Five out of one hundred, not bad, I thought. But it made perfect sense, given Madame’s high place on the ten-member organizing committee for this benefit.
“Which zip code?” I asked. There were one thousand attendees here. I feared I’d need a road map.
She gestured toward the front of the vast room, near the high stage, on which the silent auction items were being displayed next to individual boxes where bidders would deposit their written offers by the end of the evening. All the items had been donated by patrons. The bulk of them were antiques, objets d’art, or promised services (including a famous Food Channel chef who’d agreed to cater your next dinner party, and a celebrity singer who stood ready to serenade you tonight in a carriage ride around Central Park).
The funds raised would benefit various special programs at St. Vincent’s Hospital, a charity for which Madame’s earnest efforts now made more sense to me than ever since she was being treated for cancer there. In fact, as she and I approached table five, I was surprised to see her oncologist rising to greet us.
“Clare,” said Madame. “I’d like you to meet Dr. Gary McTavish.”
It was Doctor Gray-Temples all right. I had caught only a glimpse of the sixtyish man the other day, talking with Madame in the hospital corridor, as I rode the elevator up to see Anabelle in the ICU. He still had distinguished gray temples in a head of salt-and-peppered hair, boldly chiseled facial features, and a sturdy build, but tonight he’d exchanged his white coat for a black tie, red plaid vest, and black dinner jacket.
“Charmed, my dear,” he said, the slight Scottish brogue sealing the Sean Connery impression. “I’ve heard many good things about you.”
“Nice,” I blurted as he bent over my hand. “I mean, uh…nice to meet you.”
Gray-Temples gave me a polite smile, then quickly focused his warm brown eyes back on Madame’s now-glowing face. “She’s charming, Blanche.”
Blanche, I thought. Hmmmm. Doctor and patient certainly have gotten chummy.
Gray-Temples then moved to the chair next to his, gallantly pulled it out, and gave Madame a flirty wink. “May I?”
Madame practically giggled. “You certainly may, Gary.”
Gary! Not even Doctor Gary. Another Hmmmmm on my part.
The good doctor pulled out my chair next, but his eyes never left Madame’s.
I nervously glanced about, making sure Matt hadn’t arrived yet. He had a short fuse and a terribly protective streak with every woman in his life. Who knew what he’d do if he suspected his mother’s oncologist was trying to make time with her.
“Greetings, all,” said Matt about ten seconds later. He plopped into the empty seat between me and his mother. “Ready?” he whispered to me.
I took a fortifying sip of my black Russian.
“Now we’re all present and accounted for!” exclaimed Madame. “Everyone, this is my son Matt, and his wife, Clare—”
EX-wife, EX-wife, EX-wife!
No, I didn’t actually shout this over the tinkling piano music, burbling conversations, and discordant rhythmic bleepings of cell phones. Maintaining my composure, I tried instead to refocus my attention on sending another hit of coffee-flavored alcohol down my esophagus. Loving Madame as much as I did, I figured what the heck else could I do?
“—and let me introduce everyone else—”
There were seven other people at the table besides me, Matt, and Madame: Dr. Gray-Temples; Dr. Frankel, a middle-aged African-American doctor, and his corporate lawyer wife, Harriet; a St. Vincent’s administrative director named Mrs. O’Brien; a deputy city commissioner from the New York City Department of Health and Mental Hygiene named Marjorie Greenberg and her psychologist husband; and finally—
“Eduardo,” said Madame, gesturing to the man on my left. “Eduardo Lebreux.”
Why did the name sound familiar? I asked myself.
“Eduardo worked for my late husband,” Madame answered before I could ask.
Now I remembered! Eduardo was also the man Madame had said “highly recommended” that idiot Moffat Flaste, undeniably the worst manager in Blend history.
“And now that we’ve all been introduced,” continued Madame, “I see our first course coming. Waldorf salad. Bon appetit!”
I haven’t met a lot of fans of the mayonnaise-covered apples and celery salad, which is the original version of the Waldorf (the recipe now includes chopped walnuts), but it was a nostalgic choice for the evening, considering the salad was created at the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel back in the 1890s. Of course, back then, the hotel was located over on Fifth and Thirty-fourth, the very spot where the Empire State Building is now located.
As the salads were being served, I turned to the man on my left. Middle-aged, but how old was hard to tell. Fifty? Sixty? Short of stature, like Pierre, but not nearly as handsome. He had dark hair, thinning on the top and a little too long at the back, a mustache that needed trimming, and a pensive look to his pale green eyes. No wrinkles but the sort of blotchy skin acquired from drinking and smoking to excess since nursery school. He was the sort who could easily appear aged beyond his years. Yet his evening clothes were gorgeous. Possibly Italian. Definitely expensive.
“Excuse me, Mr. Lebreux,” I said, “but what did you do for Pierre Dubois?”
“Oh, a little bit of this, a little bit of that—”
Slight French accent. French last name. But first name Eduardo?
“Were you raised in France?” I asked.
I felt Matt’s hand rest lightly on my arm. I ignored it. There was something shady about this guy, and my gut urged me to do some fishing.
“My father was French,” said Eduardo. “My mother Portuguese.”
“That’s why Mr. Lebreux was so helpful to Pierre in the import-export business,” Madame said, leaning toward us. “His connections in France, Portugal, and in Spain, too.”
“Yes, that’s right. You know how it goes. A shipment here or there, of champagne, port, perfume, whatever, may go missing on its way to America if the right wheels are not—how you say—greased.”
“Clare—” Matt whispered. His hand moved to my elbow, squeezed.
“How interesting,” I said to Lebreux. “Tell me more.”
“Really, it’s boring stuff…. I just helped Pierre with his business.”
“And now that Pierre has died and his business is closed,” I said pointedly, “what do you do?”
“Oh,” he said, looking away as if bored. “A little bit of this. A little bit of that.”
“Clare!”
The entire table jumped and turned. Now every one of our dinner companions was staring at us.
Smooth, Matt. Smooth.
“Excuse me, everyone,” said Matt with a sheepish smile. “I, uh, left my Palm Pilot in Mother’s room, and it’s vital I retrieve it. Clare, I’m sure you’ll remember where I set it down. We’ll be right back—”
I was reluctant to leave off my questioning of Eduardo, but I was even more reluctant to be parted from my right arm, which was being aggressively tugged upward by an ex-husband whose carved marble biceps were no match for me.
“Go on, then,” said Madame, who looked oddly pleased by this announcement. I didn’t know why until we’d taken two steps away. “Matt’s father used to make excuses to slip away from parties, too. Matt is so romantic! Just like his father!”
“Matt,” I whispered. “Did you hear that? Your mother thinks—”
“Let her,” he said. “Better she suspects us of having a sexual fling than what we’re really going to do.”
I myself wasn’t so sure.
Twenty-Two
The elevator door slid open. I inhaled, exhaled, and wrung my clammy hands.
“Don’t worry,” Matteo had told me back in Madame’s suite. “Everything has gone smoothly so far, hasn’t it?”