Клео Коул - On What Grounds

“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.