Chapter 15

Like any of the shows, small or large, that I’ve been involved in, we had shorter hours and fewer visitors on Sunday, the second day. After a leisurely breakfast at our usual place in the hotel, Maddie was on coat-check duty again, and Bebe was happily noting that we were out of a few items. No more kits on hand for a miniature gazebo or very tiny wicker porch furniture (in one one-hundred-forty-fourth scale: one inch for every twelve feet of real size, so that a six-foot sofa would be one half inch long). Only a few more holiday decorating sets and faux snow-covered trees were left in the cartons under the table.

Bebe kept herself busy spreading red-and-green foil-wrapped chocolate kisses to fill the empty spots on the table. “Wouldn’t it be great if we had absolutely nothing to pack up?” she asked.

I agreed and predicted that every Christmas item would be gone before we closed shop. I fielded a call from Cynthia, who’d found a couple of handwritten notes from Ashley (“possible, but not likely”) and Candace (“chicken scratches”). My hopes for a quick and easy penmanship match-up, a call to Buzz, and an entry to the NYPD were fading. I’d looked forward to at least part of a day devoted to Case-free enjoyment of the Big Apple. A stop at the Algonquin to breathe in the same air as Dorothy Parker and the rest of the New Yorker band; tasty cucumber-and-dill sandwiches at afternoon tea at the Ritz; a seventieth-floor view of Manhattan from the Top of the Rock; a ferry ride to Ellis Island where Ken’s Irish ancestors arrived more than a hundred years ago; a few more minutes with the sounds of Grand Central Station—announcements, meetings, rolling trains, conversations both hushed and loud. Any or all would do. Maybe tomorrow morning would be free.

I was unprepared for a breathless Maddie, who’d run from the check-in counter at the entrance doors to our table in the middle of the hall. I could only hope that she hadn’t knocked over anyone on the journey. “Grandma, Grandma,” she croaked, and, once again, I checked for blood.

“What is it, sweetheart?” I asked.

“I know who did it.” She kept her voice low, which wasn’t difficult, given her respiratory state. “We have to find Mr. O’Brien.” Ronnie O’Brien, the head of security. And I thought we’d been dismissed from the Case of the Missing Crafts. If there was a case. “There’s a lady and a man. They just came in, and he left his jacket for us to check, but she kept her big, heavy coat on. She didn’t have that big, flowery tote like yesterday. I’ll bet she left it home because she knew everyone saw it, and I’ll bet now she hides the stuff in her coat.”

“You can’t assume—”

“We need to find Mr. O’Brien. They’re over at the first row now, but Mr. O’Brien has to hurry or send someone.” Maddie’s words came in bursts; she could hardly catch her breath. I was amazed that no vendors or customers around us noticed her agitated state. She had done well in containing herself, and anyone who did notice probably chalked it up to a preteen breakdown over a bauble that was too expensive for her allowance.

“Take some deep breaths, sweetheart. What makes you think that’s the couple who’s been stealing things?”

Bebe, who was finishing with a customer, had listened in and called for Security. She obviously had more faith in my granddaughter than I did. Whatever Bebe told Ronnie (maybe that a minor child was in desperate need of assistance), he was at our table in a couple of minutes. Maddie explained her findings to us all: She remembered that the woman who “fleed” (her word; I’d work on that with her later) out the back of the hall yesterday wore a long, gray coat with a large cape attached, that came to her waist. Just like the one this woman wore. She also remembered that the man with her today, the one who checked his green camouflage jacket, was in all the footage she’d looked at where there was a distraction or disruption of some kind—something had been broken, or a table leg had collapsed, or a loud argument had caused a fracas in an aisle. Ronnie wasn’t so quick to dismiss Maddie this time, leading me to believe she’d triggered his memory about the presence of the man at the scenes. He used his pager to summon his staff. I was surprised that pagers hadn’t been replaced by smartphones, going the way of Christmas pins.

Maddie caught her breath. “Don’t look,” she said. “The lady is over at the first row, but the man is all the way over near the last row.” No sooner had she spoken but a ruckus broke out in the last row. Voices could be heard complaining about soup that had spilled from a dealer’s thermos onto a customer’s pants. Or, by the time the news got to our table, it might have been coffee spilled over another dealer’s merchandise. While many heads turned to observe the soup-or-coffee-spill incident, at our table we all looked in the other direction, toward the woman allegedly shopping in the first row. Sure enough, the woman appeared to have dropped something. She bent over to pick it up and then began a slow journey toward the front entrance of the hall. My guess was that her male partner would head out at some later time, after casually picking up his jacket. Except that my granddaughter had been on the job. Either that, or I was foolishly buying into her fantasies.

Ronnie bought it also, however. He spoke into his radio and within minutes, one uniformed guard swooped in on the woman, another on the man. It all seemed to be over before it started. Police work in action. Unlike the scene of my traffic accident. Both outcomes typical of New York City, I guessed.

“Wow,” Maddie said, as if she were in the middle of a dream where she was a detective like her Uncle Skip, and she had just solved a major case that brought the uniforms in to arrest the criminals. Which, in a way, had happened.

* * *

Everything else seemed anticlimactic after the great drama of the early afternoon. Vendors breathed sighs of relief; shoppers refocused on their mission; the noise rose steadily to its normal high level. By closing time at four o’clock, we’d come close to attaining Bebe’s goal of having “absolutely nothing to pack up.” The leftover merchandise, which fit into one medium-size carton, consisted mostly of SuperKrafts pamphlets and a few boxed sets of dollhouse furniture.

“I’m tempted to buy the leftover dollhouse pieces myself, so I can report a complete sell-out,” she said.

“Don’t you think that might look suspicious? Sending only the few things we have left will look more plausible.” Bebe fell for my made-up ruling and put in a call to Corporate to arrange for the carton to be picked up on Monday morning. I was glad I’d been able to spare her some embarrassment if she were ever found out.

Crystal and her parents came to say good-bye; they were headed back home tonight. Maddie had bought a small heart charm for Crystal, and the New Jersey family presented Maddie with a lovely bouquet of flowers and a box of gourmet chocolates as a thank-you for her work as a volunteer at the coat-check counter and on the lunch-running circuit.

“And for your crime-solving skills,” Crystal added. “I can’t believe you’re, like, a real detective,” she said, and the friends hugged again. “You’re like the books I read. This one would be Madison Porter and the Case of the Crafts Show Thieves.” The girls were giggly and teary-eyed, much as Maddie and Taylor were in Lincoln Point only a few days ago, and exacted the same kinds of promises to text and send selfies often. Crystal’s parents and I shook hands and exchanged knowing glances, aware that once the girls returned to their homes, it would be about a week until school, after-school programs, and their local friends took over their lives again.

The janitorial crew who’d been standing by at all the entrances and exits with their barrels, mops, and cleaning supplies, moved in like infantry troops ready to do battle with the trash. I was glad that this time I wasn’t the one responsible for tearing down the signs, folding the tables and stashing them away, and sweeping up droppings, from large scraps of paper and food wrappers to tiny sequins and beads. I smiled at the crew and thanked them as we left the hall.

The show was over, but kudos for Maddie had just begun, as Ronnie O’Brien and his staff invited us to an intimate ceremony in the Lex’s security office. We’d deposited Maddie’s flowers and candy and freshened up in our rooms before heading down to the second-floor office. Maddie was thrilled to find the room transformed into a party scene, with a small cake decorated with the message THANKS DETECTIVE MADDY (I was sure that, given a chance, Maddie would adopt the new spelling), surrounded by tiny magnifying glasses made of frosting. I was impressed with what must have been Ronnie’s clout in the Lex’s kitchen, pulling off such a quick turn-around. (I imagined rows of plain square cakes lined up waiting to be custom-frosted for such a moment.) Ronnie presented her with a special pen-and-pencil set with the security company logo (I suspected they purchased these by the thousands), and several toasts were made with pink punch.

With all the fanfare, it wasn’t hard to keep Maddie from realizing how surprised I was that she’d been right. Ronnie wouldn’t tell us much about the details of the arrest, except to say: “We call it ‘booked and cooked.’ The lady’s coat was full of items with no receipts, adding up to a pretty penny.” We’d have to be satisfied never knowing the thieves’ names or why they chose to ply their trade at our fair.

Besides the principals, Cynthia responded to my quick message and came by for the little party; and Jackie Cromwell, the show’s energetic organizer, made a special little thank-you speech. Maddie couldn’t have been more excited if she’d been lifted onto the shoulders of an NYPD lineup (or on the back of one of their horses) and carried around town. The same might have been said of Bebe, who reminded everyone that Maddie was her special friend, from her hometown. I took lots of pictures for Henry, whose idea started the whole effort.

At the end of the mini–award ceremony, we bundled up to go to dinner. I was getting used to seeing Maddie with an added ten pounds of clothing. Tonight she wore her green knit hat pulled over her ears with the hood of her jacket on top of that, looking like a little thief herself, plus two scarves, one inside her collar, the other outside. I stuck with my standard for the week, a turtleneck sweater, a heavy wool jacket, one hat, and one scarf. As soon as we hit the other side of the turnstile doors, Maddie lifted the outer scarf to cover her mouth, then lowered it for a minute to address the Lex’s doorman.

“When are we going to get some snow?”

“Maybe tonight,” he said, joining us in our laughter.

* * *

Sundays were easier for diners and Cynthia had made reservations at her first choice of restaurant, Due Cugine, in SoHo, the South of Houston neighborhood of lower Manhattan. Maddie ordered tuna, and if she was surprised that it neither looked nor tasted like the kind she mixed with mayonnaise and relish and spread on white bread, she didn’t let on. “Mmm,” she said, after a taste of the marinated turnip served with the seared tuna. In a way, I felt sorry for Taylor and for Maddie’s Palo Alto school chums who were bound to be subjected to food stories they probably didn’t care a whit about. I felt there was good news for her parents, however, who might be able to enjoy something other than pizza on family night out.

Dinner talk revolved around the highs of the crafts show, and, sadly, the lows of Cynthia’s personal quest. After all our efforts, there remained the unanswered question—how did Aunt Elsie die? The handwriting samples from Neal, Ashley, and Candace seemed to rule them out as viable murder suspects, though I still wondered if the two lying caregivers should be further scrutinized. We enjoyed a brief moment of hope when Cynthia told us she’d found a postcard (alas, not at all the handwriting we were looking for) sent to her by Duncan after his weekend getaway to a beach in Cape May, New Jersey. We’d yet to find and examine samples of the other doormen’s handwriting, and as a last resort, Philip’s, but I didn’t hold out much more hope for that approach.

“Does Duncan send a postcard to every resident?” I’d asked when Cynthia told me about his sample.

She’d shaken her head and explained. “He brings a bunch of cards home and hands them to the mailman, who then puts them in selected boxes. We think he has his favorites. I’m not sure that’s legal, but Duncan saves postage.”

Cynthia’s proposal that we make a toast was welcomed. We picked up our wine, water, and tomato juice glasses and clinked them together. “To Bebe, and continued success and career growth.” Hear, hear. “To Gerry and Maddie, for using their delightful company and excellent skills to see me through a difficult time.” Hear, hear. Cynthia’s words and manner pleased me, mostly because I sensed that she was coming around to accepting the original ruling of the NYPD in the death of her aunt. I was more than pleased when Bebe raised her glass again. “To Cynthia, hoping for comfort and happier days ahead.” Hear, hear. I knew we’d have the morning to think more about Aunt Elsie, but I acknowledged that we might have to be content with only the solution of what I thought of as The Little Case, though I guessed the victims of the thefts wouldn’t appreciate that designation. Finally, in unison, we toasted, “To us.” Hear, hear.

We ended dinner on a happy note when the waiter, who’d been clued in to “The Case of the Crafts Fair Thieves,” brought a special dessert—a decadent chocolate parfait—for Maddie, on the house. It was a good thing he also brought three extra spoons.

* * *

I was impressed that Due Cugine had its own doorman, or perhaps just a gentlemanly security person who hailed two cabs for us, one going up to the West Side, the other to the East Side.

Bebe, Maddie, and I were cozy, squeezed into the back seat of the cab heading up Sixth Avenue. “Cynthia’s very nice,” Bebe said. Startled as I was, I jumped in quickly, agreeing, before Maddie had a chance to ask why the change of heart. “I should have been a little more understanding of what she’s going through. It was probably like losing a parent, and I know what that’s like.”

“I’m glad we had a nice dinner together,” Maddie said. Whew.

Our cab cruised up Sixth without a hitch. The only excitement was Bebe’s being able to point out SuperKrafts’ corporate offices as we passed it. “I’ll be there again tomorrow morning with all my charts,” she said, and uttered a sound of satisfaction, either for her job performance or the memory of our chocolate parfait. Initially, Bebe had wanted me to accompany her to the meetings; I hoped she saw now that it was better that she hadn’t shown up with a crutch, namely me. I spared Bebe any speeches about how it might have been the best thing for her to see that she was very competent and could manage her job with great professionalism on her own.

Never the first to lose energy, Maddie kept track of our trip uptown on her smartphone, pointing out (or, at least in the direction of) Washington Square Park where, as I’d told her many times, I’d gone to college, on the right; the West Village on the left; and the Flatiron District. As we approached Bryant Park, behind the NYPL, Maddie told our cabbie, the first I’d seen without a Bluetooth attached to his head, “Take the next right.” He laughed. “You better than GPS,” he told her. “Sound nicer.” Thanks to the two of them, we made it home to the Lex, to be greeted by a doorman who answered the usual question in the usual way.

* * *

Before bedtime, Maddie and I engaged in some serious packing, which included finding room for our purchases. My carry-on was available, since we’d sold or given away the minis we’d brought from home, and I’d donated my leftover supplies to a local crafter who didn’t have airline weight limits to worry about. Maddie stuffed her T-shirts and the countless leaflets, brochures, maps, and ticket stubs that she’d picked up during the week into my carry-on. I checked out a long pile of items on the narrow space in front of the television set, yet to be wedged into our luggage. A snow globe featuring the New York skyline; several green foam Statue of Liberty crowns, probably meant for her Girl Scout troup; and a collection of other I

NY novelties including magnetic bookmarks, replicas of the Empire State Building in several sizes, a key chain, a small yellow metal cab, a tin of mints, a pencil case, a deck of playing cards, and a squishy red apple with bendable arms and legs and NEW YORK in silver around its body.

I picked up the last piece—an approximately two-inch-high frosted glass dish. “An ashtray?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.

“No, it’s for Mom. I thought it was for artists.” She ran her finger around the rim, dipping at the indentations. “She can rest her brushes in these spots.”

I cleared my throat and decided to let her mother explain the main use of the object. Or not. “When did you buy all these things?” I asked.

“All in one store in Times Square when I was with Bebe. She bought a lot, too, but there was even more stuff, Grandma. I almost got a pocket knife for Dad but I was afraid they wouldn’t let me take it on the plane. I got him a little notebook instead. I hope he likes it.”

“I’m sure everyone will love your souvenirs.” I paused. “So you and Bebe did some shopping on the side?”

“Yeah. Bebe thought I should wait and show you all this at the end, as a surprise.”

I found it amusing that Bebe preferred to keep her good times from me until the last minute.

“We still were the best table in the hall, right?”

“If you say so,” I said, tickling her.

I checked the closet and the dresser and was dismayed to find the LPPD patch Skip had given me stuck at the back of the top drawer. I was supposed to have passed on to an NYPD cop. I should have given it to the non-cop who tried to chase our hit-and-run cabbie. Or, better, to Buzz. I’d have to mail it to him when I got home. I decided to send Buzz an email now, confessing my shortcomings and asking for his postal address.

Rring. Rring. A call at ten-thirty. I was surprised when the hotel phone rang about five minutes after I clicked Send.

“I see you’re up, too,” he said.

“We’re too full from dinner at Due Cugine.”

“I’m surprised. Nobody goes there anymore. It’s too crowded.”

It took no time to recognize a Yogism and I offered up a good laugh.

I gave Buzz a rundown on the results of the handwriting project, and accepted his condolences. “Welcome to our world,” he said, and I figured he and Skip went to the same school of clichés. “Say, instead of mailing me that patch, how about you and your granddaughter come down to One PP. I’m busy filling out this infernal paperwork before they’ll give me any assignments, but if you get here around noon, I’ll take you to the best lunch in the city.”

I agreed, signed off, and turned to tell Maddie the news. No need. I caught her hanging up the telephone extension on the night table and saw her big smile. “One PP means Number One Police Plaza,” she said. “It’s on TV all the time. The cops and the lawyers walk out the door of the building onto this big plaza. Wow. I’m going to be there.”

What better way to spend our last lunch in New York than with the NYPD at their headquarters?

* * *

I’d done a little shopping myself at the Lex’s gift shop off the lobby, and picked up a book of New York history. I knew Maddie read mostly online, her preferred educational and recreational tool, but tonight I read to her about the early history of the city, how it was once the capital of the United States. We started a list of sights to visit the next time we came to New York. At the top of the list were the tenement museum, where a costumed docent helped visitors understand the early twentieth-century immigrant experience; a ferry ride from lower Manhattan so we could look back on the skyline; and Coney Island for as much junk food as we could stand. We agreed that we’d finish the list on the plane on Tuesday. For now, we were both ready to turn in, after all the heavy lifting we’d done. The good news was that all of our belongings, new and old, were in order, most of them packed. Unless we shopped in a big way tomorrow, no new luggage would be necessary.

Maddie’s final words for Sunday night were in the form of a question. “Do you think Willie’s will carry asiago cheese bagels for us?”

“I’m positive,” I said, not bothering to tell her that Willie’s has always carried asiago cheese bagels, as well as onion, pumpernickel, sourdough, and jalapeño, among others. She’d just never bothered to look past the plain bagels.

I called Henry, remembering that he was well into a two-hour time change himself. Five hours behind New York put him at an early dinner hour on the island of Maui.

“Taylor wants to know if there are hula dance classes back home,” he informed me.

“Don’t be surprised if Maddie expects a fresh bruschetta for dinner for a while,” I warned him.

We chatted about how great it was that kids will not only adapt to changing routines, but be so eager to take on new things of all kinds: food, weather, accents, cultural protocols.

“As for me, I can’t wait to get back to the old routine,” he said.

“Are you saying I’m old?”

“Just old enough.”

With that, we blew kisses and said good night.