Manolos in Manhattan (23 page)

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Forty minutes later, Cherie left and Hugh Darcy arrived at the hotel room, his briefcase in hand. Over cups of instant coffee and a plate of Jamie’s white-chocolate chip cookies, Hugh and Holly settled themselves on the sofa.

“So what’d you find out?” Holly demanded. “Tell me.”

But he refused to be rushed, and opened a folder and withdrew several photocopied sheets. “I came across a newspaper interview with an ex-New York City policeman, Tony LoBianco. He was imprisoned in 1931 for racketeering and false arrest, among other things.” He handed one of the sheets over to Holly.

She glanced at it. “But...this is dated 1962. And what’s Tony what’s-his-name got to do with Daisy?”

“If you’d read, and stop asking questions, Miss James,” Hugh said sternly, “you’d see that the former lieutenant confessed on his deathbed that he was the one who tipped off Clyde Caruso the night of the Speakeasy Massacre.”

Holly shivered. “Is that what they called it? Dad told me a little about it. It happened right here, didn’t it?”

Darcy nodded. “Five men were gunned down in the basement – that’s where the nightclub was – with Thompson sub-machine guns, or ‘Tommy guns,’ as they were called. Only one man survived.”

“Dad said it was a rival gang.”

“That’s what the police thought. But according to LoBianco, it was the brainchild of the owner of the place, a gangster named Clyde Caruso.” Hugh tapped the page he’d handed her. “Read,” he commanded.

“What?” Holly picked up the paper and began to read aloud. “‘LoBianco stated, ‘I was on Caruso’s payroll. I warned him that the massacre was about to go down. Knowing that, you think he’d empty out the cash drawer and the safe and get the hell out of there, right?

‘But all he was worried about was that painting of Moxie, the singer. Sweet on her, he was. He went up to the attic and he must’ve used the fire escape to get away. Never did know what happened to the painting, or the girl, for that matter. She was probably whacked. Poor kid. I always wondered what became of her.’”

Holly blinked. She wondered the same thing. “Well, at least that explains how Daisy’s painting ended up in the attic. Clyde must’ve hidden it up there before he left.”

“On the night of the shooting,” Hugh said, “Daisy wasn’t at the club; it was her night off. Whoever planned the killings knew that. LoBianco claims Caruso had his own men eliminated, but made it look like Frank Ciccone murdered them.”

“Who was Frank Ciccone?”

“He was a rival who had his eye on Caruso’s territory. By setting up Ciccone, Caruso got him out of the picture, and brought in new – you’ll pardon the expression – blood to his organization, at the same time.”

“But how did Daisy fit it?”

“She didn’t. At least, not that anyone knew of. The night Daisy disappeared‒” He looked up and met her eyes. “‒was the night before the killings.”

“Wow,” Holly said softly. “So do you think maybe Clyde kidnapped her? Took her away somewhere, to keep her safe?”

“It’s possible. But I doubt it. She would’ve resurfaced, eventually. But she never did. Instead, she vanished.”

“Yes,” Holly agreed with a sigh, “she did.” She added thoughtfully, “Clyde wasn’t at the brownstone on the night Daisy disappeared, anyway.”

Hugh lowered the paper in his hand and leveled his gray gaze on her. “And how,” he asked Holly slowly, “do you know that?”

“I read it,” she said. “In one of Daisy’s letters to Bix. Wait, and I’ll find it, and read it to you.”

A few minutes later Holly returned with the last few of the flapper’s letters, and sat down and began to read out loud.

Oh, Bix – I can’t believe we’re finally eloping tomorrow night!

It’ll be perfect. Clyde’s away on a business trip to Chicago, and no one knows we’re getting hitched but you and me.

I know you hate me singing at the nightclub. I don’t like it any more than you do. But all I do is sing “Ain’t She Sweet” and “Someone to Watch Over Me” and wear a pretty dress, and take my bows. When the show’s over, I brush right past those stage-door johnnies and go straight to my dressing room and lock the door.

As for the painting of me that Clyde commissioned – why are you so hot under the collar about that? He only wants it in the lobby to draw in the customers, that’s all.

It hurts me to say this...but I know your folks don’t approve of me, Bix. They think I’m not good enough for you. They rule your life. They’re so out of touch, they oughta be preserved in aspic! Why don’t you stand up to them for once?

Oh, I know you say you don’t care, that we’ll elope and get married anyway, with or without their approval.

But don’t you see? I don’t want to come between you and your family. I won’t let you be disinherited because of me.

“Maybe,” Holly said slowly as she lowered the pages, “maybe Daisy did the noble thing, and left town, so that Bix wouldn’t marry her and cause a permanent rift with his family.”

She knew from Hugh’s skeptical expression that he didn’t agree. “It’s possible. But why did she never turn up again, somewhere else? No, I think it much more likely,” he said, his words thoughtful, “that Daisy was blackmailed.”

Holly stared at him. “Blackmailed? Why? And by whom?”

“Think about it,” Darcy answered. “Bix’s family didn’t approve of her. They didn’t want their son marrying a nightclub singer. Perhaps Bix’s father paid a visit to Daisy at the club one night. Perhaps he threatened her somehow. Or perhaps he offered her money to leave quietly and vacate his son’s life.”

“No.” Holly shook her head. “No, Daisy would never have accepted a bribe. And she wouldn’t have abandoned Bix.”

“You say that with complete conviction,” he observed, bemused. “Almost as if you knew her.”

“I feel as if I do.”

He didn’t reply, but glanced back down at the photocopied pages on the coffee table without comment.

“Tell me something,” Holly blurted, unable to contain her curiosity any longer. “Are you – are you and Coco seeing each other?”

Darcy, who’d just taken a sip of his coffee, practically choked. He set the cup down abruptly and stared at her. “God, no! What makes you even
ask
me such a thing?”

“I’ve seen you with your heads together,” she accused him, “more than once. And that day you left your jacket in the attic? Coco’s phone number was in your pocket.”

“And how,” he asked her, “would you know that? Did you go through my pockets, Miss James?”

“No! Of course I didn’t. I dropped the jacket and, when I picked it up, a piece of paper fluttered out, and I...er, I couldn’t help but see Coco’s name and number scribbled on it.”

He glared at her. “It’s a good thing you’re not on the witness stand, Miss James, because I’ve no doubt your story would fall completely apart upon cross-examination.”

“It’s the truth!” she protested. “And you still haven’t told me why you had Coco’s personal phone number.”

“No, I haven’t,” he replied evenly, “nor do I owe you an explanation. However, just to make it clear that I’m not remotely interested in Coco, I’ll tell you.”

“Well, thanks for that,” Holly retorted. “Good of you.”

“You remember Mr Maxwell? He was the chap who came to take a look at Daisy’s portrait.”

Holly nodded. “I remember. He dated her picture to 1928.”

“He also buys antiques, and he’s very interested in the Victrola we brought down from the attic. I gave him Coco’s number so he could ask her if Alastair was willing to sell it.”

“Oh,” Holly said in a small voice. She eyed Hugh and added, “But that still doesn’t explain why you and Coco always have your heads together at the copier, or why you both look so guilty whenever I see you together.”

For the first time since she’d brought up the subject, he looked uncomfortable. “It’s nothing to do with you. And it’s nothing,” he added firmly, “to do with Coco and myself, either.”

He stood and began to gather up his papers, thrusting them back into the folder.

“Speaking of the Victrola,” Holly ventured as she handed him back the photocopied interview with LoBianco, “I saw a dressmaker’s mannequin in the attic that I want. Dad said I could have it.”

“Why would you want something like that?” Darcy asked, mystified.

“It’s perfect to drape my scarves and necklaces on.”

“But you live in a hotel,” he pointed out. “Where will you put it?”

“Dad said I might keep it in his townhouse until Jamie and I have a place of our own.”

“I see.”

“Would you mind going to the brownstone with me to help me load it into the car? Dad said I could drop it off at Gramercy Park whenever I like, he even gave me a key.”

Hugh let out a put-upon sigh. “Yes,” he said finally, “Let’s take my car, though. I’ve more room for hauling a dressmaker’s dummy in the boot than yours does.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Twenty minutes later they arrived at the brownstone and climbed the stairs to the attic. “There it is,” Holly announced as she spotted the cobweb-festooned mannequin in the corner. “It’s not heavy, really; just awkward to carry…”

A cool breeze swept through the attic, and the temperature dropped with alarming suddenness.

“It’s a bit chilly up here,” Hugh observed with a frown as he followed her to the corner. “Poor insulation, I suspect. I’ll speak to Alastair about it.”

“Right,” she murmured. She eyed their surroundings with a trace of apprehension. Would Daisy appear in front of them, right here in the attic? What would she do if the flapper suddenly materialized before them?

The thought filled her with a mix of fear and excitement.

“It’s okay,” she reassured Darcy after a moment, as the temperature returned to normal. “It’s just Daisy.”

“Daisy,” he repeated. He seemed about to speak, but instead regarded her with a skeptical expression.

“Come on,” she prodded, “will you help me carry this thing downstairs to your car, or not?”

After they wedged the dressmaker’s dummy in the boot of Darcy’s Mercedes, Holly got in and waited as Hugh joined her and started the engine.

He was nearly as silent as the dummy.

“Well,” she said finally, when she couldn’t stand the silence for one more mile, “what did you think of Daisy?”

He glanced over at her. “You’ve felt it before, haven’t you? You’ve felt her...presence.”

“Yes. Until today, I thought I was the only one who had.”

“And where else has she...made herself known to you?”

“Only in the attic, but one time I swear she was in my bedroom, when I was getting ready to go out with – um, Ciaran.”
Oh, shit
. Holly looked out the window and wished she hadn’t mentioned the actor’s name.

“You went out with him again?”

She glanced over at Hugh, but his attention was focused on the road. “He’s looking at apartments, and he asked me along.”

He turned onto 72
^nd
street. “Had a good time, did you?”

“Brill,” Holly retorted. “Apartment hunting is
such
fun.”

Hugh said nothing, but it was plain from the tightness of his expression that he wasn’t best pleased by the news of her outing with Ciaran.

“Why don’t you like him?” she asked, annoyed. “What’s Ciaran ever done to you?”

“It’s not what he’s done to me.” He glanced at her. “It’s what he’s done to others. To other women, to be exact.”

“You mean the string of affairs he’s had? He’s an actor, and actors have affairs. And he’s not even married, so what does it matter? Anyway, he’s changed.”

Darcy pressed his lips together. “Is that what he said?”

“It’s what I know.” Holly’s words were firm.

But despite her defense of Ciaran, as she turned away to gaze out the window her thoughts were troubled. The truth was, since their terse exchange in the back of his Town Car yesterday, she hadn’t heard from him.

Okay, granted, it had only been a day. Still, he might at
least
have called her...

Oh well, she reasoned, Ciaran Duncan was a busy man. He was about to start filming his television show, after all, and he’d just landed a part in Mike Newby’s film. He was in demand. That was the way things went when you hobnobbed with an internationally famous British film star.

She’d just have to get used to it.

There were no leads on the cat burglar.

Devon threw the latest edition of the
New York Post
aside. “They still haven’t caught the person who stole your jewelry,” he told Christa as he reached for his coffee. “It’s ridiculous. No leads, no witnesses...no arrests.”

Since Christa’s jewels and necklace had been stolen, he’d followed the case developments closely. Although he knew the statistics all too well – that very few burglary cases were ever solved – he found the lack of progress on the case frustrating.

“It takes time to catch a thief, Dev,” she reminded him. “You of all people should know that.”

“I do. But this lot hasn’t even got a clue. Literally.”

Christa frowned and turned away and began to search the living room, flipping sofa cushions – save for the one Devon sat on – and jerking open drawers in the antique desk. “Have you seen my keys? I can’t find them anywhere. I’ll be late for rehearsal if I don’t get going soon.” There was a note of panic in her voice.

“Try the kitchen. I think you threw ’em on the counter last night when we got back from the curry place.”

Sure enough, as she hurried into the kitchen, she spotted the keys on the counter by the coffee maker. She grabbed them up and went back to the living room and leaned down to kiss Devon goodbye. “Thanks, see you later.”

“There’s been another burglary,” he told her, and rose to follow her to the door. “Some bloke in Chelsea this time. A drag queen, according to the newspaper.”

“Well,” Christa observed with a small smile as she pecked Devon on the cheek, “at least the cat burglar is an equal opportunity thief.”

“Oh. My. GAWD!”

Tonio still couldn’t believe it. Someone had broken into his apartment – his sanctuary – and stolen his Cartier watch.

Who could have
done
such a foul, evil thing?

He twisted his hands together and paced his dressing room – not easy to do given how small it was – and remembered yesterday’s visit from the two NYPD cops who’d investigated the apartment for signs of entry.