The Celebutantes (23 page)

He stared at her, visibly spooked.

“Listen,” Lex said, stepping in front of him. “I have another question. Is there any way to find out where that key belongs? Like, why Elijah had it?”

“I guess you can try and call the locksmith where he got it,” Brooklyn answered. “Call the number on the key and see if they'll tell you.”

“The number?” Park held the key up. “What number?”

“Right there on the body of the key, etched into the silver part, you should find a phone number,” Brooklyn explained. “That's the locksmith.”

Lex dug into her magic purse and pulled out her trusty magnifying glass. She handed it over to Park.

Resting the key in the palm of her left hand, Park studied it through the magnifying glass. And there, printed on one side of it in nearly microscopic print, was a seven-digit phone number. She reached for her cell, flipped it open. She punched in the number and waited as the line rang.

“Big John's Locksmiths,” a male voice answered. “Can I help ya?”

“Um, yes,” Park said. “Can you tell me where you're located?”

“We have seven stores in New York State,” the man answered tersely. “You've reached our main store and office in Manhattan. Lower Manhattan, to be exact. You need a locksmith?”

“No, thanks.” She closed the cell. A surge of adrenaline shooting through her, Park slipped the key into the pocket of her jeans and grabbed her purse. “Hey, Brock? You've been a big help.” She patted his shoulder. “Thanks.”

“Thanks?” he snapped. “You come here and practically accuse me of killing Elijah Traymore, and all you can say is
thanks
?”

Park grinned. “You explained yourself, so I pretty much don't think you're our killer.”

“Pretty much?” Brooklyn asked, still incredulous. “How about saying you think I'm totally innocent? That would be nice.”

“Park doesn't think anyone is totally innocent,” Lex told him. “It's the detective mentality.” She swung the magic purse over her shoulder and looked up at him. She felt relief floating through her body. She wasn't sure Brooklyn DiMarco would ever want to see her again, but at least he was the nice, cool guy she'd initially taken him for. Good news for him, and good news for her. She batted her eyes, gave his forearm a gentle squeeze, and then she followed Park out of the room.

“Hey, Lex?” he called after her.

She turned around.

“Can I still call you sometime?” he asked with a reluctant smile.

She nodded right away and shot him a wink. “I think so. And as it turns out, I'm free this weekend….”

Park grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her into the lobby. “Amazing,” she huffed. “On the hunt for a killer and you're making a date. Why doesn't that surprise me?”

Big John's Locksmiths was located on Chambers Street in Lower Manhattan. The cab ride from Midtown had taken a full thirty minutes, and Park and Lex had used the time wisely, knotting silk scarves around their heads and tucking their hair in at all the right angles. Now, as the cab came to a full stop, they slipped on their sunglasses. Park paid the driver and popped open the door.

“Well,” she said, standing on the sidewalk and glancing around the bustling, narrow street. “It's been a long time since I've been down here. It's…so busy.”

“And kind of ugly,” Lex replied. “I've never seen so many people wearing gray.”

Park gestured at the large storefront window just ahead. The words
BIG JOHN'S LOCKSMITHS, FAMILY OWNED AND OPERATED SINCE
1922 were stenciled on the grimy glass. She pushed through the front door, surprised to see such a big, wide floor. From somewhere in the back, a machine was clunking noisily.

“Maybe that's Big John,” Lex whispered, referring to the short, thin, balding man at the front counter.

Park approached him and cleared her throat. “Hi,” she said gently.

“How ya doin'?”

“Fine, thanks.” Park reached into the pocket of her pants and pulled out the key. “I found this key in my father's old office, and I was just wondering if you could tell me anything about it?”

The little guy sucked a poppy seed out of the corner of his mouth and turned the key over in his hand. “Oh yeah,” he said. “This key is one of ours. A standard multi-lock. Whataya wanna know about it?”

“Could you tell me who bought it?” Park asked. “Or what address it's registered to?”

“No,” the guy said flatly. “I can't.”

Lex stepped up to the counter. “Why not?”

He sucked at the corner of his mouth again. “Because that's private information.”

“But it's kind of an emergency,” Park pressed. “You see, we think that key might open up a door in one of the other—”

“It doesn't matter,” he cut in quickly. “Now, if you had the security card that came with this here key, I might be able to help you. But you walkin' in off the street just like that and askin' for private info—that's not something I can help you with.”

Irritated, Lex decided to take matters into her own hands. Park dealt with problems one way, and
she
dealt with them another. She dug into the magic purse, pulled out three crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, and dropped them onto the counter. “And how about Benjamin Franklin?” she asked, her tone sweetly sarcastic. “Will you tell him stuff about that key?”

Park held her breath.

The little man eyed the bills, then scooped them up and slipped them into the pocket of his jeans. He walked over to the computer beside the cash register and, holding the key in his left hand, typed in some data. “This here key belongs to a…Tallula Kayson, at one-
tree
-nine Round Hill Road in Greenwich, Connect-the-dots.” He slid the key back across the counter. “Pleasure doin' business with ya.”

“What?” Lex snapped. “Are you sure?”

“Yep. Have a good day.”

Park took the key, locked her fingers around Lex's arm, and together they raced out of the store. “Holy shit,” Park said. “Tallula's house? Why? What's that all about?”

“I don't get it.” Lex scratched her head through the scarf. “But it's obviously an important key. I mean, why pay Brooklyn five hundred bucks to hide it?”

Park was about to pose another theory when her cell rang. She opened it and held it to her ear. “Hey, Madison. What's the scoop?”

“Oh my God!” Madison screeched into the phone. “Park! Where are you guys? You're not going to believe this! Poppy van Lulu was shot in her apartment early this morning.
She's dead!
”

Park stumbled and nearly dropped the phone. She grabbed on to Lex's shoulder for support.
“What?”

“What happened?” Lex asked.

Madison was sobbing into the phone. “The police are everywhere in front of the Dakota. Reporters everywhere! And listen to this—the doorman apparently gave a description of the person who visited Poppy this morning. There's a statewide manhunt going on for a girl with a star-shaped birthmark on her chin….”

20

The Lost Artist

H
eart pounding, tears still wet on her cheeks, Madison raced up the steps of the New York Public Library at Fortieth Street and Fifth Avenue. The beautiful, stately building was teeming with bodies. She shouldered her way through the crowd at a frantic pace, unconcerned with how she looked or who might recognize her. Her mind was focused on one goal.

After leaving the corner of West Seventy-second Street and Central Park West, she had dropped Coco off at home and then ordered Donnie to drive her here. The front of the Dakota had been a mass of police activity. Madison had watched it briefly from the back of the limo before turning on the small TV beside the minibar. That was when she'd caught the breaking headlines. The murder of Poppy van Lulu was a major media event. Every channel was running stories about the eccentric New York socialite-turned-psychic. The initial clips had showed Poppy walking on the red carpet at last year's Academy Awards ceremony, sitting front row center at Fashion Week, entering Buckingham Palace for tea with the queen. A number of celebrities gave statements as well, speaking highly of Poppy's “intuitive nature and amazing abilities.” The producers of
America's Next Top Model
and
American Idol
confirmed to Diane Sawyer on ABC News that Poppy van Lulu had, indeed, accurately predicted the winners of both shows every season—along with the chalky career paths of the runners-up.

The second biggest story of the day was the manhunt for twenty-four-year-old Ina Debrovitch. Her picture was being flashed across the screens, the unique star-shaped birthmark on her chin highlighted as a distinguishing characteristic. Ina had last been seen leaving the Howard Johnson's hotel on East Houston Street. It was confirmed that she matched the description the doorman at the Dakota had given to police.

Details about the murder were few. A detective told reporters that Poppy's apartment had been ransacked and a painting stolen from one of the walls, and
that
was the little nugget of information that had thrown Madison over the edge.

Even now, walking into the library and running up to the second floor, she couldn't stop trembling. She couldn't wrap her mind around the fact that just last night, she, Park, Lex, and Jeremy had been sitting in Poppy's apartment, unaware that Ina Debrovitch had already hatched a brutal plan. But that plan was fractured: as far as Madison was concerned, there
had
to be a link between Ina and the mysterious artist known as L. K. Corcoran. Why else would Ina have broken into Poppy's apartment, killed her, and then stolen the painting?

Madison was certain she already knew important facts; the first was that L. K. Corcoran was dead. Elijah had wanted Poppy to channel “Corky,” which meant that he had to have known something about L. K.'s demise. The second was that
To the Penthouse,
the painting in question, was much more valuable than anyone could have thought. Including Poppy van Lulu. Twenty years ago, Poppy had been a young member of the society, and she had probably followed in the footsteps of several other members and acquired the painting from the society for a small fee, wanting to promote an up-and-coming artist. But for whatever reasons, the mysterious L. K. disappeared—or so the society had simply assumed.

But Elijah Traymore had known something else, a missing link that had dominated his thoughts to a nearly obsessive degree. You didn't ask a psychic to channel a dead person unless you were totally fixated.

When she reached the second floor, Madison went directly to the information desk. An older, petite woman with ash blond hair looked up and smiled instantly. “Hi,” Madison said, quietly but quickly. “I need to see articles from the
New York Times
for the week of October 10, 1988. Preferably arts-related.” She opened her purse, found her wallet, and began flipping through it. She found her library card—more valuable than her AmEx, as far as she was concerned—and dropped it onto the desktop.

“Yes, thank you,” the librarian replied softly. “Just give me a minute.”

Madison watched her disappear into a back room. She crossed her arms over her chest and remained in the same rigid position, with her head facing the empty desk. She didn't want to look around and risk the possibility of making eye contact with someone who might recognize her and then ask for an autograph or picture. She didn't mind being approached by people, it was just that she didn't want to be disturbed when time was running out.

Ina, where are you hiding?
she thought now. A chill snaked up her spine and made her shiver in fear. She couldn't help picturing it—the gun, the shot, the blood. She had a heart-wrenching image of Poppy van Lulu's waiflike body being blown back a foot just after the trigger was pulled. Had she been shot in the head, at close range? Madison knew it didn't matter, but she hoped Poppy had escaped a painful end. She had certainly died with a shocked look on her face. Why had she let Ina into her apartment?

“Here you are,” the quiet voice said.

Madison broke out of her reverie. She looked down and saw the ream of microfiche the librarian had pulled for her. “Thank you,” she replied. She picked it up and carried it over to one of the empty stations. She sat down, put her purse beside her, and slipped the microfiche into action.

The pages of documentation were numerous. She scanned through the sections of the
New York Times
swiftly, bypassing the stories that had made headlines the week of October 10, 1988, and focused instead on all the smaller arts-and-culture-related articles. The society had long published its acquisitions, and Madison hoped against hope that she would find some biographical information on L. K. Corcoran that she hadn't been able to find in the thin file back at the society's library.

She scanned. She moved the images back and forth. She read the small print and scoured the captions until her eyes ached and her temples throbbed. Back and forth, one page after another, hundreds and hundreds of lines and names and captions.

Come on,
she thought restlessly.
Something. I need something.

She worked diligently, unaware that a full hour had passed, unaware that most of the people who had been sitting in the stations surrounding her had gotten up and left. She didn't care. She would stay here until the lights went out.

She got to the end of the ream, then turned it back to the beginning and started all over again. Back and forth.

There has to be something. L. K. and Ina—what's your little connection?

And then she saw it.

A small boldfaced headline at the very bottom of that week's Sunday Arts section. It was so minuscule, Madison wasn't surprised that she'd missed it the first time around.

Prestigious Art Society Awards Grants to Five Emerging Artists.

Her heart started hammering again. She scanned the script. It ran onto the next page, so she had to break her concentration and refocus it after sliding the film forward. At the bottom of the article was a list of the five artist awardees. Madison started reading the minor blurb on L. K. Corcoran, and the hammering in her chest came to a shocking and painful stop.

…To the Penthouse,
an oil landscape of the panoramic Manhattan skyline as seen from the penthouse of a high-rise apartment building, is by first-time artist L. K. “Corky” Corcoran. It will be on display at the society's headquarters this week for members, patrons, and benefactors. L. K. (Lisa Kathleen), 25, is married to William Kayson. They reside in Redding, Connecticut, with their two-year-old daughter, Tallula….

The two men from the Connecticut State Police Department sat down in the opulently furnished study of Ghost Ranch. Officers Robert Martinson and Eddie Kaller were both fair-skinned and portly, their big bellies straining over their waists. “We know this is a difficult time for you,” Martinson said evenly. “But we're here on behalf of the NYPD.”

Tallula didn't flinch as she sat on the edge of her chair. She didn't feel much like talking, and she knew anger and disinterest showed on her face. She only hoped the rest of her looked good. She was wearing vintage Halston flares and a silk Armani shirt—a shirt Elijah had bought for her last Christmas. The white Southern-style hat on her head was huge, its edges flopping down to her shoulders. “I understand completely why you guys are here,” she answered quietly. “I hope I can help you, but apparently, I'm the moron in all of this.”

“What do you mean?” Martinson asked.

“I mean that I didn't know either my boyfriend, Elijah Traymore, or my assistant and friend, Ina Debrovitch.” Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat. “At least I thought Ina was my friend. Now I know they were both liars.”

“Okay, that's a start,” Martinson said. “You know, obviously, that Ina Debrovitch is wanted for questioning in the murder of Poppy van Lulu, and that's why we're here. We need you to tell us anything and everything about Ina. She has disappeared, and she's armed, and we don't know what her next move is going to be.”

Tallula narrowed her eyes at both men. “I can tell you about Ina—or what I thought I knew about her. But as for where she might be—I haven't the foggiest idea. Personally, I think she's on a plane right now, headed for home.”

Eddie Kaller flipped open a notepad. “It's been confirmed that Ina bought a plane ticket,” he said. “She was planning on boarding an Air India flight to Paris tonight, and then continuing to Romania from there. The airlines have already been notified, and she has to know by now that she's not going to get past security at JFK.”

“And?” Tallula said.

“And…well…” Kaller fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair. “Where else do you think she might be? Did she have any family here in the States? Any friends?”

“She had no one,” Tallula answered. “Just like me. Alone in this big, wide world. All of her family is in Romania, but who knows whether or not that was even true.”

“How about any friends?” Martinson asked.

Tallula shook her head. “Nothing like that. You have to understand that she lived a very structured life. She was my assistant, and we spent most of our time here, at Ghost Ranch. Whenever I traveled, she traveled. She didn't have friends. No one I ever knew about, at least. No calls on her cell, no letters or anything like that.”

“How long had Ina known Poppy van Lulu?”

“To my knowledge, Ina had never met Poppy van Lulu,” Tallula said. “I can't imagine why she went to her—the poor old woman—or why she killed her.”

“So you never heard her mention Mrs. van Lulu's name?” Martinson's tone was laced with confusion. “That apartment in Manhattan was ransacked, and a painting is missing. Any thoughts on why Ina might've stolen it?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Did you know Poppy van Lulu?”

“I know
of
her,” Tallula said. “I'd never met her personally. If Ina was carrying on some sort of contact with Poppy, it was the secret kind.”

“Is Ina a secretive person?”

Again, she gave them a narrow stare. “Obviously she is.”

“What did Ina say when she left here?”

“Only that she was sorry, and that leaving was something she had to do. I kept asking her why, but she wouldn't answer me. She cried a lot. We both did.” A pause, and Tallula cast her eyes downward. “But that was it. No real discussion about it. Like I said—it came out of nowhere.”

Kaller looked at his notepad. “Did you know Ina owned a gun?”

“Of course not,” she whispered. “I don't allow weapons in my house.”

She stood up and walked over to the window. Stared out at the vast patch of green that spilled into acres of thick woodland. “Look, I know I seem disinterested and probably, frankly, weird to the both of you, but I've been through a lot, so you'll have to excuse me for seeming that way. But let me make this easy for you, okay? Ina Debrovitch had been harboring many secrets from me—and so had Elijah. I never in a million years would have suspected Ina had it in her to be so deceptive, and so evil. But obviously she does have that in her. Killing two people proves it, don't you think?”

Both Martinson and Kaller continued to stare at her silently.

“Up until this morning, I was still clinging to the belief that Coco McKaid was guilty of killing Elijah and that Ina had just been spooked by the whole thing,” Tallula continued. “I even thought she was going to come back here and just resume her life with me. But now I know what really happened.” She turned away from the window and fixed the two men with a furious gaze. “She and Elijah were obviously having an affair, and the other day, after I left the hotel room, they started fighting. Ina didn't get into the shower like I thought she did. She must've waited for me to leave, and when I did, she confronted Elijah. About what, I don't know. But the fight had obviously been nasty. And she just…did it.” Tallula gulped down her tears. “She shoved him off that balcony, then raced back into her room, broke her hearing aid to make it look like Elijah had done it, and jumped into the shower.”