‘Fine,’ she says. After a moment, she adds, ‘Actually, I’m really worried about her.’
He glances at his wife; she seems lost in thought. He knows Lara has never considered him to be particularly perceptive about people. She makes much of her ‘woman’s intuition’, and maybe there’s something to it, because she has always seemed to be able to read people better than he can. But even he had thought that Ted and Jill seemed unusually tense at dinner last night.
‘I don’t think she’s okay at all,’ Lara says. ‘She seems to be under tremendous strain.’ She stops for a moment and faces him. ‘It’s not just Ramirez. All those stories in the tabloids, all the stuff online– talking about how they survived and Ted getsGreg’s money. Sly, insinuating, awful stories. And the gossip. I heard people whispering things at the memorial. I think it’s all weighing on her. I just want to be there for her, keep an eye on her. She’s my best friend.’
‘I know,’ he says, giving her shoulders a squeeze.
And then she changes the subject. ‘Do you want to take a vaporetto to Murano?’
Lara meanders with Ben through the shops on the island of Murano, famous for its blown glass, but her mind is on other things.
Ben doesn’t seem to be able to think ill of anyone. It’s hard to believe that people like him even exist anymore, she thinks. She knows better– and she thinks Jill has done something that she can’t live with.
She has never seen Jill like she was this morning at Florian’s. She’d seemed almost to go off in her own mind somewhere, her expression troubled, fearful. But when Lara had reached out with her hand, Jill had snapped out of it. She’d remained guarded for the rest of their coffee date, talking mostly about Venice, and then had cut their time short, saying she had to meet Ted. Jill had seemed as fragile as one of these glass sculptures, she thinks, ready to shatter.
After a while, Lara finds herself charmed by some playful, colorful glass balloons, with strings trailing from them, as if from a child’s toy. She buys half a dozen and arranges to have them shipped home.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
WHEN JOHN BURNLEYhad met with Ted in the coffee shop on Wednesday morning and learned that Ted was being blackmailed, he’d been delighted that Ted thought it was him. He’d certainly encouraged Ted to believe it.
But at the same time, he was also very curious. Who had managed to get damning recordings of Ted and his wife? He needed to find out more about the Westcotts, about their lives.
He discovered Ted’s address and quietly scoped out the brownstone the next morning. He’d hardly arrived and was sitting on a bench in a small parkette across the street when he saw an airport limo arrive. Ted and Jill hurriedly climbed inside while the driver piled their luggage in the back. John wondered where they were going, and for how long. If they were running away, they couldn’t run for ever.
After they’d fled, he turned his attention back to the now empty brownstone. He was sure they had a security system in place, which begged the question of how someone had snuckcameras in there. Was it an inside job? Someone they trusted, who had access to the house? There might be cleaning staff, or a dog walker if they had a dog. From his bench he had a good view of the front door. Fortunately, the weather was fine. No one seemed to notice him, or care. He was well dressed, in a suit, readingThe New York Times. No one bothered him. He stuck around for a while, but the house was quiet.
He showed up again the next morning, and that’s when his efforts paid off. A stocky, fortyish woman arrived at the Westcotts’. He watched as she used a key to open the front door and reached in to disable the security code. Bingo. The cleaning lady. But before she disappeared inside, a woman walking down the sidewalk called out to her. John thought she looked familiar. He tried to remember where he’d seen her before and then it came to him– she was at the memorial, glued to Jill Westcott’s side. He got up from his bench and casually began to walk closer, to better hear what they were saying.
‘Nadya!’ the familiar-looking woman called from the sidewalk.
The woman on the front stoop turned and looked at her. ‘Yes?’
‘Remember me? I’m Lara.’
‘Yes, I know.’ She added, ‘They’re not here. They’ve gone away.’
‘Oh.’ After a pause she asked, ‘Where have they gone?’
‘They went to Venice for a few days. She didn’t tell you?’
‘No.’ Another pause. ‘Jill usually asks me to take care of the plants when they’re away.’
The cleaning lady shrugged and began to turn away.
‘Well, have a good day,’ Lara said, and then turned and went back in the direction she’d come.
John watched the woman retreat; he was already walking casually in the same direction, on the other side of the street. He thought it was worth finding out more about her. If she usually took care of the plants when the Westcotts were away, she also must have a key and know the security code.
John tracked her discreetly for several blocks to another brownstone, where she went up the front steps and let herself in. He now had her address. He entered it into his phone. He would find out her full name. He thought about her all the way back to the Westcotts.
He couldn’t sit in the parkette for hours waiting for the cleaning lady to come out; she would probably be there all day. He explored the neighbourhood and had a long lunch, but he didn’t want to miss her leaving. By midafternoon he was back on his bench.
Just before three o’clock, the door opened. The cleaning lady, whose name he now knew was Nadya, exited and locked the door behind her. He fell into step and followed her into the subway, keeping his distance, but keeping her in sight at all times. She seemed oblivious, lost in thought. She switched to the 7 and finally got off in Sunnyside. He kept with her. As she walked down the sidewalk in what he assumed was her own neighbourhood, he worried that he would stand out in his expensive suit. But he needn’t have worried; she never once looked back. At last she arrived at a small house on Horace Street. She used a key to open the front door and paused to open her mailbox and riffle through it, taking her mail inside with her. The door closed behind her, and through a window he sawher in the front room, moving around. He took out his phone and made a note of the address. He would do a little research.
John went home after that and did some looking into Lara Donleavy and the cleaning lady, Nadya Sokolov. He assumed Lara was a close friend of Jill’s. He learned that they had both attended the same college at the same time. Lara was married to Ben Donleavy, an attorney at a Manhattan firm. Like the Westcotts, the Donleavys obviously had money. Did they want more? If Lara watched the Westcotts’ place when they were away, then she had to have had keys at some point. She would have been told the security code. A friend like that could easily plant microphones or cameras. And John knew not all friends could be trusted. If she was behind the blackmail, given Ted was so convinced it was John, she must be doing a pretty good job of pretending to be a friend.
And if she was behind this, he could assume her husband was in on it too. John wondered how easy it would be to shake them down. He knew he would enjoy it.