NINETEEN

AS Esther and I watched in curious silence, Madame walked right up to the far wall, the one covered with artwork. She stopped directly in front of the two largest canvases, a pair of paintings hanging side by side in identical frames. The first featured the Parkview Palace itself.

Over the years, plenty of artists had painted this famous landmark, most of them focused on its posh grandeur. Such regal renderings always left me cold. But this painter saw the hotel with a romantic eye, capturing it at sunrise with soft hues at an angle that included a glimpse of Central Park along with a horse and carriage.

I took off my costume glasses for a closer view of the couple inside, lovers huddled together under a soft blanket.

Hanging beside the painting of the hotel, on a canvas of exactly the same size, was a portrait of an attractive young woman in a bold red dress. Her smile was warm, her generous figure and long blond hair as lovingly brushed by the artist as the hotel. I noticed the young woman in the large painting resembled the one inside the horse-drawn carriage.

“Who is the subject of this portrait?” I asked. “The lady in red?”

“Oh, that’s Annette—before she became Annette Brewster. It was painted in the 1980s, when she was still Annette Holbrook. The companion piece Parkview at Sunrise was done back then, too.”

“And the painter?” I looked closer. “Both of these works appear to be done by the same artist, but they’re unsigned.”

“Yes,” Madame confirmed absently. “They were done by the same artist.”

I asked who, but Madame was too distracted to reply. She had moved in front of the lady in red and begun fumbling with the picture frame.

“What are you doing?” I asked, putting my costume glasses back on.

“Be patient,” she said, her fingers continuing to feel around the wood’s carved flourishes. “I’m looking for a special—”

Just then, she must have pressed the right button because the portrait appeared to unlock itself from the wall. Madame swung it out on hinges to reveal a rectangular panel. Beneath the panel was a black screen, much like the ones on those fancy phones, only larger. She swiped the screen and it sprang to life.

“To ensure our privacy, Annette installed a custom surveillance system, independent of the hotel’s security cameras. Her hidden cameras cover the Gotham Suite, the elevator, and the waiting area. The system is motion activated, so it should have captured images of the tasting. We can see if you were alone with the chef and Annette the whole time or if someone else—”

Madame groaned.

“What’s wrong?”

“The system was deactivated and its memory erased.” Madame closed out of the surveillance system and covered it back up with the portrait. “Let’s check the office.”

Esther made a show of looking around. “What office? Where is it?”

“It’s here, Esther. Trust me and not your eyes.”

But Esther’s gaze wandered anyhow. “Hey, look at that!” she said, pointing to another piece of artwork on the wall. “Is that an original Al Hirschfeld? And is that you in the drawing?”

Madame nodded. “It was done years ago, and a perfectly perceptive caricature of the Gotham Ladies it is. Al had such a long and brilliant career as a Broadway artist, and he was a sweet man.”

I marveled at the piece. There were more than a dozen figures in the large drawing. “I don’t know these women, do I? Apart from Annette Brewster, have I met any of these ladies?”

“You’ve met the oldest members, the leaders of the pack, so to speak. Let’s see if we can jar your memory.”

The first caricature Madame pointed out was a petite brunette with short, wavy hair. She wore a crooked grin and a full-length fur coat over a business suit. In one hand she held a knish, in the other a babka.

“That’s Barbara ‘Babka’ Baum, Culinary Queen, originally of the Lower East Side, and owner of Babka’s, the legendary New York bakery and restaurant on the Upper East—along with five new locations across the country, including the MGM Grand in Las Vegas. Of course, she’s always been more than a restaurateur, as you discovered.”

“I did?”

Madame sighed and pointed again. “The woman beside Babka is Jane Belmore, the last of a once powerful banking family. She’s sweet but often wakes up on the prudish side of the bed. I do believe the term ‘clutching her pearls’ was coined for Jane.”

Madame gazed at me expectantly.

I shook my head. “Nope. Nothing.”

“Beside Jane is Annette, older here than in her portrait, of course, and between Annette and me—”

“The tall woman in gold?”

“Gold lamé,” Madame corrected. “That’s Nora Arany. She began as an assistant to my old friend, the late fashion designer Lottie Harmon. Remember her?”

“Only by reputation.”

“Well, Nora learned lots from Lottie, I can tell you. Then she left to start her own design business, which took off after she became a fashion consultant to rock stars and then hip-hop musicians. Back then she was always bragging about her clients. Pat Minotaur, was it? The B-vitamins? M.C. Bammer? Do any of those names ring a bell?”

“Er . . . no.”

“These days Nora creates athletic and yoga wear, bridal dresses, handbags, and gold jewelry. Her last name means ‘gold’ in Hungarian and she took it quite literally to the bank—investment bankers. Two years ago, she took her company public.”

I gazed at the tall woman with the confident smile and platinum blond hair. She dominated the center of Hirschfeld’s drawing, her caricature so broad, she was likely bigger than life in person, too. How could I forget a woman like that?

“Still nothing?” Madame asked.

“I’m sorry, but—”

Esther’s call interrupted us.

“Hey, you two! There’s a kitchenette through this door, and I spy a bag of beans on the counter. I can use the French press pot they left on the cart to make coffee for Clare. Maybe the taste of the blend will jar a memory or two.”

“Coffee?! Oh, yes, please!”

Madame smiled. “I haven’t forgotten our conversation at the hospital. Excellent idea, Esther. Be sure to clean the pot well—”

“I can help!” I offered, trying to move things along.

“Let Esther handle the coffee. You and I should check the office.”

“Office? What office? I don’t see any office.”

“As I told Esther, trust me, dear.”

A friend in the dark, I thought. And, man, am I in it.

“Lead on.”