Read Online Fanatics by Richard Hilary Weber - Free Book Online
Authors: Richard Hilary Weber
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did. Years before, a drunk driver had careened around the corner, smacked into the stone stoop and sheared off a wall. The replacement never matched the brownstone shade of the other wall, one side dark, the other light. For decades, the mansion had belonged to a local politician, an Irishman and his large brood.
Flo Ott mounted the stoop and rang the bell to the Smith family home, fifteen blocks and a world away from Celestina Belle’s white-on-white luxury loft in the factory on Twelfth Street. But only a few blocks from Cecil King’s apartment, a discomfiting reminder of where Flo would much prefer to be on guard to prevent a killing.
The front door to the brownstone townhouse opened, and there stood a tall man nearly as round as he was high, his head shaven, his eyes amused, African Buddha Robert J. Keating, Esq., his
profundo
voice more
basso
than ever.
“Lieutenant Ott, we’ve been expecting someone, and I’m so glad it’s you.”
“Bobby, you’re ubiquitous.”
“Well, I’m Mrs. Smith’s lawyer, too. So won’t you step into the parlor? She’ll be right down. As will her mother, Mrs. Delucia. This is a tragic moment for the entire Smith family.”
Golden Bobby, in keeping with the mournful occasion, did not reveal his sparkling smile this time.
The parlor was off the main hall, a cozy room of polished woodwork and beveled glass, chintz upholstery, and a large oriental carpet. Several crystal vases held sprays of fresh lilies. The room had the air of a high-end funeral parlor.
A moment later, the widow, Christine Smith, entered the parlor, her mother at her heels. The widow, a trim, self-confident-looking woman, was wearing a black shantung silk blouse over well-tailored black cashmere slacks. Her mother, who more closely matched Golden Bobby’s size, though dressed similarly to her daughter, was an overstuffed, dusty woman with the scrappy features of an ex-prizefighter and a faint mustache, her eyes grown sluggish with age even while continually disapproving. The focus for her disapproval shifted from place to place, always returning, unsurprisingly, to eye the detective rather strongly.
Flo approached the widow, who graciously extended a slim hand, her fingers as long and graceful as a classical pianist’s, which, Flo learned, she had once been. A Bach score lay open on a grand piano in the adjoining music room.
“My condolences,” Flo said. “And I apologize for intruding.” Formal phrases she’d used far too often before, phrases that never lost their power and meaning for her.
She and the widow sat together on the couch. Golden Bobby and the deceased’s mother-in-law positioned themselves in opposite armchairs, the witch-eyed older woman exuding an air of glum command. The room grew still to the point of etherized.
“It’s so cold out there,” Flo said. “Winter could come early this year.”
“Winter kills,” Mother-in-Law said, her voice without preface, the voice of judgment day. “We’re going back down to the islands for the holidays. We got a place on Mustique. I’m from Trinidad. And I never could take winters up here, not at all.” She issued her declarations in a melodic lilt from the islands turned unseasonably sour.
“We’re leaving right after the funeral,” the widow said. Unlike her mother, her tones were all New York money, recently acquired perhaps, but confidently enunciated.
Flo had the feeling both women hadn’t yet fully realized the enormity of the great change that just occurred in their lives. Or perhaps they felt the change wouldn’t be so great, or unwelcome, after all. One had lost a philandering husband, the other relieved of a scandalous but rich son-in-law. All that was left was the Brooklyn mansion they lived in, and the winter retreat on Mustique, and the summer spread in the Hamptons, and perhaps a luxury loft condo fifteen blocks away. All this in addition to somewhere in the neighborhood of three hundred million in cash, securities,
Flo Ott mounted the stoop and rang the bell to the Smith family home, fifteen blocks and a world away from Celestina Belle’s white-on-white luxury loft in the factory on Twelfth Street. But only a few blocks from Cecil King’s apartment, a discomfiting reminder of where Flo would much prefer to be on guard to prevent a killing.
The front door to the brownstone townhouse opened, and there stood a tall man nearly as round as he was high, his head shaven, his eyes amused, African Buddha Robert J. Keating, Esq., his
profundo
voice more
basso
than ever.
“Lieutenant Ott, we’ve been expecting someone, and I’m so glad it’s you.”
“Bobby, you’re ubiquitous.”
“Well, I’m Mrs. Smith’s lawyer, too. So won’t you step into the parlor? She’ll be right down. As will her mother, Mrs. Delucia. This is a tragic moment for the entire Smith family.”
Golden Bobby, in keeping with the mournful occasion, did not reveal his sparkling smile this time.
The parlor was off the main hall, a cozy room of polished woodwork and beveled glass, chintz upholstery, and a large oriental carpet. Several crystal vases held sprays of fresh lilies. The room had the air of a high-end funeral parlor.
A moment later, the widow, Christine Smith, entered the parlor, her mother at her heels. The widow, a trim, self-confident-looking woman, was wearing a black shantung silk blouse over well-tailored black cashmere slacks. Her mother, who more closely matched Golden Bobby’s size, though dressed similarly to her daughter, was an overstuffed, dusty woman with the scrappy features of an ex-prizefighter and a faint mustache, her eyes grown sluggish with age even while continually disapproving. The focus for her disapproval shifted from place to place, always returning, unsurprisingly, to eye the detective rather strongly.
Flo approached the widow, who graciously extended a slim hand, her fingers as long and graceful as a classical pianist’s, which, Flo learned, she had once been. A Bach score lay open on a grand piano in the adjoining music room.
“My condolences,” Flo said. “And I apologize for intruding.” Formal phrases she’d used far too often before, phrases that never lost their power and meaning for her.
She and the widow sat together on the couch. Golden Bobby and the deceased’s mother-in-law positioned themselves in opposite armchairs, the witch-eyed older woman exuding an air of glum command. The room grew still to the point of etherized.
“It’s so cold out there,” Flo said. “Winter could come early this year.”
“Winter kills,” Mother-in-Law said, her voice without preface, the voice of judgment day. “We’re going back down to the islands for the holidays. We got a place on Mustique. I’m from Trinidad. And I never could take winters up here, not at all.” She issued her declarations in a melodic lilt from the islands turned unseasonably sour.
“We’re leaving right after the funeral,” the widow said. Unlike her mother, her tones were all New York money, recently acquired perhaps, but confidently enunciated.
Flo had the feeling both women hadn’t yet fully realized the enormity of the great change that just occurred in their lives. Or perhaps they felt the change wouldn’t be so great, or unwelcome, after all. One had lost a philandering husband, the other relieved of a scandalous but rich son-in-law. All that was left was the Brooklyn mansion they lived in, and the winter retreat on Mustique, and the summer spread in the Hamptons, and perhaps a luxury loft condo fifteen blocks away. All this in addition to somewhere in the neighborhood of three hundred million in cash, securities,
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