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  “But her aim was bad?”

  “Obviously…”

  So far no one has come forward to say they saw Sklar pull Sunderland in front of him. But Chen is getting into dicey territory so Sklar casually shifts the focus of the inquiry.

  “Lemme ask you something, Detective. Can you believe anyone like Maud—you know, older lady, well brought up, privileged background, well-educated—could do something this utterly bonkers?”

  “Actually, from my experience, I believe anyone’s capable of anything at any time. Do you have any idea where she might be?”

  “Believe me, if I did, I’d tell you. Truthfully…? I’m worried she might come back. She didn’t complete the mission, right?” He laughs, then stops abruptly when Chen fails to see the humor.

  Sklar’s folksy charm offensive doesn’t seem to be working with the detective. He’s relieved when his cell phone vibrates. He takes it out of his pocket and answers the call.

  “Hold on a minute…” he says to the caller. “I’m sorry, Detective, but I really should take this unless we’re not done here—”

  “Take your call, Mr. Sklar,” Chen says, rising.

  “Thanks so much, Detective Chen. Anything I can do. Please keep me posted! Call me Burt!”

  Sklar makes sure Chen is well away down the hall before he shuts the door and returns to the call. He clears his throat and speaks in a soft, loving voice.

  “Dany…How’ya doin’, sweetheart?”

  “I’m still at the hospital. I saw Jean. Oh Burt, she knows!”

  Chapter Twelve

  Chen goes directly from Sklar’s office to the Sunderlands’ elegant double wide limestone townhouse on East Seventy-third Street. A maid leads him up a sweeping marble staircase to the living room on the second floor.

  “Mrs. Sunderland will be right with you,” the maid says.

  Left alone, Detective Chen browses around a spacious living room, nearly stifled by plush, tasseled furniture covered in pastel silks and velvets. The walls are dotted with beautiful paintings, but none more impressive than the massive orange and yellow Rothko presiding over the fireplace mantel like a glorious sunset. As he strolls over to look out the French doors at the manicured back garden, he notices a dangerously frayed lamp cord under a gilded console. The tattered old cord looks particularly menacing in the midst of such opulence, a stealthy danger that could burn the whole place down. He thinks about another dangerous secret that great wealth may be hiding. He knows he must tread cautiously because the secrets of the rich are like mercury—poke at them and they will scatter in all directions, becoming impossible to verify.

  “Detective Chen?” says a voice from the entrance.

  He turns. An attractive, neatly coiffed blond woman in her mid-fifties, wearing a cobalt blue dress and a strand of pearls the size of quail eggs, is cruising toward him with her charm-braceleted hand outstretched. Behind her is an older, distinguished-looking man with thick, fastidiously combed pewter-colored hair and a sharp, coinlike profile. He’s sporting a pinstripe suit, starched white shirt, vest, red and blue club tie, and a clenched attitude. He strikes Chen as vintage Ivy League.

  “Hello, I’m Jean Sunderland,” the woman says with vigor, shaking Chen’s hand so firmly the charm bracelet jingles. “This is my lawyer, Squire Huff.”

  Maintaining his dour expression, Huff extends a stiff arm to Chen. Chen finds it interesting that Jean Sunderland wants her lawyer present.

  Jean politely asks Chen if he would like something to drink. He politely declines. Formalities over, she gestures toward a seating area. Chen sinks down deep into the plush velvet couch, finding himself nearly at eye level with the finely sculpted bronze stag head at one corner of a glass coffee table. Jean and Huff sit on the matching yellow silk upholstered bergère chairs across from him, staring down at him like he’s dangerous game.

  “First, let me say how very sorry I am about your husband, Mrs. Sunderland,” Chen begins.

  “Thank you.”

  “You have a beautiful home.”

  “Thank you. We like it.”

  Huff interjects impatiently. “Do you have any more news for us, Detective?”

  “No, I’m afraid not,” Chen says.

  “I’m keeping my fingers crossed,” Jean says.

  The vague smirk in her tone makes Chen wonder if she means her fingers are crossed for her husband’s recovery, or his demise. Then, as if realizing the way she came across, Jean quickly adds, “You’re sure he’s doing well, right?”

  “Far as I know,” Chen says.

  “Why in heaven’s name haven’t you people caught that lunatic Maud Warner yet?” Huff asks accusingly.

  Chen ignores him. “Tell me, Mrs. Sunderland, did you and your husband know Maud Warner personally?”

  “Yes. Maud was a social acquaintance. I was always on very friendly terms with her. I used to order books from her bookshop and have lunch with her occasionally. I liked her a lot.”

  “Do you know of any reason why she’d want to shoot your husband?”

  Jean’s hand flies up in protest. “She didn’t mean to shoot my husband! She obviously meant to shoot Burt Sklar. She has a very bad history with Mr. Sklar.”

  “I understand that’s what people think,” Chen says.

  “That’s what people know, Detective. She’s loathed Burt for years and made no bones about it. She went around saying very inflammatory things about him. I think she even ambushed him a few times. But I’m sure you’ve heard all this already.”

  “When’s the last time you saw Ms. Warner?”

  “Oh, Lord…let me think…not for ages. Sun and Burt are best friends, so naturally I had to keep my distance from her. I did feel sorry for her, though.”

  “Do you think there was there any truth to what she said about Mr. Sklar?”

  “I have no idea. I mean, her mother was a very rich lady who died practically penniless, from what I heard. But I don’t know if it was Burt’s fault. He always claimed that Mrs. Warner was a spendthrift. Who knows?” Jean shrugs.

  “So Mr. Sklar and your husband are very close,” Chen says.

  Jean nods. “As I said, best friends. Sun’s known Burt for years. They knew each other way back when they were both married to their first wives. They both got divorced around the same time. It was a bond between them. Burt was also Sun’s accountant. A few years ago, they formed a company together.”

  “That would be SSBS Investments?”

  “Correct.”

  “What did you think when they went into business together?”

  “I wasn’t really consulted about it.”

  “Why not?”

  Jean musters a tight smile. “You look like an intelligent man, Detective. You must have gathered I’m not Burt’s greatest fan.”

  “How come?”

  “I don’t know…I guess I just never took to Burt the way some people do. Plus, he and my husband share a long history together that I’m not part of. A wife always likes to feel she’s the closest one to her husband. Don’t you agree?”

  “Are you close to your husband?”

  “Of course,” she says softly.

  There’s an awkward silence while Chen decides how best to frame his next question.

  “When did you last see him, Mrs. Sunderland?”

  Jean glances at Huff. “At the hospital.”

  “Yesterday?” Chen presses.

  “Yes,” Jean says curtly.

  Huff interjects. “Mrs. Sunderland’s been extremely preoccupied with family and business matters as a result of this terrible tragedy.”

  Chen levels a hard gaze at Jean. “Why haven’t you been back to see your husband, Mrs. Sunderland?”

  “Dee-tect-ive…” Huff begins with a weary sigh. “Wouldn’t it be a more profitable use of your time to track down Maud Wa
rner? Why are Mrs. Sunderland’s whereabouts of any interest to you?”

  “I’m investigating a crime, sir. Everything’s of interest to me—including the young woman who’s been at your husband’s side the whole time he’s been in intensive care. Do you happen to know who she is, Mrs. Sunderland?”

  Jean looks to Huff for guidance. He gives her a reluctant nod. Jean clears her throat. “I know who she’s claiming to be.”

  “Who is she claiming to be?” Chen asks, as if he knows full well.

  “I think I’ll decline to answer on the grounds that it might incriminate my husband,” Jean says with sour smile.

  “Well, fortunately, the attending doctor was not as reticent as you are, Mrs. Sunderland. Tell me, did you have any idea that your husband had another wife?”

  The phone rings. Saved by the bell!

  Jean bolts up from her chair. “Excuse me.”

  She walks over to the gilded black lacquer Louis XVI desk in a far corner of the room. Chen watches her closely as she picks up the phone.

  “This is she,” she says.

  As she listens to the caller, she flinches, clenching the receiver tighter.

  “Thank you.” She hangs up.

  Jean squeezes her eyes shut and stands motionless for a long moment before turning back to Chen and Huff.

  “He’s dead,” she announces without emotion.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I’m asleep when Billy knocks and pokes his head in the door. I glance at my watch. It’s two in the afternoon.

  “You asleep?”

  “I was.”

  “Sunderland died. It’s on the web.”

  Billy stands there waiting—I dare say praying—for my reaction. I get the strong sense he needs me to be upset and show remorse for having murdered a fellow human being in cold blood. To be honest, I know I should be upset and remorseful. When I planned all this, I was ready to take that consequence, if it arose. But that’s where poker has been so incredibly helpful.

  When I first started playing poker, I used to get very upset if I made a bad mistake, or if the cards were cruel and I got beat holding the best hand. I’d go “on tilt” for days blaming myself or fate if I lost. A loss would obsess me and taint the new game I was in until one day I had a simple revelation. There is no point in dwelling on dashed hopes or what might have been. I knew I had to clear my mind, learn from my mistakes, make peace with fate’s little merry pranks, and forge ahead. The great truth of poker—and of life—can be summed up in two words: “Next hand.”

  Practicing this mindset was easier said than done, however. My emotions were more difficult to govern than a flock of butterflies. I gradually learned to throw a net over them, to gather and control them, then let go of them completely. At some point, I’m not exactly sure when, I found I could be relatively emotionless—not only in poker, but in life.

  When I stopped blaming the cards in poker, I stopped blaming fate in life. When I stopped punishing myself for my mistakes in poker, I stopped punishing myself for past mistakes in life—including the one that has landed me here today in my newfound role as a killer. That mistake was bringing Burt Sklar into my family.

  I vividly remember that stormy spring day over two decades ago like it was yesterday. A man came into Edgar’s, my hole-in-the-wall mystery bookshop on Eighty-second and Third, patting the rain off his head with a handkerchief. He was wearing thick-soled black shoes, and a wilted gray suit to match what I first thought was a wilted gray personality. I figured he’d just ducked in out of the weather with no intention of buying anything. But when he asked me if, by any chance, I had a copy of The Golden Spiders, a vintage Nero Wolfe which was hard to find, I took notice. Luckily, I had a old paperback in fairly good condition.

  He paid cash and introduced himself.

  “I’m Burt Sklar.”

  “Maud Warner.”

  We shook hands, then got into a lively conversation about mysteries which endeared him to me right away. He was very upbeat about indie bookshops like mine, despite the fact I knew we were fast becoming an endangered species. I loved his optimism. He cheered me up by giving me hope, especially on that dank day of a dull week with no customers. Later I came to realize that one of Sklar’s main talents was convincing people their lives were going to be great. He understood that most people believe what they need to believe, despite all evidence to the contrary. Voicing heartfelt wishes is a tool con men use to jimmie their way into people’s trust.

  Sklar kept coming back to buy books and schmooze. When he told me he was an accountant I laughed and told him how hopeless I was with numbers. He offered to help out if he could. I can still see him sitting in my back office, his long fingers flitting over the calculator like a mad spider. He organized the bills and invoices and orders littering my desk. I offered to pay him. He refused. I gave him books instead. It all seemed so…fortuitous.

  Years later, I went to a book party and met a guy who worked at Waterman & Cashin, Sklar’s old accounting firm. I asked him if he knew Burt.

  “Burt Sklar? Hell, yeah. He stole the Warnco account right out from under us and started his own firm! My boss was furious.”

  “Do you know how he got the account?”

  The man shrugged. “I guess he knew someone who knew someone who knew Sidney Warner, right? Isn’t that the way it always works in this town?”

  Boom.

  Sklar hadn’t just innocently walked into my bookshop that stormy day and cultivated my friendship because he was a real nice guy. He was using me to get to my very wealthy stepfather. He was the pro at the poker table and I was his first fish in the game.

  So now poor Billy is standing in the doorway, hoping I’ll break down with the news that Sunderland’s dead. But the truth is, I’m not upset. Nor am I happy. I’ve prepared myself well. I’m still in the hand. I have on my poker face. I don’t say a word.

  Gradually, the hope in Billy’s eyes curdles into fear.

  “Where’s the gun?” he blurts out.

  I laugh, knowing he’s remembering what I often said to him about Sklar: “What a person does to one, he will do to another.” I think Billy’s worried I may be crazy enough to shoot him too.

  “Don’t worry, Billy. I dropped the gun at the restaurant so they’re sure to find it.”

  He doesn’t seem relieved. On the contrary.

  “You may want to think about turning yourself in,” he says, bowing out of the room.

  It’s all I can do not to cackle, “All in good time, my Billy,” like the witch in The Wizard of Oz.

  All in good time…

  Chapter Fourteen

  Sun Sunderland’s funeral at the Church of Saint Ignatius Loyola on Eighty-fourth and Park Avenue is the place to be on this hazy October day. Like all funerals of prominent people, there’s an A-list party atmosphere. This is a chance for the lesser-known to rub elbows with the well-known and make valuable contacts through grief. Amid the tributes and the tears, there will be surreptitious exchanges of e-mails, phone numbers, and irreverent whispers.

  Question: What do you get for dessert at The Four Seasons…? Answer: Shot!

  Funeral networkers know that a joke, however macabre, can forge a bond during a grim occasion.

  The mourners move slowly up the steps where two attractive young women in tight black sheaths check names off the lists on their black leather clipboards. Nearby stands a guard built like a fire hydrant who looks uncomfortable in his too-tight black suit. No one’s getting past this bruiser without an invitation. He is Cerberus guarding the gates of hell, or heaven, depending on the deceased’s destination. Absolutely no press is allowed.

  People will be rewarded for interrupting their busy lives with a very good show. Jean has arranged the “entertainment” with Greta’s help. It hasn’t been smooth sailing. Jean really wasn’t in the mood to mourn her bigamist h
usband. When Greta suggested majestic floral arrangements and international musical entertainment, Jean said: “Are you kidding? After what that bastard’s done to me, he’s lucky I don’t have his body thrown into a wood chipper to the tune of an old kazoo!”

  Greta understood and sympathized with her friend’s point of view. It was the galloping fury of a woman who’s been cataclysmically betrayed by the man she has loved and catered to for over twenty years. But Greta knows all too well that in New York you can’t afford to let personal feelings get in the way of appearances.

  “I know you’re angry, Jeanie. But you have to trust me on this. Right now, Sun’s a media martyr who’s been shot down in the prime of life by a lunatic. The world expects you to give him a magnificent send-off. No one knows about this other thing yet. And it’s absolutely imperative that you act as if you don’t know. As I’ve said, we’re not sure what else he’s done behind your back. Let’s face it, bigamy may be just the tip of the iceberg.”

  Reluctantly, Jean takes Greta’s wise advice. Greta helps her organize a regal send-off for the Great Man, replete with towering topiaries, a world-class choir, distinguished speakers, and a special guest appearance by the great Tony Bennett, Sun’s favorite singer. Untraditional though it is, Greta assures Jean that the incomparable Bennett will stir this jaded crowd to tears and make an indelible impression.

  The four front pews of the church are reserved for family and friends. Jean sits in the first row between Greta and Squire Huff. Also in the pew are Michael Sunderland, Sun’s son from his first marriage, along with his wife and four-year-old son. There was always friction between Sun and his only child because young Michael sided with his mother during the divorce.

  Sunderland was a strict parent, determined that his son should regard him as a strong man, not some wimp whose wife had left him for a woman. Whenever Michael visited them, his father challenged him, both physically and mentally. If Michael met with his father’s approval, he was rewarded with a financial bonus. Love and money were forever intertwined in the Sunderland household, where there never seemed to be enough of either.