Mexican Booty: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 2) Page 15

  "Yeah, so I found out, Harry. A pair of serious sharks."

  "Right. So you think they did in those art guys in Santa Fe too? Jesus, I can't believe you tangled with these twisted fucks, Lucy!"

  "I didn't plan on it, Harry. Swam right into it, know what I mean?"

  "Happens, doesn't it?" He kissed her again, and her mouth opened against his. He tasted good, she wanted him, and he could smell her desire. "Meanwhile, I've been pining away, woman. My place or yours?"

  She leaned back. "Hey, I've got a dog, Ipswich. And he's got to get used to his new pad. So, I guess Claud will permit your presence in his home. Although you might want to ask."

  Harry looked at Claud, who laid on the car floor gnawing on a biscuit clutched between two paws. "Jesus, he looks like he could use a knife and fork. Hey dog, can I come home with you?"

  "Offer him a glass of champagne to wash his biscuit down, and perhaps he will allow it. He is a rather sophisticated beast," Lucy said, nose in the air as she scratched Claud's head. "Hey, what about Starfish? Isabel Chapin. You find anything on her?"

  "Nothing other than that she and your friend Nathaniel Clements have been seen, sometimes together, sometimes apart, in most of the major drug towns in the Western hemisphere, usually during periods of high intensity action. But she's never been popped. I think Nate's a little golden, thanks to Daddy, and some of it's rubbed off on her."

  "You mean to say he's—what, protected?"

  "Something like that. Just that he has generally been forewarned—when things were about to happen. As a matter of fact, some of my contacts with sources in the trade down there are convinced he's somebody's rat."

  "Nate? Really?" Lucy asked, incredulous for about two seconds. "Actually, it makes perfect sense. He's definitely possessed of some rodent-like characteristics." She slipped her hand casually down into the neighborhood of Harry's crotch. "Hell of a horn player though," she added.

  "So Nate Clements and that meta-bimbo Starfish have gotten themselves into the art trade, have they?" said Harry, gently placing a hand on her breast as they talked. He rubbed her softly. Harry did have wonderful hands, she remembered. She felt.

  "Beats smuggling heroin, doesn't it?" Lucy said, somewhat breathless. Her nipples tingled under his fingertips. God it had been a while.

  "Yeah, I guess. But those two dead guys in Santa Fe might argue otherwise."

  "Time to change the subject, Harry," she murmured, and licked gently at his earlobe.

  Had the ride been from JFK they would have done it in the limo, but LaGuardia was too close to town. Before they could undress they were across the Williamsburg Bridge, zipping back up as they zipped down Delancey and Kenmare, around the corner onto Broome and then home. They unloaded, Harry paid the man, Lucy drag-walked the bewildered dog around the block and then she carried her purse and coaxed, pushed, and wheedled the poodle, who had never seen stairs before, while Harry hoisted all else up the endless, dusty, fluorescent-lit 97 stairs which led to her home sweet home.

  They ignored the blinking message light on the phone. They ignored the pile of mail on the floor, thrown there by her neighbor. They ignored the sound of a rat running from the room as they came in. They fell into a mad embrace on Lucy's bed, stripped each other quickly and deliberately, and soon commenced with a torrid, fast, and satisfying fuck.

  Afterwards, while he lay there panting and laughing happily, his unruly head of greying hair wilder than usual, wallowing in his own sweat and hers, she held a wad of tissue to her crotch and ran for the toilet to clean up. Then and only then did she meander over to listen to her messages while sorting through the mail. Not bad: two checks in the mail adding up to thirteen hundred dollars. And a message from Rosa saying she was sorry they missed each other, and that she loved her, and that she would call again soon. Lucy, with a man she loved in her bed and Claud close by on the floor, went back to bed content, and stayed up late.

  Saturday night in Manhattan. She and Harry had eaten at Spring Natural, sitting outside in the cool air so that Claud could hang out under the table. They contemplated going to a club, instead bought the Sunday paper and walked back to the loft.

  Harry, lounging on the bed at her side, scanned the Week in Review. That was the male thing, right? She read the Arts and Leisure and the back of the magazine, for food and fashion, while he read the front page and the Week in Review. Now he turned to sports and she turned to the section requiring her most devoted concentration: the wedding announcements.

  It had been a good week with Harry. Excellent, in truth. The sporadic nature of their affair, so dependent on his unannounced comings and goings, was becoming dependable in its own unpredictable fashion. Sure, he cut out of town without telling her on occasion, and she never knew how long he'd be gone. So what? He always came back, he usually brought her a present, and he'd been sober for a week now. Sober long enough to stop talking about being sober, which was a major step.

  Time indeed to check the wedding announcements, which usually produced a sense of gnawing anxiety. At 33, Lucy was far past the age of innocent dreams of wedded bliss—but that didn't mean she didn't have such dreams, or that she didn't need to read these announcements, simultaneously envious and superior as she checked the names and decoded the information.

  She ran through them quickly, checking the photos, then the parentage, the wedding locations, eye wandering back to the photos as she wondered about ages. Some of these girls and boys were way past debutante, that was certain. Don't give up, Luce, you might just make it, This is to announce the engagement of Lucy Delaney Ripken, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Cyrus Ripken of Portland, Oregon, to Harold James Ipswich, son of Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Ipswich of Providence, Rhode Island. Ms. Ripken is a writer and photographer in New York City. Mr. Ipswich is a writer and an undercover narcotics agent, also based in New York City. The bride's parents will be unable to attend the wedding due to the fact that Mr. Ripken is an alcoholic and has no money and a bad attitude, and—What was this? Lucy's inevitably bitter little fantasy disappeared in a snap as her eyes were snagged by the four part name under a photo of a sweet little blonde with a somehow familiar set of perfect white fangs. Ms. Camille Ariel Chapin Rooney, daughter of Mr. Arthur Rooney and Madeleine Chapin Rooney of Manhattan and Greenwich, Connecticut, whose wedding was scheduled for a day in June at a church in Greenwich, etc., etc.

  Madeleine Chapin Rooney. Isabel Chapin? That's where she'd seen the name! On that bloody check which she'd cashed the day she'd gotten it, knowing full well the inevitability of her clash with Rooney. God, how could she have forgotten! Here was the missing link!

  "Harry, look at this!" she said. "Madeleine Rooney's related to Starfish—Isabel Chapin, that is. I bet she's her damned aunt! These people are in it. This whole damn thing's a conspiracy."

  Lucy tried calling Quentin and Beth Washington the next morning, and got a machine. She left an intentionally cryptic message, then called Beth's mother to see if they were visiting her. Beth's Mom hemmed and hawed when Lucy asked if she'd seen them; then, when she identified herself, she was given a message: they'd gone to Martha's Vineyard, to a family cottage for a week or two. She got the number, called the Vineyard, and gave Quentin the latest. He said he planned to lie low until it all blew over, and also came up with his own contribution to the strategy, which they agreed to implement if and when necessary.

  Lucy called Margaret. "Hey Maggie, how's it going?"

  "Lucy, that you? Not great. Weird phone calls coming in. In fact I almost didn't answer this one. Silent messages, heavy breathing and such. I've got Jedediah and his two sons doing guard duty up here. I think it's that Starfish gal again, but—"

  "Where's Nathaniel?"

  "Texas, with her I guess. Told me he was coming up here soon as they got their deal done. Things are getting strange with him, Luce. He sounded really frightened last time we talked. I don't think he could really say anything, like somebody was listening or something."

  "Probably our friends
Jack and Lewis. Have you seen Rosa or Darren?"

  "No. I think Rosa saw enough of me on that reef to last a lifetime, Lucy. Or at least a couple of months."

  "Listen, I wanted to let you know—this thing is more—complicated than I thought." Lucy filled her in.

  Margaret decided to fly up to New York in a couple of days. "Why not?" she said. "Haven't been there in years, and the Waldorf's nice. Sounds like you could use the company. I could use the company, to tell the truth."

  "You can stay here with me," Lucy said.

  "Nah, I like New York hotels," Maggie said. "But I definitely want to spend some time. Be great to do the Apple with you, Luce. I haven't had a real friend living there in years. Have you ever been to The Four Seasons?"

  "No way, honey. Outta my price range. And my neighborhood."

  "Book a reservation for Thursday. You and me and Claud, is it?"

  "No, Claud's the dog, Maggie. Harold's the man."

  "Right. Anyways, whichever one you want to bring, dinner's on me. See you Thursday, I'll call you when I get checked in."

  "Sounds good." Lucy put the phone down and picked it up again to call Rosa.

  Darren answered: "Hello?"

  Lucy hung up without saying a word. Suddenly—or had this feeling been there all along?—she couldn't quite bring herself to trust him. If he had known Madeleine Chapin Rooney all those years, wouldn't he have known Isabel Chapin, or at least known of her?

  Monday morning Lucy called her friend Nina Randolph, the editor of SPACES Magazine. "Hey, Nina, it's Lucy. Lucy Ripken."

  "Lucy. Hallo. How are you? Well, I trust." She was a formal sort, English transplant with that Brit reserve, but warm-hearted under the chill.

  "Fine. Listen, I wanted to ask you a small favor. I just happened to have recently seen a really good-looking gallery renovation over on Madison I thought you might want to publish. I'm gonna shoot it on spec, just for you, because I am absolutely sure you are going to want it."

  "So what's the catch?"

  "No catch, really. I'll even eat the expenses. Just if a woman named Madeleine Rooney calls to verify that I'm shooting it for you, tell her it's true."

  "That sounds manageable. I'll be happy to view the pictures once you've shot them, Lucy."

  "I'll email you a set next week."

  Next came the trickier call—to Madeleine Rooney. She wouldn't be there on a Monday, but Lucy could leave a message and hope she'd call back. The machine answered. "Hello Madeleine, this is Lucy Ripken. I'm back from New Mexico—and from Mexico—and I have some interesting things to talk about. Please call me ASAP when you get this message."

  She and Claud ran down the stairs. The sun was out and spring was everywhere blooming in the dingy streets of SoHo. She leashed him and walked to the park at Spring and Mulberry. The alcoholics who usually occupied most of the benches were still sleeping it off somewhere, so she sat with coffee and a paper while Claud chased pigeons on a peaceful Monday morning in New York City, bright flowers in window boxes and on fire escapes, no truck engines running for the moment, and no lunatics, drunkards, or piles of garbage in her range of vision. Harry had left early for the airport with some business to take care of down in Florida, but he'd promised to be back by the end of the week. He'd even told her where he was going. Now that was a sign.

  Back at the loft there was one message, from Madeleine Rooney, with a phone number. Lucy called. "Hello, Madeleine, it's Lucy Ripken." She kept her voice carefully neutral.

  "Lucy. Yes. You called?"

  "I wanted to congratulate you on your daughter's wedding. I saw the announcement."

  "Thank you. So: what have you got to say for yourself now that you've done your little thing down in Santa Fe, Ms. Ripken?"

  "By the way, is your niece Isabel going to be attending the wedding?"

  She didn't miss a beat. "Isabel? What are you talking about? Who's Isabel?"

  "Well, she goes by the name of Starfish these days."

  Rooney cut her off. "My daughter's wedding guest list is certainly no concern of yours, Ms. Ripken. Now, did you have something to discuss regarding my artifacts?"

  "Actually, I wanted to make amends, in a manner of speaking. I'm right in the middle of my article, and I'm not sure where it's going, to tell the truth, but I will let you know if you're going to be in the story, Mrs. Rooney. I will do that much." Lucy waited for a reaction. Rooney said nothing. Lucy went on. "Anyways, I am a freelancer. I write and photograph stories for design magazines on a regular basis, and I was wondering if you would be interested in having the gallery photographed for SPACES Magazine? I think I told you before how much I admired the interior. Great finishes—I love the notion of old west style gone uptown and laid on top of a classical space plan, with great art lighting. It would look marvelous in a design book."

  "Thanks. SPACES? I've seen that magazine. My designer showed me some copies when we were planning the remodel here."

  "Good. Then perhaps you'd be interested in a feature on the gallery?"

  "What will it cost me?"

  "Nothing but some time, since I assume you'll want to be there when I shoot. By the way, who was the designer of the space?"

  "Enrico Lobos. He's a marvelous young man from Miami—his parents are Nicaraguans who left after the Sandinistas took over. He was recommended to me by a friend. I'm sure he would be thrilled to be in SPACES. But I want it in writing that I will have no expenses incurred. When did you want to do the photography?"

  "When's the next day you're closed? Sunday?"

  "Yes."

  "Sunday then if that’s okay. I'll be there, with my equipment and an assistant, around eight in the morning. Is that all right?"

  "I'll be here."

  "We can discuss the situation with the artifacts at greater length at that time, Mrs. Rooney. Please try to have the gallery as clean and neat as possible, OK?”

  "Is that nice young man Simon going to be assisting you?"

  "If he's available I'll book him."

  Madame Rooney hung up. Lucy put the phone down, wondering why that call had been so painless. The lady seemed so unconcerned. A week ago she's threatening my ass, and now she's, like, strictly business, sort of bored about it all. Weird.

  Thursday afternoon the phone rang with that special ring that signalled an important call. Sure it was Maggie calling from the airport, Lucy leapt for the phone and had it to her ear before the first ring finished. "Maggie, that you? You here?"

  "Lucy? It's Rosa. My God, Lucy."

  "Rosa? Hey, honey, I'm sorry, it's just that Maggie.—Margaret's due in town today and—"

  "I don't think so. Lucy, Nathaniel's dead, and Maggie—Margaret's—"

  "What?" she shrieked.

  "I've been calling up there to her house, I wanted to see her, and no one answered the phone for like three days, so we went up there this morning—me and Darren. The front door was open, all the animals were running loose, Maggie was gone, and we found Nathaniel in the house. He'd been shot in the back."

  "Shot in the back? By whom? Who would—"

  "You know who would do it, Luce. It had to be—It has to be those guys. They're here in Santa Fe, Lucy."

  "Where's Maggie?"

  "Darren found her rolodex open to her travel agent, so we called him. She had a ticket to New York but she traded it in for a ticket to London and from there to Nairobi. She's gone to Africa, Lucy. I think she's just hiding. On the run."

  "Africa! Jesus. That's a long way to run. Have you seen the bitch?"

  "Starfish? No. If she's around she's laying low. She and her crazy killer friends. We should have nailed her when we had a chance, Lucy. They might be after me next, for God's sake!"

  "What are you going to do?"

  "We're going to San Francisco tonight, to stay with Darren's parents, if I can talk that cop Rodriguez into letting us leave. He's a little leery since this is the second time we've called him to report we walked in on dead people in the last two weeks."

/>   "Just go. If you're not suspects he can't make you stay, Rosa. Just get the fuck out of there. Christ, that poor fool Nathaniel."

  "I feel badly for him, but frankly, Lucy, I'm more concerned with myself at the moment. He's already dead, know what I mean?"

  "Do I ever. Be careful. Darren OK?"

  "Sure, he's fine. I mean, he's not too happy about having to sneak out of town like this, but he understands."

  "Call me from SF."

  "I will. Take care."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  BROKEN DREAMS AND BROKEN STATUES

  In a Checker Cab, cruising up Park Avenue through sparse Sunday morning traffic, Lucy headed back to the Desert Gallery. Much had changed. For this shoot, along with Simon Stevens she'd hired a second assistant, one Harold Ipswich, 44-year old loverboy, undercover DEA man, and travel writer.

  They stopped in front of the gallery, and the men unloaded while she went to the glass doors and peered in. The buzzer sounded and she pushed the door open. Madeleine Rooney, in a bright red jumpsuit, gold-bejewelled, with a cigarette in hand, floated towards her. "Good morning, Lucy. You're ten minutes late." The tone was strictly business. She blew smoke at Lucy.

  "Sorry. I..."

  "I can only stay till noon. Can you get it done?"

  "You said two pm on the phone."

  "My plans have changed. Surely four hours is enough time. In any case, it will have to do."

  "Fine. We'll work fast." Lucy held the door as Simon, followed by Harold, lugged gear from the cab. Simon grinned at Mrs. Rooney.

  "Hiya, Madeleine," he said.

  "Good morning, Simon," she smiled. Her smile went away when she saw Harold. Harold had a troubled aura, they might say in Santa Fe. "Who's this?"

  "Harold Ipswich," Lucy said. "I brought a second assistant so we could work faster. Seemed like a good idea, and so it is, since we’re in a rush, eh? Harold, meet Madeleine Rooney. Madeleine, Harold Ipswich."

  "Hello," said Harold. Lucy hoped he would contain his inherent hostility to the Rooney type. "Nice place you got here," he added, looking past her.