Fleeced: A Regan Reilly Mystery

by Carol Higgins Clark

  “Don’t do this to yourself, my darling. Clara was worse,” Thomas insisted. “She broadcast our problems to the world. You didn’t know that when you went over to Ben’s and took the food that—”

  “Thomas, I know what I did!”

  Regan helped herself to a croissant and sipped the cup of coffee the waiter put in front of her. She didn’t want to get in the middle of any tiff between the two lovebirds.

  “I know you know,” Thomas said. “All I’m saying is that you didn’t know it would end up on the front page of the paper.”

  “Forget the paper,” Regan advised.

  “Have you seen it?” Thomas asked.

  “No. My mother called me about it.”

  Janey groaned. “I could kill Mrs. Buckland.” Then her face took on a startled expression. “She must be reading about it too! My business very well might go down the tubes!”

  “Join the crowd,” Thomas said wryly.

  “Okay, now,” Regan said. “I want to go out to the store and get those perfumes. Are you going to be around here later this morning, Janey?”

  She nodded. “I’ll be helping Thomas blow up balloons for the party tonight.”

  There’s one way for the two of you to get rid of all your tension, Regan thought. After you’re finished, you can hit each other in the head with them. “The police will be checking out the list Lydia gave me of people who were at the party. If you can match any of the perfumes I find to the one you smelled yesterday, we’ll take it from there.”

  Thomas looked worried.

  “What’s the matter?” Regan asked.

  “This morning Janey had the sniffles. Her nose is stuffed up. Probably from sitting on the floor of that cold closet all afternoon yesterday. Janey, after breakfast I’ll get you some vitamin C.”

  “I won’t be gone long,” Regan said. “With any luck your sense of smell will hold out until I get back.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Janey said. Then her face brightened. “I just thought of a line I’ve always loved.”

  “What’s that?” Regan asked.

  “A rose by any other name would still smell as sweet.”

  “Beautiful,” Regan muttered. And then she thought of the name of the perfume she was particularly taken by. Lethal Injection. I can’t wait to see the bottle that stuff comes in, she thought.

  60

  At the 13th Precinct, Detective Ronald Brier greeted Regan like an old friend. She had called ahead to see if he’d be there. The New York World was on his desk.

  “I understand you had quite a night.”

  “Oh yes.” Regan nodded and pointed to the newspaper. “Wait till that reporter finds out about the little visit to Nat’s apartment last night.”

  “She already has.”

  “Already?”

  “She came by this morning and was digging around for recent incidents in Gramercy Park. Boy, was she shocked when she read in the reports about what happened to you.”

  “Oh, great,” Regan said.

  “I know. But I’ve got some good news. They’re doing a rush job on the fingerprints that we lifted from Ben Carney’s and Nat Pemrod’s apartments last night.”

  “What about the red box the diamonds were in?”

  He shook his head. “They’re working on it. But it looks like all the prints are smudged.”

  Regan pulled several lists out of her purse. “Here are the names of the people who were guests at the singles party, the student butlers, and everyone who lives and works at the club, including Lydia Sevatura, the woman who owns the dating service. There was some question about her after she received this windfall from her neighbor in Hoboken. I was hoping you could check it out.”

  Brier took the list from her. “You don’t have a social security number or date of birth for her either, so it will take time. But she did rent the Settlers’ Club apartment, so we’ll be able to find out something.”

  “There’s even more of a reason to check those names out other than the break-ins,” Regan explained. “I’m really beginning to believe that Nat Pemrod was murdered.”

  Brier looked at her.

  “I know that no one thought so the other night. But a lot of things are suspicious. First the diamonds owned by Nat and Ben were missing. Then the break-ins at both Nat’s and Ben’s apartments. Now the maid tells me that not only did Nat never take a bath, but special appliquéd towels that he never used, because they belonged to his dead wife and he didn’t want to ruin them, are also missing.”

  “Towels are missing?” Brier asked.

  “According to the maid, Nat took a shower every night. Maybe the killer used the towels to dry the stall so if Nat was found in the bathtub not too long after he died, it wouldn’t be suspicious that the shower was all wet.”

  “We didn’t have any indication that this was anything but an accident. With all the people, including our cops, who have traipsed through there since Pemrod was found dead, any crime scene would be tainted. I think the chance of getting relevant physical evidence is nil.”

  “I know. Let’s see what we can get from that list. In the meantime, I have a couple of other leads to work on.”

  61

  Georgette was restless. Blaise had gone off to his butler class, and she was left to twiddle her thumbs until the evening, when she’d head over to the party. There was no money for shopping, and she didn’t have the energy to do her rounds of the coffee shops.

  Life was bleak.

  She turned on the television in their little studio and started cleaning up. If only we had gotten those diamonds, she thought. On the counter were the four glass stones that had been in Nat’s red box. She was about to throw them in the garbage, but something made her pick them up and hold them in her palm.

  Sitting back down on the bed, she closed her hand over the stones and started to chant. Not that she was a real chanter. This was a chant she made up. Over the years, she’d visited psychics and had a mild interest in enlightenment. She thought that by chanting right now she might get a message about the location of the real diamonds.

  “Ummmmm,” she chanted in a singsong voice, closing her eyes. “Ummmmm.”

  No message so far.

  She opened her eyes and stared at the glass stones. Nothing. She shut her eyes even tighter, leaned back and cried, “Ummmmmmmmm.”

  “Ummmmm” turned to “owwwww” when she banged her head against the cinderblock wall. Rubbing her bruised cranium, she pulled up the teddy bear that had been with her through thick and thin—lately mostly thin—and gave it a hug.

  “Buttercup, what are we going to do?” She smiled when she thought about how she’d told Nat to call her Buttercup. He was a really nice old guy. Better than the one down in Florida who got nasty and called the cops when he caught her taking some jewelry. She hightailed it out of there fast. But Nat was sweet. Just the way he loved those sheep meant he had a good soul.

  Georgette held out her teddy bear. “He had Dolly and Bah-Bah, and I have you.”

  The teddy bear stared back at her. It was so old that one of its eyes was gone.

  “My poor baby.” Impulsively, Georgette took one of the round glass stones and stuck it in the eye socket. It looked good! “There, that’s better. I’ll have to get some glue.” She started to get up when an image flashed through her mind. She screamed again, but this time it was definitely not a chant.

  “Dolly and Bah-Bah!” she cried, staring at the glass stones in her hand. “These are the eyes of Dolly and Bah-Bah! That’s where the diamonds are!” She slammed her hand down on the bed, thinking of Nat’s favorite song, “I Only Have Eyes for You.” Ewe!

  “Isn’t that just like Nat?” She raced for her cell phone and called Blaise’s. She got his voice mail. “He’s probably learning how to change a lightbulb properly,” she hissed. When his message ended, she practically spat into the phone. “I know where the diamonds are! Call me back before we’re too late!”

  62

  Thorn Darlingto
n was tired and irritable by the time he got off the plane at Kennedy Airport. Archibald had arranged for a car to pick him up. The driver was waiting, holding up a sign that said simply, COUSIN THORN.

  How amusing of Archibald, Thorn thought sarcastically. He waved and walked over to the driver.

  “Cousin Thorn?” the driver asked.

  “To some people. Let’s get my bags.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Thorn was settled in the back of a stretch limousine on his way into Manhattan. “Driver,” he said, “a little privacy, please?”

  The driver nodded and pressed a button, raising the glass partition between them. Thorn then pulled out his international cell phone and dialed. As usual, he got the voice mail on the other end.

  “I hope we’re ready for tonight,” he said. “I’ll be across the street at Cousin Archibald’s. His superiority is so annoying. He thinks I’m here to celebrate the demise of the Settlers’ Club thanks to him. Little does he know I have my own plans for the home of the Maldwin Feckles School for Butlers! Call me back!”

  Thorn turned off his phone and giggled.

  This is so perfect, he thought. My family was always much more cunning than Cousin Archie’s.

  63

  Regan looked in the Yellow Pages and found a perfume shop off Seventh Avenue, near the site of the crime convention, called Our Scents Make Sense. “We carry every brand you can think of,” the ad proclaimed. “Come take a whiff.”

  “I’m on my way,” Regan announced to no one in particular. She grabbed a cab outside the club and found herself standing in front of a little hole-in-the-wall establishment with numerous perfume bottles lining the tiny storefront window. She opened the door, and bells that were taped to the other side tinkled, signaling her arrival.

  A sixtyish woman with platinum-blond hair teased into helmetlike proportions was standing behind the long counter to the left. Even from six feet away, it was easy to spot that she had on the thickest, blackest eyeliner Regan had ever seen. Her outfit was a leopard jumpsuit, and her nails were three inches long. She must have gotten the job here when Cats closed, Regan thought.

  Not surprisingly, the air in the tiny shop was filled with scents fighting with each other for domination.

  “Hello, dahlink,” the woman said to Regan. “How can I help you?” Her name tag read SISSY.

  “Hello.” Regan had the list in her hand. “There are about seven perfumes here I’d like to buy.”

  “Perfect, dahlink. One for every day of the week.”

  “Right,” Regan said, thinking that Sissy’s accent was of indeterminate origin. “The first one is called Ocean Water.”

  “Beautiful. Beautiful outdoor scent.” She stepped away and pulled a bottle off the shelf. “There’s Sunday.” She smiled. “What about Monday?”

  “Express to Passion.”

  “The best. That might be too much for a Monday!” she laughed as she reached for it and put it on the counter. “Next.”

  “Daisy Dewdrops.”

  Sissy made a face. “You sure you want that? A pretty young girl like you? It’s so old-fashioned.”

  “I’m sure,” Regan said. It was the perfume Miss Snoopy Purse had been wearing. No wonder she’d been complaining about the others.

  “Okay.”

  Within a minute they had nearly filled out the week with the scents Regan was looking for.

  “Quite a variety,” Sissy remarked. “That is good. Keeps a man on his toes.”

  If Jack could see me now. Regan smiled as she imagined his reaction. “The final one is Lethal Injection.”

  Sissy’s eyes opened wide, even under the weight of her makeup, and she giggled. “You are a naughty girl.”

  Good God, Regan thought.

  “Do you have a boyfriend?” Sissy asked as she reached for the bottle.

  Regan felt sacreligious even talking to this woman about Jack. She nodded her head.

  “He will love this,” Sissy whispered conspiratorially. “It’s very strong. A lot of men have come in here to buy it for their women.”

  Regan picked up the bottle and looked at it. It was in the shape of a thick black needle.

  Sissy pulled off the cap. “You just push the needle like you’re giving someone a shot, and out it sprays.”

  “Lovely,” Regan muttered. “I wonder what genius came up with that idea.”

  “I don’t know, but it’s brand new!” Sissy said.

  “It’s brand new?” Regan repeated.

  “They brought it out in time for Valentine’s Day this year.” She paused. “What’s wrong?”

  Regan shook her head, thinking of that woman, Georgette, who said her ex-boyfriend had given it to her. If he gave it to her recently, then why was she going to Lydia’s parties? “Oh, nothing’s wrong,” she said. “How much do I owe you?”

  Sissy rang it up. “Four hundred and twelve dollars and thirty-seven cents, tax included,” she announced joyfully as she tore off the register tape.

  I really hope we find those diamonds, Regan thought as she handed over her credit card. Or else I can just kiss this money good-bye. She signed the receipt and put the card back in her wallet.

  “Thank you, dahlink,” Sissy said as she dropped her business card in the shopping bag, handed it over to Regan, and winked. “Come back soon and tell me which day of the week your boyfriend likes best.”

  “Thank you,” Regan said, with all the politeness she could muster, before fleeing the scene.

  64

  Stanley was in his gas station–turned–apartment having a very exciting morning. The New York World was spread out in front of him. His tapes of the parties at Lydia’s were on the couch. Maldwin had phoned to tell Stanley about the break-in at Nat’s apartment in the middle of the night.

  “I thought it was only fair to let you know,” Maldwin said. “I still hope you’ll concentrate on the butler school and Lydia’s parties in your special. It means a lot to us.”

  “I will,” Stanley had assured him.

  Now his tapes might be more valuable than ever! I’m so grateful, he thought. I have truly been blessed. To have all these disasters happening at the club when he was the reporter on the scene! It was a very lucky break, a break many journalists never experienced in their lifetime. And he’d be there tonight for the one hundredth anniversary party, recording history again.

  It was a good thing Maldwin wrote to him about the butler school. Stanley wanted to review the interviews he’d done the night before with the four student butlers.

  He popped the tape in the VCR and pressed PLAY. The first student interviewed was that dreadful Vinnie. Stanley could not imagine for the life of him who would hire Vinnie as their butler. He was disrespectful and didn’t seem to care in the least about gracious living. He must be paying off a bet, Stanley thought. I wouldn’t hire him to be the butler for the gas station, let alone a country estate.

  Next up was the handsome Blaise. He looked like a soap opera star. He certainly has that aloof, remote quality that Hollywood portrays so many butlers as having, Stanley thought. Is he putting on an act?

  “I like to devote myself completely to what I do,” Blaise said into the camera. “And I know that butlering can be a 24/7 job. I look forward to it.”

  What a crock, Stanley thought.

  Harriet came into view, smiling that saintly smile. “Oh, wow,” she began. “It’s always been my dream to be a butler. But I never thought I’d be able to. Thank goodness I live in a time where women are finally being accepted as butler students. I say that women have a natural instinct for taking care of a home, and I will channel that instinct into my devoted services as a butler. Thank you soooooo much.”

  Who could put up with that Pollyanna sweetness all the time? Stanley wondered. It gets grating.

  Finally there was Albert, who couldn’t seem to wipe the goofy expression off his face. “I enjoy the finer things in life and know that I’d never be able to afford them. So I thought, Why not be a butler? Then
you can be surrounded by beauty and help take care of it too. I used to work in a video store, and when they started renting out pornography, I said, ‘That’s it! It’s too disgusting for me!’ The next day I signed up for Maldwin’s class and the rest is history.”

  Not exactly an inspiring bunch, Stanley observed. But with a little music in the background and proper editing, he could do right by Maldwin. Maldwin deserved that much.

  With all the confusion of the movie company shooting yesterday, Stanley hadn’t had much of a chance to film the park in its peaceful state. The movie trucks had been parked all over. I’ll go up there now, he thought. Thomas had said to get to the club early and film the preparations for the party. He could change in Thomas’s apartment.

  Stanley packed his tapes and his camera in a bag. His dark suit was pressed and ready to go. This is going to be exciting, he thought.

  Who knows what direction my special is going to take?

  65

  Thomas and Janey were in his office, surrounded by dozens of floating balloons. Thanks to the newspaper story, calls had been coming in from various shows and news organizations, asking for Thomas’s comments. Some of the callers wanted to come to the party. But Thomas refused every one of them. He knew what their intentions were.

  Make the Settlers’ Club look bad.

  He had decided that only Stanley would be allowed in. If the club was going to go to hell in a handbasket, at least it would be done with dignity. That true-crime show even had the nerve to call the club and ask for Clara. He’d put the kibbosh on that immediately.

  “Any calls to Clara must go through me,” he instructed the front desk.

  “What about her sister?”

  “Especially her sister! That woman has blabbermouth soup for lunch,” Thomas declared.

  “Okay, boss. We’ve got Mr. Pemrod’s lawyer on the other line. Do you want to speak to her?”