“A mysterious blueprint identification database?” His breath comes out in a soft chuckle. “Unfortunately, no. We don’t have one of those.”
“You laugh, but if I were in charge of the FBI, that’s the first thing I’d create. I’d get a whole team of blueprint experts. I’d head up the blueprint division.”
“Actually, I might know someone…” He glances sideways at me. “How urgent is this?”
Not very, not when compared to all the other investigations I’m supposed to be working on, but I hold my hands up in a wide gesture anyway. I need these answers, even if I’m having a hard time articulating why.
To be fair, my friends and I never had a serious discussion about what the future would hold for us after Grant and I decided to make a real go of our marriage. Part of me has always known it would be difficult—I mean, my friends still have to earn a living, and they’re not the ones who pledged themselves to an FBI agent—but I don’t think I realized how difficult it would be. I can’t help them without betraying Grant, and I can’t betray them without betraying a part of myself.
I bite back a sigh. Maybe Jordan was right to hide these blueprints from me, keeping the glitter and lure as far away as possible. Plausible deniability might be the only chance I have.
“It’s not a matter of life and death, if that’s what you’re asking. But it would really help me out.”
“I’ll need a few days, but you can consider it done.” Grant rolls up the blueprints with a neat efficiency. “I have a hacker friend who might be able to help. She loves this type of thing.”
I perk up. “A hacker friend? How come I’ve never met her before? I love hacker friends.”
“Funny, that’s exactly what she said about you. Except what she loves are thieving wives.” Grant turns to me, his dark eyes glittering. “Speaking of, what did you get Cheryl for Christmas last year?”
18
THE TEA PARTY
In my head, tea parties have always existed as an Alice in Wonderland affair, where everyone wears crazy hats as they sit around a long table, with saucers and cartoon mice flying. In reality, hats have been eschewed in favor of lustrous, fresh-from-the-salon locks, and no one seems to think a table is necessary at all. Instead, we’re lounging inside a color-coordinated room poured directly out of a magazine, perched on the ends of chairs that look great but feel like they’re made of concrete. My poor legs are bound so tightly together in the cream-colored pencil skirt Tara loaned me, you couldn’t fit a dime up there. To top it all off, I have a teacup balanced in my lap and a smile plastered on my face.
In other words, I’m miserable. I’m miserable and out of place and have no one to blame but myself.
“I love the Adirondacks this time of year, but Vincent prefers the beach, so it’s off to Martha’s yet again,” says a statuesque woman to my left. Her tendency to gesture with her hands while holding her cup makes me nervous. “It’ll be the third time we’ve gone this year. I’m starting to loathe the sight of cedar shake.”
“You could always come to Milan with me instead,” the woman on my right replies. She’s not nearly as statuesque, and she has to lean halfway over my lap to converse with her friend. “There’s plenty of room on George’s private jet.”
“Don’t tempt me. You know I can’t leave Vincent alone for five minutes. Especially not at the beach.”
I’m about to open my mouth and offer my opinion—that she should go wherever she wants, with or without Vincent—but a warning look from my grandmother stops me before I begin.
I flush guiltily and slump in my chair. I’d been prepared to be out of my element among these women, but this is above and beyond my worst expectations. I mean, I could probably purchase a vacation house in the Adirondacks and Martha’s Vineyard and have money to spare, but that’s not the point. No amount of stolen diamonds can buy class.
Fortunately for my dwindling sense of self-worth, a commotion at the door draws my attention. I’m hoping for a guest closer to my own age or someone’s sullen teenage daughter I can commiserate with, but what I get is a familiar-looking woman with a smooth black bob and catlike eyes that set my heart racing.
“Oh, Jane. I’m so glad you could make it.” My grandmother gestures for the woman to come in and make herself comfortable. “You know everyone here, I believe, with the exception of my granddaughter. Allow me to present you to Penelope. Penelope, this is Jane Bartlett.”
An imploring look from my grandmother has me getting to my feet—no easy task in this skirt—and offering Jane my seat. As was the case at the lunch date last week, she stares at me much longer than politeness dictates. I still can’t remember if she’s a past victim or not, and since my last meeting with Riker ended with an argument and me confiscating his blueprints, I never had a chance to ask him.
“Um, you can sit here,” I say, in case my gesture wasn’t obvious enough.
“Thank you, but I wouldn’t want you to give up your seat.” She speaks kindly enough, but then she turns and stares at the nonstatuesque woman on my right. Without a word of communication between them, Jane somehow conveys a direct order for the woman to give up her seat instead, which she does with alacrity.
Oh, dear. I cover my racing pulse by attempting to sit with a semblance of grace. Jane is going to confront me right here in front of my grandmother. She’s going to tell all these women that I stole her favorite necklace/watch/tiara/firstborn child, and I’ll be out on my ass before I make any headway with the case.
“So what organizations do you belong to, Penelope?” Jane asks. She accepts a cup of tea and takes a drink, the smooth lines of her neck undulating as she swallows. My bobcat comparison suddenly feels off. This woman is much more like a jaguar with her shiny black hair and lean, muscled body.
“Organizations?” I echo, thinking fast. “Um, I think my husband signed us up for AAA, but I usually take the subway, so I’ve never had to use it.”
The Adirondacks women release an uncomfortable titter, but Jane’s lips lift in a genuine smile.
“No doubt the AAA will come in handy someday,” she says, not unkindly. “But since we’re supposed to be deciding which charity we want to benefit from the annual Black and White Ball, I wondered if there was any group near and dear to your heart you wanted to put on the short list.”
Ah, yes. That makes more sense. It’s also more difficult to answer, since my knowledge of global charities is limited. I probably should give my bus station locker full of cash to one of those instead of the Riker Has a Gambling Addiction Fund, but old habits die hard.
“Oh, you know—they’re all so worthy.” I wave my hand airily, hoping to emulate my grandmother’s breezy elegance. But instead, I almost tip the contents of my cup all over my lap. Gulping down the rest of the tea seems like the best way to stay dry, so I do that before returning my attention to Jane. The liquid burns my esophagus and tastes like feet—two things I’m unable to hide from my face.
“I hate teas like this, too.” Jane drops her voice and shoots me a laughing look that lifts the catlike corners of her eyes. Now that I’m seeing her at close range, I notice the effect is accomplished by a perfect sweep of eyeliner. “So much fuss, when all we really want is a tumbler of gin, yoga pants, and a dark room somewhere. But it’s nice of you to play along for your grandmother’s sake.”
With the exception of the gin—I don’t drink, having spent far too much of my wayward youth under the influence of stolen bottom-shelf alcohol—the rest of her plan sounds wonderful. Wearing yoga pants in total darkness is my idea of a fantastic time.
“I’m afraid I’m not living up to her expectations,” I admit. “I’m supposed to make a good impression on her friends, not spill tea and expose my blue collar roots. She wanted to show me off.”
“You’re doing fine.” She reaches over and takes my teacup, effortlessly setting it aside. “Besides, most of the wom
en here have nothing to brag about when it comes to their offspring. See that woman in purple hogging all the cream cake?”
I do. It’s Millie Ralph, the reason we’re all here today. As my grandmother predicted, she’s already made several trips to the restroom to try and peek around the house. I followed her the second time, as it occurred to me that a middle-aged snoop would make a wonderful Peep-Toe Prowler, but all she did was rummage through the medicine cabinet and steal some Vicodin. She left fingerprints everywhere, too.
“Her only son, Richard, is one of the wealthiest men in America,” Jane continues in a low voice. “He’s also a Madoff-level scam artist who would cry if a clown jumped out and said boo, so believe me when I say you have him beat.”
“I don’t know. If a clown jumped out at me, I might cry, too.”
Her sudden laugh causes several of the other women to look up, and my grandmother beams at me as if I’d managed to entertain a particularly reluctant pope.
“I knew you and Penelope would get along,” she says to Jane.
“She’s delightful.” Jane doesn’t lower herself to wink, but the twinkle in her near-black eyes is close enough. “Although I don’t see how she could be anything else.”
“What are you two talking about?” my grandmother asks.
Jane answers for us both. “Clowns.”
Millie, who had been holding court on the other side of the tea service tray, lights up. “Oh, how lovely. They were Richard’s favorite—we always used to hire one for his birthday. He’d sob and sob when they left.”
This proves too much for me, and I dissolve into a giggle that sounds more like a deranged hiccup. I’m afraid I’m going to have to exit the room to get control of myself, but Jane is every inch the lady I’m not, and she asks a few loud questions until my breathing resumes a normal pattern.
It’s nice of her to do, which only casts me into further confusion. If she isn’t a wronged victim out for my blood, then what does she want from me?
“To be honest, that isn’t a terrible idea,” my grandmother muses as soon as there’s a lull in the conversation. “Of course, clowns themselves are awful, but circus animals… I don’t think we’ve done an animal charity in a few years, have we?”
The woman seated next to her, poised with a pen and the only one treating this party as an actual business function, shakes her head. “We did service dogs back in ’08, but nothing more recently than that.”
“I like it.” My grandmother nods, and as if attached on connected strings, all the heads around her start bobbing in tandem. “The fair treatment of performing animals. I’m sure there’s a national group that would love to hear from us. Good job, Penelope.”
I’m much more pleased by that small piece of praise than I should be. Of all the things I’m capable of, helping pick a charity is hardly up there in terms of complexity. I once stole a gold watch off a man while he was wearing it, for crying out loud. Yet here I am, as beaming and flustered as if I stole the crown jewels.
Talk turns to things like caterers and fire safety inspections for the ball, so there’s not a lot for me to do after that. My attention—always short of social norms—starts to wander, and I find myself mentally appraising the jewels on display instead.
Rope chain necklace, solid gold, at least three thousand.
Drop earrings, pearl, probably only a few hundred each, and only if they’re not freshwater.
Hideous peacock brooch, sapphire and—
“Of course, they’re not going to let us access the collection on the night of the ball, but the Starbrite Necklace alone is worth a separate trip. Have you seen it yet?”
My head jerks back.
“No, but I’ve heard wonderful things. It’s supposed to be one of the best examples of mid-century modern jewelry in the world.”
My spine straightens.
“I heard them say it’s worth at least ten million. The rest of the display is extraordinary, but can you imagine the size of those diamond spikes?”
My feet plant more firmly on the floor.
“I have to stop by the museum tomorrow to drop off the guest list. Maybe I’ll take a look while I’m there.”
“Um, what are you talking about?” I ask, trying not to sound as interested as I feel. Diamond spikes and ten million dollars happen to be two of my favorite things. “What museum?”
It’s Jane who answers, which she does with a warm smile in my direction. “The venue where we’re holding the Black and White Ball this year,” she says. “It’s a lovely little space uptown. The Conrad Museum. Have you been?”
“No, but I love jewelry from the fifties.” And from, you know, the forties. The thirties. The twenties. Any decade, really. I’m not picky.
“Oh, then you’d adore this collection.”
She has no idea. “I bet I would.”
Now that I’ve shown an interest in something relatable, the statuesque woman turns to me with a smile. I bite back a laugh—if I’d known a few diamonds were all it took to get these women to like me, I’d have opened with my highly educated opinion on carat weight versus cut. A hint: for resale value, always go for weight.
“I believe you can only see it by appointment right now, but I’m sure your grandmother could get you in,” the statuesque woman says. “They’ve been rather tight with their security since…well, you know.”
I don’t know, but I can make an educated guess. “Since the Peep-Toe Prowler burglaries?”
A hush falls over the assembled crowd. Apparently, admitting my familiarity with the case is one of those faux pas my grandmother encouraged me to avoid.
“Based on my very slight understanding of what I’ve read in the newspapers,” I backtrack. “Is it even peep-toes? Maybe they said stilettos.”
The shocked looks dissipate only slightly, and it’s up to Jane to come to my rescue once again.
“We don’t like to talk too much about it,” she says. “A few of the women here have lost some of their most valuable pieces. You understand.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
For a moment, I think I’ve blown it. They can sense that my apology isn’t heartfelt, that a large part of me isn’t sorry at all, since each and every one of them probably had a hefty insurance policy to make up for their loss.
I mean, it’s not like I think someone like Tara or Christopher deserves the jewelry any more than these women, but if you think about it, they probably did earn it. High-quality, seamless heists aren’t easy to pull off. Most people don’t realize how much legwork and planning go into stealing things of that magnitude.
“I’m sure you didn’t.” The statuesque woman smiles tightly at me. “The point is, we’re very grateful to the Conrad Museum. They’ve been more than generous in allowing us to host the ball at their facility, all things considered.”
I nod. Generous is one word to describe it. Anything that valuable on display is a security risk, no matter what. But right now? With a prowler on the loose and no sign of an arrest on the horizon? This Black and White Ball is practically an open invitation.
“I’d love to see that necklace,” I say with complete honesty. “It sounds right up my alley.”
My acceptance or nonacceptance in this crowd teeters for a moment, balanced as if on the edge of a diamond spike. I hold my breath, waiting to see which way I’ll fall, when my grandmother intervenes with a request that everyone drink up their tea before it gets cold. The reminder of her existence—of her natural authority—is enough to secure my place for at least another day.
Cold sweat seems to have broken out on my upper lip, so I use the distraction of a quick trip to the powder room to regain my composure. The woman staring back at me in the mirror is one I recognize well. Oh, she’s dressed up in cream-colored cashmere, and her hair is pulled back in a loose and elegant braid, but there’s no mistaki
ng that greedy glint in her eye.
It’s being around these jewels on display, all this talk of diamond collections, that does it. Riker’s not the only one with a problem controlling his impulses.
“You will not think about stealing the Starbrite Necklace,” I command in a harsh whisper, chastising the woman looking back at me. “You made a deal with Grant to catch a thief, not slip back into becoming one. You’re reformed. Clean. One of the good guys.”
I’m so convincing, I almost believe it.
By the time I return to the party, the crowd has departed. All that remain are Jane, my grandmother, and one weary-looking maid appraising the mess of plates and cups on every surface.
“There now. That wasn’t so terrible, was it?” Jane asks. “I think they liked you.”
“Are you kidding? I almost blew it there at the end. I had no idea I wasn’t supposed to talk about…certain things.”
“No need to tiptoe around me. I haven’t been robbed. I keep all my valuables in a safe deposit box for a reason.”
Safe deposit boxes aren’t that hard to get into, not if you time things right, but I decide to save that tip for when we know each other better.
“Let that be a lesson to you in behaving like a lady,” my grandmother says. “When in doubt, speak less, and smile more. Believe me when I tell you that these women aren’t afraid of passing judgment—and acting on it.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I picked up on that.”
“On the bright side, you already have the approval that matters most,” Jane says. She tilts her head toward my grandmother. “No one is tougher on new recruits than this woman right here.”
I cast Jane’s severe cheekbones and cold eyes a doubtful look, which only causes her to smile. “I know, I know. I come across as mean, but don’t hold it against me. That’s what decades of functioning as a woman in a man’s world looks like. It’s my resting I-can-fire-you-and-cancel-your-pension-so-don’t-even-try face.”
Saving Mr. Perfect Page 18
