by Jane Heller
I nodded, feeling for the very first time as if I’d been the one to walk off with the prize, as if I’d been crowned prom queen.
No, scratch that. What I felt—what I truly experienced at that moment—was that I’d finally outgrown the prom queen fantasy and, instead, was grateful to be exactly who I was.
The three of us piled into the rental car at nine o’clock the next morning, bound for an address north of the hotel.
“Leave it to Stuart to land in a pricey neighborhood like this,” said Tara as we drove past mansion after mansion.
“Everybody probably thinks he’s a man of mystery,” I said, “the type people assume is in the CIA or something.”
“He wouldn’t be the first one,” said Tony. “South Florida is full of shady characters trying to reinvent themselves.”
“Well, he can reinvent himself all he wants,” said Tara, “after he fulfills his obligations to me, which means showing up at my book party and getting Sergei off my back.”
“Then there’s Ho and Miguel,” I said. “They’re liable to show up at your door one of these days.”
“Don’t remind me,” she said. “I don’t know which of these people I’m dreading more—and that includes the police.”
Oops. I’d forgotten all about my chat with the detectives. I filled Tara and Tony in on the questions they’d asked me and admitted that I’d tipped them off about Palm Beach.
“So they’re coming to get me now?” she asked.
“Not to worry,” said Tony. “Both of you will be in the clear as soon as we prove that Stuart’s alive.”
“Then drive faster,” she said.
“Don’t have to. We’re here,” said Tony as he pulled up in front of a tidy but unappealing one-story stucco house of fifties vintage—definitely the least expensive house on the block.
“It’s not exactly a monstrosity, but it’s not what I expected,” I said.
“It’s a teardown,” said Tara. “Stuart will make a fortune on land value alone.”
Tony shut off the engine. “Are you sure you’re ready for this, Tara?”
“Ready to walk in and see him with another woman?” She laughed ruefully. “Amy had to walk in and see him with me once upon a time. I guess it’s my turn.”
“We’ll be right here with you,” I reassured her. “Let’s go. The sooner we confront him, the sooner we can tell the cops to close the case.”
We got out of the car, walked up to the front door, and rang the bell. After a few seconds, a woman appeared. She was in her late twenties and not especially attractive. Her nose was too long, her mouth was too wide, and her figure was on the chunky side. And then there was the wad of gum. Some sort of lime green gum. My jaws ached watching her chew it. Yes, despite the miniskirt and the tight halter top, she was not the femme fatale I’d pictured, but she had to have other charms or she wouldn’t have been able to seduce Stuart. On the other hand, maybe it didn’t take much to seduce Stuart.
“Hello, Mandy,” said Tara in the voice she always used when she wanted to cut someone dead.
“Mrs. Lasher?” Mandy was taken aback by the appearance of her boyfriend’s wife, obviously. “What, um, are you doing here?”
“You know exactly why I’m here,” said Tara. “Now, get out of my way.”
Tara gave Mandy a little shove and marched into the house, with Tony and me trailing after her. Once we were all standing in the living room, which was cramped even without the moving cartons, Tara said, “Okay. Where is he?”
“Where’s who?” asked Mandy.
“Cut the crap and tell me where Stuart is,” she said. “Or should I give myself the tour?”
Mandy seemed genuinely confused. “I don’t get this,” she said. “I thought he was dead.”
“Yeah, right,” said Tara.
“I did. I swear,” she said. “First they found his car. Then I was called into a meeting at Lasher’s and told I’d have to work for someone else. I left the company because I didn’t want another boss.”
“You left the company because your boss set you up in this house,” said Tony.
“Huh?” she said articulately.
“Stuart bought the house and put it in your name,” I said. “We know everything, Mandy.”
“You’re wrong,” she said. “You’re all wrong. This is my house now.”
Tara snorted. “Is that what Stuart told you?”
“No. That’s what my lawyer told me. Well, my aunt’s lawyer.”
“Your aunt?” asked Tony.
“Yeah,” said Mandy. “This was her house. She died and left it to me, since I was her closest relative. I decided I might as well move in, since I didn’t have a job up north anymore.”
“So you’re saying that Stuart didn’t pay for the house and turn it over to you for legal reasons?” Tara persisted. “Or simply to keep his whereabouts a secret?”
“Why do you keep asking me about your husband, Mrs. Lasher?”
“Because you’ve been having an affair with him, for God’s sake.”
“I have not.” Mandy thought a second. “Well, okay. There was just that once, the night of the company Christmas party.”
“Maybe we should search the house and get it over with,” I said.
“Go ahead,” said Mandy. “All you’re going to find are my aunt’s clothes and stuff. I’m packing them up and donating them to Goodwill.”
“I think we’ll have a look just the same,” said Tony.
The three of us went through every corner of the house, checking for evidence of Stuart’s presence but finding none. All we saw were closets full of women’s clothes, just as Mandy had said we would.
“Do you suppose she’s telling the truth?” I asked.
“Stranger things have happened,” said Tony. “It’ll be easy enough to find out if the aunt lived and died here. I can check with the medical examiner’s office.”
“Great, but let’s say Mandy is telling the truth,” Tara proposed. “Let’s say she’s not Stuart’s partner in crime and doesn’t have any idea where he is. What do we do then?”
“Come up with plan B,” said Tony. “If you’re really a fan of my novels, Tara, you know that the solution to the mystery is usually in a place where you least expect it.”
37
We left Mandy and took a drive to Worth Avenue for a late breakfast and a conversation about what our next move should be. Tara suggested we go back to New York and try harder to retrace Stuart’s steps during the days before he disappeared. I agreed with her, thinking there must be clues we’d overlooked. But Tony held fast to his hunch that Stuart was in Florida and insisted we stay for another day or two.
“There’s a reason he wanted you two to fly down here to look at houses,” he said to Tara. “My guess is that he was scoping out the territory so he’d be ready when it was time to make his getaway.”
“Then why isn’t he with Mandy?” I asked.
“And how will we find him now that he isn’t with her?” Tara added.
“Just give this one more day,” he said. “I have nothing to go on except my gut, but I’ve spent my whole adult life writing about criminals and I know how they think. Stuart’s here somewhere, trust me.”
Tara and I deferred to Tony and said we’d do whatever he thought best.
We finished our breakfast, left the restaurant, and strolled down Worth Avenue en route to our car. As we were passing by antique shops, art gallerys, and one clothing designer after another, Tony bent down to tie his shoelace. Since we had stopped walking momentarily, Tara and I peered into the store window in front of us. The shop sold gourmet foods, and the display in the window captured our attention. A beautiful table had been set with place mats and napkins and silver and crystal, with a dozen or so imported products laid out decoratively among them. There was some pâté, some cheese, some fruit, and a baguette. There were also several one-ounce jars of caviar, six mother-of-pearl caviar spoons, and a bottle of vodka in an ice bucket.
“Same here,” said Tara.
“What are we looking at?” asked Tony, now upright.
I pointed to the display in the window.
He pressed his nose against the glass. And then, without a word, he hurried inside the store.
“I guess he’s hungry, too,” said Tara as we followed him.
Tony had more on his mind than food, it turned out. He walked right up to the display, reached in, grabbed one of the jars of caviar, and examined it.
“Well, what do you know,” he said. “My hunch was right on the money after all.”
“Your hunch about Stuart?” I said.
“Here,” he said, holding the jar in front of our eyes. “See for yourselves.”
Upon closer inspection, the jar bore the label of Stuart’s bogus company, Caspian Classics.
“I don’t believe it,” said Tara, shaking her head. “He’s selling his bootlegged stuff down here?”
“Unless this is some bizarre coincidence,” said Tony. “Let’s have a chat with the manager.”
Gerald Franks was a portly man who spoke with an affected faux-British accent. He not only managed the shop but owned it, and had for years.
“We just started carrying Caspian Classics,” he said after Tony introduced himself as Harvey Kraus and began his inquiry. “Black gold has been getting ridiculously expensive, but the gentleman who distributes this brand gives me a break on the price.”
“Interesting,” said Tony. “Any idea where we could find him?”
“Not if you’re trying to compete with me, Mr. Kraus,” he said with a chuckle. “I don’t need anyone cutting into my business.”
“I’m not local competition,” said Tony. “I’ve got a couple of stores in the Chicago area, so I’d like to talk to your man about selling Caspian Classics in my part of the country.”
“Oh. Well then, have at him,” said Gerald, who dug around in his desk for Stuart’s card, then handed it to Tony.
“He doesn’t give his address,” said Tony. “Only a pager number.”
“I know, but it’s the best way to reach Mr. Dunsmore,” said Gerald.
“Mr. Dunsmore?” said Tara, squelching a laugh.
“Yes,” replied Gerald. “Ronald Dunsmore. He’s a very cordial fellow.”
Tony thanked Gerald for the time and the information, and Gerald wished Tony luck with his stores in Chicago. And then off we went.
“No wonder Sergei’s pissed,” I said when we were back out on the street. “Not only did Stuart stop paying him, he elbowed him out of their deal altogether.”
“Cordial my ass,” muttered Tara.
“What now, Tony?” I asked. “Without an address on the card, we’ve got nowhere to go.”
“I’ll call the pager number,” he said.
“And tell him you’re here to hunt him down?” said Tara. “I don’t think that’ll go over well.”
“I’m not here to hunt him down,” he said with a smile. “Harvey Kraus is here to do business with him. Or weren’t you listening to what I told Gerald?”
He dialed the pager number, then punched in his cell number after the voice-mail prompt. The three of us huddled together while we waited for him to call back. When Tony’s phone bleated out the William Tell Overture, we practically jumped.
“Harvey Kraus,” said Tony, altering his voice so Stuart wouldn’t recognize it. He was trying to sound midwestern, but there was still a touch of New York in his speech. “Oh, yes, Mr. Dunsmore. Thanks for getting back to me so quickly. Gerald Franks gave me your card. I’ve got a couple of shops like his in Chicago and I’m looking to better my margin on caviar. He said you were the man to talk to…. Yes…. Uh-huh…. Is that right?”
Tara and I were dying of curiosity, since we could hear only one side of the conversation.
“That’d be great,” Tony went on. “I’m in town for another day or so. I could meet with you today, sure. I’m staying at the Breakers. Why don’t we say lunch at one o’clock? I’ll make the reservation in my name…. No, it’s Kraus, not Cross. Harvey Kraus…. Right. Bye.”
Tony hung up and grinned. “We’ve got him—at least for the moment.”
“This is huge,” said Tara. “You proved he’s here. And now that he’s on the hook, all we have to do is reel him in.”
“I think I should reel him in,” said Tony. “You two stay out of it.”
“Not a chance,” said Tara. “I want to see the look on that jerk’s face when he realizes I’m on to him.”
“Me, too,” I said. “I’ve been waiting a long time to watch him squirm.”
At 12:50, the three of us sat down at Harvey Kraus’s table for four and waited. We were all wearing wide-brimmed hats and sunglasses so that Stu boy wouldn’t recognize us right off the bat and bolt. We looked like tacky tourists, but that was sort of the point.
We were giddy with anticipation as we traded possible scenarios of what he would do and say when he realized we’d found him. In fact, we were having a good laugh when I noticed that two men were approaching our table.
“Oh my God. It’s the detectives who interviewed me yesterday,” I said. “I can’t believe they actually followed us here.”
Sure enough, the same two cops to whom I’d blabbed about the Breakers came right over and announced that they wanted to question Tara in connection with her husband’s disappearance.
“I’m not guilty,” she said. “And neither is Amy.”
“If you give us a few minutes, we’ll prove it,” I said.
The cops looked dubious, so Tony took over. He explained that Stuart was very much alive; that his car had merely been in an accident and he’d been too careless to report it; that he’d flown to Palm Beach without telling his friends and family; and that he was, in fact, due to arrive at the hotel shortly. “You can question him yourselves,” he said. “Do whatever you need to do to close the case. But let us have some private time with him first. Or, rather, let these two long-suffering ladies have some private time with him.” He winked at the detectives, then added in a whisper, “There was a love triangle, and they need to sort it out. You understand.”
The detectives nodded at Tony in that manly way men have when the subject of sex comes up, then said they’d be waiting outside the restaurant to interview Stuart when we were done with him.
“Wow. Good job,” I said to Tony as the cops walked out and Stuart walked in. “And not a moment too soon.”
At one o’clock on the nose, he appeared. And he was not the Stuart of old, with the preppy suit and the preppy hair. The new Stuart had gone tropical. He was in a Hawaiian shirt, khakis, and sandals, and he’d dyed his hair a color that was meant to be blond but was an unfortunate orange instead.
He stood at the maître d’s station, where he must have said he was meeting a Mr. Kraus, and was immediately escorted to our table. (Lucky for us, there was a change of shift from the night before, so the maître d’ on duty was not the one who’d thrown us out.) We kept our heads down and our glasses on while he walked toward us. It was only after he slid into the empty seat next to Tony and said, “Mr. Kraus? I’m Ronald Dunsmore” that we removed our hats and glasses, as if in a perfectly choreographed dance, and shouted, “Surprise!”
At first, Stuart seemed too stunned to register a reaction of any kind. He just sat there, his eyes moving from Tara to me to Tony and back. But after a beat or two, he made a move to flee.
Tony was too fast for him. He grabbed Stuart’s hand, stepped on one of his feet, and held him right where he was, only knocking the saltshaker off the table—a far cry from the commotion we’d caused the night before.
“You might as well stay,” said Tony, “because there are two cops at the door who are even more eager to talk to you than we are.”
Stuart froze at the mention of police. “Fine. I’ll stay,” he said. “How did you find me?”
“Your fish eggs
smelled,” said Tony. “We just followed the scent.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“Caspian Classics. Truffles Magnifique. New Life Organic,” said Tara, ticking off his crooked ventures. “They’re what we’re talking about. I’m sure Sergei, Ho, and Miguel want to talk to you about them, too.”
“Who?” asked Stuart.
“We know everything,” said Tony. “So does Jimmy. How could you steal from your own family?”
“Not that it’s any of your business—and that goes for all three of you—but my family’s been stealing from me for years. I was the rightful heir. I was the one who should have run Lasher’s. Instead, Jimmy got the job and I was the second fiddle. How fair was that?”
The second fiddle. There it was again. The pesky syndrome that had dogged me. Only this time, it was Stuart who was suffering from it. Had that been our common bond when we were together—our mutual insecurity about being the “also ran?” Not exactly a sound basis for a relationship, was it?
“You would have run Lasher’s into the ground,” said Tara. “You almost did.”
“But you’re not going to,” said Tony. “Jimmy doesn’t want the company to go down the toilet, which it will if there’s a criminal investigation.”
“And I don’t want sales of my book to go down the toilet,” Tara echoed, “which they will if you don’t show up at my book party.”
“You’re crazy,” Stuart scoffed. “You’re all crazy. I kissed off that bullshit when I faked my own murder.”
“When you tried to fake your own murder,” I said.
“And to think that you almost let us take the rap for it,” said Tara.
“Whatever,” he said. “I’m in Florida now and I’m starting over.”
“Not before you tie up a few loose ends,” said Tara.
“Why should I?” asked Stuart, whining like the child he was.
“Why should you? The easy answer is that if you don’t, we’ll have you arrested for fraud, larceny, and anything else the prosecutors dream up,” said Tony. “Or we could just tip off Sergei and the other mischief makers to your new state of residence and let them come down here and rearrange your face.”