Blood on the Street (A Smith and Wetzon Mystery, #4)

big brunch business and a lot of people were heading for Bloomingdale’s.
    But not I , Wetzon thought. She took a big bite out of the focaccio; the cherries had a slightly tart taste that heightened the flavor of the yeasty dough.
    At Fifty-ninth Street, she began walking westward toward Central Park and the Park Royale. A horse and carriage was parked in front of the hotel all decked out in wedding regalia—white ribbons, festoons, and flowers. A bride in a long satin dress, the train flowing, was held aloft by her groom in black cutaway. She threw her bridal bouquet into the air just as Wetzon broke through the crowd. The bouquet hovered for a moment as if looking for a spot to land, then tumbled, pink streamers flying onto Wetzon, momentarily blinding her. Applause filled the air.
    “Oh, no,” she cried, embarrassed, “it’s a mistake.” She tried to hand the forget-me-not bouquet back to the bride, but the bride and groom were climbing into the carriage. “Oh, dear.”
    “It’s yours, honey. Fair and square,” a woman in a pink suit said. “Enjoy it.”
    This is the silliest thing , she thought, holding the bouquet gingerly. She trotted into the hotel, right up to the desk, and handed over the hatbox to the clerk. “This belongs to Dr. Jerry Gordon. Can you see that he gets it?”
    The clerk stared intently at her. Was he trying to memorize what she looked like so he could tell Dr. Jerry? She ducked her head. “Caught the bridal bouquet, did we?” the clerk said, with a good dose of jaded cynicism. “Well, congratulations.” He’d been looking at the bouquet. Good. That’s what he’d remember.
    Still holding the ridiculous bouquet, Wetzon took the Sixth Avenue subway down to West Fourth and got out at the Eighth Street exit. If the City was alive on the Upper East Side, it was frenzied in the Village. Vendors clogged the sidewalks as the bridge-and-tunnel crowd gawked. A Sikh artist in a white turban was doing portraits in charcoal, and there was a waiting line. She didn’t stop anywhere except at the newsstand on Seventh Avenue for the Sunday Times. She just wanted to be home.
    It was almost two o’clock when she was back in the loft. Saying, “Go away, world,” she double-locked the door. Dumping her loot from Ecce Panis on the table, she stuck the bridal bouquet in a glass of water and made a big pot of coffee. Then she played back her messages.
    Marissa Peiser.
    One, two, three, four hang-ups. Thanks a lot.
    Ferrante.
    Marissa Peiser.
    Louie.
    Alton Pincus. Calling from Chicago? He didn’t leave a number.
    Marissa Peiser one more time.
    The last message. Carlos. Carlos! He was back. She stopped the machine. Thank God he was back. Her brain needed a good airing. She desperately needed a heart-to-heart with Carlos. She pressed the play button and Carlos’s voice came on; he was yelling at her.
    Where are you, Birdie? Don’t you know people worry about you? I heard from Arthur someone tried to break in, and I can’t believe you’d be thoughtless enough not to let us know where you are.
    WUHUMP. The echo in her memory stirred the turmoil.
    She was dismayed. Had she been thoughtless? She had only been gone twenty-four hours. Oh, hell, what did everyone want of her? She was a grown-up. And someone was trying to kill her.
    She kicked off her boots and put on the radio, more classical music, to drown out the sound in her head of the bullet making contact with the shingle. In a sponge position flat on the bed, she took deep breaths until the tension left her body, then settled the phone on her stomach, receiver next to her ear. She called Carlos’s number.
    “Hello.”
    “This is your wayward ward, sir, checking in.”
    “Gawd, Arthur, it’s her. Do you believe it? Just as if nothing’s happened. Birdie, I swear, you gave us a turn. Where are you?”
    “Where do you think I am? At your place.” The familiar strains of the Papageno-Papagena duet surrounded her. The Magic Flute , her favorite opera. A soothing dressing for tangled nerves.
    “Birdie, don’t start with me. This is Carlos you’re talking to. Remember? Carlos. After trying you all night and getting no answer, we were down there at the crack of dawn. I was afraid I’d find you dead on the floor, but you hadn’t even slept in your bed.”
    “Darling Carlos.” She said it lovingly, not wanting to fight with her best friend. And who else in the world really cared that much about her? “Darling Carlos, I have a life