Bitter Business

been dangerous to turn my back.
     

19
     
    Only the doorbell saved me from doing something foolish. I heard the harsh sound of the buzzer and took a step away from Elliott. The moment dissolved into motion—Elliott stooping to pick up the copies of the two autopsy reports from the foot of my bed—me to the intercom panel in the front hall to buzz Stephen Azorini into the building.
    The two men shook hands in the foyer. They had never met before and each eyed the other with suspicion thinly veiled by civility—two cats circling each other at their first meeting. Elliott knew I had a relationship with Stephen, but I had never offered to explain it, holding firm the line between personal and professional involvement no matter what sparks of attraction might sometimes flash between us. Stephen, on the other hand, clearly did not expect to come to my apartment on Saturday night and find another man there already.
    I smiled radiantly at them both and gathered up the glittering excuse for a purse that I used for parties.
    “Did you remember to buy your grandmother a present?” Stephen inquired in paternal tones.
    The look on my face was most likely explanation enough, since he did not bother to wait for whatever excuse I might offer.
    “That’s okay.” He sighed. “I did. We’ll just sign the card from both of us.”
    As I preceded both men out the door I couldn’t help but wonder what Elliott Abelman, private investigator, would deduce from that last exchange.
     
    The private dining room at the Whitehall Club was almost as pretty as my mother’s, though not nearly as large. She stood by the door greeting guests, flanked by my father and Grandma Prescott—a no-nonsense old woman who lived for fly-fishing and duplicate bridge.
    “Happy birthday, Grandma,” I said, kissing the papery skin of her powdered cheek.
    “Thank you, my dear,” she said, putting her hands on my shoulders and holding me at arm’s length to look at me. “Your dad says that you’ve been working too hard and I won’t tell you what your mother’s been saying.” She gave a wicked chuckle. Her voice was gravelly from a lifetime of cigarettes and scotch, almost as low as a man’s.
    “When did you buy that dress?” my mother demanded as I moved on to give my grandmother a chance to talk to Stephen. She liked to joke that she might be too old to do anything about it but she still liked at least to look at a handsome man.
    “I was in Bonn this winter on business. One of the German attorneys working on the deal took me shopping.”
    “It’s very attractive,” my mother remarked, making the dress worth every single penny. I didn’t even let it bother me when she criticized my hair.
    Stephen and I did our duty during cocktails, saying hello to all the aunts and second cousins. Stephen was a much bigger draw than I was. No one ever knew quite what to say to me since I didn’t fit into any of the neat pigeonholes of their limited experience—no husband, no country club, a career that frankly baffled them. Stephen, on the other hand, with his movie-star good looks, had undeniable appeal.
    I drank less than I usually do at family gatherings, concentrating on the hors d’oeuvres, which were wonderful, especially the little puffs filled with a mixture of goat cheese and sun-dried tomatoes, which went a long way to compensate for the fact that I hadn’t had lunch. I also found myself paying more attention to the family dynamics, which I had up until now taken for granted.
    Grandma Prescott and my mother, though all smiles tonight, had never gotten along particularly well. My mother’s mother had been an accomplished equestrienne and a crack shot in an era when women didn’t shoot and they didn’t ride. She’d grown up under the disapproving eye of her own socialite mother and a puritanical father, both of whom adored my mother and did everything they could to undercut my grandmother’s influence over her.
    In one comer by the fireplace I spotted my father, nodding amiably in agreement with his sister, Gertrude, who was one of the richest women in the world—and according to my mother one of the ugliest—on account of having married an elderly Van Buren shortly before his timely demise. She was a spectacular miser and had two sons, one who was completely estranged from her and another who had recently died of AIDS. Through his entire illness his mother had insisted defiantly to all of her friends that it was mononucleosis.
    When