“A gift from my fiancé. Have you met Mario?”
Mario came forward and shook Addy’s hand. “It’s a pleasure,” he said.
“The pleasure is mine,” Addy said, and Leana was amused by the fact that Addy obviously meant it—the man had flushed.
Nobody mentioned the event that took place a year ago at the Four Seasons, when Jean-Georges Laurent was shot in the face at an event Tootie and Addy held to honor Leana’s work in suicide prevention. In this world, which was mum about things like murders because such events tended to shatter the illusion of the gilded world in which they lived, she would be surprised if the subject was ever raised.
“Those diamonds,” Lady Ionesco said.
“Yes,” Tootie said. “The diamonds. I’ve never seen them worn in such an interesting way.”
“Interesting?” Leana said.
“Well, I mean at a formal event such as this.”
She was aware of Addy’s arm tightening around his wife’s waist, but Leana wasn’t going to let her off the hook. “I guess I’m not sure what you mean, Tootie. This is exactly the sort of event where one would wear diamonds.”
“It is,” Addy agreed.
“But not with denim,” Tootie said. “And not at a social event where the main purpose is to raise money to rid the world of disease. I was just curious if this was a new trend.”
“Trends are set every day,” Leana said. “Take your dress, for example. Or all of the carbon copy dresses like it that I see around you. Imagine if someone hadn’t made that brave first effort to step out in sequins. It could have gone either way, but obviously, it set fire to an entire movement. Because really, even though it’s out of fashion, you still see it. As for me, I was just photographed by dozens of reporters for dozens of media outlets.”
“Dozens?” Lady Ionesco interrupted.
Leana leveled her with a glance. “At least.” She turned back to Tootie, whose smile had tightened into a thin line. “Those images will be splashed everywhere. People will weigh in. Then we’ll see what the reaction is and also what people will be wearing a month or two from now.”
She leaned forward. “Being safe is boring, don’t you think, Tootie? Going with the flow? Being what people expect you to be? I’ve done that in the past for my mother and father, and found it stifling. Now, I’d rather be who I am. My fiancé has been a great support to that end.”
“Hear, hear,” Addy said.
Whether it was due to Tootie’s enthusiastic use of Botox, Leana didn’t know, but the woman managed to keep her expression neutral even though Leana could sense her hatred of her. It was as clear as her eye job and as obvious as her implants.
And then Tootie went for it.
“I wonder what Celina would think?”
Leana shrugged. “I have no idea what my sister would think. As you know, she was murdered.”
Tootie charged forward as if the fact that Celina Redman was murdered had no effect on her. “She was more conservative than you, wasn’t she?”
“On the surface, you know she was. But you never really knew Celina, did you, Tootie?”
“We certainly talked.”
“I’m sure Celina took time to give you a smile and a hello. She was nothing if not kind. Everything about her was spot-on. But remember, she was murdered while bungee jumping. My sister had an adventurous side few knew, including me. I miss her terribly.” She cocked her head at Tootie. “Her death is still fresh. It still hurts even to hear her name. I’m surprised you’d bring it up.”
“I miss Celina, too,” Lady Ionesco said, finishing the rest of her martini in one fell swoop. “The last time I saw her was right here, on this yacht. We talked of Turkey. Not the bird, but the country. Better yet, we talked of Turkey in the fall and how divoon it is there. I invited her and her suitor to come to my little cottage there along the Mediterranean. You know, the one with fifty rooms. But it wasn’t to be. Soon after, she was gone. Like a bird. Fluttering.”
“We’re sorry about Celina, Leana,” Addy said.
“She loved you as much as I do, Addy. She spoke of you often.” Leana looked at Tootie and Lady Ionesco, each of whom had expectant looks upon their faces. “She never mentioned either of you to me, but I’m sure she at least admired your manners. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we Californians are hungry for a drink.”
When she turned, she was met by a woman standing behind her. She was wearing a simple yet elegant black dress. No jewelry. Her dark hair hung down her back. Around her neck was a thin piece of twine, on the end of which was a tag that said “PRESS.” In her left hand was a tape recorder and her purse.
“Miss Redman, I’m Maria Leonard from the Times.” They shook hands. “I was wondering if you had a few moments to talk about your new hotel and if you’d be open to a feature story on it and on you?”
“I’d be honored,” Leana said.
“If I could just have ten minutes now to gather some quick information, we could meet up at another time to complete the interview and set up a photo shoot, perhaps of you at the hotel. It’s too noisy here, so the Times reserved a stateroom for all of the interviews we’re holding tonight. Do you mind?”
Leana looked up at Mario. “I could meet you at the bar?”
“The bar it is,” Mario said. “Have fun.”
He watched them walk off and then looked above the crowd for the bar. The reporters said it was off to the right, which it was. Ten minutes? he thought. See you in thirty, babe.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Carmen led the way to a bank of elevators that were at the far end of a long hallway. “We’re just three floors down,” she said to Leana. “I’ll try to make this as quick as possible as I’m sure others would like to talk to you tonight.”
“No hurry,” Leana said. “How long have you worked for the Times?”
“Six months?” Carmen said. “After seven years of writing clipped sentences for USA Today, I managed to land my dream job.”
The door whisked open and they stepped inside, away from the party’s din. Carmen pressed the button marked “B3” and the elevator doors slid shut.
“What’s your beat?” Leana asked.
“Business.”
“So, you don’t plan on sleeping?”
Carmen smiled. “That’s an understatement. But I’m fine with it. Look where I am tonight.” She admired Leana’s necklace. “That’s stunning. And I love how you’ve mixed it with jeans and a casual, open-collared shirt. I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
“There are plenty here who wished they hadn’t.”
“Even with those shoes?”
They laughed.
“I love clothes,” Carmen said. “Even if people can’t afford your jewelry, there are chunky, inexpensive options out there for people like me that could offer the same look. I saw you being photographed tonight. I’m going to suggest that we run one of the photographs in the society pages. And then we’ll see how long it takes before people are wearing versions of that outfit.”
The doors slid open.
“We’re just over here,” Carmen said. “I’m afraid I’ve already eaten up five of our ten minutes.”
“Really, there’s no rush,” Leana said. “Take your time.”
They stepped into one of Fondaras’ smaller boardrooms. It was well known that while this ship hosted its share of parties, business was its primary use. Here is where Fondaras wooed wealthy widows, industry leaders and heads of state, and made it all happen.
They sat down at an oval table.
Carmen held up her digital recorder. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all.”
She put it in front of them. “All I need tonight is information so we can properly cover the opening of The Park, which is coming up fast. In our next interview, we’ll get to the bigger picture—you. In the meantime, I was wondering if you could tell us a bit about the hotel and what you have in store for your guests?”
Leana looked confused. “Didn’t th
e Times receive the press packet?”
“We did,” Carmen said. “But PR pieces can be stale or things can change at the last minute. The Times would prefer to hear it all directly from you, especially since this will be part of a larger piece.”
Leana nodded and began to tell Carmen Gragera all the details about The Park’s opening night.
Carmen sat listening with interest. What Leana Redman didn’t know is that she was unwittingly offering critical information that few knew, such as where she would be standing when she delivered her speech, how many guests had been invited, the general size of the lobby and how much security would be on hand. Given what happened to the Redmans three years ago, that last part was especially important to know. It was something the Times would ask.
All of this would inform how she and Spocatti would go forward that evening when they murdered Leana Redman in front of her guests.
CHAPTER NINE
Upstairs on the main deck, where society was whirling in flashes of color and faux smiles to a high-end orchestra Fondaras flew in from St. Petersburg, Vincent Spocatti stood in a corner sipping a glass of sparkling water and observing the crowd.
He looked nothing like he had earlier and that’s because he couldn’t. Leana Redman knew exactly what he looked like, as did a few others who might be here tonight, so he had shaved his head bald and wore tinted aviator sunglasses. Time spent in a tanning booth that afternoon had turned his olive complexion brown. The key was not to stand out, but to blend in, which he did, particularly since this crowd had just returned from their summer vacations in the Hamptons, Hancock Point and Northeast Harbor. All around him were dozens of men his age who looked similar.
There were two people on Ryan’s lists who he and Carmen were here to murder. Among them was Charles Stout, the former chairman of American Express who once sat on Ryan’s board at Manhattan Enterprises. Stout was the chief reason Ryan had been cheated out of taking over George Redman’s Redman International when it was at its most vulnerable.
Now, Stout was on the deck dancing with his Mexican-born wife, Epifania Zapopa, a gorgeous young woman thirty-five years his junior. She had once run the Stout household for Binkie, his first wife and the mother of his estranged children, before falling into an affair with Charles one evening when he asked Epifania to bring him two scoops of ice cream in the library. When Binkie caught them doing it doggy-style on the priceless Aubusson rug she inherited from her great-grandfather, which was ruined by smeared ice cream and bodily fluids, she filed for divorce and took Charles for over $250 million.
But now, at the age of sixty-eight, Charles Stout was free and obviously enjoying himself with the enthusiastic Epifania Zapopa, who somehow was managing to shimmy around Stout to Felicia Sander’s cabaret version of “Fly Me to the Moon.”
It was a treat to watch, if only because of the startled faces she and Charles whipped past. Most of the crowd looked horrified and uncomfortable. But if you really looked into some of their eyes, as Spocatti did, there were those who were amused. If Epifania Zapopa was anything in these circles, she wasn’t just the slut who broke up the Stout household. In a cheap way, she also could be the unexpected life of the party, especially if given the right platform and enough tequila laid bare on an empty stomach.
Spocatti wondered how she’d fare as a widow and decided that if she could shimmy like that in a crowd like this to a song like that on a ship like this, Epifania Zapopa, armed with Stout’s money and her good looks, could probably fly herself to the moon.
He looked to his left and sought out Florence Holt, another former board member of Manhattan Enterprises who also voted against Louis Ryan’s takeover of Redman International and thus was on his list to die for her decision.
She was across the dance floor at one of the bars. Beside her was her French partner, Victoire Poisson, a butch lesbian who rolled her own cigarettes and who, in a former life, had been married to a member of the Dupont family. In her divorce settlement, she received plenty of their old millions and turned them into new millions.
Instead of wearing a gown, Victoire wore what she always wore at social events—a gender-bending tuxedo. People were so used to it by now—and so bored by it—they barely paid attention to it. Victoire was Victoire and with her money and her girlfriend, there were more than a few people here who long ago had decided to just look the other way and call her an ‘eccentric.’
Florence Holt was something altogether different.
Fine-boned and elegant, her red hair curling up from her shoulders as if she had sprayed the tips with happiness, Holt was a longtime civil rights leader and New York lawyer who led one of the oldest and most impressive law firms in Manhattan.
At first glance, she appeared delicate, but Holt was nothing if not aggressive and she delighted in a good fight. For twenty years, she had proved herself time and again in the courtroom to many in attendance on this ship, which is one of the reasons her lifestyle was tolerated by a society that often was closed to it.
Spocatti looked away from her and took in his surroundings. Although security appeared tight, it actually was embarrassingly loose. Fondaras hired thirty men to stand watch over tonight’s gala and, as far as Spocatti was concerned, each was an amateur, which pleased him because they only would make his job easier.
He checked his watch. Carmen would be finished soon with Leana Redman, whom he was eager to see again. When he first met her, she was the one Redman he actually liked, in an odd sort of way, probably because of her defiance and the trouble she caused within her family. It was a shame he had to kill her, but fifty million was fifty million and to Spocatti, Leana Redman, for all her charms, wasn’t worth a penny to him.
He receded from the crowd and waited for his moment. He already had scoped the ship and its surroundings, and knew how it would go down for Miller while Carmen handled Holt. Timing was critical, but even if circumstances changed, as they tended to, he’d be ready when the time came.
CHAPTER TEN
Leana Redman emerged from the elevator, walked down the long hallway to meet Mario at the bar, but instead came face-to-face with Anastassios Fondaras and his entourage. The moment he saw her, he broke into a smile and held out his arms to her.
“Leana,” he said, holding her hands. “I’m glad you came.” He winked at her. “And that you decided to stay. I heard you were here.” He clucked his tongue in mock distaste at her outfit. “And the stories I’ve heard, especially from that boorish Tootie Staunton-Miller. Who knew clothes could create such a scandal?”
“Have you ever met Madonna? Or a Kardashian?”
“Well, there’s that...”
“But bad news travels fast,” she said. “And since the universe wouldn’t have it any other way, I’m usually at the front end of it.” She noted that he was wearing a black suit, not a tux. His hair, while dyed dark brown, was so skillfully done, it looked real. “You look terrific.”
He took a step back to admire her. “And you look beautiful. What I’ve always admired about you, Leana, is that you do things your way. To hell with formal wear. Those diamonds are formal enough and there are plenty here who wish they had them themselves.”
“I had my doubts.”
He waved a dismissive hand to those standing behind him so he could be alone with Leana. “What doubts? Ever since I’ve known you, you’ve always made an entrance. Why should tonight be any different? You have your new hotel opening soon and you wore the right thing to get the press’ attention. What you’ve done is savvy.”
“It was my fiancé’s idea.”
“We’ll keep that between us. You want people to think it was your idea. And by people, I mean the media. Image is everything, my dear. Take a piece of advice from me and own what you’re wearing. This is my party and I say you look fantastic.”
“You’ve always been good to me, Anastassios.”
“That’s because you got a raw deal from your father. Everything went to Celina. Nothing to you. I enjoy your fath
er to a point and I love competing with him, but how he’s treated you over the years makes me question him. I’ve never understood him.”
She wasn’t about to disagree with him and she certainly wasn’t going to defend her father, who deserved it.
He looked behind him at the dance floor, which had mellowed into a waltz. “You know,” he said. “It’s lore that I never dance at my parties because I’m always working them. Women try to get me to dance because they know it’ll mean press for them, but I always turn them down. What do you say you and I break that tradition and cause a stir? You’ll be the first woman I’ve danced with publicly in forty years.”
She shook her head at him. “I’m not sure you want to be seen dancing with me tonight, Anastassios.”
“Why’s that?”
She told him what was written on the tarp outside her hotel and that the press covered it.
“Now, that’s publicity,” he said. “And I mean that. You’ll see. Forget what the tarp says. Only good will come from it. Right now, with your hotel on the horizon, you want people talking about you, which is another reason we should dance.”
He took her by the hand and led her through the crowd to the dance floor. Leana took a breath as she fell in line behind him and felt everyone’s gaze settle upon them. She heard people talking. She sensed people following them. She rarely felt nervous about anything but right now, she was scared to death because she knew the enormity of what was about to happen.
He was publicly going to give her his blessing.
She passed Addy Miller and his seething wife, Tootie. She focused only on Addy, who saw what was about to happen and nodded at her with affection as Anastassios led her to the center of the dance floor.
Fondaras held her left hand in his right and placed his free hand on her waist. Cameras started to flash. The music stopped, a murmur shot through the crowd and the floor began to clear. She heard her name mentioned repeatedly in ways that weren’t as kind as Fondaras was being to her now. She felt faint.
Park Avenue (Book Six in the Fifth Avenue Series) Page 5