SoHo Sins by Richard Vine Read Free Book Online Page B

as we walked among her twisted figures. “First with Philip, now with your daughter.”
    “Yes, sometimes I do worry awfully about Melissa and her dolls.” Angela paused for a moment to close up the studio. “Why on earth would a child do such a beastly thing?”
    “I have no idea. I’m not very familiar with dolls.”
    “But you know something about girls.”
    “A little, but the ones I deal with are older. They prefer dismantling men.”
    Angela gave me a wry look. “Oh, poor old Jack,” she said. “We’re not all French, you know.”

8
    We strolled back to the house and settled into a small sitting room. With a bit of embarrassment, Angela asked if I could help her find a decent apartment downtown, a loft preferably. She wanted to be back in the SoHo mix. Melissa, fortunate girl, had already been accepted at the Bradford School on the Upper East Side.
    “It’ll be hard for her to leave her friends here in Westchester, of course,” Angela conceded. “But she’s a trouper, and it’s Bradford after all. Her life will be made.”
    There was an odd noise in the hallway, and then Melissa appeared, in a short sundress, carrying a large silver tray laden with teacups, a white pot, Melba toast, and three small jars of jam.
    “Such a lady,” I said.
    “I do try to teach her not to be a total barbarian.”
    Melissa wrinkled her nose. “Mom, you’re being a prig again.”
    Keeping her back very straight, the young lady set the tea service down and poured out a steaming cup.
    “Serve your mother first, sweetheart.”
    “No, you’re the guest.”
    Angela accepted the second cup. “I think she’s got a crush on you, Jack.”
    “
Mom
, don’t be gross.”
    “All right. Help your Uncle Jack with the marmalade lid.”
    Melissa made a face. “I know.”
    Taking the jar from me, she freed the top with a single firm twist—one of the little things my withered left arm will not permit me to do.
    “Would you like to see me ride my horse later?” she asked.
    “I certainly would. But business first, Missy. I have to help your mother get famous.”
    There was a measure of truth to the thought. Somebody would have to do something to save Angela from the ruinous effect of a hired flack.
    But for the moment, I had other preoccupations. Once Melissa left, I pressed Angela to tell me exactly what she knew about Mandy’s death.
    “Just what I’ve read in the papers, and heard through the rumor mill,” she said. “I assume she was killed by that new tart of Philip’s. The pneumatic Italian.”
    “Why?”
    “Who else would want Mandy dead?”
    “I hate to say it, but there are other candidates. Philip, for one. You, for another.”
    “Philip was in California.”
    “Did you read that in the papers?”
    “No, he told me he was going. I called him there on Tuesday night—at the Beverly Wilshire.”
    “Why?”
    “He has to co-sign the papers for Bradford.”
    “When they check the phone records, the police might wonder if it was some other message you gave him. Maybe an ‘everything’s set for tomorrow.’ ”
    “Oh, please. My only task last Wednesday was for the membership committee at the Katonah Museum. I chaired the annual benefit that evening, a gala attended by seven hundred people.”
    “And you were here all day before the party? The cops are sure to ask.”
    “They already have. Yes, I was home with Melissa. We did yoga together and made gingerbread cookies.”
    “Of course the nanny can verify that?”
    “And the gardener. Would you like me call them in?”
    “No. I’m no sleuth. But my friend Hogan is.”
    “The one who walks like a bantam rooster?”
    “He’s been hired by Joel Bernstein.”
    “That damn shyster. If Philip had listened to Joel when we split, I’d be homeless.”
    “That’s the Bernstein we all know and loathe.”
    “He screwed me out of every share of O-Tech stock, but Philip—dear man that he can be sometimes—drew the line at the house. ‘She has to have a