Eenie, meenie, minie, moe. I figured 30B should be easy enough to find since there were only four apartments on each floor. I rang its bell knowing that Tiffany Stewart was probably already standing behind the door.
The entrance opened, and I felt as if I’d been transported to never-never land. Donald Trump, eat your heart out. My eyes didn’t know where to land first—on the enormous crystal chandeliers, the French-cut glass mirrors, or the fortyish, fit, and fabulous-looking woman who stood before me.
Tiffany Stewart was a combination of Dolly Parton, Pamela Anderson, and Madonna all rolled into one. In fact, it was as if she’d bought a few of their body parts and had her chassis reassembled.
Long blonde hair fell below her shoulders, its color the same glorious shade as that on Bitsy von Falken’s corpse. Tiffany Stewart stood attired in a sweater laden with enough sequins to have blinded an army of onlookers. Even so, it was impossible not to notice her twin assets that rose, majestic as the Himalayas, beneath her skintight top. Tiffany was either naturally well-endowed, or had found herself one heck of a good plastic surgeon.
The next thing to grab my eye was the humongous diamond choker that encircled her throat. The woman had more money hanging around her neck than I made in a single year. I was tempted to count the stones, but there were far too many. Besides, it would have depressed me with thoughts of my all-too-miniscule savings account.
The remainder of her outfit consisted of black stretch pants over a pair of legs as long as two exclamation points, punctuated by bloodred Manolo Blahnik spike heels. The final fashion accoutrement was the white teacup poodle that lay in her arms. The pooch was about as large as the diamond on her ring.
Though I hadn’t known what to expect, this certainly wasn’t it. Tiffany Stewart was far from your average run-of-the-mill, tight-ass socialite.
“Well, come in. Just kick your boots off on the mat, and hang your jacket on the rack,” she instructed, motioning with her lit Cigarillo.
Only then did I dare to step on her spotless white carpet.
“How about a drink?” she asked.
I followed her Cigarillo to where a glass of scotch sat on a garish gold coffee table. The lipstick on its rim perfectly matched the color on her lips.
“No, thanks. It’s a little early for me yet,” I replied. “Besides…”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. You’re on the job,” she brusquely retorted, cutting me off. “Having to work for a living really sucks.”
Maybe so. But it was the phrase she’d so casually dropped that caught my attention. “On the job” was inside lingo used to convey you knew someone on the force. It came in particularly handy when stopped by a cop for something like a speeding ticket. I took note of the term, but chose to say nothing. Instead, I asked a question that had been eating at me ever since her phone call.
“How did you find me, anyway?” I inquired. “Most people don’t know what a Fish and Wildlife agent is, let alone how to track one down.”
Tiffany Stewart sank onto a gold brocade couch while indicating that I was to sit in a nearby chair. The poodle buried its head in her lap as she took another drag on her Cigarillo.
“Have you ever heard of a little thing called the Discovery Channel? They had a special on agents like you. Who else am I going to call about shahtoosh? The NYPD?” she retorted with a sharp laugh. “After that, I let my fingers do the walking through the phone book.”
“But why Newark? Why not call the New York office?” I asked, still somewhat perturbed.
“I don’t know. Why? Is there a problem?” she archly responded.
“No. Of course not,” I replied, not wanting to put her off before we even got started.
“All right. So then, exactly what is it that you want from me?” she asked.
The words wafted in the air on a billowy cloud of smoke.
“How do you know that Bitsy von Falken owned a shahtoosh shawl?” I inquired, getting straight to the point.
Tiffany rattled the cubes in her glass, and stared at them as though they were precious gems. Then she took a long, leisurely sip of scotch.
“Are you kidding? Who doesn’t own one of those things in this town?”
“I don’t know. You tell me. Do you have one of them?” I countered.
“Not on your life. I spend my money on more substantial items. I believe in only buying articles that maintain their value and are rock-solid investments,” she willy replied.
“Such as?” I asked, curious to know what those might be.
Tiffany raised a hand and wiggled her diamond ring at me. The gem caught a ray of light and emitted sparks, as if there were a fire burning inside.
“Ice, baby, ice. These little beauties never lose their worth. Turns out, Marilyn Monroe was right. Diamonds are a girl’s best friend. Worse comes to worse, you can always drop ’em in your pocket and run.”
Her fingers wandered up to her throat and grazed the choker, as if to reassure herself that it was still there for when the time was right.
“I’m not one of those pretentious grand dames around here that locks up their jewels and takes them out only on special occasions. What good does that do? Next thing you know, you’re dead and somebody else is enjoying them. I firmly believe in wearing my commodities.”
I was getting the distinct impression that Tiffany didn’t much care for her social peers. To my mind, that made her an even better informant. She’d have no qualms about gathering dirt on them.
“So then it’s true. A number of women in your circle do have shahtoosh shawls,” I remarked, and waited to hear what she had to say.
“Not my circle, honey. Don’t get me wrong. I may live up here, but that doesn’t mean I have to hobnob with this stuck-up crew. I wouldn’t let one of those snooty bitches trounce her bony ass through my door,” Tiffany snapped, with obvious disdain in her voice.
Whatever had happened between these women was definitely personal. That made me all the more curious as to Tiffany Stewart’s backstory.
The poodle let out a sharp yap.
“Is this what Chardonnay wants?” Tiffany asked, and reached for a candy bowl—except rather than sweets, it held doggy treats. Only then did I notice the poodle’s collar. It was an Hermès number made of crocodile and calfskin that had been handcrafted in Paris and cost around fourteen hundred dollars. Only the best for this little Upper East Side pooch. Apparently, Chardonnay also believed in wearing her commodities.
The pooch nearly nipped Tiffany’s finger as she popped a treat into its mouth. Spam could easily have swallowed this runt in a single gulp.
“Sorry about that. I just assumed…” I began, only to be cut off once again.
“Yeah, yeah. I know. You figured I must be part of their clique because I live like this. Well, maybe I was for a while. But all that ended the day my dear departed husby kicked the bucket. Once Andrew was gone, those broads wasted no time in showing their true colors,” she revealed.
Tiffany was clearly not to the manor born, but had married into her social circle. I decided to do some prospecting of my own and see what I could find out.
“Do you mind if I ask what you did before you were married?” I inquired, figuring that she’d probably been her husband’s secretary.
“I was an artist,” Tiffany revealed.
“Do you mean like a painter, or an illustrator?” I continued to press.
“No, an exotic dancer,” Tiffany matter-of-factly replied. “My body was my art form. That’s how I met my sweetie. He used to come to the club where I worked. He was so smitten with my talent that he gave me a present the very next day after we met. It came in one of those pretty little blue boxes. Cute, huh? Something from Tiffany’s for Tiffany. Soon, I had so many of those boxes that I could have built a damn castle out of them.”
I could only imagine how impressive her talent must have been. That helped to explain all of the bling. It also revealed why she was considered a pariah within the Upper East Side community. I
didn’t hesitate, but jumped right in.
“Do you happen to know where all these women are buying their shawls?” I asked.
“Sorry, but I can’t help you there.”
Damn! I watched as Tiffany fed her dog another treat. Maybe if I was really good in this life, I’d come back as a spoiled Upper East Side pooch in the next.
“Then how about giving me the names of any other women you know that own shahtoosh shawls?” I suggested.
She petulantly shook the ice in her glass, as if wondering where all the scotch could have gone.
“What do you think I am? Some sort of frigging computer? It’s not like I have a printed list inside my head,” she snapped.
Maybe not. But she’d certainly produced Bitsy von Falken’s name fast enough. Surely she knew at least one or two others. I was beginning to wonder if I’d only been given Bitsy because she was already dead. Perhaps Tiffany still felt a twinge of loyalty to the rest.
She poured a hefty dash of Chivas into her glass and took a sip, which seemed to calm her down. I caught Tiffany’s gaze and held it, letting her know that I wasn’t about to go anywhere. At least, not until I’d received more information.
“Okay. Maybe I can give you a lead in the right direction,” she finally relented.
Tiffany slipped out of the Manolo Blahniks, and I saw that her toenails were painted to match the color of her shoes.
“Bitsy threw one of those big charity wingdings that she was always so good at. Oh, I guess it must have been about a year ago. This one was to raise money for cancer awareness. Bitsy wanted to do something different, so she decided to auction off shahtoosh shawls.”
“Did you attend?” I asked.
Tiffany wrinkled her nose and leaned back against the brocade couch. “Andrew was already dead. I was told that my invitation got lost in the mail. Fat chance. In any case, I hear that people snapped them up like so much beluga caviar.”
“That’s great. The problem is, dead women don’t talk, and Bitsy had the invitation list,” I pointed out.
“You’re right about that. Except for the PR firm that coordinated the event. I bet they still have a record of all the attendees,” she slyly revealed.
Beneath that mound of sequins, Tiffany was proving to be a lot sharper than she’d originally let on.
“I don’t suppose you’d happen to have the company’s name, would you?” I asked.
This last glass of scotch had apparently done the trick.
“I just might,” she said, and standing up, dumped the pooch on the couch.
I watched as she walked over to a French provincial desk and opened the top drawer. What do you know? The name and number of the firm had already been neatly written out on a plain piece of paper. She picked it up and then walked me to the door.
“I have only one request. That you don’t use my name. I had nothing to do with where you got this information,” she said, and handed me the creamy white sheet of paper.
“No problem. By the way, that’s some rock you’re wearing,” I said, getting a better view.
It made my own diamond look puny by comparison.
“Thanks. It’s a fifty-six-carat emerald-cut, D-color stone,” she disclosed, and held it forward for closer inspection.
“D color? What does that mean?” I asked.
“That it’s the top of the line. The very best there is,” she proudly told me. “See? The color is icy white.”
The diamond appeared to be absolutely flawless. Its fifty-eight facets sparkled intensely, producing a myriad of tiny rainbows.
“Believe me, honey. I worked hard for this stone and everything else that I have. Andrew was okay, but he was certainly no angel,” she commented. “Come to think of it, Bitsy always wore quite the boulder of her own. I wonder whatever happened to it? Probably some cop, or whoever knocked her off, slipped the ring from her finger and into their pocket.”
This was the first I’d heard of any diamond. Perhaps the shawl hadn’t been all that Magda had snatched. The ring could very well be stashed away inside the Kielbasa House at this very moment. If so, Magda was in bigger trouble than she could have ever imagined.
Six
Everyone has a scam. No one turns informant for no reason. So, what was Tiffany Stewart’s stake in the game? Why had she come forward? And why give me the information? What did she have to gain?
I thought back again to her phone call. She’d had no hesitation in supplying Bitsy von Falken’s name. Then why the reluctance in tapping the other women? Not only that, but Tiffany must have planned to tell me about the PR firm all along. Why else had it been written down and so readily available? Just who was playing whom, anyway? One thing for certain was that sainthood wasn’t running rampant on the Upper East Side these days.
I shelved all such thoughts for the moment and focused on what I had in hand: the phone number for Haller and Associates public relations firm. Pulling out my cell phone, I quickly placed the call.
“Haller and Associates. This is Joy speaking,” answered a woman in a professionally cheerful manner.
“Hello, Joy. This is Chrissy Hilton. I’m going to be throwing an event to raise awareness for Hashimoto disease, and I’d like your firm to handle it,” I began, launching into my spiel.
“Excuse me, but are you a member of the Hilton family?” she inquired, unable to contain the excitement in her voice.
“I’m sorry, but I’d rather not comment on that. I don’t like to flaunt my family connections. I’m sure you understand,” I evasively responded.
Sometimes I felt as if I were the creator of my very own reality show. Why should I simply want to be a Hilton, when I could actually pretend to be one?
“Oh, of course. Please forgive my rudeness. It’s just that I’m thrilled to have you call. Now what can we do for you?” she asked, bouncing back like a real pro.
“As I said, I’m planning to host a charity event. Bitsy von Falken, who was a very dear friend, used to just rave about the way you handled her party,” I explained.
“You were a friend of Mrs. von Falken’s?” Joy asked in a hushed tone. “Oh my goodness. Wasn’t that dreadful news? Please accept my condolences. What a horrible thing to have happen. It must be just terrible for you.”
Actually, I felt fairly certain that it was far worse for Bitsy.
“Thank you. Yes, my days just haven’t been the same since. Which is why I plan to hold this event in her memory. I want to invite all the very same people who came to her fund-raiser. Would you possibly still have that attendance list?” I asked, careful to sound appropriately disconsolate.
“Exactly which party would that be, my dear?” Joy inquired.
Which party? I could count the number of parties I’d thrown in my life on one hand—and those had all been potluck dinners.
“The charity event that Bitsy held for cancer awareness. I believe it was about a year ago. It was the one at which shawls were auctioned,” I said, going for nonchalant. But in truth, my anticipation was about to overflow.
“Well now, let’s find out, shall we? I’ll just check the computer,” Joy said.
Click, click, click.
My nerves tagged along for the ride as her fingertips pranced on the keyboard.
“Ah, yes. Here it is. That won’t be any problem at all. Naturally, we’ll be happy to send out the invitations for you,” she informed me.
“That would be wonderful. However, would you mind e-mailing that list to me first? I’d like to go over the names, and then we can take it from there,” I replied.
Either someone had snuck up from behind and slapped a gag on her, or Joy had suddenly become mute. My request was met with dead silence.
“Is anything wrong?” I finally asked, hoping to move things along.
Joy responded with a sigh as deep as the Grand Canyon.
“Oh dear. I’m afraid we do have a problem. I can’t release this information. Privacy issues and that sort of thing, you know. It goes totally
against our policy,” she disclosed.
“I can appreciate that. But I have a problem of my own. An unpleasant incident took place a few weeks ago involving some of the women. Nothing I can discuss of course, but it upset Bitsy terribly. I want to make certain that their names aren’t on the list,” I blatantly lied.
“Well, that’s easily solved. Just give me their names and I’ll cross them off,” Joy replied in obvious relief.
“That’s the problem. I can’t seem to remember them. I’ll need to see the list in order to jog my memory. Couldn’t you make an exception just this once?” I cajoled.
“I’d really rather not,” she resisted.
It was time to pull out the big guns.
“Just between you and me, I know that Paris is planning a big soiree and is looking for a new PR firm to handle all the details. She wasn’t pleased with the last company that she used. I’d be happy to put in a good word for you.” I had no qualms about providing Joy with a little imaginary incentive.
“Paris Hilton? Planning a party? Really?” she asked, just about panting. “That would be absolutely divine.”
I could nearly hear her ticking off all the new names to be added to her contact list.
“Well…I suppose we could make an exception just this once,” Joy complied. “In fact, I also have a separate list of those women that bought shawls, and exactly how many. The auction was a huge success. Mrs. von Falken wanted a record kept for the next time she planned a similar event. You might consider doing something along the same line, yourself. If so, would you be interested in seeing that list, as well?”
“What a brilliant suggestion. Let me just give you my e-mail address,” I said, and reeled off an undercover addy that I kept for such purposes. “Could you send those to me right away? I’d like to go over both lists tonight.”
“Of course,” she amiably agreed. That was followed by an awkward pause. “Hmm. This is rather odd. I can’t seem to find your name on either of these lists.”
Joy caught me off guard. I hadn’t planned on the woman being quite so thorough.
Unsafe Harbor Page 6
