions, but for now ... She moved to the barre and went into first position.

The phone rang. She let it ring as she finished the movement and answered the phone just before the answering machine clicked on.

“Wetzon, you are home and you haven’t called me back,” Smith accused.

“Smith, I just got in. Honest. I was over at the Nineteenth Precinct making a statement about Peepsie Cunningham—”

“Who?” Smith was piqued. Her voice was half an octave higher than usual. “Oh, that old lady who killed herself?”

“Smith, you sound very upset. Is something wrong?”

“You didn’t call me about my party—”

“I left the apartment too early this morning to call you. I didn’t want to wake you. But it was a lovely party.”

“You know how I count on you,” Smith said. “I don’t think you care about me half as much as I care about you.”

Jesus Christ, Wetzon thought. She stopped doing her reléves. “What’s going on, Smith?”

“You know how we always dish after my parties.”

“Okay, let’s dish,” Wetzon said. She shook out her feet and went back to doing reléves. “I was surprised to see Jake Donahue there, looking as if he just got back from a vacation in the Caribbean.”

“He did look wonderful, didn’t he? He was with Melissa Diamantidou, the widow of the shipping fortune. Did you see that ring ...”

Wetzon tuned out. She looked at her watch. She was hungry. It was after one o’clock. She had to call Teddy and get dinner confirmed. She wanted, needed, her workout.

“ ... liked you very much.”

“I’m sorry, who?”

“Wetzon, you’re not listening to me.”

“I am ... I am.” She twisted to the right, stretching her back.

“I was talking about Arleen Grossman.”

“Oh yes. Nice lady.” She changed hands on the telephone and twisted to the left. Should she tell Smith about the dinner invitation for Monday? “Weird brother, though.”

“John? Oh, I suppose so. I think he’s a little retarded, and dear Arleen lets him do things for her.”

“Retarded? He hadn’t seemed retarded to me.”

Smith lowered her voice as if she were not alone. “Wetzon, I’d really appreciate it if you would not get too chummy with Arleen. After all, she’s my friend.”

And I saw her first? “Don’t worry,” Wetzon said at once. “I really don’t think—”

“I’m not worried. What a strange thing to say, Wetzon. Why should I worry?” Smith spoke in a rush of words. “After all, you and Arleen have so little in common.”

Christ, she was patronizing. “Smith, I have lunch on the stove. I really have to go—”

“Wait, sweetie pie, don’t hang up.” Smith’s voice slipped back into her old mode. “I wanted to tell you what I read in the cards for you this morning.”

Wetzon rolled her hips, doing a grind exercise, without the bump. “Yes?” Smith and those damn cards.

“Are you going out anywhere today, sugar?”

“You’re kidding! In this weather?” Wetzon looked out her windows. All one could see was white. “I’d be crazy. And where would I go? Nothing’s running, nothing’s open.”

Smith was severe. “I do not kid where the cards are concerned. You know that. The cards say you will meet a dark man today and he will carry death with him.”