“Yes, meet with him, and then find him a building to buy.” Darby took a sip of her wine. “We’ll get to meet the wunderkind Todd Stockton, too.”
Their dinners arrived—a rare T-bone with wild mushroom sauce for Miles, and a delicate Steak Dianne for Darby. “Smells heavenly,” she commented. “It’s times like these that I’m glad I’m not a vegetarian.”
“Eat up,” Miles said wickedly, waving his fork at the cuts of beef. “You’re going to need your energy.”
Darby rolled her eyes and took a bite.
seven
Gina overslept on Saturday morning, meaning she had to run from the bus stop to the Coopers’ building, catching her breath as she waved at the weekend doorman. He recognized her from the few times he’d substituted for Ramon and waved her in. Once in the elevator, she glanced at her cell phone. Five minutes before eight. Good.
Sherry pulled open the door with the big boys in tow. Kyle was adorable in his tiny Yankees hat, while Ryan wore a small baseball glove into which he continually smashed his fist.
“You guys look like professionals!” Gina said. “Did you take a photo for your Dad?”
“What do you think I am, bad mother of the year or something?” Sherry grinned. “I took some, but here.” She thrust a camera into Gina’s hands. “Take another one, just in case mine didn’t come out well.” Gina complied, and then pulled out her cell.
“I’ll snap a couple on my phone and send them right off to Penn.” The boys posed reluctantly, antsy to be on their way.
“Great.” Sherry turned and waved to her youngest two sons. “Have a good time with Gina, Trevvie—you too, Sam! I’ll see you soon.”
When the door shut behind them, Gina gave a quick glance into the kitchen. “Not bad,” she said to the little boys. “Your Mommy actually picked up today.” Gina was always careful what she said at the Coopers’ house, because she suspected they probably had a nanny cam hidden somewhere, recording everything that happened. Not that they didn’t trust her—she knew they did. But they were almost obliged, socially, to have something like that, just the way they had to purchase a two-thousand dollar stroller, summer in the Hamptons, and get their boys into top-notch preschools. When you were a New Yorker of a certain standing, you didn’t really have a choice.
She recalled one conversation she’d overheard between Sherry and another Manhattan mom. Sherry had told the woman that a family from Kyle’s preschool was moving to Westport, Connecticut. “Westport?” the woman asked, raising her eyebrows as much as the Botox would allow. “What a strange choice. I suppose they couldn’t afford Greenwich?”
Gina put a few animal crackers in a bowl and offered them to Trevor. “Just one, Trevvie,” she said as he filled his fist. “Can you take just one?”
He looked confused, and then released the cookies, grabbing only one in a pudgy fist.
“That’s right!” Gina beamed. “Good boy!”
He chortled and shoved the cookie in his mouth, while Sam sang a tuneless baby melody of his own creation. Gina picked up a copy of Architectural Digest, thinking about her plan to see Mrs. Vera Graff.
Very shortly, Miranda would come for Honey … She dropped the magazine. Where was the dog?
“Honey?” she called. The little boys looked startled.
Trevor took the gummy cookie from his mouth. “Bow, bow.”
“That’s right, sweetie. Where did Honey go?”
She stood and looked for the dog’s leash. Gone. Miranda must have come early.
Gina picked up the baby and sniffed his diaper. Not bad. She pulled a jacket on Sam and slid him into the stroller. Next, she scooped up Trevor and sniffed his diaper. Good to go. “Come on, Trevvie—let’s take a walk.” she said, placing him in the stroller and strapping him in.
She grabbed her pocketbook and cell phone, locked the door, and headed down the elevator to Vera Graff’s apartment on the fifth floor. With the stylish suit in mind, she prayed her idea would work.
She pushed the doorbell and waited. A moment later, the voice with the French accent asked who was there. “I just saw Miranda, your dog walker,” she lied. “It’s about Mimi.”
“Mimi?” The door flew open and a thin woman with a pinched face stood before her. “Mon Dieu, what has happened?”
“I found this collar after Miranda walked by, and I thought that perhaps it belonged to your poodle.” Gina held up a rhinestone-studded pink collar that she had purchased the day before on her way home.
The woman, whose name Gina assumed was Yvette, scrutinized the collar. “No, no, is not Mimi’s.” She prepared to close the door. “That will be all—”
“Who’s there, Yvette?” The composed older woman Gina had seen in the park appeared around the corner. “Hello,” she said smoothly.
“Mrs. Graff, hello, I’m Gina Trovata,” she said, pushing the door open and moving past Yvette. “I work for the Coopers in Residence eighteen-twenty-two. I’m their nanny.” Gina indicated the boys, both of whom were staring at the strange women.
“The lawyers, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“Nice to meet you. They look like darling children.”
The maid indicated the hall. “Very well, Mademoiselle, you may leave now.”
“That’s alright, Yvette. Let Ms. Trovata and the boys stay a bit. It’s so infrequent that we have any visitors.”
The thin woman shot a nasty glance at Gina but said nothing.
“Perhaps you will get us some tea?” Mrs. Graff raised her eyebrows and Yvette, scowling, scooted away.
“Have a seat, dear,” the old woman said kindly, “and then tell me the real reason you’ve come.”
Gina turned to see her expression. It was firm, but curious. “Mimi’s collar …”
“You know very well that didn’t belong to our poodle. After all, collars don’t just fall off dogs, do they? How would Mimi stay on her leash without it? No, that sparkly collar is a ruse to get you in here, and I’d like to know why. Are you casing the joint? If so, you’ll see we have very little of real value. A few antiques, but that’s about it.”
“No,” Gina said quickly. “I saw you walking in the park yesterday, and you were wearing one of the most gorgeous suits I have ever seen.” She took a breath. “Navy blue, big Lucite buttons …”
Vera Graff looked puzzled. “My suit?”
“Kick pleat in the back …”
“Ah, my ‘Hitchcock Ingénue’ outfit,” she said softly. “It is an exquisite garment. I bought it back in the 1950s, and I’ve always felt like Kim Novak wearing it.” She gave a little smile. “I don’t understand why you’ve taken the trouble to run the Yvette blockade for my suit.”
Gina took a breath. “I’m about to open a vintage clothing store with my business partner, Bethany,” Gina explained. Usually she described Bethany as her friend, but “business partner” sounded more official. Of course, you had to make sure and say “business” partner, or another meaning could be construed.
“Go on.” Vera’s steel blue eyes reminded Gina of the stained glass windows in St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Brilliant and brittle.
“I’m looking for inventory for the store. Beautiful things, such as that suit. I suppose you don’t really need the money, but …” she saw something flit across the older woman’s face. “I mean, your clothes are probably priceless to you …”
“How much would I make?” Vera Graff’s voice was abrupt.
“We’re a consignment shop, so you’d make money whenever an outfit sold. We’ll split it with you. If you have more pieces like what I’ve seen, I’d say you’d have quite a few sales.”
Vera Graff’s look was shrewd. “That suit, as well as my other garments, were very expensive items when I purchased them,” she said. “What kind of money are we talking about?”
“For that suit I’d ask
three hundred dollars,” said Gina. “At least.”
The old woman’s eyes widened in surprise. “That much?”
“Your things are collector’s pieces. They’re like artwork for people who appreciate them.”
“I understand.” She glanced down and fingered the hem of her olive green skirt. It was wool, probably a Pendleton, and Gina nearly salivated.
Vera continued. “I never bought anything unless I could buy the best. My Hitchcock outfit, for instance, came from a little boutique on Madison Avenue. I can still remember the day I saw it displayed on a padded hanger. Unfortunately, the store is no longer there.” A moment later she met Gina’s eyes. “It sounds silly, but my clothes have seen me through some very difficult times. My husband’s illness, his death …” Her gaze wandered around the room. “Happy times, too, I suppose. I remember wearing the navy suit to luncheon on the Upper East Side at the Carlyle.” Her face grew wistful. “My clothes are like old friends.”
“If it’s too much to ask—”
“I hate to part with my things, but perhaps it’s time.” Vera Graff pressed her lips together. “I like the idea of young people giving them another chance to shine.” She placed her hands on her lap and gave a little smile. “It’s settled, then. Wheel that contraption this way and come and see my closet.”
_____
Miles looked up from his laptop as Darby came into the living room.
“Good morning, love,” he said, patting a space next to him on the couch.
She yawned. “You’re up early for a Saturday.”
“Woke up around four a.m., and, despite your deliciously warm body next to me, I couldn’t get back to sleep.” He reached up and kissed her cheek. “I’m glad you had a bit of a lie-in. Ready for coffee? Got some brewing in the kitchen.”
“Sure. I’ll go get us both some.” She peered at the computer screen. “What’s up?”
“An interesting email from Natalia. Seems she’s had second thoughts about her investigative report.”
“In what way, Miles?”
“She wants to beef it up and try to get it published.”
“Is that possible?”
“I shouldn’t think she could do it on her own. But if she co-wrote it with an established reporter …” he paused. “She’s invited me up to the penthouse to talk about it. Care to tag along?”
“No—you go on ahead.” Darby said it emphatically, even though seeing the penthouse held definite appeal.
“I told her you’d be coming, and she sounded glad. Perhaps your real estate expertise could prove helpful—after all, her subject concerns stolen palaces and such.”
Twist my arm, thought Darby. “I’d love to come. What time did you discuss?”
“Nine.” He glanced back at the computer and frowned. “I’m surprised Jagdish hasn’t emailed me back yet.”
“Who’s Jagdish?”
“Sorry—he’s my buddy in London who covers all things Russian. I wrote him hoping to get more information on the organization Natalia discusses in her paper—the FSB.”
“Gotcha.” She rose to her feet and stretched. “Coffee run. Can I get you a refill?”
“Please.” He handed her a mug with a photo of the Empire State Building. “One cream …”
“And two sugars,” she finished. “I remember.”
He grinned as she padded into Charles Burrows’s kitchen and poured the coffee. Domesticity was kind of fun, she thought. Relaxing, and comfortable. She opened the refrigerator and hunted for the cream.
A low whistle came from the living room. “Our friend Charles Burrows is extending his sabbatical,” Miles said, raising his voice so that Darby could hear him in the kitchen. “He’s wondering if I want to stay on for the fall semester.”
Darby grasped the handles of the coffee cups. “That’s a nice offer,” she called. She walked into the room and placed the cups on a coffee table. “Are you interested?”
Miles pushed his laptop to the side of the couch and picked up his coffee. “I don’t know. For the most part, I’ve enjoyed teaching, and the city is a fascinating place to be. Brings me back to my old college days when I was a student here.”
“I nearly forgot that you are a graduate of prestigious Columbia,” Darby teased. “Have you been haunting some of your old watering holes?”
He grinned. “Here and there.” He took a sip of his coffee. “The thing is, I wouldn’t want to be here for the summer, really. Too hot and sticky. I’d need to figure that out.”
“We could spend a month together in Maine,” Darby suggested. “I’m renting my house a bit, but we could stay for several weeks in July. Go sailing in the cove, eat lobster every night, pick blueberries on Juniper Ridge …”
“Sounds heavenly.” His smile was brief. “Truthfully, I’ve been thinking that a trip to England might be in order.”
“Has anything happened?” Darby realized as she said it that she knew very little about Miles’s family.
“Such as …?”
“I have no clue, and I’m embarrassed to say that I know next to nothing about your life back in England. Have I really been so self-centered that we’ve never spoken about your friends and family?”
He reached out and ruffled her hair. “Yes. You’re a wicked, wicked girl who doesn’t give a fig for anyone else.” He saw her dismayed face and laughed. “I’m joshing, love! I’m afraid that you know precious little about my family because I’ve wanted it that way.”
“Why? Are they so very strange?”
He laughed again. “Terribly so! Eccentric with a capital ‘E.’” He rolled his eyes. “My mother is on her third or fourth husband, and supposedly has her eye on an African chieftain as husband-in-waiting. My father is an actor and a ladies’ man, with the wonderful knack of spending large fortunes in the blink of an eye. And my grandmother … Well, let’s leave her for another time, shall we?”
“They sound very colorful. What about brothers or sisters?”
“I have one—a younger sister named Scarlett. She’s normal—so far, at least.” He grinned. “I think you’d like her. She’s very level-headed. Guess you’d have to be, to survive growing up in a family like ours.” He picked up his coffee cup and seemed to study it. “Would you come along, if I promised to keep you safe from the really batty ones?”
Darby smiled. “Sure. They don’t scare me.” She chopped the air with her hands. “I’ve got my Aikido training, remember?”
“Thank goodness for that—you may need it.” Neither one of them spoke of the many times Darby’s martial arts moves had saved her life.
“And I can be a pretty colorful character myself, you know.” She stood and picked up her coffee cup. “I can impersonate the Queen, for instance.”
“You can not!”
“Can so.” Darby lifted her nose into the air. “We are not amused …”
Miles guffawed. “That is the absolute worst impersonation I have ever seen!” He grinned. “Do it again.”
She laughed. “I’m headed for the shower, Professor Porter. We’ve got a nine a.m. meeting coming up.”
He nodded. “I remember.” His gaze was wistful. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” She smiled, wondering as she left the room why his glance seemed almost sad.
_____
Rona Reichels tried the number again and heard the same stupid message. She tossed her phone onto the silk comforter, disgusted. I’ve left two messages, she fumed. I already sound like an idiot …
Unbidden, an image of the penthouse popped into her brain, and before she could will it away, the familiar churning in her stomach began. If only I had made that sale! Her pulse quickened. It had been her deal to make, hers alone, and that asshole …
It doesn’t matter now, she told herself. The money would be gone by now anyway. And yet she could not let
go of her anger, two years later, over the injustice of losing out. That would have been my biggest commission to date, she reminded herself, the bitter knowledge gnawing inside her like acid. I would have beaten Kiki Lutz, been featured in all the real estate columns …
She seethed with resentment and self-loathing. Not even the news of her swindler’s death could cool the anger simmering below the surface. That deal was mine, mine, MINE!
Rona stood and took a deep breath. Opening the top drawer of her dresser, she took a pill from a prescription bottle and swallowed it dry. She wouldn’t let the penthouse slip through her fingers this time. If Mikhail Kazakova was planning to sell it, he would list it with her. Or else he would end up like that rat Rodin.
She headed toward her closet, ready to arm herself for battle in something expensive.
_____
“Darby, Professor Porter, come in.” Natalia herself opened the door, a smudge of something brown above her lip.
“You’ll never guess what we are doing,” she said, pointing at Sergei, seated at a glass-topped table overlooking the fabulous view. “We are eating the best chocolate cake in the world. For breakfast!” She smiled. “Would you both like a slice?”
“Count me in,” Miles said, eyeing the half-eaten cake. “Did you make it yourself?”
“No, one of the neighbors made it and brought it by. Isn’t that kind?” Natalia picked up a messy knife and cut a thick wedge. She licked her finger and scooped the cake onto a plate.
“Very,” said Miles. “Not the sort of thing you think of happening in the big city, is it?” He glanced at Darby. “Cake for you?”
“I’d love a bite or two of your piece,” Darby said. She watched as Miles took the plate and a fork from Natalia. “Who’s your thoughtful neighbor?”
“Her name is Rona Reichels. She’s a real estate agent, and I think she helped my father buy this place.” Natalia pointed at the table. “Have a seat.”
“Hallo, Sergei,” said Miles, taking a bite of the cake. “Wow,” he said, his words slightly muffled. “This is delicious. You weren’t exaggerating.”
Deal Killer (A Darby Farr Mystery) Page 10
