On What Grounds (Coffeehouse Mysteries, No. 1) (A Coffeehouse Mystery) (19 page)

“List?” said Matteo. “What list? Who’s on the list?”

I pulled the silent auction program out of my evening bag—a little black lizard double-strapped Ferragamo knockoff, bought from an Eighth Street sidewalk vendor for $20 (as opposed to eBay for $650). The slick booklet included information on the items being auctioned as well as information on the St. Vincent’s programs for which the benefit was being held.

“Look, here at the back of the program is an extensive guest list for the dinner downstairs…” I pointed to the pages where the thousand names were listed in alphabetical order, table numbers printed beside each name. “See, under the letter
E
…Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Jay Eddleman. Looks like Stud366 is one of the guests at your mother’s charity ball.
And
he’s married. Bet Darla didn’t know that.”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” Matt said, eyebrow arched. “And how the hell did you remember seeing his name anyway? What did you do, memorize a thousand names?”

“I took a chance and looked up the name
Engstrum
earlier. Eddleman is two names away on the list. Look—Eddleman, Eggers, Engstrum.”

“I see,” said Matt. “But who are the Engstrums?”

“That’s the family name of Anabelle’s boyfriend—Richard Engstrum, Junior. You know what Esther calls him, don’t you? ‘The Dick.’”

“Oh, right.”

“The Engstrums have money and connections,” I told Matt. “So I thought someone from the family might be here tonight. We know Anabelle was pregnant, but we don’t know anything about how her boyfriend felt about it.”

“Right,” said Matt, looking closer at the names in the booklet. “Engstum is listed here all right.”

“Yeah, and it’s a jackpot, too. See…Mr. and Mrs. Richard Engstrum, Senior, are listed at table fifty-eight, along with their son, Richard, Junior.”

“Am I reading this right?” said Matt. “That boy is here partying when his pregnant girlfriend is lying in an ICU?”

“Yes.”

“The little shit.” Matt’s jaw worked a moment and his fists clenched. “Yeah. I’d like to
talk
to him all right.”

“Agreed. After we finish up here. Anything else we should check?” I glanced around the small room.

Matt rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess we could jot down some of the Web sites Darla bookmarked. Then we’d better get out of here.”

I loaned Matt a pen and small notebook I’d brought along. He jotted down Web sites while I put Darla’s papers in the suitcase and put everything back into the closet pretty much as I’d found it. I scanned the room one more time.

“That’s weird,” Matt said.

“What now?”

“We just talked about Richard Engstrum, didn’t we? Anabelle’s boyfriend.”

“Right.”

“Well, Darla has been doing some heavy research into—guess what?”

I hurried over to the laptop screen.

“Engstrum Systems,” I said.

“Yeah,” said Matt, “And the subsidiaries like Engstrum Investment. And look at this—newspaper articles about Richard Engstrum, Senior, the CEO.”

“Wow, the woman really is an operator,” I said. “Anabelle got pregnant with Richard Junior’s baby, and it sure looks like Darla was preparing to blackmail the kid into getting the money from Daddy.”

“
Preparing
to blackmail. You don’t think Darla could have started blackmailing Anabelle’s boyfriend already?”

“No way. Darla’s too desperate for cash. If she
is
in the process of blackmail, there’ve been no payoffs yet.”

“In any case, Darla may have an alibi,” Matt said, closing the lid on Darla’s computer. “Looks like she was here having a romantic tryst the night her stepdaughter got hurt—if it
was
attempted murder, and not just a stupid bloody accident.”

“It wasn’t an accident, Matt. Don’t even say that.”

“But that’s what it still looks like, Clare.” Matt shook his head. “And we’re in deep trouble. Darla’s workplace injury claim was denied in Florida. Then her next money-making scheme to blackmail Anabelle’s boyfriend went bad because with Anabelle’s accident the girl’s pregnancy is now in jeopardy anyway. The woman’s got no money-making prospects left but to sue the hell out of us.”

“She’s still got one,” I pointed out. “You forgot about Arthur Jay Eddleman.”

A soft knock suddenly sounded at Darla’s door.

“Matt!” I rasped. “Who the heck is that?”

“How should I know?”

“Do you think it’s the maid again?”

“If it is,” said Matt, “you better answer.”

“What if it
isn’t
the maid?”

I pictured NYPD uniforms and nickel-plated badges again. A wall of blue dragging my evening-gowned ass through the Waldorf’s elegant lobby.

The knock came again.

“Clare,” whispered Matt, “go answer it!”

I frantically shook my head. “Silver bracelets don’t go with vintage Valenino, Matt.
You
answer it!”

Suddenly, we heard a man speak.

“Muffy,” called the voice in a seductive coo. “Open up. It’s me. Stud366.”

I
stared at Matt. He stared at me. Arthur Jay Eddleman knocked again, this time more insistently.

“Come on, Muffy honey,” he said with a mixture of sweet talk and wheedling. “Don’t hide from your Studdly-bunny. I saw the floor maid. She told me you’d just retired. How about we take that bed of yours for one more spin?”

“Matt, what do we—”

Matt put his finger to my lips.

“Follow my lead,” he said. Then he winked. I hate it when my ex-husband winks. Trouble always follows.

Before I could stop him, Matt flung open the hotel room door.

On the other side stood a very startled older man wearing a suit of evening clothes. He had delicate features, pale skin, and a receding hairline. Though short and thin, Mr. Eddleman could almost be considered distinguished, except for the bottle-thick, black frame glasses that were too large for his head.

“Sorry,” he stammered, his pale face flushing. “Wrong room.”

“Mr. Eddleman,” Matt said in an authoritative-sounding voice. “Arthur Jay Eddleman?”

The man froze in his tracks. “Yes?”

“Step inside, Mr. Eddleman.”

Matt stepped aside. To my surprise, Arthur Jay Eddleman entered the hotel room of his own free will.

Then, in one smooth motion, Matteo slipped his passport out of an inside jacket pocket and flipped it open. A split-second later he snapped it closed again and tucked it back.

“My name is Special Agent Matt Savage of the International Drug Interdiction Task Force, and this is my assistant, Agent Tiffany Vanderweave.”

Vanderweave?
I knew it was spur of the moment, but couldn’t he have come up with a better name that that?
And Tiffany! Do I look like a Tiffany?

“Oh, goodness!” said Eddleman, clearly shaken. “Goodness.”

“We were going to pay you a visit down at Eddleman, Alter, and Berry, but you saved us the trouble,” Matt continued.

“D-Do you m-mind if I s-s-sit,” Mr. Eddleman asked, pointing to the floral-print chair with the satin negligee draped on it. Matt nodded and sat down across from him on the edge of the bed.

“What’s Darla done?” Eddleman asked.

“What do you mean?” asked Matt pointedly.

“You’re in her room. You must suspect her of something.”

“Do
you
suspect her of anything, Mr. Eddleman?”

“No, no,” he replied, waving his arms, his fingers catching on one of Darla’s thigh-high stockings. Embarrassed, he batted it away as if it were a spider web. “We’re just friends. She didn’t fool me, if that’s what you mean.”

“Fool you, Mr. Eddleman?” said Matt with a strategically raised eyebrow. “How would Ms. Hart ‘fool’ you?”

For a guy who historically distrusted legal authorities in every corner of the globe, Matteo was surprisingly good at imitating one. In fact, his Joe Friday delivery was so convincing I had to bite my tongue to keep from bursting with laughter.

“She’s not who she said she was,
that
much I knew,” Mr. Eddleman continued. “But I didn’t think she was a criminal. And certainly not a drug smuggler…or whatever it is you’re after her for doing.”

“Mr. Eddleman,” I said, having gathered enough nerve to act the part of Ms. Vanderweave. “Just what is your relationship with Ms. Hart?”

There, I thought, that sounded authoritative.

Matteo shot me a look—I think he was amused at my getting into the act. I ignored him, and did my best to keep a straight face.

Darla Hart may not have pushed her stepdaughter down a flight of stairs, but she had pushed her into nude dancing at one time, and she might have been trying to enlist the girl in some sort of blackmail scheme. Matt and I really did need to resolve any outstanding questions about the woman—including the question of her alibi.

“Well,” Eddleman said, his eyes on the floor. “You know how it is…” His voice trailed off.

“We
know
you’re a married man, Mr. Eddleman.”

“Oh, please…please don’t tell my wife about this.” He looked panicked. “Thirty-one years I’ve been married. I do care for my wife, and I’d never think of leaving her.”

“Then why were you seeing Darla Hart?” I pressed.

Eddleman sighed and his shoulders sagged.

“We met in one of those sexy Internet chat rooms,” he said. “She flirted with me. I flirted with her. We exchanged a few e-mails, and after a while…”

His voice trailed off again and he shrugged as if what came next was inevitable.

“When did you begin sleeping with Darla?” asked Matt.

“Just a few days ago, after she came into town,” Eddleman replied. “We had a date and hit it off.”

“You say you love your wife, Mr. Eddleman,” said Matt. “Didn’t you consider blackmail?”

Eddleman sighed again. “I’m a very wealthy man, Agent Savage.”

“All the more reason to fear blackmail,” I pointed out.

“I have money to spare. You see what I mean?”

“No,” I said.

“Darla…Women like Darla…They think they’re clever. Sharp operators, you know. They meet a man like me and see dollar signs. Darla never talked about money, but I knew she would get around to it. By that time I figured we’d be sick of one another or the romance would go sour. Then I
would
part with a little money. Enough so that she would go away, no hard feelings.”

“Sounds like you’ve done this before,” Matt said.

Eddleman nodded. “Yes, I have. And do you want to know why?”

Matt shifted, didn’t ask. For the first time, he looked uneasy. Well, Matt was a man. He probably already figured he knew the answer. But
I
sure wanted to know Eddleman’s answer.

“Why, Mr. Eddleman?” I asked pointedly.

Through the thick lenses, his eyes were watery blue, almost as washed out as his skin. Even sitting up, the little man’s shoulders were slightly hunched, his chest sunken. Mr. Arthur Jay Eddleman had clearly spent too many long, unhealthy hours indoors, poring over numbers and ledgers.

Suddenly I did know why. He didn’t have to say it. But I’d already asked—

“I got married young, Ms. Vanderweave,” he said. “Young and poor may sound romantic, but it is not. I spent my twenties working in the daytime and going to night school. In my thirties and forties, I worked fifty, sixty, seventy hours a week to provide a good living for my wife and family. In my fifties I started my own firm.” He paused, his eyes seemed far away. “That was when the real work began, let me tell you. Eighteen years of it.”

Arthur Jay Eddleman shook his head. “Now I’m older and richer, but frankly I was feeling too old to enjoy my riches. My wife has her friends and shopping and in these last few years she has been sickly. My kids have their own lives, they don’t need me hanging around.

“So I decided to meet women…Sometimes we hit it off. Sometimes we don’t. I just want a little romance, a little fun, before the lights go out for good.”

We sat in silence for a moment. Matt seemed to have run out of questions. Finally I spoke.

“Did Ms. Hart ever mention a stepdaughter named Anabelle?”

“No, never,” Eddleman said. “Darla said she had friends in New York City, but I didn’t meet any of them.”

“One more thing we’d like to confirm,” Matt said, rising. “And then I think we’re finished.”

“Sure,” Eddleman said. “Anything to help prevent drug peddling or smuggling or…whatever you’re doing.”

“Were you and Ms. Hart together this past Wednesday night?”

Eddleman didn’t even hesitate. “The whole night,” he replied. “My wife went to Scarsdale to visit our daughter. I met Darla at eight o’clock, Wednesday evening, right here at the hotel. We had dinner at the Rainbow Room, then walked around the city. We got back around midnight, and I left at seven or seven-thirty Thursday morning—my wife was due back at noon.”

Matt and I exchanged glances. Darla’s alibi was solid, all right. I nodded.

“Thank you, Mr. Eddleman,” Matt said, taking him by the elbow and leading him to the door.

“Should I stay away from her?” Mr. Eddleman said, pausing on the threshold. “Darla, I mean.”

“That would be wise,” Matt replied. “But if you do see her again, don’t mention this encounter. It may jeopardize our investigation, and that’s a crime.”

So’s impersonating a federal official, Matt,
I thought.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” Matt said, pushing the door.

“Nice meeting you, Ms. Vanderweave,” Eddleman said with a creepy smile that told me the guy wasn’t about to quit with Darla. Yuck, I thought. And with his wife still at dinner right downstairs.

He was still waving at me, his eyes on my cleavage, when Matt closed the door.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Matt said. “Darla could come back any minute.”

“Even worse,” I replied, my stomach rumbling. “We could miss the main course.”

G
EORGE
Gee and his Make-Believe Ballroom Orchestra had just begun bouncing big band swing off the four-story ceiling, coaxing a slow parade of couples toward the dance floor, when Matt and I returned to the charity dinner.

“The band’s good,” said Matt over the jaunty jump of woodwinds and barking brass.

“Very,” I said. “That’s George Gee and his band. They’re the darlings of the Rainbow Room these days.”

The Rainbow Room was one of the most elegant dinner-dance clubs in New York—high atop Rockefeller Center, it was about the only place left where dancing cheek-to-cheek in elegant evening clothes was even remotely possible.

“Wanna take a spin with me?” Matt asked.

I gave him the
puh-leeze get real
look. “I’m going for the Engstrums,” I said, double-checking the seating chart in the silent auction program.

“What are you going to do?”

“Stir up the nest,” I said. “See what flies out.”

“Good. I’d like a whack at Junior, myself.”

I noticed Matt’s fists clenching and made a split-second decision.

“No,” I said. “Let me do this, Matt. I’ve got an act in mind. It will work better solo. Get a drink at the bar and wait for me there.”

“Really? You think you can pull something off alone?”

“Sure,” I said, even though I wasn’t. On the other hand, the Vanderweave impersonation went pretty well, and my doing it alone was a much better bet than bringing Matt along wearing his fury on his sleeve.

“Well, okay, honey, if you’re sure. You knock ’em dead for me. Especially that little shithead.”

The “honey” caught me off guard, but I let it pass. Matt and I were working well together tonight, I thought to myself as I wove around the tray-toting waiters and crowded tables in the vast ballroom. We were even having a little fun with each other, but that didn’t mean we were a couple again. Matt had to know that, I assured myself, so there was no need to set him straight.

The Engstrums were seated at table fifty-eight, about mid-room and not far from the dance floor. I recognized Richard, Senior, from photographs in the Web site articles Darla had bookmarked on her laptop.

A typical Swedish blond, the man wasn’t exactly an albino but close. A white rabbit would be a fair comparison.

His wife, “Fiona,” according to the articles, was a brunette of the Jackie O. variety. A willowy WASP in the way all socialite wives are willowy WASPs (even when they’re Greek or Jewish or Nordic and not even technically the garden-variety Anglo-Saxon Protestants). I don’t know why they all have the same looks and mannerisms. Maybe it’s the extreme hygiene and slight dehydration from hours spent at spas and health clubs that cause the perpetually pinched, unamused look, the long, strained neck, the tight lips and drawn skin.

In face and form, Richard, Junior, appeared to take after his mother with a svelte stature, refined features, and dark hair. Odds were good he was part of the type I’d encountered many times before among the wealthy of this burgh. The “born of money and indifference” earmarks were there: floppy haircut, careless posture, even the “sensitive, intelligent boy” look about the eyes. Odds were he’d play up the latter in the presence of check-writing Mother and Daddy, but would drop it fast around his male college friends, who would share his penchant for mocking everyone and everything but their own pursuits of pleasure, usually drinking, drugging, and copulating.

Beside him sat a gravely thin young brunette with sunken cheeks and an expression of above-it-all boredom. Her little black sleeveless dress, the conforming little socialite number sold as a WASP “classic” by every high-end boutique in the city, seemed to be the carbon copy of his mother’s. The two even wore similar strings of pearls at the neck.

Since I was certain that Anabelle had been seeing Richard, Junior, over the summer—and was now pregnant with his child—I had assumed upon approaching the table that the bored young woman sitting beside Junior here was a sister or cousin of his.

Time to find out, I thought.

Gathering my courage and suppressing some but far from all of my nerves, I glided up to the table with as haughty a mask as I’d ever pulled off. “Excuse me,” I said, looking down my nose as far as I dared without appearing ridiculous, “but are you Mr. and Mrs. Engstrum?”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Engstrum. “And
who
might
you
be?”

The tone was not polite and not meant to be. It was a tone for intimidating and squashing, for warning a possible inferior to keep her distance. I’d come up against it countless times before and so barely batted an eyelash.

“I go by C. C., and I’m helping out the
Town and Country
photographer tonight,” I said with an intentionally plastic smile. “Taking a few notes on select guests so we can follow up with a photograph. Would you mind speaking with me?”

Richard, Senior, looked right through me about halfway into my spiel. “I’m getting a drink,” he said to his wife and brushed past without so much as a “Pardon me.”

The rudeness didn’t surprise me. Richard, Senior, was the sort who saved his efforts and manners for people that “mattered,” and I was not pretending to be from the
Wall Street Journal
or
Financial Times.
My periodical front was the bible for the modern American social register, which meant Mrs. Engstrum was the one I had to buffalo—and the one I
meant
to buffalo.

I knew very well the best leverage I could apply in this situation was one mother to another. For that, I’d need to reel in Mrs. Engstrum.

“
Town and Country,
you say?” she asked, pausing at length to eye my Valentino gown with the judgment of the hypercritical. One can only assume I’d passed her evaluation process at the subatomic level when she finally said, “Yes, I’m sure we can spare a few minutes. Why don’t you sit down?”

The response was designed to make me feel ever so grateful for her time, as if having a husband with a NASDAQ symbol were akin to inheriting the English throne.

Get a grip, sweetie,
I was dying to say. Your husband’s $95-a-share IPO was worth about two bucks the last time I looked. Not a spectacular calling card in the e-rolodexes of the little silver Palm Pilots on that ballroom dance floor.

But I didn’t say that, of course. What I
did
say was “Thank you so much!”

And I sat.

The East Indian couple at the far end of the table rose just as I sank down, leaving a total of six empty chairs at this table for ten.

Presumably the Engstrums had so enthralled their fellow dinner partners with sparkling wit and dynamic conversation that their six dinner companions had run for the bar or the dance floor the very first chance they got.

I pulled my small notebook and pen out of my purse.

“Now, Mrs. Engstrum, let’s start with you. I know your first name is Fiona—would you mind confirming the spelling?”

After the pretense of getting the family names correct for the “photo captions,” I turned to the young woman sitting beside Junior.

“And you are?”

“Sydney Walden-Sargent.”

“And your age, miss?”

“Nineteen.”

“She’s a sophomore at Vassar,” said Mrs. Engstrum. “And you can print that she is indeed related to the celebrated Sargent family.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” I said, scribbling away.

The Sargent family, per se, hadn’t achieved anything in any field that could be considered consequential. But they were famous nonetheless. The reason: Their legendary cousins, who had been winning national political offices and influencing government policies for decades. Thanks to their famous cousins, the Sargents had gained the clout to secure everything from executive positions at major corporations, and ambassadorships, to seats on prestigious New York museum and performing arts boards.

“They’re engaged,” said Mrs. Engstrum. “You can print that, too.”

“Engaged, you say? How nice. Congratulations.” I turned to Anabelle’s beau. “Young Mr. Engstrum, you must be very happy. When did you first ask Miss Walden-Sargent to be your wife?”

The glazed eyes of Richard, Junior, attempted to refocus. Clearly, making any effort for this conversation was not high on his agenda (a chip off the old block). “What?” he said.

“I asked how long you’ve been engaged,” I told him.

“Oh, how long,” he repeated, glancing at Syndey. “Awhile, right? Last February.”

“Valentine’s Day! It was Valentine’s Day,” said Sydney Walden-Sargent, leaning toward me to imply I should make it sound good in the caption. “It was very romantic.”

Junior smiled weakly and shrugged. “Yeah, that’s right.”

That’s right?!
I wanted to scream.
No, you little shithead, that’s wrong.
If you were engaged to little Miss Vassar here, then why the hell were you sleeping with Anabelle Hart half the summer? I felt my fingers squeezing the life out of my felt-tipped Scripto.

“Just a few more questions,” I said tightly but was interrupted by the appearance of one of the Waldorf-Astoria’s black-jacketed waiters.

“Coffee, decaf, or tea?”

They were about to serve dessert, I realized. Matt and I had missed the entire dinner. I hoped Madame wouldn’t be hurt that we’d disappeared on her and her guests, but we were doing this for a good cause—her cause, saving the Blend.

“Nothing for me,” I said to the waiter, hoping I could make it back to table five in time for coffee at least.

“Tea,” said Mrs. Engstrum. “For all of us. Bring a pot, please.”

“Tea?” I asked. “You prefer tea, do you?”

“We got into the habit when Richard was working in London. It’s all we’ve been drinking now for over a decade.”

“Isn’t that interesting. I mean, in this age of specialty coffees. You, too, Mr. Engstrum?” I asked Junior. “You’re a tea drinker, too? No espresso or cappuccino for you?”

“Ugh, no.” He made an incensed sensitive-boy face. “Euro-trash mud. Wouldn’t touch the stuff.”

Now I really wanted to wring his neck. Not just for the insult to my business but because I hadn’t forgotten that wet wad of tea leaves I’d discovered dropped into the double layers of garbage bags after the inside layer had been twisted closed for the evening. A cup of tea was the very last thing Anabelle had prepared and discarded before her fall. And since Anabelle was
not
a tea drinker, that meant her attacker was.

Time to play rough
, I decided.

“Miss Walden-Sargent,” I said, turning toward her, “were you by any chance in the city this past summer?”

“No,” she said. “As a matter of fact, I was studying in Grenoble then touring with my parents.”

“How interesting. Then you aren’t a dancer?”

“A dancer? What do you mean?”

Junior’s look of indifference was suddenly wiped clean. He sat up in his chair, his eyes wide.

“I mean, miss, that Mr. Engstrum here was seen frequenting the Lower East Side clubs this past summer with a young dancer, so I thought maybe there was some mistake about the date of your engagement—”

“Madam,” barked Mrs. Engstrum, “I don’t know who may have repeated such a tale to you, but you’re seriously mistaken. You know, I have
friends
in the executive office of
Town and Country,
and I wasn’t under the impression they employed checkout counter tabloid reporters. This interview is over, and after I’ve made a phone call or two, I’m sure your career will be, as well.”

“Well, I see my time is up,” I said, rising.

Mrs. Engstrum glared at me as if I was about to leak national security secrets to our mortal enemies. “Your time is up all right. And you’ll be facing a lawsuit if you print a word of that lie.”

“Interesting that you’ve called it a lie,” I said, my eyes shifting to Richard, Junior. “But your son has not.”

Before she could issue another threat or force her son into supporting their little cover-up, I turned and departed, heading straight for the exit.

As I’d hoped, Mrs. Engstrum caught my arm just as I was pushing through one of the many sets of double doors along the back wall of the ballroom.

“Oh, no you don’t,” she snapped, pulling hard enough to bruise.

“Ow! Fiona, ease up, there.”

“How dare you threaten us with your lies,” she hissed, yanking me toward a deserted corner of the hallway. “How dare you—”

“How dare I!” I rounded on her. “How dare your son, madam. How dare your son sleep with Anabelle Hart, get her pregnant, and then try to kill her this past Wednesday night and make it look like an accident.”

The woman’s face went completely ashen.

Bingo, Bingo, Bingo.

Junior had done it all right, and she knew it. I’d hit a bull’s-eye.

“Who are you?” Her voice was barely there.

“Clare Cosi. I’m part owner and full-time manager of the Village Blend, the site of your son’s depraved assault on Anabelle.”

“Richard didn’t hurt Anabelle. You’re wrong. He made a mistake sleeping with that girl, a stupid, stupid mistake, but he didn’t do anything to hurt her, I swear—”

The woman looked absolutely stricken, and I faltered. The way the words came out—they felt so earnest and sincere. Was she telling me the truth? Or was her sincerity just a mother’s gullible belief in her own son’s innocence? Had Junior lied to her so well that she believed him? I didn’t know, but I had to keep going now—it was the only way to know for sure.

“Richard
did
hurt Anabelle, Mrs. Engstrum. I found the evidence after the Crime Scene Unit left. I haven’t brought it to the police yet, but I plan to—”

This was a lie, of course. A handful of tea leaves in a garbage bag did not prove a damned thing, but Mrs. Engstrum wouldn’t know that and neither would Richard.

“I just wanted you to have a chance to help your son,” I said, continuing the bluff. “I’m a mother, too, and one mother to another, I’m pleading with you to tell your son what I told you—talk some sense into him. If you convince him to give himself up by noon tomorrow, then I’ll destroy the evidence. The authorities will go much easier on him if he turns himself in and you know it.”