EIGHTY-TWO

CLARE

“DO you think that Stevens jerk is looking for you?” Mr. Dante asked as we rode the elevator north.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But I don’t want to miss Tessa.”

When the elevator doors opened on the rooftop level, my breath caught. The wall of windows facing Manhattan’s shimmering skyline made a spectacular sight and so did the restaurant’s floor. The restored factory planks had been painted with intricate stencils, forming colorful patterns, all of it lacquered and laminated to protect the designs from foot traffic.

“Come on!” Mr. Dante waved me forward and together we bypassed Nostalgia’s seating hostess.

“We’re going straight to the bar,” he told her with a charming smile.

Mr. Dante spotted Tessa far from the windows, in a quiet corner, near the distressed-wood bar that hugged the restaurant’s back wall. Excited, he pointed her out with a sharp nudge to my ribs.

“That’s Tessa Simmons, and she’s with familiar company.”

I didn’t recognize Tessa. But I certainly knew her lamé-wrapped companion: the Golden Girl of Fashion, Nora Arany.

“Should we approach Tessa now?” Mr. Dante whispered.

“Let’s get a drink and spy a little first.”

I was relieved to discover the young, bearded bartender was not too cool for school. He had a welcoming smile and took my order right away. The “artisanal cocktails” were posted on a digital chalkboard, and I chose a gin drink, aptly named the Daisy Fay.

Luckily, Nostalgia’s bar also featured a wall-sized tavern mirror—the kind that allowed old-time Western gunfighters to watch their backs, and modern-day barflies (and barista buttinskies) to people-watch the room behind them.

Our seats were very close to Tessa’s table, and the mirror offered a good view of the young CEO. While I waited for my drink, I studied her reflection. Tessa appeared to be in full bohemian mode tonight, wearing a mishmash of clashing colors, accessorized with scarfs, dangling feathered earrings, and an entire Slinky’s worth of bracelets. Her yellow hair hung in two long Alpine braids bound by ribbons knotted tighter than bondage straps. Her face seemed tight, too, with large blue eyes circled by dark makeup.

Sadly, I found nothing familiar about Tessa Simmons. I felt no tingle of recognition, no wooziness signaling an oncoming flashback, nothing. Hearing her voice, I was sure I’d never met the young woman.

Tessa had been doing most of the talking since I arrived, and her soft voice was a strain to hear over the room’s background noise. From what I could decipher, she was forming a limited partnership with Nora.

When Nora finally spoke, it was a huge relief. The first time I’d encountered the Golden Gotham Girl, her voice was so loud, it carried over the traffic sounds on Fifth Avenue. Compared to that, penetrating the noise level in this bar was a cinch.

“Tessa, honey,” Nora said, after downing an entire martini in two thirsty gulps. “Whatever you wrote into that little contract is fine with me, as long as I get a Fifth Avenue store on the ground floor of the Parkview Palace.”

“You’ll get that and more, Nora. Within eighteen months, the hotel will be fifty percent co-op, with apartments selling in the millions per. On top of that immediate windfall, you’ll get a percentage of the Parkview’s future revenue for your investment. And there will be revenue. The old style of hotel keeping espoused by Aunt Annette and Aunt Victoria is over. My way is the future. That’s why I bought the Parkview Palace.”

Tessa bought the Parkview? I thought in surprise. But why buy something when you’re about to inherit it?

The simple answer was that you wouldn’t—certainly not if you were planning to abduct and/or murder the person who was willing the hotel to you.

“I’ve got big bucks invested in the Parkview,” Nora said. “I hope you’re right about the money.”

“I’m never wrong,” Tessa said boldly. “According to projections, you’ll double your investment within three years.”

“Well, that’s something to celebrate!” Nora cried, demanding another martini.

But when the waitress returned with her cocktail, it took only one sip to stoke Nora’s anger. “Can you imagine how much revenue I lost because of the years Annette kept me out of her hotel? She always had a reason, too. My fashions weren’t the right fit for the Parkview’s clientele. My designs were too urban, too young, too trendy—like there’s something wrong with that!”

During her rant, Nora knocked a water glass off the table. It broke with a tinkling sound.

“Relax, Nora,” Tessa soothed as she signaled for a busboy to clean up the glass. “Give the past the slip. Try hot yoga. It worked for me. That and deep meditation got me through my divorce.”

Nora waved her off. “You want to know the real reason Annette kept me out? It was because I slept with her damned husband.”