by Abby Drake
Poppy sucked in a reservoir of air, then followed him in. It smelled as if Jake had eaten Chinese takeout for lunch.
“A woman is missing,” the Armani-man said, and Poppy restated Momma’s made-up description.
Jake pressed a few buttons on the large console, which resembled a control panel on the Starship Enterprise from those silly old TV shows Duane liked to watch.
Struggling to scan the monitors without hyperventilating, Poppy wished she had a better idea of what a Dumpster looked like. Her only frame of reference was a green one in the back of the parking lot at Stop & Shop.
“My goodness,” she said, “you have cameras everywhere.”
The men didn’t answer.
She fiddled with her wig.
“I can fast-forward through the last thirty minutes of the hotel lobby,” Jake said.
Armani-man nodded.
Speeded-up images suddenly appeared on one screen; Jake slowed it down whenever anyone pushed through the glass and brass revolving door. Except for the fact that it was in black and white, the picture was eerily reminiscent of the video of Princess Diana and her boyfriend entering the Paris Ritz-Carlton on the last night of their lives.
Poppy’s gaze flitted to the other monitors, searching for the Dumpster, the back door, the alley. But the other images looked like the X-rays that had been taken when Duane broke his foot on a ski slope in the Alps. She hadn’t known what she was seeing then, either.
She tried taking in a breath now, but there was no air left in her lungs.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” she whimpered. “Perhaps I’ve been mistaken.” She turned to the door just as there was a knock. Armani-man reached past Poppy, turned the handle, and pushed.
In the doorway stood the man with the badge. The same man, the same badge, she had witnessed at Yolanda’s. It was Manny, the hairstylist’s cute brother. “Detective Valdes from the twelfth over in Brooklyn. We’re working on a case and I could use your assistance.” He nodded at Poppy as if he’d never seen her. “Ma’am,” he said coolly, “if you’ll excuse us, this is official business.”
Manny?
Manny!
Poppy skipped from the room into the dark hallway, her heart all atwitter, as Momma would describe it.
What was Manny doing there? Had he been following her? Though Momma believed life was irony, surely coincidence played a small part.
Suddenly, Poppy had to pee. Stress and excitement often did that to her. She glanced up and down the dark hall. She spotted a woman in a tan and white dress pushing a cart stacked with thick white towels.
Ah. A housekeeper.
“Please,” Poppy asked, as she power-walked toward her, “is there a ladies’ room nearby?”
The woman pointed to a door with a sign that read Staff Lounge. Wasting no time, Poppy skipped into a large, square room. A bank of gray lockers circled the inside perimeter. In the back corner was a doorway; beyond that stood several metal stalls. Poppy ducked into one, used the facilities, came out, then leaned against a well-worn enamel sink. Espionage was exhausting.
She closed her eyes and took a few Yoga breaths.
It was nice that Yolanda’s brother had followed her. Was he playing Sir Lancelot to her Guinevere?
She wondered if that was what Elinor’s lover did for Elinor—made her feel special when her husband no longer did.
Then Poppy remembered that Manny was not her lover. She didn’t even, in fact, know his last name. What had he said? Sergeant Valdes? Maybe he’d made up his name the way she’d borrowed hers.
With a small sigh, Poppy opened her eyes. She turned on the faucet to wash her hands. That’s when she saw a stack of laundry in the mirror’s reflection—not towels like she’d seen on the cart, but tan and white uniforms like the one the housekeeper had worn.
Suddenly Poppy had another bright idea: what if the housekeeper had stolen Elinor’s panties from the room? What if she’d wanted a special pair of La Perlas for herself? (Who wouldn’t?)
What if the housekeeper had then learned that a rich lady from Mount Kasteel and Washington, D.C., had been in the room? Could she have realized she’d struck a lace gold mine?
Poppy’s fingers flew to her throat once again, the little hollow at the base, where her pulse resumed its twittery race.
If any of this was true, could they prove it?
She supposed one of Elinor’s friends could dress up as a housekeeper. Maybe then they could learn who’d cleaned room 402 after Elinor had been there. Maybe they could trace the La Perlas from there! Maybe Duane would be off the hook!
Oh! Poppy thought. Oh!
Before allowing herself to think anymore, she dashed to the pile of tan and white uniforms, yanked one out, and jammed it into the too-small purse Momma had suggested she bring.
Just then the door opened and the housekeeper walked in.
Poppy smiled, nodded with a slight jerk of her head, and straightened her wig. Then she tucked her purse under her arm and bolted from the staff lounge with her lips pressed tightly together, her chin held high, and her hands trembling from the rush.
“I’ve got it!” Poppy said to Alice when she scurried back into the SUV as if someone had been chasing her.
Alice pulled away from the awning and the curb. She decided not to mention the fact that Poppy’s wig was off-kilter. “You know who’s blackmailing Elinor?”
“Maybe!” She dug into her purse and pulled out what looked to be an unattractive dress. Polyester. Drip-dry, it used to be called.
Alice turned her attention back to the traffic. She wanted to tell Poppy it was time she stopped stealing things, but the subject would be unrelated to the current problem. “A dress,” she said instead. “You’ve found a Wal-Mart dress. Hardly fair trade for Elinor’s La Perlas.”
“Unless the housekeeper did it.”
Sometimes Poppy gave Alice a headache. She considered driving downtown to Grand Central and making Poppy take the train home rather than being subjected to any more Poppyness. But they’d been friends for so long, and Poppy had her share of issues, so the poor thing really couldn’t help it. Alice dodged a rickshaw driver and two yellow cabs, and said, “Okay. Tell me what you’re talking about.”
So Poppy did.
“And you think a housekeeper would send a ransom note for half a million dollars?”
“Yes. If she learned that Elinor’s rich.”
“I disagree. I think a housekeeper might think about ten thousand dollars. A hundred thousand, max. I just don’t think someone who barely makes a living wage would think in terms of half a million dollars. It’s too much money, Poppy. It wouldn’t be in her vocabulary.”
From the corner of her eye, Alice saw Poppy pout.
“I don’t think you can say that until we know who she is.”
“And how will we find out?”
Poppy held up the dress again. “It’s simple, silly Alice! One of us will dress up like a housekeeper. We will sneak into the Lord Winslow, up to room four-o-two. We will find the housekeeper who cleaned the room last Friday morning. And we will start asking questions!” Her cheeks were pinker than usual.
“You keep saying ‘we.’ But it looks as if you only have one dress.”
“My mother told me to carry the small purse.”
Alice did not ask her to elaborate.
“You can do it, can’t you?” Poppy asked. “Tomorrow you can wear the dress and the wig and I can drive the getaway car. I think we’ll figure this out, Alice. We’ll help Elinor. It’s sort of starting to be fun, don’t you think?”
So their adventure had gone from being important to being fun. Alice cranked up the air. “Polyester is too warm for summer.”
“It’s only for a few minutes. You’ll survive.”
Somewhere in the Lord Winslow Hotel Poppy seemed to have found chutzpah. “What about the security camera?” Alice asked. “Did you see if one’s aimed at the Dumpster?”
Poppy scowled. “Oh. Oh, rats. I forgot a
bout Yolanda’s brother. I left him in the basement.”
Alice turned onto the Henry Hudson Parkway, knowing she was going to have to ask Poppy to explain, but wondering if there was a way she could avoid it.
Seventeen
CJ sat in her studio reviewing the China silk samples she’d ordered over the Internet and had been delivered earlier that day. Just because Elinor was being blackmailed did not mean that CJ could put her life on hold. The autumn crafts shows would soon be underway, and she needed to reinforce the inventory that would be depleted. Shawls and scarves were especially popular this year, which was great. They were so easy to paint.
The studio door opened and Jonas walked in. “I’d like to buy something for my bride,” he said. “Do you have something in white?” He crossed the room to the drafting table where CJ sat and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
While she always relished a quick kiss from Jonas, she noted that this one was rather abrupt. She hoped her sense was not one of foreboding. “How about a white shawl with a pair of white swans?” she asked. “White on white? I think it would be lovely.”
Jonas pulled up a chair and sat at the end of the table. “Perfect. I’m sure you’ll make it great.” He sounded cheerful, but he studied the floor.
“You didn’t go to Washington with your dad and the others.”
“I have an interview in Manhattan tomorrow. I’ll take the train down from there.”
It was odd that Elinor hadn’t told CJ that Jonas was still at home, that he had a job interview in New York. She sometimes wondered if Elinor intentionally left her out of the details of Jonas’s life to remind everyone who his mother was and who, clearly, was not.
“Where’s the interview?” Unlike Janice, who’d known she’d wanted to be a biomedical researcher since before she’d known the word existed, Jonas was still floundering. If he had his way, he’d be a Broadway producer. But now he’d gone and fallen in love, so he needed a real job, a real future.
“The Elway,” he said. “Do you believe it? They’re looking for a theater manager.” His eyes finally met hers and showed a hint of excitement. But a small shadow also lingered there.
“Oh, honey, that’s terrific.” She’d learned years ago to let Jonas talk, to trust that he’d tell her what he wanted when he was ready. In the meantime, CJ was thrilled for him. Jonas had studied theater arts and stagecraft in college. No one had ever declared that his creative penchant must have come from her, though she savored the obvious link, savored the fact that when she’d been married, Cooper had loved being his uncle.
“So I won’t have to enter the management program at Macy’s,” he said. “If I get the job, of course.” Retail was his backup, the plan that came with health insurance and two weeks’ vacation each year.
“What does Lucinda think about this?”
“Are you kidding? She’s always wanted to act on the stage. She’s been going on casting calls all over the city. We’ve decided our mothers can worry their heads off; we’re going to go after our dreams.”
Yes, Jonas and CJ were definitely linked. How that must annoy Elinor.
“In the meantime,” he continued, “I’m worried about her.”
Ah. There was the shadow. “Lucinda?”
“No. My mother.”
CJ brushed a fleck of silk from her lap. So Jonas was concerned about how Elinor would react after all. Or perhaps he was worried about her involvement with the engagement party. “There’s no need to worry about your mother,” CJ said, interrupting her thoughts. “She has a way of making everything turn out all right.”
But Jonas shook his head. “This time, I don’t know how she can. She’s being blackmailed. And she’s really scared.”
Well, that called for tea.
They went to the kitchen. CJ steeped a pot of ginseng, and they retreated to the sofas, where Luna curled up at Jonas’s feet. He petted the dog gently, asked how she was doing. The scene tugged at CJ’s heart: no one knew she’d adopted Luna because Elinor wouldn’t allow Jonas to have a dog.
“Too messy.”
“Too much work.”
“No point,” Elinor had said when Jonas had left for boarding school at age twelve.
So when CJ had moved to the cottage, Luna had joined her. The Lab offered a beloved canine connection whenever Jonas had a chance to stop by.
“What’s going on, CJ? What has my mother done?”
“I’m not really sure. Tell me what you know.”
“I think she’s having an affair. Is she?”
CJ averted her eyes. “Perhaps you’d better ask her.”
“Are you kidding? Me? Ask the buttoned-up Elinor Harding Young—the woman who used her maiden name before anyone else did, who wouldn’t discuss Janice’s abortion because she found it ‘unpleasant,’ who suggested I ‘mind my own business’ when I asked why she and Dad sleep in separate bedrooms—you want me to ask that woman if she’s having an affair?”
Mac and Elinor slept in separate bedrooms? If CJ had been Poppy, she might have gasped.
She hauled her thoughts back to Jonas, to the subject-of-the-moment, to the fact that he was still so little-boy cute when he was befuddled. His freckles grew more pronounced; his dimples—his dents, he’d once called them—seemed to sink more adorably into his cheeks.
CJ’s creativity; Malcolm’s dimples.
She cleared her throat. “Jonas,” she said, “I know it’s not easy. But if your mother is having an affair, she probably wants to keep it to herself.”
“But she’s being blackmailed!”
Along with Jonas’s creativity came sensitivity, a need to protect the people he loved. Another thing CJ had passed down to him. “Are you sure?” she asked slowly. Maybe he’d simply overheard E on the phone…. Maybe…
“I saw the damn note! It was in her pocketbook. It’s not like I go in there, but I was looking for the garage keys. And there it was, with letters that looked like they’d been cut out of a magazine. It said something about lavender lace panties and a half million dollars.” He chugged his tea as if it were a beer.
If she’d spent her adult life in Washington as Elinor had, CJ might have known how to respond more adroitly, might have been more adept at verbal ping-pong.
“Do you know about this?” Jonas asked before she had conjured a response.
Well, she couldn’t lie, of course, not when asked a direct question. “I know you need to trust that everything really will turn out okay.”
He squared his jaw and folded his hands. “And my dad doesn’t know?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Well, she’s really done it now, hasn’t she? Just in time for my engagement party.” He no doubt was remembering when Elinor had missed the first high school play he had stage-managed, or when she’d mistakenly scheduled the ladies’ cruise to Bermuda the same weekend as his Broadway debut. For someone who had wanted another child so badly, Elinor often forgot Jonas existed when her agenda was deemed more important.
He stood up. “So I guess she doesn’t want input from me.”
CJ stood, too. “She’ll figure it out, Jonas.” She gently touched his sleeve, as if it were his heart and she could mend it.
“And I shouldn’t tell Janice.”
“No.”
“Or my father.”
“No.”
“And you want me to stay out of it.”
“Yes.”
“For my father’s sake?”
“And your mother’s. It will be for the best.”
“I love them both, but I’m not sure I can do that.” He kissed her cheek again and let himself out, and CJ started to ache.
“I’d like to speak with the vice president,” Elinor said, when she’d finally screwed up her nerve, located his number from Malcolm’s long list of contacts, and steadied her hand long enough to punch in the numbers.
It was late afternoon—she’d thought about this all day. She’d paced the house and the grounds of the Mount Kaste
el estate and landed in the living room, next to the sideboard that held the crystal pitcher that had come from Remy way back when.
She’d had one phone call from Alice, telling her they hadn’t learned anything concrete at the Lord Winslow, but there was a lead they would follow up on tomorrow.
Elinor didn’t ask for specifics: she was too preoccupied thinking about Remy.
He needed to know what was going on. She convinced herself that if word leaked out, it would affect his life, too. His wife’s life, his daughter’s. The life of the whole damn nation.
Well, maybe not the whole nation. The blue states would love it; the red states would be livid.
“This is Mrs. Young. Elinor Young. The vice president has spoken with me about my recommendations for national health care matters.”
“I’m sorry, the vice president is occupied. If you’d care to leave your number…”
Remy, of course, never returned phone calls; he had “people” to do that for him. He often joked that the last time he’d dialed a phone was when there had been actual dials, not buttons. He didn’t have a private cell phone, either. He said they weren’t very “private,” at least not for a VP.
Which was, of course, why—after nearly seven months into their affair—he always made contact through an obscure, handwritten invitation or a mysterious call: “The toilets will arrive tomorrow at one o’clock. Your driver will pick you up and bring you to the delivery area.”
The driver, of course, was Remy’s driver. The delivery area was never disclosed. Elinor had learned to simply stand on the sidewalk in front of her town house and wait for the long black limo and the driver who only tipped his hat and never even said hello or good-bye.
Even their New York connections had been cloak-and-dagger, spy-novel stuff, coinciding with Remy’s twice-monthly meetings at the United Nations. She would check into the suite (the same one every time) and spend all afternoon, evening, and sometimes into the night wondering when—if—he would show up for their hour of bliss, give or take.
She shuddered a little. Was her cell number now displayed on the caller ID screen at Remy’s admin’s desk? But this was the first time she’d called. Surely it would be safe.