Fleeced: A Regan Reilly Mystery (21 page)

Inside the Paisley Hotel, the morning sessions of the crime convention were just wrapping up. Kyle Fleming, the FBI agent from Florida, had given such an informative, albeit amusing lecture the day before on con artists, that he’d been asked to fill in for another speaker who canceled at the last minute. Fleming had always been fascinated by the number of people in the world who were crooks.

“Big-time crooks, small-time crooks, they’re all out there just dying for your money,” he’d said. “Some of them will do just about anything to get it. The people who interest me are not the ones who climb through a window and rob you blind. Anyone can try that. Anyone can steal your purse when you turn your back at the airport. It’s the crooks who gain your trust, your confidence, and then rob you blind. That’s what really hurts. So many of them get away with these crimes because people are too embarrassed to come forward with their stories.

“Con artists come in all shapes and sizes, and many of them are masters at changing their appearance so they’re not easily detected. They move around, hit a target, and then they’re gone. That’s what makes them hard to catch.

“Here are a few of my favorites…”

He showed slides of several people and talked about each one.

“This smooth operator had several wives who obviously didn’t know about each other. He bilked them of their savings and broke their hearts. He may not look like Romeo, but he obviously had something…

“This couple would blow into big cities, create an image of success by throwing lavish parties to which they’d invite people they barely knew, then get some of these same people who were impressed by it all to invest in their scams…”

Members of the audience asked so many questions that Fleming didn’t get to all his slides. He’d been about to flash the photo of Georgette Hughes on the screen when he looked at his watch.

“This next one is a crook who is a master at changing her look, but I think she deserves ten minutes, and our time is up,” he concluded.

The crowd groaned.

Nora stood. “I think it’s safe to say that we’d all love for Kyle to continue. I certainly hope he’ll join us again next year.”

The crowd gave an enthusiastic round of applause as Nora went over to shake Kyle’s hand. “Kyle, are you free tonight? I’ve invited a number of the people here to a cocktail party down at the Settlers’ Club. It’s their one hundredth anniversary. Then we’ll go for a late dinner.”

“Thanks, Nora,” Kyle said. “I’ll try to stop by. But I already have plans.”

Regan walked past the Paisley Hotel and hesitated. She’d have loved to go inside and say hello to her mother and all the people she knew. She’d only gotten a chance to see them at the opening-night cocktail party, which seemed like weeks ago.

I’d better not take the time, Regan thought. I should really get back.

She hailed a cab, and fifteen minutes later was at the club.

“Miss Reilly,” the guard greeted her. “Clara’s looking for you.”

Regan’s heart skipped a beat. “Where is she?”

“In the parlor.”

Regan hurried up the steps. Clara was by the fireplace, shining up the pokers and shovels that were strictly for show. Ever since they’d been smoked out thanks to a faulty flue, fake logs were the order of the day.

When Clara saw Regan, her eyes bugged out and she dropped the shovel she’d been working on. The din could be heard across the park. “Regan!” she exclaimed as she leaned down to pick it up.

“Are you all right?”

“I need to talk to you in private,” Clara whispered.

They went up to Nat’s apartment without running into anyone. Shutting the door behind them, Clara ran down the hall to the kitchen. “Look what I found!” she cried.

Sitting on the floor of the kitchen was a black trash-can liner. Clara yanked it open and pulled out a damp towel. “Wendy’s towels!” she bellowed as she dropped the first one on the counter and pulled out the second one. “And it’s such a shame. They’re all smelly from sitting in this bag.”

“Where did you find them?” Regan asked quickly.

“In the Dumpster out back.”

“I thought you told me the Dumpster was emptied on Fridays.”

“It is! Whoever left these must have dropped them in there after the garbageman left yesterday!”

“So that could have been last night or early this morning.”

“Uh-huh,” Clara nodded, and then, almost as if she were operating on automatic pilot, said, “It’s such a pity. They’re ruined. They stink and a couple of the sheep appliqués are gone. What good are the towels without them? And this trash-can liner must be Nat’s. I told him on Thursday he’d better buy more, there was only one left. Look!” She opened the cabinet and triumphantly pulled out an empty box with a picture of a garbage can on it. “All gone!”

“Clara,” Regan said incredulously. “Did you go through the Dumpster?”

Clara looked guilty. “I’ve been so excited today that during my break I went out the back door for a smoke. I’ve quit at least ten times! Anyway, one of the waiters came out to throw some garbage away, and when he flipped open the Dumpster, I could see the peach color peaking through a rip in the bag.”

“So you reached into the Dumpster?”

“You told me to be discreet, so I waited until he went back inside. When I saw it was Wendy’s towels, I ran to get a laundry bag so I could throw the whole thing in there and carry it upstairs.”

“Clara,” Regan said, “you’re amazing.”

“Thank you, Regan. But Regan…”

“Yes, Clara.”

“I’m a little scared.”

Regan and Clara both stared at the soggy towels that Nat and Wendy had cherished. Towels that had most likely been used to cover up Nat’s murder.

When Daphne hung up the phone, she was afraid to go back and tell Jacques that Thomas wouldn’t sell the sheep to him. Be a good actress, she told herself. That’s what counts.

She sashayed over to where Jacques had planted his director’s chair. His cigarette holder was dangling out of his mouth, and his black beret was back in place.

“Well?”

Daphne laughed as though she didn’t have a care in the world. “It turns out, Jacques, that the sheep have deep, deep meaning for the club.”

“What do you mean ‘deep meaning?’”

“I mean that they are an important part of the club’s history, and they’re not interested in selling them.”

Jacques removed the cigarette holder from his mouth. “Don’t you want parts in my movies? Starring roles?”

“Of course I do, Jacques. It’s a privilege for me to work with you.”

“Those sheep are magic,” Jacques said, pointing to Dolly and Bah-Bah. “I don’t know what it is about them, but they’ve got something special.
And I want them! I want, I want,
I WANT THOSE SHEEP! And you are the only one who can arrange that. So do it! Tell them we’ll give them fifty thousand dollars.” He turned away and flicked his hand. “Get a check from what’s his name and take it up there now. Make sure they accept it!”

A moment later, Daphne took the check that had been hastily scrawled, raced down the steps to the street, and hightailed it up to the club as though her life depended on it.

You may take a lunch break now,” Maldwin announced to his little group of four.

“Thank you!” Harriet said cheerfully. “Can I bring anyone a sandwich from the deli?”

“No,” said Albert.

“Nah,” echoed Vinnie.

“I’m not very hungry,” Blaise said as politely as he could. He felt like wringing Harriet’s neck. She was like the kid in school who always reminded the teacher to give homework assignments.

“Okay,” Harriet said, wrinkling her little pug nose. “Maldwin, I’ll come back in a few minutes and do any extra work that might need doing around the apartment.”

“Take the whole hour off,” Maldwin urged her. Do me a favor, he thought. Do us all a favor.

Vinnie whispered to Albert, “Let’s go get a beer. This is going to be a long day.”

“Good thinking.”

Blaise went over to Maldwin. “Do you think I could have the key to the park? I just want to sit outside.”

“It’s cold,” Maldwin sniffed.

Blaise smiled. “I have a hat.”

Maldwin shrugged. “Why not?” He went into the kitchen and retrieved the key that was only given to residents of Gramercy Park. The lock was changed every year, and residents had to pay to get a new key. On a cold day like today there’d hardly be anyone there, so who could complain about a nonresident using the park? “Enjoy the fresh air,” he said, handing the key to Blaise.

Outside, Blaise went directly to the park and unlocked the gate. He was getting that feeling of claustrophobia he always experienced when things started closing in on him. It was cold and gray, but he needed to be outside. I want to go back to Florida, he thought, reaching in his coat pocket and pulling out the stretchy wool hat that he used when he went skiing. He looked around as he pulled it down over his hair. No one else was in the park.

He took a seat on the first bench and reached again into his pocket, this time for his cell phone. Flipping it open, he saw that he had a message. Probably Georgette with a new complaint, he thought. He pressed in his code, and when he heard her news he jumped up out of his seat. Frantically he started pacing as he dialed her cell number. “Where are they?” he screamed when she answered.

“In the sheep’s eyes!”

“What are you talking about?”

“Well, I was sitting here with Buttercup, feeling kind of sorry for myself, and then I leaned back and-”

“Get to the point!”

“The point is that those two stuffed sheep Nat has in his living room are where the diamonds are. These glass stones were in their eyes. He must have switched them.”

“What a nut case.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“Wait a minute.
Where
in his living room are the sheep?”

“Right in front of the window.”

“No they’re not.”

“Yes they are.”

“No they’re not, my little Buttercup,” Blaise repeated sarcastically. “They were absolutely not there last night.”

“Well then, where are they?”

“How am I supposed to know?”

Georgette started to cry. “I feel like Little Bo Peep.”

Blaise sat back down on the bench. “Yeah, well, her sheep weren’t worth millions.”

That remark made Georgette really sob.

“Listen,” Blaise said in a comforting tone. “I’ll go back in there and do my best to find out where they went.” He didn’t need Georgette falling apart. “Now dry your eyes and get dressed up for tonight. Because when we leave the party, something tells me we’ll be walking out of there millionaires. You’d better stick the gun in your purse.”

“Okay,” Georgette said, nervously. “I guess we might need it.”

“We’ll need it if anybody tries to stop us.” When he hung up, Blaise rolled his eyes. “Little Bo Peep,” he said aloud.

He didn’t know that Stanley had just walked up to the gate and was filming him.