TWENTY-FIVE

ESTHER’S taunt proved prophetic. Or maybe it was simply the power of suggestion.

Grinning with excitement, Mr. Dante climbed behind the wheel. But his eagerness got the better of him. Leaning too heavily on the gas, he nearly slammed the luxury SUV into the garage’s ticket meter.

Esther snorted, and Mr. Dante cringed with sheepish embarrassment. Then he quickly straightened out the vehicle, and drove down the ramp.

Fortunately, Nora was too busy chatting up Madame to notice any of it.

“So what are you doing at the Parkview, Blanche?”

“I needed the files for our annual Gotham Ladies’ Charity Ball. Despite recent events, the rite of spring must go on.”

“By recent events, you mean Annette’s vanishing act?”

Madame’s gaze narrowed. “Do you know anything about it?”

“Me? Nothing! It’s a terrible business . . .” Suddenly, Nora’s lips began to quiver, and she broke into a sob. “Poor Annette,” she blubbered. “What could have happened to her? Will we ever see her again?”

I didn’t think much of Nora’s act. Madame wasn’t impressed, either.

“Drop the show. You forget who you’re talking to.”

Pretending to dry her eyes, Nora waved a hand. “Oh, please. If I were Annette, I would have disappeared long ago.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that rat bastard husband of hers made her life miserable for years. You know that—”

Suddenly we all heard a tinny voice singing. It was Shirley Bassey belting out the Goldfinger theme.

“My phone!” Nora exclaimed, snatching the device out of her gold-plated chain mail bag.

“Oh, shoot, I’ve got to dash!” she cried after checking the screen. “My Japanese buyer is inside the lobby, waiting—”

“Before you go,” Madame said, “what can you tell me about the Gotham Suite’s private office being ransacked?”

“Ransacked?” Nora shrugged. “Must have been a police search. Sorry, Blanche. We’ll chat more another time. Mr. Ogata is very old-school, and he really wants to revisit the classic, classy Manhattan. That’s why I’m treating him to drinks at the Parkview Palace—I mean, how old-school can you get, right? Then it’s on to the Pierre. Of course, the Plaza and the Waldorf are half condo now, but they still have some of the trappings of the old days.”

Nora leaned close to Madame. “I’m not looking forward to breaking the news about the Plaza’s tiki room closing.” She sighed. “He has such fond memories of Trader Vic’s.”

Before Madame could get another word in, Nora was dashing down the block. “Ta-ta!” she called, her booming voice barely fading into the traffic noise.

“And she’s off!” Esther remarked. “What a character!”

About then, Mr. Dante emerged from the garage. “That Arany woman gave me a fifty, just to park her car!”

Madame grimly faced her barista. “Does she really have a designated parking spot?”

He nodded. “In the VIP section. Right beside a reserved slot for Tessa Simmons.”

“Tessa Simmons,” I repeated. “I remember that name.”

“You do?” Madame looked hopeful. “From a past memory?”

“No, from upstairs in the Gotham Suite.” I pulled Madame aside and lowered my voice. “Annette’s sister, Victoria, mentioned her—and not in a good way.”

“How do you know that, Clare?”

It was my turn to look sheepish. “I eavesdropped on your conversation. Victoria said she believes Annette’s last will and testament names their niece, Tessa, as the heiress to the Parkview Palace.”

“That’s what Victoria believes, but I don’t know that it’s still true.”

“What makes you think that?”

“It’s why I wanted to see a copy of her will for myself. Before she disappeared, Annette told me she was updating it.”

“And she didn’t tell you why? Or how she was updating it?”

“No. At our last Gotham Ladies’ brunch, I took her aside and reminded her that we ladies weren’t sharing eggs Benedict and mimosas once a month for the calories and bubbles. We were there to help each other, when needed. She thanked me, but said she was fine. That her husband’s recent death had opened her eyes—and changed everything. That’s why she was going to update her will. She also confided quietly that she had ‘put plans in motion’ that I’d learn about soon enough.”

“And then she was abducted?”

Madame nodded. “If you can remember anything, Clare, any details about that evening you spent with Annette, or about her abductor—and presumably yours—you could help us find Annette and clear this whole thing up.”

“I wish I could remember, and not just that evening. I want all of my memories back—and my life.”

“I know you do, dear.”

“Hey, you two,” Esther called. “I hate to interrupt, but do you really want to stand out here on the street, waiting for the next G-Wagen diva to throw her keys at Dante?”

“You’re right.” Madame glanced up and down the block. “Let’s go.”