Fleeced: A Regan Reilly Mystery

by Carol Higgins Clark

  “Sheepskin rugs?” Regan asked.

  “Can you believe that? My skin crawls just thinking about it.”

  “Thinking about the rugs, or him?” Regan asked.

  “Him! I’ve got nothing against sheep.”

  Regan laughed. “So why do you come to these gatherings?”

  Uh-oh again, Georgette thought. “I bought the package deal Lydia was offering. I figured I may as well use it up. And you never know, lightning might strike. Sometimes I think finding the right guy is like trying to find a needle in a haystack.”

  “What kind of guy are you looking for?”

  “Someone who is kind and caring. Sense of humor. That’s really important to me. There are so many problems in life, you have to laugh, right, Regan?”

  “That you do,” Regan agreed. “I love your perfume. What kind is it?”

  Georgette laughed shyly. “It’s called Lethal Injection. My old boyfriend gave it to me.”

  Regan smiled. “And what happened to him?”

  Georgette waved her hand at Regan. “Another loser. He expected me to take care of him.”

  One of the butlers accidentally bumped into Georgette. “Excuse me,” he said as he held out a tray of pigs in blankets.

  “Thank you,” Regan said as she took one and dipped it in the mustard. “These are good.”

  “At the end of the night there are never any of these left,” he replied, moving on when Georgette refused any.

  “So you didn’t see anything unusual last night?” Regan asked.

  “No. It was the exact same deal as this. The guy with the camera was out here. I think he’s spending tonight with the butlers in the kitchen.”

  He certainly taped enough of the party scene last night, Regan thought. For the next hour she talked to the other guests. When she mentioned to Snoopy’s mom that one of the women with the heavy perfume hadn’t even been there last night, she just shrugged. “I get confused sometimes.”

  Most of these women are heavy on the perfume—and makeup, Regan noted. After all, this party is a mating dance. People try to look their best.

  “Are you having a good time?” Lydia asked as she pulled Regan aside.

  “Lydia,” Regan said in a low voice, “I’d like to get the names and addresses of everyone here. I’d also like to know who was here last night who didn’t make it tonight. I’ll run a quick check on them. No one has to know.”

  Lydia’s eyes narrowed. “It had better not leak, Regan. This is my livelihood.”

  “It won’t,” Regan assured her. “Don’t forget. This is also for the sake of the Settlers’ Club. Now, I also need the names and addresses of the butlers.”

  Lydia inhaled sharply. “Maldwin’s not going to like that.”

  “If he and his students have nothing to hide, then it shouldn’t be a problem. This is standard procedure. I’m going down to see Thomas now.”

  “I’ll put together the list and slip it under your door tonight,” Lydia promised.

  “The sooner, the better,” Regan said. “I want to call everyone as soon as possible.”

  46

  At a candlelit table down in the stately dining room, Thomas and Janey were recuperating from their day of woe. They had each had a salad and a bowl of pasta and were now finishing the last of their bottle of wine. Before dinner, Thomas had made the dreaded calls to several of the members, assuring them that of course the party was still on and everything would be fine. He had also put a cold compress on Janey’s face and persuaded her to lie down on the couch. When they emerged from his apartment, she was wearing a pair of his sunglasses. Her eyes were red and swollen from the Mace.

  When Regan walked in, she found them at the corner table, underneath the portrait of the founder of the club. He must be rolling in his grave, Regan thought.

  “Did you sniff out anything up there?” Thomas asked as he wiped his mouth with a napkin. On the way back from Ben’s apartment they had discussed the perfume Janey had smelled as well as the reference to perfume in Ben’s journal.

  Regan smiled wryly. “There were a lot of women wearing perfume. 1And everyone claims to have seen nothing.” She turned to the waiter who had approached her. “I’ll have a glass of red wine, please.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t go up there with you,” Janey said. “I just didn’t feel up to it, and I look a mess.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Lydia wouldn’t have been too happy anyway. She doesn’t want it to seem as if we suspect any of her clients, and if you had walked into a singles party while you’re still recovering from a Mace attack, it might have seemed a little odd.”

  “Or people might think I’m desperate.”

  “That too,” Regan agreed.

  “But I’m not desperate. I have Thomas.” Janey reached for his hand as he beamed.

  And you’d better hang onto him, baby, Regan thought. Because something tells me you’re going to bring the Settlers’ Club into the papers tomorrow. And it ain’t going to be pretty. As the couple gazed into each other’s eyes, Regan took a sip of the wine the waiter had just put in front of her. I may as well continue, she thought. “I got the names of the perfumes all the women were wearing. I’m going to go out tomorrow and buy each one of them. Then we can see if you recognize any of them as the one you smelled today.” Regan paused. “Whoever ransacked Ben’s apartment might have no connection with the woman Nat was seeing. It could just be a coincidence.”

  “The Fragrance Foundation would be thrilled to know how many people are spritzing themselves,” Thomas remarked.

  “You might say the whole situation stinks,” Janey said before she drained her glass and started to giggle.

  How many glasses of wine have you had? Regan wondered as she smiled at Janey. I guess I’d get a little giddy too after being locked in a cold, dark closet for a good part of the day, not knowing when I’d be rescued.

  “Clara’s coming in tomorrow,” Thomas announced. “In an attempt to make amends for her disastrous phone call to the crime show.”

  “I want to talk to her,” Regan said.

  “Of course.”

  After several minutes of small talk, Regan stood. “Time to call it a night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “We have a lovely breakfast here in the dining room. Why don’t you come down?”

  “Sounds good,” Regan said. As she walked out of the room, she looked at her watch. It was eleven-thirty. I’ve been here nearly fourteen hours, and I only have two days left to solve this crime.

  Crimes, she thought. With each passing minute, she was becoming more and more certain that Nat had been murdered. That’s why she had to talk to Clara. She felt sure that Clara, unknowingly, had information that would be helpful.

  When she got off the elevator and walked down to Nat’s door, she could still hear a small group of people inside Lydia’s apartment. The diehards, she thought.

  Within fifteen minutes she was in bed in the guest room, the alarm set for seven o’clock. I want to get up early and take a good look through this apartment, she thought. There’s got to be something around here that gives me a clue. Regan turned out the light and put her head down on the pillow. Five minutes later, she was asleep.

  47

  Action!” Jacques Harlow cried to Daphne.

  They were in his sparsely furnished, high-ceilinged, drafty loft on a deserted street in lower Manhattan. Jacques had signaled one of his assistants to turn on a fog machine as Daphne sat on the floor, surrounded by darkness, and began to rhapsodize on the benefits and sorrows of selling her farm. Nat and Wendy’s sheep stood at attention on either side of her.

  “I look out over the moors,” Daphne almost whispered, “and my heart starts to sing …”

  “Wait!” the cameraman shouted.

  “Wait! What do you mean wait?” Jacques demanded. “The director is the boss! The director calls ‘action’ and the director calls ‘cut.’ How could you forget such a thing?”

  “You’re goin
g to waste a lot of film. I’m getting a bad reflection off the sheep’s eyes.”

  “So turn the sheep sideways and pull their bangs down,” Jacques screamed impatiently.

  Two weary production assistants hurried over. When they turned Dolly to face Daphne, one of her eyes fell out and rolled away into the darkness. As they frantically scrambled to feel around for it on the floor, Jacques screamed again. “Don’t worry about it! I don’t care about the sheep’s eyes. I only care what’s going on in my actor’s eyes. Now turn the other sheep and let’s go!”

  Bah-Bah in place on one side, Dolly on the other, Daphne was ready to start over. The two sheep now looked as though they were dying to hear what she had to say.

  “Action!” Jacques cried again.

  For the next six minutes, Daphne emoted over her character’s sheep farm like nobody’s business. At the end, sobbing, she lowered her head to the ground as Scarlett O’Hara had done so famously in Gone with the Wind.

  “Cut!” Jacques cried, his voice trembling. He wiped a tear from his eye and ran over to embrace Daphne. “I was so moved,” he whispered in her ear as the crew broke into applause. “You’re a magnificent actress. I want you to star in my next film.”

  Daphne was speechless. She hadn’t felt this good in years. Both her personal and professional lives had been less than satisfactory. But all of a sudden, it seemed as if a whole new wonderful world was opening up to her. It sure beat stand-in work. “Oh, Jacques,” she finally mouthed as she laid her head against his shoulder.

  Pumpkin sat seething in the corner. She stood up. “Are we ready to shoot my final scene?”

  “No!” Jacques sneered. “Daphne is going to do her monologue again for me. Her well is overflowing, and I want to capture more of it.”

  “Yeah, well I’m going outside for a cigarette,” Pumpkin announced and turned on her heel.

  Jacques gave Daphne a mischievous glance. “Would you like Pumpkin to be your stand-in?”

  Daphne laughed as Jacques returned to his director’s chair. She petted Dolly and Bah-Bah. “Can you imagine how surprised your mommy and daddy would be to see that you’ve turned into movie stars?”

  48

  When a thud sounded from Nat’s living room, Regan awoke with a start. Her heart began beating rapidly. What was that? she wondered as she sat up and listened. Everything was still. The illuminated clock next to the bed read 2:11.

  Regan slipped out of bed, grabbed her robe, slowly walked to the closed door, and cocked her head. She could hear the floorboards creaking. Oh my God, she thought. There’s someone out there! Then the sound of muffled whispers made her realize that there was more than one person.

  Regan’s heart was pounding in her chest. Two people at least, and I don’t have anything to protect myself with, she thought. And last night someone was murdered in this apartment. I can’t go out there. Who knows what I’ll find? She reached over to lock the bedroom door. But her fingers met with a smooth surface. There was no lock. Oh my God. I’ve got to get help. I’ve got to get help or I could end up like Nat.

  She crept back to the bed, where she had her cell phone plugged in to the wall. Grabbing it with shaky hands, she dialed 911. “I’m at the Settlers’ Club in Gramercy Park,” she whispered. “There are intruders in the apartment. There was a burglary here last night.”

  “What is the address?” the operator asked matter-of-factly, as if she were taking an order for the local deli.

  “It’s on the park in Gramercy Park. Twenty-first Street.”

  “You don’t have the exact address?”

  “No. There may have been a murder here last night …” As Regan said the last five words, the bedroom door opened. There was a gasp, the door slammed, and Regan heard feet running down the hall.

  “Please—the Settlers’ Club—look it up,” Regan pleaded. She dropped the phone and ran out into the hall. She heard the back door shut and raced toward the kitchen. By now her heart was in her mouth. If I can only get a glimpse of them, she thought as she ran through the darkness. In the kitchen, she flicked on the light, then yanked open the door. There was no sign of anyone, but she could hear footsteps descending the back stairway.

  Running back into the kitchen and down the hallway, Regan picked up the house phone. A sleepy-sounding voice answered.

  “Hello.”

  “This is Regan Reilly. I’m staying in Nat Pemrod’s apartment. It was just broken into, but the intruders got scared off. They’re running down the steps by the service elevator.”

  “Oh my goodness.”

  “Well, do something!” Regan cried.

  “They must have gone out the back door.”

  “The back door?” Regan said in disgust.

  “It’s only used for emergencies.”

  Regan shook her head. “I guess this qualifies. The police should be here in a few minutes.”

  “I’ll send them up, ma’am.”

  “Thank you.” Regan hung up the phone and went around turning on lights. The living room had been ransacked. I must have been sleeping the sleep of the dead, she thought.

  Books and pictures were all over the floor, and Nat’s desk was torn apart. I guess my room was next. She shuddered. What if I hadn’t woken up until it was too late? If I’d have gotten away with only a Mace attack like Janey, I would have been lucky.

  I’d better let Thomas know. She went back to the house phone and called downstairs.

  “Could you please call Thomas for me?” Regan asked.

  “I already did. I was just about to ring you. The police are on their way up.”

  Thomas was getting off the elevator as Regan opened the door. He had on a crisp linen robe and leather slippers that certainly suggested gracious living. The police were right behind him, their radios squawking.

  “Regan!” Thomas cried as he entered Nat’s apartment, and for the second time in less than six hours, hugged someone involved in a crime scene.

  “It could have been a lot worse,” Regan assured him. “But I don’t think they expected to find me in the guest room.”

  The two cops introduced themselves to Regan. “We were here last night,” Officer Angelo said. He turned to Thomas. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Better, thank you,” Thomas said as he and Regan followed them into the living room. “I appreciate your asking.”

  “They ran out the back door.” Regan explained to the officers what had happened.

  “No sign of forced entry?” Officer Angelo asked.

  “None that I see,” Regan answered.

  “Just like last night.”

  “What happened?” Lydia cried, rushing across the hall with Maldwin right behind. They were both clad in their pj’s and robes. Lydia’s getup, of course, was worthy of a Las Vegas lounge act.

  “Miss Lydia woke me when she heard noises in the hallway,” Maldwin volunteered.

  “Hellooooo.” It was now Daphne’s turn to make an entrance. “I just got back from my movie shoot and heard at the front desk that there was some excitement up here.” She looked at the mess all over the living room. “When will it end?”

  And she doesn’t even know what happened at Ben’s, Regan thought.

  Since Daphne’s question was rhetorical, no one answered. But Maldwin felt the need to say something.

  “Perhaps I should prepare some tea for all of us.”

  “Not in here,” one of the cops advised. “This is a crime scene.”

  “I had no intention of preparing it here, sir,” Maldwin replied stiffly. “My kitchen and special teapots are across the hall.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea,” Lydia said. “Do you need any help?”

  “Not at all,” Maldwin said. “Whenever you’re ready, come over.”

  The sight of him, bowing in his robe before he exited, almost made Regan laugh.

  “Did you bring the sheep back?” Thomas brusquely asked Daphne.

  “You’ll never guess …” Daphne began.

 
; “I guess that means no.”

  “My acting career has just received a renewed blast.”

  “Is Bah-Bah your new agent?” Thomas inquired.

  “I resent that. But the sheep are starring in the movie too. We have more scenes to film tomorrow, so the sheep are spending the night at the director’s apartment.”

  “I want them back for the party,” Thomas warned.

  “They’ll be back.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “Why don’t you all go across the hall?” Regan suggested. “I’ll be there soon. I want to talk to these officers for a few minutes.”

  “I could use a cup of tea,” Daphne said.

  After the group exited, Officer Angelo turned to Regan. “Whoever did this is pretty determined. I don’t think you should stay in here tonight.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I’m sure one of them has a room I can crash in,” Regan said as she pointed across the hall.

  Angelo smiled at her. “Lucky you.”

  49

  We’re never going to be rich,” Georgette sobbed as she lay in Blaise’s arms in their lumpy bed.

  “It’s Regan Reilly’s fault,” he said. “Who would have thought she’d have camped out there?”

  “She never mentioned it when we were talking.”

  “Well … by the way, don’t give out so much information. You were getting a little too chatty.”

  “She liked the perfume you gave me.”

  “Don’t wear it again.”

  Georgette lifted her head and looked Blaise in the eye. “Why not?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Have you ever heard of hound dogs at a crime scene?”

  “Yeah.”

  “They pick up a scent. Think of Regan Reilly as a hound dog.”