Madison had saved every message—except the ones Theo had left. She’d deleted them without even bothering to hear them completely. What was the point? Theo had no damn excuse. He was frolicking in the sand with seventeen-year-old French model Collette Deneuve and probably loving every freakin’ minute of it. Holding her. Kissing her. Running his hands through her hair…
“Madison.”
She blinked back to reality. “Yes, Donnie?”
“I can’t make a left onto the street,” Donnie told her. “Construction crews are blocking it off. Should I leave you girls at the corner?”
“That’s fine.” Madison reached for her purse.
Coco pushed the cowboy hat farther down on her head, tucking in a few loose strands of hair, then climbed out of the limo and followed Madison onto the street.
The Royal Crown Society of the Americas was located in a turn-of-the-century brownstone in Gramercy Park. Ivy wound up the front of the building, and the small plaque beside the door read: RCSA, SUPPORTING ART FOR OVER A CENTURY. Madison rang the bell and removed her sunglasses. Then she patted at the dampness under her eyes, hoping the swelling had gone down some.
“I suddenly feel totally underdressed,” Coco said nervously.
“Don’t worry about it,” Madison assured her. “We’re meeting with Gunilla O’Hara Miskin. She’s totally old but very sweet and classy. She’s been a member of the society for sixty-nine years, and she knows everything about art.”
“I’ve heard of her. She’s the one who owns those two islands near Capri?”
“That’s her.”
“And you think the society is going to solve this whole mystery? I still don’t get it.”
“I’ll explain everything,” Madison promised. “But I’m hoping to get some answers first.”
The door opened and a man dressed in a tuxedo smiled down at her. “Ambassador Hamilton,” he said with a respectful nod of his head. “Please come in.” He moved to one side and ushered her into the spectacular two-story foyer. “My name is Geoffrey, and I’ll be your guide for the duration of your visit. May I show you to the parlor?”
“Yes, thank you,” Madison said. She gestured her head at Coco. “This is my friend—”
“Anne,” Coco said quickly. She smiled up at Geoffrey, relieved to be hiding behind the sunglasses and cowboy hat. “And actually, if it’s okay, would you mind if I just toured the grounds while Madison has her meeting? I’d totally love to check out all the art in here.”
“If Madam Ambassador wishes.” Geoffrey looked at Madison.
“Why?” Madison whispered. “You’re more than welcome to sit in on my meeting.”
“I just feel more comfortable not being there,” Coco said honestly. “I don’t want anyone recognizing me. I don’t feel like having to explain myself. Really. I’ll be out here waiting for you.”
“Okay,” Madison answered with a shrug. “I’ll try not to be more than a half hour.” She followed Geoffrey through the foyer and the two large front rooms. Though she had been here before, she couldn’t help marveling at the extraordinary works of art hanging on the walls: paintings from the Renaissance, medieval, and neoclassical periods; Impressionist paintings, Baroque paintings, even Pre-Raphaelites. It was like stepping into a vortex of art history.
“Right this way,” Geoffrey said. He stopped on the threshold and extended his arm.
Madison walked into the parlor. Sitting in a chair in the center of the room was Gunilla O’Hara Miskin—New York socialite, international patroness of the arts, and self-avowed historian of all things elitist. Gunilla was nearly ninety and looked every bit her age. There were deep wrinkles in her small face and liver spots on her hands, but her brown hair was meticulously coiffed and her nails perfectly manicured. She was dressed in a colorful red and white patterned Chanel suit, signature magnolia pin and all. A multicarat diamond ring sat on the forefinger of her right hand like a pet.
“Oh, Madison, my sweet child!” Gunilla said dramatically. “Come here and let me take a look at you.”
Madison leaned down and kissed Gunilla’s cheek. Then she stepped back and modeled her outfit.
“Just extraoooordinary, you are, darling! Extraordinary.”
“Thank you,” Madison replied. She sat down across from Gunilla, resting her hands in her lap and assuming a proper, professional posture.
“What a lovely afternoon we had at the luncheon,” Gunilla said. “You and your sisters looked delicious. But oh—I was so sorry to hear about that brilliant young man Elijah Traymore falling from that penthouse.” She shook her head; her hair, of course, didn’t move. “Just devilish how things happen! And what a shock, that Coco McKaid would be charged with the crime.”
Madison fidgeted her thumbs in a nervous gesture and cleared her throat. “Coco McKaid is innocent,” she said, gently but firmly. “My sisters and I have uncovered evidence that the district attorney is viewing right now. Please believe me, Mrs. Miskin. She’s innocent.” And she happens to be walking around the first floor right now.
Gunilla’s lips curled up slowly in a smile. “Well! This is surprising! But I don’t doubt you, darling—you and your sisters know about crime.”
“We pretty much do, yes.”
“Extraoooordinary, darling. A rare breed you three are. Intelligent. Beautiful. Knowledgeable about the world. Quite like myself when I was your age.” Gunilla chuckled. Then her eyes fell to the round English coffee table and, realizing there was nothing on it, she gasped and quickly clapped her hands.
Geoffrey came striding into the room. “Madam?”
“Geoffrey,” Gunilla said in a chiding tone, “when you are in the presence of ambassadors, you must remember to bring about refreshments immediately. We don’t like to be kept waiting, dear.”
“Yes, madam.” He turned around and disappeared into another room. Less than a minute later, he came back holding a gleaming golden tray; on it were two gold espresso cups with matching spoons, and two delicately folded napkins.
Madison took a quiet sip of her espresso. She knew exactly what she had to ask Gunilla, but there was an appropriate way to do things here at the society. You didn’t just blurt out questions or make demands. You never gave the impression that you were in a rush, or that the society’s mission didn’t come first and foremost in the world. What you did do was schmooze, and Madison had plenty of experience in that area. “How are your islands, Mrs. Miskin?” she asked pleasantly.
“Oh, my love, they’re simply paradise.” Gunilla drank the last of her espresso, leaned forward, and set her cup down on the tray. “You must come and stay for a while. Your mother visited with me last year, and I’ve just finished building the new compound. Right on the Mediterranean. Sweeping views.”
“How big is the new compound?”
“It’s roughly twenty thousand square feet. Twenty-one bedrooms, love, so the whole family can vacation at the same time.” Gunilla paused and studied Madison with a hard, practiced eye. “I’m extending an invitation to you, darling, because I suspect you need a bit of respite. It’s always stressful when the tabloids start putting your name on the front page.”
Madison held her breath. Inwardly, she felt a tremor of shock pass through her. She hadn’t expected Gunilla to bring up Theo’s cheating ways and the brewing scandal, but then, she and Theo had been a favorite of the tabloids for a few months now. Everyone knew their tumultuous story. She went rigid in the seat. She didn’t say anything.
Gunilla kept her gaze steady. “You’re no longer just another little rich girl,” she said firmly. “You’re a young woman of special breeding and uncommonly high social status. You must choose your private passions more judiciously.”
Madison looked down again. “I understand, Mrs. Miskin. And you’re very right. I haven’t been very smart about this whole relationship. The truth is that I love Theo West, but I know now that he doesn’t feel the same way about me. He doesn’t take us seriously—maybe he never has. It’s my own f
ault, I guess.”
Gunilla leaned forward and put her gnarled hand over Madison’s. “Most young women in this world say that you can’t help who you fall in love with, but that cannot be true for you or your sisters, darling. Because of your wealth, your fame, your status, every action you take—every decision you make—the mind must lead the heart. The world will be watching you girls forever. You cannot afford to be slandered in public, especially by men.”
“I understand, Mrs. Miskin,” Madison said quietly, feeling better about the whole mess as the seconds ticked by. That was the funny thing about emotional pain—the more you confronted it, the less it hurt.
“I know you feel terrible right now,” Gunilla said. “But remember this: if an artist doesn’t recognize the beauty before him, he’ll never be able to paint it. Theo West, my dear, is no artist.”
Madison let the words sink in. Really sink in. She didn’t know how to reply, but then again, there wasn’t any need to reply—a true statement was final.
“Now, tell me, darling, to what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting?” Gunilla asked, her tone turning professional and curt.
Madison reached into her purse and grabbed the piece of paper on which she’d written the code. She handed it to Gunilla. “I’m correct in assuming that the code you see there belongs to the society, right?”
Gunilla squinted as she studied the code. “Oh, indeed,” she said. “It’s one of ours. Every piece of art the society has ever acquired is given a code. Mind you, there are literally thousands of codes in our files by now. The society acquires all kinds of art, as you know—even art from up-and-coming artists whose names might never be well known.” She looked at the piece of paper again. “Does this code refer to an object you wish to study, darling?”
“Yes, it does.” Madison cleared her throat and fought to keep her composure. She wanted to get up and start tearing through the files until she found the very one that contained the mysterious work of art Elijah Traymore had been pursuing. But she had to remember her manners. She said, “I wanted to ask if maybe you remember the particular painting or object that code refers to, Mrs. Miskin. I believe it’s a painting entitled To the Penthouse. Does that ring any bells?”
Gunilla’s lips parted ever so slightly. She cocked her head to the left. Her expression started off as pensive, but it quickly changed to recognition. “Oh, why, yes. Yes, I do recall that painting. Yes indeed. Such a long time ago. Yes. Of course. To the Penthouse. Oh yes. Why, that must’ve been twenty years ago.”
“So then you know the painting,” Madison said excitedly. “And you think the society acquired it twenty years ago?”
“Yes,” Gunilla replied with a firm nod. “A fairly small canvas, but quite a beautiful one. A landscape of Manhattan, interestingly enough. Yes, I remember it now. Strikingly beautiful. I never did know much about the artist. Typical recluse, from what I recall. And now…let me see…if my memory is correct, I think it was the only painting ever done by that particular artist.”
Madison had inched to the very edge of her seat. “Where is the painting now? Do you remember the artist’s name?”
“I’m afraid that’s a blank, darling. But it’s a small matter—a virtually unknown painting. Nothing ever came of it, as I recall. Twenty years ago, the society tried its best to promote emerging artists who showed great promise, and I’m sure that’s what this acquisition was all about. Why are you interested in it, may I ask?”
Shit, Madison thought, how the hell do I answer that? She thought for a few seconds but didn’t come up with anything good. “Well, actually…,” she began. “Well…it’s because I…well…”
Gunilla smiled. “It doesn’t really matter, love, does it? I’m sure a future art historian such as yourself has plenty of reasons.”
“Yes. I do. Does that mean I can search the archives?”
“Records going this far back would have been sealed by now,” Gunilla replied.
Madison’s heart sank. “Sealed?”
“Yes, darling. You would need the approval of the executive board to riffle through them.”
“Approval?” Madison repeated, her heart sinking lower.
“And that could take weeks, I’m afraid.”
“Weeks?” Madison didn’t care how childish she probably sounded, repeating Gunilla’s words like a toddler. She was about to launch into an articulate protest when Geoffrey came back into the room and addressed Gunilla.
“Ambassador Miskin,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry to interrupt. But the First Lady is on line one. She says she’d like to speak with you about the upcoming gala at the White House.”
Gunilla sighed lightly. “Oh, yes. I’d forgotten she was going to call. Lovely woman, but I don’t know what she ever saw in that husband of hers.” She gave Madison a warm smile. “Darling, if you’ll excuse me…”
“Of course.” Madison stood up, kissed Gunilla’s cheek, and then turned and strode out of the room. She picked up her pace as she reached the parlor. “Coco!” she called out in a harsh whisper. “Where the hell are you?”
Coco came out of one of the adjoining rooms. “This place rocks! Did you know they have a bunch of Warhols in there?”
Madison grabbed her friend by the wrist and together the girls raced up the grand staircase, winding around the massive crystal chandelier until they reached the third-floor library. “Just play along with me,” Madison said quietly, gesturing toward the mousy-looking woman sitting at the reception desk a few paces ahead.
“What are you doing?” Coco asked.
“I can’t explain right now. Just follow my lead, okay?”
Coco shrugged. “Okay.”
Her head held high and her shoulders thrown back, Madison walked into the library. The walls were lined with books. The shelves behind the French doors were dusty and cluttered with paper. “Good morning,” Madison said curtly to the receptionist.
The middle-aged woman stood up, dropping her pen onto the desk. “Oh, Ambassador Hamilton. Good morning. How may I help you?”
Madison retrieved the sheet of paper from her purse and handed it to the woman. “I’ll need the file that corresponds with this code, please.” She kept her voice sharp and businesslike to project a slight air of bitchiness—which she hated doing. But being sugary and polite wouldn’t work in this case.
The older woman sat back down. She quickly typed the code into her computer. Then, as her eyes traced over the information that had appeared on her screen, she grimaced. “I’m so sorry. This is an archived file. You would need permission from the board to see—”
“I’ve already received the board’s permission,” Madison cut in sharply. “Don’t you know that?”
“Well…no.” The woman blinked and pushed her red-framed glasses farther up the bridge of her nose.
Madison sighed. She tossed her head back. “I don’t have much time to spare, so please just get me the file right away.”
“I can’t do that. I’m sorry. Maybe I should call downstairs and ask Gunilla—”
“Don’t you dare call her!” Madison snapped. “Gunilla’s on the phone with the First Lady and can’t be disturbed. And I’m late for a brunch with my publicist. Now, if you can’t get me that file, I’ll just have to voice my concerns to the board.”
“A complaint from an ambassador,” Coco said, inching closer to the desk. “That could be really bad for you.”
Blinking rapidly, her lips twitching, the woman stood up again. She turned around and disappeared behind a door.
Madison ran a hand over her face. “Oh, God—did I sound totally horrible?”
“Welcome to Bitch City,” Coco said. “You’d better hope she doesn’t come out of there with a can of hair spray ready to fight.”
But when the receptionist came out of the back room, she was smiling and holding a weathered brown folder. “Here it is,” she said. “It’s not a very big file.” She held it out.
Her heart racing, Madison took the file with a cur
t smile and walked across the room to the small reading table beside a window. She unclipped the edges of the file, quickly opened it, and began to scour its contents. On the very top of the first page were the words To the Penthouse, painting acquisition, 10 October 1988. Following this was a description of the work: A 3 x 4 canvas done in oil, magnificent use of space and color, highly original texture and execution; the painting is a landscape of the Manhattan skyline as seen from the penthouse of a high-rise apartment building. By first-time artist L. K. Corcoran.
Corcoran.
Corky.
Madison heard herself gasp. She flipped to the next page, which was a copy of the contract the society had offered to the artist twenty years ago. To the Penthouse had been purchased for the modest sum of twenty-five hundred dollars. But who was L. K. Corcoran? Nowhere in the pages was there a biography of the artist, or even an address. Was L. K. a man or a woman? From her own research into the society’s past, Madison knew that the small painting had been acquired because it had showed unique promise, and because the society’s mission supported up-and-coming artists. But L. K. Corcoran was an unknown artist. Had L. K. established him-or herself over the years, there would have undoubtedly been more biographical information in the file. As far as Madison could tell, L. K. Corcoran had sold only one painting.
Corky.
But why had Elijah been trying to track this particular painting? Why had he become obsessed with the artist?
She flipped to the back of the file, her heart racing. That was when she found the wrinkled yellowed envelope. She opened it and three photographs fell out. Grasping the edges with trembling fingers, she stared down at the colorful images of To the Penthouse that had been taken twenty years ago. A gasp escaped her lips.
She knew instantly why the painting looked so familiar. She had seen it last night, held within a ring of candlelight, hanging on the wall of Poppy van Lulu’s spirit room.
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