The Address, page 9
“He can be a bit testy. You should make sure to bring your game face.”
“Why’s that?”
Kenneth shrugged. “We’ve had a spate of unfortunate, and by ‘unfortunate’ I mean hideous, renovations of late, and he’s wary of outsiders.”
She was doomed. “I’ll treat him with kid gloves.”
They were interrupted by a knock on the door.
She recognized the super from the quick peek she got of him out in the courtyard with Melinda. Renzo had arrived.
He looked Bailey up and down, which was a thoroughly unpleasant experience. He wasn’t looking at her like a man checks out a woman but as if she were some alien from Pluto.
“I hear you’ve damaged the riser.” He looked to be in his late thirties. His strong Italian name didn’t match his gray eyes and fair hair, which hung just above his shoulders. The hippie look was long gone, but he seemed to have missed the news.
Bailey held out her hand. “Good morning, we haven’t been introduced. I’m Bailey Camden.”
He held up a dust-covered hand, palm out. She withdrew hers. “I was in Kenneth’s apartment ripping down the ceiling.”
“Aren’t you the sweetest.” Kenneth swooped behind Bailey. “Bailey and I were just discussing the fabulous wallpaper she’s going to put up to replace the damaged one.”
“The one in your apartment was from the 1920s. Not sure how you’re going to find an equivalent.”
What an ass. Here she’d solidified what she hoped was a little bit of goodwill from an unfortunate situation, and the super was stirring things up again.
“I’ll make sure Kenneth is taken care of, that the bathroom is fully restored. I’ve already assured him of that.” She couldn’t help herself. “You seem to be more upset than he is, at the moment.”
“I am, if this is the way your contractors plan on carrying out the renovation. The ‘cosmetic’ renovation.”
“Right. I’m new to this project, so bear with me as I play catch-up, but I believe they filed an amendment with the Department of Buildings last week. The leak might have happened whether or not there was construction going on. The building is over one hundred years old, after all.”
He cocked his head. “Where’s Wanda?”
“My firm has taken over. I’m the new owner’s rep.”
“Does the building management know?”
“Since I just took over yesterday, no. But I’ll phone them today and give them all my information.”
Kenneth touched Renzo lightly on the arm. “She’s a good egg, Renzo. Don’t be so hard on her. Look, show her the storage rooms so she can save some of the loot from the reno. She’s on our side, you’ll see.”
“Fine. I’ll be in my office in an hour.” Renzo studied Bailey again. “Tell your contractors to salvage anything they can.”
Bailey took the elevator down to the basement at the appointed time. The lowest level of the Dakota was bright, with well-lit hallways and a fresh coat of paint on the walls. The area directly under the courtyard was mostly open space, other than an office built off to one side that had a large glass window. She knocked on the door.
“Come in.”
The room overflowed with newspapers, green industrial filing cabinets, and cardboard boxes, but Renzo sat at a grand desk, an antique from the looks of it, made of ebony and elm. The harsh fluorescent lighting accentuated its incongruity, like a sapphire in a puka necklace. On the wall opposite was an oak cabinet, the doors wide open, displaying tools of every size and shape, small and large drawers, cubbyholes and shelves. A masterpiece of design and utility, everything in its place. This was a man who prized his wrenches.
She’d win him over with flattery. “That’s a beautiful desk.”
He shrugged. “A lucky hand-me-down from a former tenant.”
“And what a cabinet. Did you design it?”
“My father did.”
“Stunning. Do you do woodwork as well?”
“I used to, but there’s no time these days.” He looked annoyed. She’d overplayed it.
Bailey made a mental note to ask Melinda for a hundred dollars to hand him when she saw him next, as a way of greasing the wheel. The cost of doing business in Manhattan. Until then, she’d have to tread carefully.
“You were going to show me the storage unit for the apartment?”
He rose and grabbed a huge key chain from his desk. “Follow me.”
They turned down a passageway with doors on either side, every five feet or so, like a prison. Renzo stopped in front of the one marked 45 and found the key. He unlocked and pushed it open. Inside, a bare lightbulb hung from the ceiling. He pulled the chain.
The space was empty, except for a stack of dusty tiles piled up in one corner.
Bailey shook her head. “I won’t be able to store everything in here. It won’t all fit. Melinda’s taking down the mantels, the molding. Everything.”
“Why?”
She was unprepared for the question. “Because her taste sucks.”
“And yours doesn’t?”
She hadn’t realized how close they were standing. He smelled like wood chips and grease. Not a bad combination, surprisingly. She’d market it as ManSmell, The Cologne. The thought made her smile.
Renzo rubbed his eyebrow with the inside of his wrist. The veins on his forearms were thick, a faint purple blue. “It’s not funny, what’s going on. A new shareholder on the fifth floor tossed out everything before I could stop them.”
“I heard you were able to keep the original elevators. I’d love to see them.”
“Three of them were taken in by tenants. One’s become a sitting alcove, another tenant combined two to make a bar.”
“That’s thinking outside the box. And the fourth?”
“Gone. It disappeared.”
“How can an elevator disappear?”
“Not sure. During my father’s reign. My guess is one of the contractors realized its value and stole it. But no one was held responsible.”
A loud noise rumbled through the basement, like an earthquake. Bailey looked up in alarm.
“Just the subway. Although sometimes I do hear screaming at night.”
He was trying to scare her.
Bailey shrugged. “I assume a place like this has lots of ghosts, so much tragedy inside these walls.”
“We don’t discuss that. Not with outsiders.”
“I’m not exactly an outsider. My grandfather was raised here; he was Theodore Camden’s ward. There’s another tragedy for you. Another murder. Almost like the building’s cursed.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He looked like he was about to lock her in the storage room and leave her there. She’d told Kenneth she’d handle the guy with kid gloves. Even if he didn’t really deserve it. Talk about prickly.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to overreach.” She stepped out of the small space. “Is there somewhere else you’d like us to put everything?”
He led her to another locked door. She’d become disoriented, and was no longer sure which side of the building they were on. The room was all interior, no windows at all. He flicked on the light switch and she caught her breath. It was a catacomb for the glorious detritus of the Dakota: four claw-footed tubs, dentil molding, mantels, baseboards, dozens of massive mahogany pocket doors. Her eye traveled over piece after piece, some in fine condition, others nicked and scratched. An old chandelier sat on top of a beat-up grand piano, and a trio of trunks were piled up in the far corner.
“This is so sad. Like the Land of the Forgotten Toys.”
“At least we know things are safe here.” He pointed to the trunks. “You can have your guys move those into the alcove to make more room. But you’ll need to supervise your workers both coming and going. I don’t want to find anything missing.”
“I’ll make sure everything goes smoothly.”
“Like earlier at Kenneth’s?”
She’d had enough of his smugness. “You know as well as I do that when renovations happen in New York City, things break. I’ve offered to make it right, and, to be honest, I’m not sure what else you expect me to do. I can’t change my client’s tastes. This is my job, this is how I make money.”
His lips parted, as if he was about to say something. But instead, he slid the key to the room off the key ring and placed it in Bailey’s palm.
“Give this back to me when you’re through.”
He turned and walked away, leaving her unsure if they’d reached a détente or if she’d simply harangued him into submission.
CHAPTER TEN
New York City, September 1884
Sara awoke early the day after the trek into town and headed downstairs to the tailor’s room. The Singer sewing machine was one of the latest models, with ample room for cloth on the walnut cabinet and a smooth, shiny shuttle. She placed her feet on the treadle, gave the shuttle a whirl, and the machine clattered into action. The years away from a sewing machine had taken their toll, and at first the work took longer than usual. She couldn’t help but worry that Mrs. Camden, with her fine upbringing, might make fun of the curtains when she eventually saw them. Laugh with her husband at the sight of such simple window dressings.
Eventually, the fabric slid under her fingers with ease. Once finished, she folded the material into a large square before working on her own. On the last hem, the thread bunched up, creating a small bird’s nest on the underside of the fabric. As she concentrated on rethreading the machine, a shiver of memory ran through her. Rose-colored silk, smooth under her touch. Mr. Ainsworth, standing behind her, placing a large hand on her shoulder. How the strength of him was palpable, and how her heart had beat faster at his praise. He’d taken his hand away quickly, but then came more touches, more familiar, lingering ones that she squirmed under.
“Mrs. Smythe.”
She jumped, pricking her finger. Luckily, the fabric remained unstained. Mrs. Haines stood in the doorway, her thick eyebrows giving the unfortunate effect of a perpetual scowl.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Camden asked for you. He’s in his apartment.”
“Thank you.” She stood and gathered up her work. “I’ve made him some curtains to keep out the sunlight. He’s probably eager to receive them.” Why was she explaining? Mrs. Haines was not her employer.
“Right, ma’am.”
Always the cipher, that one. Between Daisy’s chattiness and Mrs. Haines’s reticence, at least her charges balanced each other.
To her disappointment, Mr. Douglas was with Mr. Camden when she entered the library, the finished curtains in her hand.
“Ah, good. Mrs. Smythe.” Mr. Camden looked at the cloth in her arms, confused.
“Your curtains.”
“Right, yes. Leave them over there on the windowsill.”
“Of course.” She put them down on a chair to the side of the window. If he opened it, the dust from the roadway might dirty the cloth. But he didn’t seem to care about the curtains. In fact, all of the familiarity of the previous day was gone from his demeanor. He barely looked up at her as he and Mr. Douglas ran through a list of items with her to be taken care of before opening day.
A vague frustration settled over her, but she shrugged it off quickly. Her job involved keeping the tenants happy, and Mr. Camden was a tenant. Not a friend. Best to remember that and not overstep her official duties.
When she finally finished up her work for the day, she retreated to her tiny room, where the setting sun cast a reddish glow. She hung her lace curtains and marveled at how they prettied up the place, made it sweeter and cozier.
Daisy knocked and peered in. “You in for the night?”
“I believe I am.”
“Curtains! How lovely.” Daisy walked to the window and ran her hand along the delicate folds. “Where did you get them?”
“I made them.”
“You’re quite handy, then.”
“I’ve sewn a frock or two in my day.” She wished she’d had enough fabric to make two sets, as Daisy, such a young girl, ought to have something nice to look at.
Daisy draped the material around her head. “When I’m married, I’m going to hang gold velvet draperies in my windows, the better to show off my scarlet Worth dress.”
“What a lovely tableau. But you’ll need to find yourself a very rich husband in that case.”
“I plan on it.” Her blue eyes twinkled. “Did you hear that Mrs. Stuyvesant Fish had elephants in the ballroom at her fancy-dress party? Guests fed them peanuts as they waltzed by.”
“I didn’t realize elephants could waltz.”
Daisy giggled. “No, silly. The guests did the waltzing.”
“Such excess.” Sara crinkled her nose.
“But such fun.”
“I hope you’ll be able to stay focused on the building, with opening day coming along.”
Daisy nodded. “Of course.”
She didn’t want to be too hard on the girl, not after the trauma of the man in the night. But Daisy was a dreamer. She’d managed similar types at the Langham, especially among the pretty girls. “Good night, Daisy.”
The sun disappeared over the horizon and drew Sara back to her window. Part of her envied Daisy’s hopefulness. The girl had a grand plan, and wasn’t that why Sara had come to New York City in the first place?
Sara’s grand plan involved running the Dakota according to the expectations of her employers, and while her gray bombazine silk was a far cry from a gown of seed pearls and antique lace, it would certainly do.
One mustn’t get carried away.
“Quickly, unlock the back gate.” Sara shoved the key into Fitzroy’s hand. “There’s a line of moving wagons on Seventy-Third Street waiting to get in.”
Fitzroy squinted down at the metal key in his hand, as if unfamiliar with the whole concept. “But it’s only seven in the morning. No one’s supposed to be here for another hour.”
“Let them in, we can’t keep them waiting.”
She’d risen earlier than usual, knowing that a smooth opening day was crucial to the future reputation of the Dakota. If chaos ensued, the building and its management would be written off. Already, there had been snide remarks in the press about the class of citizen who had signed up, that they were of a lesser sort than established society, wondering why anyone would choose to live in the hinterlands amidst squatters’ sagging homes.
Fitzroy skittered off. They were a sad pair, she had to admit. She knew nothing about this job, and was learning on the fly, while poor Fitzroy was far too old for the demands of his position. His hip had given him trouble lately, and his lopsided face was sure to disturb the ladies. Now this. Her meticulously scheduled agenda for the day was already in ruins.
Sixty-five families had rented out apartments, and of those, thirty were to move in today, while the others would file in over the course of the next week. She’d enjoyed having the full staff around during the past few weeks, the maids doing a final cleaning and the electricians fiddling with wires. Even the tailor, elderly and rather deaf in one ear, turned out to be a fine man, assuring her in a loud voice that she could use his sewing machine in the off hours whenever she liked.
The order that had been barely established was about to be turned on its head. She’d seen Mr. Camden only in passing recently, as they both rushed from one corner of the building to another, but his demeanor remained serious. As if their jaunt downtown had never happened.
A few minutes before eleven, Sara retreated to her office to catch her breath, as she’d been inundated with questions and concerns from the tenants’ staff for the past four hours. Although the servants’ rooms in the apartments were enormous by any other standard, she’d had to shut down squabbling about which maid got which room in apartment number 36, and barely prevented the new resident housekeeper, Mrs. Quinn, from giving the butler in apartment 32 a tongue-lashing when he complained about some invisible grime in the parlor. She was used to juggling two levels of help at the Langham: the guests’ maids and valets, who generally expected to be treated as royalty, and the hotel’s staff, who put up with their airs but talked about them behind their backs. She could allow no animosity like that here. No one would be checking out, hopefully, and the hierarchy had to be carefully maintained.
Daisy rushed in, breathless. Tendrils of blond hair fell along her white neck. Beautiful, but not acceptable.
“Fix your hair, Daisy.”
The girl caught her breath and then shoved her hair back into place. “The residents are here, Mrs. Smythe.”
Dread washed over her. “But they’re two hours early.” The plan had been to get the tenants’ staff and rooms settled before allowing the actual tenants entry. She’d imagined greeting them as they swished down the halls, opening their front doors and exclaiming aloud at their gleaming new homes in perfect condition.
Daisy shoved a piece of paper toward her. “There was an error on the letter that went out. It says eleven o’clock, not one o’clock.”
“Daisy, you typed this for me.”
The girl stuffed her hands into the pockets of her dress. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize I’d hit the same key twice.”
A critical error, but still. “At least you got the date right.”
Two hours. She had to stall them, keep them occupied. Otherwise they’d chime in with opinions about what should go where and which way to arrange the dining room table, and the day would never end. Or they’d decide the place was uninhabitable and move out before they’d even arrived.
“What’s this I hear about the residents coming early?” Mr. Camden stood in the doorway, fuming.
“There was a miscommunication,” said Sara. “We’ll take care of them.”
“We spoke about this, Mrs. Smythe. How important it is that they enter a well-run, elegant apartment building. From what I can tell, it’s a madhouse on every floor.”
