I couldn’t say that I blamed him. I also couldn’t help but think of all the homeless animals there were, and wonder how many bags of pet food the sale of just one shawl would provide. Everest was badly in need of a dose of reality, to my mind.
“One of your shawls?” I promptly chirped up. “Are they all shahtoosh?”
“Of course. Once you own one, you immediately want more. They’re so light, you can barely feel them. Everyone I know has at least two, or three, or four,” Muffy responded, as if insulted that I might think otherwise. “You mustn’t view them as simply a fashion rage. Rather, they’re an absolute necessity.”
True. What else could these women possibly drape over their bony shoulders, or use to swaddle their newborn babies?
“All except for Giancarlo Giamonte. That scamp must have at least two hundred stoles, one in every color to match each of his sweaters, suits, and coats,” she blithely remarked, as though we were just two gals shooting the breeze. “Then there’s a certain socialite I know that had one made into a bed throw, while Donna Karan swears that her shahtoosh shawl is her security blanket. For goodness sake, even Queen Elizabeth, Blaine Trump, Christie Brinkley, and Patty Buckley own at least one.”
Muffy leaned forward, as if she were about to share a secret with me.
“Let me tell you. There was a mad dash on the shawls after British Vogue declared pashmina to be out and shahtoosh to be in. Of course, I already owned my stoles. I don’t allow anything as base as a common magazine to rule my fashion taste. But there are others in my social circle that clearly do,” she confided, and raised a knowing eyebrow.
Whoa! Back up a minute. My mind was awhirl in a potent swirl of celebrity names. Obviously there was some serious shahtoosh lust going on out there.
“Excuse me. But exactly who is Giancarlo Giamonte?” I asked, vaguely remembering that Terri had once mentioned him. “The name sounds familiar. Is he someone I should know?”
“Well, that all depends. Anyone on the A-list would naturally be acquainted with him,” Muffy informed me, while disdainfully pushing back a lock of her hair.
Her eyes flickered in amusement, and a devilish smile licked at her lips, telegraphing that I had far less status than even a cockroach at the base camp of High Society. As if that was something I didn’t already know.
I wondered what it was like to live Muffy Carson Ellsworth’s life, lunching on lobster salad at Le Bernardin and packing her Vuitton bags for a couture show.
“Would you mind giving me a bit more detail on him?” I asked.
As much as I would have liked to throttle the woman, I needed to keep it friendly for now.
“He’s an up-and-coming designer and a very sweet young man. I show my support by wearing his designs whenever I can,” she replied. “Giancarlo knows that if his fashions are seen on me, then others will surely buy them.”
Evidently, Muffy was more than just your average socialite. She was also a fashion stamp of approval.
“Giancarlo is such a perfect gentleman that I often have him escort me to social events. It allows him to mingle with the right crowd, and I know he won’t do anything to embarrass me,” she added. A hint of color rose in her cheeks and I wondered if Muffy had a crush on him.
I held off on my next question as Jeeves entered the room with a silver tray. Balanced on it were two porcelain cups, a teapot, a creamer and sugarbowl, along with a small plate of cookies. He poured the tea and then left.
“How many shahtoosh shawls do you actually own?” I asked, my hands itching to snatch one of the buttery treats.
However, I had no intention of doing so until Muffy did, and her fingers weren’t moving.
“I have five. Of course, that doesn’t include the seven stoles I bought at Bitsy’s charity event last year. Those were for Christmas gifts. You should have been there. People were snapping them up as fast as they could,” Muffy said, and discreetly slipped a cookie crumb into her mouth.
As far as I was concerned, that was my green light to go. I plucked a chocolate cookie off the platter and began to munch.
“But you haven’t yet told me what this has to do with Bitsy,” Muffy protested, with a slight pout. Then her eyes grew wide with fear. “Oh dear. You aren’t suggesting that she was murdered for her shawl, are you?”
Her fingers wound themselves tightly around the shahtoosh wrap, as if daring someone to try and pry it from her cold, dead hands.
“Mrs. Carson Ellsworth—” I began.
“Oh please, dear. We’ve already gone beyond that. Just call me Mrs. Ellsworth,” she suggested, in what I could only assume was a sign of friendship.
“Mrs. Ellsworth, remember I told you that I’m a special agent? Well, I’m with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service,” I informed her.
“Oh, I see. Does that mean you suspect I’m abusing my cat? Or are you here for some kind of donation?” she asked, as if stymied.
For a moment, I wondered if Muffy might possibly be trying to bribe me.
“No, of course not. I’m here because shahtoosh shawls are illegal. They’re made from a highly endangered species that’s killed to obtain their wool,” I revealed.
Muffy looked at me as though I’d totally lost my marbles, and then sharply laughed.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course they’re not,” she brusquely responded, choosing to disregard my remark with a brush of her hand. “Everyone knows that nomadic children and shepherds gather little tufts of their beard hair from off shrubs as they graze.”
It was my turn to gaze in amazement at the slightly addled fashion maven. Muffy Carson Ellsworth clearly didn’t have the foggiest idea of what she was talking about.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Ellsworth. But exactly what kind of animal are you referring to?” I questioned.
“Well, toosh goats, of course. That’s why the wool is so expensive. It’s gathered strand by tiny strand until there’s finally enough to make just one shawl. If you’re really a wildlife agent, then shouldn’t you already know all of this?” she asked, and began to regard me with suspicion.
I’d heard the fables before. The source of shahtoosh had been shrouded in secrecy and myth for years in order to make it more palatable to the “beautiful people.” Dealers sometimes went so far as to peddle the tale that shawls were made from the feathers of a fictitious “toosh bird” in a bucolic world where near-blind weavers spun them into jewel-colored clouds of gossamer.
“For goodness sake, it’s concerned women, such as myself, that help to keep those poor people alive by providing them with employment,” she scolded. “And shame on you for thinking otherwise. No one would ever harm those dear little toosh goats. That’s nothing more than a nasty rumor spread by those horrible animal rights activists. Oh yes, and by all those people who are envious because they can’t afford to buy them.”
“Right. And the Three Bears had no problem with Goldilocks eating their porridge, either,” I couldn’t help but snidely remark. “Sorry to burst your bubble, Mrs. Ellsworth, but that’s nothing more than a fairy tale.”
“Mrs. Carson Ellsworth to you,” she snapped.
“The truth is, you’re wearing killer cashmere. Hundreds of Tibetan antelope are slaughtered each year to provide customers, such as yourself, with those shawls. The only way the animal gives up its wool is if it is killed,” I said again, partly to educate her, but mostly to vent my frustration.
“God, but you’re ignorant,” she declared with a defiant sniff. “Friends of mine in the know tell me that no animal is endangered. For goodness sake, how can they be, when cats and sheep are now cloned, and Siegfried and Roy are able to rear three Siberian tiger cubs in the middle of Las Vegas? It’s all just a ruse to give people like you a job.”
“In that case, humor me. Where did Bitsy obtain the shawls that were auctioned at her charity event?” I questioned.
“I’m sure I don’t know. And even if I did, I’d have no reason to tell you,” Muffy huffily retorted.
If
she was going to play hardball, so be it.
“Then I’m going to have to ask you to hand over all of your shahtoosh shawls. They constitute illegal property, and will have to be confiscated,” I replied, showing her that two could play this game.
“Over my dead body!” Muffy announced and, knocking the cat off her wrap, folded the blue stole tightly around her. “They’re precious works of art. Would you expect me to simply hand over a Van Gogh? A Renoir? A Monet? I think not.”
In reality, they were nothing more than frigging status symbols. Though by the way she was acting, you’d have sworn they were cocaine. Everest climbed onto her lap, as if also refusing to let me take his blanket away.
“Oh, and I’ll need those stoles that you gave as Christmas presents, as well,” I added, purposely yanking her chain.
“And if I refuse?” she challenged, narrowing her eyes.
“Then I’ll be forced to get a subpoena,” I replied.
Muffy Carson Ellsworth gasped in alarm. “Well, I never! How dare you even suggest such a thing. That’s simply impossible. I can’t ask for those back. What would people say? I’d be called an Indian giver. Besides, the thought of never being able to wear them again is just too horrible to bear.”
Muffy clearly meant business. She glared at me and firmly clenched her jaw. “Just who do you think you are, anyway? The closet police? I believe it’s time that I give my lawyer a call.”
It was now my turn to scurry, painfully aware that I was treading on dangerous ground. One call from Ellsworth’s attorney would not only bring the wrath of Hogan down upon me, but possibly blow a potential case and perhaps even my career. After all, I was secretly delving into this against his direct orders. The wisest thing would be to retreat and mollify Muffy for now. As much as I hated to eat my words, I quickly backpedaled with all the determination of Lance Armstrong.
“Perhaps you’re right, Mrs. Carson Ellsworth. The shawls are lovely, and I certainly wouldn’t want to bring you any distress,” I concurred.
“I should think not,” Muffy replied, her voice filled with shards of reproach.
She looked as though she’d never forgive me. Even Everest seemed to glower resentfully.
“There is one thing, though. Would you mind if I run your shawl through my ring? It’s a test to determine that the stole is really shahtoosh and not pashmina. I’d hate to think someone might have pulled the wool over you.” I was betting Muffy’s ego wouldn’t let her turn the challenge down.
“Oh, for goodness sakes! Of course it’s shahtoosh,” Muffy bristled at the veiled insult. “Don’t you think I would know?”
“It’s just that it’s sometimes hard to tell what’s fake and what’s not. Sad to say, a number of women are conned every year,” I said, hoping to pull my own bluff.
I had no doubt Muffy could spot the real thing from the opposite end of a football field. The test was mainly to satisfy my own curiosity. Fortunately, Muffy Carson Ellsworth’s vanity won out.
“Oh all right. Go ahead if you like,” she finally agreed.
I reached for the shawl, only to have the cat take a swipe at me.
“Everest is a very good judge of character,” Muffy quipped, and proceeded to lift the hairball off her lap.
I didn’t respond, but removed my ring and easily pulled the shawl through the hole.
“There. I told you that it was shahtoosh,” Muffy trilled victoriously.
Fish and Wildlife would have been smart to hire the woman as their resident shahtoosh expert.
“I’m sorry if I upset you,” I apologized, with all the fake sincerity I could possibly muster. “But you’d be amazed at how many women are wearing pashmina, believing it to be shahtoosh.”
Muffy straightened her shoulders and pursed her lips.
“Hmm. I suspect there might be a number of them within my own social circle. I always thought that their shawls weren’t quite up to snuff. To tell the truth, I don’t believe they paid full price. It serves them right. That’s what happens when you’re cheap and try to get a bargain,” she loftily announced. “Personally, I see it as a sign of bad breeding. Haggling is very low class. It reveals too much mixing of the gene pools, if you know what I mean.”
I understood perfectly. She was referring to mongrels such as me. If I’d had one wish at the moment, it would have been to dump Muffy in the middle of “Schmata Central” on the Lower East Side and let her fend for herself.
“I know exactly what you’re getting at,” I replied, amazed at how bitchy a real snob could be. “But we shouldn’t let that distract us as to the reason why I’m here.”
Muffy looked at me as though she were still waiting to find out.
“Bitsy,” I reminded her. “I’m hoping that you’ll decide to help me with this case.”
Muffy gazed off into space as though she hadn’t yet made up her mind.
“You could be essential in helping to solve her murder,” I flattered, hoping that would do the trick.
“And why are you involved in this again?” she asked.
“Because I’m a federal agent,” I replied, hoping she’d stop at that.
Muffy’s fingers idly played with her large silver pearl, as she seemed to think it over.
“Yes, of course I will. After all, she was one of us. And I did offer, didn’t I?” she said, after studying me. “What say we just put this little misunderstanding behind us. Now how can I help?”
I was astounded by the quick turnaround, but wasn’t about to let it show. The faster I tracked Bitsy’s killer down, the sooner I’d uncover the person responsible for murdering Magda.
“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm her, and if so, why?” I asked, prepared to hear that Bitsy didn’t have an enemy in the world.
The corners of Muffy’s lips curled up ever so slightly, though her mouth remained tightly pinched. “Of course I can. A woman by the name of Tiffany Stewart, for one.”
I stared at her in amazement. How had she managed to pick the very person that had contacted me about this case in the first place?
“I take it that you’ve already heard of her,” Muffy noted wryly, catching sight of my expression. “But then again, who hasn’t? The slut is notorious. She not only slept with Bitsy’s husband—and heaven knows, there were plenty of women who did—but then had the nerve to openly flaunt it in her face. That’s very bad form.” Muffy sniffed, ever the Miss Manners of social etiquette. “Sleeping with a friend’s husband is one thing, but what goes on between the sheets should stay between the sheets. That only makes good sense.”
It struck me that Muffy was probably speaking from experience. This case was suddenly becoming a whole lot more interesting.
I wondered if Tiffany Stewart called me out of guilt for having done wrong by her friend. Or, if it had been part of a well thought out plan to throw me off track? Still, why had she phoned me at all, rather than the police?
“Tell me a little about Bitsy’s husband,” I requested.
“Gavin?” Muffy asked and wrinkled her nose, as if having caught a whiff of something rotten. “He’s very milquetoast. Sandy hair, pale complexion, not much backbone, and a handshake that’s limp as a fish. I’ve never had any idea what either woman saw in him.”
Perhaps it was what he had in his bankbook. But Muffy quickly put that notion to rest.
“He made his money early on, and then lost most of it in the crash of 2000. It was clear that he was a dud at the time, but Bitsy was determined to hang on to him,” she revealed. “Word had it that most of her fortune was tied up with his. Believe me, till death do us part generally involves finances more than love.”
Her skeletal fingers reached for a cookie, and then receded, as if having thought better of it.
I wondered if Muffy included herself in that cynical analysis. I looked around the room once more. There was no sign of a Mr. Carson Ellsworth in the photographs, and the décor was resoundingly feminine. In addition, Muffy had yet to make any
reference to a husband. The sole giveaway was the diamond-encrusted wedding ring on her finger.
“However, Gavin turned out to be the poster boy for second chances,” she resumed. “Hyde Barrow chose him to be the chief financial officer of their firm soon afterward. I’ve always wondered about that. To my mind, he was rewarded for having taken down another company.”
“Then he lost more than just his own money?” I asked, not having realized that he’d been gainfully employed at the time.
I didn’t know what I imagined it was that rich people did with their lives. Well, that wasn’t quite true. I usually envisioned them playing polo and drinking sherry.
“Oh my, yes. It was one of those dot-com companies. Global Communications, or some such business. There were whispers about fraud, but they were never substantiated. And since Gavin’s own money disappeared as well…” Muffy shrugged her scrawny shoulders as if to say que será será.
“I’ve always maintained that conservative investments are the only way to go. None of that silly fly-by-night nonsense. Unless, of course, you’re part of the grubby bourgeoisie trying to claw your way up from a lower social class. That’s the difference between having old money and being nouveau riche. It all comes down to a matter of breeding and taste,” she concluded.
Maybe so. But Bitsy had conveniently hung on to enough dough to sponsor a charity event and plunk down twenty thousand dollars of her own money on a shahtoosh shawl. And what about that big chunky diamond that Tiffany Stewart had told me about?
“So Gavin didn’t come from old money, then?” I followed up.
Muffy gave a condescending laugh and waved her hand back and forth, as if driving away an annoying stench. “Of course not.”
“And Bitsy? Was she new money, as well?” I questioned.
“Bitsy was from a totally different class. Her father was Andrew Pierson, a highly respected man whose roots go all the way back to railroads and banking,” Muffy revealed. “Bitsy’s downfall was that she married beneath her station. She should never have given Gavin control of her money.”
Unsafe Harbor Page 12
