“And there’s still that annoying question: why did Susie shoot the agent?”
“Yes, there is that.” Jonathan paused, lost in thought for a moment, then resumed. “When are you supposed to meet Leah?”
“Around five. So you’ve got about four hours to draft the most effective prose of your life.”
To Claire’s surprise, he flashed her a quick grin. “And you don’t think I can do it?”
And in spite of herself, Claire felt her mouth twitch. “Show me.”
* * *
As she hung on to a post on the rackety subway car, on her way uptown, Claire thanked the gods that she didn’t have to worry about dressing herself for this event. She’d found some black leather lace-up shoes at the back of Leah’s closet, so that part was all right. She’d had more trouble trying to figure out the rest of her appearance. There was no time to do anything about the hair. That left makeup. Part of Claire wanted to appear as drab, as invisible, as possible, but then she’d be most recognizable as serious Professor Claire Hastings. How depressing. The other alternative was to slather the goop on and try to look as different as possible—just not too trashy for a tony party for visiting dignitaries. The desire to hide did battle with the idea of hiding in plain sight—but confusing people by giving them what they did not expect. Ah, hell—nobody looks at the serving staff anyway, Claire reminded herself, as she troweled on eye shadow and mascara.
She arrived a few minutes early, but Leah was already there, in the space below the steps that opened onto the service door. Leah greeted her cautiously.
“Hey, girl, you made it. Any problems?”
Claire shook her head. “How about your end?”
“I’m glad you got here early.” Leah cast a wary glance around, but in this neighborhood there was little foot traffic. “I couldn’t get you on the guest list, even under a phony name—they’re checking people out. Luckily I know the caterer, and he owes me a favor—I throw a lot of business his way. He won’t ask questions, but if anything goes wrong, he’s going to point the finger at me. You and Hero come up with a plan?”
“Jonathan wrote a note, and I figure I’ll just slip it to Annabeth when the time is right. Once you point her out, that is—I’ve never met the woman. Anyway, I’m going to keep out of it. My story is, some guy came up to me and asked if I could give her this note, on the sly, and I don’t know anything more. Okay?”
“That’s probably a good idea. And I don’t think she’s going to recognize you as a feminist in that getup. But when she gets the note, then what’s the plan?”
“In the note Jonathan asks if she’ll meet him after the party tonight. He’s going to be waiting for her at this all-night deli he knows, a couple of blocks from here.”
“And he thinks she’s going to go along with that?” Leah looked skeptical.
Claire shrugged. “He says so—he claims she’s an old friend. At least he picked a nice bright public place instead of a dark corner somewhere.”
“What about you? Are you going to be there?”
“I figured I’d hang back until she showed up and they had a chance to get started. Then I can decide.”
“Huh.” Leah thought a moment. “Then I’m going with you.”
“What? Why?” Claire protested.
“Because, girl, you’ve done such a great job of taking care of yourself up to now. Look at you! FBI hunting for you, and you look like a slut. Can’t leave you on your own for a minute. You just don’t know how to handle this kind of stuff.”
“And you do?” Claire was outraged, but she had to fight a desire to snigger. It felt good to have somebody on her side.
“Better than you. Look, we’d better get inside. Jean-Paul will give you your uniform and explain what he wants you to do. As far as he knows, you’re just a fill-in. I told him you were a friend who needed a few extra bucks—God knows you look like you do, at the moment. You do think you can carry a tray, right? That’s not beneath your dignity?”
“I think I can handle it. I used to bus tables at school, remember?”
“Then let’s go. Oh, and remember, your name’s Chloe.” Leah pulled open the door, and Claire followed her into the building. Once inside Leah made a beeline for the kitchen at the back of the house, where a crowd of black-and-white-clad caterers and assistants milled around in controlled chaos. Leah went directly to one man and said without preamble, “Jean-Paul, this is Chloe. She needs her uniform and then she’s good to go. Ça va?”
Jean-Paul gave Claire a harried once-over and pointed toward a woman. “Talk to Elise. You look like you can carry a tray, at least.” He turned away quickly.
Claire looked at Leah and raised an eyebrow. “That was easy.”
Leah grinned. “Told you. Look, I’ve got to get upstairs, but I’ll let you know when . . . you know. Now go get dressed. Party starts at seven.”
When Leah had left, Claire sought out the woman identified as Elise. “Hi, I’m Chloe. You have a uniform for me?”
Elise was no less stressed out than Jean-Paul. “Oh, yeah, right, the replacement. You wear, what, a size ten? Come on.” She rushed to a rolling rack of shirts and pants, grabbed one of each and thrust them at Claire. “Put these on. You done this before?”
Claire grabbed the clothes and nodded. “Some, not much lately. What do you need?”
Elise eyed her critically. “Well, we could use another server, but you don’t quite fit our image . . . How about this—you can keep an eye on the stationary setups. When things run low, refill the platters, and you can collect the used glassware, plates, that kind of stuff. Think you can handle that?”
“No problem.” When Elise darted off, Claire looked around for a place to change and found a tiny bathroom off the kitchen. She slipped in and changed into the plain black pants and double-breasted chef’s jacket, with the name of Jean-Paul’s firm embroidered over her heart. The pants were a bit long, so Claire rolled them up at the waist. Then she pulled Jonathan’s note from her own clothes and tucked it firmly into the pocket of her borrowed pants. She took one last look at herself in the tiny mirror. Yes, she still looked like a tramp. Great. She’d certainly convinced Elise. Now all she had to do was stay invisible until Leah pointed out Annabeth. In the meantime, she had better do the job she was there for.
She had no trouble keeping busy until the party started—Jean-Paul made sure of that. Claire realized belatedly that she should have asked Leah more about this party. It was large—that much was immediately obvious. The town house extended up at least three floors, not counting the kitchen level, and there were food stations and temporary bars set up strategically on each level. This meant a lot of running up and down stairs, carrying plates and glasses, and then trays laden with food, and decorations for the food displays. After nearly two hours of this, Claire was exhausted, and the evening had hardly begun.
Guests began to trickle in, solo and in pairs, shortly after seven; by seven thirty they were arriving in chattering clumps. Claire had not been introduced to the host and hostess, nor did she expect to be. She was a nameless, faceless servant, at least for the moment. She was grateful that she hadn’t been stuck with coat duty—at least with food handling, she could circulate. Between trips up the stairs with fresh trays of food, and trips down the stairs with the emptied trays, dirty dishes and abandoned glasses, she managed to snoop a bit, hoping to find a quiet corner where she could pass the note to Annabeth without an audience. The house was magnificent, she had to admit. It was filled with antiques, oriental rugs, oil paintings, but they all looked as though they belonged, not as though they had been assembled by a professional decorator. Claire found herself swooping down on any stray glass that might dribble on the hand-polished mahogany surfaces, almost as though they were her own.
As she was making her fifth run—which was more like a walk now—to the basement, the thought struck her: under different circumstances, she might well have been a guest at this party. She had the credentials, the expertis
e, the professional standing. She could have been mingling with the educated, intelligent, articulate people upstairs, instead of schlepping dirty barware to the basement. A very odd turn of events—and one she hoped to reverse as soon as possible.
As she trudged back up the stairs yet again, she spied Leah trying to catch her eye. She drifted toward her, collecting glassware along the way. There was no reason why she shouldn’t be speaking with Leah, who was responsible for managing this party, but she didn’t want to make it obvious that they knew each other. Leah apparently understood that, and handed Claire an empty glass when she neared her.
“The blonde at three o’clock,” Leah said quietly.
Claire picked up yet another glass from a table tucked in the corner, and turned as if to look for its mates, which gave her the opportunity to scope out her quarry: Annabeth. Blonde, as Leah had said. Taller than Claire, and older by maybe ten years. Attractively dressed; no, make that superbly dressed. Her tailored suit did not come off any rack, and the color of the silk shirt beneath it set off her eyes. The jewelry glinting on her lapel and at her wrists was clearly real, bold but not flashy. Everything about her screamed money, good taste, and authority. The people clustered around her were hanging on her every word. And, Claire had to remind herself as she studied her, this woman was the Greenferne Professor for Women’s Studies, so she must be intelligent and accomplished. Beside her, Claire felt cheap and dull. She shook herself. She was not here as herself, and on a level playing field she could take on Annabeth Rankin any day. No, she was here to deliver Jonathan’s message, nothing more.
Now all she had to do was figure out how.
24
It took a little time to catch Annabeth without her band of eager sycophants. Claire didn’t dare hang around the room too long; someone on Jean-Paul’s staff would no doubt show up to remind her why she was there, and ask why there were dirty plates everywhere. Luckily, Annabeth excused herself from her colleagues and made her way toward the adjoining hall, which Claire knew led to a bathroom. Claire followed, reaching the doorway in time to see Annabeth close the bathroom door behind her. Claire made another sweep of the room, collecting discarded napkins and ashtrays (it seemed a sacrilege to smoke in this handsome place, but some people . . .), but staying as close to the doorway as she could. When the bathroom door opened, Claire deposited her tray quickly on the nearest table and darted down the hall.
When she was within a few feet, she said, “Are you Ms. Rankin?”
Annabeth focused on her, and gave her a gracious smile. “Yes, I am. Why?”
“A gentleman asked me to give this to you.” Claire fished into her pocket and pulled out Jonathan’s note, and Annabeth took it from her outstretched hand. She eyed it curiously, then looked up at Claire, who shrugged. Finally she turned it over and slipped a manicured finger under the flap. It opened easily, and she drew out the single sheet of paper. Claire held her breath, watching her face. It was an interesting sight. First Annabeth’s eyes widened, in unfeigned surprise. Then she regained control of her emotions, and it was as though a mask had slipped down. But Claire knew she had seen the first unguarded moment.
Annabeth looked at her again, her eyes wary. “Who gave this to you?” Her voice was neutral and carefully controlled. “Was it someone here?”
“No, ma’am. When I was coming in, some guy at the door handed it to me and said to give it to you. He repeated your name a couple of times, and he told me what you looked like. I asked someone here if it was you, just to be sure.”
“I see.” Annabeth slowly folded the note, then slipped it back into its envelope, and slid the envelope into the small clutch bag she was carrying. “Did he say he wanted an answer?”
“No, ma’am. He didn’t say anything else.”
“Oh. Well, then, thank you for delivering it.” As an afterthought, she reached into her purse and drew out a ten-dollar bill, which she handed to Claire. Claire stared at the proffered bill for a moment. How degrading: she was being tipped, like a servant. But then, as far as Annabeth knew, that’s exactly what she was; she had to take it, because if she didn’t, it would be inappropriate to the role she was playing.
“Thank you, ma’am. I’d better get back to work.” Claire took the money, resisting the irreverent urge to curtsey, and went back to collect her loaded tray. She caught Leah’s eye and nodded once. Mission accomplished. Now all she had to do was . . . damn, finish out her shift. Whatever else she was supposed to be, tonight she was part of the catering staff, and Leah would probably lose points with Jean-Paul if she bailed out now. Besides, she had time to kill until eleven, when Jonathan and Annabeth were supposed to meet. With a sigh, she picked up the tray and headed back down the stairs.
After a while Claire lost track of how many times she had trekked up and down the stairs. Her legs hurt. Her feet hurt. Her shoulders hurt, from carrying the heavy trays. She felt sweaty and greasy and cranky. The cranky part came from having to be polite to everyone, and keeping her mouth shut otherwise. But by nine the guests were thinning out, no doubt going on to fabulous dinners in restaurants listed in the New Yorker. Claire’s stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten, except for a few snatched hors d’oeuvres. She had forgotten to ask how long this foolish event went on, or whether she was supposed to hang around and help clean up. Heck, she had even forgotten to ask when she was going to get paid, and how much. If she didn’t want to blow her cover, she’d have to stick it out to the bitter end, and who knew when that was?
By ten all but a few diehards had moved on. The host and hostess were sprawled in the main living room downstairs, with a small group of friends. Claire was making one last foray, hunting for errant glasses, when she heard female voices coming from the library on the second floor. She walked carefully down the darkened hall, intending to collect the last glassware and leave the people to their conversation, but stopped in the shadows when she saw who it was: Annabeth and a group of young women, most likely college students. Claire smiled inwardly, because it was a scene she recognized: the revered teacher surrounded by her acolytes, who obviously were lapping up Annabeth’s every word. She’d done the same thing herself, occasionally, and she had her own coterie at Sophia. Claire wondered what the students were doing here. Maybe Annabeth had invited them to the conference, as a special treat?
And then the scene shifted. A man emerged from another part of the room, which Claire couldn’t see from her position in the hall. He was, in the words of the old cliché, tall, dark and handsome. All the women’s heads turned to him in unison. He smiled at the group, then bent down and said something into Annabeth’s ear. Annabeth smiled and nodded at him, then looked around at her adoring students and said, “I think it’s time to call it a day—tomorrow will be busy. Are you girls all set for getting back to the hotel? Good. All right, we’ll meet in the dining room for breakfast, at seven thirty, and we can share a cab to Headquarters. Good night!”
Although the girls looked reluctant, it was clearly a command, and they gathered themselves up and filed out down the hall, passing Claire. She caught snippets of their conversation as they passed: “All he has to do is snap his fingers and we might as well not be there,” grumbled one; “Yeah, but look at him—wouldn’t you?” The first girl grinned. “Yeah, maybe.” Claire stood stock-still, not that the girls would have noticed her even if she was tap-dancing, because she had recognized one of them from the news reports: Susie. Susie the poor terrified girl from Greenferne. Susie, the one who had killed the FBI agent, at least according to Jonathan. What on earth was she doing here? Apparently her story was still holding up, and the FBI hadn’t told her to stay put, and here she was, wallowing in the excitement of a major women’s conference and all the perks, like parties, and taxis, and hotels.
As Claire tried to process this unlikely piece of information, she realized the scene in the library was still playing out. Minus her entourage, Annabeth’s demeanor had turned more serious. The elegant man extended a hand
to her and she rose gracefully to her feet—and then closer. Apparently he and Annabeth were good friends. Very, very good friends. Claire felt like a voyeur and was preparing to turn her eyes away when she saw Annabeth reach into her purse and pull out an envelope. An envelope that Claire knew very well, because she had given it to Annabeth earlier. And she watched in horror as Annabeth handed it to the man, who opened it and cast a cursory glance over the note inside, all without relinquishing his hold on Annabeth. Or was Annabeth the one doing the holding? Annabeth’s stance could well be described as “clinging.”
Her heart pounding, Claire edged closer, collecting a glass here and there, until she could hear at least fragments of the conversation.
“What does this man want from you?” the man said, his English tempered by a slight accent that Claire couldn’t quite identify.
“I don’t know, Philippe. He says he wants to talk to me.”
“Why should you meet with him? Is he not wanted by the authorities?”
“Well, he is an old friend. Don’t worry—I know he wouldn’t hurt me. And I can urge him to turn himself in.”
“Perhaps I should accompany you? It troubles me to think of you in danger.”
“No, I don’t think so. He said to come alone. But I’m not afraid of him. If I could just persuade him to turn himself in, I’m sure there’s a good explanation for this.”
“I don’t think you should put yourself in harm’s way.”
“That’s sweet of you, darling, but I don’t think I’m in any danger. And it is a public place that he picked. What could go wrong?”
“Then you shall go, but be careful. Do not go anywhere else with this man. Will you promise me that?”
“Of course.”
“I shall stay nearby, in the event that you might need me.”
“Oh, darling, that’s not necessary. You just go back to your apartment, and I’ll call you as soon as I’ve finished with Jonathan. I’d come to your place, but tomorrow is a big day, and I’ll need an early start. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. I’ll catch a cab back to the hotel as soon as I can, and I promise I’ll call you when I get there.”
Once She Knew Page 17