Lola thought for a moment and, realizing she had an opportunity to cause trouble for Schiffer, wrote, “Going to see Schiffer Diamond. She’s on location somewhere in the city.”
Next door, Enid was also getting ready to go out. Her sources told her that Billy was suspected of selling Sandy Brewer the cross, although Billy Litchfield’s involvement wasn’t the only thing that perplexed her.
She went down to the lobby, passing by the Gooches’ apartment. Inside, Mindy was on the phone with her office. “I’m not coming in today,” she said. “A very good friend of mine passed away unexpectedly, and I’m too upset to leave my house.” She hung up and opened a new file for her blog, already having decided to use Billy’s death as a topic. “Today, I officially became middle-aged,” she wrote. “I’m not going to hide from the truth. Instead, I’m going to scream it from the rooftops: I am a middle-aged woman. The recent and untimely death of one of my most beloved friends has pointed up the inevitable. I have finally reached the age when friends start dying. Not parents—we all expect that. But friends. Our peers. My generation. And it’s made me wonder how much time I have left myself, and what I’m going to do with that time.”
Crossing the street, Enid knocked on Flossie Davis’s door, then let herself in with the key. She was surprised to find Flossie out of bed and sitting in the living room, looking out the window at the commotion in front of One Fifth. “I was wondering how long it would take you to get here,” Flossie said. “You see? I was right all along. The cross was in Louise Houghton’s apartment. And no one believed me. You don’t know what it’s been like all these years, knowing the truth, and no one listened. You don’t know—”
“Stop,” Enid said, cutting her off. “We both know you took the cross. And Louise found out and made you give it to her. Why didn’t she turn you in? What did you have on her?”
“And you call yourself a gossip columnist,” Flossie said, clicking her tongue. “It sure took you long enough to figure it out.”
“Why did you take it?”
Flossie snorted. “Because I wanted it. It was so pretty. And it was right there. And it was only going to be locked up in that stupid museum along with every other dead thing. And Louise saw me take it. I didn’t know she saw me until I went to the Pauline Trigère fashion show. Louise sat next to me, and she’d never done that before. ‘I know what you have in your bag,’ she whispered. Louise was scary even then. She had those strange blue eyes—almost gray. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I said. The next morning, Louise came down to my apartment. I was living in Philip’s apartment then. Philip wasn’t born yet. And you were working at the newspaper and not paying attention to anyone except yourself.”
Enid nodded, remembering. How different life had been in those days. Entire families often lived in a two-bedroom apartment, sharing one bathroom, but they’d been lucky. Her father had bought the two apartments side by side and was going to turn them into one large apartment when he’d suddenly died of a heart attack, leaving Enid with one apartment and Flossie and her little daughter with the other. “Louise accused me of taking the cross,” Flossie said, continuing her story. “She threatened to turn me in to the authorities. She said I would go to jail. She knew I was a widow, trying to take care of my child. She said she would take pity on me if I gave her the cross. Then she was going to slip it back into the museum and no one would be the wiser.”
“But she didn’t give it back,” Enid said.
“That’s right,” Flossie said. “Because she wanted it for herself. She wanted it all along. She was greedy. And besides, if she’d given it back to the museum, she wouldn’t have been able to hold it over my head.”
“You had something on her,” Enid said. “But what?”
Flossie looked around the room as if to make sure no one could overhear them. She shrugged, then leaned forward in her chair. “Now that she’s dead, she can’t do anything to me. So why not? Why not let the world know? Louise was a murderer.”
“Oh, Flossie.” Enid shook her head mournfully.
“You don’t believe me?” Flossie said. “Well, it’s true. She killed her husband.”
“Everyone knows he died from a staph infection.”
“That’s what Louise made people think. And no one ever questioned her. Because she was Louise Houghton.” Flossie began to wheeze with excitement. “And everyone forgot—all that time she spent in China before she came to New York? She knew all about diseases. How to cure them and how to make them worse. Did anyone ever think about what she was growing on that terrace? About what was in her greenhouse? I did. And one day, I found out. ‘Belladonna,’ I said. ‘If you turn me in, I’ll turn you in,’ I said. She didn’t dare return the cross then. Without it, she would have had nothing on me.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” Enid said.
“Who said it had to make sense?” Flossie said. “You know perfectly well what it was about. Louise didn’t want to leave that apartment. It was her pride and joy. And then, after she’d spent a million dollars to do it all up the way she liked, and everyone was calling her the queen of society, her husband wanted to sell it. And there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. He had all the money, and the apartment was in his name. He was always smart that way. He probably guessed what Louise was really like. And sure enough, she sent him on that trip, and two weeks later, he was dead.”
“You know you’re still not safe,” Enid said. “Now that the cross has been discovered, they’ll reopen the case. Someone may have seen you take it. A guard, perhaps, who’s still alive. You could go to jail.”
“You never had any common sense!” Flossie snapped. “Louise paid off the guards. So who’s going to tell them—you? You would turn in your own stepmother? If you do, you’ll have to tell the whole story. About how Louise was a murderer. You’ll never do it. You wouldn’t dare. You’ll do anything to preserve the reputation of that building. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’d commit murder yourself.” Flossie took a deep breath, gearing up for another attack. “I’ve never understood you or people like you. It’s only a stupid building. There are millions of them in New York City. Now get out.” Flossie started wheezing. After Enid fetched a glass of water and made sure the attack had passed, she left.
Outside, Enid stood on the sidewalk across the street from One Fifth, gazing at the building. She tried to see the building the way Flossie saw it—as just another building—but couldn’t. One Fifth was like a piece of living art, unique and beautifully executed, perfectly positioned at the end of Fifth Avenue, in close—but not too close—proximity to Washington Square Park. And there was the address itself. “One Fifth.” Clean and authoritative and implying so many things—class and money and prestige and even, Enid thought, a bit of magic, the kind of real-life magic that made life so endlessly interesting. Flossie was wrong, Enid decided. Everyone wanted to live in One Fifth, and if they didn’t, it was only because they lacked imagination. She raised her hand to hail a cab and, getting into the backseat, gave the driver the address of the New York Public Library.
Alan, the PA, rapped on the door of Schiffer Diamond’s location trailer. The door was opened a crack by the publicist, Karen. “Philip Oakland’s here,” Alan said, standing aside to let Philip pass. Behind him was a band of paparazzi and two news crews, having discovered the location of the day’s shooting at the Ukrainian Institute on Fifth Avenue and then finding Schiffer’s trailer on a side street. Billy Litchfield wasn’t of particular interest to them, but Schiffer Diamond was. She had found the body. It was possible she’d had something to do with his death or knew something about it or had given him drugs or taken drugs herself. In the trailer was a leather couch, a small table, a makeup area, a bathroom with a shower, and a tiny bedroom with a single bed and chair. The lawyer, Johnnie Toochin, who had been called in to help with damage contr
ol, now sat on the leather couch, talking on his phone. “Hey, Philip,” Johnnie said, greeting him with a raised hand. “What a mess.”
“Where is she?” Philip asked Karen, who motioned to the bedroom. Philip opened the narrow door. Schiffer was sitting on the bed wearing a terry-cloth robe, her legs crossed beneath her. She was staring blankly at a script but looked up when Philip came in.
“I don’t know if I can do this today,” she said.
“Of course you can. You’re a great actress,” Philip said. He sat down in the chair across from her.
“That was one of the last things Billy said to me.” She pulled the robe across her body as if she were cold. “You know, if it weren’t for Billy, we might never have met.”
“Yes, we would have. Somehow.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I wouldn’t have become an actress, and I wouldn’t have done Summer Morning. I keep thinking about how a chance meeting with one person can change your life. Is it fate or coincidence?”