The Celebutantes (22 page)

“I know you feel terrible right now,” Gunilla said. “But remember this: if an artist doesn't recognize the beauty before him, he'll never be able to paint it. Theo West, my dear, is no artist.”

Madison let the words sink in.
Really
sink in. She didn't know how to reply, but then again, there wasn't any need to reply—a true statement was final.

“Now, tell me, darling, to what do I owe the pleasure of this meeting?” Gunilla asked, her tone turning professional and curt.

Madison reached into her purse and grabbed the piece of paper on which she'd written the code. She handed it to Gunilla. “I'm correct in assuming that the code you see there belongs to the society, right?”

Gunilla squinted as she studied the code. “Oh, indeed,” she said. “It's one of ours. Every piece of art the society has ever acquired is given a code. Mind you, there are literally thousands of codes in our files by now. The society acquires all kinds of art, as you know—even art from up-and-coming artists whose names might never be well known.” She looked at the piece of paper again. “Does this code refer to an object you wish to study, darling?”

“Yes, it does.” Madison cleared her throat and fought to keep her composure. She wanted to get up and start tearing through the files until she found the very one that contained the mysterious work of art Elijah Traymore had been pursuing. But she had to remember her manners. She said, “I wanted to ask if maybe you remember the particular painting or object that code refers to, Mrs. Miskin. I believe it's a painting entitled
To the Penthouse.
Does that ring any bells?”

Gunilla's lips parted ever so slightly. She cocked her head to the left. Her expression started off as pensive, but it quickly changed to recognition. “Oh, why,
yes. Yes,
I
do
recall that painting. Yes indeed. Such a long time ago. Yes. Of course.
To the Penthouse.
Oh yes. Why, that must've been twenty years ago.”

“So then you know the painting,” Madison said excitedly. “And you think the society acquired it twenty years ago?”

“Yes,” Gunilla replied with a firm nod. “A fairly small canvas, but quite a beautiful one. A landscape of Manhattan, interestingly enough. Yes, I remember it now. Strikingly beautiful. I never did know much about the artist. Typical recluse, from what I recall. And now…let me see…if my memory is correct, I think it was the only painting ever done by that particular artist.”

Madison had inched to the very edge of her seat. “Where is the painting now? Do you remember the artist's name?”

“I'm afraid that's a blank, darling. But it's a small matter—a virtually unknown painting. Nothing ever came of it, as I recall. Twenty years ago, the society tried its best to promote emerging artists who showed great promise, and I'm sure that's what this acquisition was all about. Why are you interested in it, may I ask?”

Shit,
Madison thought,
how the hell do I answer that?
She thought for a few seconds but didn't come up with anything good. “Well, actually…,” she began. “Well…it's because I…well…”

Gunilla smiled. “It doesn't really matter, love, does it? I'm sure a future art historian such as yourself has plenty of reasons.”

“Yes. I do. Does that mean I can search the archives?”

“Records going this far back would have been sealed by now,” Gunilla replied.

Madison's heart sank. “Sealed?”

“Yes, darling. You would need the approval of the executive board to riffle through them.”

“Approval?” Madison repeated, her heart sinking lower.

“And that could take weeks, I'm afraid.”

“Weeks?” Madison didn't care how childish she probably sounded, repeating Gunilla's words like a toddler. She was about to launch into an articulate protest when Geoffrey came back into the room and addressed Gunilla.

“Ambassador Miskin,” he said quietly. “I'm sorry to interrupt. But the First Lady is on line one. She says she'd like to speak with you about the upcoming gala at the White House.”

Gunilla sighed lightly. “Oh, yes. I'd forgotten she was going to call. Lovely woman, but I don't know what she ever saw in that husband of hers.” She gave Madison a warm smile. “Darling, if you'll excuse me…”

“Of course.” Madison stood up, kissed Gunilla's cheek, and then turned and strode out of the room. She picked up her pace as she reached the parlor. “Coco!” she called out in a harsh whisper. “Where the hell are you?”

Coco came out of one of the adjoining rooms. “This place rocks! Did you know they have a bunch of Warhols in there?”

Madison grabbed her friend by the wrist and together the girls raced up the grand staircase, winding around the massive crystal chandelier until they reached the third-floor library. “Just play along with me,” Madison said quietly, gesturing toward the mousy-looking woman sitting at the reception desk a few paces ahead.

“What are you doing?” Coco asked.

“I can't explain right now. Just follow my lead, okay?”

Coco shrugged. “Okay.”

Her head held high and her shoulders thrown back, Madison walked into the library. The walls were lined with books. The shelves behind the French doors were dusty and cluttered with paper. “Good morning,” Madison said curtly to the receptionist.

The middle-aged woman stood up, dropping her pen onto the desk. “Oh, Ambassador Hamilton. Good morning. How may I help you?”

Madison retrieved the sheet of paper from her purse and handed it to the woman. “I'll need the file that corresponds with this code, please.” She kept her voice sharp and businesslike to project a slight air of bitchiness—which she hated doing. But being sugary and polite wouldn't work in this case.

The older woman sat back down. She quickly typed the code into her computer. Then, as her eyes traced over the information that had appeared on her screen, she grimaced. “I'm so sorry. This is an archived file. You would need permission from the board to see—”

“I've already received the board's permission,” Madison cut in sharply. “Don't you
know
that?”

“Well…no.” The woman blinked and pushed her red-framed glasses farther up the bridge of her nose.

Madison sighed. She tossed her head back. “I don't have much time to spare, so please just get me the file right away.”

“I can't do that. I'm sorry. Maybe I should call downstairs and ask Gunilla—”

“Don't you dare call her!” Madison snapped. “Gunilla's on the phone with the First Lady and can't be disturbed. And I'm late for a brunch with my publicist. Now, if you can't get me that file, I'll just have to voice my concerns to the board.”

“A complaint from an ambassador,” Coco said, inching closer to the desk. “That could be really
bad
for you.”

Blinking rapidly, her lips twitching, the woman stood up again. She turned around and disappeared behind a door.

Madison ran a hand over her face. “Oh, God—did I sound totally horrible?”

“Welcome to Bitch City,” Coco said. “You'd better hope she doesn't come out of there with a can of hair spray ready to fight.”

But when the receptionist came out of the back room, she was smiling and holding a weathered brown folder. “Here it is,” she said. “It's not a very big file.” She held it out.

Her heart racing, Madison took the file with a curt smile and walked across the room to the small reading table beside a window. She unclipped the edges of the file, quickly opened it, and began to scour its contents. On the very top of the first page were the words
To the Penthouse, painting acquisition, 10 October 1988.
Following this was a description of the work:
A 3 x 4 canvas done in oil, magnificent use of space and color, highly original texture and execution; the painting is a landscape of the Manhattan skyline as seen from the penthouse of a high-rise apartment building. By first-time artist L. K. Corcoran.

Corcoran.

Corky.

Madison heard herself gasp. She flipped to the next page, which was a copy of the contract the society had offered to the artist twenty years ago.
To the Penthouse
had been purchased for the modest sum of twenty-five hundred dollars. But who was L. K. Corcoran? Nowhere in the pages was there a biography of the artist, or even an address. Was L. K. a man or a woman? From her own research into the society's past, Madison knew that the small painting had been acquired because it had showed unique promise, and because the society's mission supported up-and-coming artists. But L. K. Corcoran was an unknown artist. Had L. K. established him-or herself over the years, there would have undoubtedly been more biographical information in the file. As far as Madison could tell, L. K. Corcoran had sold only one painting.

Corky.

But why had Elijah been trying to track this particular painting? Why had he become obsessed with the artist?

She flipped to the back of the file, her heart racing. That was when she found the wrinkled yellowed envelope. She opened it and three photographs fell out. Grasping the edges with trembling fingers, she stared down at the colorful images of
To the Penthouse
that had been taken twenty years ago. A gasp escaped her lips.

She knew instantly why the painting looked so familiar. She had seen it last night, held within a ring of candlelight, hanging on the wall of Poppy van Lulu's spirit room.

19

Brooklyn

T
he fury Lex had been feeling boiled over the moment she set eyes on Brooklyn DiMarco. He was standing by the front desk in uniform, waiting for her. She had called him an hour ago and told him that something was terribly wrong and that she sure as hell had to talk to him. He'd sounded scared. But he hadn't tried to brush her off as she had expected him to.

Now, as she and Park strolled across the lobby, Lex took a series of deep, cleansing breaths. There was no easy way to do this. She had to keep her suspicions in front of her while shoving away her attraction to Brooklyn, which was a lot like trying to scale the side of a building in heels: nearly impossible.

“Now, just remember to be cool,” Park whispered in her ear. “And don't fight with him. The best way to get someone to talk is by staying quiet.”

Lex shot her a tense glance. “Well, if I get loud and fling my purse at him, feel free to jump in and save the day, okay?”

“No swinging of purses,” Park warned her. “That purse can very easily be a lethal weapon, and one murder is enough, thank you very much.”

They approached the front desk.

“Hey,” Brooklyn said brightly. He cracked a ghost of a smile. The look in his eyes was pensive, and his smile quickly turned down to a tight-lipped grimace. “Uh…what's up?”

Lex took off her sunglasses and hung them on the front of her shirt. “Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”

“Yeah, sure. Follow me.” Brooklyn turned around and led them past the desk and through a closed door beside the concierge stand.

The room was small and cramped, with a single two-seat sofa and a scuffed table. The walls were bleak. The overhead light was dingy.

“This is kind of our little break room,” Brooklyn explained. “It used to be a big closet, but they cleaned it out last year. Now we get to sneak in here when no one's watching and catch a few minutes' rest.” He cleared his throat nervously. “Um, you want something to drink?”

“We're not here on a pleasure call,” Park said quietly. “This is business.”

“Business?” He raised an eyebrow and looked at Lex.

“Yes,” she said. “Business. Because you lied to me.”

Brooklyn started. “Lied to you? About what? What are you talking about?”

“Why don't you have a seat?” Park said, pointing to the sofa.

Brooklyn lowered himself slowly onto the musty pillows.

Lex sat down beside him but kept her body a good distance from his. If their knees so much as touched, she knew she would start thinking about the hot kiss they had shared last night.

Park leaned against the small table.

“Anyone wanna tell me what this is about?” Brooklyn asked sharply.

“Look,” Lex began, staring down at her hands. “I know we've just met and we don't really know each other well, but I like you and—”

“I like you too, Lex,” he cut in briskly. “You know that.”

She sighed quietly. “Yeah, I do know that. But I don't like it when guys lie to me, especially when there's a crime involved.”

“A crime?” Brooklyn's voice rose.

“Yeah,” Park said. “Remember the body that fell from the penthouse?”

He made a stupid face. “Duh. Of course I do. But—wait—what are you saying? You think I lied about something?”

“You did,” Lex said. “You told me that you had never met Elijah Traymore before he and Tallula and Ina checked in here. And that's not true.”

Brooklyn was silent. Then he shrugged and shook his head. “It's…not?”

“No, Brock, it's not.” Park stared at him. “You know exactly what we're talking about.”

“I do?”

“Stop playing dumb!” Lex snapped. “You met Elijah Traymore a few months ago! He came to your school and gave some sort of talk!”

“And you probably didn't know this,” Park chimed in, “but there's a picture on the school's Web site that proves it.”

Brooklyn closed his eyes. He shifted uncomfortably in the sofa. He ran his fingers under the collar of his shirt. “Well…yeah…okay. That's true. Elijah did come to my school, and yeah, I met him. But—”

“Why did you lie about it?” Lex cut him off sharply.

He swallowed hard. “Because it was really no big deal. I shook his hand, we talked for a few minutes. Someone snapped a pic of us talking, but that was it.”

“So why lie about it?” Park kept her tone even-keeled, her stare hard and unflinching.

“Why lie about it?” Brooklyn repeated. “Are you serious? Of course I don't want people knowing I met Elijah. You mention one thing like that when someone gets killed, and the cops start crawling all over you.”

“But if you're innocent and have nothing to hide, why would you care if the cops start crawling all over you?” Lex asked.

“Because it's scary!” he replied, his voice rising. “Who the hell wants to get caught up in something like this? I was here when he got shoved off that balcony! That's all the cops would've needed—to poke around and make me a suspect, even though it would've only lasted for like ten seconds. But ya know, it wasn't exactly easy for my dad to get me this job here. He had to pull a lot of strings and I complain about it and shit like that, but the truth is, I make good money here and I don't wanna lose it.”

“But how well
did
you know Elijah?” Park asked. “Did you guys talk to each other after you met him at your school? Did he recognize you when he checked in here?”

“I didn't keep in touch with him, if that's what you're asking,” Brooklyn answered quickly. “Why the hell would he have kept in touch with me? I'm nobody—he was a celebrity. I spoke to him for about three minutes that day at school, and that was it.”

“And did he recognize you when he checked in?” Lex repeated.

Brooklyn sighed again. “I didn't kill him, okay? I mean—holy Jeez! You don't really think that! You're not serious about this!”

Lex and Park looked at each other as silence fell over the room. “Just answer the question,” Lex said firmly. “Did he recognize you?”

“Yes.” He closed his eyes again. “He recognized me.”

Park was quick to catch the marked hesitation in Brooklyn's response. She didn't like it one bit. He was totally hiding something. Aware that it was time to up the ante on this interrogation, she stood up straight and began pacing the floor—back and forth, back and forth—her hands locked behind her back, her head held high—back and forth.

When Brooklyn opened his eyes again, he followed Park as she moved from left to right, then as she circled the small sofa. “Hey—what're you doing?”

“I'm just thinking,” Park replied. “If you're totally innocent and have nothing at all to do with what happened, why do you look so scared?”

“I don't look scared,” he said defensively, and unconvincingly.

“Oh, please.” Lex clucked her tongue. “You totally look like you're about to piss in your pants.”

“A little decorum, Lex,” Park said quietly. “We don't say
piss,
we say
tinkle.
”

Brooklyn slipped his fingers underneath the collar of his shirt again. He had begun to sweat profusely. “I'm telling you the truth here, okay? I had nothing to do with Elijah's murder. I didn't push anybody off some balcony. Hell—I helped you try to figure stuff out, didn't I? I broke you into the penthouse!”

“We're not talking about us here,” Lex shot back. “We're talking about you. If you're hiding something, spill it.”

“The only thing I haven't told anybody is…” He grunted, annoyed and on edge.

Park stopped walking. She was standing directly in front of him. She trained her gaze on him and didn't so much as blink.

“Here's the thing,” Brooklyn said. “When Elijah checked in, he recognized me, and I thought it was really cool and he said hi and asked me about school and all that stuff. I was really flattered. I mean, the guy was, like, famous. So anyway, the day before he got killed, I was walking through the lobby and he sees me and he goes, ‘Hey, Brock. Can I talk to you?' And I was like, ‘Yeah, sure.' But then he walked into the bathroom and told me to follow him. And I thought it was weird and all, and I knew it wasn't something cool because as soon as we got inside he looked under the stalls to make sure no one was there. And then he turns to me and he goes, ‘Listen, I need a favor.' Then he took out this small yellow envelope and held it up. And he goes, ‘Can you hold this for me for like two days?' And I told him that I could put it in a hotel safe for him, and he said he didn't want that. He just wanted someone to sort of…I don't know…hide it for him.

“So anyway, at first I said no because it seemed totally shady. I wasn't down with it. An envelope? Why not just put it in the hotel safe? Well, I knew why—because he didn't want to leave a paper trail. Weird. So I said no again, and then…well…” He sighed heavily and stared down at the floor.

“Then what?” Lex asked impatiently. “Finish the story.”

“Then Elijah took out a wad of cash and he handed me five hundred bucks,” Brooklyn said quietly, reluctantly. “And I know it was stupid of me and all, but, like, it was five hundred bucks. Clean cash. So I took the freaking envelope and held it for him. But listen—if anyone finds out about that, I'll totally get fired. And the cops will be all over me for something stupid. And my dad will get in trouble and—”

“Just forget that for a second,” Park cut in quickly. “What was in the envelope?”

“I don't know,” Brooklyn said. “I…I didn't look.”

“Bullshit.” Lex shook her head. “You so know you opened that envelope.”

He sighed again. “Okay—I did. I couldn't help it. I carried it around in my pocket for a day and I got curious. There was a key in the envelope. That was it.”

“A key? Where is it now? Do you have it?” Lex batted his arm.

“No, the morning of the luncheon, Elijah took the little envelope back from me,” Brooklyn explained. “And I kept the cash. End of story.”

Park hadn't really heard the last chunk of his answer. She was too busy scrambling for her purse, digging inside it. Her heart hammering, she found the key that she'd picked up a few feet from Elijah's body and held it up and out. “Is this it?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. “Does this look familiar?”

Brooklyn shot off the sofa and grabbed the key from Park's hand. “Holy Jeez!” he cried. “This is it—I mean, I'm pretty sure this is it.” He stared down at it with wide, nervous eyes. “It's a multi-lock key.”

“A what?” Park and Lex asked in unison.

“A multi-lock key,” Brooklyn repeated. “See the blue top? It means you can't make a copy of it unless you have the card it comes with. You pay extra for that, ya know? Hey—wait a minute! Why do you have this key? I gave it back to Elijah!”

Park shifted her weight from one foot to the other, pondering her response. She looked at Lex, but Lex's face was as blank as hers.

“Hello?” Brooklyn snapped. “Like,
hel-lo?
Now who's got some explaining to do?”

“All right,” Park said quickly. She whisked the key out of his fingers. “I found this next to Elijah's body. I had no proof it actually belonged to him—until now.”

Brooklyn's jaw dropped. “You
stole
evidence from a crime scene?”

“I borrowed it,” Park answered, shrugging. “I was planning to give it back.”

“Oh really?” he said, raising his eyebrows. “What were you gonna do? Put it in an envelope and mail it to heaven?”

Lex got up and waved her hands. “Okay, people. Let's chill. Brooklyn, when did you give that key back to Elijah?”

“Wednesday, right before he came into the luncheon. He came up to me. He didn't say anything and neither did I. I knew what he wanted, so I just handed it over.”

“Well, can you answer me another question?” Park asked. “Where were you when Elijah was shoved off the balcony?”

Brooklyn crossed his arms over his chest in a defensive manner. “You did not just ask me that.”

“Oh, but I did.” Park put her hands on her hips and struck a fearless pose.

Brooklyn stared at Lex. “You know, I'm totally offended here.”

“Just answer the question,” Lex said. “Where were you?”

“Running around the hotel, doing my job. Like always.”

Park and Lex exchanged dubious glances.

“But,” Brooklyn said, “I might as well tell you right now since you'll probably find out anyway. I
did
happen to get into the elevator with Tallula Kayson and her assistant when they left the luncheon. I got off on the sixth floor—and I have three witnesses who'll vouch for me on that.” He smirked sarcastically. “So
there.
”

“Did Tallula or Ina say anything to you? Did you guys speak?” Lex batted his arm again.

“No, nothing,” Brooklyn replied.

“What were Tallula and Ina doing?”

He shrugged. “Talking, I guess. I don't know. Going through their bags, putting on makeup. Stuff girls do.”

Lex felt a little lightbulb go on over her head. “Hey, did you see Ina put on any of that moisturizer we found in the room last night? Remember?”

Brooklyn thought about it for a while. “Actually, yeah. I think she did. She slathered stuff on her hands. I think that was right about the time I got off the elevator.”

“Shit,” Park whispered. “Brooklyn—you might totally have to tell that to the cops! That's like…major info.”

“It is? Why?”

Park flashed back to the afternoon following the luncheon. Brooklyn hadn't seen Elijah's body up close; he didn't know about the semi-handprint on the white fabric of Elijah's shirt. “Forget about it for now,” she said. “But don't forget about it altogether, okay?”