On What Grounds

Twenty-Two

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.”

“What do you mean you; don’t you mean we?”

Matt’s dark eyebrow lifted, and he crossed his arms. This unfortunately emphasized how beautifully his broad shoulders tapered down to his narrow hips, all of which were handsomely defined by the smooth lines of his exquisitely tailored Armani dinner jacket. “I don’t know. You look pretty hot tonight,” he said. “Seeing you handcuffed in this little Valentino number might be worth it.”

“Fine,” I said, more irritated by my momentary attraction to Matt’s damned irrepressible masculinity than his bawdy little joke, “but if I get caught, I’m cutting a deal. You’re the one who masterminded the operation—the DA’s going to want you, not me.”

“You have been watching too many film noirs.”

“All right, I’m going.”

“Clare—”

“What?”

The teasing laughter left his eyes. “Don’t worry.”

“Too late.”

Darla’s floor seemed to be deserted when I got there. Good, I thought.

I walked down the hallway, which was pleasant but not plush. This was a business-class floor, after all, the floor for the more budget-minded guests. Since Darla Hart seemed to be nearing the bottom of her cash barrel, that made sense. What didn’t make sense was why she chose the Waldorf-Astoria in the first place. Even a “cheap” room in this place could run three to five hundred dollars a night. Why not seek more economical digs?

Well, Clare, I told myself, that’s what you’re here to find out…

I turned a corner in time to see a young Hispanic woman in a maid’s uniform stepping out of Darla Hart’s room.

“Hello!” I said, brandishing Madame’s key card as I hurried forward. “Thank you so much for the extra towels.”

I brushed past the maid and stuck my foot in the door.

“This is for your trouble,” I said as I produced a ten-dollar bill. I pressed it into the woman’s hand.

“Good night,” I said.

Slipping past the maid, I entered the room and closed the door behind me. Bolted it, too. Then I peered through the peephole until the woman pocketed her tip and vanished around the corner.

So far, so good. I’d like to thank the Academy for this award…

I dived for the phone and called Matt.

“I’m in,” I said and hung up.

The décor was what I expected of a 2,000-room hotel—what I called “Commercial Colonial Moderne.” Of course, Darla’s “Business Class” room here on the eighth floor was much smaller than Madame’s “Astoria Level” suite up on twenty-six, which had a foyer, a separate bedroom, living area, a wet bar, French doors, a spectacular view of Park Avenue, and access to an executive lounge that served complimentary evening hors d’oeuvres.

Tourists to New York City are often surprised at the small size of hotel rooms even in grand hotels like the Waldorf. But real estate comes at a premium price on Manhattan Island, and spacious living, even in hotels, is a rarity indeed.

Well, I thought, at least it wasn’t Tokyo, where Matt tells me an economy room can be as small as a horizontal phone booth. The Waldorf’s Business Class wasn’t that small, more like 200 square feet, nothing compared to Madame’s 700-square-foot suite upstairs. But it was well appointed, if not up to the lush opulence of the grand lobby.

The furniture consisted of a queen-sized bed with a dark wood headboard. The cream-colored coverlet had been turned down and a foil-wrapped chocolate placed on the fluffy white pillows. There was a nightstand, a matching dresser, an upholstered armchair draped with a floral-print slipcover that reached down to the thick-pile carpet, a large wood-framed mirror, a few lamps, and a desk in the corner.

Darla was pretty neat. There were a few pieces of clothing draped over the armchair (a lovely satin negligee and thigh-high silk stockings) and some shoes next to the bed (Manolo Blahnik Alligator pumps, retail $850), but otherwise the room was well kept. On the desk was a tangerine Mac laptop computer, plugged into the phone jack. That surprised me. Somehow I never pictured Darla Hart as a computer user, but this was, after all, the high-tech yet still-violent twenty-first century; everyone was either getting plugged or plugging in.

A familiar rhythmic knock interrupted my search. Rat-tat-uh-tat-tat. Tat. Tat. I opened the door, and Matt slipped inside. I bolted it again.

“I told you it would be easy,” he said.

“We’re not out of the woods—or the room—yet,” I countered.

It occurred to me that Matteo’s little plan was so foolproof in his mind, he might have used it successfully before. Probably to slip into some other woman’s room, I figured. Three guesses why.

“We don’t have much time,” I announced, opening the drawers and riffling through them. All were full of neatly folded clothing. “Donna Karan, Miuccia Prada, Dolce & Gabbana…” I muttered, “Well, it’s easy to see where her money goes.”

“A laptop!” Matt said, moving to the desk. “Shit, it’s a Mac.”

“I like Macs,” I said. “Need help?”

“No. I can use them. I just don’t like them. We’ve had this discussion.”

“Yes, let’s not go there again. Wouldn’t Darla have a password or something?” I asked, still tossing drawers.

“Maybe,” Matt replied. “But you’d be surprised at how many people don’t bother with—presto!”

I turned. Matt had opened the cover on the computer, pressed the space bar, and the machine had come to life.

“She actually left it running!” Matt said. He couldn’t hide his boyish glee at doing something naughty.

I continued my search while Matt examined the contents of the files on Darla Hart’s computer.

“She’s got a security password set up on her banking program,” Matt said. “No chance I can get in.”

“Don’t worry about that,” I replied. “Judging by her behavior, there are no secrets lurking in Darla’s bank account. It’s empty.”

Behind me, Matt continued tapping the keyboard.

After more searching, I found Darla’s suitcases—monogrammed Louis Vuitton leather with polished brass trim—tucked in the back of the closet. I dragged them out and opened one after the other. The first bag was empty. The second, a small beauty case, contained cosmetics. The lipsticks were all pinks and neutrals and perky pastels that were more appropriate for a much younger woman—or a woman who wanted to look much younger. Ditto the mascara. Darla certainly wasn’t wearing this kind of makeup the day I met her. Could it belong to someone else? Perhaps Anabelle?

I closed the cosmetics bag and opened the third case. Inside I found buried treasure—a wad of papers clipped together with a black metal clamp. I pulled them out.

“I’m going to access her Internet files,” Matt said. “There’s a dedicated line here and it looks like she automated the password to her AOL account.”

I sat on the edge of the chair and paged through the paperwork. One of them—dated just a few months ago—was actually an official court document with the title “Darla Hart vs. The Penn Life Insurance Company.” I turned the pages, wading through the legalese.

As far as I could puzzle out, about eighteen months ago Darla Hart had—or claimed to have had—an on-the-job injury that occurred while she was employed as an “artistic dancer” at a “place of business” called The Wiggle Room in Jacksonville, Florida.

Darla claimed her injury prevented her from working and demanded disability payments. The manager of the establishment, one Victor Vega, disputed her claim and the matter was settled in a court of law.

Not in Darla’s favor, as it turned out. Not only did she lose her case to the insurance company, but the State of Florida denied her disability claim. The last few letters were from her lawyer, demanding payment for legal fees that were in arrears.

At least now I knew that Darla had learned what my dear old dad had called the “slip-and-fall” ploy—a variant of which she was now threatening to use against the Blend.

Clearly, Darla was an opportunist. But just how far would she go to exploit an opportunity, that was the question. As far as pushing her pregnant stepdaughter, who’d just made the dance company of her dreams, down a flight of stairs?

As unpleasant as she was, it was still difficult to picture even Darla stooping so low.

“Bull’s-eye!” Matteo announced. He turned around and faced me, a dazzling grin on his handsome face. “Wanna know why Darla’s in New York?”

I raced to his side. “Why?”

“There are about thirty e-mails to a guy named Arthur Jay Eddleman, who appears to be the partner in the accounting firm of Eddleman, Alter, and Berry.”

“I found something, too.”

I showed Matteo the legal papers. Then I pointed to the list of e-mails on the computer screen. “Are these e-mails part of another lawsuit or something?”

“More like or something,” Matt said with a bawdy tone.

“What?” I asked. “What!”

“I opened a few of the more recent e-mails in Darla’s download file first. By then they were Darla and Arthur. But when their relationship began, they were called ‘Muffy’ and ‘Stud366’—their chat room names.”

“You mean an Internet romance?”

“And a hot and heavy one, too. The first e-mails date back about three months, the last few were sent yesterday and today.”

I sat down and read the letters. It was obvious that once Darla had discovered the real identity of the affluent “Stud366,” she set out to hook the fat fishy and reel him into her net.

Darla’s e-mails made her out to be a respectable woman of independent means—not exactly the broke, unemployed ex-stripper she really was.

Yet from the letters themselves—barely literate with misspelled and misused words—Mr. Arthur Jay Eddleman would have had to be pretty darned gullible to be fooled into thinking Darla was even a high school graduate, let alone a cultured woman of wealth.

Some of her e-mails were vulgar and explicit enough, however, to get any male’s attention. And Darla Hart clearly had succeeded in getting Mr. Arthur Eddleman’s. With an explicit e-mail of his own, outlining all the things they might do together (and I’m not talking Central Park carousel rides and trips to the Statue of Liberty), he’d agreed to meet her when “she came to New York City on business.”

That’s why Darla had taken a room at the Waldorf-Astoria! It fit her false front as an independently wealthy woman, thereby assuring Mr. Eddleman she wasn’t after him for his credit cards, stock portfolio, or four-bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side.

Finally, Matt showed me an e-mail that was sent by Darla at eight o’clock in the morning on Thursday, the very day I found Anabelle lying broken at the bottom of the Blend’s steps—a letter gushing with happiness at the wonderful evening they’d spent together, and the night they’d spent together, too, right here in this room.

So while Anabelle was tumbling down stairs, her mother was tumbling in Waldorf sheets here with Mr. Arthur Jay Eddleman of Eddleman, Alter, and Berry, Accountants. Or at least it looked that way. She could easily have sent the e-mail as a ploy, to cover her ass.

“God,” I cried. “That name. Eddleman. I think he’s on the list!”

“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.”