Unsafe Harbor (7 page)

“That’s great. The problem is, dead women don’t talk, and Bitsy had the invitation list,” I pointed out.

“You’re right about that. Except for the PR firm that coordinated the event. I bet they still have a record of all the attendees,” she slyly revealed.

Beneath that mound of sequins, Tiffany was proving to be a lot sharper than she’d originally let on.

“I don’t suppose you’d happen to have the company’s name, would you?” I asked.

This last glass of scotch had apparently done the trick.

“I just might,” she said, and standing up, dumped the pooch on the couch.

I watched as she walked over to a French provincial desk and opened the top drawer. What do you know? The name
and number of the firm had already been neatly written out on a plain piece of paper. She picked it up and then walked me to the door.

“I have only one request. That you don’t use my name. I had nothing to do with where you got this information,” she said, and handed me the creamy white sheet of paper.

“No problem. By the way, that’s some rock you’re wearing,” I said, getting a better view.

It made my own diamond look puny by comparison.

“Thanks. It’s a fifty-six-carat emerald-cut, D-color stone,” she disclosed, and held it forward for closer inspection.

“D color? What does that mean?” I asked.

“That it’s the top of the line. The very best there is,” she proudly told me. “See? The color is icy white.”

The diamond appeared to be absolutely flawless. Its fifty-eight facets sparkled intensely, producing a myriad of tiny rainbows.

“Believe me, honey. I worked hard for this stone and everything else that I have. Andrew was okay, but he was certainly no angel,” she commented. “Come to think of it, Bitsy always wore quite the boulder of her own. I wonder whatever happened to it? Probably some cop, or whoever knocked her off, slipped the ring from her finger and into their pocket.”

This was the first I’d heard of any diamond. Perhaps the shawl hadn’t been all that Magda had snatched. The ring could very well be stashed away inside the Kielbasa House at this very moment. If so, Magda was in bigger trouble than she could have ever imagined.

E
veryone has a scam. No one turns informant for no reason. So, what was Tiffany Stewart’s stake in the game? Why had she come forward? And why give me the information? What did she have to gain?

I thought back again to her phone call. She’d had no hesitation in supplying Bitsy von Falken’s name. Then why the reluctance in tapping the other women? Not only that, but Tiffany must have planned to tell me about the PR firm all along. Why else had it been written down and so readily available? Just who was playing whom, anyway? One thing for certain was that sainthood wasn’t running rampant on the Upper East Side these days.

I shelved all such thoughts for the moment and focused on what I had in hand: the phone number for Haller and Associates public relations firm. Pulling out my cell phone, I quickly placed the call.

“Haller and Associates. This is Joy speaking,” answered a woman in a professionally cheerful manner.

“Hello, Joy. This is Chrissy Hilton. I’m going to be throwing an event to raise awareness for Hashimoto disease, and I’d like your firm to handle it,” I began, launching into my spiel.

“Excuse me, but are you a member of
the
Hilton family?” she inquired, unable to contain the excitement in her voice.

“I’m sorry, but I’d rather not comment on that. I don’t like to flaunt my family connections. I’m sure you understand,” I evasively responded.

Sometimes I felt as if I were the creator of my very own reality show. Why should I simply
want
to be a Hilton, when I could actually pretend to be one?

“Oh, of course. Please forgive my rudeness. It’s just that I’m thrilled to have you call. Now what can we do for you?” she asked, bouncing back like a real pro.

“As I said, I’m planning to host a charity event. Bitsy von Falken, who was a very dear friend, used to just rave about the way you handled her party,” I explained.

“You were a friend of Mrs. von Falken’s?” Joy asked in a hushed tone. “Oh my goodness. Wasn’t that dreadful news? Please accept my condolences. What a horrible thing to have happen. It must be just terrible for you.”

Actually, I felt fairly certain that it was far worse for Bitsy.

“Thank you. Yes, my days just haven’t been the same since. Which is why I plan to hold this event in her memory. I want to invite all the very same people who came to her fund-raiser. Would you possibly still have that attendance list?” I asked, careful to sound appropriately disconsolate.

“Exactly which party would that be, my dear?” Joy inquired.

Which
party? I could count the number of parties I’d thrown in my life on one hand—and those had all been potluck dinners.

“The charity event that Bitsy held for cancer awareness. I believe it was about a year ago. It was the one at which shawls were auctioned,” I said, going for nonchalant. But in truth, my anticipation was about to overflow.

“Well now, let’s find out, shall we? I’ll just check the computer,” Joy said.

Click, click, click.

My nerves tagged along for the ride as her fingertips pranced on the keyboard.

“Ah, yes. Here it is. That won’t be any problem at all. Naturally, we’ll be happy to send out the invitations for you,” she informed me.

“That would be wonderful. However, would you mind e-mailing that list to me first? I’d like to go over the names, and then we can take it from there,” I replied.

Either someone had snuck up from behind and slapped a gag on her, or Joy had suddenly become mute. My request was met with dead silence.

“Is anything wrong?” I finally asked, hoping to move things along.

Joy responded with a sigh as deep as the Grand Canyon.

“Oh dear. I’m afraid we
do
have a problem. I can’t release this information. Privacy issues and that sort of thing, you know. It goes totally against our policy,” she disclosed.

“I can appreciate that. But I have a problem of my own. An unpleasant incident took place a few weeks ago involving some of the women. Nothing I can discuss of course, but it upset Bitsy terribly. I want to make certain that their names aren’t on the list,” I blatantly lied.

“Well, that’s easily solved. Just give me their names and I’ll cross them off,” Joy replied in obvious relief.

“That’s the problem. I can’t seem to remember them. I’ll need to see the list in order to jog my memory. Couldn’t you make an exception just this once?” I cajoled.

“I’d really rather not,” she resisted.

It was time to pull out the big guns.

“Just between you and me, I know that Paris is planning a
big soiree and is looking for a new PR firm to handle all the details. She wasn’t pleased with the last company that she used. I’d be happy to put in a good word for you.” I had no qualms about providing Joy with a little imaginary incentive.

“Paris Hilton? Planning a party? Really?” she asked, just about panting. “That would be absolutely divine.”

I could nearly hear her ticking off all the new names to be added to her contact list.

“Well…I suppose we could make an exception just this once,” Joy complied. “In fact, I also have a separate list of those women that bought shawls, and exactly how many. The auction was a huge success. Mrs. von Falken wanted a record kept for the next time she planned a similar event. You might consider doing something along the same line, yourself. If so, would you be interested in seeing that list, as well?”

“What a brilliant suggestion. Let me just give you my e-mail address,” I said, and reeled off an undercover addy that I kept for such purposes. “Could you send those to me right away? I’d like to go over both lists tonight.”

“Of course,” she amiably agreed. That was followed by an awkward pause. “Hmm. This is rather odd. I can’t seem to find your name on either of these lists.”

Joy caught me off guard. I hadn’t planned on the woman being quite so thorough.

“How strange. Oh wait. Now I remember. I told Bitsy not to bother with an invitation since I was going to be out of the country. I was on safari with Paris in Botswana and then went to a friend’s tea plantation in Rwanda,” I replied, nimbly tap-dancing my way out of that one.

I figured I might as well hit her up again while she still had Paris Hilton on the brain.

“By the way, I’ll need one more favor. Being that Bitsy was so successful, I think I
will
try auctioning those shawls.
Thank you again for the marvelous suggestion. No wonder she used your firm. You’re an absolute lifesaver. Of course, I’ll need to place an order right away for a few hundred of them. Would you mind providing me with the name of the supplier?” I congratulated myself on being oh so clever.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Hilton, but I’m afraid we had nothing to do with the shawls. Mrs. von Falken took full charge of obtaining those, herself. Perhaps her husband might be able to help you,” she suggested. “Although I suppose this probably isn’t the proper time to ask.”

“No, I’m sure you’re quite right about that,” I agreed. “In any case, it shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll just call around and ask a few people. Please don’t forget to e-mail those lists to me. I’ll be back in touch tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry. They’re already on their way,” she assured me.

I thanked her and hung up. Then I got into my Trailblazer where a number of vehicles prowling the street immediately homed in on my primo parking space. I was tempted to sell it to the highest bidder but instead rushed home, anxious to peruse the list.

I parked in my garage and then dashed across to the old Essex Street Market. More than likely, there wasn’t any food in my fridge.

The market opened in 1930 to accommodate all the pushcart vendors. Now it sprawled across an entire city block. These days, stalls offered everything from canned goods to fresh produce, dumplings, tripe, pigs’ feet, and rib belly, in an edible cultural explosion. I made my way down the aisles, along with a parade of local Latinos, Chinese, and Jews, where I was tempted by assorted cheeses, fish, spices, nuts, and fresh fruit. There was even a variety of services available.

JCC Electronics had once fixed my TV, and I’d had pants
hemmed by “Mr. Smith Expert Tailor of London, Piccadilly.” Both stalls were next to a botanica that offered aerosol cans of “Money Attracting Spray,” breast-enhancing cream, laminated portraits of Pope Benedict, and Virgin Mary statuettes. I passed them by and ducked into Schapiro’s Wines, where I grabbed a bottle of cheap kosher burgundy and then left, having forgotten what I’d intended to get in the first place.

Hightailing it home, I jogged up to the third floor and unlocked the door. Spam raced toward me with the determination of a homicidal linebacker. It was one thing to be loved, quite another to be mauled as the dog nearly knocked me over.

“Down, Spam! Down,” I ordered.

But the pit bull continued to lick my face as he pinned me against the wall. So much for my home-school course in obedience training.

Otherwise, the place was bursting with silence. I was more aware of the quiet than I’d ever been while living alone. I glanced up at the clock, knowing that it was too early for Jake to come home, yet wishing that he were already here. I suppose that’s what happens when you get used to spending time together. The only problem was that we were doing less and less of that these days.

Quit worrying,
I reprimanded myself, and locked any misgivings away.

Then I turned my attention to the work at hand.

“Good boy, Spam. Just give me a minute and then I promise that we’ll go out,” I told the pooch, knowing he would understand as I booted up the computer.

He laid back down and rested his chin on my foot as I entered my password.

Two e-mails from Haller and Associates immediately popped up on the screen. I downloaded the attachments and printed out both lists.

My, my, but Joy was well organized. Not only did they include a bounty of names, but also their contact phone numbers.

I quickly scanned them and could scarcely believe my eyes. I didn’t need to know about charity balls to instantly recognize the crème de la crème of New York high society. Included was everyone from socialites and supermodels to actresses, countesses, heiresses, and trophy wives. It was a virtual Who’s Who of Manhattan. At one time, I would have swooned to spot my name among such a celebrated group. But times change, dreams shift, and now these people were on my hit list.

I was musing about life’s strange twists and turns when the telephone rang.

“I predict we’re having dinner together this evening,” Terri said in place of hello.

“Uh-huh. And I knew it was you before I picked up the phone,” I jokingly responded.

“Seriously, if I catch a sleigh downtown can we snowshoe out and grab a bite to eat?”

“Are you trying to tell me that you don’t like my home cooking?” I teased.

“And what home cooking would that be? A Swanson’s frozen dinner, or takeout?” he parried.

“I just got a bottle of Schapiro’s finest kosher burgundy. Care to come up for a drink before we head out?” I asked.

“Rach, surely you jest. That crap is pure rotgut. I don’t know how you can drink the stuff. For God’s sake, even
they
advertise it as wine so thick you can cut it with a knife. The only thing it’s good for is cleaning out clogged pipes. I’ll come up for a while, but you’re going to have to do better than that. Besides, I’m afraid if I stay too long I’ll thaw out and won’t be able to leave until spring.”

Terri was having a hard time adjusting to the cold. All the ice and snow just didn’t go with what he liked to call his tropical personality.

“Why couldn’t Eric have found a new job someplace more suitable? Say in Hawaii, perhaps?” he’d moaned after experiencing his first bout of snow.

In truth, I was beginning to worry about their relationship. Eric was a workaholic and homebody, while Terri still liked to party. Throw a rebellious teenage girl into the mix, and they were beginning to have trouble.

“See you soon,” I said, and hung up.

Then I walked into the kitchen and flicked on the light, only to have a shriek tear from my throat. Every horror film I’d ever seen came rushing back to haunt me. There on the counter was my worst nightmare: a roving gang of cockroaches.

A group of oval brown bodies were gathered in a shiny mass of twitching antennas, and skittering limbs. Santou had left a slice of Gerda’s cake out, and the bugs were rockin’ and rollin’ all over it. Unbelievable. The damn things didn’t have the decency to run away and hide from me, even though they were faster than cheetahs.

I quickly transformed from my normal animal-loving self into a vindictive Terminator.

Yeah, yeah. I know. I’m supposed to protect every living creature. But truth be told, we all have our limits. Besides, these were the least endangered critters on the planet. Not only can they survive decapitation, but the frigging bugs regenerate their own body parts.
I
should have such talents. Even the army could learn a thing or two from them. Cockroaches are the perfect survivors, able to live on a drop of water, a sliver of soap, strands of hair, and fingernail clippings.

The only thing worse than encountering one was actually
having to kill it. No way was I going to smash them on the counter and hear their tiny exoskeletons crunch. And then there was all that goo that would have to be cleaned up. Instead, I chose to do the only rational thing in such a situation. I closed the kitchen door, grabbed a can of Raid, and furiously began to spray the room.

A sickly sweet scent permeated the air, but I didn’t care. To hell with the fine mist that fell on my dishes, pots, and pans. What were a few toxins and chemicals when it was a matter of self-preservation? The bugs were mini-weapons of mass destruction and this was all-out war.

It was only when the can of Raid was finally empty that I knew the battle was temporarily over. I quickly cleaned up the mess, grabbed hold of Spam and left, unable to stand the smell any longer.

I didn’t take a deep breath until we were standing outside, where Spam began to pull me around the block. We went for our ritual walk, during which I acted out my secret fantasy. I morphed into Michelle Kwan while slipping and sliding along the ice.