Thirty-eight

The low heels of Madame’s evening slingbacks clickety-clacked on a single-minded track as she pulled me along a utilitarian hallway.

The end of the line was the hotel’s busy restaurant kitchen. When we pushed through the double doors, I expected the clang of pots and pans, shouted commands answered by “yes, Chef,” and white-clad figures laboring over countless culinary tasks.

The kitchen staff was indeed present, but they weren’t cooking. Every one of them was transfixed by the drama unfolding in a private dining room, walled off by a thick glass partition that allowed views of the kitchen.

The room was empty, except for two women of a certain age, their couture as elegant as Madame’s, who were locked in a bitter argument. A slender bottle-redhead in an emerald green sheath raged at a more full-figured woman in a smartly tailored Tom Wolfe–white pantsuit, her severe pixie cut dyed a stark white blond.

The fire versus ice battle was surreal because the glass cut off all sound—warfare in mime. But there was nothing amusing about this silent movie.

As the redhead raged, her porcelain face flushed almost the same bright color as her elaborate French twist. Meanwhile, the cool blonde, hands on hips, smirked with ice pick–hard defiance before replying with a verbal punch so cutting that the redhead dropped her flailing hands and stepped back.

That’s when I noticed the only other person in that empty room, a young man with a prematurely receding hairline standing right behind the cool blonde. He wore an ill-fitting gray suit, little round Harry Potter glasses, and a tense expression on his pointy face.

The timid manner in which the pointy-faced Potter stepped up to the cool blonde made me think that he was an assistant of some sort. As he whispered in the woman’s ear, he showed her something on his phone screen. The icy blonde nodded, grabbed the phone from him, and shoved the screen at the redhead, who gawked at it and then began raging again.

Madame tsk-tsked.

“They’re still going at it. But we have no time to meet Addy now. She’s the cultured, sophisticated woman in green, the one screaming like a banshee at another guest. I’ll introduce you after this whole affair is settled.”

I resisted Madame’s tugging and took a second look.

“The redhead—that’s your friend Addy? That’s Addison Ford Babcock?”

“Yes, dear,” Madame said patiently. “I mentioned last evening that I was acquainted with A. F. Babcock, didn’t I?”

“I remember. I’m just a little starstruck—and still trying to catch up. The only photos I ever saw of her were on her book jackets when she was much younger, wore tortoiseshell glasses, and had short brown hair. Why is she arguing? And who is she arguing with?”

“I don’t know the other woman. As far as what they’re arguing about, all I could pick up before they went private was something about ‘old scores.’ Now come along.” Madame tugged harder. “We’ve got a serious situation to deal with.”

“You mean this isn’t it? They look like they’re about to kill each other.”

Madame waved her manicured hand. “This is a sideshow. The real drama is upstairs.”

She tugged me across the idled kitchen and through another door that led to a bank of elevators. She released my hand and hit the call button. As we waited for one to descend, I faced her.

“Now can you please explain why I’m here?”

“My friend Addy—”

“Yes, I saw her in the kitchen.”

“—she’s one of tonight’s honorees,” Madame continued. “The Wordsmyths presented her with an award for supporting literacy programs nationwide. The press is here. In fact, the New York Post’s Page Six reporter is still at the bar, trying to dig up gossip.” She paused. “Unfortunately, Addy’s young nephew is also here, and he is the problem.”

“Oh, no. Is he a teenager in some kind of crisis?”

“It’s a crisis, all right. But he’s hardly a teenager. Ethan Humphrey is an adjunct professor at New York University, and unless we do something to extricate him from his current situation, the professor will end up in prison, lose his position, and poor Addy will be humiliated on what should be a night of triumph and celebration.”

“What on earth did this man do that’s worse than the silent catfight we just witnessed?”

“Well…quite a few things, actually. It started in the middle of the dinner when Professor Humphrey, who’d already had a few too many vodka martinis, began flirting with a young woman.”

“How young?”

“Very young. She drifted over from a Sweet Sixteen party in the hotel’s restaurant.”

“Yikes.”

“It was a natural mistake. She looked and acted a lot more mature than sixteen, and outright lied that she was celebrating her twenty-first birthday. Even the bartender was fooled.”

“Then the professor’s troubles don’t seem all that dire.”

“If only it ended there.”

“There’s more?”

“After the professor put away more cocktails, he became visibly inebriated and the bartender cut him off. That’s when Professor Humphrey and the young lady began sniffing lines of cocaine off the bar top.”

“Good grief.”

“When the bartender spotted the cocaine, she alerted hotel security. They arrived and escorted the young lady back to her Sweet Sixteen party.”

“And the professor?”

“At that point, Addy’s nephew became quite belligerent. Fortunately, the security here is efficient and discreet. They escorted him out of the dinner and back to the courtesy suite that the hotel provided for Addy and her guests.”

“That’s good,” I said. “I assume Humphrey has had a chance to simmer down and sober up.”

Madame rolled her violet eyes. “If only.”

The elevator finally arrived. Its doors opened, and we stepped inside. Madame pressed 9 and the doors closed.

“Okay, I’ll bite. What happened after the professor got to the suite?”

“The security guard discovered a plethora of illegal substances scattered about. Professor Humphrey saw the guard’s reaction. And then…” Madame sighed.

“And then what?”

“The professor tricked the guard into stepping outside the suite and barricaded himself inside.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“He’s there now, taking drugs and taunting the staff. The night manager is up there, too, and his patience is wearing thin. He’s threatening to summon the police.”

“And you want me to help you fix this?”

“You’re a miracle worker, Clare. I’ve seen it countless times, and I have every faith you’ll think of a way out of this.” Madame patted my hand. “If you do, Addy is sure to be grateful—and you’re eager to gain her confidence, aren’t you?”

“Of course, but the situation you described is a nightmare, a train wreck, an absolute toxic mess.”

“It is. But don’t worry. You have until we reach the ninth floor to decide how to clean it up.”

As the floors creeped by, my mind raced. Then the bell dinged, and the elevator doors opened.

Time was up.