by Cleo Coyle
In truth, I felt nothing, identified nothing, remembered nothing. Though I was told I’d been here before, I had no recollection of the experience or who had accompanied me here.
On the second floor, the elevator rumbled open to reveal a crisscross of yellow crime scene tape, which didn’t make much sense to me.
“Why is there police tape here?” I asked. “Annette was accosted in the parking garage, wasn’t she? Not up here.”
“The detectives in charge of the investigation wanted fingerprints, DNA, and any other physical evidence taken from Annette’s last known place of business—and that business was with you, Clare. I was informed the police completed their work here last week.”
Without hesitation, Madame ripped the ribbons aside, and we stepped into a fashionably old-fashioned hallway with a polished hardwood floor, accented by a blue Persian area rug.
The entrance to the hotel’s private Gotham Suite was marked by a plaque only partially obscured by more crime scene tape. Once again, Madame sent the yellow ribbons drifting to the hardwood. Finally, she unlocked the double doors, threw them open, and hit the light switch, illuminating the suite’s main room.
The high-ceilinged space was designed for business meetings with a long, boardroom-type table dominating the room. A credenza, holding a computer with a large flat-screen display, was flanked by decorative wall panels (each carved with one of the Palace’s five famous gargoyles). Tall windows, facing Central Park, lined one side of the room while framed artwork covered the opposite wall.
What surprised me, however, were the wedding decorations. A round table draped in white linen had been set up near the windows, where a banner with white bells declared, It’s Your Wedding Day!
The arrangement on top of the table had been beautiful once. Now the flowers sagged from a crystal vase gone dry, stems bent from the weight of dead blossoms.
Beside the vase sat a bowl of brown and shriveling apple slices and a plate of salt-free soda crackers, ingredients that helped clear one’s palate when sampling different pastries. This, I didn’t deduce. Somehow I knew it, though I couldn’t recall how.
I also knew, when sampling sweets, I preferred a liquid solution made with unseasoned polenta, the palate cleanser of choice for the International Chocolate Awards.
And how in the world did I know that?
With no answers forthcoming, I turned my attention back to the table. A binder of elegant wedding cake designs lay open with a dozen pastry stands set up around it. Each stand was topped by a glass dome with a mini cake sample beneath. All of the cakes were cut with several wedges missing. On a wheeled cart next to the table sat a pitcher of water and a drained pot of French pressed coffee.
“This is a lovely private tasting Annette arranged for you,” Madame marveled. “Do you recognize anything?”
“Nothing, and I don’t understand the theme. Was I catering a wedding reception? Who’s getting married? Was it you, Esther? You mentioned a fiancé?”
Esther opened her mouth, but a quick glance from Madame shut it again.
“Was it my daughter?” That must be it, I decided. Joy is getting married!
“Don’t speculate about future events,” Madame warned sharply. “Keep your mind focused on the concrete details in front of you. These were part of your very recent past. Perhaps the key to unlocking your memory is right here. After all, everything is exactly as you and Annette left it.”
“It couldn’t be exactly as we left it—” I scanned the room. “There are no cups, glasses, dishes, or silverware. Any tasting would need them, yet they’re all missing. The crime scene unit must have taken them, along with samples of the consumables, to be tested for drugs or toxins . . .”
Even as I said it, I wondered how I could know such things. Then I noticed Madame and Esther sharing a glance.
“What?” I said. “Do you two know why I know that? Have I been catering police banquets or something?”
“Or something,” Esther said.
“That’s not an answer,” I returned.
“Don’t let it upset you,” Madame soothed. “From what I’ve learned about your condition, dissociative amnesia can wipe away autobiographical memories, yet leave the things you’ve learned completely intact. A person may remember how to drive a car, for example, but not recall how she learned, who taught her, or when.”
“Like Jason Bourne,” Mr. Dante said.
“You mean the Robert Ludlum character,” I assumed, “from the Bourne books?”
“And the blockbuster movies,” Esther noted.
“Movies?” I blinked. “There are Jason Bourne movies?”
“Forget it.” Esther waved her hand. “Oops, sorry, no offense!”
“It’s forgotten,” I said. “Lately, it appears, I have a knack for it.”
Esther smirked. “No dent in her sense of humor.”
“Yes, she’s still our Clare,” Madame pronounced, and then narrowed her violet gaze on me. “Bourne is actually an apt reference. The professor I spoke with about your memory loss even mentioned him.”
“Why would he do that? Bourne’s story is fictional.”
“But his condition was inspired by fact. Ludlum himself claimed the idea for Bourne came to him after he suffered a twelve-hour bout of amnesia. And many believe Ludlum borrowed the name of his antihero from a real man named Ansel Bourne, a preacher who suffered a famous case of amnesia in the nineteenth century.”
“Was it like mine?”
“Not exactly. You can still recall your identity. Ansel’s case was more drastic. He left his Rhode Island home in January for a trip to Providence. Somewhere in his travels, he lost his memory. He continued on to Pennsylvania, where he began living with another family and working as a confectioner using the name A. J. Brown. Two months later, A.J. woke up as Ansel again, not knowing where he was or what had happened to him. He still believed it was January.”
“I can relate.”
“Don’t give up, dear. And don’t let anxiety cripple you. Try to trust what you know. And understand that how you know it may be unclear until your memories return.”
“Okay,” I said, but once again I experienced that surreal dissociation between understanding a thing and accepting it. Madame’s use of the word until was hopeful, too, but what if my memories never came back?
“Look on the bright side,” Madame cheered. “Your instincts and observations about this scene were spot-on. My police source informed me that no toxins or adulterants of any kind were found in anything you and Annette consumed in this suite.”
“So what’s next?” I asked.
She turned to Mr. Dante. “I want you to go back to the hallway and keep watch. Alert us if you see or hear anyone coming from any direction.”
“Why?” he asked. “What else are you going to do in here?”
“Something secret, my boy. Something I want as few to know about as possible. Now, hurry and do as I say.”
As soon as Mr. Dante left us, Madame closed the double doors behind him and swiftly walked the length of the boardroom table.
“Do you know what she’s up to?” I whispered to Esther.
She showed me her palms. “No idea.”
NINETEEN
AS Esther and I watched in curious silence, Madame walked right up to the far wall, the one covered with artwork. She stopped directly in front of the two largest canvases, a pair of paintings hanging side by side in identical frames. The first featured the Parkview Palace itself.
Over the years, plenty of artists had painted this famous landmark, most of them focused on its posh grandeur. Such regal renderings always left me cold. But this painter saw the hotel with a romantic eye, capturing it at sunrise with soft hues at an angle that included a glimpse of Central Park along with a horse and carriage.
I took off my costume glasses for a closer view of
the couple inside, lovers huddled together under a soft blanket.
Hanging beside the painting of the hotel, on a canvas of exactly the same size, was a portrait of an attractive young woman in a bold red dress. Her smile was warm, her generous figure and long blond hair as lovingly brushed by the artist as the hotel. I noticed the young woman in the large painting resembled the one inside the horse-drawn carriage.
“Who is the subject of this portrait?” I asked. “The lady in red?”
“Oh, that’s Annette—before she became Annette Brewster. It was painted in the 1980s, when she was still Annette Holbrook. The companion piece Parkview at Sunrise was done back then, too.”
“And the painter?” I looked closer. “Both of these works appear to be done by the same artist, but they’re unsigned.”
“Yes,” Madame confirmed absently. “They were done by the same artist.”
I asked who, but Madame was too distracted to reply. She had moved in front of the lady in red and begun fumbling with the picture frame.
“What are you doing?” I asked, putting my costume glasses back on.
“Be patient,” she said, her fingers continuing to feel around the wood’s carved flourishes. “I’m looking for a special—”
Just then, she must have pressed the right button because the portrait appeared to unlock itself from the wall. Madame swung it out on hinges to reveal a rectangular panel. Beneath the panel was a black screen, much like the ones on those fancy phones, only larger. She swiped the screen and it sprang to life.
“To ensure our privacy, Annette installed a custom surveillance system, independent of the hotel’s security cameras. Her hidden cameras cover the Gotham Suite, the elevator, and the waiting area. The system is motion activated, so it should have captured images of the tasting. We can see if you were alone with the chef and Annette the whole time or if someone else—”
Madame groaned.
“What’s wrong?”
“The system was deactivated and its memory erased.” Madame closed out of the surveillance system and covered it back up with the portrait. “Let’s check the office.”
Esther made a show of looking around. “What office? Where is it?”
“It’s here, Esther. Trust me and not your eyes.”
But Esther’s gaze wandered anyhow. “Hey, look at that!” she said, pointing to another piece of artwork on the wall. “Is that an original Al Hirschfeld? And is that you in the drawing?”
Madame nodded. “It was done years ago, and a perfectly perceptive caricature of the Gotham Ladies it is. Al had such a long and brilliant career as a Broadway artist, and he was a sweet man.”
I marveled at the piece. There were more than a dozen figures in the large drawing. “I don’t know these women, do I? Apart from Annette Brewster, have I met any of these ladies?”
“You’ve met the oldest members, the leaders of the pack, so to speak. Let’s see if we can jar your memory.”
The first caricature Madame pointed out was a petite brunette with short, wavy hair. She wore a crooked grin and a full-length fur coat over a business suit. In one hand she held a knish, in the other a babka.
“That’s Barbara ‘Babka’ Baum, Culinary Queen, originally of the Lower East Side, and owner of Babka’s, the legendary New York bakery and restaurant on the Upper East—along with five new locations across the country, including the MGM Grand in Las Vegas. Of course, she’s always been more than a restaurateur, as you discovered.”
“I did?”
Madame sighed and pointed again. “The woman beside Babka is Jane Belmore, the last of a once powerful banking family. She’s sweet but often wakes up on the prudish side of the bed. I do believe the term ‘clutching her pearls’ was coined for Jane.”
Madame gazed at me expectantly.
I shook my head. “Nope. Nothing.”
“Beside Jane is Annette, older here than in her portrait, of course, and between Annette and me—”
“The tall woman in gold?”
“Gold lamé,” Madame corrected. “That’s Nora Arany. She began as an assistant to my old friend, the late fashion designer Lottie Harmon. Remember her?”
“Only by reputation.”
“Well, Nora learned lots from Lottie, I can tell you. Then she left to start her own design business, which took off after she became a fashion consultant to rock stars and then hip-hop musicians. Back then she was always bragging about her clients. Pat Minotaur, was it? The B-vitamins? M.C. Bammer? Do any of those names ring a bell?”
“Er . . . no.”
“These days Nora creates athletic and yoga wear, bridal dresses, handbags, and gold jewelry. Her last name means ‘gold’ in Hungarian and she took it quite literally to the bank—investment bankers. Two years ago, she took her company public.”
I gazed at the tall woman with the confident smile and platinum blond hair. She dominated the center of Hirschfeld’s drawing, her caricature so broad, she was likely bigger than life in person, too. How could I forget a woman like that?
“Still nothing?” Madame asked.
“I’m sorry, but—”
Esther’s call interrupted us.
“Hey, you two! There’s a kitchenette through this door, and I spy a bag of beans on the counter. I can use the French press pot they left on the cart to make coffee for Clare. Maybe the taste of the blend will jar a memory or two.”
“Coffee?! Oh, yes, please!”
Madame smiled. “I haven’t forgotten our conversation at the hospital. Excellent idea, Esther. Be sure to clean the pot well—”
“I can help!” I offered, trying to move things along.
“Let Esther handle the coffee. You and I should check the office.”
“Office? What office? I don’t see any office.”
“As I told Esther, trust me, dear.”
A friend in the dark, I thought. And, man, am I in it.
“Lead on.”
TWENTY
I followed Madame across the room again, this time to the line of decorative wall panels flanking the credenza, the ones featuring the Palace gargoyles. When she pressed the gargoyle head on one of the panels, it swung inward like a door.
As promised, a tiny office was hidden behind the wall, but when Madame peeked inside, she gasped.
The room had been completely ransacked. The chair and the desk were overturned, and the contents of two filing cabinets had been dumped onto the floor. Someone had riffled through them. Files and loose papers blanketed the burgundy carpeting like autumn leaves in an indoor forest.
Madame dropped to her knees and began searching through the chaos. I crouched beside her.
“What are we looking for?”
“A black file with Annette’s name on it—”
“What’s in it?”
“Among other things, Annette’s last will and testament. All of the Gotham Ladies have copies on file in this room.”
“Why?”
“Let’s just say we all try to watch each other’s backs—ah, here it is.”
Madame opened the file and leafed through the pages inside. It contained documents and even a group of small art prints. But—
“The will is missing.”
“Are you sure?” I pressed.
“Yes.”
“What does it mean?”
“I don’t know. Not yet. Help me up, dear,” she said, still clutching the file to her breast. As she rose, the color art prints tumbled onto the floor.
“Would you get those, please?”
I gathered up the postcard-sized prints and tucked them into the pocket of my Poetry in Motion jacket. Once on her feet, Madame swept her hair back and finger-combed her silver pageboy.
“This is troubling, Clare. Not many people know about this office.”
“The cops probably tossed i
t, looking for clues, don’t you think?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I see the private laptop computer Annette kept in here is gone, as well.”
Esther poked her head through the door a moment later.
“A hidden office—how cool. But someone should really hire a secretary to straighten out the filing system!”
“What is it, Esther?” Madame asked.
“The coffee is brewing, and I found clean cups in the cabinet. But the refrigerator’s empty, so we’re drinking it black, no sugar. I couldn’t find any cookies, either.”
“Black coffee will do, Esther. This is a tasting, not a tea party.”
TWENTY-ONE
I leaned forward in the chair and inhaled the roasted aroma rising from the cup. It took all of my self-control not to guzzle the entire thing down in one burning gulp. Instead, I tried to relax and concentrate on the tasting.
Before the coffee cooled too much, I took that first welcome sip. After swallowing, I took a second, deeper drink.
“It’s quaffable,” I said, keeping the disappointment to myself. For a crafted blend in a luxury hotel, this brew was one-dimensional and very ordinary.
“Anything else?” Esther asked. “Did the aroma or taste seem the tiniest bit familiar?”
“Sorry,” I said, a little tired of apologizing.
I paused to take some fresh water while I waited for the coffee to cool and its flavor profile to change—and hopefully improve. Madame and Esther stood over me, watching with a mixture of hope and impatience.
I took that crucial next sip (okay, more of a gulp).
“Anything now?” Madame asked.
“It’s . . . caffeinated—”
Madame rolled her eyes. “Oh, bosh, Clare. Don’t hold back. Tell us what you really think.”
“I think that this coffee is unworthy of a luxurious venue like the Parkview Palace hotel. I’m detecting a blend of Sumatra and Colombian with buried notes of chocolate and walnut. But they botched the roasting and there is zero brightness for balance, no acidity at all, so it’s flat and dull. I would have added an African, Kenyan AA or Yirg, or more likely one of Matt’s specially sourced Central American beans for that missing top note. For a true premium blend, I might have included his Brazilian Ambrosia—and I would have roasted the single origins separately. This isn’t one of ours, is it? Please tell me I didn’t create this.”