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27
BARELY PAYING ATTENTION, EMMA BOLTS ACROSS CANALStreet, darting between cars until she’s safely on the other side.How totally stupid of me, she thinks. It never crossed her mind that she’d be so close today to the alley where the murder happened. Lilly’s apartment is in Tribeca, not SoHo, but of course, Canal is the dividing line of the two neighborhoods.
She takes a left on Church and then a right onto Lispenard, where she’s so flustered that she overshoots Lilly’s address and has to backtrack several yards. By the time she presses the bell, she’s out of breath, and her face feels damp with perspiration. She uses the elevator ride to the ninth floor to wipe it dry with a tissue and compose herself.
“Oh, Emma, it’s really great of you to come,” Lilly proclaims when Emma steps off the elevator, which opens directly into the apartment.
“I’m so happy we could do this, Lilly—and, gosh, I’m incredibly sorry for your loss.” Though they’ve only metthree or four times, Emma feels comfortable offering her a warm hug.
“Thank you.” Lilly accepts the embrace gratefully, but her voice is tinged with sadness. “Come in, I made us some coffee.”
As Emma follows her across the length of the enormous room, her attention is torn between her hostess and the space. Lilly’s extraordinarily pretty, lithe, and graceful with long chestnut-colored hair, slate-blue eyes, and full lips with a dimple at each end. And then there’s the apartment—a loft-style space with high white walls, featuring a stunning north-facing view of Manhattan and a curving, sculpturelike staircase leading to an upper level.
Not to mention the art. There are at least a dozen large, abstract paintings on the walls, including two Rothkos, as well as a portrait of a woman with an elongated neck that Emma thinks might be by George Condo. It’s an art collection worth many millions of dollars.
They reach a long metal dining table with eight oddly shaped, white-cushioned chairs and Lilly motions for Emma to take a seat at the end, then slips into one across from her. Porcelain cups and saucers and pretty cloth napkins have been set at each of their places, and in the middle of the table is a tray with a French press, milk, sugar, and artificial sweetener, as well as a platter of little finger sandwiches.
“I hope you don’t mind sitting here,” Lilly says. “There’s really not a comfortable spot in the entire apartment, but at least at the table we don’t have to balance our cups on our laps.”
Her comment takes Emma by surprise. “To me this placeis breathtaking, but it must be terribly hard to be here on your own right now.”
“Itis—especially since I’ve never actually liked it. People keep telling me that after a spouse dies you shouldn’t make any rash decisions like changing where you live, but I’m about to put it on the market. You left Madison pretty soon after Derrick died, didn’t you?”
“Yes, in a matter of weeks. I never regretted it, but still, I think it’s all about doing what’s best foryou. Are you going to look for something smaller?”
Lilly sighs heavily and pours them each a cup of coffee, revealing that the nails on her elegant fingers have been bitten to the quick. “Ha, yes—small, womblike. I want to tuck into a place that feels warm and safe.”
“Oh, Lilly, I know you must be reeling. Do you mind me asking what happened?”
“From what they could determine, Chris developed gas bubbles in an artery while he was diving, maybe from ascending from his last dive too quickly, and that might have led to a stroke. It’s also possible he had an undiagnosed medical condition that played a role.”
“Did you have anybody in Bonaire to help you through it all?”
She shakes her head. “I wasn’t even there. Diving was Chris’s thing and he said he wanted to squeeze a trip in while he had a break in his work schedule. I only went down to collect the body.”
Emma’s heart squeezes as she imagines everything her host had to manage on her own.
“I feel so terrible for you, Lilly, I really do,” she says. “Is there any way at all I can be of help?”
“Actually yes. As I said in my email, there’s a question I wanted to ask you.”
“Of course, anything.”
“First, please understand that I won’t judge you, Emma, no matter how you answer.” An awkward pause follows. “What I need to know is whether my husband ever hit on you.”
Emma’s just taken her first sip of coffee and nearly chokes.
“Omigod, Lilly, no, never. Did something make you think that?”
“Nothing onyourpart.” Lilly touches a hand to her collarbone, and Emma notices how pronounced it is. Lilly’s black V-neck tunic seems to be hanging off her, and she looks at least ten pounds thinner than when they were last together. “But I saw the way he looked at you during those few dinners we had—and he seemed to corner you at your party.”
“Uh, we did speak for a while at the party, but I think he was just asking me about my work, about generational trends.”
But even as Emma answers she’s raking through her memory. She doesn’t recall anything that qualified as flirtation from him, but maybe she was such an emotional wreck that she was incapable of detecting the signals.
“Thank you, Emma,” Lilly says softly. “And thanks for letting me go there.”
“Of course, I don’t mind at all. Can I ask you—are you concerned Chris might have been unfaithful?”
