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  Cameron cleared his throat. “Shall we get down to business?” He pulled out his notebook. “Your opinion, Mrs. Boretsky?”

  “Surely you understand, Mr. McCrea, that I must see the whole property and run some comparisons.” She turned to Harry. “But listen, Harry, you do know that property values have escalated drastically in the last few years and that the church is applying to the city for rezoning.”

  “What’s this about the church?” McCrea asked, leaning against the counter and beginning to fill his pipe.

  Natasha continued, “The church is selling to a shopping-mall developer. They must get the zoning amended before the sale can be closed.”

  “Zoning applications are usually trouble, Ms. Boretsky. Commercial developers usually surround the last residence. Its value drops dramatically because it’s no longer in a residential setting. The best you can then get is the land value,” said McCrea.

  Natasha smiled patiently. “I’m sure you know that it’s very difficult for a developer to get commercial rezoning in a primarily residential area.” She turned back to Harry. “I do suggest that if your clients want to sell, they should do so fairly quickly.”

  Harry only nodded. Natasha could look after herself. She knew her stuff.

  It was hard for the trust officer, speaking for a mammoth corporation, to keep the scorn from his voice. Lighting his pipe, he continued, “At Gideon, we like to proceed with extreme caution in such circumstances. The last thing we want is a beneficiary pointing the finger at us and saying that we didn’t get fair market value. You remember the Bingham estate, don’t you, Harry?”

  One glance told Harry that McCrea was hiding a smirk behind his damned pipe. He certainly remembered the estate and angrily scrawling across the file, “Never trust a trust company.”

  The Bingham family had owned several small but elegant apartment buildings in the city. The beneficiaries had sought to remove Gideon and Harry as co-executors, claiming improper accounting and loss of certain sales of the buildings. Endless appraisals and reports so befuddled the denizens of the trust company that some very attractive offers slipped by. Harry became Gideon’s scapegoat.

  “Let’s not waste time with reminiscences. I want to show Natasha the rest of the house,” Harry said, determined to maintain the upper hand with McCrea. His desire for Natasha was nearly all consuming.

  “You know, Cameron, there’s something upstairs that needs fixing. Perhaps you could send a man around to have a look.”

  Brushing past the trust officer, he strode into the hallway, saying, “After all, Gideon has so many resources at its disposal.”

  Pausing with one foot on the first step, he called to McCrea. “The landing door at the top of the stairs was jammed shut the other day.” Harry was determined to impose a host of menial chores on McCrea.

  He took the stairs two at a time. Halfway up, his eyes remained focused on the landing door. Behind that door, Harry knew was a set of dark and cramped back stairs connecting all three floors. As he neared the landing door, he was overcome with the odor he and Natasha had noticed earlier. He stopped.

  Only days before, the landing door had been stuck. Expecting resistance, he wrenched the knob in a show of force. The door flew open.

  A body, in a black-and-white maid’s uniform, sprang out at him. Stiff, flailing arms smashed into his head and shoulders. Falling toward him was a black face contorted by rigor mortis into a mocking grin.

  Desperately trying to fight off the attack, Harry fell sideways. Retching with the odor, he smashed against the banister.

  Frozen in horror, Natasha and McCrea saw the black corpse chasing and beating Harry downward until both bodies lay heaped together at the foot of the stairs.

  Natasha fought to pry the corpse away, but it had locked Harry in a deathly embrace. McCrea phoned emergency services as Harry drifted into a netherworld.

  CHAPTER 19

  After several hours of surgery, two of Harry’s ribs were reconstructed. Racing to the surface of consciousness, he cried out, “Natasha!” He gasped. The pain was intense.

  Two nurses worked over him. “Mr. Jenkins? How are you feeling now? You’ve had a nasty bit of business, haven’t you?” The voice was unbearably loud and cheery, Harry thought. Surely this was not a normal tone. He tried to open his eyes, but the light forced them shut.

  Someone took his pulse and said, “We’ve been trying to reach your wife, Mr. Jenkins. You’ve had a bad fall, but the doctor says the ribs will heal well.”

  The nurse was very young. As the anesthetic wore off, her face became clearer. She looked just like his sister, Anna, at thirteen.

  She placed his wrist on the bed cover and recorded all his readings on his chart. His head throbbed above his eyes and at his temples.

  “What happened to me?” Harry asked, trying to turn his head on the pillow.

  The nurse glanced up at him. “Remember, Mr. Jenkins? You were knocked down the stairs at someone’s house.”

  Rosie’s contorted face flashed before his eyes. She must have been dead.

  “You had a visitor earlier,” said one of the nurses as she adjusted the IV bag. Harry only murmured a reply.

  “Very pretty, too,” the nurse laughed.

  Harry’s eyes flew open. “Who was it?”

  “She said her name was Natasha.”

  “Really?” Harry grinned. When he tried to sit up, he gasped with pain.

  The nurse laughed. “Aha! We’d better get her back here. She’ll bring you back to life fast enough.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She had to leave, but don’t worry: she said she’d be back.” The nurse patted his hand and left.

  Harry tried to concentrate on Marjorie and Rosie, but Natasha took over his thoughts. Sinking downward, he reached out to touch her. Her black mink coat slid silkily between his fingers. He knew Laura had not come. She was gone, like his sister, beyond his reach. He slipped back into sleep.

  Harry could hear voices out in the hall. The door opened.

  “What the hell happened to you, Harry?”

  He felt a hand on his arm. Blinking his eyes open, he saw Stephen.

  “I got knocked downstairs by a corpse.”

  “What?”

  “I yanked a door open at the Deighton house,” Harry murmured. “Rosie’s corpse flew out. I lost my balance and fell.” Harry smiled feebly. “Scared the hell out of me and Natasha.”

  Stephen pulled a chair up to the bed and sat down. “Jesus, Harry! That sounds like a really bad murder mystery.”

  Harry smiled wanly. “I know,” he whispered. “But honest to God, it did actually happen.”

  “Who’s Natasha? Rosie?”

  Harry struggled to sit up, but fell back; the pain was too intense. He had to concentrate. “Rosie’s the housekeeper for a client of mine. And Natasha…well, she’s a realtor.” He knew the anesthetic had not worn off. The painkillers muddled his thoughts, but did not stop his talk.

  “I’m sick of this damned ‘duty’ stuff.” Harry gasped in pain. “I’m stuck in a dead marriage and can’t seem to live my own life.” His head dropped back onto the pillow. “I want out.” He felt his guard vanishing and he didn’t care. “I’m completely fed up. I want…”

  “What do you want?”

  Harry was silent for some moments. “Life. Feeling…something. I don’t know. Passion. Natasha.”

  “This is serious,” Stephen laughed. He figured humor could do no harm. “Does she want you?”

  The simplicity of the question intrigued Harry. “Yes—at least, I think so.”

  “Lucky man,” Stephen grinned. “What’s the problem?”

  “I am married.” Even Harry knew he sounded stuffy. “At least I used to be.”

  “I know. You told me about Laura. But Harry, not everyone’s as duty-bound as you. Why not cut yourself some slack? If you don’t, then you’ll poison whatever good you have.”

  The image of a smiling Laura, in Dr. Stover’s bed,
came upon him swiftly.

  Stephen smiled and patted Harry’s shoulder. “Listen, pal, I shouldn’t have to tell you this stuff. Get yourself out of here first and we’ll go out for drinks.” Harry watched as Stephen left. He started to snore, then drifted off to sleep.

  Later, Harry thought it was only a dream. He recollected a soft kiss on his cheek and a gentle touch. A voice was low in his ear. When he murmured something unintelligible, Natasha smiled to herself and then left. She knew he would recover quickly. He woke, only for a moment, to see an empty bedside.

  Hours later, the door banged open and the curtain flew back. Harry woke abruptly. A massive figure loomed over him.

  “We keep running into each other, Mr. Jenkins. Welkom here.” The sergeant spoke in gruff tones. “You got a pretty exciting practice for a family solicitor.” Harry had no idea what sort of response was required. “What do you know about Miss Michaels?” asked the sergeant.

  “Who’s she?”

  “The dead woman. Miss Deighton’s housekeeper. Her corpse knocked you down the stairs.”

  “Oh, that’s her last name. I only knew her as Rosie.”

  “She was strangled,” said Welkom flatly.

  Harry could not imagine anyone wanting to harm Rosie. “Was there a robbery?”

  “Doesn’t seem to be anything stolen, Mr. Jenkins. But then, it’s hard to tell.” Welkom paused as he searched for his pen. “Did you check your office? Anything missing from there?”

  After the breakin, Harry had tried to put everything back in order. Nothing seemed to be missing. With everything dumped on the floor, it had been hard to tell. His head was beginning to pound again.

  “The autopsy on the Michaels woman showed that she’d been strangled. Not just strangled, but her neck was snapped in two places. Must have been one hell of a mean bastard who did it.” Welkom paused, then consulted his notebook again. “According to the autopsy report, the time of death was on the 16th, probably in the afternoon.”

  It took a moment for this information to sink in. “That’s the same day Marjorie died. She must have been there when my secretary and I found Marjorie. That’s why the landing door to the back stairs was jammed.”

  “Exactly, counselor.” Welkom snapped his notebook shut. “But the worst part is that she was cut up real bad. Someone took a knife to her stomach and carved rose petals. Pretty crude stuff. Then he dressed her back up. Real neat.”

  “Jesus!” Harry breathed. Astounded, he struggled to organize his thoughts. “You mean the Florist killed Rosie?” His voice trailed off. “But what’s the connection?”

  The sergeant shrugged. “Who knows? Don’t know if there is one. We’re not sure it’s the same person. The artwork isn’t nearly as neat. Could be a copycat.”

  Harry frowned. “I don’t see any connection between my client and the Florist.”

  Pen and notebook in hand, Welkom asked, “Who else, besides you and your secretary, could have been in the house that afternoon?”

  Harry exhaled sharply. “Damn it all. I told you repeatedly that someone was there at two o’clock. The telephone was ringing off the hook. Why didn’t you follow up?”

  Ignoring his questions, Welkom said doggedly, “If Miss Michaels was strangled, your client was likely murdered, too.”

  “Really, officer?” Harry muttered. “That’s hardly surprising.” Still, it didn’t fit. If Marjorie had been murdered, it must have been poison. Harry could not visualize the same hand carefully administering an overdose, and then snapping a neck in two places.

  “Mr. Jenkins?”

  Harry realized that the sergeant was shaking his shoulder. He must have drifted off.

  “Why would anyone want to kill Marjorie?” Harry managed to ask. “She was such a great lady.”

  “You tell me, Mr Jenkins. You’re one of her executors, aren’t you?” Welkom’s face loomed close to Harry’s. “Who would inherit her estate?”

  “St. Timothy’s Church gets a legacy, and the balance is divided equally among the three next of kin.”

  “Lots of money?”

  “Depending on the value of the house, between five and six million.”

  The sergeant whistled. “The family would do very nicely.” Welkom stood abruptly. His form hovered over Harry’s bed. “People have been murdered for a lot less, counselor.” Although the area was cramped, Welkom began to pace. Turning on Harry, he said, “The knife, Mr. Jenkins.”

  Harry stared at him blankly. His only thought was the pounding in his head.

  “The knife that was sticking in your desk,” Welkom prompted.

  “Yes?” Harry was having difficulty following. What did the knife have to do with Marjorie?

  “It was clean: no prints on it at all. Who’s Albert Chin?”

  “Another client.” Harry replied.

  “For how long? Where’d he come from?” Welkom’s jaw jutted out, almost touching the pillow.

  Harry tried to turn away. Because of solicitor-client privilege, he could say nothing. “Sorry, sergeant. I’m sure you know I can’t tell you about any other client’s business.” Harry sighed. Welkom remained silent for several moments. “Where does that leave things, then?” Harry muttered. His eyelids were beginning to droop.

  “Nowhere, Mr. Jenkins. Not without your help. You see, I figure there are at least two connected murders so far. Besides, with that knife sticking out of your desk, haven’t you thought somebody might be trying to give you a message?”

  Harry’s eyelids flew open. “Listen, sergeant. I don’t understand your connection between the breakin, the knife, and the Deighton business. As far as I’m concerned, they’re totally unrelated.” But he could not dismiss the fact that Chin’s purchases surrounded Marjorie’s property. Also, the conglomerate wanted an option over her place. But how often was someone murdered over a real-estate deal?

  Welkom smiled sadly. “Just a hunch, counselor. What I can’t figure out, though, is you.” Welkom scratched his head. “You told me she was just an old lady who died in her sleep.”

  “Who asked about an autopsy, sergeant?” Harry tried to raise himself up. “Who called you to ask about the housekeeper and the autopsy?” He fell back in pain. “Why wasn’t all of this done in the first place?”

  Welkom’s face darkened. “Now it will be. You can count on it, counselor—and you can tell the nieces and nephew. I’m getting an exhumation order right away.” Welkom stood and patted Harry’s shoulder. “We’ll talk again real soon, Mr. Jenkins.” Then he was gone.

  Nothing fit. How could the other murders on the news have anything to do with Marjorie? If she had been murdered, Rosie might have come across the killer and been strangled. If there were any connection between the Deighton murder and the breakin, it was the Chin land deals.

  The nurse arrived, laden with a box.

  “Mr. Jenkins! What beautiful flowers. A dozen long-stemmed roses,” she exclaimed.

  “Who sent them?” He hoped Natasha had.

  The nurse opened the envelope and held the card up to the light. “It says here: ‘Get well soon. Albert Chin.’”

  Harry grew very cold. He closed his eyes and gasped in pain. “Jesus! Can you give me something?” He clutched his side. “For the pain?”

  After consulting the chart, the nurse adjusted the flow of morphine. Gratefully, Harry lapsed back into oblivion.

  CHAPTER 20

  Several days later, Harry returned home from hospital. Although painkillers kept the thousands of knives from thrusting between his ribs, they coated his mind in a soft fuzz. Idly, he drifted through the morning, without much thought of anything. The telephone rang.

  “Hello?” he muttered.

  Miss Giveny’s voice was a high-pitched wail. “Oh, Mr. Jenkins! Something terrible has happened. I knew only trouble would come from it.”

  Harry was awake. “What on earth are you talking about? What’s happened?” Only a cataclysmic event could drive his taciturn secretary to such a frantic pitch. “M
iss Giveny, tell me what it is.” Harry spoke with as much authority as he was able to muster.

  “Mr. Jenkins, the will is gone.” The choking sound continued. “I’ve looked everywhere.” Only loud sniffles could be heard. He hoped she was trying to pull herself together.

  “What will? Surely not Marjorie’s?”

  An ominous silence followed. “Yes,” said Miss Giveny in a hushed voice. “Marjorie Deighton’s original will is gone.”

  Harry sat up. Pain ground into his side so violently that he gasped for breath. At last he said, “But we got it from the vault the day we went to see her. You made two copies, and we took them with us. You must have put it back, because you made more copies after she died.”

  But maybe it hadn’t been returned to the vault, he thought. Likely it had been on his desk or hers. Over the next few minutes, Harry ran through a list of places to look. Each suggestion was met with the adamant reply, “It’s not there!”

  Things went missing. Invariably they were found later, misfiled or stored in some bizarre place for safekeeping.

  Then he remembered. The night the office was ransacked, he had gone directly through the gloomy twilight of the foyer into the bright lights of his office. But only a dim light had been on in the outer office, where the vault had stood slightly ajar. Mesmerized by the knife stabbed into the Chin offers and the petals, he had forgotten the vault. The utter chaos of his own office had completely distracted him.

  “I’ll be there right away.”

  Harry called a cab and struggled into some clothes. Popping three painkillers into his mouth, he hunted down a glass of water in the bathroom.

  Forty-five minutes later, he entered the office to see Miss Giveny with red-rimmed eyes and a Kleenex bunched at her lips.

  “Oh, Mr. Jenkins.” She was alarmed at his pallor. “I shouldn’t have gotten you out of bed.”

  Harry walked gingerly to the vault. From the Rolodex, he confirmed the number of the will, and then methodically went through each of the twenty-five wills stored in the particular box. Yes, the envelope numbered 2625 was there, but empty. The office rule was to keep the envelope with the will at all times, so someone had taken it. Dizziness forced him into a nearby chair.