“It’s all in the press release,” she said, ducking back inside and leaving the doormen to handle the crowd. Then she was hurrying upstairs to the Royal Suite, her special knowledge bubbling inside her. She was one of the few who knew that Noelle Jones was actually in the hotel; she was going to see, and perhaps even handle, the incredibly valuable Imperial Parure. If only the folks back home in Tinker’s Cove, Maine, could see her now!
When Layla answered her knock and opened the door, Elizabeth had to restrain herself from exclaiming “Wow!” The hotel’s four best suites, the Imperial, the Royal, the Majestic, and the Presidential, never failed to impress. Over fifteen hundred square feet apiece, they were bigger than her apartment, and included luxurious bedrooms, a living room complete with wet bar, a dining area, and numerous balconies with ocean views. The decor was elegant and restrained, so as not to compete with the fabulous views.
But even more breathtaking than the view, was the Imperial Parure, which had arrived ahead of her and was displayed in its case on a white lacquered coffee table. Elizabeth couldn’t take her eyes off the rubies and emeralds. There must have been hundreds all told. And the huge diamond glittered so brightly in the sunlight that poured through the windows.
Sammie Wong was beside himself with excitement. “This is going to be great,” he said, and Elizabeth could almost see the wheels turning in that shaved head, behind those bright, black eyes, imagining the photo possibilities. He was a tiny man, dressed in a black turtleneck and loose pants, bouncing around on bright aqua spring-loaded athletic shoes. “I think we should have the jewels in incongruous settings. . . .”
“Like the bathtub?” Noelle suggested. She was a stunning woman, with a curvy body, luscious red lips, and long black hair that tumbled halfway down her back. She was dressed in a white knit dress that clung to her figure and had discarded a fabulous white fur coat, which lay in a luxurious heap on the carpeted floor.
“We’ll see,” Sammie said, picking up the emerald and ruby tiara and holding it up to admire it. Then he set it gently on Noelle’s head.
“Ohmigod!” she exclaimed. “This thing weighs a ton!”
“Bear up, dearie,” Sammie said, disregarding her complaint and hanging the enormous necklace around her neck. The huge Star of Bethlehem diamond nestled just above her breasts, its facets catching the light and splashing the walls and ceiling with patches of shimmering color.
“Look! It’s a rainbow!” Sammie exclaimed, pointing at the scraps of vibrant color that danced with Noelle’s slightest movements. Then he slipped the ring with its huge emerald on her finger, and wrapped each wrist in a band of alternating rubies and emeralds. Noelle stood perfectly still in front of the pale green silk draperies that screened the room’s French doors, and Elizabeth thought she looked like one of those bejeweled royals in an Elizabethan painting. All she was lacking was a lace ruff and a long skirt.
Sammie was already snapping photos, but this was only the beginning. Lugging bags of clothing and props, Elizabeth followed the photographer and his subject through the hotel as Noelle was photographed in the jewels and a swimsuit at the hotel pool, in the jewels and a Chanel suit at a table in the hotel restaurant, in the jewels and an evening gown in the ballroom.
Finally they returned to the Royal Suite, where Noelle started stripping off the jewels and tossing them on the bed. “Whew,” she said, “those suckers are heavy, and that necklace poked into my skin. Look!” Pointing with a manicured finger, she indicated a slight, whitened dent on her tanned chest, where the Star of Bethlehem had been.
“You poor thing!” Layla commiserated. “But we’re done. You did great and now you can rest.”
“No, not done,” Sammie said, pulling back the bedcovers and tossing the pillows into a pile, which he covered with the white fur coat.
Noelle smiled slyly. “I think I know what you have in mind.”
Sammie winked. “Okay with you? You strip?”
“Sure,” Noelle shrugged, slipping out of the terry cloth robe she was wearing and casually arranging her naked body on the fur-covered pillows.
“Beautiful, beautiful,” Sammie cooed, lovingly placing the tiara on her head, and once again wrapping her arms in the enormous bracelets.
Elizabeth was stunned, watching the casual way in which Noelle stripped and allowed Sammie to arrange her body in various poses.
“Don’t look so surprised,” Layla said, amused at her reaction. “She’s done this before.”
“She has?” Elizabeth whispered, clutching the terry robe.
“Sure. She used to be a porn star. She did it all in front of the camera—and I mean everything.”
Elizabeth’s jaw dropped. “Really?”
“And she was a centerfold for Playboy magazine.”
“Where I come from, some people never take their long johns off all winter.”
Now it was Layla’s turn to be horrified. “Really?”
“Just joking,” said Elizabeth, who was growing more comfortable with the situation. If Noelle wasn’t bothered, she decided, she shouldn’t be either. And she could see why Sammie was so enthusiastic; the contrasting textures of Noelle’s flawless caramel skin, the lush white fur, and the glittering jewels made for fabulous visuals.
Finally, the staccato clicking of the camera stopped, and Sammie’s assistant handed him a towel, which the exhausted photographer used to wipe his brow.
“About time,” his subject declared, yanking the tiara off her head and tossing it on the floor. The necklace, bracelets, and ring soon followed as she stretched, sauntered casually up to Elizabeth and grabbed the robe, then continued on into the bathroom, still entirely nude.
Getting a nod from Layla, Elizabeth scrambled to pick up the jewels and replace them in the case. She could hardly believe she was handling them, actually touching these amazing gems worth millions of dollars. She laid one bracelet across her wrist, examining the effect, imagining what it would be like to wear them all. Then, afraid she would be seen, she tucked the bracelet into its compartment. All the jewelry fit beautifully into the hollows of the velvet-lined case designed to hold each piece.... All except the huge emerald ring, which seemed to be missing. It had been there a moment ago, Elizabeth thought, panicking. She’d seen Noelle pull it off. Where was it?
Horrified, Elizabeth began searching through the tumbled bedclothes. How could Noelle be so careless? she wondered anxiously. The thing was worth a fortune—all the jewels were—and she had thrown them around as if they were nothing to her.
Sammie and his assistant were packing up the photographic equipment, Layla had followed Noelle into the bathroom, so only Elizabeth was concerned about the missing ring. She picked up the pillows and stacked them on the nightstand, she pulled off the sheets and bedspread, she looked under the bed....
And finally found the priceless bauble under the nightstand, where it had rolled into a tangle of wires. Her hand was shaking when she slipped the ring into its groove and snapped the case shut.
“He doesn’t really love me,” Noelle was telling Layla, as the two emerged from the bathroom. She was wearing the robe now, and her feet were in the floppy terry slippers the hotel provided. “I’m just another acquisition, like these jewels.”
So that’s why she doesn’t care about them, Elizabeth thought with a flash of insight. “Do you have the key?” she asked Layla.
“The key! What did I do with the key?” Layla exclaimed, clutching her head with her hands.
Her panic was contagious and everybody started scrambling, searching for the key to the jewelry case, tossing the contents of the room this way and that. Everybody except Noelle, who drifted out of the bedroom and into the living room, where she settled into a plush upholstered chair and called room service, ordering a turkey club sandwich and a double Scotch.
Finally, when the bedroom had been thoroughly tossed and everybody had searched everywhere, Layla triumphantly proclaimed, “I’ve found it!” and held up the key. “It was in my
pocket the whole time.”
Chapter 4
Elizabeth let out a huge sigh of relief when the hotel safe clicked shut. She had been entrusted with returning the jewelry case to the safe and was a nervous wreck, hurrying through the carpeted hall to the special elevator that provided access to the exclusive penthouse level with its four luxury suites. That elevator was tucked discreetly away in a corner of the lobby, behind the regular bank of elevators, and only rose to the top floor when a special key card was inserted into a slot.
When the elevator descended and she reached the lobby, Elizabeth dashed across the richly carpeted expanse between the elevator doors and the reception counter and waited impatiently, her heart thudding in her chest, until Toni hit the buzzer and the door to the manager’s office opened. She was breathing heavily when she handed the case to Mr. Dimitri.
“Everything’s okay?” Mr. Dimitri asked. “All the jewels are inside? And the case is locked?”
“I put the jewels in and Layla locked it,” she said. She paused, wondering whether to tell Mr. Dimitri about the frantic search for the key, but noticing a pulsating vein near his eye, decided not to add to his already high level of stress. “After she locked the case Layla gave the key to Ms. Jones.”
“Good,” Mr. Dimitri said, letting out a big sigh. “That’s very good. Now, go and have some lunch. You look a bit pale.”
In truth, Elizabeth was dead on her feet, but she was surprised that Mr. Dimitri noticed. Maybe there was more to the old tyrant than she’d realized. Though today he appeared to be more considerate than she’d believed him to be, she still thought she’d been right not to mention the search for the key.
The next few days were a whirlwind of activity as final preparations were made for the guests’ expected arrival on Friday. Enola Stitch, the famous fashion designer, came earlier, on Thursday, to make final adjustments to Noelle’s gown for the Blingle Bells Ball. There was much speculation about the gown, which had been shrouded in secrecy, much like Kate Middleton’s dress before her marriage to Prince William. The secrecy only drove the fashion press wild with anticipation and there were various predictions as to the design, although all agreed it would feature a plunging neckline.
Other notables that reporters would have loved to question included junk bond pioneer Matt Milkweed, hedge fund investor Adrian Robinson, and Goldsmith Shoffner CEO Floyd T. Dewey, but they all dodged the press, arriving through the garage entrance in limos with tinted glass. Aware of the general unpopularity of Wall Street bankers and financiers, they had decided discretion was the better part of valor and were maintaining extremely low profiles.
Others, including Jonah Gruber himself, weren’t so shy and gave statements to the reporters gathered outside the hotel doors. Gruber, Elizabeth noted with interest, was a short, slim man with a receding hairline and an odd sense of appropriate leisure wear; he arrived wearing a turtleneck sweater, shiny bike shorts, black socks, and Birkenstock clogs. He kept his comments brief but beamed with pride, standing to the side, as Senator Clark Timson and New York City mayor Samuel Hayes both praised his philanthropic contributions. Guests who were media stars also took advantage of the gathered reporters to add to their luster. Daytime TV diva Norah gushed about her “best friend” Noelle Jones and radio shock jock Howie Storch commented that Noelle was “a real hottie.”
The most highly anticipated guest, and the last to arrive, was flamboyant pop star Merton Paul, who was going to sing at the ball. Hundreds of his fans were gathered outside, waiting for a glimpse of the rocker, and their screams heralded the arrival of his white stretch Hummer.
“He’s here! He’s here!” Toni exclaimed, barely able to contain her excitement. “Can I ask him for an autograph, do you think?”
Spying Mr. Dimitri hurrying to greet the star, Elizabeth shook her head. “Not now, but maybe you’ll get a chance later.”
“Oh, I love him,” Toni cooed. “Look! There he is!”
Elizabeth saw a pudgy middle-aged man wearing a shaggy fur jacket, bell-bottom pants, and a rather obvious wig, but Toni was blinded by Merton Paul’s fame. “It’s really him,” she said, hanging onto Elizabeth’s arm. “I think I’m going to faint.”
“And who are these lovelies?” Merton Paul asked Mr. Dimitri, approaching the two young women.
Elizabeth took Merton Paul’s proffered hand and introduced herself. “I’m the assistant concierge. I’ll be happy to help you with anything you need,” she said.
When he offered his hand to Toni she apparently found herself unable to speak, hanging on to Merton Paul like a drowning woman.
“This is Toni Leone,” Elizabeth said. “She’s at the front desk.”
“Call anytime,” Toni said, finding her voice. “It’s marked on the phone: D-E-S-K.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Merton Paul said, withdrawing his hand. “Take care, ladies.”
“I can’t believe I did that,” Toni moaned, watching as Mr. Dimitri escorted the rocker to the penthouse elevator. “I mean, I spelled out desk, like he doesn’t know how to spell.”
“You were charming,” Elizabeth said, amused at Toni’s reaction. “I’m sure he’s used to adoring fans.”
“I made a fool of myself. Now I’ll be so embarrassed every time I see him.”
“He’s only a person, with a head, two arms, and two legs,” Elizabeth said, hearing her phone ringing. “Try to keep that in mind,” she said, hurrying to answer it.
Elizabeth spent the rest of the afternoon coping with the demands of the glitterati. Enola Stitch discovered a crease in her pillowcase and required another—freshly pressed but not starched, and linen, of course. Matt Milkweed wanted a case of Cristal (no problem) and a basket of fresh peaches (a problem, in December). Senator Timson called for a masseuse and Elizabeth got him one, but wasn’t convinced that Leon was exactly what he had in mind. Norah wasn’t happy with the hairdresser her personal assistant had booked in advance and required someone more in sync with her astral sign. Howie Storch wasn’t fussy—any stylist would do, so long as she had a large bust. After Howie’s call, Elizabeth thought she’d heard it all, but then she got an e-mail from Sammie Wong asking for a jar of Crème de la Mer, the fabulously expensive skin cream. “I can’t believe I forgot to pack it,” he moaned.
Elizabeth was on the phone with Neiman Marcus, arranging an emergency delivery for Sammie Wong, when she noticed the lobby was unusually crowded. Suspecting that fans, or even the press, had managed to infiltrate the building, she sent an instant message to Dan Wrayburn. She was aware, as were all the hotel employees, that Jonah Gruber had specified that access to the building was strictly limited to his guests and selected media. Gruber was apparently unable to pass up any profit-making opportunity and had sold exclusive media rights to the event to People magazine.
She was keeping a nervous eye on the situation and her fears were confirmed when a bearded guy in a fishing vest approached TV sitcom star Dawn Richards and produced a tiny tape recorder. On the other side of the lobby, behind one of the glittering white Christmas trees that Layla had insisted on adding, she saw a series of camera flashes.
Wrayburn, who was stepping out of the elevator, also saw them and hurried to investigate.
“This is absolutely absurd,” Richards protested. She was a curvaceous brunet dressed in a very short skirt and very high heels. “Bobby here is my friend—he’s just taking a snapshot.”
“Good try,” Wrayburn said, “but I know Bobby. In fact, I called him last week and told him the hotel was strictly off-limits.”
Bobby started to leave but Dawn grabbed him by the sleeve. “Don’t be silly, Bobby. You don’t have to leave. This is America. We have free speech here, and I want to put these photos on my Facebook page.”
“The hotel is private property,” Wrayburn explained, but his message was undermined by a guy in a fake brown UPS uniform who was photographing the encounter on his cell phone, as was a woman carrying a boxed flower arrangement.
&nb
sp; “This is a warning,” said Wrayburn, raising his voice. “I’m ordering our hotel security guards to clear the lobby. Only registered guests will be allowed to stay.”
“Good luck with that,” Howie Storch said, stepping out of the hotel bar with a pair of statuesque, bikini-clad twins hanging on his arms. “You can find me and my friends at the pool.” He continued on his way, strolling across the lobby with his companions, and suddenly cameras were everywhere as reporters and photographers trailed the trio.
Wrayburn marched off with a grim expression on his face and Elizabeth realized her phone was ringing—again.
“Concierge, how may I help you?”
“This is Merton,” the caller said, unnecessarily identifying himself. It was impossible not to recognize the famous voice.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Paul?”
“It seems I forgot my bubble bath.”
“Not a problem. I’m sure we can provide some bubble bath.”
“It may be a problem,” said Merton. “This is special bubble bath. From Tibet.”
Elizabeth wasn’t aware that bubble bath was manufactured in Tibet, but she was learning something new every day. “Can you tell me what it’s called, and where you usually get it?”
“It’s called Lama’s Tears; Bono gave it to me. He said it’s great and he was right. I’m addicted.”
Elizabeth was beginning to suspect this might be more difficult than she thought. “I’ll do my best,” she said. “But if I can’t find Lama’s Tears, is there another brand you could use?”
A Winter Wonderland Page 23
