Through the Grinder (23 page)

“Break a leg. Once you’re changed, you should be able to move around freely and look for Joy. I’m going to try to find the kitchen.”

It took me ten minutes to locate the damn thing. Between banks of steel refrigerators and an expansive range, dozens of cooks in white coats were preparing trays of elaborate canapés—all vegan.

“Excuse me,” I said to a man who was checking the trays as they left the kitchen. “I’m looking for a young woman working with one of the caterers. Joy Allegro? I was supposed to meet her here.”

“Not here, upstairs,” the man replied. “We’re the Puck caterers. The private caterers are working the Skylight Room upstairs. Are you one of the wait staff?”

“Why…uh…Yes.”

Since I wasn’t dressed as a guest for a formal function, I figured it was the only answer I could give. Telling him anything else might have just gotten me thrown out—and I couldn’t risk it. Besides, the Skylight Room sounded exclusive, but posing as a waitress would certainly get me right in.

“Thank goodness!” he said. “The boss told me if one or two of the no-shows didn’t get here soon I’d have to send one of my own staff up there to fill in.”

“Well, here I am!” I chirped. This was perfect. I’d worked for a caterer part-time in Jersey, so this act was sure to be a breeze.

“Yeah, none of my girls wanted to wear the outfits.”

My blood froze. “Outfits?”

“You can change in here, but hurry,” the man said, opening a locker room. “Victoria’s Secret contributed this stuff for the event, so you’ll probably find something that fits. Let me know when you’re done and I’ll take you upstairs.”

I hesitated and I guess he saw the dread on my face. “Oh, don’t worry. It’s not underwear you’ll be wearing.”

“Thank goodness.”

“More like a flimsy nightgown kind of thing.”

I
emerged from the dressing room ten minutes later wearing red mules and a silky floor-length nightgown with a low but not grossly immodest neckline. The design was a pink floral pattern with tiny red roses sewn around the neckline, and the material itself was clingy, accenting my curves. Still, it was awfully thin material and downright drafty. Okay, I admit, it looked quite elegant, and I might have loved wearing it, too, if I were at
home,
in my
bedroom
.

The chef returned. I suppressed the urge to cover myself.

“The service elevator is taking more cases of beverages upstairs. It’ll take some time, so just go through the main ballroom and use the elevator up front.”

“What? Through the main ballroom? Like this?”

“You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of—”

Oh, good god.

“Besides, compared to the women out there serving drinks, you’re dressed modestly. Anyway, there are two hundred people in the Skylight Room who are going to see you in that getup, so you might as well get used to it. There are a lot of celebrities upstairs, too, so don’t lose your cool.”

He pushed the kitchen door open. “Right through the middle of the room to the door on your right, then up the elevator to the top. Speak to Ellie at the bar up there, and she’ll get you a serving tray.”

I didn’t want to do it, but it was the only way to get to Joy. So, after a deep breath, I took the plunge.

The floor of the brilliantly illuminated main ballroom was jammed with elegant partygoers drifting gracefully between the columns to the strains of harp music, the men in black tie, the women in floor-length gowns or skimpy haute couture. Jewels dripped from throats and sparkled on ears and fingers. Even the lingerie models who drifted across the hardwood floor serving refreshments looked somehow in character with the décor, like delicately flitting fairies in a Victorian painting.

Only two things ruined the picture perfection of the scene.

Hanging from the main ballroom’s sixteen-foot ceilings were huge, bloody sides of beef, shanks of lamb, whole, gutted suckling pigs, and hundreds of dead chickens. Though it didn’t take me long to figure out that, mercifully, all the animals and animal parts were fake—rubber chickens, luridly painted plaster of Paris shanks, etc.—the message was far from subtle.

“A little much, don’t you think, Brooks?” I muttered, frowning at the collection of fake dead fowl.

The second disturbing element was the beautiful couple posing on pedestals near the ballroom entrance across the room. They were two of the most perfect physical specimens I’d ever seen. The man wore nothing more than a Speedo, the woman a thong and skimpy bikini top. Their muscles were toned and tight, their flesh smooth and healthy—and divided by bold black ink into their various cuts of meat, just like the poster for this event.

I got about halfway across the ballroom when I heard a woman’s voice slurring a familiar name.

“Oh, Maah-Teyyy-Oooooh.”

I turned to find Matteo, wearing velvet slippers, silk boxers, a look of stunned terror—and nothing else. He was obviously rushing to get my attention when an older woman had intercepted him, her spidery arm locking itself around my ex-husband’s bicep.

I recognized her at once. It was Daphne Devonshire.

Well, well, well, Daphne, whaddya know.

The last time I saw Madame’s friend, she was a well-preserved glamour queen who had gotten into the habit of luring my husband to a seaside love nest in Jamaica. But that was almost fifteen years ago and those years had not been kind. Daphne’s once classic features now appeared frozen in a plastic surgery and Botox-induced death mask. Her skin, once tanned and healthy, took on the sallow look of a heavy drinker and excessive smoker. Worst of all, her lycra, strapless number was far from figure flattering. Daphne still looked shapely, but that gown was made for a twenty-five-year-old built like Pamela Anderson—not a woman in her late sixties.

“Matteo, darling! It’s so wonderful to see you,” Daphne cried, air kissing him. Her arm never loosed its iron lock around his bicep. As she talked she spilled some of her drink. “Remember what I used to sing to you down in Jamaica,
mahn?
”

Now she was affecting a Jamaican accent, a really bad Jamaican accent.

“Maah-Teyyy-Oooooh, Maah-tey-eh-eh-Oooooh. Daylight’s gone and you’re comin’ to me home…”

Matt looked at me with desperation. His eyes were imploring.

“Joy’s upstairs,” I told him. “I’ll see you up there.” Then I blew him a kiss and moved on, leaving Matteo to extract himself from his ex-lovebird’s death grip all by his little old self.

I hadn’t gone far when I heard a familiar female voice call my name.

“Clare, my dear, that’s quite a daring outfit, though I must admit you carry it off well.”

I turned to find Madame, my ex-mother-in-law and owner of the Blend, standing in front of me. She was arm in elegant arm with a “special friend” she’d met a few months ago, Dr. Grey Temples—a.k.a. oncologist Gary McTavish.

Standing there, feeling half naked, I think I may have blushed.

“You remember Dr. McTavish,” Madame said, deftly covering my discomfort.

He smiled and took my hand. “You look stunning, my dear.”

“Yes, she does,” said Madame critically. “Though a little jewelry would have made her seem a little less…naked.”

Madame gazed past me, searching. “Are you here with anyone in particular?”

I bit my tongue about the murders and Brooks Newman and my trying to get to Joy. I’d sound like a raving lunatic blurting it all out for one thing, and it would just waste more time for another. Neither was this the time or place to give Madame a heart attack over the safety of her granddaughter. I just needed to extract myself politely and get my drafty rear upstairs.

“Matteo,” I replied quickly. “I’m here with Matt.”

Madame’s eyes lit up.

“That boy of mine,” she said. “He’s been back from Africa for days and hasn’t visited me yet. Where is he?”

I glanced over my shoulder. “Well, I…”

Madame frowned when she looked around the room and found her son, still trapped with her old friend, Daphne Devonshire. (Really, an
ex
-friend ever since her fling with Matteo.)

“Oh, god, Clare,” Madame said with a sad sigh. “Why did he ever get involved with
that
woman?”

“We weren’t getting along. It was the early nineties. Rap was eclipsing New Wave…”

“He was using drugs!”

“That too.”

Madame shook her head. “Cocaine is a terrible thing.”

“Perhaps you should rescue him,” I suggested, ready to bolt.

“Perhaps we should let him lie in the maid he’s bedded. Perhaps—”

But Dr. McTavish took Madame’s hand. “Perhaps we shall,” he said, then led her across the floor and toward her son.

I reached the elevator to the Skylight Room without further incident. As I expected, the security person guarding the door saw my outfit and nodded, assuming I was part of the staff, and waved me on. I boarded the empty elevator and rode it upstairs.

When the doors slid open a handsome young sandy-haired man in black tie was standing in the hallway. He looked very familiar.

“Have a nice evening,” he said as I stepped out of the elevator and he stepped in. The deep, resonant voice triggered my memory, and I realized I had just passed Pat Kiernan, Esther’s and Joy’s favorite morning anchor for New York’s basic cable Channel 1.

I turned, but the doors had already closed. “Well, I sort of met him,” I murmured, plowing ahead. “I’m sure Esther and Joy will be impressed.”

Up ahead, loud voices and bursts of laughter poured through the wide open doors to the Skylight Room. I moved quickly into the throng and toward the bar. Someone was taking so many pictures that the flashes made it impossible to make out many faces.

“Ms. Cosi! Is that you?”

The shocked voice belonged to a young man standing near the bar, a classmate of Joy’s named Ray Harding. He’d been by the Blend several times with Joy, so he knew me well, but poor Ray was used to seeing his classmate’s mother in a giant blue apron, not a Victoria’s Secret nightgown. He appeared embarrassed.
Well, kid, join the club.

“Have you seen Joy?” I asked.

He nodded. “Come with me.”

Ray led me out of the crush of people and into a back area that looked like a very large closet stacked with chairs and tables.

“I’m sorry to tell you that Joy had a really bad night.”

“Is she okay? What happened?”

“She’s fine. But she left. I understand that creep Brooks Newman made a pretty obnoxious pass at her. Pawed her up and everything. Amber told me all about it. She said Joy didn’t want to cause any trouble for our teacher, so she just pretended she wasn’t feeling well and left.”

My fists clenched. “Where is she?”

“On her way to the Blend. She left twenty minutes ago.”

“Where’s Brooks Newman now?”

Ray frowned. “Back there, in the Skylight Room, sucking up to the high-end celebrity donors and sucking down vodka and tonics—a lot. I’ve been helping at the bar, and I’ve served him five so far.”

Good,
I thought.
That means he’s not out on the street stalking Joy. All I had to do now was find Matteo and get back to the Blend—and never let Joy out of our sight until Quinn arrested Brooks Newman for murder.

“How can I get out of here fast?”

“Not the guest elevators,” said Ray. “Too many people using them. Folks have been complaining all night. Go through the kitchen and use the service elevator—” He pointed. “We just finished unloading some cases, and it’s free right now. Should come right up for you.”

Ray went back to the main room and I ducked into the kitchen. I pressed the button and waited for the service elevator to arrive. I heard a door open behind me and turned.

Brooks Newman was standing not ten feet away, and a little unsteadily.

“Hey, babe,” he called, waving to me. “Need some help with a group. Come with me.”

I turned my back on him, pretending I didn’t hear.

Heavy footsteps fell behind me, then a strong hand gripped my arm.

“Hey, didn’t you hear me? I said I need a waitress,” Brooks said, pulling me around. His eyes took a second to focus. “Clare?”

“Let me go,” I said.

But Newman was awake now. “You helping out your daughter again?”

“I said let me go.”

Thank goodness, he did. But he didn’t go away. “Nice outfit. You look hot, Clare. Really hot.”

I heard the elevator rumbling in the shaft behind me. When was it going to arrive?

“Why don’t you join me fer a drink?” he said, slurring his words a little.

“I’ve got to go,” I said, backing away. “My date’s downstairs, waiting.”

“Let him wait,” Brooks said, cornering me.

Whoever said vodka is undetectable is full of crap, because I could smell the alcohol on Brooks Newman’s breath. Maybe I should have been afraid, but I wasn’t. Unlike Joy, I knew what Brooks Newman was, so I wouldn’t be such an easy victim.

The elevator gears squeaked as the car rolled even with the door.

“Don’t go yet, Clare. Let’s hook up for the night. I’ll be done here in a little while.”

“No, sorry,” I said in a neutral voice.

That’s when he lunged at me. His move was so sudden it had to have been uncalculated. Like a clumsy bear he pawed at me. I fought him off and lurched out of his grip just as the elevator doors slid open.

I got away on cue. Part of my gown didn’t. With a tear, a considerable section of the flimsy material ripped away.

I screamed, trying to cover myself as a massive form shot out of the elevator, nearly bowling me over.

Then came a howl of pain, and a metallic clink.

Holding my gown in place, I turned to find Mike Quinn, legs braced. He held Brooks Newman in his grip. Newman’s arms had been handcuffed behind his back and Quinn was bending them in such a way as to force Brooks to his knees.

“Are you okay?” Quinn asked over Brooks’s outraged cries.

“Arrest him,” I said levelly. “Brooks Newman killed those women. He met them through SinglesNYC. He slept with them, or tried to sleep with them, and then he murdered them.”

“What?” Brooks Newman squealed. “I never killed anybody.”

“Shut your mouth,” Quinn warned.

Brooks Newman whimpered.

Suddenly Matteo burst into the kitchen.

“Clare!” he cried, racing to my side. “Are you all right? Where’s Joy?”

“She’s safe. She’s on her way back to the Blend.”

“Then she may not be safe,” said Quinn.

“But you have the killer right there.”

“Sorry, Clare. Brooks Newman is innocent. I came here because of your call, but I know Newman isn’t guilty—not of murder anyway. I investigated him early on. He had a rock-solid alibi for the time of all three murders. But more importantly, I know who the killer is.”

“Please, not Bruce Bowman,” I said. “Not your theory about Bruce again.”

“Not Bruce. His ex-wife, Maxine Bowman. When you called, I was on my way back from Westchester. I’d been interviewing a police detective up there as part of my background on Bruce Bowman. The detective was absolutely convinced Maxine Bowman had killed a young intern in Bruce’s office about a year ago. He just couldn’t prove it to the District Attorney’s satisfaction.

“Seems one night this female intern went up to the roof of Bowman’s building, where she worked, and subsequently plunged to her death. It was publicly ruled a suicide, but the detective discovered that the intern recently had begun dating Bruce Bowman, who had just separated from his wife. The victim’s roommate claimed Maxine had started harassing and stalking the intern.

“Unfortunately, Maxine Bowman hired the best lawyers in Westchester County. They provided an alibi for Maxine, challenged the veracity of the roommate, who had a record of drug use, and privately pressured the DA into agreeing there wasn’t enough evidence for a solid case. This detective still disagrees with that conclusion, but his hands were tied. As of now, the Westchester authorities have lost track of Maxine. We know she moved to New York City and is using another name. But she can’t just vanish. We’ll find her.”