Murder Among the Angels Read Free Page A

Charlotte’s face, taken by a photographer of his recommendation according to his dictates. The slides would somehow be entered into a computer (the wonders of computer technology still being a mystery to Charlotte) and used as the template for the design of her new face.
    Just north of Tarrytown, Charlotte exited the Saw Mill River Parkway in order to join up with the old Albany Post Road, the colonial-era continuation of Broadway that followed the east bank of the Hudson north to the capital city. She had always loved this stretch of road, which was lined with the walls of the great estates that dotted the shores of the Hudson, and which in early spring offered peekaboo vistas of the river through the leafless trees. At this time of year, the barren woods were studded with the billowy blooms of the shadbush, which was the first of the woodland trees to flower, and was named after the fish whose annual migration upriver to its spawning grounds in shallow water coincided with its flowering time. The shadbush was Charlotte’s favorite among the spring-flowering trees because of the lovely contrast between its pale pink, almost white blossoms and its copper-tinted leaves, and she took great pleasure in seeing the flowers sparkling in the morning sun along the roadside. Besides, the flowering of the shadbush meant that spring had officially arrived. Though she didn’t usually mind winter, this last winter had been a hard one, and she was glad spring was finally on the way.
    As she drew near the Hudson River Valley town where Dr. Louria’s office was located, she started feeling the familiar sensations—a fluttering in the pit of her stomach, a scratchiness at the back of her throat, a weakness in her knees—that she recognized as stage fright. Common perceptions to the contrary, it was a fact of the performing arts that many experienced actors—herself among them—never got over this fear, no matter how long or distinguished their careers. In Charlotte’s case, this condition never afflicted her in front of the camera; it was only on stage, and in certain other instances, such as a visit to a cosmetic surgeon (or, for that matter, any other variety of doctor). The only remedy that had ever worked for her had been suggested by her late friend, the actor Larry Olivier. It was to “think of your feet.” This worked like a charm. By some mysterious process, the simple act of shifting one’s attention to the feet served to root one to the earth, with the result that negative energy was conducted downward, much the way a lightning rod conducts lightning downward through a cable. Charlotte tried this technique now, but found it awkward with one foot resting on the gas pedal and the other on the floorboard. Instead, she resorted to the diversion trick, and turned on the radio. The weatherman was reporting that the unseasonably cool and windy weather that had prevailed for the last couple of weeks would at last give way to more mild conditions.
    Being the provident Yankee that she was, Charlotte had developed a fallback strategy in the event that she should decide to up and bolt from Dr. Louria’s office. She didn’t want to have wasted a day by driving all the way to Westchester for nothing. She had made a lunch appointment with an old friend named Jerry D’Angelo. A lunch would salvage the day. In fact, a lunch could even be viewed as an accomplishment—was, in fact, often the only accomplishment of the day for the phalanxes of ladies in her neighborhood who appeared to do little else. It was to Jerry that her thoughts now turned as she drove through the busy little downtown of Tarrytown.
    She had met Jerry D’Angelo nearly ten years ago when she was a guest at the posh upstate mineral water spa run by her old friend, Paulina Langenberg. Like a face-lift, a visit to a spa was a luxury that Charlotte wouldn’t ordinarily have indulged in, but Paulina, having heard about Charlotte’s success in discovering the identity