by Cleo Coyle
The young woman was clearly in a panic, sputtering over and over that we “got it all wrong.”
“Okay,” I said, as Matt slammed the van doors shut. “Then tell us how to get it right.”
“What I sold to Victor isn’t real! It’s a facsimile! Two months ago, Victor met with Gus and asked him to make a replica of the Eye of the Cat, using synthetic diamonds. Victor offered plenty of money, but Gus turned him down.”
“So how did you get involved?”
“I followed Victor out to his car and told him I could do it. So he hired me. It’s that simple.”
Matt folded his arms. “You expect us to believe you were capable of imitating the famous Campana cut, and creating an identical copy of a world-famous piece like the Eye?”
“Yes! I have the skills Gus taught me. He’s been mentoring me for five years. He knew, from the start, that Sophia didn’t like me—and after he’s gone, she’ll inherit the whole business, and will probably fire me. Gus wanted to make sure I was good enough to start my own business on the West Coast—that’s my dream.”
“Why did he care so much about you?” I hated to ask the next question, given their age differences, but . . . “Monica, are you having an affair with Gus Campana?”
“Of course not! It was my mother who had the affair, twenty-two years ago.”
“You mean to say—”
“Gus is my father. And before you ask, Sophia and Perla don’t know. Gus and I both wanted it that way. I’m just happy he was willing to bring me into the business when I was barely seventeen. He’s treated me dearly and taught me a lot.”
“Then why did you run away the day he was poisoned?”
“Gus let everyone go early, and I pretended to get my things together and leave with them. But I lagged behind the others and snuck up the back stairs into the workshop, so I could finish my Eye facsimile . . .”
How could I have missed that? I thought.
Then I remembered how rushed Sophia and I were when we reviewed the security camera footage. After seeing Gus dismiss his staff, we watched the employees exit the store in a bunch. But we never counted heads—never actually saw Monica leave.
“When the alarm went off that day, I thought I’d triggered it. We have night motion detectors, and I convinced myself I’d tripped one. I ran because Gus didn’t know I was working on the copy, and I didn’t want him to be angry with me.”
“And you expect us to believe you didn’t poison Gus?” Matt said. “He had an affair with your mother, never married her, and won’t even come clean about your identity!”
“I would never harm Gus! Never! And I’m not upset in the least with how he became my father. Years ago, my mother was divorced and miserable. Gus had lost his wife and was lonely. My mom went to Gus for an appraisal of jewels her ex-husband had given her. They became lovers. I was the result.”
“But he never married her?” I pressed.
“Gus proposed, but my mother didn’t want to marry again, or stay in New York. She took me to California, where she’d been born and raised. When I found out Gus was my father, I contacted him. I had zero interest in college, or my mother’s real estate business, so he and Mom agreed I’d come to New York and apprentice in his shop. I’m grateful to him . . . and I love him.”
“Then who do you think poisoned him?”
“Hunter Rolf, obviously! And that’s what I told the police when they came to interview the staff early this morning. I told them I was in the workshop when Hunter came and went. I witnessed his visit. The only thing I can’t figure is how he did it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Gus was poisoned with beryllium salts.”
“How do you know that?” Matt asked.
“The police detectives told me. They wanted to know if it was on the premises, and I told them that it was. And there is no way you could drink that by accident. It would burn and taste awful. I’m sickened by the idea that Hunter forced Gus to drink it—or even knocked him out somehow and inserted a tube down his throat.”
I shook my head at her theory. “I don’t believe Hunter poisoned Gus.”
“But Hunter was there that day. And I know Gus never got along with him, especially lately with Sophia convinced he was cheating on her.”
“He wasn’t. And Hunter’s visit was to repair the damage of misunderstandings they’ve had.”
“Then who else could have done it?”
When I considered everything I’d learned today, including Monica’s statement, I came to a firm conclusion. A sad one. But now wasn’t the time to reveal it.
“Let’s get back to the Eye of the Cat,” I said. “By now, you must know it was never lost, that Gus had been hiding it all these years. Did you know he was being blackmailed?”
Monica nodded. “Gus confided in me that he was paying off a terrible man to keep him out of our lives. That’s all I know.”
I described the blackmailer in the white suit. “Did you ever see this man? And do you know his name?”
“I don’t know his name, but I’ve seen him visit Gus a few times in the last week. They always argued in Italian.”
“Did you understand any of it?”
“Every word. They fought about money. The man kept demanding that Gus ‘sell it’ and split the profits. I asked what ‘it’ was, and that’s when he told me the Eye of the Cat was never lost. He said Sophia—and you, Matt—were named as its trustees. Gus also said that he didn’t want you or Sophia or any of us to be harassed by this jerk. He said, ‘I’m going to take care of this man for good and forever.’”
“What did he mean by that?”
“He was enraged when he said it. I think Gus was willing to kill if he had to.”
“I have no doubt he was . . . and attempted it,” I added under my breath. “Monica, do you have any idea where we can find this blackmailer?”
“Only tonight. He told Gus he was going to the ‘Survivors’ party on the new Andrea Doria. He wanted Gus to attend with him since he was also one of the shipwreck’s survivors. He said they should work out their differences and make a deal. Gus told him to go have sex with himself . . . in Italian.”
“So the new Andrea Doria is here in New York?” As I asked the question, Matt jumped in—
“She came in last night. I saw her from my warehouse this morning. She’s docked at Pier 12, the Brooklyn Cruise Terminal.”
Monica nodded. “Victor was thrilled I finished my work on the Eye in time for his party. He’s putting it on display—marked clearly as a facsimile—with a series of video clips showing deep-sea divers who’ve searched the shipwreck looking for it over the years.”
Before Matt and I parted ways with Monica, she had a final warning. “I told Victor already. But you should know, too, so you see it coming.”
“See what coming?”
“That awful blackmailer swore that if Gus refused to make a deal, he was going to ‘tell the truth’ at tonight’s party. He said the story would make a big bestseller or even a movie—and he’d get his money that way.”
Matt narrowed his eyes. “What exactly does he plan to do?”
“He’s going to make a scene and announce some kind of shocking truth about ‘the real’ Gus Campana and what happened to him on the night the first Andrea Doria sank.”
After Monica left, I turned to Matt. “Tonight’s party is our best lead at finding your mother. Can we get in?”
“It’s a strict guest list. It’s really a PR event to show off the ship to the press and media. Survivors of the first Andrea Doria are supposed to share their memories of the night it sank. Fontana’s also inviting the mayor, the governors of New York and New Jersey, and a boatload of VIPs.”
“If it’s that exclusive, how can we possibly crash it?”
“Easy. I have an official invitation. With Mother missing,
I was going to skip attending. But if that blackmailer’s going to be there, and we can nail him, I’m all for it.”
“Good.”
“Clare, what was that bit about Gus you said to Monica?”
“What bit?”
“You said you had no doubt Gus was willing to kill—and attempted it. I heard that last part, under your breath. So who did he try to kill? The person who poisoned him?”
“Yes, and they’re the same person.”
“Who?”
“Matt, given all that we’ve learned about the blackmailer’s threats, the nature of the poison, and the fact that Gus knew he was dying of cancer, I believe Gus Campana poisoned himself.”
For a silent minute, my ex-husband looked stricken.
I put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry. But we did get to him in time. And he still may recover. You need to focus on that—and finding your mother.” I checked my watch. “We have to get to that party, and the clock is ticking. Does your invitation allow you to bring a plus-one?”
“Only by name. You’ll have to pretend to be her.”
“Her?” It took me a second to figure it out. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes.”
“There’s got to be another way. Can’t you explain that your marital partner couldn’t make it, and you brought your business partner instead?”
“Sorry, it’s a nontransferable invitation. It’s also a press event, and they invited Breanne because she’s the head of Trend magazine.”
“But—”
“Look, Clare, I need your help tonight. And I don’t want to risk them not admitting you. So get ready to impersonate you favorite editor in chief . . . Please?”
I considered my short-notice bag of tricks and took a deep breath. “Fine. If an insufferable fashionista is what they want, that’s what they’re going to get.”
SEVENTY-FIVE
I tracked my assistant manager to a rehearsal space at HB Studio on Bank Street. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one looking for a floppy-haired director of a superhero stage show. My favorite shaved-headed police sergeant greeted me in front of the red steel doors.
“Hey, Coffee Lady, fancy meeting you here.”
“What are you doing at an actors’ studio?”
Franco shrugged his big shoulders. “Time sink. McNulty has me reinterviewing everyone who tried to rent a Panther Man costume . . .”
Another good cop sidelined, I thought. Lori Soles was right about McNulty scattering Mike’s squad to the winds . . .
“It could be worse,” Franco added. “Poor Lieutenant Quinn is in the boondocks.”
“Where?”
“Staten Island. McNulty has him ‘overseeing interviews’ of staff and customers at a comic book store. Some wiseass posted the Panther Man credo onto the NYPD Facebook page.”
“Panther Man has a credo?”
“Sure. ‘Do not ask on whom Panther Man pounces. He pounces on you!’”
“That sounds an awful lot like Hemingway.”
“Yeah, the whole ‘bell tolls’ thing.” Franco shrugged. “But my job isn’t to investigate crappy comic book plagiarism. I’m here on a bogus follow-up to a crappy lead. And for the record, I never liked Panther Man. My guy’s Captain America.”
“Do you have a minute?”
“For you? Sure.”
While we loitered in front of HB, I quietly told Franco everything I knew about Gus, his blackmailer, and Madame’s vanishing act. He asked what he could do to help, and I told him a little (unofficial) NYPD backup could be useful.
“Do you know any officer who might be working security at the Brooklyn Cruise Terminal in Red Hook tonight? We could use some help . . . from the inside.”
“There’s a guy at the station house who coordinates that kind of thing,” he said, pulling out his phone. “I’ll reach out to him and see what I can do.”
I thanked Franco, and sent him off to his final “interview” of the day, an Irish pub offering a Panther Man special: two shots for the price of one—for anyone wearing blue.
* * *
A few minutes later, I found Tucker in the empty HB theater, dangling Superman on the end of a nearly invisible set of ropes.
“Stop wiggling and strike a pose!” Tuck directed.
My assistant manager clearly had found the perfect Superman. Though the actor’s back was turned to me, his muscular physique was impressive.
Nancy is going to be happy, I thought, as I watched Superman relax his body, high off the ground, and find a stilling balance.
At Tuck’s cry for “action,” Superman thrust out his arms and straightened his legs. With the help of a stagehand, the Man of Steel was able to fly like a superhero over the practice stage.
“Brilliant!” Tucker clapped excitedly. “It’s going to work!”
“I told you it would!” Superman replied from above. “I only weigh one fifty on a fat day. You don’t need thicker ropes. These work better—”
“Oh, my goodness!” I blurted. “Is that Punch up there?”
Superman squinted in my direction.
“Hey, CC, is that you? I don’t have my contacts in!”
It was Punch, Tucker’s boyfriend and one of the most accomplished cabaret drag singers and female impersonators in the Big Apple. And he made a pretty good Superman, too.
“You’ve been bulking up, I see.”
Punch laughed and pulled a cord. Before my eyes, the Man of Steel’s muscles sunk to nothing but limp vinyl.
“It’s an inflatable suit,” Punch explained. “You put it on, use an air can to blow it up like a balloon, and you’re instantly Mr. Universe. A handy little suit for Grindr profiles, too!”
Tuck snapped his fingers. “Bite your tongue. Remember, you’re taken!”
After scolding his partner for even thinking about using a dating app, Tuck turned to me.
“So what’s up, Clare? You look tense. Is something wrong?”
“I need your help. Can you turn me into Breanne Summour for the evening? It’s an emergency.”
Tuck’s eyes gleamed as he rubbed his hands together. “You came to the right theatrical genius! I have a locker downstairs, and it’s full of goodies.”
“You want my advice?” Punch called down from above. “Give her my Marc Jacobs. She’s got the assets for it—no padding necessary.”
“Perfect!” Tuck cried.
“And those tinted Bulgari glasses I wear when I’m doing Jackie O.”
“Will do!” Tuck put his hands on my shoulders, and urged me toward the door. “I also have a blond wig that looks way better than that overprocessed mane of Bree’s. Now let’s get to work—”
“Hey!” Punch shouted, still dangling from the ceiling. “What’s the deal here? I lose my muscles and you forget all about me?”
“Don’t be silly, honey,” Tuck replied, hurrying back to help him down. “Air muscles or not, you’ll always be my Superman.”
SEVENTY-SIX
“I still remember the first moment I saw her. She gleamed like a flawless diamond . . . So white and clean and pure . . .”
I recalled Gus Campana’s words when our limo passed the final barricade of Brooklyn’s low-rise town houses, to reveal the new Andrea Doria in all of her nautical splendor.
Docked on the Red Hook waterfront, just a stone’s throw from Matt’s coffee warehouse, the ship radiated a silvery glow. It helped that the earlier storms had blown through, leaving in their wake a clear, crisp autumn night.
“She does gleam like a diamond, doesn’t she?”
Matt, in Versace evening wear, wasn’t looking at the ship as he said it. He was looking down at me.
“Oh, come on. Don’t make me blush.”
With an encouraging wink at my makeover miracle, he tugged on his own handsomely tailored cuffs.
“Look at this sight,” I said, redirecting his attention to our destination. “There are so many spotlights on this ship she’s probably visible from Earth’s orbit.”
The re-creation of the classic Italian cruise liner was two-thirds the size of the original, but when standing this close, she seemed immense. Her shiny black hull and gleaming white superstructure towered over the terminal’s service buildings, and powerful spots on her upper decks shot columns of light high into the heavens.
“I have to give it to Victor Fontana,” Matt said. “The man knows how to build a boat.”
“And show it off . . .”
The show continued at the terminal entrance, where a prosecco fountain burbled, and bubbling flutes of the sparkling Italian joy were offered to the guests as a stunning soprano from the Metropolitan Opera sang “Musetta’s Waltz” from Puccini’s La Bohème (with full orchestral backup).
With a slow parade of guests, Matt and I moved through the glass-walled terminal, to the base of a wide, roofed gangplank illuminated by flickering party lights.
Matt presented his invitation to a young man in an electric blue skinny suit.
“Welcome, Mr. Allegro and . . .” He glanced twice at the invitation. “Ms. Breanne Summour?”
The man in blue gave me a strange look, and I prayed my blond wig hadn’t slipped. But his sharp eyes drifted instead to the ruby earrings Sophia gave me, and with a gracious smile he was about to wave us through, when Matt raised a finger.
“My wife is the editor of Trend magazine, of course, and she would like to do a human interest story on one of the original Andrea Doria survivors. I encountered the man, but I didn’t catch his name. An Italian, elderly, most likely in a white evening suit? I believe he’s come here from Rome.”
The valet shook his head. “Sorry, sir. If he’s a ‘survivor,’ he’s one of the VIP guests. They came through another entrance.”
“Thanks, anyway.”
Matt took my arm and pulled me to the gangplank.