Footsteps on the wooden floors outside her door made her pull back a pudgy arm as if she’d seen a snake.
“Professor Porter?” She stumbled to her feet, nearly tipping a mug full of cold coffee onto her keypad. “May I have a word?”
Hustling to the hallway, she nearly collided with a young woman clutching a laptop and a dead potted plant. Enormous black boots—the kind construction workers wore—made her bare legs look like matchsticks.
“Is the registrar’s office in this building?” she asked.
Peggy shook her head and directed the young woman to the correct office. She looked like a child, with her knobby knees and air of uncertainty. Peggy sniffed. I may not have gone to Columbia, but I have responsibilities—a job, a dog, and my own house. She plodded back to her desk and plumped the seat cushion on her office chair. The rumblings of hunger had turned to gnawing pains.
“Ms. Babson?”
She looked up. Miles Porter paused in the doorway, a shock of brown hair falling over his forehead.
“Hallo,” he said, smiling.
Hallo. She loved that, the way he sounded like he’d stepped off the set of Downton Abbey.
“Professor Porter! I didn’t hear you in the hall.” No doubt the clomping of the girl’s heavy boots had drowned out his footfall. “How was your seminar?”
“Oh, they’re all very antsy—thinking about finals and such.”
“Yes, of course.” She felt her face flush. “What about the poor girl who lost her fiancé? Natalia? Did anyone mention that?”
“Not to me, but I’m sure her classmates are aware and properly sympathetic.” Miles raised a hand and she realized he was preparing to leave.
“I hoped we could chat a bit about what happened yesterday.” She sounded shriller than she wanted and looked down at her nails. The polish was due for a change and they needed a good filing. “That man who was stabbed.”
“Ah, yes. Horrible thing.” He glanced at his mobile. “I’m off to meet a friend, but I have a few minutes.”
A few minutes. She felt irritation mixing with her mounting hunger. “Have you heard anything about who may have killed him?”
“No, nothing.” He frowned. “Did you meet the fellow? Alec Rodin?”
“Yes, well, that is to say, not exactly. I heard you speaking in your office, and then I saw him going down the stairs.” She bit her lip. “Your voices were quite loud.”
Miles Porter nodded. “Indeed. I became pretty angry, I’m afraid.”
“Yes. I heard you quite clearly.” She sniffed and felt the British man’s interest pique.
“I threatened him—you may have heard that, although I certainly didn’t mean it.”
“You sounded serious to me.” She blinked her eyes a few times. “Of course, I didn’t tell the police exactly what you said …”
“Why, Ms. Babson?”
“Because you said you’d kill him!”
“My dear woman, I took an instant dislike to Rodin, but I never would have murdered the man. Tell the police whatever you’d like.”
She lifted her eyebrows. “I must get back to work, Professor Porter. Good afternoon.” She turned toward her desk as his footsteps receded down the hall, unable to resist a tiny smile.
_____
“You’ll never believe what the secretary at Pulitzer Hall implied,” fumed Miles as he closed the door to Charles Burrows’s apartment.
“Whatever it was, I can tell it wasn’t good.” Darby reached up to give the lanky journalist a hug.
Miles hugged her back, tightly. “Just looking at you makes me feel better, you know that?”
“I’m glad. Now what did the old witch say?”
He gave a slow grin. “She isn’t exactly an old witch, although she acts like one, but she said she’d overheard my rather heated discussion with Alec Rodin, but that she hadn’t told the police everything. Emphasis on the ‘everything.’ Darby, she hinted that she’d withheld information. This may sound silly, but I felt as if she’d like to blackmail me!”
“Because of your argument?”
“Exactly. I told her she could tell the police whatever she wanted, and that seemed to shut her down.”
“Good for you. Extortion only works if the victim is afraid of exposure.” Darby had dealt with a blackmailer’s destruction in Maine several months earlier and the experience was fresh in her mind. “Speaking of threats, any word from Natalia?”
“No. Her father must be here now, and I trust she’s told him about that note.”
“Let’s hope.” Darby pictured the crude letter and its message and sighed. “What about her article, Miles? Will anything happen with the information she unearthed?”
“I don’t know. That’s up to Natalia to decide. I’ve asked her for a few revisions, and to flesh out a little of the details, but I would never publish anything without having permission.” He reached out and squeezed Darby’s shoulders. “Enough shop talk. What have you been up to, love?”
Darby told him about her conversation with Hideki Kobayashi. “I hope you won’t mind if we look at a few properties with him on Sunday.”
“Not at all. Perhaps he’d like to dine with us on Saturday night?”
“That’s a nice idea, Miles. I’ll be sure to ask him.” She grinned. “Guess where he stays while in New York?”
“Let’s see … the Ritz-Carlton?”
“Exactly! How did you know?”
“I guess I’m not the only one with super duper powers.” He reached out and tried to rumple her hair, although it was so thick and silky it refused to muss. “Hideki obviously likes the finer things. After all, he has you for his broker, doesn’t he?” Miles winked. “Not to mention that the Ritz is one of the city’s best hotels.”
“Deductive reasoning. Sometimes it can work like a charm.” She frowned. “I wish we could use it to help Natalia. I’ll admit that I’m worried about her.”
“I love your concern. Let’s call her and check in, shall we?”
Miles found his student’s number and gave her a call. A few seconds later, he was leaving a message. When he’d finished, he groaned. “Now I’m worried, too. Perhaps I should send a text?”
“Why not? It can’t hurt.” Darby checked her own phone and made a face. “ET needs me to contact the office. Excuse me for just a minute, Miles.” Darby rose and went into the bedroom. Her assistant answered immediately.
“What’s up? I saw your message to give you a call.”
ET cleared his throat. “Bad news, I’m afraid. The Davenports are taking legal action.”
Darby thought back to her earlier conversation with ET regarding the couple. “They called a mold inspector, I take it?”
“I’m not sure, but they’ve decided to pursue the matter in the courts.”
“What were the results of the mold test?”
“I don’t know that they’ve had one yet.”
“So they’re going after the building inspector?”
“That’s not all.” He swallowed, obviously unwilling to continue. “They’re blaming Pacific Coast Realty for the mold problem, saying the company should have known about it.”
“And when they accuse the company, they actually mean me.”
ET sighed. “Darby, I hate to say it, but you are getting sued.”
five
The wheels of the world’s most expensive baby stroller were stuck. Gina Trovata bit back a swearword before remembering that the baby and his fourteen-month-old brother couldn’t yet talk, so technically it was okay to curse in their presence. That was the operating theory of her employer, at least. Perfectly fine to throw out a four-letter word in front of the little boys, but clean it up when in the presence of the bigger ones. Gina pushed hard against the curb of the sidewalk and the wheels finally straightened. She sighed. The urge to let loose a
string of expletives had passed, and lucky thing—a trio of nuns had stopped to gawk at her charges.
Gina nodded in agreement as the black-habited sisters oohed and ahhed, their heads bent toward the babies. This wasn’t the first time total strangers had stopped to admire the brothers. It wasn’t their adorable outfits or contented babbling, but their striking good looks that won them praise, and their older brothers were just as handsome.
Gina had to hand it to Sherry and Penn Cooper—they did produce gorgeous, well-mannered kids. All four boys were blonde and blue-eyed, with sunny smiles and winsome personalities that never seemed to flag. Given the Coopers’ clean-cut and wholesome good looks, the family might have stepped right out of a Ralph Lauren catalogue.
The nuns straightened up and smiled. An old custom came to Gina, a gesture of respect she had learned at a very young age. She placed her hands together at the level of her heart and bowed her head. The nuns beamed back at her, bowed their heads, and started silently down the sidewalk.
Who taught me to do that? Gina wondered as she watched the stooped backs of the sisters. She pushed the stroller into the park. My adoptive parents? The nuns at the orphanage? There were so many secrets in her background. Unlike Penn and Sherry’s kids, she had no clue as to who had brought her into the world.
She stopped the stroller in front of a vacant bench and sat down. Maneuvering it so that the boys could both see her, she gave Trevor a biscuit to munch on while she fed Sam. She removed a bottle from the stroller, unclipped Sam’s safety restraints, and pulled him toward her on the bench.
It had been a lucky thing, running into the woman who was a friend of Miles Porter’s. What had she said her name was? Darcy? Gina couldn’t remember. She’d been Asian, very pretty, with dainty features and long, glossy hair. Her clothes, Gina had noticed, had been nondescript. Almost blah.
The baby nestled into the curve of her body and began to drink from the bottle. She smiled down at him, and then at Trevor, who gave a quick grin and then pointed at a passing cyclist.
“Bicycle,” said Gina. “Can you say that Trevvie? Bicycle.”
He grinned and chortled before popping the end of the biscuit back into his mouth.
Gina took her phone and gave it a quick glance. Almost quitting time, she thought wryly. She scrolled to a text from her friend and business partner, asking when she would have time to scout a new location. She texted back that she would be free that afternoon.
Trevor squealed. Gina looked up and saw that he’d tossed his partially chewed cookie to the ground. She fumbled in the stroller for a bottle for him and leaned back on the bench.
The park was a fabulous place to people-watch, and occasionally Gina spotted someone she recognized. Sometimes they turned out to be someone she knew, but more often than not, they were celebrities whose everyday clothing made them difficult to identify.
Such was the case with an elderly woman who was walking slowly toward the stroller. Gina had seen the woman before—she knew that—and figured she was someone famous rather than an acquaintance. An aging movie star or model? She scrutinized the woman’s handsome, patrician face before letting her gaze fall to what she most enjoyed ogling: clothes.
Gina couldn’t remember when she’d first become enamored of textiles, and in particular, vintage garments. Like so many things from her past, she had only dim recollections. A calico-patterned apron with red rickrack. A poufy gabardine cocktail dress. A scrap of hand-tatted Italian lace …
She took in the woman’s outfit and nearly gasped in surprise. Strolling by her was a two-piece suit in navy wool with a cropped bolero jacket, three-quarter length sleeves, and four big Lucite buttons. Gina knew immediately that the classic outfit dated from the 1950s, and had a crepe lining and back kick pleat. She nearly salivated with desire. The suit was beautiful, and she had to have it.
Quickly Gina settled Sam back into his part of the stroller and strapped him securely in. The woman had passed by the bench and was now exiting the park. After checking the bench to be sure she hadn’t left anything, Gina pushed off after the woman.
Trevor raised his little eyebrows in surprise but continued to suck happily on his bottle. Walking fast, Gina closed the gap between her and the suit’s owner. Gina noted that her hair was dove gray, and curled softly under a little cap. On her stocking-clad feet were flat brown shoes.
Gina frowned. Frumpy and totally inappropriate for the scale of the suit, she thought. She pictured pumps in an apple green, along with a structured handbag in the same shade. The woman crossed Central Park West with the stroller hot on her tail.
Gina was running through pocketbook options when the woman stopped abruptly in front of the Coopers’ building. To Gina’s amazement, she turned toward the front door, where the doorman greeted her with a warm smile.
Gina followed at a discreet distance. She watched as the woman headed to the elevator and disappeared behind the closed doors.
Unbelievable! Gina was about to interrogate the doorman when Sam started to fuss. I’ll quiz him when these two are quiet. After all, where there was one vintage suit there were many—just the kind of inventory she and her partner needed.
_____
Darby Farr had always prided herself on her impeccable record in real estate, not so much regarding deals negotiated and closed, but regarding satisfied customers. It wasn’t easy keeping people happy, but she had worked hard to do just that, and more important, pay excruciating attention to each and every detail so that nothing escaped her eagle eye when it came to the nitty-gritty aspects of her profession. Now, in the quiet of Charles Burrows’s bedroom, she thought back over the Davenports’ purchase of the house in Poway, California, and asked herself what she’d overlooked. Had there been any indication at all of any problem with the integrity of the property’s addition? Were there any signs of moisture? Any strange odors or red flags she’d ignored?
The answer was no. The mold issue—if indeed there was a mold issue—was a complete surprise, not only to the sellers of the home, but to the building inspector and to Darby herself. There had been no evidence, no damp smell, no signs of growth—nothing.
Although …
Someone had mentioned something about mildew. Darby thought back. We had been looking at the addition at the back of the house. The door frame …
It was me, she remembered. I asked the inspector if there was mildew around the frame of the door.
And he had answered no.
There’s a first time for everything, she thought, realizing it was something her Aunt Jane Farr used to mutter when life took her by surprise. Darby supposed that even Jane had had her share of unpleasant surprises in real estate, but Darby, a professional for more than a decade, had so far kept her reputation squeaky clean. Other than a recent ticket for speeding, Darby was what many would term a model citizen and an exemplary real estate agent.
She sighed and looked up the number for a lawyer she knew from her Aikido classes in San Diego. When the attorney answered the phone, Darby explained the situation as best she could. Debra Hitchings’s answer came quickly, in a no-nonsense, clipped voice.
“I’ll take a look,” she said. “Try not to worry.”
After thanking her, Darby squared her shoulders and went to find Miles.
_____
Rona Reichels, fifty-eight years old, scanned her credit card bill with increasing alarm. A three-hundred-dollar dinner charge in mid-March, and another one at the beginning of the month. Fees for concerts at two hundred bucks a pop. Purchases at a tony boutique on Fifth Avenue totaling nearly a thousand. She narrowed her eyes. Her own bills were bad enough, but these? She shook her expertly highlighted chestnut-colored hair and angrily picked up her phone.
Where are you? She texted.
With a friend, came the reply.
Rona gritted her teeth. That was the problem.
Come ho
me now. Hopefully the curtness of the message sounded like an emergency.
Can’t. See you in the morning maybe.
I SAID COME HOME, she typed, waiting. No response.
Rona’s telephone hit the surface of the desk with a clatter. Damn that girl! Devin didn’t care what Rona said, and hadn’t since she was a child of five. She is the most selfish, stubborn creature to walk the earth. She cared only for her own agenda, and that agenda involved spending large amounts of cash.
Her temples throbbing, Rona reached up and massaged her head, hoping to relieve some of the tension. I’ve got to get some more deals going, she thought, the pain now like a drumbeat against her skull. I need to make more money. She picked up her phone again and scanned her email accounts. One client had a question about a good drycleaner. That can wait. Another was hoping to score tickets to the Yankees … could she help? She swore under her breath.
The condo’s opulent walls seemed too close for comfort. Her pulse began to race and the jungle drums in her head beat faster. She closed her eyes, opened them to find the walls even closer. Not now, she thought. Not now …
Rona struggled to regulate her breathing before a full-fledged panic attack began. She pictured a calm scene—Central Park at sunset—and inhaled deeply. She saw a few people strolling, a slight breeze rustling the leaves, watched the sun dipping down behind the trees …
You’ve always lived above your means, said her father, his voice still bitingly familiar even a decade after his death. You think you’re so high and mighty. Little Miss Rona who doesn’t want to admit she’s from the Bronx, and that she’s never going to amount to much of anything …
She gritted her teeth against the voice, against all of the criticism she could hear in her head or heap upon herself. She told herself she would not give in to despair. And then, out of the blue, her cell phone rang.
Deal Killer (A Darby Farr Mystery) Page 7
