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Sylvia’s Secret

Page 6

by Mary Vee


  “Can’t. Not unless I find this woman. I’ll take a rain check.”

  “Have your secretary call my secretary if you change your mind. They can set it up.”

  “Thank you for the time, Allen.”

  “Glad you stopped. Hope you find her.”

  “So do I.”

  Like most winters in Boston, the evenings chilled terribly, even around Christmastime. He tightened the scarf around his neck, pulled out his notepad, and recorded an all too obvious question. One he should have thought of sooner. “Was Mrs. Duvet’s coat missing?”

  Chapter Six

  With the traffic pressing in on the taxi from every side, Branson opted to have the driver head straight back to his office since it was closer than his home.

  Attending a fundraiser dinner/dance with the governor and other VIP’s required a flawless presentation to blend in as one who belonged. Mrs. Spinnaker’s many areas of expertise included ensuring he not only transformed into an elite in appearance but impressed them as well. For each function he’d attended, a specific garment had to be worn. Long tie with Windsor knot or bowtie, etc.

  She knew the details.

  He knew how to act the part.

  The taxi delivered him to his office at 3:35 PM. He picked up the letters and yearbook from the taxi seat and walked up to his office.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Carhill.” Mrs. Spinnaker turned from her computer.

  “Good afternoon. Any word from the taxi companies?”

  “I contacted every one of them, giving an excuse to steer the conversation away from Mrs. Duvet’s disappearance. None have a fare recorded for Mrs. Duvet’s residence. None of the drivers who checked in today recall seeing her.”

  “Then we’re back to the dark red BMW.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The butlers for both the Duvet house and the neighbor’s, Mrs. St. James, stated they saw a dark red BMW crawling up the street the night Mrs. Duvet disappeared. Both thought the driver leaned close to the window as if looking for an address. A maid also witnessed the vehicle driving by.”

  “Anything identifiable about the vehicle other than the color and make? A description of the driver? I can use my connections at the police department to help run a search.”

  “They couldn’t see the driver other than the silhouette leaning. It seemed too dark to determine any other vehicle details.”

  She jotted notes. “You gave the butlers your card?”

  “Yes.” He set the stack of Mrs. Duvet’s letters on her desk. “I need you to set up phone appointments with the four women from Sylvia’s high school French club for tomorrow. Make them about fifteen minutes apart. I should be able to ask all my questions in that time.”

  “Any particular order?”

  “No.” He fanned the envelopes. “You’ll find their addresses on these correspondences.”

  The door opened. “Delivery for Mr. Carhill.”

  Mrs. Spinnaker stood. “I’ll take that.”

  The messenger handed her a black clothing bag and a box. She set it on the wooden coat rack. He held a small sheet of paper and a pen out for her. She signed and gave him a tip. Knowing her, she’d unlocked the cash box and had the money prepared in her top drawer shortly after the tux place confirmed with her.

  “Thank you.”

  “Your welcome, ma’am.” The messenger left, closing the door behind him.

  Mrs. Spinnaker returned to her desk and picked up her pen. “What time is the car coming for you?”

  “Six.”

  “I suggest you dress at five.”

  “I agree. Jot down those addresses then bring me the letters.” He walked toward his inner office door.

  “Yes, Mr. Carhill.”

  Branson sat on the sofa and propped his legs up on the cushions. He opened the yearbook. Starting with the inside front cover he read signatures and well wishes from Sylvia’s friends. There wasn’t a blank space on any page. The comments indicated classmates treasured her friendship. Words like organized, creative, well-dressed, spirited, fun, and best friend ever topped the messages. She didn’t represent the student body in office, musical organizations, sports, or brainiac clubs. Her only claim to fame in high school was great grades, the French club, and becoming a friend who would be sorely missed when not at an event.

  He pulled out his phone and called Mrs. Colinfield.

  Three rings sounded before she blurted, “Any news about my mother?”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Colinfield.”

  “Yes, Good afternoon, Detective. What have you discovered?”

  “I have some information. Let me first ask a question. Has your mother seemed sad of late?”

  “No. On the contrary, she has seemed unusually giddy. That’s why I can’t understand where she is. Christmas is her favorite season. Why would you ask?”

  “I have one more question before answering yours. Has your mother ever had issues with sleepwalking? Ever?”

  “No. Her staff would have told me about any recent issues. More like complained about scheduling their full service in the middle of the night. You know hired help these days. Require any extra services and they complain.”

  Branson thought the same thing, even though he hadn’t directly asked the workers that question. “And you haven’t heard from any of them or witnessed your mother forgetting things?”

  “She hardly has a chance. Her appointment book runs her life. Her assistant reminds and prepares her for the day. The staff takes care of the rest. But, no, she doesn’t forget what day it is or other such nonsense. She really is quite sharp. And too witty at times.” The last comment came with a thick layer of embarrassment.

  “I’m very glad to hear that. Based on your answers and an interview with an expert, my investigation leads me to believe your mother isn’t wandering the streets in her nightclothes as you feared. Dementia and Alzheimer’s settle in progressively. Typical early characteristics would have been noted by her staff and yourself by now.”

  “My mother is as spry as any forty-year-old, except the issue with her leg. Thank God she’s not embarrassing herself by walking the streets before dressing with acceptable attire.” A moment of silence passed before she said, “Then where are those garments?”

  “I’m still convinced my initial thought might be true. I’m going to call the head housekeeper at your mother’s home and request all trash from the previous days be examined. She could have bundled the clothes and tossed them before leaving the house.”

  “No Duvet would ever do such a sneaky, underhanded thing. We’re much too refined. Next, you’ll tell me she sneaked out the window and climbed down the tree. That only happens in fiction books and movies, you know.”

  The sight would be funny. He dared not let her detect the humor he found in that. “No. I don’t suppose she climbed out her window either. Maybe she used the front door.”

  “With the security activated? I hardly think so. This is quite a convoluted plan you’re suggesting, Mr. Carhill. Why would she go to such lengths? She has everything at her fingertips. Assistants to make travel arrangements anywhere she wanted to go, every document she might need prepared for her, a chauffeur at her beck and call. I just don’t understand.”

  “Yes.” He softened his voice to give her hope. “That is why this is merely a suggestion. I will find your mother, Mrs. Colinfield. When I do, I will offer her any assistance she may need. Is that suitable?”

  After a long moment, Mrs. Colinfield sighed. “I suppose.”

  “That includes keeping any secret she may have.”

  “I don’t like your conditions, but I will agree. Let me know if you find anything. Did you know about the children’s Hospital Foundation dinner dance tonight?”

  “Yes. Her assistant, Jeanie Holloway, found a solution to quell gossipers.”

  “What is that?”

  “She and I will say Mrs. Duvet had a headache and had asked us to take her place. Her assistant said she could arrange to hav
e your mother’s donation ready for tonight.”

  “Good work, Mr. Carhill. It will be amusing to see how well you mingle with my mother’s social group. Good afternoon.”

  Right. No pressure. He sat up straight. “Good afternoon.”

  * * *

  At precisely 5 PM, the transformation from a mere employee of the elite to one who had a lifetime membership in their status commenced. He unzipped the garment bag and laid out the pieces. Herb’s Tuxedo always sent the appropriate tux. The only information Herb requested was the occasion. He did the research then sent over the required garment and accessories in Branson’s size, including shoes. Since Branson was a regular customer, Herb included a shaving kit, subtle cologne, and hair products.

  By 5:45 PM he was dressed to meet the hospital’s president. The CEO. Anyone whom he’d happen to encounter this evening.

  “Turn around.” Mrs. Spinnaker took the clothing brush and put the finishing touches on his look. “You’re ready. Do you have your notepad and pen?”

  “In my pocket.”

  “Phone?”

  He tapped the inside pocket. “And it’s on silent.”

  “Have a wonderful evening, Mr. Carhill.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Spinnaker.” He walked out of the office feeling like a high school boy going to his first prom. Down the elevator then across the main floor, the glass entryway revealed a stretch limousine pulling up to the curb. He was tempted to tug on the coat or sleeves. Maybe fuss with the tie. But the elite never did this. They assumed everything was perfect because they paid their staff to prepare them properly. No doubts or questions.

  He walked outside as the chauffeur opened the car door. Ms. Holloway leaned forward. Her gown and hairstyle confirmed his tux matched the occasion.

  “Welcome, Mr. Carhill.”

  “Good evening, Ms. Holloway.”

  The chauffeur finished settling his passengers then started the engine.

  “Are you ready for this?” Jeanie seemed overly excited.

  Of course, he was. “Have you attended one of these events before?”

  “No.” She looked down. “But I have been well versed on what to do.”

  “Should I call you Ms. Holloway this evening?”

  She shrugged. “Or Jeanie. The people there will know me as Ms. Duvet’s assistant.” She opened a folder. “There will be a very short program at first. We will be sitting at Ms. Duvet’s table along with six other VIP’s. There is always a last-minute change in seating, so I can’t be sure who will be at our table. Be prepared in any case.”

  “Not a problem.”

  She faced him. “You’ve slipped into your secret agent mode I see. So, 007, the meal will be served next in the program. There is bound to be some strange items.”

  “I’m familiar with the typical menus. If you think I’ll make a face, it won’t happen. I’ve acquired a taste for caviar, foie gras, and truffles.”

  “Good. Don’t get used to it unless you plan on marrying someone from their social status.”

  “On my salary?” He laughed. A complete slip on his part. One should never demonstrate such a boisterous response in public. He gathered his wits but was pleasantly surprised to see her shoulders soften. Apparently, the comment put her at ease.

  “After the meal, the program will begin. Sometime in the mix, one of the speakers will call for donations. I have a check right here.”

  “How did you get that so fast?” The question immediately led him to believe Ms. Holloway knew more about Sylvia’s disappearance than she’d let on. “Did Mrs. Duvet know she wouldn’t attend?”

  “Slow down, 007. I’m not on your perpetrator list. She budgets everything, even donations, to the penny. Remember I said she was organized? This check may be dated today but she had her accountant prepare it with the monthly bills. I contacted the accountant after you left to confirm and arranged to have the check picked up. Can we move on?”

  He didn’t dignify her snark with an answer.

  “Following the program that will rival an infomercial, the evening will turn to the lighter side. Dancing. Drinks. Laughing. Networking. We will stay for what seems the appropriate amount of time. I assume you’ve attended similar events?”

  “Yes.” And he enjoyed the finer flare of these dinner/dances. “There are those who choose to leave early. Half-breeds with excuses why they must escape the snobbery. There will be the unsung signal that happens much later, telling guests when the bulk of people should leave. The remaining few usually are closing deals and would rather not interrupt their business to change venue. The clean-up staff doesn’t like them.”

  “You understand then. That’s pretty much it.” She closed her notes and put them back in her purse. “Thomas will drop us off at the entrance. At the end of the evening, he’ll notify me when the limousine is out front. We’ll conveniently be ready to leave for a flawless exit. Questions?”

  He couldn’t think of any. The evening sounded like other exclusive events he’d attended. “We’re going to do fine, Ms. Holloway. Now it is my turn to give instructions. We need to speak with anyone who knows Ms. Duvet more than superficially. If you would steer me to a few, I would appreciate it. You can help by striking up conversations with the ones I can’t get to. Find out what has been on Ms. Duvet’s mind of late.”

  “She would have told me those details.” She seemed a bit offended and a lot disappointed in the instruction.

  “I’m sure she did. But, aren’t there occasions when you tell one person something, and to another, you say something different? For example, at Thanksgiving, you regaled stories to your family, right?”

  “Yes. Everyone does.”

  “Then, say, a good friend calls and wants to know what was going on in your life. You perhaps mentioned different stories. Or perhaps told them in a different way understanding the two respective audiences would need the story slanted for their ears.”

  “I guess. All right, I understand.”

  “The elite have expectations. They perceive Ms. Duvet in a different light than you or I. What they say could be the exact perspective we need to understand where she is.”

  “I see your point. I’ll do what I can.”

  “Good.”

  Chapter Seven

  The limousine stopped outside the Clubhouse on the Wharf, an exclusive restaurant and hall catering to those with deep pockets. Photographers and reporters stood in a roped-off area, transmitting the event live. Guests stepped out of their vehicles onto a red-carpet, wearing designer garments, or in Carhill’s case, expensive rental tuxes. The ambiance doted solely on the wealthiest class.

  “Try not to speak to reporters.” Jeanie prepared to exit the car. “We’ll smile, walk up the stairs, and pretend we can’t hear them over the din.”

  Her instructions hardly seemed necessary. He would have done the same on his own. Still, the intent seemed to be to protect her employer, so he brushed off the offense.

  A line of security and attendants stood at the curb. An attendant dressed in a black suit and white gloves opened the car door. Branson stepped out then presented his hand to assist Ms. Holloway. She accepted his help then slipped her arm through his. They smiled on cue and walked up the wide stairs as directed by security. He didn’t expect too many camera flashes since the reporters wouldn’t recognize them. If nothing else, they’d soon realize Branson and Jeanie didn’t possess the elite status worthy of a photo or the social column.

  Doormen held the outer glass doors open. Guests walked through a curtained area designed to break the wind, then on through inner doors where staff warmly greeted them.

  Attendees funneled through a security station poised several feet down the hall. A guard collected Ms. Holloway’s purse, inspected the inside, then gave it to her once she passed through the detector. Branson set his wallet and phone in the bowl before walking through and joining her. The guard handed back his belongings and wished him a wonderful evening. Security moved the crowd through quickly, w
hich was a relief in this cold weather.

  Elegantly dressed men and women flowed up the grand staircase in mass, across an atrium, and into a large ballroom. Round tables with white linen cloths and a single short red candle centerpiece had seating set for eight. Branson estimated three hundred guests would attend. Ms. Holloway pulled out their tickets and checked the number. “We are assigned table four.”

  Impressive. “That would put us at the front and about the center. Highly coveted seats.” Sylvia must donate a lot of time and money to this organization.

  “Mrs. Duvet is a highly regarded woman.” Ms. Holloway walked across the dance floor and on through the mass of tables with the grace of a woman who felt comfortable in her setting. “We can use this time to mingle. A bell will sound indicating we should take our seats. Let’s eye our table first. I see there are individual placards, so our seats will be assigned as well. That will make life simpler. Take a glass if offered then walk around. We could look for individuals to ask about Mrs. Duvet.”

  She led the way toward the center front of the room and stopped at table four.

  This was the poshest seating he’d ever had. His comfort level didn’t slacken one bit, though. Instead, he found the challenge exhilarating. Sure, he recognized a few people, the governor, the owner of the biggest paper in town, famous actors, and noteworthy musicians. He’d draw on his tutor’s words and blend in as though he’d attended every one of their events. “Do you see someone I could talk to?”

  “Pretty much anyone here knows Mrs. Duvet, socially speaking. As for friends, I’d have to look more.” She took a glass from a waiter’s tray. “Let’s walk.”

  And so they moved about the room, her greeting other attendees with a warm smile, him offering expected follow-up comments. Working the room, they bowed out of one conversation and entered another with choreographed precision, portraying their expected roles perfectly. Not one opportunity to speak with a close acquaintance presented itself. Branson did, however, overhear a few comments after they left. Reassuring words that the headache excuse appeased curious guests.

 

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