A Quiet Death Page 7

‘Cardinal Spellman,’ I ad-libbed, naming the only high school I knew of in New York City that didn’t have ‘PS’ and a number attached to it.

  ‘Right. Well . . .’ He scratched the back of his head, as if actually thinking. ‘Nobody named Chaloux in this building now, and there’s two women with a baby in Four-B, so I’m afraid I can’t help you. When did you say she lived here?’

  ‘In the 1980s.’

  ‘Way before my time, you know?’

  I smiled. ‘Yes, I guess it was. Well, thanks anyway.’

  I had expected to be disappointed, but the news still stung. Thinking that a cup of coffee might improve my disposition, I walked around the corner to University Place where I remembered seeing a Dean and Deluca café. I bought a takeaway cup of the house blend, then strolled back the way I had come.

  On the corner of 10th Street and 5th Avenue stands Ascension Episcopal Church, a red stone building surrounded by an iron fence. I crossed to the other side of 5th Avenue and leaned against the churchyard fence, sipping my coffee, observing as residents came and went from Lilith Chaloux’s old building.

  At a bus stop across the street, someone was watching me, too – a husky guy wearing a New York Yankees ball cap and sunglasses with odd, glacier-blue lenses. He was reading the Post, waiting for the bus, glancing up at me from time to time. Did he think I was a bag lady?

  His scrutiny, however innocent, was making me nervous, so I wandered halfway down 10th Street, admiring the church’s splendid stained-glass windows and lamenting that they had to be protected by Plexiglas sheets, but understanding why.

  Back at my station in front of the church a few minutes later, I was relieved to see that the guy wearing the blue sunglasses had gone. I alternated between Googling on my iPhone – the stained-glass windows were by John LaFarge, I learned – and keeping my eye on Lilith’s old building. My patience was rewarded (finally!) when a pair of elderly women emerged from 39 Fifth being led by a large German shepherd dog. The women were dressed in nearly identical bulky, oversize cardigans, black ankle-length skirts, and neon-pink jogging shoes. They resembled each other so closely that they had to be sisters.

  As I watched, the dog dragged his mistress south along 5th Avenue toward Washington Square, heading, as I soon found out, for a play date with an exuberant young golden retriever at the dog run in the park.

  I chucked my empty coffee cup into the nearest trash container and followed.

  The sisters had been sitting together on a bench for about ten minutes, watching with wry amusement while the dogs frolicked, before I plucked up the courage to join them.

  ‘I hope you’ll excuse me for interrupting you,’ I said, ‘but I just noticed that you came out of Thirty-nine Fifth. Do you live in that building?’

  ‘I’m sorry, dear, but we don’t take surveys. I know you’re just doing your job, but . . .’

  I raised a hand, chuckled. ‘Please, don’t worry! I’m not taking a survey. I’m just trying to track down somebody I used to go to high school with.’

  The woman glanced nervously at her sister, who smiled, nodded and gave her a light, go-ahead-she-looks-harmless-enough-to-me punch on the arm. ‘Why, in that case, yes, we live at Thirty-nine Fifth Avenue.’

  ‘My name is Hannah Ives. I live in Annapolis, Maryland, now, but I used to go to Cardinal Spellman with a girl named Lilith. Lilith Chaloux.’

  While I explained about the imaginary reunion, I pulled Lilith’s picture out of my handbag and handed it to the older of the two women.

  ‘I’m Elspeth Simon, and this is my sister, Claire.’ Elspeth held the picture close to her face as if she’d forgotten her reading glasses, turning it this way and that in the bright sunlight, then handed it to Claire. ‘Yes, that’s Lilith all right. Lovely girl. She lived in our building for quite some time.’

  I showed them the second picture, the one of Lilith standing in front of the tomb of Christopher Columbus with the man I assumed to be Zan. ‘Do you know who this is?’ I asked, tapping the man’s face.

  Elspeth studied the image for a few seconds, nodded in recognition, then shared that photo with her sister, too. ‘He was the love of Lilith’s life,’ she told me, looking wistful. ‘Claire, what was that man’s name? Something Japanesey, as I recall. Zen?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t Zen.’ Wrinkles furrowed Claire’s brow and she stared up at the massive stone archway that dominated the park, deep in concentration. ‘No, it was Zan. Zan something.’

  ‘Did Zan have a last name?’

  Elspeth laughed. ‘Of course he had a last name, dear! Something foreign with little squiggles on it. Claire, do you remember?’ Claire shook her head, her gray curls bouncing against her neck. ‘I can’t remember if I ever heard her say it. Lilith always referred to her boyfriend simply as Zan.’ She handed the picture back to me. ‘Lilith kept pretty much to herself. Didn’t talk much about her private life, but whenever that man was in town . . .’ She tapped the photo with a neatly manicured index finger. ‘Well, whenever Zan showed up, that girl simply glowed.’

  Claire brightened. ‘Lilith had a studio somewhere down on West Broadway. She was an artist, you know.’

  ‘I did know. I have some of her work, in fact. She was into photorealism back then, wasn’t she?’ I said, drawing on information I had gleaned from one of Zan’s letters.

  Claire nodded. ‘She even had a picture in a group show at the Meisel Gallery on Prince Street. We went to see that show, didn’t we, Ellie? It was a painting of sunlight shining on broken glass vases. She was very talented.’

  ‘Is that how Lilith made a living?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ Claire said. ‘She was always most reluctant to part with her work. I often wonder what happened to all those beautiful paintings when she moved away.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘About the time the building voted to go condo,’ Ellie cut in. ‘That would have been, let’s see, 1986.’

  ‘No, that’s not right, Ellie. She moved away in April, or maybe May, of 1987. Remember? They’d just put up the scaffolding in front of the building. The movers had to work around it.’

  ‘I distinctly remember it was 1986, Claire. The year Pedro died.’

  ‘Pedro died in 1987.’

  ‘Oh, well she left in ’87, then.’

  ‘Who’s Pedro?’ I asked.

  ‘Our dog.’ The sisters said it in unison, setting off a fit of giggles.

  ‘He was a chihuahua,’ Ellie explained. She held her hands in front of her, palms facing, about eight inches apart. ‘He was that tiny.’

  I pointed at the German shepherd who was lolling in the dirt with his playmate and raised an eyebrow.

  Ellie laughed. ‘Well, we’ve super-sized it, haven’t we? Meet Bruno.’

  Long, lean, strong-boned and muscular, Bruno was my kind of dog. Bruno was a dog’s dog. Yappy purse-sized dogs left me cold.

  ‘So Lilith didn’t have a job? A real job, I mean.’

  Ellie thought about my question for a moment while lacing the end of Bruno’s leash around her fingers. ‘No. I gather she had money, though. She told me that her parents had been killed in a plane crash when she was still in her teens. She had a trust fund administered by some doddering old uncle in Switzerland. Zurich, I believe. Lilith didn’t spend money willy-nilly, mind you, but I don’t think money was a particular issue for her.’

  ‘Remember what she said, Ellie? About the magic credit card?’

  ‘What’s a magic credit card?’ I asked, intrigued that there might be such a thing and wondering where I could apply for one.

  ‘She’d charge things on it,’ Ellie explained. ‘And every month it would get paid off by some bank in Switzerland, no questions asked.’

  ‘Where do I line up to get a credit card like that?’

  ‘We’ll be right in line behind you!’ Claire chortled.

  ‘Do you know where Lilith went when she moved away?’ I asked.

  ‘First, she was going to stay with that uncle
I mentioned in Zurich. I remember that plainly, because she said she was having her things put into storage for six months.’ Claire looked thoughtful, then raised her eyebrows and her hands in unison. ‘Until the cottage was ready! That’s what she told us, didn’t she, Ellie? She was going to move into a cottage!’

  ‘What cottage? Where? In Europe?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t remember, dear. I’m so sorry. My son says it’s CRS. Can’t remember shit.’

  I handed Ellie one of the business cards that I’d printed out on our home computer, a simple sailboat graphic with my name, address, phone number and email. ‘If you think of anything that might help me find Lilith, please give me a call. We’re having the reunion next spring. It’s our fortieth, can you believe it? I really would love to get back in touch.’

  While eyeing my brace, Ellie tucked my card into the pocket of her sweater. ‘Can I ask what happened to your arm?’

  ‘Fender-bender,’ I fibbed, not feeling up to revisiting the ordeal. ‘Airbag broke my arm.’

  This launched Claire on a lengthy monologue about the dangers posed by airbags to short, elderly drivers, copiously illustrated with hair-raising examples from among her own circle of friends.

  When she wound down, I offered to buy the sisters lunch, but they demurred, claiming they had to get Bruno home for his nap. I bid them thanks and goodbye, then wandered across the park, heading south down West Broadway into Soho proper.

  West Broadway between Broom and Prince used to be prime Soho retail space. Sadly, it seemed to have fallen on hard times. Storefront after vacant storefront made my leisurely stroll unexpectedly dreary. RIP Rizzoli’s Bookstore, Sigrid Olsen and Té Casan. I poked my nose into a few shops and wondered, as I walked, which of the studios I was passing might have been Lilith’s.

  On a hunch, I popped into the Louis Meisel Gallery, but the black-garbed Twilight wannabe manning the desk had never heard of a Lilith Chaloux, nor was she listed among the artists who had ever shown there. Puzzled and disappointed, I walked a few blocks further and cheered myself up at the Apple Store by taking an iPad for a test drive.

  Before heading back to Penn Station, I picked up a carry-out sandwich at Olives – smoked turkey, bacon and avocado on sourdough – then caught a cab that got me to the station well in time to catch the 5:39 back to BWI. I sat in the waiting area, ate my sandwich, powered up my new iPhone 4, and launched the Safari browser.

  I was still giving my iPhone a workout three and a half hours later when the train pulled into BWI station. I hurriedly unplugged the charger from the seat-side outlet, snatched up my purse and hopped off on to the platform. When Paul came home the following day, I’d have to confess, of course, but at least I’d have something interesting to report.

  TWELVE

  Back home in Annapolis, by some miracle, I managed to find a parking spot only half a block from our home at 193 Prince George. After careful backing and turning, made extra challenging by my doctor’s instructions not to twist my arm, I successfully squeezed the Volvo into the narrow space left by two of my neighbors, locked up, then hustled along the sidewalk, stepping carefully on the ancient brickwork that edged the darkened street.

  I let myself in the front door, tossed my handbag and the car keys on the little table in the entrance hall, and headed for the kitchen. I flipped on the small-screen television that sits on top of the refrigerator and was pouring myself a glass of apple juice when the sports news came on. Out in Colorado Springs, the Falcons had trounced the Midshipmen fourteen to six, snapping the Mids’ fifteen-game winning streak against the other service academies, including eight wins against Army and seven against the Air Force.

  Damn. There’d be no post-game euphoria to help ease my husband into the confessional.

  When Paul came toodling in from the Academy late on Sunday evening, I was already propped up in bed, slogging through the second chapter of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and wondering what all the fuss was about.

  ‘Sorry about the game,’ I said.

  Paul kissed me on the forehead. ‘Erratic passing,’ he mumbled, stripping off his shirt. ‘Solid defense . . . failed to execute on the goal line . . . converted only five of fifteen third-down chances.’ Snippets of his report drifted from the bathroom as he prepared for bed.

  ‘Did you watch the game?’ he asked, slipping under the covers next to me.

  ‘Uh, no. I was doing something else.’

  Paul propped his head on his hand, puffed peppermint toothpaste in my face. ‘And what was that?’

  ‘I took Amtrak to New York City to check out the last place Lilith lived.’

  Paul scowled at me without speaking.

  ‘It was a spur of the moment thing,’ I forged on. ‘I found the building Lilith lived in, learned that Zan was probably foreign, and that Lilith moved from her apartment in New York City to a cottage, location unknown.’

  Paul flopped over on his back, crossed his arms over his chest, glowered at the ceiling. ‘You could have told me what you were up to, Hannah.’

  ‘I told Ruth.’

  ‘You’re not married to Ruth.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Paul, but I knew you’d worry and I didn’t want to spoil your weekend.’

  Paul stewed in silence for a few moments.

  ‘I think you’ll find it interesting,’ I continued.

  ‘Life with you always is, Hannah.’

  I took that as a green light and kept driving. ‘Lilith’s parents were killed in a plane crash when she was still in her teens,’ I reported, playing the sympathy card.

  ‘Ah, the proverbial lost-both-parents-in-a-tragic-plane-and-or-car-crash hard-luck story,’ Paul commented brightly, his little sulk apparently over.

  ‘Don’t scoff. That part of her story is absolutely true. It took me a bit of searching, but I finally found a reference to it on the Internet. On September eleventh, 1968, Charles and Lucille (née Aupry) Chaloux were killed in the crash of Air France Flight 1611.’

  ‘How come that didn’t come up before when we Googled Chaloux?’ Paul wondered.

  ‘It might have done, on screen nine hundred and seven. But if you add “plane crash” to the equation, the article pops up on the first screen’

  ‘Any details?’

  ‘Hold on.’ I reached for the iPhone on my bedside table and swiped it on. ‘It says here that Flight 1611 was en route from the island of Corsica to Nice, France, when it crashed into the Mediterranean Sea killing all ninety-five on board.’

  Paul sucked air in through his teeth. ‘Damn. Lilith would have been only fifteen. What caused the crash?’

  ‘The official report said a fire in the lavatory near the galley, of undetermined origin.’

  ‘Do I detect a note of skepticism in your voice?’

  ‘Well, there was a French general on board, René Cogny, so there was talk.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I was saving the best for last. In 2005, there was a Lynx News white paper on the crash that advanced the theory that the accident was the result of a missile strike or bomb, and that the true cause had been suppressed by the French government under secrecy laws.’ I paused, waiting for that to sink in. ‘Guess who the reporter was?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘John Chandler.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s a little more than a coincidence that John Chandler is doing a story on a plane crash that killed the parents of Lilith Chaloux?’

  ‘And ninety-four other people, I believe I heard you say.’

  ‘True. But the connection made me curious, so I looked up John Chandler on the Internet. I think I’ve found Zan!’

  ‘John Chandler? You think John Chandler is Zan? Are you out of your cotton-picking mind?’

  Now it was my turn to sulk. ‘So, are you ready to hear what I learned about John Chandler, or not?’

  Paul plumped up his pillow, stuffed it behind his back and sat up, giving me his full attention. ‘Shoot.’

  I
tapped the Safari icon. ‘Listen to what Wikipedia says. “John Chandler – born on November fifteenth, 1950 – is a television journalist for Lynx News where he anchors the program, And Your Point is? Born Alexander Svíčkář in Brno, Czechoslovakia, he emigrated to the United States in 1956 with his parents, Rubert and Janna (née Cerny) Svíčkář. He became a United States citizen in 1971, changing his name to John Chandler.

  ‘“Chandler graduated from Earlham College in 1972 with a degree in Peace and Global Studies,”’ I read on. ‘“While at Earlham, he was a reporter for the campus radio station, WECI-FM. From 1972–74 he served in the Peace Corps in Guatemala where he acted as liaison between government agencies bringing relief to victims of Hurricane Fifi. Later, he worked as an aide to Jimmy Carter during his successful 1976 presidential campaign.

  ‘“Prior to joining Lynx News, Chandler worked for the Catholic News Service and the Associated Press in Europe.

  ‘“Chandler lives in the Georgetown area of Washington DC and is married to Dorothea Goodrich, a vice-president of the Women’s Democratic League. He has two grown daughters.”

  ‘There!’ I plunked the iPhone down on top of the duvet and took a deep breath. ‘Don’t you see? It all fits! Chandler’s real name is Alexander. Zan!’ I ticked the remaining points off on my fingers. ‘There’s the Peace Corps connection, the fact that he worked for the AP in Europe – no wonder he was mailing letters to her from all over the world – married, two daughters. And finally . . .’ I took a deep breath. ‘I think I know where he met Lilith! The Democratic National Convention was held in New York City in 1976, and they probably worked together on Jimmy Carter’s campaign!’

  I fell back against the pillows, triumphant. ‘So, what do you think?’

  ‘Compelling coincidences, I have to agree, but I don’t think you could use it to prove anything in a court of law. There are a lot of men in the world named Alexander.’

  ‘Ah, yes, but I’m remembering what Elspeth Simon said about Lilith’s Zan. She told me his last name had little squiggles on it. Wait a minute.’ I retrieved the iPhone and scrolled back to the beginning of the Wikipedia entry. ‘There,’ I said, aiming the tiny screen at Paul so I could point out the acute accents and upside down circumflexes over the letters ‘i,’ ‘c,’ ‘a,’ and ‘r’ in Svíčkář. ‘Squiggles. I rest my case.’