Done to Death Read online

  ‘Sorry officer,’ Ada said. She gently tugged at Lil’s arm. ‘Lil, come on. We’ve got a two o’clock with that Barry Stromstein. If nothing else, it gets us inside.’

  Lil smiled. ‘You’re as curious as I am.’

  ‘There was blood on the sheet,’ Ada said. ‘That was no heart attack. She was injured.’

  Lil, who’d been a doctor’s wife and frequently filled in for Bradley’s nurse, shared her observations. ‘I couldn’t tell if she was breathing. They weren’t bagging her, so you’d think she was breathing. There should have been condensation in the mask … but there wasn’t.’

  ‘You think she’s dead?’ Ada stopped as they came to the sidewalk. The waiting audience and gawkers had now swelled to where the sidewalks around LPP headquarters were an impassible mass of humanity. Cell phones were out, and a flatbed truck had pulled up, its back stacked high with wooden blue police barriers. ‘We need to go in now,’ Ada said, and she headed toward the building’s revolving glass door.

  Without hesitation, Lil followed, expecting to be stopped. They weren’t. A heavyset guard sat in front of the elevators behind a U-shaped counter. To his left was a bank of monitors. He looked up as they approached.

  Ada smiled. ‘That was strange.’

  The man looked at the two of them and nodded. ‘Are you here on business?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ada said, ‘we have a two o’clock meeting with a Mr Stromstein.’

  ‘Thirty-second floor. I’ll need to see some ID.’

  As Lil retrieved her purse and driver’s license, she fished for information. ‘That was Lenore Parks. Do you know what happened?’

  ‘Couldn’t say.’ He checked Lil’s license and Ada’s state of Connecticut ID. He picked up his phone. ‘I have a Lillian Campbell and Ada Strauss for Mr Stromstein. Yeah, I know. Check to see if the meeting’s still on. I’ll hold.’ He looked at Lil and then at Ada. ‘Glad I’m not them,’ he said.

  Ada smiled at the man, who was close to their age. ‘That’s cryptic.’

  With the phone to his ear, waiting to hear if Lil and Ada’s meeting was still on, he explained. ‘It’s Tuesday; she tapes a ten o’clock and a three o’clock. She never misses … today will be a first.’

  Ada held his gaze. ‘You were a cop, weren’t you?’

  He nodded. ‘Twenty years.’

  ‘So what’s with the circus?’ She looked toward the bank of glass doors they’d just come through. The crowd was thick and spilled into the street. Officers had begun to pull barriers off the truck and were creating a blue wall around the entrance and perimeter.

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Kind of nosy, aren’t you?’

  ‘Curious,’ Ada said and, knowing you have to give to get, she added, ‘I saw blood on the sheets.’

  ‘Good eyes,’ he offered.

  ‘Lasik.’

  ‘Me too,’ he said. ‘You didn’t hear it from me … she was shot.’

  ‘Who did it?’ Lil asked.

  The guard’s attention was pulled by a voice through the phone. ‘It’s still on?’ He sounded surprised. ‘Thanks.’ He hung up. ‘You’re going up to thirty-two. Someone will meet you at the elevators.’

  ‘Do they know who shot her?’ Lil repeated.

  ‘Couldn’t say. But I bet you’re the last two civilians coming through those doors today.’

  ‘You miss being a cop?’ Ada asked.

  ‘Nah, too much bullshit. I’ll tell you this: it’s going to be fun watching from the sidelines.’

  ‘Because?’ Ada asked.

  The guard chuckled. ‘Twelve hundred thirty-six people work in this building. Half of them are scared by Lenore and the other half can’t stand her. Fear and hate: that’s a whole lot of motive.’

  ‘Thanks, George,’ Ada said, having checked out George Strand’s photo ID.

  ‘You’re welcome, Ada.’

  As they walked to the elevators Lil whispered, ‘You were flirting with him.’

  ‘Of course I was.’ Ada smiled. ‘You’re just as curious as I am … if not more. You recorded that whole conversation, didn’t you?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Lil said, as the door slid shut and they headed up.

  ‘At least flirting isn’t illegal, Lil. Audiotaping without consent is.’

  ‘Details.’

  ‘This is really interesting,’ Ada said.

  Lil’s fingers ran down Ada’s arm. She squeezed gently. ‘How did we ever find each other?’

  ‘Dumb luck … and lots of it.’

  Lil let go as the elevator stopped and the doors opened.

  A twenty-something blonde woman greeted them. Her face was drawn; she seemed dazed. ‘Lil and Ada, hi, I’m Shana, Mr Stromstein’s assistant. If you’d come with me. He was going to cancel, but …’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Ada said. ‘When bad things happen it’s sometimes best to move forward with business.’ She shot Lil a look as they followed Shana past a sea of mostly empty cubicles. Along the periphery of the large central space were offices. A few had their doors open to reveal long views of Central Park. Groups of people clustered in doorways and cubicles.

  Lil and Ada caught snippets of their conversations. ‘Horrible.’ ‘No surprise.’ ‘What’s going to happen?’ ‘Without Lenore … I need this job.’

  Shana directed them to an occupied conference room where six men and women sat around a gleaming mahogany table. The blinds were down, but through the slats was a dizzying view of Fifth Avenue. An attractive dark-haired man wearing rectangular frameless glasses and a beautifully draped charcoal suit rose from the head of the table as they entered. He looked first at Lil, and then his gaze settled on Ada. ‘Mrs Strauss?’

  ‘Ada, and you are?’

  ‘Crazed, confused … or you can just call me Barry.’

  ‘Barry,’ Ada said. ‘Should we reschedule, considering …’

  ‘No. Trust me, if Lenore— Oh God, we don’t even know if she’s OK. We would have heard.’ He shook his head. ‘Times like this I don’t know what to say. I suppose introductions would work.’ He reached for Ada’s hand. ‘Here.’ He named the three men and two women around the table: John, Ethan, David, Carrie and Melanie. None of them over forty, probably most of them closer to thirty, they were all white, all attractive. ‘And of course my assistant, Shana, who you already met. Can we get you anything? A sandwich, bagel, something to drink?’

  Ada was about to decline, her thoughts skimming over the surreal circumstances. ‘Tea,’ she said, feeling something frenetic pulse off of Barry. His hands were in constant motion, and she realized that under no circumstances would he have cancelled this meeting.

  ‘And Lil?’

  ‘Coffee would be nice.’

  ‘Right back,’ Shana said.

  ‘So sit, please,’ Barry said. His deep brown eyes never left Ada’s face.

  Unperturbed, she stared back, taking in his dark eyes, large nose and even features. Good-looking and obviously successful, she thought, but is he always this wired?

  ‘You have exquisite eyes,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t tell if that’s a compliment or you’re looking for donor parts.’

  There was laughter around the table.

  ‘Are we really doing this?’ asked a short-haired brunet with a lily tattoo on her well-defined forearm.

  ‘Melanie, we’re here,’ Barry said. ‘You know this is what she wants.’

  ‘“She” being Lenore?’ Ada asked.

  ‘Yes.’ His eyes fixed on her as she and Lil took seats to his left.

  ‘So what happened?’ Ada asked.

  ‘You mean who shot Lenore?’ the striking brunet with the tattoo asked. ‘I don’t think anyone knows,’ she said. ‘And Barry’s right − Ada, you have gorgeous eyes. And that haircut’s right on trend. Are you wearing colored contacts?’

  ‘No. And thank you … Melanie?’

  ‘Yes. And is your suit vintage Chanel or is that a knock-off?’

  Ada chuckled. ‘Wasn’t vintage when I bought it. And not
to be rude,’ Ada said, ‘but what exactly are we doing here?’

  ‘Trying to catch lightning in a bottle,’ Barry said.

  ‘And then package and sell it,’ the sandy-haired man next to Melanie offered. ‘There could be action figures.’

  ‘Not for an antique show,’ said the other woman, Carrie, who seemed closest to Barry in age. ‘But certainly spin-offs.’

  ‘Horse before cart,’ Barry replied.

  Shana returned with beverages.

  Ada took a first sip of tea and sorted through the cryptic shorthand shooting around the table.

  ‘So,’ Barry said to Ada, ‘Tell us about Grenville.’

  ‘Lil’s more the expert. She was born and raised there.’

  ‘Never left,’ Lil said. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Barry said, as though just seeing Lil. ‘You do that column. What’s it called?’

  ‘“Cash or Trash”.’

  ‘Wasn’t that a show?’ asked the man with thinning red hair, David.

  ‘No,’ Melanie said. ‘There was Trash or Treasure, Cash in the Attic, Treasure Hunt, Treasure Wars …’ She paused, took a deep breath and, like some reality show savant, prattled off the names of a couple dozen more. ‘Flea Market Wars, Bargain Wars, Bargain Hunters, Auction Kings, Storage Wars. And then there’s that whole sub-genre set in actual antique stores, like Oddities and Oddities: San Francisco.’

  ‘And why are we doing this?’ sandy-haired Ethan asked.

  Barry said, ‘Lenore thinks this vein has more gold in it, and I agree. Problem is, if we can’t get something fresh, it’s pointless. So here’s the idea, but it has to be fleshed out.’ He threw out his earlier Hail Mary pitch to Lenore. ‘Antiques Roadshow meets The Hunger Games on the set of Gilmore Girls.’

  ‘So that’s the connection,’ Ada said.

  ‘What is?’ Melanie asked from across the table.

  ‘Grenville − where Lil and I live − is the antique capital of New England. Basically, it is the set of Gilmore Girls, and as the result of recent and very horrible events, Grenville is no stranger to murder. So I think why … Barry’ – inwardly shuddering at all of this unearned first name familiarity – ‘has asked us here is he’s wondering if maybe there’s a show to be had in our sleepy − albeit murderous − little town.’

  ‘Is there?’ ginger David asked.

  Ada sipped her tea and looked at Lil. ‘Probably several.’

  ‘Some kind of contest or game show?’ Lil asked.

  ‘Possibly,’ Barry said. ‘Those work well, as opposed to people just bringing in items for appraisal. But there’s something to be said for developing a regular cast of characters.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be hard,’ Ada said. ‘You’d have a couple hundred antique dealers to choose from. Then you have the auctioneers, the flea market, but how do you tie in the—’ she stopped herself.

  ‘The blood?’ Barry asked.

  The door to the conference room banged open. A young man, his face flushed, looked around and then focused on Barry. ‘She’s dead,’ he said. ‘Lenore is dead.’

  ‘Oh dear God!’ Melanie gasped.

  The ginger-haired man shook his head. ‘Shit! Not good.’

  The others were silent as they looked to Barry. He sighed as the man left to continue spreading the news.

  ‘I think a moment of reflection is in order,’ Barry said.

  Heads nodded in agreement.

  Ada thought of the stretcher and the barely glimpsed celebrity with her wet hair and bloody sheets. While she was not a fan of Lenore, the woman was ubiquitous, a style icon whose local appearances in and around Grenville were topics of frequent conversation. Lenore’s children − especially her train wreck daughter – were frequently on the cover of checkout-line tabloids. She glanced at Lil, and wondered how she was taking this. Her chestnut eyes gave away little as she sipped her coffee. A moment’s reflection … were there lessons to be learned from Lenore? A woman who gave a surface message of grace and perfection, she was fabulously successful, wealthy, famous, but there were cracks. And this group of people trying to make something out of thin air. Shouldn’t they go home? Call it a day? For God’s sake, their boss had just been murdered. Apparently the killer was still at large. And without Lenore, how could there still be a Lenore Parks Productions? Why are they still here? And why are we here?

  ‘OK.’ Barry broke the silence.

  Melanie voiced what they all were thinking. ‘Barry, do we still have jobs?’

  ‘That’s the question, isn’t it? I don’t have an answer. But right now let’s do what Lenore would do … get the next new thing up and out there. So, the question we can answer is this.’ He looked at Ada. ‘How exactly do we turn antiquing into a blood sport?’

  SIX

  Richard Parks felt numb. He’d been escorted into the small family room adjacent to St Xavier’s chaotic Midtown Emergency Room. The words out of this strange doctor’s mouth were not making sense. Impossible. I was just on the phone with her.

  ‘I’m sorry to tell you that your mother was dead on arrival. All attempts to resuscitate her were made. I’m very sorry.’

  Richard swallowed; his mouth was dry. ‘How?’

  ‘There’ll be an autopsy, but it looks like a single gunshot to the back. She lost too much blood. I suspect the bullet hit her aorta or one of the major vessels to the heart. She would have felt very little pain.’

  ‘Can I see her?’ He felt a tightness in his throat, and a welling behind his water-blue eyes.

  ‘Sure.’ The doctor sounded uncertain. ‘But please, try not to touch anything. It’s …’

  ‘Right.’ He tried to put words to the reality. ‘She was murdered. Someone murdered my mother. Unless … no, she’d never kill herself … and you said she was shot in the back.’ He looked at the doctor in his white coat over a polo shirt, the top button undone. ‘It was murder?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Dressed in an Armani suit, he followed the doctor through a set of electronic doors into the emergency room. He moved as though wrapped in a cocoon, not registering the sounds and the smells. None of this felt real, he didn’t feel real. Still trying to grasp what this doctor had just said. How could she be dead? They were just on the phone. He was doing what he’d always done, bailing out Rachel and minimizing the press. That was real, this … this could not be happening. And who … murder? Who? Faces from the past, angry producers escorted by security from their offices. Their belongings in a box, their hands clutching a multi-page termination document. Whole teams of LPP employees there one day and gone the next, generating anger, fury, often threats. ‘It has to be done,’ she’d say. ‘It’s not easy; it’s not kind; but it’s essential for the health of this organization.’ She likened her frequent purges to pruning. ‘It strengthens the tree. It creates shape out of chaos, it’s the cruelty that allows beauty to exist.’

  The doctor pushed open the door to a room with a sign ‘Trauma 2’. ‘Give me a second.’ He paused and shook his head. ‘On second thought, just come in.’

  ‘Right.’ He saw kindness in the man’s eyes. Like Lenore, Richard had a talent for reading people. This doctor, who probably had fifteen years on him, was in a tight spot. He needed to be professional and compassionate, to allow a grieving son a last look at his mother. But he was aware too that he had a murdered celebrity in his ER and that these next few moments would be the last before the circus would begin.

  Richard entered Trauma 2 − at least they’d covered her. Even so, Mom would have hated this. Her hair was disheveled and still wet, her face doughy under the fluorescents, her lips blue. There was blood on the sheets. He remembered how she’d never leave the house without full make-up. ‘They’re everywhere,’ she’d instruct, referring to the paparazzi. But this … she looked ugly and naked; discarded gauze, IV tubing, needle cases and blue polypropylene gloves were scattered on the bed and the floor. Her eyes were closed. He took a deep breath. She is dead.

&nb
sp; Random scenes from his childhood flashed to mind, late night room inspections. ‘I don’t like messes,’ she’d say, going from his room down the hall to Rachel’s. Those were tough nights. These weren’t the memories he wanted right now. His room was always able to pass muster, while Rachel’s was a nightmare. He’d wondered why his little sister couldn’t pick up her things. Especially when she knew how it would set Mom off. It was years later that he realized − Rachel did it deliberately.

  A pair of uniformed officers appeared in the doorway, escorted by a nurse supervisor. ‘We’re going to need you out of here,’ one of them said. ‘No one’s to come in or out.’

  The doctor looked at Richard. ‘You OK?’

  Richard heard the words, the man’s professional, and genuine, concern. ‘I’ve got to be,’ he said. ‘Is there a quiet room somewhere? I need to make some calls.’

  ‘I’ll take you back to the family room.’

  Richard walked behind, his thoughts sluggish. He knew that a heavy weight had slipped from his mother’s dead shoulders … on to his. ‘You’re the only one,’ she’d told him. ‘This will all be yours, and they will try to take it from you.’

  The doctor asked if he needed anything.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ the doctor said.

  ‘You’re not the one who shot my mother.’ He felt a surge of anger, his jaw clenched. ‘There’s no need to apologize.’

  The doctor left and Richard was glad for the privacy. The room, with its dim lighting, stuffed chairs and quiet, was a sort of oasis.

  Lenore’s words: ‘they will try to take it from you’. The ‘they’ was a moving target. Sometimes it was her executive team urging her to take LPP public so they could all cash out with seven and eight digit stock options. Sometimes they were her minions and underlings, all out to exact passive–aggressive revenges, from wardrobe mess-ups to on-air snafus. Often they were her producers who wouldn’t − or couldn’t − perform up to her standards. As a child he’d listen to her rants: if people couldn’t deliver they didn’t belong at LPP. From day one, she’d confided in him. Not like a parent to a child, but like a mentor.

  He pulled out his cell. So much to be done, but at that moment there was only one person he needed to call.