Foxy Roxy

by Nancy Martin

  He leaned across the table. “I was delighted to see you this morning. You looked all grown up.”

  She linked her hands in her lap. “I am.”

  “So maybe we should get better acquainted.”

  With a brave tilt of one eyebrow, she said, “Now that I’m legal, you mean?”

  He smiled genuinely. “You’re beautiful, Arden. And polished now.”

  “You liked me pretty well when I was a kid.”

  “You were tantalizing.”

  “So you’re a gentleman these days? That’s the way you want to play it?”

  “How would you like me to play it?”

  The wine steward leaned over their table then, asking about drinks, so Henry ordered a bottle without any fanfare. The exchange gave Arden a chance to think things over.

  When the steward went away, she said, “I always liked you, Henry. And I was flattered that you picked me to—well. But all my aunts and cousins said you were looking for a way to marry into the family, and after we—after that time we were together, I worried that I’d made a big mistake. So I went away. You’re hard to resist, you know.”

  “It’s a relief to hear your side of things. After you left town so suddenly, I feared my lovemaking wasn’t up to snuff.”

  Her color changed. “How would I know? I’d never—well, I was ashamed of myself for getting seduced in a closet, so I ran away.”

  “It was more of a dressing room wasn’t it? I remember a lot of hanging ball gowns and a very comfortable sofa. I’d had a little too much champagne at your uncle Julius’s wedding to Monica.”

  “And then you had that allergic reaction to the champagne.” She smiled shyly, but then Arden’s face clouded, perhaps recalling the less appealing details of their tryst.

  Gallantly, Henry said, “I remember how lovely you were. And deceptively mature. After I realized you were underage, though, I knew I’d made a grave mistake.”

  He also remembered a very messy interlude—not at all his usual conquest. It had been a low point for Henry—a clumsy attempt to seduce the least objectionable of the Hyde women, but a lapse in judgment nevertheless. With careful strategy, he might make amends tonight, though.

  A waiter brought crusty bread and a dish of olive tapenade, and then came the water glasses. While the quiet flurry of service continued, Henry tried to keep the conversation rolling.

  He said, “Julius seemed very happy at that wedding. He and Monica both.”

  “I can’t believe he’s dead.” Arden fiddled with her silverware. “I keep thinking he’ll walk into a room and say something funny. I really miss him.”

  “He loved you very much, I’m sure.”

  “Who didn’t he love? He had a lot of joie de vivre. Okay, except maybe Dodo.”

  “Despite all evidence to the contrary, I think those two were actually very fond of each other. You shouldn’t take their arguments to heart.”

  She glanced up to gauge his sincerity. “Uncle Julius never had anything nice to say about her.”

  “That was a game between them.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “I know so.”

  Arden did the peekaboo with her bangs again. “That’s actually very nice to hear.”

  The wine came, and they ordered food. Henry asked her about Florence and she babbled awhile. Gradually, she relaxed and became animated. From years of strategic dating, Henry had come to recognize that the best companions were women who knew how to get a man to open up about himself. But Arden talked and talked.

  She talked so much that eventually he realized why. Between courses, she excused herself, and when she returned to the table, she was so radiant that the man at the next table got up to help her with her chair.

  Arden leaned into the candlelight, refreshed by whatever she’d snorted in the bathroom. She was smiling at last. “I’m having a good time. I didn’t expect that.”

  “Why did you come out with me if you didn’t think you’d have a good time?”

  “I don’t know. It was like a dare, I guess. But I think I like you, Henry.”

  “You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

  She laughed. “Monica likes you, too. But my dad? Not so much.”

  Henry split the remains of the bottle into their wineglasses, glad that she had brought the conversation around to where he wanted it. He signaled for a second bottle. “Why is that?”

  Smothering a giggle behind the long fingers of one hand, she said, “Maybe Daddy doesn’t like another rooster in the henhouse. I saw the way Monica looked at you. So did Daddy.”

  “She’s in a very emotional place right now. She can’t be held accountable for her actions. Besides,” he added with sideways smile, “she’s too old for me. Surely Quentin sees that.”

  “I think he sees a rich widow and an opportunistic younger man making goo-goo eyes at her.”

  “I do nothing of the sort!”

  “You do it with subtlety, of course. Just like you’re flirting with me tonight.”

  “I’d have to be dead not to flirt with you, Arden. You’ve grown up so nicely. But really, we’re just friends, aren’t we?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said quickly. “Just friends.”

  Henry figured the time was right to lean across the table. “I’m actually glad to see your father so protective of Monica. Especially accompanying her to see Dorothy. That must have been brutal.”

  “Yes, brutal,” Arden echoed.

  “It doesn’t take a genius to see the whole family is distraught about Julius. But—true to form—they’re trying not to show it, right? Everyone uses their own special coping mechanisms.”

  “Yes.” Arden picked up her fork uncertainly. Her buzz was fading, so he guessed it had been cocaine in the bathroom.

  “It’s hard work sometimes,” he said. “Playing referee in a complex family. That’s your role, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she said, although it was clear the idea had never entered her head until now. “Daddy’s especially putting a lot of pressure on me.”

  Henry contrived to appear concerned. “Oh?”

  “Trying to make me take a job with Hyde Communications. Maybe that would be easier.”

  “Easier than what?”

  If he wasn’t mistaken, she looked frightened. But the second bottle arrived, and it took a few moments for the cork and tasting ritual. By the time it was over, Arden looked more strained and anxious.

  Henry filled her glass nearly to the rim. “What are you working on at the moment?”

  Arden’s head must have been fuzzy indeed. “I’m creating a master list—an inventory of Dodo’s art collection for Daddy to present to the insurance company. At least, I’m trying to. Monica gave things willy-nilly to museums. And God only knows what Uncle Julius did. Daddy asked me to try piecing together a list—a complete inventory. I’m the only one who can do it. Tomorrow I have to go back through Monica’s tax returns to find out what she claimed as charitable deductions, and who knows what’s been stored away.”

  “There must be hundreds of items.”

  Another waiter appeared with a water pitcher. But he bobbled it, and water went splashing across the tablecloth. “Oh, wow. Sorry, dude.” He had two small folders pinned in the pit of his arm, and he pulled them out. “Dessert, anyone?”

  Henry used his own napkin to mop up the worst of the water spill. “I’ve never known a woman who didn’t want to end a meal with a taste of chocolate. Or what about the baklava? I understand it’s excellent here.”

  Arden shuddered. “Oh Lord, not baklava! Nothing Greek!”

  “The apple tart instead?”

  “Okay.” She handed the menu back to the waiter. “One apple tart, two spoons, please.”

  “Coffee?”

  “Espresso.”

  “Espresso?” the waiter said. He was a callow kid with a black eye.

  “Yes, two espressos,” Henry said firmly, annoyed and ready to be rid of the intrusion. “And the apple tart. That
’s all.”

  “Yeah, sure. Okay.”

  When the blasted waiter departed, Henry counted to ten and then gently prodded Arden back on course. “Did you mention your inventory to Dorothy today? I imagine she’s the real expert on the family collection.”

  “I didn’t have a chance. Daddy had business to discuss with her.”

  “What sort of business? Julius’s will, I suppose?”

  “Oh, yes, his will and Dodo’s will and I forget who else’s will. You know all about that stuff, I guess?”

  “It’s my job. Did Quentin discuss changes in Dorothy’s estate planning? Now that Julius is gone?”

  “He wanted to talk to Dodo about the amendments to her will.”

  Henry felt his stomach go cold. “He knew? About amendments?”

  “I guess so. Daddy wanted to know what the changes were. Whether the steel mill was in play, because the city will pay millions for it now.”

  “Did Dorothy tell him?”

  “She didn’t know about any changes. She said if Uncle Julius had been scheming, it must have backfired. Daddy wondered if maybe you were in cahoots with Julius.” Arden rested her elbow on the table to steady her grasp on her wineglass. “That’s what he said. In cahoots.”

  “Did he?” Henry said.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Not a thing.” Henry managed to smile. “You mentioned the art collection.”

  “Oh, yes. I’m doing the inventory. But I can’t find the most wonderful piece of all. My grandmother’s Achilles.”

  “Her—?”

  Arden slurped more wine. “A marble sculpture of the Greek warrior. He’s magnificent. He was standing in the garden before I went to Florence. But now he’s missing.”

  “I don’t remember any Greek warrior.”

  “No? Out by the pool. He had one raised arm.” She lifted her own hand as if to hold a spear.

  Henry forced himself to sound calmly intrigued. “Did anyone else notice he’s missing?”

  “I think he might have been sold or given away or maybe stolen.” Arden lowered her voice confidentially. “But I talked to someone who may know where he went. She came out of the blue, asking me about Greek antiquities. In Pittsburgh, of all places! How strange is that? At the exact time we’re missing a rare statue, what are the chances? It can’t be a coincidence.”

  “Who was this person?”

  “A kid, really. A girl. Smart, but just a kid.”

  “Name?”

  “Sage. Isn’t that a pretty name? Sage Abruzzo.”

  Henry felt another frisson of electricity, followed by a long moment in which all his brain synapses seemed to fire in perfect sequence.

  With perfect calm, he touched her hand conspiratorially. “Arden, darling, I wonder if we couldn’t help each other.”

  She smiled uncertainly. “To do what?”

  “To find this statue you’re talking about. We might make a good team, you and I.” He rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb, drawing gentle, hypnotic circles on her skin. “And I could help you with your father.”

  Her smile loosened at the edges. “With my father? I don’t need help with my father.”

  “That’s the cocaine talking, sweetheart. You need more help than you know. Let’s be honest. You’d like to go on keeping your cocaine use a secret from Quentin, wouldn’t you?”

  Her hand had stiffened beneath his.

  Henry murmured, “And I’d like to find that statue. For Dorothy, of course. It’s rightfully hers. And I think you’re just the person to help me locate it.”

  Very pale, Arden said, “I don’t understand.”

  “Yes you do.” He turned her hand over and stroked her palm. “I’ll help you keep the coke a secret from your dad. And you’ll help me find the statue.”

  Like a snared rabbit, she tried to pull away, but he tightened his hold.

  “Do we need to go into the particulars of your drug problem?” he asked. “I don’t think so. The bottom line is that you’d like to keep it to yourself, right?” With the noise and activity of the restaurant busy around them, Henry said, “We should make a pact, the two of us. You help me, Arden. I’ll help you.”

  23

  In the restaurant kitchen, Roxy grabbed Zack as he came back from the dining room, clumsily carrying a tray and nearly tripping over the trailing ties of his hastily acquired waiter’s apron. He dropped two menus on the kitchen floor and automatically bent to retrieve them.

  Roxy yanked him up by his collar. Over the noise of the kitchen, she snapped, “Forget those! What are they talking about in there?”

  “Art.” Zack tugged at the bow tie they’d hastily fastened around the collar of his borrowed white shirt. “They’re talking about paintings or something, I don’t know. And they want a damn apple tart, too.”

  “What are they saying about the art?”

  “About how priceless it is and— How should I know? A statue that belongs to somebody—”

  “A statue?”

  “Where’s the espresso in this place?”

  Flynn appeared with a butane torch in one hand. He said, “Carl will get the espresso. Here’s the tart. I just need to put a crust on it.”

  Zack’s eyes went wide as Flynn fired up the torch.

  Roxy seized the kid by the front of his shirt to keep him upright while Flynn brandished the blue flame. “Don’t screw this up, kid. I need you to remember every detail of what they’re saying in there.”

  “It’s hard! I have to hold the tray, take their order—I can’t keep everything straight.”

  “I thought you wanted to be a cop! Think of this as your first undercover job!”

  “Here.” Carl hustled over with two espresso cups. An instant later, Flynn finished torching the dessert and skimmed it onto the tray, too.

  Roxy spun Zack around by one shoulder and shoved him back into the dining room. “Stay around the table as long as you can,” Roxy hissed after him. “Memorize their conversation.”

  The kitchen was controlled chaos. Jammed with many moving bodies, it felt much smaller to Roxy than before. Around her, waiters called orders, ran the computer, and moved fast to get back to the dining room. Runners carried hot food out of the kitchen to the tables. Busboys lugged tubs of filthy dishes back in. The cooks—all dressed like ninjas—wielded knives, flipped flaming pans and slapped steaming food onto hot plates, squirted sauces and wiped drips. If the dining room felt like an oasis for sophisticated palates, the kitchen was more like a downtown intersection at rush hour.

  Roxy sidestepped the pastry chef and turned to Flynn. “Thanks for calling me.”

  “No problem.” Flynn peeled the skullcap off his head. In his black T-shirt and black jeans, with a stiff set to his jaw, he suddenly looked less like the kitchen master and more like a marine dropped behind enemy lines. “We need to talk. My office.”

  He led her past the stove, where giant pots of soup and polenta steamed down to their last dregs of the night. One of the kitchen boys was scrubbing the burned remains of veal shank and ribeye off the grill with a wire brush. Wordless, he stood aside to let them pass.

  Flynn’s office was barely big enough for the two of them. His desk had enough space for a laptop and an empty coffee cup, nothing more. A couple of clipboards hung from hooks, very tidy. He kicked the swivel chair under the desk. With the windows and glass door, there wasn’t much privacy, but he closed the door anyway. “I heard what happened to the Falcone girl. You okay?”

  “Just peachy.”

  He turned his unamused gaze on her. “The police know who killed her?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Same guy who killed Hyde?”

  “The cops would be idiots to think otherwise.” Roxy took a deep breath, surprised to feel shaky inside. “She shouldn’t be dead. Not on my watch.”

  His stormy expression softened. “Don’t talk like that.”

  Emotion welled up in Roxy’s throat. “I was supposed to be protecting her.”<
br />
  “You gave her a place to stay, that’s all.”

  Roxy shook her head, unable to say more. She felt guilty. And pissed.

  Flynn squeezed her neck and released. “I know how you feel about this. But don’t get all crazy, okay?”

  “Yeah, well, you called me.”

  “I did.” He folded his arms over his chest. “At the staff meeting before service, the hostess always tells us if we have any big names in the reservation book—anybody who needs special treatment. When she said we had a Hyde booked—I don’t know, my radar kicked in. Do you know the guy?”

  “Yeah. But he’s not really a Hyde. He’s Henry Paxton. Interesting that he used the name to get a good table, though.”

  “Happens all the time. Who is he?”

  “He’s old Mrs. Hyde’s lawyer. I met him a couple of days ago.”

  “You sleep with him?”

  Roxy didn’t answer.

  “Forget I asked.” Flynn leaned against his desk, the picture of cold control. “Okay, who’s the girl with him?”

  “No clue who she is.”

  “Zack said they’re talking about art. What’s this about a statue?”

  “Statue?”

  Flynn laughed shortly. “Cut the crap, Roxy. I heard you talking with Sage about a statue, and now this. You’re a good liar most of the time, but you were always the first to lose your shirt in strip poker. What have you got going on?”

  Roxy hesitated. Flynn’s tone meant business, and she could see the pilot light of his temper flickering.

  She said, “The night Julius got killed, I picked up a bunch of stuff at the Hyde house. There might have been a statue in the load.”

  “What kind of statue?”

  “Big. Made of marble. You know, like a lot of the stuff I get.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Something tells me this statue isn’t exactly your usual haul. And Sage was talking about something really valuable.”

  Roxy tried to push past him to get out of the office. “You don’t need to know.”

  “No, hold it.” Quick as lightning, he grasped her upper arm and spun her around to face him. “What do the police say about it?”

  “The police?”

  “You told the police about the statue, didn’t you?”