Dead by Any Other Name Read online

  “This is great stuff,” I said.

  “I love it all. It’s gonna be hard to let it go. But I need to. Fast.”

  “So you’re not interested in consignment?”

  “I need cash.”

  I wanted to give her a fair price but wasn’t sure I could afford to. I’d brought along two grand in crispies, but this stuff was worth at least double that wholesale.

  “Well, how does five grand sound for the lot?”

  “It sounds fair.”

  “I can give you two now and the rest on Monday. I’ll pick up the stuff then.”

  “No, take it now. I trust you. And here, have one of my CDs.”

  As Natasha walked me out to my car, she scanned the street.

  “I hope things work out in LA,” I said.

  “There’s a man I’m leaving behind. We love each other, but he’s trouble. And so am I. Which adds up to a bad moon rising. Someday he’ll understand.”

  She looked at me and for a second I thought she was going to burst into tears. Then she hugged me. Too tight.

  I got in my van and as I drove away I looked in the rearview—Natasha was waving goodbye.

  FOUR

  When I got back to Sawyerville, I decided to drop into Chow for a quick bite before I took over from George. The joint was crowded with its usual menagerie of retirees, loafers, lowlifes, and hipsters, swelled by Saturday shoppers. I sat at the counter and waited for Pearl to show up. Abba really needed to hire another waitress. I mean, shuffling shell-shocked old Pearl with her gray hair, gray eyes, gray teeth, and gray skin gave the place a certain surreal quality—she reminded me of a character in one of those incomprehensible theater pieces they do in the East Village; you know, all striking tableaus and eerie nonsequiturs that add up to something profound and headachy—but as a waitress she was a bust.

  Abba saw me through the pass-through and waved me into the kitchen. I joined her. She was putting together about four orders at once, but one of her many talents was the ability to talk and work at the same time. Abba was a few years older than me, a Hudson Valley native—from one of the early black families who settled here in the mid-nineteenth century—and a free spirit who had traveled all over the world. About five years ago she had found herself pulled back, deciding that the valley was where she wanted to be, home again. She was a self-taught chef with a real gift for making magic in the kitchen, drawing on the spices and skills she had picked up in her wanderings. She was also one helluva friend.

  “You need to hire some help,” I said.

  “Hey, Pearl is my good-luck charm, she came with the place and she’s staying. But I am looking for a little back-up. How are you?”

  “Good, could I get a Cuban sandwich?”

  “Coming right up.”

  “I scored some amazing jewelry this morning.” I told her a little about Natasha and then showed her the CD.

  “Oh yeah, Natasha Wolfson, George and I saw her perform down in New Paltz about three years ago, she was fabulous. I mean really good. There were articles in the paper about her moving up here, she was a rising star. I wondered what happened to her.”

  “Whatever it is, I don’t think it’s good. She seemed really desperate, scared, and probably high, I got the feeling her life was off the rails. She’s selling everything so she can move to LA.”

  “You know her parents are those famous shrinks you always see on TV, what are their names, Howard-and-somebody Wolfson?”

  “Howard and Sally Wolfson are her parents?” That was a surprise. The Wolfsons were the authors of a bunch of pop-psychology books, offering up just the kind of shallow, facile, tie-up-all-your-traumas-in-a-nice-silk-bow bullshit that made my blood boil. If I’d learned one thing in my years as a practicing shrink, it’s that you can’t leave your deep hurts behind, you have to work to understand them, make some kind of peace, and then move forward with them—but with you, not them, in the driver’s seat. The Wolfsons’ pabulum led to more unhappiness because it made people feel inadequate, unable to live up to the freedom and happiness that they were claiming was possible.

  Pissed me off. I can’t tell you how many of my clients would say to me, “I just can’t get over my husband leaving me” or “my Mom’s death” or “the size of my thighs.” My answer was always, “Stop trying.” Then we’d get to work understanding their traumas and neuroses, getting a perspective on them (time was an invaluable ally) and then moving forward as alpha dog over the pain and ghosts and nasty little inner voices. People like Howard and Sally Wolfson made the job harder, and if you ask me they’re a symptom of a spoiled, narcissistic society that worships at the altar of instant gratification, entitlement, and pat answers.

  Finding out they were Natasha’s parents increased my sympathy for her by a factor of ten. “Do you know anything else about her or them?” I asked Abba.

  “The Wolfsons live down in the Hudson Highlands, in some amazing glass house cantilevered out over the river; it was featured in the Times a few years ago. You want to eat this sandwich here?”

  “I should take it over to the store. George opened up for me.”

  Abba wrapped the sandwich and handed it to me. “I’m sure you’ve heard about his horse trainer.”

  “Giddyup.”

  FIVE

  There was a commotion out on the street. A lanky man of around forty was making his way down the sidewalk, surrounded by a small entourage, shaking hands, smiling. One of his posse was carrying a sign: Building a New New York—Reelect State Senator Clark Van Wyck.

  I’d read about Van Wyck in the local papers but had never seen him in person. He was a good-looking guy, athletic, toothy, with a wholesome Vermonty vibe, but—even as he was reaching for hands, waving, shouting a greeting, grinning—he seemed distracted. He was going through the motions but this guy’s head was somewhere else.

  He reached me and gave me a disarmingly modest smile, “Clark Van Wyck, I’d appreciate your vote.”

  I shook his hand.

  Helen Bearse, a realtor in town, was one of his entourage. “Janet runs an antique shop just across the street.”

  “Well, I’m working for you,” Van Wyck said, “Folks like you are the backbone of this valley—and this state.”

  He kept moving. Helen grabbed my hand, “Janet, if Clark wins there’s a very good chance he’ll be elected majority leader. It would be incredible for the whole valley. He was born and raised here. And he doesn’t want to stop there—his real goal is governor.”

  I had kind of mixed feeling about the news. Powerful politicians always seem to end up in bed with the greedbags and fat cats, who tend to skew toward real estate developers. I liked the Hudson Valley the way it was and you could almost smell the development pressure. It was hardly an unspoiled paradise, thank God—I loved the crazy-quilt mix of country/suburb/city but I’d sure hate to see it become unbroken sprawl. It wasn’t like I wanted to put a fence around the place. Just a gate maybe. If this Van Wyck guy made it to the governor’s office, chances are he’d arrive with a lot of IOUs from condo cowboys salivating to leave their mark up and down the valley.

  Van Wyck’s cell rang and for just a split second a look of panic swept across his face. He checked the incoming number. “It’s just my wife,” he said, half to himself. “I’ll call her back later.”

  Just his wife—hmmmm.

  Then he saw another voter and slapped on a smile.

  SIX

  George was sitting at my desk engrossed in Horse & Rider. He didn’t even look up when I walked in. What if I’d been a customer? I coughed. He shot me a glance and went right back to the magazine.

  “Did you sell anything?”

  “Horses are the most fascinating creatures on the planet,” he said.

  “At least for the next two weeks.”

  “Were you born that cynical or is it something you acquired during the nightmare called your life?”

  “I can’t wait to meet him.”

  “Oh, Janet, he’s a dre
am walking. Of the earth—earthy. There’s something so primitive, primordial, almost prehistoric about the work he does, you should see him with his horses, the bond, it’s mythic. He’s going to teach me to ride … as soon as I get over my terror of horses.”

  The Sawyerville horse shows ran over long weekends and the town flooded with horse owners, trainers, breeders, and grooms—when it came to the town’s economy it was like someone suddenly turned on a spigot. As for the shows themselves, I’d never been, but it was on my to-do list, right after “read War and Peace.”

  “I just met Senator Van Wyck out on the street. Sounds like he’s going to be the next majority leader up in Albany.”

  “When you’re in love those kinds of prosaic developments don’t really matter.”

  “What do you think of him?”

  George closed the magazine. “Actually, I think he’s pretty good. He’s a green maniac and I think he really cares about the valley. He’s rich, or his wife is, so he doesn’t need to kiss quite as much ass. I’ve been doing a little volunteering for him.”

  George was almost as passionate about his politics as he was about his men.

  “Hey, my morning run was pretty productive. Check out this jewelry.”

  I put the box on the desk and opened it. George’s eyes grew wide. “Holy shit, Janet—score!”

  “Some cool stuff, huh?”

  “Wicked cool.”

  “I bought it from Natasha Wolfson, Abba said you guys heard her sing a few years ago.”

  “Oh yeah, she was amazing. So soulful. And captivating. She was really vulnerable, a little bit sad and lost. But she poured it all into her music.”

  I filled him in on my visit with her.

  “My friend Tony lives up in Phoenicia and he told me that lately she has the world’s hottest boyfriend, just like a total knockout. He sees them around town. He says she seems in kinda rough shape, though.”

  “Like how?”

  “Like high. Either too up or too down. And sort of scared.”

  “Do you know anything about the boyfriend?”

  “Tony’s pretty sure he doesn’t live in Phoenicia, somewhere down-county maybe.” He picked through the jewelry box. “Oh, and look at these fabulous silver earrings! I’m going right down to the jewelers and have them turned into cufflinks for Antonio. He’ll adore them, they’re so . . . stallionesque! Oh God, I’m starting to smolder.”

  George leapt up and headed for the door.

  “Wait a minute, you still didn’t tell me if I had any customers this morning?”

  George gave me a pitying look. “Your crass commercialism offends my soul.”

  And then he was gone.

  SEVEN

  I did have customers the rest of the day and, as I suspected, Natasha’s jewelry was popular and I sold half a dozen pieces. That night the valley was rocked by violent storms, at one point a thunderbolt crashed over the town and woke me up—Sputnik jumped up on the bed and curled at my feet. The thunder in Sawyerville always amazed me—it hurtled down the cloves between the mountains and exploded into the valley; according to legend, it was Rip Van Winkle bowling—well, he was rolling strikes Saturday night.

  Sunday was another busy day and I slept even later than usual on Monday. Since the store was closed, I lingered upstairs, enjoying my coffee and some quality time with my brood (quality time with Lois meant feeding her). At the civilized hour of 11 AM I called Natasha to arrange to pay her the three grand I still owed her.

  There was no answer. I left a message.

  A few minutes later the doorbell rang down in the store. I went downstairs—followed by Sputnik with Bub riding rump—and saw Abba outside. She looked disturbed.

  “Something very sad happened,” she said.

  “What?”

  She handed me a copy of the day’s Freeman.

  local woman dies in platte clove

  The body of Natasha Wolfson, 29, of Phoenicia, was discovered by a hiker on Sunday in the Devil’s Kitchen section of the upper Platte Clove. The New York State Police report no sign of foul play and have made a preliminary ruling that the death was either an accident or a suicide; an autopsy has been scheduled. Ms. Wolfson, a singer and songwriter, is the daughter of nationally known psychologists and authors Howard and Sally Wolfson.

  Devil’s Kitchen is considered one of the most dangerous climbing spots in the entire state. Within the last year alone, two other hikers have fallen to their deaths. According to police, Ms. Wolfson was not wearing hiking boots.

  I went a little numb with shock, and then a wave of sadness swept over me. Natasha was a good kid, she was struggling with some serious demons but she had talent, heart, and most of her life in front of her. Not anymore.

  “You okay?” Abba asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “She kind of got to you, didn’t she?”

  “If I let every troubled, mixed-up soul who I spent a little face time with get to me, there wouldn’t be any me left to get.”

  Abba just stood there for a moment and then said, “Are you or aren’t you going to invite me in for a cup of your so-called coffee?”

  I nodded.

  While I made a fresh pot of my out-of-a-can coffee she scratched Bub’s head, sending him into paroxysms of avian ecstasy. Lois kept her distance—Abba had told Lois on more than one occasion that she had no truck with her “haughty bullshit.” Cats are weird, I mean where do they get the nerve?

  I handed Abba her cupajoe, she cocked her head and looked at me with those big amber-green eyes of hers.

  “… Yeah, all right, she fucking got to me,” I said. “I mean she was so full of life, she had moxie … she sang a little for me, a song she wrote … listen to this.” I slipped Natasha’s CD into my player. Her soulful throaty voice filled the store:

  Love by any other name

  Would hurt the same

  We sat there listening and when the song ended, Abba put down her coffee and gave me a hug. Now hugs tend to bug me, they’re the goddamn panacea for everything—“Oh, you chipped a nail, let me give you a great big hug!” “Oh, an escaped mental patient slaughtered and ate your whole family, let me give you a great big hug!” But this one felt good. Mostly because it was coming from Abba.

  “I know you hate these, but tough shit,” she said.

  I didn’t hug back—I mean there are limits.

  Thank God Abba didn’t do that end-of-hug squeeze thing, that really sends me up a tree. She picked up her cup and sat in a turquoise vinyl armchair that George had pronounced “kitsch chic.”

  I sat behind my desk. “I’m not sure I buy that it was suicide. I know what that level of despair looks like and Natasha Wolfson was nowhere near it. In fact she was focused on the future in a way that is the clinical opposite of suicidal. And I don’t think it was an accident. I was with her that morning, she was way too preoccupied to drive all the way up to the top of Platte Clove and set off on a hike. Plus that kid was less of a hiker type than I am. It just doesn’t compute.”

  “Don’t you think the police are looking into every possible scenario?” Abba asked.

  “I don’t know, Abba, you remember what happened with the Daphne Livingston case.”

  “I do.”

  I stood up. “Listen, I’m going to head out.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Suddenly I’m in the mood for a little hike.”

  EIGHT

  Hiking is one of those activities that sound fun in theory. In reality hikes are a huge fat bore; I know because Zack, my alleged boyfriend, has dragged me on a few. The problem is you’re stuck on a trail that climbs through woods, and after ten minutes of tromping it’s “oh wow, how exciting, more goddamn trees” (I’m sorry but trees are overrated, they’re just ginormous weeds). Then there’s the fear factor, especially round about late afternoon when you’re stuck on some dark narrow track and you know if you dawdle too long the trees will close over you and the woods will swallow you up and you’ll neve
r be heard from again. I mean, do you think it’s an accident that in fairy tales the woods are always a metaphor for terror and death? Those Grimm Brothers knew what they were talking about. I’ll take a nice long walk around a lake, a swamp, or a strip mine over a hike in the woods.

  At least with the Platte Clove—which is a narrow gorge between Kaaterskill High Peak and Plattekill Mountain—there’s a rushing stream to distract you. Zack lives in West Sawyerville near the bottom of the clove, and we’ve hiked up it a little ways in the summer to cool off in one of the swimming holes. But Natasha died at the top, so I drove up the narrow seasonal road that runs above the stream. At the top I parked and followed a trail leading into the woods, toward the heart of the gorge and the stream.

  The trail zigzagged downward and then began to run along a wide ledge, I could hear the stream but not see it. A little ways farther the ledge narrowed and then the trail was cordoned off by police tape. I slipped under the tape and walked closer to the lip of the ledge. It overlooked a waterfall that I pegged at about 100 feet high. At the base of the waterfall was a pool surrounded by huge rocks; if you fell you’d smash open your skull like a melon. My stomach turned over. I have this thing about heights—they scare the shit out of me.

  I couldn’t imagine Natasha throwing herself off this ledge. I suppose I could imagine her slipping, but that would mean she was up here hiking, which didn’t seem at all likely to me. I could imagine someone pushing her. In many ways, it would be the perfect crime. One quick shove and it’s arrivederci, baby. No evidence, no clues except maybe shoeprints, and the storm that night no doubt washed those away. I grabbed onto a tree and craned my neck forward for a better view—whoa.