“You call this a Halloween costume?” scoffed Gina. “I’m not going out in this lame excuse for a—”
“Ta-da!” Bethany brought the piece de resistance from behind her back: three grinning Barbara Bush masks. “Well?”
“Now you’re talking.” That was the thing about Bethany: she was full of surprises.
Gina smiled at the memory, dodging the passersby and continuing her route toward the bus stop. Where exactly had she and Bethany met up with Natalia? The elevator? Gina thought back … no, it had been in the spa. They’d headed down to the spa and fitness floor to get dressed and have a quick hit off a joint Bethany had smuggled in her raincoat, and who had they nearly collided with in the women’s dressing room but Natalia Kazakova.
She was sweaty, and wearing workout clothes. Her face seemed pale, and the skin around her eyes puffy, as if she’d been crying. The two business partners exchanged glances before Gina spoke.
“Hey, you live in the building, right?”
A hesitant nod. “Yes. I’m called Natalia.”
“Gina, Gina Trovata. I work for a family on the eighteenth floor. This is my friend, Bethany.”
Nods were exchanged, and Gina continued. “We’re headed out to have a few drinks for Halloween, and we have an extra costume. Why don’t you join us?”
Natalia looked from left to right and seemed to consider the request. “I don’t know, I—”
“We’ve got a costume for you,” Bethany said brightly. “It’s nothing crazy or anything. We’re only going a few blocks from here—”
“I thank you, but I cannot attend.” The woman gave a sharp downward nod as if to emphasize her answer. “I cannot.”
Again the partners traded glances. “Is everything okay?” Gina asked. “You seem upset.”
“I am fine.” The young woman nodded emphatically.
“You’ve been crying …” Bethany’s observation was interrupted by a noise that sounded like a bark.
“Natalia!”
The girl started, and responded immediately. “That is my bodyguard. I must go. Again, I thank you for your kind invitation. I will not forget it.”
Gina remembered that she’d slipped from the room, her dark hair bobbing as she fled.
And that had been her one and only encounter with the wealthy Natalia Kazakova, until today’s chance meeting in the foyer. And the man with her? Was he an old friend? A Russian relative visiting New York? Or someone she’d met in one of her classes? She tried to place the young man’s face.
Gina reached the bus stop. She paused to catch her breath and saw the bus lumbering down the road toward her.
_____
Out of a voluminous leopard-spotted pocketbook, Peggy Babson pulled Detective Benedetti’s business card. She checked to see that no one was outside her office door and dialed the number.
He answered on the first ring. “Benedetti here.”
Breathlessly, she gave her name. “I may have more information on the killing of the Russian man,” she said. “The one who was stabbed near Pulitzer Hall?”
“Yes?” His voice was focused and sharp. She felt her heart beat a little faster. “What kind of information?”
“I’m not sure if it’s the kind of thing I should say over the phone …” she let her words trail off suggestively.
“I understand, but I’m afraid you need to tell me some details over the phone, Ms. Babson. I’ve got a lot on my plate today, so shoot.”
She bristled. “If you don’t have time to hear my information—”
“Listen, I’ve got time to hear it, I just don’t have time to come down there right now. You can come into the station if you’d like.”
The very thought made her shudder. This wasn’t working out at all the way she’d imagined. On television, the psychic mediums were treated so well …
“I remember very distinctly something that Professor Porter said to Alec Rodin while they were arguing in his office,” she said.
“Yes?”
“Professor Porter said, ‘I will kill you.’”
She waited for Detective Benedetti’s reaction, twirling the phone cord around her index finger as the moments ticked by.
“I see. Why didn’t you tell us this yesterday?”
“I didn’t remember it. I’ve been very upset about the murder. After all, it happened right here, so close to where we work! It could have been me, Detective Benedetti, it could have been me.”
“What motive would Professor Porter have for killing that man?” Detective Benedetti asked, sounding a bit skeptical.
“I sure as heck don’t know! That’s your job, Detective.”
“I appreciate your reminding me of that, Ms. Babson. Thank you for your call and don’t hesitate to contact me again if you remember anything else.”
Click.
Peggy stared at the phone in disbelief. Sarcasm? Skepticism? These were not at all the reactions she’d expected from Detective Benedetti. He’d sounded almost as if he didn’t believe her! Hadn’t he cared about the information she’d taken the time to relay? Why, Miles Porter could be a murderer, and the lead detective on the case wasn’t even willing to come to her office to follow up a lead.
She contemplated her options. She could complain to Detective Benedetti’s supervisor, give him a piece of her mind. She could go down to the station and ream out the Detective in person. Or she could investigate on her own.
That was it! He needed a motive, she’d find him a motive. She’d use her keen intuition and developing psychic abilities, just like the professionals on television. She no longer liked the tall Brit anyway. He was too full of himself, cocky. The very qualities she’d expect in someone who stabbed a poor foreigner in broad daylight.
Peggy Babson decided to formulate a plan on her commute back to Queens. Her pulse beat a little faster. She checked her watch and wished it were already time to leave.
_____
“So which do you prefer,” asked Miles as he and Darby rounded the corner of the park, “walking here or in the wilds of Maine?”
“Hmmm … a hard choice.”
“Really? I should have thought you’d have blurted out your home state instantly. Those beautiful craggy cliffs and tall pines …”
Darby laughed. “You’re right; I love the wild, untamed nature of Maine. But there’s something special about places like this that generations of humans have carefully manicured, too. And I love the idea that way back when, people realized how important green space is, and preserved so much of it, smack in the middle of the city.”
Miles nodded thoughtfully. “I see what you mean.” A roller blader with a pink Mohawk skated gracefully past them, licking an ice cream cone as he passed. “And who’s to say you can’t see wildlife in Manhattan?”
She chuckled. “So what’s on our agenda for tonight?”
“I was hoping you’d ask. I thought we’d go out for drinks and a nibble or two, and then I thought I’d bring you to see a genuine New York show.”
“Really!” Darby smiled. “That’s exciting. What will we be seeing?”
“I’m keeping it a surprise, but I’m sure you’ll like it.” His face was boyish, the most relaxed Darby had seen him since her arrival.
“Can’t wait.” She reached for his hand and sighed. It felt wonderful to be with him. She could almost forget the Davenports and their lawsuit …
She pushed her anxiety aside. Miles was right; the situation would take its course and there was little she could do in the meantime. She thought about Natalia, about the unexpected turn of events her life had taken with the murder of Alec Rodin.
“Were you surprised to hear Natalia say she was giving her investigative piece a rest?” Darby asked.
“The theft of the Russian palaces? No, not really. It’s a shame, because she seems to have a good source,
but let’s face it: poor Natalia has too much on her plate right now. I’m sure she’s overwhelmed with details for Rodin’s funeral back in Russia, and who knows what her role is in all of that. Her finals are undoubtedly consuming any available energy she has right now. And, if you’re correct in thinking she has some sort of love interest, why, it’s no wonder she’s distracted.”
“I wonder about her father. He must be here, helping her get through this. She’s awfully young to be dealing with a murder investigation alone. Wouldn’t you think so?”
“She’s got Sergei, remember that,” said Miles. “As for Mikhail Kazakova, I don’t know whether he is in the states or not, but I know someone who will know for sure.”
“Ramon?” guessed Darby.
“Yes. We’re nearly back at the building. I’ll ask him—even if I have to endure being called Mr. Bean again.”
_____
The cake smelled rich and chocolaty, and Rona, who had a definite weakness for sweets in general, was practically swooning by the time she returned to Central Park Place. Ramon rushed to open the door for her and she gave a curt nod of thanks.
“Where’s the party?” he asked, eyeing the bakery box.
“It’s a gift for a friend,” she sniffed, not wanting to let the doorman know she had a store-bought cake.
“Lucky friend.”
“I didn’t know you liked cake, Ramon. I’ll be sure to think of you the next time I’m out.”
He smiled, and Rona made a mental note to buy the doorman a cake. After all, it was good business practice to suck up to anyone and everyone who could be a source of leads.
She took the elevator to her floor and hurried to the apartment. Once inside, she removed the cake from the box and looked for a plate on which to put it. Gingerly, she lifted it and placed it on the plate, happy to see that it fit nearly perfectly.
She pulled a rubber spatula from a drawer. Such a shame to destroy the cake’s beautifully swirled frosting, but there was no way in heck it looked homemade. Scrunching up her face with distaste, she used the flat part of the utensil to smooth out the lovely peaks, until the cake seemed like something she might herself have frosted.
“Done.” She picked up the plate and moved toward the door, setting it on a small table while she undid the locks. A scraping noise on the other side made her pause. Someone was trying to get in.
She scooted into the closet, her heart pounding with fear. Of all the times to get robbed! Just as she was on her way up to Kazakova’s penthouse.
The door opened and a fair, freckled young woman entered, holding a large shopping bag. “Rona?” she called, immediately moving toward the cake. Before Rona could protest, a slim finger was scooping frosting from the side.
“Devin!” Rona squealed. “Leave it! I’m bringing it up to the neighbors.”
“You are bringing food to someone in the building?” Her daughter’s face was incredulous. “I don’t believe it.”
“Well, believe it. They’ve had a tragedy, and I said I would make them a cake.”
The girl erupted in laughter. “What? There is no way in hell you made that cake. No fricking way.”
“Oh, please! I spent more buying it than I would if I made it myself. Surely that’s what counts.” Rona shooed Devin away from the cake and picked up the plate. “Why don’t you come up with me? You might get a look at the penthouse.”
“I’ve seen the penthouse, remember? Back when you thought you were going to be the one to sell it.”
Rona stiffened.
“But I’ll come along, if only to see your face when you tell them you made the cake.” She saw her mother’s narrowed eyes and laughed. “Don’t worry—your secret is safe with me. If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s keep secrets.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rona thought about the bills charged up by her daughter. She’d leave it for another time—the two were having one of the more pleasant conversations they’d had in years.
“Oh, nothing,” Devin said lightly. “Hey, I think I’m finally going to be able to pay off some of the money I owe you, not to mention my college loans.” She pushed the elevator buttons and reached out toward the cake.
“No!” snapped Rona, her annoyance turning to pride. “I make a pretty good cake, don’t I?”
“Yes, Mommy,” Devin said, her eyes artificially wide. “Your cakes are the best.”
The two laughed softly. “So what is it, a new job?” Rona tried not to sound eager.
“A great opportunity,” Devin said, as the doors glided open.
“What kind of opportunity?”
They walked softly down the hall to the door of the penthouse.
“Tell you later,” Devin whispered.
Rona knocked on the door. “Showtime.”
It was opened almost instantly by the hulking man Rona knew to be Natalia’s bodyguard. Explaining the reason for her visit, she said, “I spoke to Mikhail earlier, and he was looking forward to seeing me.”
The large man shifted his massive weight from side to side. “He is not here,” he said. “Did you have an—”
“Who is it, Sergei?” The petite young woman Rona recognized as Natalia pushed open the door. “Is that a chocolate cake?”
“It sure is.” Rona pressed past the bodyguard, balancing the cake as she walked. “I’ve brought it up with our condolences—mine and my daughter’s—on the death of your fiancé. Such a tragedy.”
“Thank you.” Natalia’s voice was more subdued. “It’s been horrible.” She looked beneath her fringe of ragged bangs. “I’m Natalia. Natalia Kazakova.”
“Rona Reichels, and this is my daughter, Devin.” Nods were exchanged.
“This is very nice of you,” Natalia said. “It looks delicious.”
“What looks delicious?” A tall man with a narrow face came up behind Natalia. His eyes met Rona’s briefly, before lingering on Devin.
“These ladies live in the building and they’ve brought over a cake.” She gave a small smile. “So sweet, isn’t it Jeremy?”
The man nodded. “Looks good, too,” he commented, before withdrawing from the doorway.
“Well, yes, we hope you enjoy eating it as much as I loved making it.” Rona thrust the cake toward Natalia. “Will you ask your father to call me?” She presented a business card. “It’s very important. As soon as he can.”
“I will.” Natalia smiled again. “And I will return your plate, as well. Which residence are you?”
“I’m in three-twelve.”
“Thank you.”
As they walked back to the elevator, Devin snorted. “Poor little rich girl.”
Rona nudged her daughter. “Did you know that guy? He gave you a funny look.”
Devin was horrified. “Mother, you have to be joking.” She said it as if it were two words: Joe King. “I wouldn’t be caught dead with a loser like that. If he gave me any kind of a look, it’s because I’m a voluptuous woman, not a little Russian Goth girl.”
Rona smiled. My beautiful, brash Devin. Why did she worry about this daughter when it was obvious she could tear the world apart and not think twice?
_____
The curtain came down and the house lights went on, while the enthusiastic audience clapped and clapped.
“Miles, what a terrific show. There truly is nothing like a Broadway production.”
“You sound as if you’re about to burst into the lyrics of ‘I Love New York,’” he joked.
She laughed. “Yeah, I just might!” Punching his arm lightly, she said, “I’m happy, that’s all. Happy to be with you and to be doing the normal kinds of things dating couples do.”
“Rather than solving murders?”
“Exactly. What’s next?”
Miles traced his hand lightly down Darby’s neck to her collarbones, over
her breasts to her thigh. “I know what I want.”
Darby’s eyebrows shot up and he grinned.
“I’ll give you a hint—it’s what every man wants.” He grinned again. “A juicy steak.”
“Miles Porter!” She pretended to be aghast.
“Followed by sex, of course. But first, the steak. Our pre-theatre nibbles were hours ago, and have left me absolutely famished. Come on, I’ve got just the place in mind.”
He led her farther into the theatre district to an old-fashioned steakhouse bustling with diners. Dozens of black-and-white photographs of famous actors and musicians lined the walls, waiters with giant trays and crisp white shirts hustled back and forth, and the smell of sizzling red meat wafted from the kitchen like a siren song.
“Porter, table for two,” said Miles. The maître d’hôtel nodded and beckoned them to follow.
“You made a reservation?” Darby whispered.
“One has to, in this town. I figured that if we didn’t want to come, we could cancel and make some lucky couple’s night.”
“Good thinking.”
Once the pair were seated and enjoying a rich bottle of Italian Barolo, Miles asked about their mutual friends on the island of Hurricane Harbor, Maine. “What do you hear from Tina and Donny? Are they enjoying married life?”
“Very much so. They took a three-week trip to the Mayan Riviera back in March. Had wonderful weather, and loved the Mexican people they encountered at their beach house. Donny fell in love with the local cuisine, and Tina tells me he now makes his own tortillas.”
“No kidding! Life takes us to some interesting places, now doesn’t it?” He changed tones. “How about the Chief’s wife?”
Darby’s eyes clouded. “It’s still very hard for Bitsy. I think she’s doing some nursing work on the island. But on a happier note, I did hear from Helen Near down in Florida. She’s planning to spend some time out west visiting our mutual client Tag Gunnerson.”
“Only Helen could hold her own against a pro golfer. Now what about your other client—Mr. Kobayashi? Are we still planning to meet with him on Sunday?”
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