mouth. His twinkling eyes shifted from Caroline to the vase.
“I’m assuming you are delivering that—” he hesitated, then shrugged helplessly. “—whatever it is, to Irene Delamond?”
As soon as he spoke Irene’s name, Caroline remembered where she’d seen the man before, and in the same instant, she remembered his name.
“Anthony Fleming,” she said. “But I’m not sure what you mean. I’m delivering this to Ms. Delamond, but I’m not sure why you think there’s some kind of plot.”
Anthony Fleming’s smile broadened as he pulled one of the huge doors open. “Hold this, and I’ll haul that thing inside for you.” As Caroline kept the door from swinging shut, he hefted the vase off the step and carried it into the foyer, where another set of glass doors—not quite so heavily etched as the outer ones—blocked their way into the building’s lobby. “And please don’t call me Anthony,” he asked, almost plaintively. “That’s what everyone around here calls me, and I hate it. Tony will do, if you don’t mind.” He signaled to the doorman, who came out from behind a counter and started toward them. “As for the plot, Irene called me and told me to be here at exactly five-thirty. She made it sound like life-and-death.”
Suddenly Caroline began to understand. “She left a message for me at the shop where I work, asking that I deliver the vase at five-thirty. And my boss told me that given the address, I’d better be exactly on time.”
“Oh, yes,” Tony Fleming agreed as the elderly doorman, clad in a maroon blazer with gold braided epaulets, pulled the inner door open. “We denizens of The Rockwell are a pretty demanding bunch. Cross us, and we have you beheaded! The streets are littered with people who dared—”
But Caroline was no longer listening. Instead she was gazing around the cavernous lobby, which was perfectly in keeping with the exterior of the building. The chamber rose two full floors, and was surmounted by a ceiling painted with a trompe l’oeil so dark that at first Caroline saw nothing but what appeared to be a forest at night. But then she saw strange figures lurking in the forest’s depths—horned men clad in fur, seated around a table scattered with the torn and bloody remains of whatever beast it was upon which they’d fed. Huge black birds with curved beaks perched in the branches of the trees surrounding the feasting men, their talons almost seeming to flex as they anticipated the scraps from the feast below. A sliver of moon hung in a sky scudding with dark clouds, and as Caroline gazed at the strange scene she felt a shiver pass through her as if the coldness of the scene overhead had penetrated directly into her bones.
The walls, paneled in an oddly lusterless oak, were hung with gilt-framed oil paintings that seemed to have come from the same era as the building itself, and were perfectly in keeping with their surroundings: landscapes and still lifes that, though darkened with age, appeared never to have been any less gloomy than the odd sylvan scene depicted overhead. Directly ahead was an ornate staircase that rose in a squared spiral, with an old-fashioned cage-style elevator sitting at the bottom of its well. Above the cage, supporting cables disappeared into the upper reaches of the shaft. To the left of the stairs was the doorman’s booth, and to the right, set into the wall, was a fireplace with a pile of logs burning defiantly, as if to spite the warmth of the spring afternoon. The only light in the cavernous lobby came from a series of brass sconces set high on the walls, but the glow they cast couldn’t dispel the gloom that hung over the entire space.
“I call the décor ‘Rockwell Macabre,’ ” Tony Fleming observed sardonically as he watched Caroline take it all in. “Now, before we go up to face Irene in her lair, I think we need a strategy. But first, a question.” His eyes went to the vase Caroline was delivering. “What is
“I’m assuming you are delivering that—” he hesitated, then shrugged helplessly. “—whatever it is, to Irene Delamond?”
As soon as he spoke Irene’s name, Caroline remembered where she’d seen the man before, and in the same instant, she remembered his name.
“Anthony Fleming,” she said. “But I’m not sure what you mean. I’m delivering this to Ms. Delamond, but I’m not sure why you think there’s some kind of plot.”
Anthony Fleming’s smile broadened as he pulled one of the huge doors open. “Hold this, and I’ll haul that thing inside for you.” As Caroline kept the door from swinging shut, he hefted the vase off the step and carried it into the foyer, where another set of glass doors—not quite so heavily etched as the outer ones—blocked their way into the building’s lobby. “And please don’t call me Anthony,” he asked, almost plaintively. “That’s what everyone around here calls me, and I hate it. Tony will do, if you don’t mind.” He signaled to the doorman, who came out from behind a counter and started toward them. “As for the plot, Irene called me and told me to be here at exactly five-thirty. She made it sound like life-and-death.”
Suddenly Caroline began to understand. “She left a message for me at the shop where I work, asking that I deliver the vase at five-thirty. And my boss told me that given the address, I’d better be exactly on time.”
“Oh, yes,” Tony Fleming agreed as the elderly doorman, clad in a maroon blazer with gold braided epaulets, pulled the inner door open. “We denizens of The Rockwell are a pretty demanding bunch. Cross us, and we have you beheaded! The streets are littered with people who dared—”
But Caroline was no longer listening. Instead she was gazing around the cavernous lobby, which was perfectly in keeping with the exterior of the building. The chamber rose two full floors, and was surmounted by a ceiling painted with a trompe l’oeil so dark that at first Caroline saw nothing but what appeared to be a forest at night. But then she saw strange figures lurking in the forest’s depths—horned men clad in fur, seated around a table scattered with the torn and bloody remains of whatever beast it was upon which they’d fed. Huge black birds with curved beaks perched in the branches of the trees surrounding the feasting men, their talons almost seeming to flex as they anticipated the scraps from the feast below. A sliver of moon hung in a sky scudding with dark clouds, and as Caroline gazed at the strange scene she felt a shiver pass through her as if the coldness of the scene overhead had penetrated directly into her bones.
The walls, paneled in an oddly lusterless oak, were hung with gilt-framed oil paintings that seemed to have come from the same era as the building itself, and were perfectly in keeping with their surroundings: landscapes and still lifes that, though darkened with age, appeared never to have been any less gloomy than the odd sylvan scene depicted overhead. Directly ahead was an ornate staircase that rose in a squared spiral, with an old-fashioned cage-style elevator sitting at the bottom of its well. Above the cage, supporting cables disappeared into the upper reaches of the shaft. To the left of the stairs was the doorman’s booth, and to the right, set into the wall, was a fireplace with a pile of logs burning defiantly, as if to spite the warmth of the spring afternoon. The only light in the cavernous lobby came from a series of brass sconces set high on the walls, but the glow they cast couldn’t dispel the gloom that hung over the entire space.
“I call the décor ‘Rockwell Macabre,’ ” Tony Fleming observed sardonically as he watched Caroline take it all in. “Now, before we go up to face Irene in her lair, I think we need a strategy. But first, a question.” His eyes went to the vase Caroline was delivering. “What is
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