Dorothy Mcintosh - The Witch of Babylon

It seemed totally insane that in the space of a day I’d gone from being a normal citizen to living in a constant state of fear.

I checked the street once more when I reached Laurel’s building, and seeing nothing out of place, I decided to go in. Hal had taken over his mother’s home when she died last autumn. Her penthouse was an eagle’s nest topping a brown-brick mesa, crowned by a gothic mélange of pillars, arches, terraces, and gargoyles. The ground floor of the building housed a bar famous for its Monday-night Latin drags.

My one worry was whether Gip would remember me, but when I entered the main foyer, he rose from behind his desk and grinned. He was spic and span in an army-green uniform dressed up with lots of gold braid, a cap, a long coat, and matching slacks. A good thing the vestibule was air conditioned. A sturdy Irishman with a round, ruddy face, Gip was the third generation in his family to hold the post. An aristocrat of doormen, he referred to himself as Gerald Powell the Third.

“Nice to see you, John. It’s been a while.”

“Thanks, Gip. I’m here to see Laurel Vanderlin, if she’s home.”

“One second, I’ll check.” He punched in some numbers, spoke into the phone, and handed me the receiver.

“Hi, Laurie. It’s John.”

“Oh, John. You’ve heard then.”

“Yes. Can I come up?”

“Please do. I’m desperate for some company.”

The elevator had been refurbished, but the original brass art deco grillwork had wisely been kept. A white-gloved, uniformed attendant slid open the door. It had to be one of the few places left in Manhattan that still offered this service. Here, you didn’t ask for a floor, but simply gave the name of the resident. We sailed up to the penthouse.

Laurel waited with the door half propped open. I took her in my arms, pressed my face against hers, and felt tears slide down her cheek. I caught the bloom of alcohol on her breath. The stronger light inside showed me a face red and swollen from crying; her eyes had that glazed look people have when the shock is still new.

We entered a rotunda gleaming with Giallo Siena marble, its mirrors custom-made to fit the rounded walls, and in the center an inlaid, hand-painted credenza that had once belonged to a French king. On it sat a Tiffany lamp. In the receiving room, the floor switched to a rich herringbone oak covered with seventeenth-century silk Kashan carpets so valuable it felt like a sin to tread on them. Three sets of French doors framed by heavy brocade drapes led out to the first terrace. The place presented a face of stale elegance.

Hal’s mother had made only one change, combining a hall, butler’s pantry, and breakfast room to create a large family room and modern kitchen. This space was done up completely in surgical white. White broadloom, white walls, white furniture. The overall effect resembled an operating theater dropped into the middle of a museum.

I flopped down on the family room couch. Laurel asked if I wanted something to drink.

“Nothing, thanks.”

“You sure?” She picked up a tumbler half full of what looked like water but I knew wasn’t, waving it in my direction.

“You’re drinking vodka straight?”

“The ice cube melted. If you’re not going to join me, enjoy the show.” She threw down the rest of the drink. I was not about to suggest she’d be better off skipping the booze. Who was I to point out moral imperatives to anyone, considering my penchant for a decent range of sins? After what happened to Hal last night, she could be forgiven for wanting to get numb.

Laurel slumped into a chair. “What bad angel has cast its spell on us, John? First Samuel and you in that terrible accident, and now this. It’s unbelievable.”

“I know.” I felt a kind of sorrowful connection with her now that both of us were struggling with a violent loss.

“I told him so many times those drugs would end up killing him.”

How much did I want to reveal? “I’m not sure it’s that simple, Laurie. Hal called me after I left the party. I rushed back, but he was already dead when I got there.”

“You found him? The police didn’t tell me that. What happened?”

“Someone at the party administered the fatal dose. A woman. She threatened me too.”

Her face went white. “You told the police about this, right?”

“I’ve just come from talking to them. They don’t believe me. With my previous record and enough drugs circulating at the party to start a pharmacy, their guns are aiming at me. That’s how they think.”

“Are you telling me Hal was murdered and you saw who did it?” She swayed. I grabbed her before she could fall and helped her over to the sofa, then sat down beside her. “This is scaring me, John. I don’t know who to believe.”

“Why would I lie about it? Look, I know how rough this is on you. I can see that.”

“It was horrible enough already, and now you’re telling me it’s even worse. I can’t get my mind around this.”

“Tell me about it. I’m having a hard time over losing Samuel and now this … thing with Hal. It’s as though a bomb has just gone off inside my head. Hal was the closest I came to having a brother.”

“I thought Samuel was your brother.”

“Sure, but he was forty years older than me, so he always seemed like my father. He played that role. I never knew my real father. When Hal was home from boarding school or camp we spent a lot of time together. We often sparred though. It wasn’t always that brotherly between us.”

Our talking calmed Laurel a bit. “I’m the only girl in the family,” she said. “I have four brothers. Believe me, sparring is normal.”

“But he carried it too far. Wouldn’t let it go even as adults. At Columbia we’d be out somewhere, at a party or something. We’d be raising the roof, having a fantastic time, and then he’d start getting all competitive with me. Thinking about it now, I should have called him on it then.”

“It goes back to how his father treated him. That’s exactly how Peter would behave.” She had a lovely voice. Her years in New York hadn’t altered what sounded like a Midwestern accent. “I guess I’m responsible for Peter now, along with everything else.”

I took her hand. “I’ll help you. Samuel and I visited Peter after he went into the nursing home. He still remembered me.”

She let out a deep sigh. “Why does everything have to go wrong at once? I feel like a ten-ton truck has just driven over me.”

“I think there’s a connection. Between my circumstances and yours.”

“What do you mean?”

“Can you think of anyone who would have had it in for Hal?” I asked.

“I’ve found out I didn’t know everything about his life. He kept things from me—I’m just starting to realize how much since he asked me to help sort out all his accounts and things. But do you mean going to the lengths of killing him? I can’t imagine who would do that.”

I bent my head and rubbed my eyes. “What did the police say?”

She took a minute to respond. “The detective was kind of guarded. He just said that Hal had died, probably from an overdose. A neighbor called 911 after hearing a disturbance. He’s the one who identified Hal. Thank heavens I didn’t have to. They aren’t releasing his body yet.”

“Laurie, Hal got tangled up in something. Nothing to do with opiates. He tried to sell a really valuable relic, a collector’s item. That’s what the woman was after. Do you know anything about it?”

“You think that’s why he died?”

“Yes.”

“I thought he sold everything from Peter’s collection. You handled it all for him. If something was left, why didn’t he go through you?”

“It didn’t belong to Peter. It was a stone engraving Samuel brought over from Iraq. Hal took it while I was in the hospital. This woman, Eris, found out about it somehow. Did Hal ever mention her?”