Manolos in Manhattan (7 page)

She took a sip of her decaf and pulled the newspaper towards her.

CAT BURGLAR STRIKES AGAIN! The front-page headline screamed.

Curious, she began to read the article.

Manhattan’s elusive cat burglar struck again last night, robbing an undisclosed Park Place apartment and stealing an estimated $2 million in jewels.

The jewels, including a Harry Winston diamond choker and matching earrings, were reported missing after Honoria Van Landingham and her husband Thomas returned from a charity ball held at the Ritz Carlton late last night. Police Chief Anthony Smith stated there was no sign of a break-in.

As in recent burglaries, the security system was armed. Mrs Van Landingham informed police that she activated the system before leaving her apartment, and notified authorities upon discovering the jewels, valued at $1.9 million, were missing from the apartment safe.

There are currently no suspects and no leads.

“Goodness,” Natalie murmured. A cat burglar? Images of a suave thief, dressed in black as he rappelled from a tenth-story window following a successful heist, flickered through her head.

It was all terribly mysterious and exciting. But not, of course, for poor Mrs Van Landingham, who’d had her jewels stolen.

Natalie had a sudden thought. Rhys’s silver cufflinks – which the movers assured her they’d put in the enamel box on his dresser – had gone missing. Was Rhys right – had one of the movers pocketed them?

Or had someone – the cat burglar, perhaps – stolen them?

Her eyes widened. After all, she’d seen someone in the apartment on Sunday night...someone with a gun.

She set her cup down on the table and hurried to the bedroom, and reached for the little enamel box on Rhys’s dresser.

It was empty; a quick search confirmed that her husband’s cufflinks were, indeed, gone. And although she searched the entire bedroom for evidence of a visit from the burglar, there was nothing.

Those bloody thieving movers
, Natalie thought indignantly as she returned to the kitchen, and her coffee.
We certainly won’t be using
their
services again.

Still, she knew she’d seen someone in the apartment the night before, looming over her in the darkness with a gun in hand.

Was it the cat burglar? Had he been there to rob their apartment?

What if she hadn’t screamed and wakened Rhys? Who
knew
what might have happened?

All these thoughts of burglaries and cat thieves made her a bit nervous. She went to the phone and dialed Rhys’s number.

“Good morning, Dashwood and James, Rhys Gordon’s office,” Chaz chirped. “How may I help you?”

“Hello, Chaz. I’d like to speak to my husband, please,” Natalie said.

“Good morning, Mrs Gordon. I’m sorry, but Mr Gordon just got here, and he’s already in a meeting. May I take a message?”

Ordinarily Natalie would thank him politely, leave a message, and ring off, but the newspaper article had left her more than a bit rattled.

“I need to speak with him straight away. It’s important.”

“Very well,” Chaz said doubtfully. “One moment, please.”

A few minutes later Rhys picked up the phone. “Natalie, what’s wrong? Is it the baby?” There was a trace of alarm in his voice.

“No, nothing like that. The baby’s fine. So am I.”

“Thank God. Why did you call, then? I’m in the middle of a meeting. Chaz said it was important.”

“It
is
important, very important. Oh, Rhys,” she wailed, “there’s been another cat burglary, and practically next door! I was reading about it in the papers just now. I think the burglar must’ve stolen your cufflinks on Sunday night, right after he robbed the Van Landinghams.”

To her surprise – and annoyance – he began to laugh.

“Rhys,” she said crossly, “it isn’t funny. I’m alone and pregnant in an apartment that’s been struck by the most notorious burglar in Manhattan, and all you can do is
laugh
?”

“Sorry, darling,” he told her. “But I hardly think the thief would break in to our apartment for a pair of cufflinks.” He paused. “I should’ve told you.”

“Told me what?”

“I found the cufflinks in my suit pocket on the way in to work this morning. So there’s no need to worry. And there was no burglar in our apartment on Sunday night. I checked, remember?”

“Yes, but—”

“I’m sorry, Nat,” he cut in impatiently, “but I have to go. Don’t worry – you’re perfectly safe. We’ll talk later, when I get home.”

And before she could respond, he rang off.

Chapter Eleven

Why, Holly wondered as she eyed the stacks of shoe boxes crowding Dashwood and James’s shoe department the next morning, had she agreed to work today?

Even though Monday was normally her day off, she’d promised her father she’d help prepare for the grand opening – which meant making sure all was in readiness for Karl von Karle’s personal appearance at the store’s launch.

According to Natalie, von Karle was the hottest shoe designer since Manolo Blahnik.

“There you are, Holly.” Alastair strode down the aisle, Coco just behind him. “Thank you for coming in to help today.”

“Good thing I did,” she observed as she eyed the teetering stack of von Karles waiting to be arranged on the display shelves. “With all the buzz his appearance is generating, you’d think that silly German shoe guy was a rock star.”

“That ‘silly German shoe guy’ is a gifted designer,” Coco informed her coolly. “Every woman wants a pair of von Karles.”

“I don’t,” Holly retorted. “I get vertigo just looking at those stiletto heels. They look ridiculous. Not to mention unsafe. And uncomfortable.”

“Fashion isn’t about comfort, Holly,” Coco said, “it’s about style.” Her glance swept dismissively over Holly’s belted, short-sleeved sweater and creased linen skirt. “Something you obviously don’t understand.”

“And
you
obviously don’t understand the concept of asking before you give out personal information.”

“What are you talking about?”

Before Holly could respond, her father, oblivious to the hostile current between the two young women, consulted a clipboard in his hand. “Holly, I need you to help Coco upstairs for a couple of hours, if you would.”

“Okay,” she said, even as her heart sank at the prospect. “Dad,” she added as Coco turned away to take a call, “I need to leave early this afternoon. I’m meeting Ciaran. He’s looking at apartments and asked me to go with him.”

“Ciaran?” Alastair echoed, and his brow rose. “But you just spent all day with him yesterday.”

“Yes, for publicity,” she reminded him. “His TV show starts filming soon, and he’s looking for a permanent place to live. He wants me to help him look before he returns to London. What’s wrong with that?”

“Doesn’t he have an estate agent?”

“I’m not showing him properties, Dad, I’m just going along to look at a couple of apartments. He wants my opinion.”

“Ciaran is a charming young man,” her father said, his jaw set in a hard line, “but he’s not someone I’d chose as a potential suitor for my daughter.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you don’t get to choose, then, isn’t it?” she retorted. “And I’m already engaged – or have you forgotten? Besides, Ciaran’s just a friend.”

“He’s a film star, Holly, and he’s accustomed to women throwing themselves at him. And I’ve no doubt,” he added with a scowl, “that he takes full advantage of it.”

“I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

“I’m sure you can, Holly, but—”

“Mr James, so sorry to interrupt, but you’re needed in receiving,” Coco informed him. “I’ve just had a call from Mr Baxter. There’s a problem with one of the shipments.”

Alastair sighed. “There’s always a problem, isn’t there? Very well – I’ll be right there.” He turned back to Holly, his expression grim. “We’ll talk about this later.”

“Holly,” Coco informed her as he left, “I need you to go up to the attic. The workmen have cleared everything out except for some odds and ends; probably junk, but I want you to go up and have a look, please. Here’s the key.”

“But I’m not dressed for rummaging around in the attic,” Holly objected.

“I only want you to look at what’s up there and report back to me. Here – take a pad and pencil with you. I’ll want a full inventory so Alastair and I can decide how to dispose of it all. Now go.”

Without another word, Holly took the key, and the pad and pen Coco held out, and turned to leave.

She took the lift up to the fourth floor and found the attic stairs. After unclipping the velvet rope, she climbed the steps to the attic door and unlocked it.

Holly pushed the door open and groped for the light switch. The place was crammed from one end to the other with boxes and junk and festooned with cobwebs and dust. She sneezed.

At least this attic was the kind you could stand up in, with a wooden floor and a small, diamond-shaped window at either end. It would make a nice office for her father eventually. She stepped through the door and wondered where to begin. A pair of dangling light bulbs illuminated an assortment of mismatched chairs, a dressmaker’s dummy, old lampshades, and boxes...

...dozens and dozens of boxes.

Grimly Holly set to work opening the nearest one. It contained a bottle with a model ship inside, stacks of old magazines, a jumble of jelly glasses and plates, most of them chipped or broken, and what looked like an old-fashioned bottle opener and several cocktail shakers.

It was the same story in the other boxes. She unearthed an old toaster, galoshes, stacks of dinner plates, a lamp harp, old newspapers, and a rusted plant stand – all junk. But Holly suspected some of this stuff might be of value; that Victrola, for instance, or the lamp – Tiffany, if she wasn’t mistaken – standing in the corner. She spotted a charming wicker settee; with a bit of cleanup and re-caning, it’d be perfect for the entryway. Her father really needed to take a look at this stuff. He knew a lot more about antiques than she did.

After noting the items on Coco’s inventory list – Victrola, Tiffany lamp, wicker settee – Holly straightened up to leave. She glanced down at her skirt in dismay. Cobwebs clung to her fingers as she brushed the dust and dirt from her knees, and she sneezed again.
Damn Coco, anyway.

As she made her way around the jumble of boxes and junk and headed to the door, Holly felt a cool breeze drift past her face. She came to an abrupt stop. Was one of the windows open? Her glance strayed to the tiny windows at either end of the attic but they were both firmly shut, and looked as if they hadn’t been opened in years.

Holly shrugged, feeling just a little spooked, and turned to go. There must be an explanation for the breeze; she just didn’t have a clue what it might be.

Again, a slight stirring of the air rooted her once more to the spot. She smelled, very faintly, the scent of lavender and citrus, with just a hint of vanilla, and she swore she felt the brush of a silk glove against her hand. Panicked, Holly stumbled backwards as goose bumps rose on her arms. She had the oddest feeling that something – no, some
one
– was in the attic with her.

Chapter Twelve

Yet she wasn’t afraid. Whatever – whoever – it was meant no harm; she knew that, somehow. Suddenly she noticed the fire escape. How had she missed it? It was nothing more than a short ladder leading to a narrow iron door; it opened out onto the roof, and was hidden behind the pile of boxes she’d just finished investigating.

Feeling herself compelled forward, Holly retraced her steps and came to stand before the fire escape. She hesitated, then climbed the short ladder to the door and tried the handle, but it was rusted firmly shut.

Sirens wailed nearby, and Holly glanced down at her watch, surprised to see it was nearly lunchtime. She turned to climb back down the ladder, more than ready to get out of this creepy attic and go grab a ham and cheese sandwich. Halfway down she felt the sticky, persistent strands of a spider’s web against her face. Holly let out a gasp of disgust and frantically brushed the web away. Coco would
so
pay for this...

It was then that she saw it. Wrapped in a blanket, wedged under one of the eaves, the object was large and oblong. It looked almost like...a picture of some sort.

Curious, Holly leaned forward as far as she could, still clutching the ladder with one hand, and closed her fingers over one corner of the object. She tugged, it didn’t budge. She tugged again, harder, and this time, with a shower of dirt and a cloud of dust, it dislodged and slid forward.

She caught it with both hands, hoping to hell she didn’t fall off the ladder. It was heavier than she’d thought, and covered in a thick layer of dust. She sneezed, and sneezed again. Staggering slightly under the bulk of it, she backed the rest of the way down the ladder, relieved when she reached the floor. She slid the thing – whatever it was – down her legs to the ground, her heart racing with exertion.

What was it? How had it ended up here? And why was it shoved under the eaves?

Despite her growling stomach and her strong desire to leave, Holly’s curiosity got the better of her. She leaned the mysterious object against a stack of boxes and reached out to pull the blanket off.

She let out a soft breath as the blanket fell away. It was a portrait...a painting of a young woman.

She wore a glittery black evening gown and leaned back, one hand resting on the edge of a piano, the other holding a champagne glass. Her dark hair was cut in a stylish bob; her smiling, cupid’s-bow lips were rouged, and her eyes – dark, like her hair – were kohled. An ornate art deco necklace of onyx and diamonds circled her throat. Her shoulders were bare.

She was a flapper, Holly realized with a thrill of excitement, and she was breathtakingly beautiful.

Again the scent of lavender and vanilla drifted on the air, and Holly thought she heard the faint sound of laughter, light and musical. She frowned. “Who’s there?” she demanded, her eyes searching the shadowy corners uneasily. “Hello?”

But as quickly as it came, the laughter and the scent of perfume adrift on the air vanished.