Unsafe Harbor

by Jessica Speart

  I felt as if I was receiving a crash course in Manhattan’s illustrious social stratosphere.

  “And you really believe that Tiffany Stewart wanted Bitsy out of the way?” I asked.

  I pictured Tiffany once more in her sequined top and skintight pants. No way could I imagine her knocking off Bitsy while tottering about in her Manolo Blahnik high heels.

  “Tiffany’s husband was a good deal older. My sources tell me that he left her very little in the way of financial assets upon his death. Most of the estate went to his two sons from his first marriage. Tiffany has been spending what little capital she has on contesting the will ever since,” Muffy revealed with a self-satisfied smirk. “It seems that Mrs. Stewart is scrambling about for money these days.”

  Tiffany could have fooled me. It was then I realized that what I viewed as a lot of money and what Muffy considered to be a tidy sum were probably two very different things. I flashbacked to Tiffany’s opulent apartment and drop-dead diamond ring. No doubt her “paltry” inheritance could have kept me living in style for the rest of my life.

  “I hope that I’ve been of some help,” Muffy said in a sugary voice, while folding her hands in her lap with a saccharine sweet smile.

  Who was she trying to kid? The woman was a blood-thirsty piranha. My only question was, what was her stake in all this?

  Everest tried to snuggle his way onto her shawl once more, and Muffy coldly pushed him off. That was when I finally understood. She maintained her position at the top of the social food chain by using the proverbial carrot and stick. Tiffany had challenged Muffy’s set of rules and was now being punished for it.

  “Oh yes, you’ve been very helpful,” I agreed.

  “Good. Then I don’t expect to hear any more nonsense concerning my shawls,” she added, more as a stated fact than anything else.

  Apparently I’d received my carrot and was now expected to roll over. I chose not to respond as she rang for Jeeves.

  “There is one more thing. I take it that you and your husband didn’t socialize much with either the Stewarts or the von Falkens,” I surmised.

  I was hoping to find out whatever I could about Muffy’s husband. Perhaps that would give me some additional insight into the woman.

  “We did at one time, but Sterling passed away a few years ago,” she quietly responded.

  The slightest quiver of her lips revealed that Muffy actually must have had feelings for him. She looked so forlorn that I almost felt sorry for the woman.

  “Have you ever lost someone you loved?” she questioned, catching me off guard.

  “Yes,” I replied, thinking of both my mother and grandmother.

  “Well then, you know what it’s like. There’s always a part of you that secretly hopes you might hear from them again,” she revealed. “That they might contact you from the great beyond.”

  I sometimes wished I were more in touch with my inner voice and knew when to keep my mouth shut. Instead, I heard myself speak before I could stop.

  “I know this sounds crazy, but I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of Psychics on Call, have you?” I questioned.

  Muffy sprang forward, as though she were coming in for a kiss. “You know of Mr. T? My dear, I’ve clearly underestimated you. The man is absolutely fabulous. Does this mean that you’ve called him, also?”

  Oh my God. I’d apparently found her weak spot. Muffy was a psychic freak.

  “No, I don’t have to call him there. He’s a good friend of mine,” I revealed.

  Muffy looked at me with newfound respect.

  “I hate phoning that place, myself. It always feels rather sleazy. I’d much rather pay for a private meeting. Do you suppose that could possibly be arranged?”

  “Hmm. He has a very busy schedule, what with all the important people that he sees,” I said, figuring that would whet her appetite. “But let me speak with him and see what I can do.”

  If nothing else, she’d owe me one, and it gave me a reason to get back in touch with her. This time her hand firmly grasped mine as Jeeves appeared and I was shown the door.

  I left the cushy confines of her town house and hit the streets of the real world once more. Or at least as real as the snooty Upper East Side could possibly be. After all, I was now hobnobbing in a society where women paid six thousand dollars for bedsheets that boasted an eight hundred thread count and took up to a year to make in Italy. I daydreamed of how it must feel to sleep on something that soft and luxurious. The problem was, marinate too long in a rarified atmosphere and it becomes easy to lose all perspective.

  Eleven

  A friend had once told me the three requirements for successfully living in Manhattan were money, money, and more money. He’d been right. I was roughly jerked back to reality as I caught sight of my Trailblazer. Someone had side-swiped the SUV where it sat parked. Hogan would have a shit fit if I reported it and he learned what I’d been up to. I’d have little choice but to pay for the repair myself. That meant brown bagging it the rest of the year. My only hope for financial solvency would be to win the jackpot playing lotto. I examined the damage and then slid in behind the wheel.

  More than anything, I was beginning to find these über-rich people, and their petty problems, depressing. What in hell did they have to complain about, anyway? The fact that their bedsheets took a few extra weeks to come back from a special dry cleaner in Milwaukee?

  “Oh for chrissakes, Porter. Suck it up. You’ve got rich people-itis,” my pain-in-the-ass inner voice told me.

  Unfortunately, my subconscious was correct. I felt like Cinderella, doomed to scrub pots and pans forever after having missed the ball. Maybe my fairy godmother would be able to help me. I picked up my cell phone and called Terri.

  “Hi sweetie. Is something wrong?” he asked upon hearing my voice.

  “What are you doing? Looking in your crystal ball?” I dolefully joked.

  “No. It’s just that you sound like hell,” came his smart retort.

  “Well, I’m working on a case that’s beginning to drive me a bit crazy,” I admitted. “But aside from that, I’m about to set you on the road to riches.”

  “What are you talking about?” Terri asked, his voice crackling with excitement.

  “Remember I predicted that all New York society would soon be clamoring at Mr. T’s door? Well, guess what? You just got your first appointment with a real honest-to-goodness socialite,” I revealed.

  “Don’t toy with me, Rach,” Terri warned. “Not today. I’m feeling bloated, and I swear to God I have PMS.”

  “Believe me, this is no joke,” I replied. “I just came from a visit with Mrs. Muffy Carson Ellsworth and she’s a big fan of yours. In fact, she wants to arrange a face-to-face private reading.”

  “Are you kidding me? That’s unbelievable!” Terri yelped into the phone. “I feel as if I’ve just died and gone to High Society heaven. Do you know what this means? One word from her, and the crème de la crème of New York will be rushing to see me. How did you ever get in to her, anyway?”

  “It’s a long story,” I responded. “But in return, I need something from you.”

  “Just name it and it’s yours. How about Eric’s firstborn child?” he offered. “God knows, I could use a break from Lily.”

  “Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of information. Tell me what you know about a guy named Giancarlo Giamonte,” I requested.

  Terri emitted a low, guttural laugh. “I take it that you’re referring to Mr. Ralph Goldberg, formerly of Queens, New York.”

  “Are we talking about the same fashion designer—the one who’s the darling of the moment with the Ladies Who Lunch?” I inquired.

  “The one and only,” Terri confirmed. “He changed his name from Goldberg to Giamonte not only because it sounded more exotic but, let’s face it, you know how those WASP society women can be. They believe everyone should have at least a token minority in their circle—preferably one that works in the kitchen.”

&
nbsp; “Yeah, I did catch a whiff of that,” I admitted.

  What saved me time and again was my “nonethnic” name and appearance. No one ever caught on to the fact that I was Jewish. It gave me access to any number of interesting conversations, some of which had been most helpful when it came to tracking down perps. It was akin to working undercover without having to lie.

  “But I don’t get it. Why ‘Giamonte’ in particular?” I asked.

  “Oh, but you haven’t yet heard his lovely Italian accent. It was worth every penny he spent on it. And, of course, he isn’t of lowly peasant stock, but descends from a noble family,” Terri said with a giggle. “He’s not just some schmo from Queens, but rather the son of a count with a castle in Tuscany. You know, it’s sort of like Ragu versus Prego spaghetti sauce. They’re both pureed tomatoes, but with different labels.”

  It was funny to hear Terri pepper his speech with Yiddish. “I see your point. So what else can you tell me?”

  “Plenty,” Terri disclosed. “He’s heavy into S and M, and has a thing for making videos of his sexual exploits. I hear he has quite the extensive DVD collection. Ralph is fairly notorious among the local gay scene. It’s well known that you don’t go home with him unless you want to star in his next movie. The only catch is he always makes certain that he’s the one with the best lighting.”

  I wondered how Muffy would feel if she learned all this about her fashion boy toy.

  “Why hasn’t word gotten out, if it’s true?” I inquired. “I’m sure there must be more than a few people that would love to see him go down in flames.”

  “It’s because the guy is sharp,” Terri retorted. “He’s Ralph in his private life and Giancarlo when it comes to business. And he’s smart enough never to mix the two.”

  “Then how do you know about it?” I questioned.

  “I’m psychic,” Terri replied.

  I remained silent.

  “Oh for chrissakes, Rach. I’m only kidding. I know the accountant that does his taxes.”

  “You wouldn’t also happen to know how I can contact him, would you?” I queried.

  “Why? Do you have a secret sex life that I don’t know about?” he teased.

  “Very funny,” I responded.

  However, part of me worried that Terri might have been right last night. Perhaps my personal life had become too staid. Spicing it up with a pair of handcuffs might not be such a bad idea—as long as I was the one holding the key.

  “It has to do with that case that I’m working on,” I informed him.

  “You mean the one involving the shawl stolen from a dead woman? Is that why you went to see Muffy Carson Ellsworth?” Terri inquired, fishing around.

  “Look, please don’t mention any of this to Muffy if you speak with her. She considers Giancarlo to be a close personal friend, and I’d like to keep it that way for now,” I warned.

  “Got it. As far as I’m concerned, Giancarlo is as authentic as fettuccine Alfredo,” Terri assured me.

  “Great. By the way, I also want to thank you for calling last night,” I added.

  “Yeah, right. For waking you up from a dead sleep, you mean?” Terri asked with a snort. “Sorry about that. Sometimes I let my impulses get the better of me.”

  “No. As it turns out, you were right,” I told him. “I only wish you’d called sooner. You’re beginning to convince me, Terri. Maybe you really are psychic.”

  “Why? What happened?” he warily asked.

  “Remember you said that you envisioned the color red all around me? Well, there was a fire,” I started to relate.

  “And you’re just telling me about this now? Damn it, Rach. That does it. You really have to move out of that miserable claptrack of a building,” Terri began to vent.

  “No, it wasn’t at my place. You remember Magda, the woman who called my cell phone during dinner last night…”

  “The one who stole the beautiful wool shawl,” Terri said in a distant voice. It was almost as if I could hear him putting the puzzle pieces together. “I had an odd feeling about that call. I just couldn’t quite put my finger on it. But it was as if a black veil were being drawn over me,” he related.

  I shivered, even though the heater was on in the Trailblazer.

  “Is she all right?” he asked, the tone of his voice betraying that he already knew the answer.

  “No. She died. Somebody set her truck on fire while she was inside,” I replied, still haunted by the memory of those insatiable flames. They’d leaped into my brain, where they continued to burn with fierce determination.

  “Oh God. I’m so sorry, Rach. That’s horrible,” he sympathized.

  “I drove to the seaport shortly after you called. But it was already too late. I wasn’t in time.”

  I still couldn’t forgive myself for having been irritated at Magda, and for not dragging her back to my place immediately. Or, for not having my cell phone on to receive her final call. The thought that I might have saved her was almost too much to bear.

  “It wasn’t your fault, Rach,” Terri offered, as if he were reading my mind. “You can’t beat yourself up over it.”

  I only wished life were that easy.

  “Is Giancarlo somehow involved in all this?” Terri asked, consumed by curiosity.

  “I don’t know yet. I just have to keep pulling at threads until something finally gives and begins to unravel,” I responded, not knowing any other way to work a case.

  “Okay then. Here’s his phone number,” Terri said and repeated it to me. “Just be careful.”

  “Why? Do you know something that I don’t?” I asked, half jesting and half serious.

  “You want the truth?” he queried.

  “Absolutely,” I responded, though not really certain.

  “Just knowing the chances you take would be enough to make me nervous. But there’s more to it than that. I don’t like what I’m feeling.”

  That made two of us.

  “Promise me that you’ll keep in touch. And I’m not talking about calling in a few days. I mean, I want to hear from you either tonight or tomorrow.” He made me swear before he hung up.

  Twelve

  I sat and stared at the phone number in my hand. Giancarlo Giamonte, or Ralph Goldberg. I didn’t much care which persona I met, as long as one of them coughed up the information that I was after. I figured anyone owning two hundred shahtoosh shawls was bound to know the name of the supplier.

  I quickly conjured my own cover story and then punched in Giamonte’s number.

  “Giancarlo Giamonte Designs. This is Giancarlo speaking. Who is calling, please?” demanded a man with an Italian accent as thick as pesto sauce.

  “This is Miss Rachel Bush Porter. I was referred by Mrs. Muffy Carson Ellsworth,” I replied in my best Texas drawl.

  If Ralph was into playing name games with accents, so be it. I was more than happy to comply.

  “I have a big affair coming up and I’ll be needing a very special gown. Muffy said that you were the man for the job,” I told him.

  “Dear, dear Muffy. How is she?” he asked, his tone instantly transforming from that of abrupt to obsequious.

  “Aunt Muffy is just fine,” I replied.

  “Ah? Then Muffy is a relative of yours?” he questioned.

  “Well, no. Not legally. But she’s a very close friend of my Auntie Barbara’s, and I’ve known her since I was a child. When I told her about this event, she insisted I call you,” I improvised.

  “Is she finally back home from her trip?” Giancarlo asked. “I haven’t heard from her for a while. Perhaps I should give her a ring.”

  “No, don’t do that,” I replied, consumed by a momentary rush of panic. “Aunt Muffy’s out of town again for a few days. Auntie Barbara thought they could both use a rest, so they packed up and went off to a spa. But don’t worry. She’ll be back sometime next week. In fact, she mentioned there’s a party coming up to which she’d like you to escort her.”

  “Of course.
I’d be delighted as always,” Giancarlo said, nearly purring over the phone.

  “In the meantime, I know this is short notice. But do you suppose I could stop by and discuss some designs for a gown with you?” I inquired.

  “Please, there’s no need to ask. It would be my greatest pleasure,” Giancarlo fawned.

  It was amazing what money and social status could do. Giancarlo gave me his address and I promptly made a bee-line for it.

  I went from the East to the West Side. My Trailblazer traveled south along the Henry Hudson past the West 79th Street Boat Basin, where New Yorkers too hip to live on land bobbed on the river in their houseboats. Soon after, pier after pier of cruise ships popped into view, each preparing to set sail for an exotic location. I had a momentary hallucination. What would it be like to chuck my old life and simply begin anew? The thought of taking on a different identity and starting all over again was surprisingly tempting.

  What the hell’s going on with you, anyway? my inner Mini-Me scolded.

  My restlessness had brought me all the way home. Even so, I was still feeling antsy. It was as if I had yet to make peace with the demons that chased me.

  I continued down along the river, and then swung left onto Fourteenth Street. From there I entered the Meat Packing District. Once the stomping grounds solely of butchers, transvestite hookers, and truckers, the area had now become très chic, transformed into the fashionistas’ latest casualty.

  Not only had the neighborhood been prominently featured on Sex and the City, but Stella McCartney even set up shop there. Her sleek clothing boutique shared the same block with other avant-garde designers and modern home stores, too hot to dream of opening anywhere else.

  I parked and navigated my way down the street, the uneven cobblestones turning my gait into that of a tipsy drunk. It was heartening to find that the area hadn’t yet totally changed. Sure, there were upscale galleries and French bistros where toothpick thin models posed like so much window dressing; but there were also burly meat packers taking a break outside in their bloodstained smocks.