Act of God

with her hand to a central staircase, the kind you’d expect Vivien Leigh to descend in a flowing gown—“we can see some of the store.”
    “The stairs, I think.”
    “Please watch your step, then.”
    Karen’s smile had wavered, and I got the impression most office visitors opted for the elevator over three flights of Tara . Actually, though, as we climbed from the first-floor living room sets toward the second-floor dining rooms, the grand staircase trimmed down significantly, becoming pretty utilitarian as we left the dining rooms behind and moved into the bedroom suites on the third floor. At the fourth floor was a set of padded-leather cafe doors with brass tacks to the left and more furniture to the right.
    “This way, please.”
    She led me through the swinging doors and into a tiled corridor with a men’s room, a ladies’ room, and a water fountain the size of a wastebasket mounted on the wall between them. At the end of the corridor was a less inviting steel door with a small porthole window at eye level. This door didn’t seem to require any key as Karen pushed it open into a broad hallway, this one carpeted. What looked like offices lined both sides, another steel fire door, this one with a panic bar, at the far end. We walked to an open doorway, my guide frowning as she looked into it.
    “I’m sorry, but I don’t see Mr. Bernstein.”
    From the hall, the office was impressive, afternoon sun streaming in through the Palladian. The sunshine bathed a huge partners’ desk, where I guessed Rivkind and Bernstein had worked like Siamese twins. Old, bustle-back chairs for each partner that you just knew would crackle when you sat on them and creak when you swiveled in them, captain’s chairs for visitors. Currier & Ives prints graced the walls around a marble fireplace with a screen and tool holder. Dangling from the holder were a brush and tongs but no poker, and the lush red carpet was bleached in an oval spot near one of the chairs.
    “Can I help you?”
    A precise, female voice from down the hall. I turned to see a light-skinned black woman standing outside one of the other doorways. Fortyish, she would have been about five-six without the two-inch heels, in a yellow blouse and maroon skirt. Her hair was between brown and blond, brushed stylishly into a wave that rode toward the back of her head.
    Karen said, “Mrs. Swindell, this gentleman’s here to see Mr. Bernstein, but—”
    “Mr. Bernstein had to go out. Is it something I can help you with?”
    I said, “My name’s John Cuddy, Mrs. Swindell. Maybe Mrs. Rivkind talked with you about me?”
    Swindell’s head bobbed once. “Karen, I think you can go back downstairs now.”
    “Sure. I mean, yes. Thanks. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Cuddy.”
    “Same. Thanks for the tour.”
    “You’re welcome.”
    As Karen walked away, Swindell came toward me. “Beverly Swindell, Mr. Cuddy.”
    Up close, Swindell’s eyes matched the color of her hair, something in them making me push her age a few years higher. The nose was proud, the nostrils prominent, giving her face a little more character than beauty. Her handshake was firm, but reserved.
    “Sorry to have to be here about this.”
    She bobbed her head again. “We all are. Joel won’t be back for a while. Can I... I don’t know what, get you started?”
    “Maybe in your office?”
    “Of course. Please.”
    Her room had the same Palladian window effect, but you stepped from the late nineteenth century harshly into the twenty-first. A computer system sprawled over two similar hutches of beige plastic. In front of each hutch was one of those ergonomic chairs that looks like a Catholic kneeler with an attitude. There were a couple of calculators awash in a sea of green and gray printouts with single metal rings through one of the three holes punched in their sides. Dozens of loose-leaf notebooks stood upright on shelves in some kind of color-coded order that escaped me. The small amount of empty wall space was barren, no prints, no photos, nothing personalizing the place.
    “Have a seat, please.”
    I looked at her, but she was pointing at the corner of the room to the left of the door. There were three conventional chairs around a circular conference table. I took one of them, Swindell another.
    “How can I help you, Mr. Cuddy?”
    “Did you talk to Mrs. Rivkind directly?”
    “I did. Pearl said you were looking into what happened here for her and into Darbra’s disappearance for