The Groaning Board

dumb to do that. It was
my idea. Todd did Jimmy.”
    “And Micklynn?”
    “I hate drunks.”
    “She found out about you too.”
    “She had all this money. She didn’t
need it. I did. Why aren’t you pushing?”
    This time the push blew the door open
and the force of it carried them both to the ground. People immediately
surrounded them. As a man came forward to help, Ellen scrambled up, holding her
arm, which was hanging at a strange angle. She forced her way through the crowd
and began to run.
    “Ellen, don’t,” Wetzon shouted,
accepting the helping hand. “You’ll never get away...” Nevergetaway,
neverget-away, music swirling in her head... around around... She was going to
faint.
    “Are you all right, miss?”
    Bubble lights on a cop car, voices,
people... slow motion. Stopped.
    Ellen had run headlong into a woman
with a shopping cart. The cart tipped over; Ellen staggered, went down. She
picked herself up, progress slowed briefly, but now she was heading for Park Avenue. Wetzon went after her on wet-noodle legs.
    “Les!”
    Was that Silvestri? Sounded like him.
Hooray for the cellular phone.
    Ellen stopped suddenly, looking
uptown. She swayed, began to move again. A tall man came into view. He was
sprinting down Park Avenue toward them. Blue pinstripes.
    Jeté passé. Wetzon poised in position. The jump
threw her forward. Contact! Her grip so intense, she forced them both to the
sidewalk.
    Ellen’s forehead hit the cement with
a dull smack.
    “What the hell? Leslie, what are you
doing?” Bill crouched over her, staring into her face. His blue pinstripe was
wrinkled. He tried to peel her hands away from Ellen but she held on. “Not Gaslight,“ she said. “Not Gaslight.“
    Then she let go. Mulcahy and another
detective led a dazed Ellen Moore away.
    “Get out of the way, Veeder,”
Silvestri said, bending over her. “You okay, Les?”
    Veeder ignored him. He gave Wetzon
his hand and she sat up.
    “Who the hell knows?” Wetzon rubbed
her bruised elbows. “Where were you, Silvestri? Do I have to do everything
myself?”

Epilogue

     
     
     
    SEPTEMBER
     
    The opening
reception at the Rodman Gallery on West i Broadway was crowded with well-wishers. Louie’s
paintings, great slashes of color, were mounted and lit beautifully. Half were
already marked with the blue sold dot.
    A radiant Louie Armstrong wore black
silk pants and a fitted quilted vest, her red hair natural and bohemian, as
befitting an artist.
    Pam Rodman said, “The response has
been wonderful.
    We already know the Times is
good. Vanity Fair wants to do a photo session.”
    Louie shook hands with Bill Veeder
while Wetzon hovered, holding her breath for a comment. “Nice bones,” Louie
said, studying Bill’s face. She smiled at Nina Wayne, the forensic
anthropologist and Louie’s lover. “Or have I stolen your line?”
    “I think we’ve met before,” Nina
said, shaking Bill’s hand.
    “We have. We discussed the
possibility of your consulting on a case a few years ago.”
    Bill Veeder knew enough people here
tonight to make it seem as if he was there on his own invitation. Wetzon watched
him work the room. He stopped to talk to Arthur Margolies, and Carlos joined
them.
    Champagne flowed, but not into Wetzon’s glass; she didn’t
like it and it didn’t like her. She stood in front of the painting Louie had
given her, which Wetzon had loaned to the show. Its vivid emotion had stirred
something Wetzon had buried deep. It still did. For others as well, it seemed.
“Isn’t it fabulous?” a white-haired man said. “Too bad it’s been sold.”
    “Methinks I’ve seen this beauty
before,” Carlos said, planting a kiss on Wetzon’s nose.
    “Me or the painting?”
    “What painting?” He took her hand.
“Come vit me.“
    “Vere are you taking me?”
    “Don’t always be asking questions,
Birdie. Just say, for once, ‘Yes, darling, whatever you say, darling.’“
    She scrunched up her face to show
what an effort it was. “Yes, darling, whatever you say, darling.”
    “Now, Dear Heart.” Carlos put his arm
on her shoulders. “Tell us how it’s going.”
    “How do I look?”
    “Let’s see, is ripe the word?”
    “Ripe?”
    “Well, you’re floating around with
this sappy Mona Lisa smile and a kind of pregnant sheen.”
    “Pregnant? I don’t think so.”
    “A mere figure of speech, my darling.
Covers the stars in your eyes. So what is it? Tell Uncle Carlos.”
    “Uncle Carlos,” she said,