Irresistible Impulse by Robert K. Tanenbaum

written down.
    The voice that answered was light and youthful sounding, decked with the long, multi-toned vowels favored by the New York upper crust and made famous by the late FDR and his Mrs. (Yea-es? How gooo-od of you to cah-all!)
    Marlene inquired as to why Ms. Wooten required the services of a security firm.
    “Well. As to that, Ms. Ciampi, I would rather not discuss it on the phone. But, briefly, I have been getting disturbing letters. And other tokens.”
    “This is someone you know?”
    “No. It’s, um, I suppose one could call him a fan.”
    “You’re a performer?” asked Marlene, and then mentally kicked herself for not finding out who Edith Wooten was before calling. There was a pause on the line, and then the voice, which now was tinged with amusement.
    “Yes, I am. Do you suppose you could visit me at my home. I have quite a busy schedule and—”
    “No problem, Ms. Wooten,” said Marlene quickly. She got an address on Park in the seventies and ended the call.
    She immediately punched in a familiar number, one that, if answered, would connect her with the only person in her acquaintance who might conceivably know someone with that sort of voice at that sort of address.
    “V.T.? Marlene.”
    “Hello, Marlene,” said Vernon Talcott Newbury. “This is remarkable. I am abandoned by the Karp clan for weeks on end, and now I get calls from both of the principals in one day. I have a message from Butch. Is this about the same thing?”
    “I doubt it, V.T. This is a private thing. I was wondering if you knew the name Edith Wooten.”
    A laugh. “You need to get out more, dear. This is the cultural capital of the world, you know.”
    “I know. I took Lucy to see The Great Muppet Caper just last week. Who is she?”
    “Ah, well, where to begin? She’s a Wooten, of course, of the Wooten Island Wootens. Only two privately owned islands in the Sound, the Gardiners have one and they have the other. Her mother’s a Temple, of the Sag Harbor Temples. Her brother, who I think is named Rad or Had, went to Harvard with Foley Maynard, who—”
    Marlene interrupted. V.T. could go on. “She’s a friend of yours?”
    “Not a friend, exactly. She went to Brearley with my cousin Sniff, though, I think for a couple of years, and then switched to Juilliard; she was probably about twelve or thirteen. You really don’t know who she is?”
    “ A musician obviously. I doubt it’s rock and roll.”
    “Quite. Well, I’m no expert, but Mother, who is on the Philharmonic board, says she’s another Jacqueline Du Pre, potentially in a class with Rostropovich. I’m sorry, maybe those don’t ring any bells either?”
    “Don’t be snide, V.T., I’m just a dumb guinea from Ozone Park. So she’s a cellist, huh?”
    “Yes. Why the interest?”
    “Oh, just checking something. Anything else about her? She married?”
    “No, but she’s not more than, say, twenty-four. She’s Ginnie Wooten’s sister, of course.”
    “Of course. V.T., who the fuck is Ginnie Wooten?”
    “You do need to get out more, Marlene. She was on Life once. The Avedon shot, buried in sand, tits sticking out, with the sweat?”
    A vague memory tugged. Like most native working New Yorkers, Marlene did not pay much attention to the antics of celebrities, most of whom were out-of-towners who came to the City to get famous, got famous, and then disappeared like the dirty snow on its streets.
    “That’s it? She’s a model?”
    “Not quite. A professional naughty, Ginnie, like what’s her name in the sixties—Edie Sedgwick. Screws artists and rock stars, a major supporter of the pharmaceutical industry, like that. So, my curiosity is boiling over. What’s going on?”
    “It will have to turn into steam, then, dear. Thanks a million for the info. I owe you a Coke.”
    Marlene put the phone down and went into Harry’s office.
    “You still mad at me?”
    Harry looked at her and shook his head, a millimetric negative. Harry Bello was