by Cleo Coyle
She gestured toward the front of the vast room, near the high stage, on which the silent auction items were being displayed next to individual boxes where bidders would deposit their written offers by the end of the evening. All the items had been donated by patrons. The bulk of them were antiques, objets d’art, or promised services (including a famous Food Channel chef who’d agreed to cater your next dinner party, and a celebrity singer who stood ready to serenade you tonight in a carriage ride around Central Park).
The funds raised would benefit various special programs at St. Vincent’s Hospital, a charity for which Madame’s earnest efforts now made more sense to me than ever since she was being treated for cancer there. In fact, as she and I approached table five, I was surprised to see her oncologist rising to greet us.
“Clare,” said Madame. “I’d like you to meet Dr. Gary McTavish.”
It was Doctor Gray-Temples all right. I had caught only a glimpse of the sixtyish man the other day, talking with Madame in the hospital corridor, as I rode the elevator up to see Anabelle in the ICU. He still had distinguished gray temples in a head of salt-and-peppered hair, boldly chiseled facial features, and a sturdy build, but tonight he’d exchanged his white coat for a black tie, red plaid vest, and black dinner jacket.
“Charmed, my dear,” he said, the slight Scottish brogue sealing the Sean Connery impression. “I’ve heard many good things about you.”
“Nice,” I blurted as he bent over my hand. “I mean, uh…nice to meet you.”
Gray-Temples gave me a polite smile, then quickly focused his warm brown eyes back on Madame’s now-glowing face. “She’s charming, Blanche.”
Blanche, I thought. Hmmmm. Doctor and patient certainly have gotten chummy.
Gray-Temples then moved to the chair next to his, gallantly pulled it out, and gave Madame a flirty wink. “May I?”
Madame practically giggled. “You certainly may, Gary.”
Gary! Not even Doctor Gary. Another Hmmmmm on my part.
The good doctor pulled out my chair next, but his eyes never left Madame’s.
I nervously glanced about, making sure Matt hadn’t arrived yet. He had a short fuse and a terribly protective streak with every woman in his life. Who knew what he’d do if he suspected his mother’s oncologist was trying to make time with her.
“Greetings, all,” said Matt about ten seconds later. He plopped into the empty seat between me and his mother. “Ready?” he whispered to me.
I took a fortifying sip of my black Russian.
“Now we’re all present and accounted for!” exclaimed Madame. “Everyone, this is my son Matt, and his wife, Clare—”
EX-wife, EX-wife, EX-wife!
No, I didn’t actually shout this over the tinkling piano music, burbling conversations, and discordant rhythmic bleepings of cell phones. Maintaining my composure, I tried instead to refocus my attention on sending another hit of coffee-flavored alcohol down my esophagus. Loving Madame as much as I did, I figured what the heck else could I do?
“—and let me introduce everyone else—”
There were seven other people at the table besides me, Matt, and Madame: Dr. Gray-Temples; Dr. Frankel, a middle-aged African-American doctor, and his corporate lawyer wife, Harriet; a St. Vincent’s administrative director named Mrs. O’Brien; a deputy city commissioner from the New York City Department of Health and Mental Hygiene named Marjorie Greenberg and her psychologist husband; and finally—
“Eduardo,” said Madame, gesturing to the man on my left. “Eduardo Lebreux.”
Why did the name sound familiar? I asked myself.
“Eduardo worked for my late husband,” Madame answered before I could ask.
Now I remembered! Eduardo was also the man Madame had said “highly recommended” that idiot Moffat Flaste, undeniably the worst manager in Blend history.
“And now that we’ve all been introduced,” continued Madame, “I see our first course coming. Waldorf salad. Bon appetit!”
I haven’t met a lot of fans of the mayonnaise-covered apples and celery salad, which is the original version of the Waldorf (the recipe now includes chopped walnuts), but it was a nostalgic choice for the evening, considering the salad was created at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel back in the 1890s. Of course, back then, the hotel was located over on Fifth and Thirty-fourth, the very spot where the Empire State Building is now located.
As the salads were being served, I turned to the man on my left. Middle-aged, but how old was hard to tell. Fifty? Sixty? Short of stature, like Pierre, but not nearly as handsome. He had dark hair, thinning on the top and a little too long at the back, a mustache that needed trimming, and a pensive look to his pale green eyes. No wrinkles but the sort of blotchy skin acquired from drinking and smoking to excess since nursery school. He was the sort who could easily appear aged beyond his years. Yet his evening clothes were gorgeous. Possibly Italian. Definitely expensive.
“Excuse me, Mr. Lebreux,” I said, “but what did you do for Pierre Dubois?”
“Oh, a little bit of this, a little bit of that—”
Slight French accent. French last name. But first name Eduardo?
“Were you raised in France?” I asked.
I felt Matt’s hand rest lightly on my arm. I ignored it. There was something shady about this guy, and my gut urged me to do some fishing.
“My father was French,” said Eduardo. “My mother Portuguese.”
“That’s why Mr. Lebreux was so helpful to Pierre in the import-export business,” Madame said, leaning toward us. “His connections in France, Portugal, and in Spain, too.”
“Yes, that’s right. You know how it goes. A shipment here or there, of champagne, port, perfume, whatever, may go missing on its way to America if the right wheels are not—how you say—greased.”
“Clare—” Matt whispered. His hand moved to my elbow, squeezed.
“How interesting,” I said to Lebreux. “Tell me more.”
“Really, it’s boring stuff…. I just helped Pierre with his business.”
“And now that Pierre has died and his business is closed,” I said pointedly, “what do you do?”
“Oh,” he said, looking away as if bored. “A little bit of this. A little bit of that.”
“Clare!”
The entire table jumped and turned. Now every one of our dinner companions was staring at us.
Smooth, Matt. Smooth.
“Excuse me, everyone,” said Matt with a sheepish smile. “I, uh, left my Palm Pilot in Mother’s room, and it’s vital I retrieve it. Clare, I’m sure you’ll remember where I set it down. We’ll be right back—”
I was reluctant to leave off my questioning of Eduardo, but I was even more reluctant to be parted from my right arm, which was being aggressively tugged upward by an ex-husband whose carved marble biceps were no match for me.
“Go on, then,” said Madame, who looked oddly pleased by this announcement. I didn’t know why until we’d taken two steps away. “Matt’s father used to make excuses to slip away from parties, too. Matt is so romantic! Just like his father!”
“Matt,” I whispered. “Did you hear that? Your mother thinks—”
“Let her,” he said. “Better she suspects us of having a sexual fling than what we’re really going to do.”
I myself wasn’t so sure.
T WENTY-TWO
T HE elevator door slid open. I inhaled, exhaled, and wrung my clammy hands.
“Don’t worry,” Matteo had told me back in Madame’s suite. “Everything has gone smoothly so far, hasn’t it?”
“If by ‘smoothly’ you mean that no hotel detective has caught on yet and handcuffed us, then I guess you’re right.”
Matt actually laughed at me.
“Clare, you’ve seen too many film noirs. Or maybe episodes of The Three Stooges. And I can just imagine you watching the Stooges on the local Podunk, New Jersey, channel out there in suburbia.”
“Ha, ha.”
We had gone
to Madame’s suite, just as we’d said. I had to make the call from an actual guest room—given the advances in telephone technology, the hotel staff could easily see where you were calling from, and I couldn’t risk using a house phone because they might get suspicious.
“Don’t worry about Darla Hart showing up, either,” Matt insisted. “Before I came to the table downstairs, I called your friend Dr. Foo at St. Vincent’s. He told me Darla’s still at Anabelle’s side, so there’s no chance you’ll be caught in the act.”
Somehow his words didn’t comfort me. After all, I was the one who had to be the con artist here. Matt—who, in my experience, was so much smoother at misdirection than I—couldn’t do it this time.
“Go ahead, make the call,” Matt said, indicating the telephone on the night table. “Nobody who picks up that phone will believe that I’m Darla Hart.”
“I know, I know,” I said.
I cleared my throat, lifted the receiver, and pressed the button marked HOUSE KEEPING. Someone answered on the first ring.
“Hello,” I said. “This is Darla Hart, from Room 818—” (As Madame was checking in, I had asked the desk clerk if “our friend Darla” had checked in yet—and then asked for her room number so we could visit. The clerk was reluctant to give out a guest’s room number because it wasn’t the hotel’s policy to give out such information. But I pressed, and since Madame was a familiar guest, she gave it up.) “I’m visiting Mrs. Dubois on twenty-six, but I’m about to return to my room for a nice long bath. Please send up extra towels.”
“Certainly, Ms. Hart. Right away!” said the male voice on the other end of the line.
“Thank you,” I said. And for a split second, I imagined the same male voice dialing the police the second I hung up.
“This will never work,” I told Matt.
“Of course it will,” Matteo replied, pushing me out the door. “Now get going and watch for the maid to enter Darla’s room. Ring me here when you get inside, and I’ll come up. And don’t forget this.”
He thrust Madame’s key card into my hand. “Hold it in your hand, as if you were about to unlock the room,” Matt reminded me. “But don’t let her check it in the door lock or you might be spending the night on Riker’s Island.”
“What do you mean you; don’t you mean we?”
Matt’s dark eyebrow lifted, and he crossed his arms. This unfortunately emphasized how beautifully his broad shoulders tapered down to his narrow hips, all of which were handsomely defined by the smooth lines of his exquisitely tailored Armani dinner jacket. “I don’t know. You look pretty hot tonight,” he said. “Seeing you handcuffed in this little Valentino number might be worth it.”
“Fine,” I said, more irritated by my momentary attraction to Matt’s damned irrepressible masculinity than his bawdy little joke, “but if I get caught, I’m cutting a deal. You’re the one who masterminded the operation—the DA’s going to want you, not me.”
“You have been watching too many film noirs.”
“All right, I’m going.”
“Clare—”
“What?”
The teasing laughter left his eyes. “Don’t worry.”
“Too late.”
Darla’s floor seemed to be deserted when I got there. Good, I thought.
I walked down the hallway, which was pleasant but not plush. This was a business-class floor, after all, the floor for the more budget-minded guests. Since Darla Hart seemed to be nearing the bottom of her cash barrel, that made sense. What didn’t make sense was why she chose the Waldorf-Astoria in the first place. Even a “cheap” room in this place could run three to five hundred dollars a night. Why not seek more economical digs?
Well, Clare, I told myself, that’s what you’re here to find out…
I turned a corner in time to see a young Hispanic woman in a maid’s uniform stepping out of Darla Hart’s room.
“Hello!” I said, brandishing Madame’s key card as I hurried forward. “Thank you so much for the extra towels.”
I brushed past the maid and stuck my foot in the door.
“This is for your trouble,” I said as I produced a ten-dollar bill. I pressed it into the woman’s hand.
“Good night,” I said.
Slipping past the maid, I entered the room and closed the door behind me. Bolted it, too. Then I peered through the peephole until the woman pocketed her tip and vanished around the corner.
So far, so good. I’d like to thank the Academy for this award…
I dived for the phone and called Matt.
“I’m in,” I said and hung up.
The décor was what I expected of a 2,000-room hotel—what I called “Commercial Colonial Moderne.” Of course, Darla’s “Business Class” room here on the eighth floor was much smaller than Madame’s “Astoria Level” suite up on twenty-six, which had a foyer, a separate bedroom, living area, a wet bar, French doors, a spectacular view of Park Avenue, and access to an executive lounge that served complimentary evening hors d’oeuvres.
Tourists to New York City are often surprised at the small size of hotel rooms even in grand hotels like the Waldorf. But real estate comes at a premium price on Manhattan Island, and spacious living, even in hotels, is a rarity indeed.
Well, I thought, at least it wasn’t Tokyo, where Matt tells me an economy room can be as small as a horizontal phone booth. The Waldorf’s Business Class wasn’t that small, more like 200 square feet, nothing compared to Madame’s 700-square-foot suite upstairs. But it was well appointed, if not up to the lush opulence of the grand lobby.
The furniture consisted of a queen-sized bed with a dark wood headboard. The cream-colored coverlet had been turned down and a foil-wrapped chocolate placed on the fluffy white pillows. There was a nightstand, a matching dresser, an upholstered armchair draped with a floral-print slipcover that reached down to the thick-pile carpet, a large wood-framed mirror, a few lamps, and a desk in the corner.
Darla was pretty neat. There were a few pieces of clothing draped over the armchair (a lovely satin negligee and thigh-high silk stockings) and some shoes next to the bed (Manolo Blahnik Alligator pumps, retail $850), but otherwise the room was well kept. On the desk was a tangerine Mac laptop computer, plugged into the phone jack. That surprised me. Somehow I never pictured Darla Hart as a computer user, but this was, after all, the high-tech yet still-violent twenty-first century; everyone was either getting plugged or plugging in.
A familiar rhythmic knock interrupted my search. Rat-tat-uh-tat-tat. Tat. Tat. I opened the door, and Matt slipped inside. I bolted it again.
“I told you it would be easy,” he said.
“We’re not out of the woods—or the room—yet,” I countered.
It occurred to me that Matteo’s little plan was so foolproof in his mind, he might have used it successfully before. Probably to slip into some other woman’s room, I figured. Three guesses why.
“We don’t have much time,” I announced, opening the drawers and riffling through them. All were full of neatly folded clothing. “Donna Karan, Miuccia Prada, Dolce & Gabbana…” I muttered, “Well, it’s easy to see where her money goes.”
“A laptop!” Matt said, moving to the desk. “Shit, it’s a Mac.”
“I like Macs,” I said. “Need help?”
“No. I can use them. I just don’t like them. We’ve had this discussion.”
“Yes, let’s not go there again. Wouldn’t Darla have a password or something?” I asked, still tossing drawers.
“Maybe,” Matt replied. “But you’d be surprised at how many people don’t bother with—presto!”
I turned. Matt had opened the cover on the computer, pressed the space bar, and the machine had come to life.
“She actually left it running!” Matt said. He couldn’t hide his boyish glee at doing something naughty.
I continued my search while Matt examined the contents of the files on Darla Hart’s computer.
“She’s got a security password set up o
n her banking program,” Matt said. “No chance I can get in.”
“Don’t worry about that,” I replied. “Judging by her behavior, there are no secrets lurking in Darla’s bank account. It’s empty.”
Behind me, Matt continued tapping the keyboard.
After more searching, I found Darla’s suitcases—monogrammed Louis Vuitton leather with polished brass trim—tucked in the back of the closet. I dragged them out and opened one after the other. The first bag was empty. The second, a small beauty case, contained cosmetics. The lipsticks were all pinks and neutrals and perky pastels that were more appropriate for a much younger woman—or a woman who wanted to look much younger. Ditto the mascara. Darla certainly wasn’t wearing this kind of makeup the day I met her. Could it belong to someone else? Perhaps Anabelle?
I closed the cosmetics bag and opened the third case. Inside I found buried treasure—a wad of papers clipped together with a black metal clamp. I pulled them out.
“I’m going to access her Internet files,” Matt said. “There’s a dedicated line here and it looks like she automated the password to her AOL account.”
I sat on the edge of the chair and paged through the paperwork. One of them—dated just a few months ago—was actually an official court document with the title “Darla Hart vs. The Penn Life Insurance Company.” I turned the pages, wading through the legalese.
As far as I could puzzle out, about eighteen months ago Darla Hart had—or claimed to have had—an on-the-job injury that occurred while she was employed as an “artistic dancer” at a “place of business” called The Wiggle Room in Jacksonville, Florida.
Darla claimed her injury prevented her from working and demanded disability payments. The manager of the establishment, one Victor Vega, disputed her claim and the matter was settled in a court of law.
Not in Darla’s favor, as it turned out. Not only did she lose her case to the insurance company, but the State of Florida denied her disability claim. The last few letters were from her lawyer, demanding payment for legal fees that were in arrears.
At least now I knew that Darla had learned what my dear old dad had called the “slip-and-fall” ploy—a variant of which she was now threatening to use against the Blend.
