One Fifth Avenue

Act Five

In anticipation of the date for Sandy Brewer’s trial, The New York Times did a series of stories about the Cross of Bloody Mary. A famous historian claimed the cross was the cause of not just one crime but, over the last four hundred years, several, including murder. A priest, guarding the treasure in eighteenth-century France, was bludgeoned to death in a routine robbery of the sacristy. The list of stolen items included four francs and a bedpan, as well as the cross. The robbers likely hadn’t known what they had, and it was speculated that they sold it to a junk dealer. Nevertheless, from there the cross appeared to have ended up as part of the property of an ancient dowager duchess named Hermione Belvoir. When she died, the cross once again disappeared.

Now it was back, and Sandy Brewer was to be tried for art theft. If Billy had lived, Annalisa reminded herself, he probably would have taken the fall for the crime. But dead men couldn’t talk, and the defense had never been able to find the mysterious wooden box left to Billy by Mrs.

Houghton — or, for that matter, anything else connecting him to the crime. So the prosecution opened its jaws on Sandy Brewer. He tried to plea-bargain, offering to pay a huge fine of over ten million dollars, but in the months since the discovery of the cross, the stock market had dipped precipitously, the price of oil had surged, and regular people were losing their houses and retirement savings. A recession was just around the corner, if not already in the backyard. The people, claimed the DA’s office, demanded the head of the grotesquely rich hedge-fund manager, who had not only made more than his share of money off the little people but had stolen another country’s national treasure as well.

As a corollary, there was renewed interest in Mrs. Houghton. Her good works, personality, and motivations were examined in another big piece in the Times. In the seventies, when the Metropolitan Museum was nearly broke, Mrs. Houghton had single-handedly saved the venerable institution with a donation of ten million dollars. Nevertheless, the rumor that she had taken the Cross of Bloody Mary resurfaced. Several old coots who had known her were interviewed, including Enid, all of whom insisted that Mrs. Houghton was incapable of such an act. Someone remembered that the rumor was started by Flossie Davis, and the reporter tried to interview Flossie, but Enid intervened. Flossie was a very old lady with dementia, she said, and was easily agitated. An interview might literally kill her.

Taking advantage of the moment, Sotheby’s held an auction of Mrs.

Houghton’s jewelry. Now deeply curious about the apartment’s previous owner, Annalisa Rice attended the preview. She wasn’t a great lover of jewelry, but as she stared down into the cases that contained Mrs.

Houghton’s extensive collection, she was overcome with emotion. A sentiment, perhaps, about the connective thread of tradition and how one woman’s life might lead into another’s. It was why mothers passed things on to their daughters, she supposed. There was a transfer of power in the transference of possessions. But mostly, Annalisa decided, it was about belonging, and about things being in their rightful place. Mrs.

Houghton’s jewelry belonged where it always had been, in the penthouse apartment in One Fifth. Bidding fiercely at the auction, she was able to buy twelve pieces. When she brought the jewelry home and placed it in the large velvet jewelry box on her bureau, she experienced an odd sensation, as if the apartment were nearly complete.

Now, on the evening of the King David gala, Annalisa Rice planned to wear Mrs. Houghton’s jewels for the first time. Leaning in to the mirror in the vast marble bathroom, she clipped on a pair of diamond and pearl earrings and stood back to study the effect. The large pearls were a natural yellow, which complemented her auburn hair and gray eyes.

This reminded her once again of Billy and how pleased he would have been with the apartment and with her. Adjusting the earrings, she was startled by Paul’s voice.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked.

She looked up and found him standing in the doorway, staring at her.

“Nothing,” she replied quickly, then added, “What are you doing home?

I thought you were going to meet me at the gala.”

“I changed my mind,” he said. “It’s our big night. I thought we should go together.”

“How nice.”

“You don’t sound happy.”

“I am, Paul. I was just thinking about Billy Litchfield. That’s all.”

“Again?” Paul said.

“Yes, again,” she repeated. “He was my friend. I’ll probably always think about him.”

“Why?” Paul said. “He’s dead.”

“Yes, he is,” she replied sarcastically, walking past him into the master bedroom. “But if Sandy hadn’t been caught, he would still be alive.”

She opened her closet. “Shouldn’t you start getting ready?”

“What did Billy have to do with it?” Paul said. He took off his shoes and began removing his tie. “I want you to stop thinking about Billy Litchfield.”

“Are you the thought police now, too?”

“It’s time to move on,” Paul said, unbuttoning his shirt.

“Billy sold Sandy the cross,” Annalisa said. “Sandy must have told you.”

Paul shrugged. “He didn’t. But in every business maneuver, there’s usually a random element that you don’t foresee. I suppose Billy Litchfield was that element.”

“What are you talking about now, Paul?” Annalisa said, coming out of the closet with a pair of strappy gold high-heeled shoes. “What business maneuver?” She opened the jewelry box and took out a platinum-and-diamond art deco bracelet that had also belonged to Mrs. Houghton.

“Sandy Brewer,” Paul said. “If I hadn’t taken him out, you wouldn’t be standing here putting on Louise Houghton’s jewelry.”

Annalisa froze. “What do you mean?” she said, fumbling with the bracelet.

“Come on,” Paul said. “You knew Sandy was probably going to fire me.

Over that glitch. On the China deal. How was I supposed to know Billy Litchfield was involved with Sandy and the cross? But if you trace it back to the source, it’s really Sam Gooch’s fault. If Sam hadn’t cut the wires, I wouldn’t have had to do what I did.”

“What did you do, Paul?” Annalisa asked softly.

“Sent that e-mail to the Times about the cross,” Paul said, stretching his neck as he placed his bow tie around his collar. “Kids’ stuff,” he said, jerking the ends of the tie. “A simple game of dominoes. Knock one down and they all fall over.”

“I thought Craig Akio sent the e-mail,” Annalisa said, being careful to keep her tone even.

“Also kids’ stuff,” Paul said. “A fake e-mail account — anyone can do it.”

He slipped on his tuxedo jacket. “That was a stroke of brilliance — and luck. Best way to get rid of two people at once. Get them to take each other out.”

“Goodness, Paul,” Annalisa said, her voice trembling slightly. “Is no one safe around you?”

“Not in this building,” he said, going into his closet. “I still need to figure out how to get Mindy Gooch and that bastard son of hers out of One Fifth. When they’re gone, I plan to restore their apartment to its original glory — luggage space.”

He slipped on his patent-leather dress shoes and held out his arm. “Are you ready?” he demanded, seeing her still standing there, fumbling with the bracelet. “Let me help you.”

“No,” she snapped, and took a step back from him. At that moment, the tab slipped into the hasp, and recovering herself, she held up her wrist. With a nervous little laugh, she said, “It’s okay. I got it myself.”

The first thing Annalisa did when taking over as head of the committee for the King David gala was to move the event to the newly refurbished Plaza. Getting out of the Town Car Annalisa had sent for her, Enid nodded in approval. With the restoration of the great hotel, perhaps New York was back, she thought, slowly walking up the red carpet that led to the grand entrance. There were paparazzi on either side, and hearing them call out her name, Enid paused briefly and nodded her coiffed head, getting a kick out of the fact that the paparazzi still wanted to take her picture. Just inside was a line of bagpipers. A young man in a black suit appeared and took her arm. “There you are, Ms. Merle,” he said.

“Annalisa Rice asked me to escort you.”

“Thank you,” Enid said. Philip had wanted to come with her, just like old times, but Enid had refused. She could make it perfectly well on her own, and besides, now that Philip was engaged, he should go with his fiancée. It was time to move on, she’d insisted. And so Philip and Schiffer had gone ahead to do press, which was as it should be.

The event was being held in the gold-and-white ballroom and was three flights up. Enid had always taken the stairs, which were marble and felt like part of a movie set, but the kindly young man led her to the elevator. Enid looked around the metal box and shook her head. “Somehow it doesn’t have quite the same effect,” she remarked.

“Excuse me?” the young man said.

“Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

The elevator doors opened into the large foyer where the cocktail portion of these evenings was always held, and Enid felt better again, seeing that nothing had really changed. Then Annalisa Rice came forward and, kissing her on both cheeks, said, “I’m so glad you made it.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it, my dear,” Enid said. “Your first big charity event. And the head of the committee. Are you giving a speech? The head of the committee always gives a speech.”

“Yes. I wrote something this afternoon.”

“Good girl,” Enid said. “Are you nervous? You shouldn’t be. You’ve met the president, remember?”

Annalisa took Enid’s arm and walked her to the edge of the room.

“Paul did something terrible. He just told me. It slipped out while we were getting dressed...”

Enid cut her off. “Whatever it is, you must forget it. Put it out of your mind. You must behave as if everything is wonderful, no matter what you’re feeling. People expect it of you now.”

“But...”

“Billy Litchfield would have told you the same thing,” Enid said. Seeing the look of terror on Annalisa’s face, Enid patted her arm reassuringly. “Rearrange your expression, my dear. That’s better. Now go on. You have a roomful of people wanting to talk to you.”

“Thank you, Enid,” Annalisa said. She walked off, and Enid moved into the room. Several long tables covered in white cloth were set up along the walls, displaying the wares of a silent auction. Enid stopped in front of a large color photograph of an enormous yacht. Below was a description of the yacht, and a sign-up sheet on which bidders could write down their offer. “The Impressor,” it read. “Two-hundred-and-fifty-foot super-yacht. Four master staterooms with king-size beds. Twelve staff members, including yoga and scuba-diving instructors. Available in July.

Bidding starts at two hundred and fifty thousand a week.”

Enid looked up and found Paul Rice by her side. “You should bid on this,” Enid said.

Paul, for some reason, glared at her, although Enid thought this was probably his usual reaction to being greeted by relative strangers.

“Really?” Paul said. “Why?”

“We all know about your aquarium, dear,” Enid said. “You obviously like fish. There’s a scuba-diving instructor on board. The ocean is like a giant aquarium, I suppose. Have you ever scuba-dived?”

“No,” Paul said.

“I’ve heard it’s very easy to learn,” Enid said, and moved away.

The gong sounded for dinner. “Nini!” Philip exclaimed, having just found her in the crowd. “I’ve been looking for you all night. Where were you?”

“I was having a little chat with Paul Rice.”

“Why on earth would you do that? Especially after all the trouble he’s caused in the building.”

“I like his wife,” Enid declared. “Wouldn’t it be lovely if something happened to Paul, and Annalisa ended up in the apartment without him?”

“Plotting a murder?” Philip asked, and laughed.

“Of course not, dear,” Enid replied. “But it’s happened before.”

“Murder?” Philip said, shaking his head.

“No, dear,” Enid replied. “Accidents.”

Philip rolled his eyes and led her to the head table. They were seated with Annalisa and Paul, and Schiffer, of course, and a few other people whom Enid didn’t know, but who appeared to be business associates of Paul’s. Schiffer was seated next to Paul with Philip next to her, followed by Enid. “This is a wonderful event,” Schiffer said to Paul, trying to make conversation.

“It’s good for business. That’s all,” Paul replied.

Philip put his arm across Schiffer’s back, touching the nape of her neck. Schiffer leaned toward him, and they kissed briefly. On the other side of the table, Annalisa watched with a pang of envy. She and Paul would never have that now, she thought. Standing up to give her speech, she wondered what they would have.

She made her way to the podium. On a monitor in front of her was a copy of her speech. Annalisa looked out at the sea of faces. Some people looked expectant, while others sat back in their chairs, looking smug.

Well, why shouldn’t they be smug? she thought. They were all rich. They had helicopters and planes and country houses. And art. Lots and lots of art. Just like her and Paul. She glanced over at him. He was drumming his fingers on the table as if he couldn’t wait for the evening to be over.

She took a breath and, veering from her prepared remarks, said, “I’d like to dedicate this evening to Billy Litchfield.”

Paul jerked his head up, but Annalisa went on, “Billy lived his life in the pursuit of art as opposed to money, which probably sounds like a horrifying idea to those of you in the financial world. But Billy knew the real value of art — that it wasn’t in the price of a painting but in what art gave to the soul. Tonight all of your donations go to children who don’t have the privilege of having art in their lives. But with the King David Foundation, we can change that.”

Annalisa smiled, took a breath, and continued, “Last year we raised over twenty million dollars in pledges. Tonight we want to raise more.

Who’s willing to stand up and make the first pledge?”

“I will,” said a man in the front. “Half a million dollars.”

“A half million over here,” said another.

“A million dollars,” someone shouted.

“Two mil.”

Not to be outdone, Paul stood up. “Five million dollars,” he said.

Annalisa stared at him, her face impassive. Then she nodded, feeling a rush of excitement. The pledges continued. “Five million here, too!”

exclaimed another man. In ten minutes, it was over. She’d raised thirty million dollars. Ah, she thought. So this was what it was all about.

Afterward, as she returned to her seat, Enid reached out and grabbed her wrist. Annalisa bent down to hear what she was saying. “Well done, my dear,” Enid whispered. “Mrs. Houghton couldn’t have done it better herself.” Then she glanced over at Paul and, pulling Annalisa closer, said,

“You’re very much like her, my dear. But you must remember not to go too far.”

Six weeks later, Annalisa Rice leaned over the railing of the super-yacht and watched as Paul and the onboard scuba instructor disappeared beneath the surface of the waters in the Great Barrier Reef. She turned around, and almost immediately, one of the twelve crew members was by her side. “Can I get you anything, Mrs. Rice? Iced tea, perhaps?”

“Iced tea would be lovely.”

“What time would you like lunch?” the young woman asked.

“When Mr. Rice gets back. Around one.”

“Will he be diving again this afternoon?”

“I hope not,” Annalisa said. “He’s not supposed to.”

“No, ma’am.” The girl nodded and went into the galley to get the tea.

Annalisa climbed the two flights of stairs to the top deck, where eight lounge chairs were arranged around a small pool. At one end was a covered cabana with more deck chairs; at the other end was a bar. Annalisa lay down on one of the deck chairs in the sun, tapping her fingers on the teak frame. She was bored. This was a terrible thought, especially for someone who was on a two-hundred-and-fifty-foot super-yacht. On the deck above, on the very top of the ship, was a helicopter, a speedboat, and an assortment of Jet Skis and other water toys, all of which she might employ for her pleasure. But she wasn’t interested. She and Paul had been on the yacht for two weeks, and she was ready to get back to One Fifth, where she could at least be away from Paul during the day. Paul wouldn’t consider it, though. He’d fallen in love with his new hobby — scuba diving — and refused to cut his vacation short. He’d spent two million dollars to get the yacht, he pointed out, outbidding another guest at the King David gala by a hundred thousand dollars, and he planned to get his money’s worth. She couldn’t argue with him about that, could she? Besides, he added, it was the old lady downstairs — what was her name? Enid something — who’d suggested that he bid on the yacht in the first place.

Annalisa found this strange, along with Enid’s remark about going too far. Annalisa couldn’t understand what Enid had meant, but she didn’t doubt that Enid wanted Paul out of the building. Perhaps she figured a month without Paul Rice was better than nothing. But she needn’t have worried. She would probably get her wish, since Paul kept talking about how he wanted to sell One Fifth as soon as they returned.

“The place is too small for us,” he complained.

“We’re only two people,” Annalisa countered. “How much space do you need to take up in the world?”

“A lot,” Paul said, not catching her sarcasm.

She’d smiled but, as was often her habit now, didn’t respond. Ever since Paul had told her how he’d engineered Sandy Brewer’s downfall and, consequently, Billy Litchfield’s death, Annalisa had moved through her days on autopilot while trying to figure out what to do about Paul.

She didn’t know who he was anymore — and he was dangerous. And when she’d brought up the topic of divorce, Paul wouldn’t hear of it.

“If you really want to move,” she’d ventured one evening as he was feeding his fish, “perhaps you should. I could keep the apartment ...”

“You mean like in a divorce?” Paul had asked softly.

“Well, yes, Paul. It happens these days.”

“What makes you think I’d give you the apartment?” he’d said.

“I’ve done all the work on it.”

“With my money,” he’d scoffed.

“I did give up my career for you. I moved to New York.”

“And it hasn’t exactly been a hardship for you, has it?” Paul had replied.

“I thought you loved it here. I thought you loved One Fifth. Although I don’t understand why.”

“That’s not the point.”

“You’re right,” Paul had said, turning away from his fish and going to stand by his desk. “It’s not the point. What is the point is that divorce is out of the question. I’ve had some meetings with the Indian government.

They may be interested in doing the same kind of deal as the Chinese.

A divorce would be inconvenient right now.”

“When would it be convenient?” she’d asked.

“I don’t know.” He hit a button on his computer. “On the other hand, as you’ve learned from the Billy Litchfield situation, death can be a much more practical solution. If Billy hadn’t died, he’d probably be in jail. That would have been terrible. Who knows what happens to people like him in prison?”

So she had her answer. And since then she kept wondering if it was only a matter of time before Paul did her in as well. What imaginary slight would set him off? If she stayed with him, she’d be in a prison herself, always watching him, trying to gauge his mood, living in fear of the day when she couldn’t mollify him.

Paul returned from scuba diving half an hour later, full of information about the various sea life he’d seen. At one o’clock, they sat down at opposite ends of a long table covered in crisp white linen and ate lobster and a citrus salad. “Are you going to dive this afternoon?” she asked.

“I’m thinking about it. I want to explore the wreck of the Endeavor.

Captain James Cook’s ship.”

Two servers came in wearing gray uniforms and white gloves. They removed the plates and carefully laid out the silver for dessert. “Would you like more wine, ma’am?”

“No, thank you,” Annalisa said. “I have a bit of a headache.”

“It’s the barometric pressure. It’s changing. We may have some bad weather tomorrow.”

“I’ll have more wine,” Paul said.

As the server filled his glass, Annalisa said, “I really wish you wouldn’t dive this afternoon. You know it’s dangerous to do more than two dives a day. Especially after you’ve been drinking.”

“I’ve had less than two glasses,” Paul said.

“It’s enough,” she protested.

Paul ignored her and defiantly took another sip of wine. “It’s my vacation. I’ll do as I please.”

After lunch, Annalisa went to the stateroom to take a nap. While she was lying on the king-size bed, Paul came in to get changed. “I don’t know,” he said, yawning. “I might not dive after all.”

“I’m glad you’re being sensible,” Annalisa said. “And you heard what the server said. The pressure’s changing. You don’t want to get caught in bad weather.”

Paul looked out the stateroom window. “It’s perfectly sunny,” he said in his usual contrarian style. “If I don’t go, it could be days before I have another chance.”

As Paul was suiting up, the captain of the yacht came out, holding a dive table. “Mr. Rice,” he said. “I need to remind you that this is your third deep dive today. You can’t stay down for longer than thirty minutes total, and you’ll need to include ten minutes to surface.”

“I’m well aware of the time/nitrogen/oxygen ratio,” Paul said. “I’ve been doing math since I was three.” Holding the regulator over his face, he jumped in.

As Paul descended, weightless and with the familiar childlike joy he’d recently discovered in being unfettered by gravity, he was joined by the yacht’s scuba instructor. The water was particularly clear in the Great Barrier Reef, even at eighty feet, and Paul had no trouble finding the wreck. The old ship was fascinating, and as Paul swam in and out of the hull, he was overcome by a feeling of pure happiness. This was why he couldn’t stop diving, he told himself. Then Paul recalled something from the diving manual and tried to remind himself that the giddy feeling could be a sign of impending nitrogen narcosis, but he quickly dismissed it. Surely he had another five or ten minutes. The giddy feeling increased, and when Paul saw the scuba instructor motioning for him to go up, instead of following his instructions, Paul swam away. For the first time in his life, he thought irrationally, he was denying the rigid rules of the monstrous numbers that had dominated his life. He was free.

The scuba instructor swam after him, and what ensued next was an underwater tussle worthy of a James Bond movie. Eventually, the instructor won, twisting himself behind Paul’s back and putting him in a choke hold.

Slowly, they ascended to the surface, but it was too late. An air bubble had formed and lodged itself in Paul’s spine; as he rose, the air bubble expanded rapidly. When Paul reached the surface, it exploded, ripping apart the nerves in his spine.

“Yoo-hoo,” Enid Merle said, shouting up to Annalisa Rice. Annalisa looked over the side of the terrace, where she was overseeing the erec-tion of a large white tent, and spotted Enid waving in excitement. “A reporter at the paper just called me — Sandy Brewer has been convicted.

He’s going to jail.”

“Come upstairs and tell me about it,” Annalisa called to her below.

In a few minutes, Enid arrived on the terrace, panting slightly as she fanned the air in front of her face. “It’s so hot. I can’t believe how hot it is for September. They say it’s going to be ninety degrees on Saturday.

And we’ll probably have a thunderstorm.”

“We’ll be fine,” Annalisa said. “We have the tent and the whole apartment. I’ve cleared out most of Paul’s things from the ballroom, so we’ll have that space as well.”

“How is Paul?” Enid asked, by rote.

“Exactly the same,” Annalisa said. As she always did when she spoke about Paul, she lowered her voice and solemnly shook her head. “I saw him this morning.”

“My dear, I don’t know how you can bear it,” Enid said.

“There’s always the slight chance that he’ll recover. They say miracles do occur.”

“Then he could end up being another Stephen Hawking,” Enid said reassuringly, patting Annalisa on the arm.

“I’ve decided to donate money to the facility for a wing in Paul’s name.

Even if Paul never comes out of the coma, it’s possible, in ten years, someone with similar injuries will.”

“It’s the right thing to do, my dear,” Enid said, nodding approvingly.

“And you still go to see him every day. It’s so admirable.”

“It’s only thirty minutes by helicopter,” Annalisa said, moving into the cool of the apartment. “But tell me all about Sandy.”

“Well,” Enid said, taking a large breath equal to the importance of her news. “He’s been sentenced to five years.”

“That’s terrible.”

“The prosecutor wanted to make an example of him. He’ll serve less time, I’m sure. Maybe two and a half years. Then he’ll get out, and everyone will forget about it. They always do. What I don’t understand is how Sandy Brewer got the cross in the first place.”

“Don’t you know?” Annalisa asked.

“No, my dear. I don’t.”

“Come with me,” Annalisa said. “I have something to show you.”

She led Enid upstairs to the master bedroom. There, on the top of her bureau, was the crude wooden box Mrs. Houghton had left Billy.

“Do you recognize this?” Annalisa asked, opening the lid. She took out the jewelry she’d bought from Mrs. Houghton’s estate and, pointing to the hinge at the back, held out the box to Enid. “It has a false bottom,” she said.

“Oh my goodness,” Enid said, taking the box and examining it. “So that’s where she kept it.” She handed the box back to Annalisa. “That would be very Louise. Hiding it in plain sight. How did you get the box, dear?”

“Schiffer gave it to me. After the King David gala. She was moved by what I said about Billy, and she insisted I take it.”

“But how did she get it?”

Annalisa smiled. “You don’t know that, either? She took it from Billy’s apartment on the day she found him.”

“Clever girl,” Enid said. “I’m so happy she and Philip are marrying at last.”

“Let’s go upstairs,” Annalisa said. “I want you to see the ballroom.”

“Oh my dear, it’s marvelous,” Enid exclaimed, passing through the large double doors. The floor had been restored to its original black-and-white marble checkerboard, the aquarium was gone, and the marble mantelpiece was newly polished, revealing the intricate carvings telling the story of the goddess Athena. Luckily, Paul had never touched the ceiling, so the painting of sky and cherubs still remained. Scattered around the room were little tables and chairs and vases filled with sprays of white lilies and lilacs.

The room smelled heavenly, and strolling to the fireplace, Enid examined the detailed carvings. “Wonderful,” she said, nodding in approval. “You’ve done so much in such a short period of time.”

“I’m very efficient,” Annalisa replied. “And of course, I needed something to keep me busy. After Paul’s accident. It still isn’t appropriate to be seen out in public.”

“Oh no, my dear,” Enid said. “Not for another six months, at least. But a private affair in your own apartment is a different story. And it’s only seventy-five people.”

“I did invite Mindy and James Gooch. And Sam,” Annalisa said. “I’ve decided that Mindy is like one of those old hags in a Grimms’ fairy tale.

If you don’t invite her, she wreaks havoc.”

“How true,” Enid said in agreement. “And it’s always wonderful to have children at a wedding.” She looked around the room with pleasure. “Ah, the times we used to have in this ballroom. When Louise was alive and still young. Everyone wanted to be invited to those parties, and everyone came. From Jackie O to Nureyev. Princess Grace when she was still Grace Kelly. Even Queen Elizabeth came once. She had her own security detail.

Handsome young men in bespoke suits.”

“But now it turns out that Mrs. Houghton was a thief,” Annalisa said, looking directly at Enid. “Or so it seems.”

Enid stumbled a little, and Annalisa took her arm to steady her. “Are you okay?” she asked, leading Enid to a chair.

Enid patted her heart. “Yes, dear. It’s the heat. Old people don’t do well in the heat. That’s why one is always hearing those terrible stories about old people who die in heat waves. Could I have some water, please?”

“Of course,” Annalisa said. She pressed the button for the intercom.

“Gerda? Could you please bring up some ice water for Ms. Merle?”

The water arrived right away, and Enid took a large gulp. “That’s better. Now what were we talking about, dear?”

“The cross. And Mrs. Houghton.”

Enid looked away. “You’re so very much like her, dear. I saw it that night at the gala.”

Annalisa laughed. “Are you saying I’ve got a precious antiquity hidden in the apartment?”

“No, dear,” Enid said. “Mrs. Houghton wasn’t a thief. She was other things, but pilfering antiquities from a museum was not her style.”

Annalisa sat on the small gold ballroom chair next to Enid. “How did she get it, then?”

“You’re awfully curious,” Enid said.

“I’m interested.”

“Some secrets are best left at that — as secrets.”

“Billy Litchfield died because of it.”

“Yes, my dear,” Enid said, patting her hand. “And until just now, when you showed me the box, I never imagined that Billy Litchfield would have been involved in selling the cross. It wasn’t in his character.”

“He was desperate,” Annalisa said. “His building was going co-op, and he didn’t have the money to buy it. He was convinced he would have to leave New York.”

“Ah, New York,” Enid said, taking another sip of water. “New York has always been a difficult place. Ultimately, the city is bigger than all of us.

I’ve lived here for over seventy years, and I’ve seen it happen again and again. The city moves on, but somehow the person does not, and they get run over in the process. That, I’m afraid, is what must have happened to Billy.” Enid leaned back in her chair. “I’m tired, my dear,” she said. “I’m getting old myself.”

“No,” Annalisa said. “It wasn’t New York. Paul was responsible. Sandy Brewer showed him the cross one evening. Paul thought Sandy was going to fire him because he lost twenty-six million dollars on the morning of the Internet Debacle. So Paul sent an e-mail to the Times.”

“Aha,” Enid said. And then, with a wave, as if she wished to sweep it all away, added, “There you go. Everything always works out for the best.”

“Does it?” Annalisa said. “I still need to know how Mrs. Houghton got the cross.” She looked directly into Enid’s eyes, her gaze not wavering.

Louise, Enid remembered, could do that, too — stare a person down until she got exactly what she wanted. “Enid,” she said softly. “You owe me.”

“Do I?” Enid gave a little laugh. “I suppose I do. Otherwise, who knows what would have happened to the apartment? Very well, my dear. If you want the truth so much, you’ll have it. Louise didn’t take the cross from the Met. She took it from my stepmother, Flossie Davis. Flossie took the cross because she was silly and stupid and thought it was pretty. Louise saw her take it and made Flossie give it to her. Louise, I’m sure, intended to return it to the museum, but Flossie had a bit of dirt on Louise. She was quite sure that Louise killed her husband.”

Annalisa stood up. “I thought you said he’d died from a staph infection.”

Enid sighed. “That was how I remembered it. But after Billy died, I had a chat with Flossie. And then I went to the library. There’s no doubt Randolf Houghton did return to One Fifth with some kind of infection. But the next day, he rapidly went downhill and died twelve hours later. The cause of death was never determined conclusively — but that wasn’t unusual in those days. They didn’t have all the tests and medical equipment they do now. The assumption was that the infection had killed him. But Flossie never believed it. Apparently, one of the maids told Flossie that right before Randolf died, he lost his voice and couldn’t speak. It’s one of the symptoms of belladonna poisoning. Very old-fashioned.”

“So Louise was a murderer?” Annalisa said.

“Mostly, Louise was a passionate gardener,” Enid replied carefully. “She once had a greenhouse on her terrace but took it down after Randolf died. Flossie insists she was growing belladonna. If she were, she would have needed a greenhouse to do it in. The plant can’t survive in direct sunlight.”

“Ah,” Annalisa said, nodding. “And I suppose you wanted me to do the same thing to Paul.”

“Absolutely not,” Enid said. “Although it’s crossed my mind that ultimately Randolf’s death was for a good cause. Louise did so much for the city. But she never would have gotten away with it today. And of course, your husband is still alive. I know you wouldn’t do anything to hurt him.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” Annalisa said. “Paul is quite harmless now.”

“That’s good, dear,” Enid said, standing up. “And now that you know everything, I really must run. Schiffer and I are going to switch apartments this week, and I must start packing.”

“Of course,” Annalisa said. She took Enid’s arm and escorted her down the two flights of steps. At the front door, she paused. “There is still one thing you haven’t told me,” she said. “Why did Mrs. Houghton do it?”

Enid emitted a cackle. “Why do you think? Her husband wanted to sell the apartment.” She paused. “Now you must tell me something as well.

How did you do it?”

“I didn’t,” Annalisa said. “I only begged Paul not to go.”

“Of course,” Enid said. “And isn’t that a typical man? They never listen.”

An hour later, Philip found his aunt in her kitchen, precariously balanced on top of a stepstool, taking things out of the top shelf of a cabinet.

“Nini,” Philip said sharply, “what are you doing? The movers will pack everything up.” He took her hand and helped her down. “It’s the day before my wedding. What if you fell? What if you broke your hip?”

“What if I did?” she asked, affectionately patting his cheek. Thinking of Annalisa, she said, “It would all continue. It always does, one way or another.”

The morning of Philip and Schiffer’s wedding day was hazy and hot. The clouds were expected to burn off, but there might be thunderstorms later in the day. In the overheated kitchen of the Gooches’ apartment, Mindy Gooch was going over a catalog for Sub-Zero refrigerators with James. “I know it’s only a country house, but we might as well get the best. We can afford it. And then we won’t have to worry about replacing it for at least twenty years.” She looked up at James and smiled. “In twenty years, we’ll be in our mid-sixties. We’ll have been married for almost forty years. Won’t that be amazing?”

“Yes,” James said with what had become a nearly permanent jumpiness.

Mindy had yet to say a word about Lola, but she didn’t have to. The fact that she’d messengered those columns was enough. They would never talk about it, James thought, the way they never talked about anything that was wrong in their marriage. Of course, Mindy didn’t have to do that, either, not when she wrote about their marriage in her blog.

“What do you think?” Mindy asked now. “The forty- or the sixty-inch?

I say sixty, even though it’s three thousand dollars more. Sam will be having friends up to the country, and we’ll need lots of room for food.”

“Sounds great,” James said.

“And did you get the toilet paper and paper towels?” Mindy asked.

“I did it yesterday. Didn’t you notice?” James asked.

“Well, really, James,” Mindy said, “I’m a little busy here. Renovating the house and turning my blog into a book. That reminds me, Sam is bringing his little girlfriend to the wedding. I’ve asked Thayer Core to come by here at two o’clock to pick Sam up, then they’ll meet Dominique at Penn Station. She’s coming in from Springfield, Massachusetts. You can thank me for that — I thought you’d probably want to spend the day undisturbed, so you can work on your new book.”

“Thanks,” James muttered.

“And one more thing,” Mindy continued. “Dominique is Billy Litchfield’s niece. Ironic, isn’t it? But I suppose life is like that — it’s a small world.

Sam met her at tennis camp, and she’s going to Miss Porter’s in the fall.

So don’t say anything negative about Billy. She’s very sensitive, I think. But we don’t have to feel too sorry for her. Sam says she inherited three million dollars from Billy’s estate. It was in a Swiss bank account. Who would have thought Billy had so much money?”

Later that day, around midafternoon, Lola Fabrikant awoke in Thayer Core’s bed, exhausted. Thayer was out — probably running errands for that awful Mindy Gooch, she thought — and out of habit, Lola immediately turned her phone on. She was supposed to have Saturdays off, but her new boss, the crazy director Harold Dimmick, had already sent her six frantic e-mails, demanding that she come by his apartment so she could advise him on what to wear to Schiffer and Philip’s wedding. For a moment, Lola considered ignoring the e-mails but thought better of it. Harold Dimmick had bizarre habits and barely spoke, but he was so crazy he had to pay his assistants a salary of eighty thousand dollars a year to get anyone to work for him. Lola needed both the job and the money, so she put up with Harold and the long hours. Harold had just started shooting an independent film and was working round the clock; consequently, she was as well.

She got up and went into the small bathroom, splashing water on her face. Looking in the mirror, she wondered once again what had happened to her life. After James had refused to see her, her fortunes had quickly taken another turn for the worse. Marquee had disappeared, along with his website, The Peephole, and while Lola was furious because he still owed her two thousand dollars, there wasn’t a thing she could do.

She’d tried living on her own for a bit, but her money had begun to run out quickly, and she’d had to beg Thayer to let her move in with him.

She’d even tried looking for a regular job, but it turned out James had been right about the effects of writing a graphic sex column. Every potential employer seemed to know about it, and she couldn’t even get an interview for an interview. Then she’d run into Schiffer Diamond during one of her stakeouts of One Fifth. Schiffer had spotted her standing by the bushes in front of Flossie Davis’s building, and had crossed over to greet her. “Hey, kiddo,” she said, as if they were actual friends and she hadn’t stolen Philip away from her. “I’ve been wondering what happened to you. Enid said you were back in town.”

Lola tried to remind herself of her hatred of Schiffer Diamond but was overwhelmed by Schiffer’s persona — she was a movie star, after all, and if someone had to take Philip away, wasn’t it better that it was Schiffer Diamond and not some other twenty-two-year-old like herself? So Lola found herself pouring out all her troubles, and Schiffer agreed to help her, saying it was the least she could do. Schiffer had arranged for her to meet Harold Dimmick, one of the directors on Lady Superior. Due to Schiffer’s recommendation, Harold had hired her, but Lola no longer believed Schiffer had anything to do with it. Harold was such a freak, only someone as desperate as Lola would even consider the job.

“So you’re finally up,” Thayer said, coming into the apartment.

“I worked last night until three A.M., if you recall,” Lola snapped. “Not everyone has a cushy nine-to-five job.”

“Try nine-to-seven,” Thayer said. “And the Gooch is making me work today. Have to take her kid to the train station to meet his girlfriend.”

“Ugh,” Lola said. “Why can’t she go herself? It’s her kid.”

“She’s working,” Thayer said. “On her book.”

“It’s going to be horrible. I hope it’s a flop.”

“It’ll probably be huge. She gets over a hundred thousand views on her blog.”

“She could have at least gotten us invited to the wedding.”

“You still don’t get it, do you?” Thayer scoffed. “We’re considered the help.”

“Well,” Lola said, insulted. “If you want to think about yourself that way, go ahead. I never will.”

“What do you plan to do about it?” Thayer asked.

“I’m not going to just sit around and let things happen to me. And neither should you. Listen, Thayer,” Lola said, going into the tiny kitchen and taking a bottle of VitaWater out of the mini refrigerator, “I’m not going to continue to live like this. I’ve been looking at ads for real estate. There’s a tiny apartment in the basement of a building on Fifth Avenue, between Eleventh and Twelfth Streets, for four hundred thousand dollars. The building just went co-op.”

“Ah,” Thayer said. “Billy Litchfield’s old building.”

“With your hundred thousand a year and my eighty, that’s ninety thousand a year after taxes. That’s almost eight thousand a month. We ought to be able to afford a mortgage on that.”

“Right,” Thayer said. “And the apartment is probably the size of a shoe box.”

“It was a storage room. But so what? It’s on Fifth Avenue.”

“And the next thing you know, you’ll be wanting to get married,”

Thayer said.

“And?” Lola said. “It’s not like you’ll ever find anyone better than me.”

“I’ll think about it,” he said. The skies outside the window were dark-ening, and there was a clap of thunder. “Storm’s coming,” Thayer said. “I’d better get moving.”

While he was waiting in Penn Station with Sam, the clouds passed over without producing rain. Coming out of the station on Seventh Avenue with Dominique in tow — she was a scrawny kid with limp blond hair, Thayer noted — the air was so still and hot, it was almost nauseating.

Thayer flagged down a taxi and urged his charges into the backseat. “I’ve never been to New York before. It’s so crowded. And ugly,” Dominique exclaimed.

“You haven’t seen the good part yet. Don’t worry, kid, it gets better,”

Thayer said. As the taxi edged down Fifth Avenue, another bank of thunderclouds rolled across lower Manhattan. The skies opened just as the taxi pulled up in front of One Fifth, pelting Thayer and Sam and Dominique with drops of rain the size of pennies.

“I’m soaked!” Dominique screamed, running into the building.

Roberto came forward with an umbrella — too late — and shook his head, laughing. “Bad weather out there, eh, Sam?”

Sam wiped the water off his face. “They said it was supposed to clear up later.”

“I’m sure it will. Just in time for the wedding. Mrs. Rice always gets what she wants,” Roberto said, and winked.

In honor of the occasion, the lobby was festooned with hundreds of fra-grant white roses. Dominique looked around in wonder, taking in the uniformed doormen, the paneled walls, and the riot of flowers. “I can’t believe you live here,” she said, turning to Sam. “When I grow up, I’m going to live here, too.”

Thayer smirked. “Good luck.”

The scent of the flowers drifted into the Gooches’ apartment, assault-ing Mindy’s nose as she sat poised in front of her computer. Inhaling deeply, she closed her eyes for a moment and sat back in her chair. When had it begun, she wondered, this mysterious and unfamiliar feeling of contentment? Was it when Annalisa Rice had returned to One Fifth without Paul? Or had it actually begun earlier, when she’d started writing her blog? Or had it perhaps sneaked up on her when she discovered James was having sex with Lola? God bless that little slut, Mindy thought.

Thanks to Lola, she and James now had the perfect marriage. James didn’t dare cross her. And she no longer had to worry about providing him with sex. Let him have his occasional tartlet on the side, she thought. She had everything she wanted.

Positioning her fingers above the keyboard, she typed: “The Joys of Not Having It All.” She paused for a moment and, gathering her thoughts, began:

“Why shouldn’t life be easier if it can be? Accept good fortune and damn the rest.”