Manolos in Manhattan (9 page)

“He has, he’s flying back on Sunday. Jamie’s working.”
As usual
, she thought. “Ciaran asked me to come with him and look at apartments.”

Chaz let out a soft whistle. “Wow...he’s a fast mover. He’s known you exactly one day and he already wants to look at
apartments
together?”

“It’s not like that,” she said, annoyed. “He starts filming soon, and he needs a place to live. He wants my input.”

“More like he wants to put it into you,” Chaz muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing. What are you doing tomorrow? Isn’t Tuesday your day off?”

“No, I’m working full time until the launch ends. But I don’t mind – I’m hoping to learn more about the flapper.”

“Okay, I’ll bite – what flapper?”

“I don’t know who she is, yet. I found her portrait in the attic yesterday.” She had a sudden idea. “Why don’t you come over at lunch and help me? You can meet her, and help me find out who she is.”

“Meet her?” he echoed. “You make it sound like she’s still alive and living in the attic.”

Holly almost told him about sensing her presence; but for some reason, she didn’t. He probably wouldn’t believe her, anyway.
And
he’d think she was bat-shit crazy.

“Well, the painting’s so lifelike, it’s almost as though she’s real,” she explained, and added, “So, are you in? Feel like rummaging through a bunch of dusty boxes with me tomorrow?”

“Ooh, what fun,” Chaz deadpanned. He sighed. “Okay, why not? It’s not like I have anything better planned for lunch tomorrow anyway.”

“Gee, thanks for that,” Holly retorted. “Love you too. I’ll see you then.”

Although Holly and Chaz spent an entire hour in the attic the next day, sneezing and shoving boxes around, they found nothing of interest, only more junk, and plenty of cobwebs.

“I’m not surprised,” Chaz said as he leaned back on his heels. “I mean, why would this flapper’s journals and personal stuff be stashed up here, anyway? You said this place was a speakeasy back in the day.”

“It was. But why is her portrait here in the attic, then?” Holly wondered, frustrated. “Who shoved it under the eaves, and why?”

“Who knows? My advice? Find out her name first. Then you can figure out where she lived.”

“Right,” she agreed. “And how do I do that, exactly?”

Chaz stood and brushed the dust from his pants. “Well, I’m no Nancy Drew, but I’d start with the local library and check old newspapers. Or maybe the chamber of commerce?”

“You’re brilliant.” Holly kissed him impulsively on the cheek and followed him to the door. “That’s just what I’ll do. How’d you like to go over there with me later?”

“No, thanks,” he said firmly. “I can think of lots of things I’d rather do with my evening. And none of them involves the library or the chamber of commerce. Enjoy yourself, sweetie.”

Chapter Fourteen

When her shift at the store ended, Holly drove to the library, and after searching the history shelves, sat down with a stack of local Greenwich Village books. She pulled the first volume towards her and began to read. Halfway through the second book, she found what she was looking for.

The brownstone that housed Dashwood and James was built in 1878 and started out as a hotel. It featured a bohemian clientele, amongst them writers, artists, dancers, and musicians. It wasn’t until the 1920s, and the arrival of Prohibition, that a gangster named Clyde Caruso purchased the hotel and turned it into a speakeasy.

Holly leaned forward. Despite federal law banning the manufacture and sale of alcohol, bootleggers continued to make whiskey and moonshine, and people continued to buy it. Eventually organized crime stepped in. Unlike another notorious criminal of the day, Al Capone – who some viewed as a kind of wrong-side-of-the-law Robin Hood for his many charitable contributions – Caruso had no interest in charity. He wanted power.

After Capone ordered the infamous St. Valentine’s Day Massacre of six rival gangsters, he was convicted and sent to prison, and Caruso began building his own crime empire.

What she needed, Holly realized as she closed the book, were local newspapers from the time period in question. She stood and made her way to the reference desk.

“Excuse me,” she said to the woman behind the desk. “I need to look at some local Greenwich Village newspapers from 1927 and 1928, if possible.”

“That’ll be on microfiche,” the librarian replied. “One moment, please.”

Although she learned a lot about New York in the days of Prohibition and speakeasies and crime syndicates, Holly had no luck discovering the flapper’s identity.

Still, she consoled herself as she gathered up her handbag and thrust her notes inside, she’d found plenty of background information, and even a photograph of Clyde Caruso. She studied the photocopy now. He was handsome, in a dark,
Gangsters of New York
kind of way. But there was a definite coldness in his eyes. He wasn’t someone you’d ever want to cross.

Holly went back to her table to return her books to the shelves. As she began to stack the volumes in her hands, she sensed someone behind her.

“Hello, Miss James. I didn’t expect to see you here, hitting the books on a Tuesday evening.”

She looked up to see Hugh Darcy and eyed the law books stacked in his arms. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m doing some legal research for Alastair. All very dull and incomprehensible stuff, I’m afraid.” He eyed her own stack of books. “What brings you to the library?”

Holly hesitated. Should she tell him about her quest to discover the flapper’s identity? Perhaps she should. After all, with his legal research expertise, he might be of use.

“I’m trying to learn a bit more about the painting in the attic. Not the provenance of the painting itself,” she hastened to add, “but the identity of the girl in the portrait.”

“Ah, yes, the flapper,” Hugh said thoughtfully. “Well, I’d start with old newspapers from the period – which, it seems, you’re already doing – and then I’d contact a genealogical society for help in tracing her identity.”

“That’s a very good idea,” she agreed. “After all, I can’t do anything until I know her name.” She paused. “I’ll let you know what I find out, if you like.”

“Please do. I’m curious to know.” He cleared his throat again and smiled hesitantly. “Well...goodbye, then, Miss James. Perhaps I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”

“Goodbye, Mr Darcy.” On impulse she added, “You know, you can call me ‘Holly,’ if you like. I won’t be offended.”

“Thank you.” He shifted the books in his arms. “Goodbye...Holly.”

And as she turned away to shelve the books, it occurred to her that Mr Darcy hadn’t returned the favor to say she might call him ‘Hugh.’

She rolled her eyes. He might be attractive, and he might be clever and even marginally nice at times, but Hugh Darcy was still pedantic and self-important...

...exactly like that
other
Mr Darcy.

The next afternoon, Holly dashed across Bleecker Street – dodging a pedicab and a bike messenger on steroids in the process – and entered Jamie’s restaurant. The sound of hammering greeted her ears. Plywood sawhorses, toolboxes, and sheets of plastic were everywhere, and the floors were covered with drop cloths.

“Jamie?” she called out, her eyes sliding past the painters and drywall hangers. “Where are you?”

“Back here,” he answered. “In the kitchen.”

She made her way cautiously around a wheelbarrow filled with bits of plaster and ripped-up carpet and stepped over a tangle of cables to follow the sound of Jamie’s voice down a narrow hallway.

“Here you are,” she said as she spotted him, supervising the installation of a huge, double-door stainless steel refrigerator.

“Hey, Hols.” He came over and kissed her. “What’s up?”

“Well,” she said as she stood before him and looped her arms around his neck, “you promised me lunch, remember?”

“I did, didn’t I?” He paused, one arm still around her waist, to sign for delivery of a new sink. “Thanks, mate. You can put it over there for now.” He pointed to an empty corner.

“Never mind,” Holly said, and masked her disappointment. “You’re busy. We can do lunch another day.”

“No.” Jamie handed the clipboard over and turned back to her. “I promised we’d have lunch, and we will. Let me just get my phone. Be right back.” He kissed her again and disappeared.

As she waited, one hip resting against the brand-new grill, Holly tried to visualize the kitchen as the well-oiled, gleaming stainless steel machine it would eventually become. But she couldn’t. The dust, drop cloths, and holes in the drywall made it all but impossible.

Still, Jamie would make it happen. He always did. He was a talented chef, and his staff liked and respected him. She just hoped that Gordon Scots would do as well here in New York as it had in London.

“Excuse me.”

Holly glanced up from her mobile phone. Jamie’s sous chef, her dark hair pulled back into a messy knot at the nape of her neck, regarded her with an upraised brow. She wore jeans and a T-shirt and had a carton in her hands.

Holly straightened. “Oh, sorry – Catherine, isn’t it? Am I in the way?”

Although she didn’t reply, the fact that she hefted the box she held on top of the grill in the spot Holly had just vacated made it plain she was, indeed, in the way.

“Oh, hi, Cat. I see you’ve met my fiancée, Holly James,” he said. “Holly, this is Catherine Morgan. She’s my new sous chef.”

“We’ve met. Apparently,” Holly added, “I’m in the way.”

Catherine managed a tight smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude; but New York is full of crazies, and right now, anyone can walk in off the street.” She stuck out her hand. “Nice to finally meet you.”

So
, Holly thought as they warily shook hands,
she’s just met me and already she’s comparing me to a crazy street person.

Catherine turned back to Jamie. “I thought I’d run out and grab a bite to eat while I have a few minutes. Can I get you anything?” Her glance flickered to Holly. “Either of you?”

“Thanks, but we’re headed to lunch ourselves. I promised,” Jamie said, and grinned as he took Holly’s hand and swung it up to his lips.

“Okay. I’ll stay and take delivery of the stove and the broiler, then. They should be here any time.”

‘Oh, shit – I forgot!” Jamie exclaimed. He turned to Holly. “Sorry, Hols, but I should probably stick around for a bit longer—”

“Don’t be silly, Catherine assured him. “I can handle it. That’s what I’m here for, after all – to have your back.”

Or to stab you in it with a nice sharp knife
, Holly thought irritably.

“Catherine’s right, Jamie,” she said, and took his arm. “She’s got it covered. Come on, let’s go – I’m starving.”

But he shook his head. “I need to stay, there’s too much going on today. I can’t leave Catherine to deal with it all. Maybe tomorrow?” He drew away and gave her a quick peck on the cheek.

Holly opened her mouth to protest, to tell Jamie he was being ridiculous and that Catherine was a Machiavelli in chef’s whites, but what was the use? She knew he wouldn’t listen.

“Sure,” she said, and turned to go. “Maybe tomorrow.”

But Jamie didn’t hear her. He’d already turned away to consult with Catherine about the dinner menu for opening night.

Chapter Fifteen

Natalie was sprawled on the sofa, watching the
Today Show
featuring Christa, the pop singer who’d nearly destroyed her best friend Gemma’s marriage, when her mobile phone rang.

She switched the TV off. “Hello?”

“Nat? Hi – Holly here. Are you free for lunch? Jamie just bailed on me. I have
so
much to tell you.”

“Not half as much as I have to tell
you
,” Natalie assured her. She glanced at her wristwatch. “Where shall we meet?”

“How about Nico’s, on Third Avenue?” Holly said. “One o’clock?”

“Perfect. I’ll see you then.”

As Natalie waited for the lift a short time later, she wondered what Rhys was doing. Perhaps they could do something together on Sunday. She’d scarcely seen him since they’d arrived in Manhattan.

With a discreet “ding,” the lift doors slid open, and she stepped in and nodded politely at the elderly gentleman standing inside.

“Good morning,” she said.

He inclined his head. “Good morning.” Although silvery-gray, his hair was thick and springy. He held a trilby in one hand and an ebony walking stick in the other.

As the lift began its descent, he tucked the hat under one arm and stretched out his hand. “Morris Holland.”

“Natalie Dashwood-Gordon.” She took his hand and noted the firmness of his grip.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs Dashwood-Gordon. I’ve already met your husband, Rhys.” He smiled, and there was a twinkling in his eye. “It’s quite a mouthful, that hyphenated name of yours, isn’t it?”

“Is it a bit pretentious?” She regarded him doubtfully. “Rhys thinks so. But I like my last name. Both of them,” she added, and smiled. “And please call me Natalie.”

“It’s not pretentious in the least,” he assured her. “I’m very glad that we shall be neighbors.”

“Do you live here, too?”

He smiled, amused. “Yes, my dear. I do.”

With another discreet “ding” the lift arrived at the first floor, and he waited as she got out. “It was a great pleasure meeting you, Natalie,” he said, and lifted her hand to his lips. “I look forward to our next meeting.”

She blushed, charmed by his old-world manner. “Thank you, Mr Holland. It was lovely chatting with you.”

He left, thrusting on his trilby and touching the brim as the desk clerk called out a deferential ‘Good morning, Mr Holland,’ and as he disappeared through the front doors, Natalie walked across the lobby to the reception desk.

“Excuse me,” she said, “could you call me a taxi, please?”

“Of course.” The clerk picked up the phone and made the call. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” he asked as he rang off.

She rested her forearm atop the polished mahogany. “Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “There is one thing. Can you tell me who the elderly gentleman was? The one who just left?”

“That’s Morris Holland, the art collector. He’s the head of the Dunleigh’s co-op board. In fact,” he added with a conspiratorial wink, “he owns the building.”