Diva

by Jillian Larkin

  “I figured it might be something like that, considering you went straight from prison to that fellow’s house.” Marcus’s voice was tinged with worry. “But your detective work better not keep you from your role in my wedding. I can’t get married without my best friend there by my side.”

  Gloria felt a rush of affection for her old friend. Maybe she didn’t agree with his getting married so fast, but she did have to admit this was the happiest she’d heard him in a while.

  “Don’t worry,” she replied. “They’d have to lock me up again to keep me away.”

  They said their goodbyes and Gloria returned the telephone to the mahogany end table. She let her hand rest on the receiver for a moment. In Chicago, Marcus had been such an integral part of her world. Here in New York, he was nothing more than a ghost. And now that he was getting married … would he disappear forever? Would their only communication be via Christmas cards and family photos?

  Then it hit her: Would she and Jerome even send Christmas cards? What would be the point—who would they send them to? Vera and Evan, maybe, but that was it. She sighed and fingered the chain around her neck—she hadn’t taken it off since Forrest’s party, Hank and his rules be damned. Jerome kept disappearing on her. Wearing the ring around her neck, close to her heart, was the only way Gloria could ease the pain of his absence. Now she would just work on getting him back. It was only September, after all. They could worry about Christmas cards later.

  Gloria stood and made for the den’s door.

  And she found that she wasn’t alone.

  Forrest sat at the other end of the peach velvet sofa, perched on its arm. He must have left the terrace while she’d been on the phone, and entered through the other set of French doors that led to the room beside this one. He held an empty martini glass in each hand and raised one to her in a mock toast.

  “One of these was for you,” he said. “But I was so engrossed by your conversation that I drank both without realizing it. Silly me!”

  He placed both the glasses on an end table and moved toward her. His dark eyes had none of their usual sparkle—they were nearly black. Gloria had never seen him without a touch of mirth on his face, some joke on the tip of his tongue. But now Forrest’s expression was utterly grim and his face was pallid.

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk.” He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, making Gloria feel uncomfortable. Nervous. “So you really are on the bureau’s side. I thought I’d won you over, but you’re still intent on uncovering some dirt about me, aren’t you?” His voice was harder than Gloria had ever heard it.

  She had to think of a lie, and quickly. “No—at least, not anymore,” Gloria said. “Not after what Ruby told me last night.” The moment she mentioned Ruby, Forrest’s face softened. “She told me everything, Forrest, about how you two are going to run away together to Paris. And I’m so happy for you. I know you two have real love. I just said that stuff to Marcus so he wouldn’t be suspicious.”

  Forrest blinked a few times, then sank onto the couch. After a moment he looked up at her with hope in his eyes. “She really said that?” He smiled a little. “I’ve been begging her for weeks to agree … I’ve been so scared she would change her mind.”

  All the canoodling, the secret conversations Gloria thought she’d been witnessing—they really had been going on. She wasn’t crazy. Ruby was going to leave her husband for Forrest.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t honest with you, but it’s not like you haven’t been using me,” Gloria said.

  Forrest looked at her, confused.

  “Oh, come on. The flirting, the compliments—you were just trying to make Ruby jealous.”

  Forrest glanced away, his cheeks turning red. “Fair enough,” he said.

  Gloria held out her hand. “So we’re even?”

  Forrest studied it for a second, then extended his own. “Even.”

  “Besides”—Gloria sat down beside him—“Ruby also said she loves you more than life itself. She said she doesn’t care about money or fame just so long as she can be with you.”

  He turned to give her a wide smile. He wasn’t a self-assured playboy billionaire or a possibly shady businessman now; he was just a boy in love. “I’m so excited, Glo,” he admitted. “Tomorrow Ruby and I are going to sail off into a new life together, just her and me. It’s what I’ve always wanted. No one will know who we are: no more questions about my fortune, no more insufferable Marty. We’ll be free to do whatever we want, and we’ll never come back.”

  Then he saw something behind Gloria that wiped the joyful expression right off his face.

  “Oh, so is that the plan?” a gruff voice said.

  Pembroke.

  Standing in the doorframe.

  His presence sucked the happy energy out of the room like a vacuum, and suddenly the den was dark and desolate. Pembroke’s gaze had the same effect on Gloria as an ice cube sliding down her spine. She was surprised the older man’s burly shoulders were even able to fit through the doorway. But though Pembroke was a big man, he moved gracefully, crossing the Persian rug like a lion stalking its prey. His bushy gray brows lowered over his eyes, and cold fury radiated off him in waves. Back in Chicago, Carlito Macharelli’s rages had been like wildfire—burning, passionate, and unpredictable. But there was something so much more frightening about the combination of Pembroke’s intimidating size with his cool, unruffled manner. It was as if he could snap Gloria and Forrest in half without a blink of his pale, eerie eyes.

  Now those terrifying eyes fixed on Forrest. “And you didn’t even think to include me? I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You always were a selfish boy.”

  Pembroke pulled a wooden chair away from the desk in the corner. He turned it away from Gloria and Forrest and sat to face them, straddling it and resting his muscled arms on the back. He chuckled, and the smile twisted the lower end of his scar into a disturbing J. “I should have known better than to let you squander my money on Broadway shows. A stupid kid like you always gets romantic notions.”

  Gloria looked between Pembroke and Forrest. What made Forrest’s servant think he had the right to call Forrest selfish or stupid? “Excuse me, but what business is it of yours?”

  Pembroke threw his head back and laughed. “It’s all my business, sweetheart. Forrest doesn’t have two wooden nickels to rub together.” He turned back to Gloria. “All he’s got is the money I let him launder while I set up a new life for myself in Europe. And yet he seems to think he could make it without me.”

  “No, Dad, Gloria’s got it all wrong,” Forrest said, his voice high and nervous. “I’m … not running away with Ruby. Honestly.”

  Gloria’s head whipped between the two men again. Dad?

  “Damn right, you’re not!” Pembroke yelled, causing Ruby and the others to look at them through the French doors questioningly. Forrest summoned a shadow of his usual charming smile and waved off their concern.

  Once the others were back to their drunken shenanigans, Pembroke stood up and pointed at Gloria. “And you aren’t going to say a word to anyone about anything.” He paced and stroked his mustache pensively for a moment. “I still haven’t decided what to do with your colored boyfriend.” He held his hands out, weighing them back and forth. “Kill him? Leave him locked up till he starves to death? Let him go?”

  Without thinking, Gloria leaped up from the couch and seized Pembroke by his shoulders. “Where is he? Let him go!”

  Pembroke looked down at her and laughed. Then he effortlessly shoved her away from him, hard enough that she fell to the ground.

  “You weren’t kidding, Forrest, this girl’s a real bearcat,” Pembroke observed. “Moxie’s something I respect in a woman, and I plan to treat you and your boy real nice if you promise to treat me the same. I’ll let you know where he is after you do what I want. But if you don’t play by my rules … well, there won’t be much left of him to find.”

  Gloria swallowed hard and sat back down next to Forrest. She looked
into Pembroke’s eerie eyes and nodded.

  Pembroke sat down as well. “Forrest. When did you say your tickets were for?”

  Forrest gulped, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Tomorrow night. After the Eastman wedding.”

  Pembroke nodded, then pointed at Gloria. “So here’s how things are gonna work: Forrest and I are going to be on that boat.” Forrest sucked in a sharp breath and Pembroke laughed again. “That’s right, Son, you’re taking me with you—not your old flame. Ruby’s got a sweet deal, being a real producer’s wife. I’m sure she’ll thank me someday for keeping her from ruining her career for a punk like you.”

  Pembroke leaned forward to pat Forrest’s knee. “That’s something you still need to learn from me—how to know when something’s over. You and Ruby were finished a long time ago, and now I’m finished with this country. Things have gotten too hot here, and too many people know that I’m still alive. It’s time to get out, and I’m taking you—and my money—with me.”

  Gloria stared at Forrest, sure he was going to scream, or storm out, or do something. She knew how much he loved Ruby. Was he really going to let his father steal his and Ruby’s one chance to be happy together?

  But Forrest just stared at the floor and gave a small nod. “Yes, sir.”

  Gloria could feel the chill of Pembroke’s gaze on her. “You, Gloria,” he said, “are going to be at that wedding. My contacts tell me your G-man expects you there. And we’ll be there with you, because I don’t trust you and we’re not letting you out of our sight. So long as you don’t misbehave, afterward you can spring your boyfriend. By then we’ll be long gone.”

  Gloria peered quickly at Forrest, who still seemed to be trying to read some kind of hidden wisdom in the carpet.

  “All right,” Gloria said. What choice did she have? “But if you hurt Jerome, you’d better believe you’ll be climbing onto that boat with a bullet in your back.”

  Pembroke laughed again and slapped his thigh. “You really took that thing I said about moxie to heart, didn’t you? That’s what makes you a good performer, kid—you know your audience.” He stood and put the chair back by the desk. He turned back to Gloria and Forrest and clapped his hands. “Great, so we all know the roles we’re playing here.” He glanced at the others outside, then at Forrest. “I believe you have a chess game to finish.”

  Pembroke moved in front of her when she tried to follow Forrest through the French doors. “Meanwhile, Miss Carmody, your telephone privileges are cut off.” He leaned closer so that he was speaking directly into her ear. “And believe me, I’ll know if you try to place a call here or anywhere else. I’ve got eyes and ears everywhere.”

  Then Pembroke approached the end table where the telephone Gloria had used earlier was sitting. In one swift move, he yanked the telephone straight out of the wall. It fell to the floor with a jangle.

  He cracked his knuckles and glanced at Gloria. She tried not to let him see her hands trembling.

  “Now,” Pembroke said, his voice an older version of Forrest’s when he was at the height of his charm. “Why don’t you go out and enjoy the day with my boy and his friends? After all, it is a lovely time of year.”

  CLARA

  Clara sifted through the contents of her file on Deirdre Van Doren. “I don’t see why I have to go to the wedding.”

  She and Parker sat around the expansive oak table in one of the Manhattanite conference rooms with Solomon, the private dick who had proven invaluable to Clara’s research on Deirdre Van Doren. The rumpled PI was actually a real swell once you got past that top layer of snark.

  They’d been working for hours—it had been early morning when they’d started and now Clara could hear reporters chattering outside about which restaurant to order lunch from. Clara had forgotten all about food. She’d been subsisting purely on cup after cup of strong coffee.

  “I know you’re not too keen on watching Lover Boy marry someone else tomorrow afternoon,” Parker said with a cruel grin. He wore a deep-burgundy suit today with a skinny blue silk tie. “But you’re just going to have to suck it up. Real journalists learn to put their feelings aside.”

  Clara picked up a photo of Deirdre that Solomon had taken. “Not having them in the first place must make the job real easy for you, then.”

  Solomon scratched his neck. Clara could tell he was getting annoyed—sitting here while she and Parker fought like children. Solomon had been tailing Deirdre for the past week on the Manhattanite’s dime, and doing a much better job of it than Clara and Lorraine.

  Clara raised the picture, held it underneath the shoddy light from one of the lamps. Deirdre wasn’t doing anything incriminating in the photo, but the way she happened to be looking over her shoulder as she walked across the Barnard campus had a distinctly smarmy feel to it. It would be great for the cover of next month’s Manhattanite.

  Provided Clara got enough evidence to write the exposé at all.

  “Stare at that long enough and you’ll give yourself a headache,” Parker said, taking a swig from the coffee cup in his hand.

  Clara ignored him and walked to the corkboard on the wall, which was quickly filling with everything from copies of old police records to notes Clara had taken on a napkin from that greasy diner across from Priscilla’s. She tacked the picture right next to her invitation to Marcus’s wedding.

  Then she turned to Solomon. “Can’t we just tell Marcus what we know and stop the wedding?”

  “I’m afraid not, doll.” Solomon put out his fifth cigarette of the morning in the ashtray and went straight for another.

  He offered her a Lucky Strike straight from the carton—she doubted he knew what a cigarette case was, much less ever carried one. She gladly accepted. She was pleased when he failed to offer a gasper to Parker. She was pretty sure Sol liked him about as much as she did—which, at this point, was very little.

  “We don’t have any real evidence that this Anastasia Rijn girl is Deirdre Van Doren,” Solomon said. “Nothing but your testimony and that of your friend Lorraine, who sounds a hell of a lot less credible than you.”

  Clara wasn’t going to argue with that. Once upon a time she would’ve argued hard against the “friend” part … but now she felt okay about letting it stand.

  “You’ve already told Marcus once and he didn’t listen to you,” Solomon went on, puffing out a cloud of smoke. Clara looked away—she’d neglected to mention to Solomon and Parker that Marcus had turned her over to campus security. It was far too embarrassing. “What makes you think he’s going to listen to you at his wedding? We need proof. We need it in a way that can’t be denied.”

  “And that’s where you come in,” Parker said.

  Parker withdrew a booking photograph of a skinny fellow with a dark, thin mustache from a manila folder. The man in the photo looked about twenty-five. “We found one of Deirdre’s old beaus, Benji Stafford, who did time for a con job she put on him. Benji has quite the grudge against Miss Van Doren, and he’s willing to testify to her identity in court. Sure, he’s an ex-con, so his testimony isn’t as credible as we’d like. But it’s all we’ve got—and it’s better than nothing.”

  “That’s great. But what does it have to do with me?” Clara asked.

  “We need you to smuggle Benji into the wedding as your date,” Solomon explained. “Benji’s the only one who can give us a positive, indisputable ID on Deirdre, and we need that to be able to arrest her without a confession. So we’re going to confront Deirdre before the ceremony.”

  “First we’ll give her a chance to come clean,” Parker chimed in. “Our exposé will be that much better with a confession of guilt from the woman herself. And having Benji there should put the fear of God in her. We’re hoping that the sight of a familiar mug like his will put Deirdre in the mood to be as cooperative with the fuzz as possible.”

  “Even if she doesn’t say a word,” Solomon said, “once Benji gives us our confirmation, my buddy on the NYPD will be able to arrest her before the w
edding gets under way.”

  Clara studied the picture of Benji and frowned. Even if Benji was innocent of that particular crime, his dark, flat eyes made her sure he was guilty of something. “And when do I get to meet this dream date of mine?”

  “He doesn’t get into town until tomorrow morning,” Solomon said. “It’s the fastest he could come. We’ll have to pick him up at Grand Central and bring him straight to the ceremony. I’d much rather confront Deirdre quietly at her apartment today than arrest the girl in front of hundreds of wedding guests. But we don’t have much of a choice.” He reached his pudgy hand over to pat Clara’s. “It’s the best we can do, hon. Parker here will get his juicy story, and Marcus—well, he’ll be spared an ugly marriage.”

  Clara crossed her arms. “Great. My date to the wedding of the man I love is going to be an ex-con named Benji.”

  “Could be worse,” Solomon replied. “I once booked a con named Knifey McGee. His real name—I had the boys dig up his birth certificate to be sure.”

  Clara picked up a copy of last month’s Manhattanite and pretended to flip through it for a moment, then met Parker’s pale green eyes across the table.

  “Tell you what—get enough dirt on this woman tomorrow and you can consider the ‘Glittering Fools’ column officially folded.” Parker paused, letting the words sink in. “You’re too good a writer to spend all your time out gallivanting with those spoiled little rich kids anyway. You can write the exposé you’ve always dreamed of. Be a real journalist.”

  Clara felt her heart flutter. She had more or less forgotten about her own career—she just wanted to help Marcus. Only … what would Marcus think if she exploited his personal life for a story? He’d always wanted her to write about something serious, but she doubted he meant himself and his personal life. He’d be hurt enough once he knew the truth about Deirdre. What would an exposé like this do to him—to them?