by Maria DiRico
They passed by the estate’s private dock where a few high-end speedboats were moored, indicating some guests had boated over from their own palatial homes. Mia and Jamie arrived at the Collection building and were instantly set upon by waiters offering champagne and passed hors d’oeuvres. “Good service,” Mia commented. She helped herself to an hors d’oeuvre. “Beef carpaccio on a tiny piece of toast with horse radish. I need to remember this.”
“Also, these little potato pancakes,” Jamie said, his mouth filled with one.
“They’re blinis with caviar,” the waiter said, managing to sound polite and disdainful at the same time.
“They’re blinis with caviar,” Jamie mimicked as soon as the waiter moved on to other guests. “La di flippin’ da.”
Mia had to laugh at this. “For once I’m not the embarrassing, low-class guest.”
“Gee, thanks,” Jamie said with a wry face.
Mia glanced around. She saw Larkin Spaulding-Miller and gave a small wave. The Collection director’s face lit up and she scooted over. She threw her arms around Mia. “You came. That makes me so happy.”
Mia caught Jamie’s eye and bemused expression. “Of course. I can’t thank you enough for inviting me.” She gentled wriggled out of Larkin’s grasp. “Larkin, this is my friend—my boyfriend—Jamie.”
“Uh huh,” Larkin said. She grabbed Mia’s hand. “Guess what’s back in the Collection? You have to see.”
Larkin pulled Mia into the Collection’s main room. A nonplussed Jamie brought up the rear. Larkin grabbed Mia by the shoulders and positioned her in front of a painting. “Cow and Woman,” the young woman said. “It’s home.”
“You got it back,” Mia said. “That’s wonderful.”
Larkin’s face darkened. “But Cow and Woman isn’t Hoop and Boy. I want all of the paintings back, all of them, and I don’t care what it takes to get them!”
Her voice rose to a screech. Guests in the room quieted and turned to see what was going on. Jamie instinctively pulled Mia away from the Collection’s director.
“Larkin dear, simmer down.” Abigail Miller materialized by her daughter’s side, along with husband Spencer, who held a champagne glass in each hand. “Have you taken your meds?”
“No,” Larkin said in a sulky tone.
“I didn’t think so. Open up.”
“I don’t wanna,” the thirtysomething whined.
“I said, open. Up.”
Cowed by her mother’s tone, Larkin opened her mouth. Abigail pulled a small bejeweled gold pillbox from a pants pocket and dropped a couple of pills down her daughter’s gullet. She took a glass of champagne from her husband, who yelped a protest. “Wash your meds down with this, Larky.” Abigail handed the champagne to Larkin, who downed it. Abigail noticed Mia and Jamie staring at the family, transfixed by the bizarre scene. “Hello.”
Mia snapped out of it. “Hello, Abigail. Larkin was showing me Cow and Woman. I’m glad it’s back where it belongs.”
“Yes,” Abigail said. “So are we.”
She took the empty glass from Larkin’s hand and strode off. Spencer lingered. He motioned to a waiter, who hurried over with a fresh glass of champagne. “We owe you a thank-you for the return of Cow and Woman,” Spencer said to Mia. “Given your family’s history, there was every chance you would have tried fencing the painting instead of turning it over to the police. We’re grateful you chose to do the right thing. It was a pleasant surprise.”
Jamie’s mouth dropped open. He was about to respond but Mia kicked him in the shin to make sure he stayed quiet. She didn’t want to risk being evicted from the property. Spencer left them to schmooze other guests, and Mia seized the chance to escape from Larkin’s presence. “Jamie and I need to look around and get a sense of how we might utilize the space for different types of events.”
“Uh huh.” Larkin gave Mia a loopy smile and wandered off. Either the meds or champagne—or the combo—appeared to have had an instant effect on her.
Jamie grabbed Mia’s arm. “These people are insane,” he said in a panicked whisper. “We have to get out of here.”
Mia yanked her arm away. “No. Spy first, make a run for it after. Now, go. See if you can find any clues. I’ll do the same.”
Jamie reluctantly separated from Mia. She made her way from room to room, eavesdropping on conversations to see if anyone was gossiping about the art heist. No one was, so Mia tried another tack. Figuring older partygoers were more likely to remember the Collection’s dark day, she sidled up to a well-dressed, middle-aged foursome.
“My broker’s not a fan of talent agency IPOs,” a man attired in a perfectly tailored suit said to the other three, all of whom nodded vigorous agreement. “He says the big agencies are generally a bunch of bottom feeders who live to poach each other’s clients, which makes their stock value volatile.”
Mia sidled up to the foursome. “I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation.” Trying to corral her accent, Mia over-annunciated, which made her sound like she came from a foreign country. Luckily, this seemed to work for her. She had the group’s attention. “I’ve come into a bit of an inheritance and am debating how to invest it. The stock market makes me nervous these days. I’m drinking in all the magnificent art around us tonight and wondering if that might be a sounder investment.”
Mia feared she’d gone too far with her florid imitation of a wealthy young heiress but to her relief, the others bought her act. “You’ve got good instincts.” The compliment came from a woman wearing a diamond pendant Mia pegged at ten karats. “Art is a smart investment, although you must use an advisor who has great word of mouth recs.”
“Oh, yes. Absolutely. But then again . . .” Mia hesitated. “There’s the danger of theft. Like what happened here a while ago. I heard many priceless works of art were stolen from the Collection.”
The woman shrugged. “That’s what insurance is for.”
Insurance. Mia’s mind raced. Considering most of what decorated her family’s walls were paintings of Jesus and old, yellowed portraits of John F. Kennedy, art insurance was such an alien concept she’d never considered it. Was that the heist’s ultimate payday? But the money would have gone to the Millers, Mia thought, so why would Tina or anyone else be involved? Unless they were promised a chunk of it.
“Although,” the other woman said, “I remember Abigail saying her father refused to file any claims because it would mean surrendering ownership in exchange for the insurance company’s current determined value versus its future value once it was recovered. And she agreed with him.”
“Pro move on her part,” the fourth man said. “Look how they got back Cow and Woman. That one painting is worth more now than the whole stolen lot was worth twenty years ago.”
So much for my insurance theory, Mia thought, deflated.
* * *
Mia continued to listen in on conversations for the next half hour, but while she picked up tips on what mega real estate broker to use when buying a Tribeca triplex, and which multi-hundred-dollar facials were “absolutely worth every penny,” she gleaned no additional insight into artwork hinky business. She filled a plate from one of several buffets laid out by the event’s caterer. Impressed by the creative, high-quality offerings, she took a break from heist investigations to check out the competition, traipsing through the grass to two prep tents located a discreet distance from the Collection. Mia peered into the first and saw several chic young women filling the party’s goodie bags assembly-style. She stepped inside to take a closer look at the giveaways. “I’m in the event business,” she said to one of the women to justify her presence. “Finding the perfect favor for a guest is one of my favorite parts of the job. We’ve done some pretty high-end stuff. We once gave out wine bottles where the labels had pictures of the bride and groom, and their wedding date.”
The women, who exuded the warmth of one of the estate’s marble statues, gestured to a finished bag. “Look inside.”
Mia pulled open the magnetic
closure of the giveaway tote, which a label told her was made from imported Fair Trade African cotton. Inside the tote rested a bottle of aged whiskey, a box of expensive chocolates, a Mont-blanc pen, a Tiffany’s keychain, a boxed candle she recognized as being from one of the priciest brands available, and a slew of brochures. She removed one and examined it. The gorgeous brochure offered a free weeklong stay at a Tahitian resort featuring luxury bungalows built over the pristine water of a private cove. “Not bad,” Mia said, mustering a laissez-faire attitude to cover her embarrassment. She replaced the brochure and slunk away.
She crossed to the second tent. The spongy, scented warmth emanating from it indicated this was the caterer’s prep tent. She pulled back the entry flap a few inches and peeked in. What she saw sent a shock wave through her. There, supervising the flow of food, was Versailles’ executive chef, Sandeep Singh. Even more shocking, helping him was a wan-looking Castor Garvalos. Versailles on the Park had been hired to cater the Miller Art Collection exhibit opening. Like her father, Mia didn’t believe in coincidences. What she saw in front of her was a physical link from Tina to Versailles, and finally to the Miller Art Collection.
Garvalos turned in her direction, and Mia jumped back. She scuttled behind the trunk of a large tree. Then he turned away, revealing a large bandage on the back of his head. Mia positioned herself to spy on the men without being seen. She turned off her cell phone’s ringer and texted her discovery to Jamie, then resumed her surveillance. Sandeep added garnish to a tower of literal giant shrimp and placed the platter in a cater-waiter’s hands. Garvalos pushed the cater-waiter toward the exit. He checked his watch, a nervous expression on his face. Perspiration dripped from his forehead. He grabbed a napkin and wiped it away. Garvalos tapped his foot and glanced toward the back of the tent, where kitchen staffers stacked plates in crates for the trip back to Versailles and its dishwashing facilities. Sandeep focused his attention on a large table where cater-waiters were assembling plates of petites fours, brownies, lemon bars, pecan bars, and an assortment of handcrafted chocolates for the dessert buffet. A waiter picked up one of the dessert trays and carried it toward the tent’s exit. Garvalos followed him out, heading right toward Mia.
She dashed down the lawn to the estate’s dock and pretended to be taking in the view of Long Island Sound. Garvalos passed behind her and she released the breath she’d been holding. She turned slightly and noticed one of the beautiful young things from the gifting tent heading toward the Collection with her arms full of gift bags that each sported a bow made from sparkling silver ribbon. The ribbon jogged a memory for Mia. But before she could place it . . .
“Beautiful view tonight, isn’t it?” a man’s voice slurred, startling her. Spencer Spaulding staggered to her side.
“Yes. Very.” Mia inched away from him.
Spaulding gestured across the Sound with the champagne glass he was holding. Champagne sloshed from the glass. The inebriated man swayed so much Mia feared he’d topple into the water. “So very Gatsby.”
“Is he a guest tonight?”
“Nooo . . .” Spencer spoke to her as if she was mentally challenged. “That’s a book. The Great—”
“Gatsby,” Mia interrupted. “I know. I read it in high school. I was kidding. I could never forget that last line. ‘So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.’ It’s like tonight—how people are still thinking about the paintings that were stolen twenty years ago.”
This snapped Spencer out of his drunken stupor. He eyed Mia with suspicion. “One of my friends told me about this heiress he was talking to who was interested in buying art but worried about it being stolen. Because of what happened here.”
Mia fought to quell her panic. The best defense is a good offense. “Makes sense to me. If I were her, I’d be worried too. These boats are gorgeous. Is one of them yours?”
She prayed he’d take to the change of subject. Spaulding drained the last of his champagne and used the empty glass to point at a sleek, black speedboat. “That beauty. I used to fly around the Sound on her. Westchester, Connecticut, the far end of the Island. Then I got a BUI—boating while intoxicated—and Mommy took away the keys. It’s her baby now. And she tied the purse strings even tighter. By the way, when I say ‘Mommy,’ I mean my wife Abigail.”
“I got that.”
Spencer gazed at the boat disconsolately. “I need a refill.”
He stumbled, regained his balance, then staggered away. Mia watched him go. She wondered if he’d always had a drinking problem or if being a supernumerary to the star of the show, his wife Abigail, drove him to it. Thoughts jumbled in Mia’s head. Spaulding referenced Abigail being tight with money. The police always assumed the Miller theft was an inside job. What if Spaulding came up with the plan to supplement his paltry allowance from “Mommy,” and farmed out its implementation to others, like Tina, O’Dwyer, and possibly Garvalos? The plan failed and he turned to booze. This makes sense, Mia thought, excited. But she needed to run the theory by Jamie. She remembered that she’d turned off the ringer on her phone. She removed it from her purse and checked for Jamie’s response to her text about Garvalos. He hadn’t gotten back to her. Concerned, she telephoned him. The call went to voice mail. “Jamie, where are you? We need to talk. I have an idea I want to run by you. Call me or find me. I’m by the dock.”
She ended the call and gazed out at the Sound while she waited for Jamie’s response. Water lapped at the shore’s edge and the Millers’ speedboat gently and rhythmically thumped against the dock. She checked behind her to see if Jamie might be heading her way. Sandeep stepped out of the prep tent. He said something into his headset. Mia ducked down, out of sight. Garvalos appeared from the direction of the Collection building. He strode to the middle of the lawn and scanned the area. Mia combat-crawled down the dock, intent on reaching the speedboat. She maneuvered over the boat’s side, trying to create as little movement as possible, and hid in its bottom, where she texted Jamie a warning to keep an eye out for Garvalos and Sandeep.
As she lay waiting for the coast to clear, Mia flashed on something Spaulding had said. “I used to fly around the Sound on her.” If the boat could traverse the Sound, getting from Millville to Flushing Bay would be easy. And a convenient way to transport a body. Mia laid out the events that had brought her to this moment. The painting appears at Nicole’s shower. Tina freaks. She confronts someone about it. Maybe Spaulding? He kills her. Tosses her in the boat and powers back to where the painting showed up.
Mia had no idea where the police were in their investigation. For all she knew, they had already scoured the boat for clues. Then again, she knew from Pete’s complaints to Cammie that he and his brothers in blue were often constricted by laws regulating search and seizure. And if anyone was going to put up a fight on this topic, it would be a family like the Miller-Spauldings, who had the wealth to lawyer up and block an investigation. Mia, on the other hand, was free to take her go-to “better to beg forgiveness than ask permission” approach. She crawled to the boat’s edge and peeked over the side. Garvalos and Sandeep were gone. Making sure to stay low, she began combing through the boat’s interior.
Mia shaded her phone’s flashlight with her hand to keep from being caught as she scoured every nook and cranny. She heard voices and the sound of cars. The party was ending, which meant she was running out of time. Mia peeked over the boat’s side again and saw the group of one percenters she’d chatted with in the Collection making their way to the valet stand. Each carried a goody bag. Mia gasped, then clapped a hand over her mouth. She suddenly realized why the bows on the bags looked familiar. They were made from the same distinctive ribbon that decorated the gift-wrapped Cow and Woman at Nicole’s shower. It was hard to imagine Spaulding wrapping a package so beautifully. Mia replayed something else the soused man had shared. “I got a BUI and Mommy took away the keys.” His wife had commandeered the boat. Abigail, Mia thought. She’s got brains, financial brawn, and
the boat keys.
Mia searched the boat with renewed determination, but it appeared to be spotless. Disheartened, she was about to give up when she saw a glint under the phone’s light in a crevasse between the boat’s two leather seats. She wriggled her hand into the crevasse until she felt something cold and metallic under her fingertips. Mia grunted as she worked to dislodge whatever it was. After a few minutes, she extricated a glittering rainbow bracelet—exactly like the ones Tina wore and Mia coveted. Elated at finding a significant clue, she photographed the bracelet and typed a text to Jamie. She was about to press Send when she heard a familiar voice.
“Hand over your phone,” Abigail Miller said. “And no sudden movements or you’re dead.”
CHAPTER 20
Mia looked up to see the Miller heiress holding a petite, but what she assumed was effective, pistol. Trapped, she turned over her phone. Abigail pocketed it. “You’ve been snooping around ever since Cow and Woman showed up again and I’m sick of it.”
The Miller mogul handed her a fob. Mia stared at it, confused. “What is this?”
“It’s how you start the boat, you low-rent ignoramus. Untie it from the dock and start driving.”
“I can’t even drive a car,” Mia said. “I have no idea how to drive a boat.”
“No time like the present to learn. But first, give me the bracelet.”
“What bracelet?” Mia asked with an innocent expression.
“The one I’m going to kill you for finding.”
“Any chance you mean that as a figure of speech?” Mia said, praying that if she stalled long enough, someone would notice what was going on. “You know, like, you ate the last cookie. I’m gonna kill you.”
“None. Now move.” Abigail motioned to the boat’s moorings with her gun.
Left with no other recourse, Mia undid the ropes. The boat began to float away from the dock. Abigail kept the gun trained on her. “Use the fob to turn on the motor,” the woman instructed. Mia did so. “Gently nudge the throttle forward, then steer the boat to port.”