Carol Clark - Fleeced

“I won’t be gone long,” Regan said. “With any luck your sense of smell will hold out until I get back.”

“I’ll do my best,” Janey said. Then her face brightened. “I just thought of a line I’ve always loved.”

“What’s that?” Regan asked.

“A rose by any other name would still smell as sweet.”

“Beautiful,” Regan muttered. And then she thought of the name of the perfume she was particularly taken by. Lethal Injection. I can’t wait to see the bottle that stuff comes in, she thought.

At the 13th Precinct, Detective Ronald Brier greeted Regan like an old friend. She had called ahead to see if he’d be there. The New York World was on his desk.

“I understand you had quite a night.”

“Oh yes.” Regan nodded and pointed to the newspaper. “Wait till that reporter finds out about the little visit to Nat’s apartment last night.”

“She already has.”

“Already?”

“She came by this morning and was digging around for recent incidents in Gramercy Park. Boy, was she shocked when she read in the reports about what happened to you.”

“Oh, great,” Regan said.

“I know. But I’ve got some good news. They’re doing a rush job on the fingerprints that we lifted from Ben Carney’s and Nat Pemrod’s apartments last night.”

“What about the red box the diamonds were in?”

He shook his head. “They’re working on it. But it looks like all the prints are smudged.”

Regan pulled several lists out of her purse. “Here are the names of the people who were guests at the singles party, the student butlers, and everyone who lives and works at the club, including Lydia Sevatura, the woman who owns the dating service. There was some question about her after she received this windfall from her neighbor in Hoboken. I was hoping you could check it out.”

Brier took the list from her. “You don’t have a social security number or date of birth for her either, so it will take time. But she did rent the Settlers’ Club apartment, so we’ll be able to find out something.”

“There’s even more of a reason to check those names out other than the break-ins,” Regan explained. “I’m really beginning to believe that Nat Pemrod was murdered.”

Brier looked at her.

“I know that no one thought so the other night. But a lot of things are suspicious. First the diamonds owned by Nat and Ben were missing. Then the break-ins at both Nat’s and Ben’s apartments. Now the maid tells me that not only did Nat never take a bath, but special appliquéd towels that he never used, because they belonged to his dead wife and he didn’t want to ruin them, are also missing.”

“Towels are missing?” Brier asked.

“According to the maid, Nat took a shower every night. Maybe the killer used the towels to dry the stall so if Nat was found in the bathtub not too long after he died, it wouldn’t be suspicious that the shower was all wet.”

“We didn’t have any indication that this was anything but an accident. With all the people, including our cops, who have traipsed through there since Pemrod was found dead, any crime scene would be tainted. I think the chance of getting relevant physical evidence is nil.”

“I know. Let’s see what we can get from that list. In the meantime, I have a couple of other leads to work on.”

Georgette was restless. Blaise had gone off to his butler class, and she was left to twiddle her thumbs until the evening, when she’d head over to the party. There was no money for shopping, and she didn’t have the energy to do her rounds of the coffee shops.

Life was bleak.

She turned on the television in their little studio and started cleaning up. If only we had gotten those diamonds, she thought. On the counter were the four glass stones that had been in Nat’s red box. She was about to throw them in the garbage, but something made her pick them up and hold them in her palm.

Sitting back down on the bed, she closed her hand over the stones and started to chant. Not that she was a real chanter. This was a chant she made up. Over the years, she’d visited psychics and had a mild interest in enlightenment. She thought that by chanting right now she might get a message about the location of the real diamonds.

“Ummmmm,” she chanted in a singsong voice, closing her eyes. “Ummmmm.”

No message so far.

She opened her eyes and stared at the glass stones. Nothing. She shut her eyes even tighter, leaned back and cried, “Ummmmmmmmm.”

“Ummmmm” turned to “owwwww” when she banged her head against the cinderblock wall. Rubbing her bruised cranium, she pulled up the teddy bear that had been with her through thick and thin-lately mostly thin-and gave it a hug.

“Buttercup, what are we going to do?” She smiled when she thought about how she’d told Nat to call her Buttercup. He was a really nice old guy. Better than the one down in Florida who got nasty and called the cops when he caught her taking some jewelry. She hightailed it out of there fast. But Nat was sweet. Just the way he loved those sheep meant he had a good soul.

Georgette held out her teddy bear. “He had Dolly and Bah-Bah, and I have you.”

The teddy bear stared back at her. It was so old that one of its eyes was gone.

“My poor baby.” Impulsively, Georgette took one of the round glass stones and stuck it in the eye socket. It looked good! “There, that’s better. I’ll have to get some glue.” She started to get up when an image flashed through her mind. She screamed again, but this time it was definitely not a chant.

“Dolly and Bah-Bah!” she cried, staring at the glass stones in her hand. “These are the eyes of Dolly and Bah-Bah! That’s where the diamonds are!” She slammed her hand down on the bed, thinking of Nat’s favorite song, “I Only Have Eyes for You.” Ewe!

“Isn’t that just like Nat?” She raced for her cell phone and called Blaise’s. She got his voice mail. “He’s probably learning how to change a lightbulb properly,” she hissed. When his message ended, she practically spat into the phone. “I know where the diamonds are! Call me back before we’re too late!”

Thorn Darlington was tired and irritable by the time he got off the plane at Kennedy Airport. Archibald had arranged for a car to pick him up. The driver was waiting, holding up a sign that said simply, COUSIN THORN.

How amusing of Archibald, Thorn thought sarcastically. He waved and walked over to the driver.

“Cousin Thorn?” the driver asked.

“To some people. Let’s get my bags.”

Fifteen minutes later, Thorn was settled in the back of a stretch limousine on his way into Manhattan. “Driver,” he said, “a little privacy, please?”

The driver nodded and pressed a button, raising the glass partition between them. Thorn then pulled out his international cell phone and dialed. As usual, he got the voice mail on the other end.

“I hope we’re ready for tonight,” he said. “I’ll be across the street at Cousin Archibald’s. His superiority is so annoying. He thinks I’m here to celebrate the demise of the Settlers’ Club thanks to him. Little does he know I have my own plans for the home of the Maldwin Feckles School for Butlers! Call me back!”

Thorn turned off his phone and giggled.

This is so perfect, he thought. My family was always much more cunning than Cousin Archie’s.