Dead by Any Other Name by Sebastian Stuart Page B

I take a look at it?”
    Sally Wolfson shot her a frigid glance and said soto voce , “This is not the time, Julia.” Then she turned to me, “Can you come to the house after the service? We’re having just a few people up,” she said, cunningly making me feel like one of the chosen.
    Inside the barn Natasha’s music was playing, her soulful voice enriched by glorious acoustics. There were boards set up with pictures of her life: the family pictures had a posed, slightly forced feel, with Sally and Howard front and center; in shots from Natasha’s early career she was simply stunning, that amazing raven hair, dark eyes, white skin; there were stills from her concerts and TV appearances, rave reviews and clippings, shots of her with people like David Byrne, Beck, Charlotte Gainsbourg, Michael Stipe.
    I took a seat. The service started with a woman who’d been a childhood friend, who told stories of Natasha’s little girl tea parties, where the guests included not only dolls but hamsters, guinea pigs, and ghosts, and where the tea was spiced with maple syrup masquerading as rum. I was clocking the Wolfsons in the front row—they were arm-in-arm but at one point Sally leaned against Howard’s shoulder and he leaned away; Julia could barely sit still, she’d slap on a listening face for a few moments, then sneak a glance at her phone, run her fingers through her hair, her crossed leg bouncing.
    This kid in his mid-twenties, thin, wearing skinny jeans, sneakers, striped top, hip hat, took the platform.
    â€œHey, people, I’m Joey Frank, and Natasha was just about the first person I met when I moved to New York from Camden and I didn’t know one single person and I had forty bucks in my pocket. I spent my first week sleeping in Tompkins Square Park, that was fun, all I knew was that I wanted to make music. Natasha heard me playing and man she took my hand and showed me the city, we walked all the hell over the place—like museums, I’d never been in a museum in my life—and at night she took me to the clubs to hear music and introduced me to everyone she knew in the business. She was my downtown angel, my beautiful black-haired angel.” He looked down, bit his lip, the place was pin-drop quiet. “She showed me the city, she showed me the business, she showed me life and art, and she taught me that it was okay to be soft and open and to let people in. Hey, I live in LA now and you know my songs have been done by some pretty big people, I’m doing good, real good, and it wouldn’t have happened, it just wouldn’t have, without my black-haired angel.” He looked up. “Goodbye, Natasha.”
    The service ended with a group of musicians singing Love by Any Other Name . I remembered that morning in Phoenicia, just a week ago, her voice, the way she moved around the room, swept up in the music, her kind soulful eyes.
    I was going to find out the truth about her death—and if she was murdered, there was no way the killer was going to walk.
    Then it was over. Her friends were reluctant to leave and you could feel the reason why: they wanted to hold onto her, to the sweet sad moment of shared loss.
    I got in my car and followed a small caravan that was heading to the Wolfson’s house. We drove several miles up into the Highlands before coming to a bold mid-century house that jutted out from the hillside and seemed to hang over the mountain and the Hudson below.
    The cars were mostly fancy, the people getting out mostly older, with the sparkly glaze of success, chatting, smiling, already on to the next thing—for most this was clearly a duty call. Julia was in a corner of the drive, facing away from everyone, hunched over, talking on her cell.
    The inside of the house was pretty stunning, all swoops and window walls, teak, low couches, abstract rugs, striking accents, a view out over the river that made my breath catch. The