Crimes by Moonlight

The press conference ended, and people were starting to drift away, when a buxom woman, in an ultratight leopard print sweater, stepped from a cab, drawing every eye. She moved toward the building door. Sitting on the edge of the rear seat of the cab, a sweaty young man ran one hand over his retreating hairline and then recounted a fistful of currency.

The doorman hurried forward, touched his cap, and offered the woman his arm. He addressed her by name, causing the reporters to regroup and circle her like vultures waiting for the last gasp of breath.

“Mrs. Rheingold?”

“Hey, Linda, anything to say about your late husband?”

“How does it feel to be widowed by a murderer?”

Linda Rheingold spun on the tips of her open-toed, three-inch high-heeled shoes. Her white-blonde hair whipped from side to side as she spat the words like sour milk. “How the hell do you think it feels?”

She looked past the crowd. “Jeremy, let’s get inside.”

The young man threw another bill at the cabbie and reached Linda Rheingold at the same moment as Captain Morales. Together, they swept her inside.

I didn’t believe the new widow would bring her secret lover home, but I had to be sure. I pushed my way through the press crowd to Mrs. Stresky, who was standing with both hands resting on the folding chair.

“I’m free to go upstairs. They’re even taking down the yellow tape. Things will look normal again in a few minutes. I could use a small sherry. Would you care to join me?”

Of course I would. A perfect opportunity for a chat.

“Ry

It was a long, blank moment before I realized that Ivan was likely the doorman. With the chair in one hand and Mrs. Stresky leaning heavily on my other arm, I passed unquestioned through the crowd of police, reporters, neighbors, and spectators.

The doilies and antimacassars covering everything in sight gave an inkling of what Queen Victoria’s sitting room must have been like. It would be generous to describe the old furniture as antiques, but even so, every piece was buffed to a high shine.

I settled in a high-backed velvet wing chair. Mrs. Stresky stood at a lace covered sideboard pouring sherry into microscopic stemware resting on a silver tray.

She served me elegantly, set the tray on the coffee table, and took her own glass in hand, raising it in a silent salute.

I touched my glass to hers, brought it to my lips, and then nearly choked when Mrs. Stresky asked, “Who are you really? Not a reporter, I hope. I know you don’t live in the building. Why did you stop to talk to me?”

I took a deep breath. “I came here to keep an appointment. Then I saw all the fuss and noticed you, looking exhausted and with a police guard and all. I just wanted to see if you were all right.”

That sounded lame, even to me, but Mrs. Stresky seemed to accept it.

“I knew you were a kind person.” She nodded, satisfied her assessment was correct. “Who were you meeting? Did you call and cancel?”

I plunged more deeply into the tangled web.

“Once I spoke to you, I knew someone had canceled the meeting for me. My appointment was with Mr. Rheingold.”

“No.” Mrs. Stresky gasped. “I can’t believe it. Whatever for?”

I edged closer to the truth.

“I’m a genealogist. We were supposed to discuss his O’Conor line.”

“What kind of line?”

“His O‘Conor family lineage. Just after the American Civil War, Rory Dev O’Conor, his brother John, and sister Kate bundled their families aboard the steamship Colorado and came to America, leaving all they knew behind in the tiny village of Crosskil, County Galway. Mr. Rheingold is descended from one of Rory Dev’s children.”

“Fascinating. Do you create genealogy charts for many families?”

No reason to mention that my mother’s royal banshee line had been tied to the O’Conors for a thousand years or more, or that she’d sent me along so that Rory Dev’s family would never endure a death without a proper send away.

“I can do any number of families, but my specialty is the Galway O’Conors.”

I weaved the question on my mind into the conversation.

“Is that man, Jeremy, who arrived with Mrs. Rheingold, a member of the family?”

“No. He works with Mr. Rheingold. He’s here so much, the Rheingolds pay for an extra parking spot in the garage for his use. Always trundling in stuffed briefcases and file boxes so full, they have to be tied with thick elastic bands.”

A short time later I took my leave, having no idea how any of what I learned would help me decipher the puzzle of Casey Rheingold’s murder.

Once home, I spent hours creating a fancy genealogy chart of the links from Rory Dev’s grandfather to Casey Rheingold. The tranquillity of copying the names and dates in a round cursive hand left my mind free to plan. And plan I did.

THE next morning, my energy renewed, I was ready to track a murderer. Where better to start than with the widow Rheingold?

When a banshee decides to reveal herself to humans, she uses one of three guises: the young woman, the middle-aged matron, or the old crone. As one of what the pure banshees like to call “the half-breed lot,” I’d decided centuries ago to function in the mortal world. I rotate through the three guises over any number of years and then begin again. I briefly considered a transformation, thinking Linda Rheingold might respond better to someone her own age or older. But provisional guise changes are chancy without time to invent a history for myself.

After making the decision to stay as I am, I called Mrs. Rheingold, and she surprised me with an invitation to stop by at noon.

Linda Rheingold was standing in her open doorway when I got off the elevator. I thought she’d be surrounded by family and friends, rushing to take mundane tasks off her hands. But here she was, quite alone.

Her widow’s weeds, a black silk tunic and slacks, were relieved only by the tawny stripes in her tiger print ballet slippers. She led me to a finely decorated living room, with high, wide windows covered in cream shantung. As we took our seats, I noticed she wore an Irish Claddagh ring. The hands, heart, and crown of the ring’s design stand for friendship, love, and loyalty. Mrs. Rheingold’s ring was made distinctive by the large diamond centered in the heart.

I tried to express my condolences, but she was all business.

“Ms. Ba

In hopes I could rescue the moment, I pulled the O’Conor genealogy chart from my tote. “Please, Mrs. Rheingold.”

I opened the chart, handwritten with dark gray ink on pale gray paper, for her inspection.

“Please,” I said again, although the role of supplicant rarely suits me. “You misunderstand. No payment is wanted. I’d only completed the chart yesterday. Then, when I heard the terrible news, I thought this would be a grand display for the wake. Poor Mr. Rheingold never got a chance to see the final version, but I’m sure his friends and family would take pleasure in it.” I put my finger squarely on Rory Dev’s name.

“Here is where the family crossed to America.”

Mrs. Rheingold examined the chart for a long while, asking about this or that ancestor.

“This is extraordinary. It must have taken months to put together. My husband was proud of his Irish roots. His German roots as well. Did he commission you to do a chart on the Rheingold family?”

“We didn’t have a chance to get that far. Lately, he wasn’t returning my calls, and if he did, he was gruff and hustled me right off the phone.”

“Gruff and in a hurry. That was Casey all right.”