On What Grounds

by Cleo Coyle

  Clearly, Darla was an opportunist. But just how far would she go to exploit an opportunity, that was the question. As far as pushing her pregnant stepdaughter, who’d just made the dance company of her dreams, down a flight of stairs?

  As unpleasant as she was, it was still difficult to picture even Darla stooping so low.

  “Bull’s-eye!” Matteo announced. He turned around and faced me, a dazzling grin on his handsome face. “Wanna know why Darla’s in New York?”

  I raced to his side. “Why?”

  “There are about thirty e-mails to a guy named Arthur Jay Eddleman, who appears to be the partner in the accounting firm of Eddleman, Alter, and Berry.”

  “I found something, too.”

  I showed Matteo the legal papers. Then I pointed to the list of e-mails on the computer screen. “Are these e-mails part of another lawsuit or something?”

  “More like or something,” Matt said with a bawdy tone.

  “What?” I asked. “What!”

  “I opened a few of the more recent e-mails in Darla’s download file first. By then they were Darla and Arthur. But when their relationship began, they were called ‘Muffy’ and ‘Stud366’—their chat room names.”

  “You mean an Internet romance?”

  “And a hot and heavy one, too. The first e-mails date back about three months, the last few were sent yesterday and today.”

  I sat down and read the letters. It was obvious that once Darla had discovered the real identity of the affluent “Stud366,” she set out to hook the fat fishy and reel him into her net.

  Darla’s e-mails made her out to be a respectable woman of independent means—not exactly the broke, unemployed ex-stripper she really was.

  Yet from the letters themselves—barely literate with misspelled and misused words—Mr. Arthur Jay Eddleman would have had to be pretty darned gullible to be fooled into thinking Darla was even a high school graduate, let alone a cultured woman of wealth.

  Some of her e-mails were vulgar and explicit enough, however, to get any male’s attention. And Darla Hart clearly had succeeded in getting Mr. Arthur Eddleman’s. With an explicit e-mail of his own, outlining all the things they might do together (and I’m not talking Central Park carousel rides and trips to the Statue of Liberty), he’d agreed to meet her when “she came to New York City on business.”

  That’s why Darla had taken a room at the Waldorf-Astoria! It fit her false front as an independently wealthy woman, thereby assuring Mr. Eddleman she wasn’t after him for his credit cards, stock portfolio, or four-bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side.

  Finally, Matt showed me an e-mail that was sent by Darla at eight o’clock in the morning on Thursday, the very day I found Anabelle lying broken at the bottom of the Blend’s steps—a letter gushing with happiness at the wonderful evening they’d spent together, and the night they’d spent together, too, right here in this room.

  So while Anabelle was tumbling down stairs, her mother was tumbling in Waldorf sheets here with Mr. Arthur Jay Eddleman of Eddleman, Alter, and Berry, Accountants. Or at least it looked that way. She could easily have sent the e-mail as a ploy, to cover her ass.

  “God,” I cried. “That name. Eddleman. I think he’s on the list!”

  “List?” said Matteo. “What list? Who’s on the list?”

  I pulled the silent auction program out of my evening bag—a little black lizard double-strapped Ferragamo knockoff, bought from an Eighth Street sidewalk vendor for $20 (as opposed to eBay for $650). The slick booklet included information on the items being auctioned as well as information on the St. Vincent’s programs for which the benefit was being held.

  “Look, here at the back of the program is an extensive guest list for the dinner downstairs…” I pointed to the pages where the thousand names were listed in alphabetical order, table numbers printed beside each name. “See, under the letter E…Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Jay Eddleman. Looks like Stud366 is one of the guests at your mother’s charity ball. And he’s married. Bet Darla didn’t know that.”

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” Matt said, eyebrow arched. “And how the hell did you remember seeing his name anyway? What did you do, memorize a thousand names?”

  “I took a chance and looked up the name Engstrum earlier. Eddleman is two names away on the list. Look—Eddleman, Eggers, Engstrum.”

  “I see,” said Matt. “But who are the Engstrums?”

  “That’s the family name of Anabelle’s boyfriend—Richard Engstrum, Junior. You know what Esther calls him, don’t you? ‘The Dick.’”

  “Oh, right.”

  “The Engstrums have money and connections,” I told Matt. “So I thought someone from the family might be here tonight. We know Anabelle was pregnant, but we don’t know anything about how her boyfriend felt about it.”

  “Right,” said Matt, looking closer at the names in the booklet. “Engstum is listed here all right.”

  “Yeah, and it’s a jackpot, too. See…Mr. and Mrs. Richard Engstrum, Senior, are listed at table fifty-eight, along with their son, Richard, Junior.”

  “Am I reading this right?” said Matt. “That boy is here partying when his pregnant girlfriend is lying in an ICU?”

  “Yes.”

  “The little shit.” Matt’s jaw worked a moment and his fists clenched. “Yeah. I’d like to talk to him all right.”

  “Agreed. After we finish up here. Anything else we should check?” I glanced around the small room.

  Matt rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess we could jot down some of the Web sites Darla bookmarked. Then we’d better get out of here.”

  I loaned Matt a pen and small notebook I’d brought along. He jotted down Web sites while I put Darla’s papers in the suitcase and put everything back into the closet pretty much as I’d found it. I scanned the room one more time.

  “That’s weird,” Matt said.

  “What now?”

  “We just talked about Richard Engstrum, didn’t we? Anabelle’s boyfriend.”

  “Right.”

  “Well, Darla has been doing some heavy research into—guess what?”

  I hurried over to the laptop screen.

  “Engstrum Systems,” I said.

  “Yeah,” said Matt, “And the subsidiaries like Engstrum Investment. And look at this—newspaper articles about Richard Engstrum, Senior, the CEO.”

  “Wow, the woman really is an operator,” I said. “Anabelle got pregnant with Richard Junior’s baby, and it sure looks like Darla was preparing to blackmail the kid into getting the money from Daddy.”

  “Preparing to blackmail. You don’t think Darla could have started blackmailing Anabelle’s boyfriend already?”

  “No way. Darla’s too desperate for cash. If she is in the process of blackmail, there’ve been no payoffs yet.”

  “In any case, Darla may have an alibi,” Matt said, closing the lid on Darla’s computer. “Looks like she was here having a romantic tryst the night her stepdaughter got hurt—if it was attempted murder, and not just a stupid bloody accident.”

  “It wasn’t an accident, Matt. Don’t even say that.”

  “But that’s what it still looks like, Clare.” Matt shook his head. “And we’re in deep trouble. Darla’s workplace injury claim was denied in Florida. Then her next money-making scheme to blackmail Anabelle’s boyfriend went bad because with Anabelle’s accident the girl’s pregnancy is now in jeopardy anyway. The woman’s got no money-making prospects left but to sue the hell out of us.”

  “She’s still got one,” I pointed out. “You forgot about Arthur Jay Eddleman.”

  A soft knock suddenly sounded at Darla’s door.

  “Matt!” I rasped. “Who the heck is that?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Do you think it’s the maid again?”

  “If it is,” said Matt, “you better answer.”

  “What if it isn’t the maid?”

  I pictured NYPD uniforms and nickel-plated badges again. A wall of b
lue dragging my evening-gowned ass through the Waldorf’s elegant lobby.

  The knock came again.

  “Clare,” whispered Matt, “go answer it!”

  I frantically shook my head. “Silver bracelets don’t go with vintage Valenino, Matt. You answer it!”

  Suddenly, we heard a man speak.

  “Muffy,” called the voice in a seductive coo. “Open up. It’s me. Stud366.”

  T WENTY-THREE

  I stared at Matt. He stared at me. Arthur Jay Eddleman knocked again, this time more insistently.

  “Come on, Muffy honey,” he said with a mixture of sweet talk and wheedling. “Don’t hide from your Studdly-bunny. I saw the floor maid. She told me you’d just retired. How about we take that bed of yours for one more spin?”

  “Matt, what do we—”

  Matt put his finger to my lips.

  “Follow my lead,” he said. Then he winked. I hate it when my ex-husband winks. Trouble always follows.

  Before I could stop him, Matt flung open the hotel room door.

  On the other side stood a very startled older man wearing a suit of evening clothes. He had delicate features, pale skin, and a receding hairline. Though short and thin, Mr. Eddleman could almost be considered distinguished, except for the bottle-thick, black frame glasses that were too large for his head.

  “Sorry,” he stammered, his pale face flushing. “Wrong room.”

  “Mr. Eddleman,” Matt said in an authoritative-sounding voice. “Arthur Jay Eddleman?”

  The man froze in his tracks. “Yes?”

  “Step inside, Mr. Eddleman.”

  Matt stepped aside. To my surprise, Arthur Jay Eddleman entered the hotel room of his own free will.

  Then, in one smooth motion, Matteo slipped his passport out of an inside jacket pocket and flipped it open. A split-second later he snapped it closed again and tucked it back.

  “My name is Special Agent Matt Savage of the International Drug Interdiction Task Force, and this is my assistant, Agent Tiffany Vanderweave.”

  Vanderweave? I knew it was spur of the moment, but couldn’t he have come up with a better name that that? And Tiffany! Do I look like a Tiffany?

  “Oh, goodness!” said Eddleman, clearly shaken. “Goodness.”

  “We were going to pay you a visit down at Eddleman, Alter, and Berry, but you saved us the trouble,” Matt continued.

  “D-Do you m-mind if I s-s-sit,” Mr. Eddleman asked, pointing to the floral-print chair with the satin negligee draped on it. Matt nodded and sat down across from him on the edge of the bed.

  “What’s Darla done?” Eddleman asked.

  “What do you mean?” asked Matt pointedly.

  “You’re in her room. You must suspect her of something.”

  “Do you suspect her of anything, Mr. Eddleman?”

  “No, no,” he replied, waving his arms, his fingers catching on one of Darla’s thigh-high stockings. Embarrassed, he batted it away as if it were a spider web. “We’re just friends. She didn’t fool me, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Fool you, Mr. Eddleman?” said Matt with a strategically raised eyebrow. “How would Ms. Hart ‘fool’ you?”

  For a guy who historically distrusted legal authorities in every corner of the globe, Matteo was surprisingly good at imitating one. In fact, his Joe Friday delivery was so convincing I had to bite my tongue to keep from bursting with laughter.

  “She’s not who she said she was, that much I knew,” Mr. Eddleman continued. “But I didn’t think she was a criminal. And certainly not a drug smuggler…or whatever it is you’re after her for doing.”

  “Mr. Eddleman,” I said, having gathered enough nerve to act the part of Ms. Vanderweave. “Just what is your relationship with Ms. Hart?”

  There, I thought, that sounded authoritative.

  Matteo shot me a look—I think he was amused at my getting into the act. I ignored him, and did my best to keep a straight face.

  Darla Hart may not have pushed her stepdaughter down a flight of stairs, but she had pushed her into nude dancing at one time, and she might have been trying to enlist the girl in some sort of blackmail scheme. Matt and I really did need to resolve any outstanding questions about the woman—including the question of her alibi.

  “Well,” Eddleman said, his eyes on the floor. “You know how it is…” His voice trailed off.

  “We know you’re a married man, Mr. Eddleman.”

  “Oh, please…please don’t tell my wife about this.” He looked panicked. “Thirty-one years I’ve been married. I do care for my wife, and I’d never think of leaving her.”

  “Then why were you seeing Darla Hart?” I pressed.

  Eddleman sighed and his shoulders sagged.

  “We met in one of those sexy Internet chat rooms,” he said. “She flirted with me. I flirted with her. We exchanged a few e-mails, and after a while…”

  His voice trailed off again and he shrugged as if what came next was inevitable.

  “When did you begin sleeping with Darla?” asked Matt.

  “Just a few days ago, after she came into town,” Eddleman replied. “We had a date and hit it off.”

  “You say you love your wife, Mr. Eddleman,” said Matt. “Didn’t you consider blackmail?”

  Eddleman sighed again. “I’m a very wealthy man, Agent Savage.”

  “All the more reason to fear blackmail,” I pointed out.

  “I have money to spare. You see what I mean?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Darla…Women like Darla…They think they’re clever. Sharp operators, you know. They meet a man like me and see dollar signs. Darla never talked about money, but I knew she would get around to it. By that time I figured we’d be sick of one another or the romance would go sour. Then I would part with a little money. Enough so that she would go away, no hard feelings.”

  “Sounds like you’ve done this before,” Matt said.

  Eddleman nodded. “Yes, I have. And do you want to know why?”

  Matt shifted, didn’t ask. For the first time, he looked uneasy. Well, Matt was a man. He probably already figured he knew the answer. But I sure wanted to know Eddleman’s answer.

  “Why, Mr. Eddleman?” I asked pointedly.

  Through the thick lenses, his eyes were watery blue, almost as washed out as his skin. Even sitting up, the little man’s shoulders were slightly hunched, his chest sunken. Mr. Arthur Jay Eddleman had clearly spent too many long, unhealthy hours indoors, poring over numbers and ledgers.

  Suddenly I did know why. He didn’t have to say it. But I’d already asked—

  “I got married young, Ms. Vanderweave,” he said. “Young and poor may sound romantic, but it is not. I spent my twenties working in the daytime and going to night school. In my thirties and forties, I worked fifty, sixty, seventy hours a week to provide a good living for my wife and family. In my fifties I started my own firm.” He paused, his eyes seemed far away. “That was when the real work began, let me tell you. Eighteen years of it.”

  Arthur Jay Eddleman shook his head. “Now I’m older and richer, but frankly I was feeling too old to enjoy my riches. My wife has her friends and shopping and in these last few years she has been sickly. My kids have their own lives, they don’t need me hanging around.

  “So I decided to meet women…Sometimes we hit it off. Sometimes we don’t. I just want a little romance, a little fun, before the lights go out for good.”

  We sat in silence for a moment. Matt seemed to have run out of questions. Finally I spoke.

  “Did Ms. Hart ever mention a stepdaughter named Anabelle?”

  “No, never,” Eddleman said. “Darla said she had friends in New York City, but I didn’t meet any of them.”

  “One more thing we’d like to confirm,” Matt said, rising. “And then I think we’re finished.”

  “Sure,” Eddleman said. “Anything to help prevent drug peddling or smuggling or…whatever you’re doing.”

  “Were you and Ms. Hart
together this past Wednesday night?”

  Eddleman didn’t even hesitate. “The whole night,” he replied. “My wife went to Scarsdale to visit our daughter. I met Darla at eight o’clock, Wednesday evening, right here at the hotel. We had dinner at the Rainbow Room, then walked around the city. We got back around midnight, and I left at seven or seven-thirty Thursday morning—my wife was due back at noon.”

  Matt and I exchanged glances. Darla’s alibi was solid, all right. I nodded.

  “Thank you, Mr. Eddleman,” Matt said, taking him by the elbow and leading him to the door.

  “Should I stay away from her?” Mr. Eddleman said, pausing on the threshold. “Darla, I mean.”

  “That would be wise,” Matt replied. “But if you do see her again, don’t mention this encounter. It may jeopardize our investigation, and that’s a crime.”

  So’s impersonating a federal official, Matt, I thought.

  “Thank you for your cooperation,” Matt said, pushing the door.

  “Nice meeting you, Ms. Vanderweave,” Eddleman said with a creepy smile that told me the guy wasn’t about to quit with Darla. Yuck, I thought. And with his wife still at dinner right downstairs.

  He was still waving at me, his eyes on my cleavage, when Matt closed the door.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” Matt said. “Darla could come back any minute.”

  “Even worse,” I replied, my stomach rumbling. “We could miss the main course.”

  T WENTY-FOUR

  G EORGE Gee and his Make-Believe Ballroom Orchestra had just begun bouncing big band swing off the four-story ceiling, coaxing a slow parade of couples toward the dance floor, when Matt and I returned to the charity dinner.

  “The band’s good,” said Matt over the jaunty jump of woodwinds and barking brass.

  “Very,” I said. “That’s George Gee and his band. They’re the darlings of the Rainbow Room these days.”

  The Rainbow Room was one of the most elegant dinner-dance clubs in New York—high atop Rockefeller Center, it was about the only place left where dancing cheek-to-cheek in elegant evening clothes was even remotely possible.