23

 

 

Claire retrieved the phone from the kitchen and the scrap of paper with Leah’s number. She felt silly: was she supposed to disguise her voice? Should she put a handkerchief over the mouthpiece? Idiot, just call. She punched in the phone number. Leah picked up after two rings.

“Leah Parker.” Leah’s greeting was crisp and businesslike.

“Uh, hello, is this Paul Mellon’s office?” Claire tried to sound confused.

“No, you must have the wrong number.” Leah hung up quickly.

Claire sat on the stool, the phone still in her hand, and it rang several seconds later. She took a deep breath and hit the talk button. “Leah?”

“Hi, Chloe, I’m glad I caught you. Are you doing anything tonight?”

Claire was momentarily confused. “Chloe? Oh, I get it. Somebody might be listening. Uh, no, ma’am, my schedule is clear. If you’re really asking.”

“Great. Listen, can you do me a big favor? There’s this party tonight, and the caterer’s a friend of mine, and he’s suddenly shorthanded ’cause one of his staff pulled out. Would you be willing to fill in?”

“And I assume the lady in question will be at the party?”

“Exactly.”

“Okay, just give me the details. Oh, and am I really supposed to help the caterer?”

“Yes, he’ll provide the outfit—you know, these guys want everyone to match. How’re you fixed for shoes?”

“Well, I’ve got these neat combat boots.”

“I don’t recommend that. Why don’t you look around and see if you can find something simple and black?”

“Ooh, does that mean I get to dig through your closet?” Claire knew that her feet and Leah’s were nearly the same size.

“That would be fine. Have you got a pen? Here’s the address . . .”

Claire jotted down the address Leah gave her. Upper East Side—nice neighborhood. Annabeth was running with an upscale crowd. “What time?”

“Say, about five? Come to the service entrance, and I’ll introduce you to the caterer.”

“So you’ll be there?” Claire’s spirits lifted perceptibly.

“Yes. It’s an official event.”

“Ah. Should I bring my friend?”

“No, I don’t think so. There’ll be a lot of security, but I’ll vouch for you with the caterer.”

“Got it. I’ll be there. And Leah? Thanks, for everything. Including the shoes.”

“See you at five, then. Glad you can make it.” Leah rang off.

Claire hung up the phone. In the living room, Jonathan stared expectantly at her. “So?”

“There’s a party tonight, and Annabeth’s going to be there. Leah’s going to get me in dressed up as waitstaff for the caterer. I should be able to pass something to Annabeth, if you can figure out what.”

“Okay.”

One question had been nagging at Claire. “Jonathan, how well do you know Annabeth?”

“I told you before, we go back a ways.”

“What does that mean? You were, uh, involved at some point?”

“No, we’re friends. We were never anything more, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I just want to know why you’re so sure you can trust her. Why should she believe you, rather than whatever else she’s heard? What’s going to stop her from reading your note and calling the FBI ASAP?”

“I don’t think she will. If it makes you feel better, I can tell her that I’m willing to turn myself in, as long as I can talk to her first. The FBI was at her house for a reason, and she’s got to have met with them by now. They were better equipped to find her than we were. If they were looking for me, I need to know that. If it’s something else . . . well, I need to know that too.”

“And there’s still that annoying question: why did Susie shoot the agent?”

“Yes, there is that.” Jonathan paused, lost in thought for a moment, then resumed. “When are you supposed to meet Leah?”

“Around five. So you’ve got about four hours to draft the most effective prose of your life.”

To Claire’s surprise, he flashed her a quick grin. “And you don’t think I can do it?”

And in spite of herself, Claire felt her mouth twitch. “Show me.”

 

* * *

 

As she hung on to a post on the rackety subway car, on her way uptown, Claire thanked the gods that she didn’t have to worry about dressing herself for this event. She’d found some black leather lace-up shoes at the back of Leah’s closet, so that part was all right. She’d had more trouble trying to figure out the rest of her appearance. There was no time to do anything about the hair. That left makeup. Part of Claire wanted to appear as drab, as invisible, as possible, but then she’d be most recognizable as serious Professor Claire Hastings. How depressing. The other alternative was to slather the goop on and try to look as different as possible—just not too trashy for a tony party for visiting dignitaries. The desire to hide did battle with the idea of hiding in plain sight—but confusing people by giving them what they did not expect. Ah, hell—nobody looks at the serving staff anyway, Claire reminded herself, as she troweled on eye shadow and mascara.

She arrived a few minutes early, but Leah was already there, in the space below the steps that opened onto the service door. Leah greeted her cautiously.

“Hey, girl, you made it. Any problems?”

Claire shook her head. “How about your end?”

“I’m glad you got here early.” Leah cast a wary glance around, but in this neighborhood there was little foot traffic. “I couldn’t get you on the guest list, even under a phony name—they’re checking people out. Luckily I know the caterer, and he owes me a favor—I throw a lot of business his way. He won’t ask questions, but if anything goes wrong, he’s going to point the finger at me. You and Hero come up with a plan?”

“Jonathan wrote a note, and I figure I’ll just slip it to Annabeth when the time is right. Once you point her out, that is—I’ve never met the woman. Anyway, I’m going to keep out of it. My story is, some guy came up to me and asked if I could give her this note, on the sly, and I don’t know anything more. Okay?”

“That’s probably a good idea. And I don’t think she’s going to recognize you as a feminist in that getup. But when she gets the note, then what’s the plan?”

“In the note Jonathan asks if she’ll meet him after the party tonight. He’s going to be waiting for her at this all-night deli he knows, a couple of blocks from here.”

“And he thinks she’s going to go along with that?” Leah looked skeptical.

Claire shrugged. “He says so—he claims she’s an old friend. At least he picked a nice bright public place instead of a dark corner somewhere.”

“What about you? Are you going to be there?”

“I figured I’d hang back until she showed up and they had a chance to get started. Then I can decide.”

“Huh.” Leah thought a moment. “Then I’m going with you.”

“What? Why?” Claire protested.

“Because, girl, you’ve done such a great job of taking care of yourself up to now. Look at you! FBI hunting for you, and you look like a slut. Can’t leave you on your own for a minute. You just don’t know how to handle this kind of stuff.”

“And you do?” Claire was outraged, but she had to fight a desire to snigger. It felt good to have somebody on her side.

“Better than you. Look, we’d better get inside. Jean-Paul will give you your uniform and explain what he wants you to do. As far as he knows, you’re just a fill-in. I told him you were a friend who needed a few extra bucks—God knows you look like you do, at the moment. You do think you can carry a tray, right? That’s not beneath your dignity?”

“I think I can handle it. I used to bus tables at school, remember?”

“Then let’s go. Oh, and remember, your name’s Chloe.” Leah pulled open the door, and Claire followed her into the building. Once inside Leah made a beeline for the kitchen at the back of the house, where a crowd of black-and-white-clad caterers and assistants milled around in controlled chaos. Leah went directly to one man and said without preamble, “Jean-Paul, this is Chloe. She needs her uniform and then she’s good to go. Ça va?”

Jean-Paul gave Claire a harried once-over and pointed toward a woman. “Talk to Elise. You look like you can carry a tray, at least.” He turned away quickly.

Claire looked at Leah and raised an eyebrow. “That was easy.”

Leah grinned. “Told you. Look, I’ve got to get upstairs, but I’ll let you know when . . . you know. Now go get dressed. Party starts at seven.”

When Leah had left, Claire sought out the woman identified as Elise. “Hi, I’m Chloe. You have a uniform for me?”

Elise was no less stressed out than Jean-Paul. “Oh, yeah, right, the replacement. You wear, what, a size ten? Come on.” She rushed to a rolling rack of shirts and pants, grabbed one of each and thrust them at Claire. “Put these on. You done this before?”

Claire grabbed the clothes and nodded. “Some, not much lately. What do you need?”

Elise eyed her critically. “Well, we could use another server, but you don’t quite fit our image . . . How about this—you can keep an eye on the stationary setups. When things run low, refill the platters, and you can collect the used glassware, plates, that kind of stuff. Think you can handle that?”

“No problem.” When Elise darted off, Claire looked around for a place to change and found a tiny bathroom off the kitchen. She slipped in and changed into the plain black pants and double-breasted chef’s jacket, with the name of Jean-Paul’s firm embroidered over her heart. The pants were a bit long, so Claire rolled them up at the waist. Then she pulled Jonathan’s note from her own clothes and tucked it firmly into the pocket of her borrowed pants. She took one last look at herself in the tiny mirror. Yes, she still looked like a tramp. Great. She’d certainly convinced Elise. Now all she had to do was stay invisible until Leah pointed out Annabeth. In the meantime, she had better do the job she was there for.

She had no trouble keeping busy until the party started—Jean-Paul made sure of that. Claire realized belatedly that she should have asked Leah more about this party. It was large—that much was immediately obvious. The town house extended up at least three floors, not counting the kitchen level, and there were food stations and temporary bars set up strategically on each level. This meant a lot of running up and down stairs, carrying plates and glasses, and then trays laden with food, and decorations for the food displays. After nearly two hours of this, Claire was exhausted, and the evening had hardly begun.

Guests began to trickle in, solo and in pairs, shortly after seven; by seven thirty they were arriving in chattering clumps. Claire had not been introduced to the host and hostess, nor did she expect to be. She was a nameless, faceless servant, at least for the moment. She was grateful that she hadn’t been stuck with coat duty—at least with food handling, she could circulate. Between trips up the stairs with fresh trays of food, and trips down the stairs with the emptied trays, dirty dishes and abandoned glasses, she managed to snoop a bit, hoping to find a quiet corner where she could pass the note to Annabeth without an audience. The house was magnificent, she had to admit. It was filled with antiques, oriental rugs, oil paintings, but they all looked as though they belonged, not as though they had been assembled by a professional decorator. Claire found herself swooping down on any stray glass that might dribble on the hand-polished mahogany surfaces, almost as though they were her own.

As she was making her fifth run—which was more like a walk now—to the basement, the thought struck her: under different circumstances, she might well have been a guest at this party. She had the credentials, the expertise, the professional standing. She could have been mingling with the educated, intelligent, articulate people upstairs, instead of schlepping dirty barware to the basement. A very odd turn of events—and one she hoped to reverse as soon as possible.

As she trudged back up the stairs yet again, she spied Leah trying to catch her eye. She drifted toward her, collecting glassware along the way. There was no reason why she shouldn’t be speaking with Leah, who was responsible for managing this party, but she didn’t want to make it obvious that they knew each other. Leah apparently understood that, and handed Claire an empty glass when she neared her.

“The blonde at three o’clock,” Leah said quietly.

Claire picked up yet another glass from a table tucked in the corner, and turned as if to look for its mates, which gave her the opportunity to scope out her quarry: Annabeth. Blonde, as Leah had said. Taller than Claire, and older by maybe ten years. Attractively dressed; no, make that superbly dressed. Her tailored suit did not come off any rack, and the color of the silk shirt beneath it set off her eyes. The jewelry glinting on her lapel and at her wrists was clearly real, bold but not flashy. Everything about her screamed money, good taste, and authority. The people clustered around her were hanging on her every word. And, Claire had to remind herself as she studied her, this woman was the Greenferne Professor for Women’s Studies, so she must be intelligent and accomplished. Beside her, Claire felt cheap and dull. She shook herself. She was not here as herself, and on a level playing field she could take on Annabeth Rankin any day. No, she was here to deliver Jonathan’s message, nothing more.

Now all she had to do was figure out how.