Eighty-one

THE very next evening, Tristan Ferrell’s Angel Party was in full swing, with help from a twelve-piece swing band. No gangsta rap here. The Critter Crawl guru knew the age range of the select New Yorkers he hoped to reel in as investors, and he’d booked accordingly.

The venue was the brand-new Anchor and Light on the Hudson, a three-story, glass-walled structure next to Manhattan’s 79th Street Boat Basin. Like Pier 66 Maritime, fifty blocks south of us, this venue was built atop a floating barge. The top floor housed an elegant event space with a spectacular nighttime vista, polished teak flooring, a roaring fireplace, seafood and vegan buffets, and three open bars.

I sighed at the large, gorgeous space on the river. It was the perfect location for a wedding. Mike would absolutely love it. But we could never afford it.

It didn’t matter, anyway, I thought, shaking off disappointment. I wasn’t here to scout wedding locations. I was here to steal a peek at the contents of Tristan Ferrell’s smartphone. It would be tricky, but I had a clever plan, and a lot of help from my friends.

Back at my bustling Village Blend, Tucker Burton was watching over the shop—and the clock, smartphone in hand.

Madame and Sergeant Jones were here at the party, prepped and ready for their roles.

As one of Tristan’s Day-Glo spotters, Nancy’s job as an insider was pivotal.

And just in case things went south, Sergeant Franco was parked on West End Avenue and 79th, as close as he dared get to what had to be a “concerned citizen” operation.

I listened impatiently to Tristan’s presentation speech, while his Day-Glo helpers handed out packets. Inside, I found a business prospectus for the expansion of The Critter Crawl into a national brand with a premium app, line of fitness clothing, sports drinks, and sugar- and carb-free Critter Snacks. A glossy, autographed “Master of the Crawl” poster was also included. It featured the Critter guru wearing camouflage paint and little else, crawling boldly on hands and knees through a Photoshopped jungle.

A foursome of “Advanced Crawlers” soon took to the stage to demonstrate an array of Tristan’s signature moves. The guru kept his tailored skinny business suit on, offering a running narration in soothing, earnest tones while his fit young pupils did the crawling.

Tristan discussed the philosophies behind each Critter pose, along with the story of his “discovery” of “Critter Flow” with phrases and ideas (e.g., “Follow your bliss”) that bore a striking resemblance to Joseph Campbell’s Power of Myth interview with Bill Moyers, circa 1988. I was only too happy to turn my attention to Madame when she appeared at my side.

As always, my elegant octogenarian employer dressed in evocative style with silk slacks matching the exact shade of her loose, knee-length cashmere sweater, “the ivory yellow hue of a George Inness harvest moon,” as she put it after I complimented her outfit. She’d even accessorized with a print scarf featuring that landscape painter’s masterpiece Moonrise.

“He was influenced by the Hudson River School of nineteenth-century artists, so I felt it was appropriate,” Madame noted with a wink.

Sergeant Leonidas Jabari Jones cut a striking figure by her side. Shedding his tweeds, he’d donned a beautiful evening suit, crisp white shirt, and bright red bow tie. The black silk patch over his bad eye made him look a little dangerous as well as dashing—just the combination that continued to intrigue my ex-mother-in-law.

Though the couple appeared jovial, an angry fire burned behind Madame’s violet gaze whenever she looked Ferrell’s way.

“Please enjoy the buffet and bar,” Tristan said, concluding his presentation. “I’ll be here for the next hour, so if you have any questions, just ask!”

“I’d like to ask how he can sleep at night after poisoning my son and that poor girl,” Madame hissed in my ear, cursing the man.

“It’s still only a theory, so keep your cool, okay?” I warned, while crossing my fingers that this little scheme of mine would give us the proof we needed.

I made sure Madame, Nancy, and I were close to Ferrell when the moment arrived.

On cue, Tucker’s call came through, and I watched Tristan pull his phone from his lapel pocket and check the caller ID. I didn’t expect him to answer—he didn’t need to. All I wanted him to do was unlock his phone.

As soon as he did, Madame sprang into action.

“Excuse me, young man,” she interrupted. “Nancy tells me you’ve created a sequence of poses called ‘The Madagascar Lemur.’ Little furry primates have always fascinated me, and I’m disappointed your young pupils weren’t able to demonstrate it.”

“Well,” Tristan replied as he pocketed the phone, “that’s a very challenging sequence. It takes balance, strength, and unique flexibility—”

“I told you, Madame,” Nancy spoke up with just the right amount of fawning awe. “It took Tristan years before even he could master The Madagascar Lemur.”

“Oh, I see.” Madame sighed, feigning disappointment. “But it would be such a treat to see it . . .”

Several partygoers—quietly prompted by Sergeant Jones—agreed with Madame, urging Tristan to show off this spectacular Critter creation.

Clearly flattered, the Critter Crawl Master relented. “If you insist . . .”

He removed his jacket and passed it to Nancy, who passed it to me. I made a show of draping it over a chair, but as Nancy took Tristan’s designer loafers to hold for him, I slipped the man’s phone out of the lapel pocket and swiftly walked away, swiping as I stepped—to keep it from locking, just as I’d discussed with Franco.

Tristan didn’t notice. He was too busy finding his “Critter Center,” closing his eyes, for nearly a full minute after positioning a chair just right and limbering up. Then the sequence of poses began with a kind of slow-motion backbend that flowed into an impressive handstand on the seat of the chair.

By then, I was already hiding behind the bar, searching his phone for evidence. And I started with the Cinder app.