Manolos in Manhattan (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-Four

An hour later, she was craving a crumpet drenched in butter, or perhaps a red-velvet cupcake with cream cheese icing, when the doorbell rang.

Natalie got up and made her way to the door. She peeked out the peephole and was surprised to see the silver-haired gentleman standing outside.

She swung the door open. “Mr Holland? What a nice surprise. Please, come in.”

“I don’t want to trouble you if you’re busy, my dear,” he said. “I stopped by the bakery on my way home this morning and thought you might enjoy a treat.” He held out a white bag.

Nat opened it and peered inside, then stared back up at him in surprise. “That’s amazing. How did you know?”

“It’s only a cupcake.”

“It’s a red-velvet cupcake from Crumbs! How on earth did you know I was just this minute craving one?”

He smiled as she ushered him inside the hallway. “I’d say it’s magic on my part, but the truth is, when I met your husband Rhys, he mentioned you had a fondness for them.”

“Obsession, actually,” she corrected him, and beckoned him to follow her into the kitchen. She set the plastic cupcake container on the table and turned to him. “Do you fancy a cup of coffee and half of this?”

“Coffee would be very nice. But the cupcake is for you.”

In a matter of moments she brewed him a cup of Sumatran dark roast and handed it to him. “Cream, or sugar?”

“Neither, I drink it black these days. I can’t have sugar, and dairy doesn’t agree with me. Being old isn’t much fun.”

“You’re not old,” Nat scolded him, and sat across from him at the table. “You’re as young as you feel.”

“Then I’m very old indeed.” He smiled and glanced around the kitchen. “Very nice,” he approved. “I admit, I was curious to see what the decorators did with the place.”

“Would you like a tour? I’d be happy to show you around.”

He agreed, after assuring her that he didn’t want to intrude on her time, and she led him through the living and dining rooms, the bedrooms, and paused in the nursery doorway.

“This will be the nursery,” she explained. “I’ll most likely have the baby in London, but we want a place for the baby here in Manhattan, too.”

“Very sensible. You’ll need it when you visit us again. As I hope you’ll do, and often.”

“Oh, I will,” Natalie assured him. “I adore New York.”

They ended where they’d begun, in the living room, and Mr Holland glanced at the painting of her father above the mantle.

“What a striking portrait,” he murmured.

Natalie nodded. “My father, Roger Dashwood. He died, many years ago. He committed suicide when I was ten.”
Now why
, she wondered,
did I mention that
? It wasn’t something she normally ever discussed with anyone, except Rhys.

“I’m very sorry,” Holland said gravely. “What a great tragedy.” He studied the picture with interest. “It’s a wonderful likeness, though, isn’t it?”

“You knew my father?”

“Not well, no. We met once or twice, at charity functions. He had...” He paused. “Forgive me for being indelicate, but he had quite a way with the ladies.”

Nat smiled ruefully. “Yes, he did.”

“And unless I’m mistaken,” he went on, his eyes intent on the portrait, “this was painted by Sir William Tennant.”

Again, Natalie was surprised. “Yes. How did you know?”

“I’m something of an art collector, my dear. Your father’s was the last portrait Sir William ever painted. As such, it’s famous – and highly coveted by collectors.”

“Well, I supposed it had some value, but...” her voice trailed off. “I had no idea it was so highly regarded in the art world. It’s just a painting of my dad, you know? It hung in the London office behind Grandfather’s desk for so many years that we none of us even noticed it any longer. Grandfather offered it to me when he redecorated.”

“Ah yes, Sir Richard.” He turned away from the painting and smiled. “Please give him my regards if you happen to speak to him. And now, unfortunately,” he announced, “I must go, and depart your charming company. Thank you for the tour, it was most interesting.”

“You’re very welcome. And thank you for the cupcake.” Natalie followed him to the front door and added, “I promise to devour it the moment you leave.”

“Excellent.” He took her hand, his eyes dancing. “Enjoy every decadent, red-velvet crumb, Mrs Dashwood-Gordon.”

“Natalie, please. And I will.”

Still smiling, she closed the door. On impulse she wandered into the living room and went to stand before her father’s painting and studied it with new eyes.

She had no idea the portrait was worth so much money. Of course, Natalie decided, she should notify Sir Richard, and Mum. Her lips turned up in a wry smile. Her mother would want the painting back straightaway once she knew how valuable it was. She had a kitchen renovation to fund, after all.

As she turned away and felt in her pocket for her mobile, Natalie’s heel caught the edge of the hearth, and she stumbled. She regained her balance; but her phone flew out of her hands and landed on the carpet, narrowly missing the black marble tiles.

“Crikey,” she muttered, shaken, and lowered herself awkwardly to retrieve her phone. “I’ve got to be a bit more careful.” She laid a hand on her stomach. “Sorry for the scare, Jellybean.”

With a sigh, she reached for her phone, and it was then that she saw it – something small and round and silver ‒ gleaming on the edge of the hearth.

Curious, she picked it up and turned it round in her fingers. It was a button. And not just any button – it was embossed with what looked like the alma mater of a university, or the emblem of a club.

“How odd,” Natalie said aloud.

It wasn’t tarnished, so it hadn’t been there long. She reached for the coffee table and gripped it, heaving herself, with no small difficulty, back to her feet.

She studied the button once again. It wasn’t Rhys’s, she was sure of it. She’d remember such a distinctive design.

But if it wasn’t her husband’s button, then whose was it?

All at once she remembered Mr Holland’s blazer. It was a dark navy blue, well-tailored and obviously very expensive. And it had silver buttons. This had to be to his.

Natalie decided to go upstairs and return it right away. It’d be a shame if Mr Holland couldn’t wear such a lovely blazer again...not that he probably didn’t have a dozen others.

Oh well, she’d nothing better to do, at any rate. She pocketed the button, grabbed her keys, and left the apartment.

The door to 1213 swung open, and Morris Holland regarded her in surprise. “Natalie. How nice to see you again, and so soon.”

He wasn’t wearing his suit jacket now, she noticed.

“Hello. Sorry to bother you,” Natalie apologized, “but I found this just now, and I believe it belongs to you.” She held out the button.

He reached out to take it from her. “Where did you find this?” he asked with a frown.

“In our apartment, by the fireplace hearth. I caught my heel in one of the tiles, and tripped, and I saw it on the floor.”

“My dear girl,” he said as his face creased in concern, “are you all right? You didn’t fall, I hope?”

“No,” she assured him. “I caught myself in time. I’m a bit clumsy these days.” She glanced at the button in his hand. “So – it’s yours, then, isn’t it?”

His frown deepened. “No,” he said, his words certain. “It’s not. I’ve never seen it before.”

“Really?” she said, surprised. “Oh...I was so sure it was yours. It looked like one of the buttons on the blazer you wore when you brought me the cupcake.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry, but it isn’t mine. The buttons on my jacket are quite plain. I shall keep it and turn it in to the front desk ‒ with your permission, of course.”

“Oh. Yes. Certainly.”

“I really do appreciate your stopping by.”

“Thank you.” Natalie hesitated. She’d been so sure it was Mr Holland’s button. “Sorry,” she added, and turned to go. “Have a lovely afternoon.”

“Goodbye, Natalie. And thank you.” And with that, he gave her a brief smile and closed the door.

And as she left, it occurred to her that he hadn’t invited her to come in.

Chapter Twenty-Five

In two more weeks, Christa thought as she leaned closer to the mirror to stroke mascara on her lashes, she’d be singing onstage in front of 18,000 people.

Her stomach did a little flip. The upcoming concert at Madison Square Garden filled her with both excitement and dread. Excitement, because singing for people – lots of people – was all she’d ever wanted. And dread, because stage fright always gripped her in its unforgiving fist just before a performance. She felt almost like fainting as she waited offstage, so strong was her fear. But once she got out there and started to sing, her legs gradually stopped trembling and her nervousness gave way to exhilaration.

She was doing what she loved, after all, and being paid very well to do it. How many people could say that?

Christa replaced the mascara wand in its tube and tossed it on the counter. “Are you ready, Dev?” she called out.

“I’m here.”

They’d decided to spend the day together, doing all of the things people did when they came to the city, and Christa couldn’t wait.

She’d spent every spare moment rehearsing, memorizing her dance steps and lyrics, and now she was more than ready to chill out and enjoy the city...and Devon’s company.

The day passed all too quickly. They had a slice and a soda at a street vendor’s cart...rode in a pedicab...marveled at the fleets of bright-yellow taxis and the bike couriers who raced through the traffic...watched as men pushed racks of clothing through the Garment District...and eyed the rows of ducks hanging forlornly from the store windows in Chinatown.

“I’ll never eat duck again,” Christa said as she slumped back in her seat in the taxi on the way back to Gramercy Park. “It’s so grim, seeing all of those duck carcasses.”

“That’s the charm of New York,” Devon said, and shrugged. “It runs the gamut from the Rockettes kicking up their heels at Radio City to dead ducks hanging in a Chinese grocery window.”

She sighed and nestled closer against him. “I suppose so.”

“Are you having a good time, babe?” Devon asked her, and leaned over to kiss the top of her head.

“I am. Except for thinking about those poor ducks.”

When they finally returned to the brownstone, it was nearly dark. Christa yawned as Devon paid the taxi driver and unlocked the front door. She kicked off her shoes in relief. “I don’t think I’ve walked so much in my entire life,” she complained. “But I loved every minute of it.”

“Me, too,” he said, catching her around the waist as he drew her against him. “It was fun. Now, I’m for bed.”

“Dev,” she laughed as he began to nuzzle her neck, “it’s barely seven o’clock. It’s far too early for bed.”

“It’s never too early for bed,” he corrected her, and covered her mouth with his.

Later, after Christa had showered and changed into yoga pants and a T-shirt, she took her jewel case down from the closet shelf.

“What’re you doing?’ Devon asked as he emerged from the bathroom in all his damp, naked glory. “Jewels don’t really go with yoga pants, babe.”

“Ha, ha. I thought I’d wear my grandmother’s necklace tomorrow. You know, the seed-pearl-and-ebony one? I have interviews all day so I want to dress up a bit.”

“Ah. Guess I’ll have to entertain myself, then,” he grumbled good-naturedly, and reached for his jeans and the dark blue Yankees T-shirt he’d bought from a street vendor during the day’s outing. “So who’s interviewing you?”

Christa set the case down on her dresser and opened the velvet-lined lid. “Oh...
New York
magazine, a couple of newspapers, and someone from
Vanity Fair
, I think—” She broke off with a gasp. “Oh my God.”

Devon paused as he zipped his jeans. “What’s wrong?”

She stared at him, her eyes wide and uncomprehending. “My jewelry. It’s gone from the box. It’s all gone!”

“Tell me again what you found when you came home tonight, Ms Shaw.”

Christa eyed the police officer with a frown. “There was nothing unusual...everything looked just as it did when we left. There was nothing out of place and nothing had been tampered with.”

“No sign of forced entry?”

She shook her head.

“What was the approximate value of the jewels that were taken?”

“Not much...a few thousand dollars. They’re insured.” She twisted her hands together. “My grandmother’s necklace is missing, too. It isn’t worth much, but it means a lot to me.”

“We’ll do everything we can to get your things back, Ms Shaw,” the officer assured her as he flipped his notepad shut and thrust it in his pocket.

“Who could’ve done this?” she demanded, distraught.

“This fits the M.O. of our cat burglar,” he answered as he walked down the hall to the front door. “There’s no evidence of forced entry,” he ticked off on his fingers, “no security alarm went off, nothing tampered with but the jewels – all exactly the same, except for one thing.”

“What’s that?” Christa asked.

The officer raised his brow. “No calling card was left at the scene.”

“What sort of calling card, exactly?”

He hesitated. “We don’t want to tip off the media, so it hasn’t been reported in the papers...but every time this burglar strikes, he leaves behind a Top Cat candy bar.”

Christa raised her brow. “A candy bar? How odd.”

Devon, who’d disappeared down the hall while they were talking, reappeared. He looked puzzled.

“What is it, Dev?” she asked as she caught sight of his expression. She knew that look. It was his detective expression, the serious, focused look he wore whenever he worked on a case.

“I found this on the closet shelf where you keep your jewelry box.” He held something out to the officer, protected from his fingerprints by a handkerchief.

It was a Top Cat candy bar.

Thursday found Holly spending her lunch hour in the library once again, researching “Moxie, The Singing Rose of Omaha,” the stage name Daisy Drayer used in her nightclub act. Holly struck pay dirt when she found a photograph of the flapper in the April 1928 New York
Daily News
, as well as a brief article: