Free Dearly Departed by Hy Conrad Page A

talking about her glasses.
    â€œOh, these. Yes. Not that I can afford Ellis frames. But I found them in a thrift shop in SoHo and had my prescription put in.”
    â€œI hope it was a high-end thrift shop. May I?” Laila reached out both hands and removed Amy’s round, intricately checkered frames in one swift, professional move. She studied the temples and the frame and how the lenses were attached. “These are laser etched on acetate, as I’m sure you know. Your optician did a good job. I wouldn’t have known.”
    Amy was stumped. And then she focused on Laila’s own frames, also undeniably an Ellis pair. In fact, all of Laila’s and Maury’s frames, she seemed to recall . . . “Ellis is . . .”
    â€œA cute version of my initials. Laila Santorini, my maiden name. But it still works for Steinberg, luckily.”
    â€œYou’re Ellis Eyewear? No.” Amy was gasping. “No!” It was almost like meeting a rock star. Better. She had no interest in meeting a rock star. “Are you the designer? Oh, my God.” She had to force her mouth shut in order to stop the gushing.
    Laila blushed appreciatively. “We sold the company. But I still design a few, for fun.” Laila removed her own frames and handed them over for inspection. They were oval, with an uneven, almost leopard-like pattern of spots. “These are limited edition. Twelve layers of buffalo horn.” The frames were even more perfect close up. Amy felt as if she were holding the Hope Diamond.
    For the next half hour, Amy forgot about “accidents” and mysterious “if I die” notes. For the next half hour, it was all about vintage Chanels and keyhole bridges and which celebrity wore what.
    â€œGwyneth Paltrow isn’t even nearsighted,” Laila whispered, evidently afraid that the Armenian family in the row in front of them might be listening. “Except when we have some fabulous design she can get for free. And don’t even get me started on Rachel Maddow.”
    When the conversation finally wended its way back in the direction of MacGregor and the Steinbergs, Amy was actually disappointed.
    â€œI was never sure what Paisley thought of us,” Laila said, gazing unfocused at a seat-back screen where a soundless Adam Sandler movie had just been playing. “We were going through the sale of the company and money issues. A lot of marital discord,” she said softly, with an eye to the eavesdropping Armenians. “And, of course, she listened. I’m sure Maury confided in her, too. Like a marriage counselor who dusts and changes the sheets.” She chuckled at her own joke.
    â€œBut that’s what she enjoyed. Being part of your drama. Did you ever give MacGregor a note?” Amy tried to make the question seem natural. It didn’t.
    â€œYou mean like a reference?”
    â€œNo, I mean give her something for safekeeping. Something for her to read later on.”
    â€œYou mean like a book?”
    â€œNo, like a letter. Never mind,” Amy said and changed the subject.
    As soon as the words hit the air, Amy realized how ridiculous it all sounded. It was ridiculous. All she had was an empty envelope. If it had indeed been given to Paisley MacGregor by one of her clients—a big if—well, that was years ago. And every one of these people was still alive. As for Laila Steinberg, she didn’t seem particularly frightened of her husband. And even if she was frightened, she knew that Paisley was dead and the note probably lost. She could write another. Or not write one. She could actually tell someone that her husband was trying to kill her. Or just leave him. She certainly had the resources to walk away. Not to mention the glasses.
    â€œI should head back to my seat,” Laila said as she unbuckled herself and got to her feet. Then she turned back. “Why aren’t you in first class? You should have gotten Peter to spring