Клео Коул - On What Grounds

I took a fortifying sip of my black Russian.

“Now we’re all present and accounted for!” exclaimed Madame. “Everyone, this is my son Matt, and his wife, Clare—”

EX-wife, EX-wife, EX-wife!

No, I didn’t actually shout this over the tinkling piano music, burbling conversations, and discordant rhythmic bleepings of cell phones. Maintaining my composure, I tried instead to refocus my attention on sending another hit of coffee-flavored alcohol down my esophagus. Loving Madame as much as I did, I figured what the heck else could I do?

“—and let me introduce everyone else—”

There were seven other people at the table besides me, Matt, and Madame: Dr. Gray-Temples; Dr. Frankel, a middle-aged African-American doctor, and his corporate lawyer wife, Harriet; a St. Vincent’s administrative director named Mrs. O’Brien; a deputy city commissioner from the New York City Department of Health and Mental Hygiene named Marjorie Greenberg and her psychologist husband; and finally—

“Eduardo,” said Madame, gesturing to the man on my left. “Eduardo Lebreux.”

Why did the name sound familiar? I asked myself.

“Eduardo worked for my late husband,” Madame answered before I could ask.

Now I remembered! Eduardo was also the man Madame had said “highly recommended” that idiot Moffat Flaste, undeniably the worst manager in Blend history.

“And now that we’ve all been introduced,” continued Madame, “I see our first course coming. Waldorf salad. Bon appetit! ”

I haven’t met a lot of fans of the mayonnaise-covered apples and celery salad, which is the original version of the Waldorf (the recipe now includes chopped walnuts), but it was a nostalgic choice for the evening, considering the salad was created at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel back in the 1890s. Of course, back then, the hotel was located over on Fifth and Thirty-fourth, the very spot where the Empire State Building is now located.

As the salads were being served, I turned to the man on my left. Middle-aged, but how old was hard to tell. Fifty? Sixty? Short of stature, like Pierre, but not nearly as handsome. He had dark hair, thinning on the top and a little too long at the back, a mustache that needed trimming, and a pensive look to his pale green eyes. No wrinkles but the sort of blotchy skin acquired from drinking and smoking to excess since nursery school. He was the sort who could easily appear aged beyond his years. Yet his evening clothes were gorgeous. Possibly Italian. Definitely expensive.

“Excuse me, Mr. Lebreux,” I said, “but what did you do for Pierre Dubois?”

“Oh, a little bit of this, a little bit of that—”

Slight French accent. French last name. But first name Eduardo ?

“Were you raised in France?” I asked.

I felt Matt’s hand rest lightly on my arm. I ignored it. There was something shady about this guy, and my gut urged me to do some fishing.

“My father was French,” said Eduardo. “My mother Portuguese.”

“That’s why Mr. Lebreux was so helpful to Pierre in the import-export business,” Madame said, leaning toward us. “His connections in France, Portugal, and in Spain, too.”

“Yes, that’s right. You know how it goes. A shipment here or there, of champagne, port, perfume, whatever, may go missing on its way to America if the right wheels are not—how you say— greased. ”

“Clare—” Matt whispered. His hand moved to my elbow, squeezed.

“How interesting,” I said to Lebreux. “Tell me more.”

“Really, it’s boring stuff…. I just helped Pierre with his business.”

“And now that Pierre has died and his business is closed,” I said pointedly, “what do you do?”

“Oh,” he said, looking away as if bored. “A little bit of this. A little bit of that.”

“Clare!”

The entire table jumped and turned. Now every one of our dinner companions was staring at us.

Smooth, Matt. Smooth.

“Excuse me, everyone,” said Matt with a sheepish smile. “I, uh, left my Palm Pilot in Mother’s room, and it’s vital I retrieve it. Clare, I’m sure you’ll remember where I set it down. We’ll be right back—”

I was reluctant to leave off my questioning of Eduardo, but I was even more reluctant to be parted from my right arm, which was being aggressively tugged upward by an ex-husband whose carved marble biceps were no match for me.

“Go on, then,” said Madame, who looked oddly pleased by this announcement. I didn’t know why until we’d taken two steps away. “Matt’s father used to make excuses to slip away from parties, too. Matt is so romantic! Just like his father!”

“Matt,” I whispered. “Did you hear that? Your mother thinks—”

“Let her,” he said. “Better she suspects us of having a sexual fling than what we’re really going to do.”

I myself wasn’t so sure.

The elevator door slid open. I inhaled, exhaled, and wrung my clammy hands.

“Don’t worry,” Matteo had told me back in Madame’s suite. “Everything has gone smoothly so far, hasn’t it?”

“If by ‘smoothly’ you mean that no hotel detective has caught on yet and handcuffed us, then I guess you’re right.”

Matt actually laughed at me.

“Clare, you’ve seen too many film noirs. Or maybe episodes of The Three Stooges. And I can just imagine you watching the Stooges on the local Podunk, New Jersey, channel out there in suburbia.”

“Ha, ha.”

We had gone to Madame’s suite, just as we’d said. I had to make the call from an actual guest room—given the advances in telephone technology, the hotel staff could easily see where you were calling from, and I couldn’t risk using a house phone because they might get suspicious.

“Don’t worry about Darla Hart showing up, either,” Matt insisted. “Before I came to the table downstairs, I called your friend Dr. Foo at St. Vincent’s. He told me Darla’s still at Anabelle’s side, so there’s no chance you’ll be caught in the act.”

Somehow his words didn’t comfort me. After all, I was the one who had to be the con artist here. Matt—who, in my experience, was so much smoother at misdirection than I—couldn’t do it this time.

“Go ahead, make the call,” Matt said, indicating the telephone on the night table. “Nobody who picks up that phone will believe that I’m Darla Hart.”

“I know, I know,” I said.

I cleared my throat, lifted the receiver, and pressed the button marked HOUSE KEEPING. Someone answered on the first ring.

“Hello,” I said. “This is Darla Hart, from Room 818—” (As Madame was checking in, I had asked the desk clerk if “our friend Darla” had checked in yet—and then asked for her room number so we could visit. The clerk was reluctant to give out a guest’s room number because it wasn’t the hotel’s policy to give out such information. But I pressed, and since Madame was a familiar guest, she gave it up.) “I’m visiting Mrs. Dubois on twenty-six, but I’m about to return to my room for a nice long bath. Please send up extra towels.”

“Certainly, Ms. Hart. Right away!” said the male voice on the other end of the line.

“Thank you,” I said. And for a split second, I imagined the same male voice dialing the police the second I hung up.

“This will never work,” I told Matt.

“Of course it will,” Matteo replied, pushing me out the door. “Now get going and watch for the maid to enter Darla’s room. Ring me here when you get inside, and I’ll come up. And don’t forget this.”

He thrust Madame’s key card into my hand. “Hold it in your hand, as if you were about to unlock the room,” Matt reminded me. “But don’t let her check it in the door lock or you might be spending the night on Riker’s Island.”