Authors: Jessica Speart
“I’m agent Rachel Porter with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. You left a message for me this morning.”
There was a moment of silence before she finally replied.
“I’m sorry, but you must have mistaken me for somebody else,” she stiffly responded.
“Not a chance. This is definitely the right number. You
called to inform me of Bitsy von Falken’s shahtoosh shawl. There’s something I need to ask you. What color is it?” I pressed.
My question was followed by an even longer pause than before.
“Listen, you can’t squirm out of this,” I said. “So, let’s stop playing games. Your name and number were recorded on my caller ID.”
“Damn, I hate those things,” she muttered half to herself. “Oh, all right. So, it was me. Big deal. I was just being a good citizen. You want to know the color of her shawl? It’s claret. There. Are you satisfied now?” she asked, dropping all pretense.
“Not quite. I’d like to speak with you in person. Would it be all right if I come by?” I asked, fully prepared to knock down her door if necessary.
“Hmm. Let’s see. Today is out. In fact, it looks as if my entire week is fully booked,” she responded, clearly stalling for time.
I was damned if I’d be placed at the back of her social calendar.
“Okay, then. How about right now?” I countered, blatantly ignoring her response.
“Didn’t you hear what I just said? I told you that today’s out,” she repeated in annoyance.
“Well, you’re obviously home at the moment, and I’m just around the corner. You’d be doing me a big favor. I promise to only take a few minutes of your time,” I replied, refusing to take no for an answer.
“My place is a mess,” she volleyed in a halfhearted dodge.
“Don’t worry. It can’t be nearly as bad as mine,” I countered.
“I’d rather not,” she continued to resist.
“Let me make myself clear. I can come up now. Or you can travel to Newark with your lawyer,” I responded.
“For chrissake, what do they do—give you people a course on how to harangue your way into someone’s home?” she complained in exasperation.
“Yeah. As a matter of fact, it’s called Learn to be a Pushy Bitch 101,” I blithely retorted.
I was caught off-guard as Tiffany Stewart suddenly started to laugh.
“Okay, Sergeant Pepper. You’ve made your point. Come on up.”
“Rachel Porter,” I corrected.
“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I take it you already have the address. I’ll tell my doorman to let you in,” she replied, and hung up.
What a pleasant surprise. This was turning out to be easier than I’d expected. Perhaps dealing with Tiffany Stewart wouldn’t be so difficult, after all.
I walked down the block to a brand-new high rise that reeked of opulence, style, and class. It’s crisp green awning formally announced that I’d reached
THE BUCKINGHAM.
Catchy title. I half expected to see a changing of the guard. Instead, I was greeted by a doorman in a dark blue peacoat and a stiff-brimmed cap.
“May I help you?” he asked, his eyes perusing my scruffy jacket, denim jeans, and kick-ass boots.
I immediately guessed he was about to suggest that I use the delivery entrance.
“I’m here to see Tiffany Stewart,” I quickly said, in order to spare him any embarrassment.
But his expression clearly stated,
I doubt that.
“Your name?” he asked with a sniff, as if I were a vagrant that had wandered over from wrong side of town.
“Special Agent Rachel Porter,” I replied in my haughtiest tone.
“Oh yes,” he said, and one-upped me with a slow blink and the barest hint of a nod. “Mrs. Stewart is expecting you. She’s in apartment 30B on the thirtieth floor.”
I stepped into an elevator that was bigger than my apartment. New York was definitely a city of haves and have-nots, and at the moment, I was feeling pretty low on the economic food chain. In simple terms, I was on a par with Oriental-style Cup-a-Soup while Tiffany Stewart was unquestionably New Zealand rack of lamb.
The elevator effortlessly rose thirty floors without a hitch or a jerk, as if used to conveying valuable cargo. Its doors silently parted and I entered a hallway whose plush gray carpet muffled the sound of my footsteps.
Eenie, meenie, minie, moe.
I figured 30B should be easy enough to find since there were only four apartments on each floor. I rang its bell knowing that Tiffany Stewart was probably already standing behind the door.
The entrance opened, and I felt as if I’d been transported to never-never land. Donald Trump, eat your heart out. My eyes didn’t know where to land first—on the enormous crystal chandeliers, the French-cut glass mirrors, or the fortyish, fit, and fabulous-looking woman who stood before me.
Tiffany Stewart was a combination of Dolly Parton, Pamela Anderson, and Madonna all rolled into one. In fact, it was as if she’d bought a few of their body parts and had her chassis reassembled.
Long blonde hair fell below her shoulders, its color the same glorious shade as that on Bitsy von Falken’s corpse. Tiffany Stewart stood attired in a sweater laden with enough sequins to have blinded an army of onlookers. Even so, it
was impossible not to notice her twin assets that rose, majestic as the Himalayas, beneath her skintight top. Tiffany was either naturally well-endowed, or had found herself one heck of a good plastic surgeon.
The next thing to grab my eye was the humongous diamond choker that encircled her throat. The woman had more money hanging around her neck than I made in a single year. I was tempted to count the stones, but there were far too many. Besides, it would have depressed me with thoughts of my all-too-miniscule savings account.
The remainder of her outfit consisted of black stretch pants over a pair of legs as long as two exclamation points, punctuated by bloodred Manolo Blahnik spike heels. The final fashion accoutrement was the white teacup poodle that lay in her arms. The pooch was about as large as the diamond on her ring.
Though I hadn’t known what to expect, this certainly wasn’t it. Tiffany Stewart was far from your average run-of-the-mill, tight-ass socialite.
“Well, come in. Just kick your boots off on the mat, and hang your jacket on the rack,” she instructed, motioning with her lit Cigarillo.
Only then did I dare to step on her spotless white carpet.
“How about a drink?” she asked.
I followed her Cigarillo to where a glass of scotch sat on a garish gold coffee table. The lipstick on its rim perfectly matched the color on her lips.
“No, thanks. It’s a little early for me yet,” I replied. “Besides…”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. You’re on the job,” she brusquely retorted, cutting me off. “Having to work for a living really sucks.”
Maybe so. But it was the phrase she’d so casually dropped that caught my attention. “On the job” was inside lingo used to convey you knew someone on the force. It came in particularly handy when stopped by a cop for something like a speeding ticket. I took note of the term, but chose to say nothing. Instead, I asked a question that had been eating at me ever since her phone call.
“How did you find me, anyway?” I inquired. “Most people don’t know what a Fish and Wildlife agent is, let alone how to track one down.”
Tiffany Stewart sank onto a gold brocade couch while indicating that I was to sit in a nearby chair. The poodle buried its head in her lap as she took another drag on her Cigarillo.
“Have you ever heard of a little thing called the Discovery Channel? They had a special on agents like you. Who else am I going to call about shahtoosh? The NYPD?” she retorted with a sharp laugh. “After that, I let my fingers do the walking through the phone book.”
“But why Newark? Why not call the New York office?” I asked, still somewhat perturbed.
“I don’t know. Why? Is there a problem?” she archly responded.
“No. Of course not,” I replied, not wanting to put her off before we even got started.
“All right. So then, exactly what is it that you want from me?” she asked.
The words wafted in the air on a billowy cloud of smoke.
“How do you know that Bitsy von Falken owned a shahtoosh shawl?” I inquired, getting straight to the point.
Tiffany rattled the cubes in her glass, and stared at them as though they were precious gems. Then she took a long, leisurely sip of scotch.
“Are you kidding? Who doesn’t own one of those things in this town?”
“I don’t know. You tell me. Do you have one of them?” I countered.
“Not on your life. I spend my money on more substantial items. I believe in only buying articles that maintain their value and are rock-solid investments,” she willy replied.
“Such as?” I asked, curious to know what those might be.
Tiffany raised a hand and wiggled her diamond ring at me. The gem caught a ray of light and emitted sparks, as if there were a fire burning inside.
“Ice, baby, ice. These little beauties never lose their worth. Turns out, Marilyn Monroe was right. Diamonds
are
a girl’s best friend. Worse comes to worse, you can always drop ’em in your pocket and run.”
Her fingers wandered up to her throat and grazed the choker, as if to reassure herself that it was still there for when the time was right.
“I’m not one of those pretentious
grand dames
around here that locks up their jewels and takes them out only on special occasions. What good does that do? Next thing you know, you’re dead and somebody else is enjoying them. I firmly believe in wearing my commodities.”
I was getting the distinct impression that Tiffany didn’t much care for her social peers. To my mind, that made her an even better informant. She’d have no qualms about gathering dirt on them.
“So then it’s true. A number of women in your circle
do
have shahtoosh shawls,” I remarked, and waited to hear what she had to say.
“Not
my
circle, honey. Don’t get me wrong. I may live up here, but that doesn’t mean I have to hobnob with this stuck-
up crew. I wouldn’t let one of those snooty bitches trounce her bony ass through my door,” Tiffany snapped, with obvious disdain in her voice.
Whatever had happened between these women was definitely personal. That made me all the more curious as to Tiffany Stewart’s backstory.
The poodle let out a sharp yap.
“Is this what Chardonnay wants?” Tiffany asked, and reached for a candy bowl—except rather than sweets, it held doggy treats. Only then did I notice the poodle’s collar. It was an Hermès number made of crocodile and calfskin that had been handcrafted in Paris and cost around fourteen hundred dollars. Only the best for this little Upper East Side pooch. Apparently, Chardonnay also believed in wearing her commodities.
The pooch nearly nipped Tiffany’s finger as she popped a treat into its mouth. Spam could easily have swallowed this runt in a single gulp.
“Sorry about that. I just assumed…” I began, only to be cut off once again.
“Yeah, yeah. I know. You figured I must be part of their clique because I live like this. Well, maybe I was for a while. But all that ended the day my dear departed husby kicked the bucket. Once Andrew was gone, those broads wasted no time in showing their true colors,” she revealed.
Tiffany was clearly not to the manor born, but had married into her social circle. I decided to do some prospecting of my own and see what I could find out.
“Do you mind if I ask what you did before you were married?” I inquired, figuring that she’d probably been her husband’s secretary.
“I was an artist,” Tiffany revealed.
“Do you mean like a painter, or an illustrator?” I continued to press.
“No, an exotic dancer,” Tiffany matter-of-factly replied. “My body was my art form. That’s how I met my sweetie. He used to come to the club where I worked. He was so smitten with my talent that he gave me a present the very next day after we met. It came in one of those pretty little blue boxes. Cute, huh? Something from Tiffany’s for Tiffany. Soon, I had so many of those boxes that I could have built a damn castle out of them.”
I could only imagine how impressive her talent must have been. That helped to explain all of the bling. It also revealed why she was considered a pariah within the Upper East Side community. I didn’t hesitate, but jumped right in.
“Do you happen to know where all these women are buying their shawls?” I asked.
“Sorry, but I can’t help you there.”
Damn! I watched as Tiffany fed her dog another treat. Maybe if I was really good in this life, I’d come back as a spoiled Upper East Side pooch in the next.
“Then how about giving me the names of any other women you know that own shahtoosh shawls?” I suggested.
She petulantly shook the ice in her glass, as if wondering where all the scotch could have gone.
“What do you think I am? Some sort of frigging computer? It’s not like I have a printed list inside my head,” she snapped.
Maybe not. But she’d certainly produced Bitsy von Falken’s name fast enough. Surely she knew at least one or two others. I was beginning to wonder if I’d only been given Bitsy because she was already dead. Perhaps Tiffany still felt a twinge of loyalty to the rest.
She poured a hefty dash of Chivas into her glass and took a sip, which seemed to calm her down. I caught Tiffany’s gaze and held it, letting her know that I wasn’t about to go anywhere. At least, not until I’d received more information.
“Okay. Maybe I can give you a lead in the right direction,” she finally relented.
Tiffany slipped out of the Manolo Blahniks, and I saw that her toenails were painted to match the color of her shoes.
“Bitsy threw one of those big charity wingdings that she was always so good at. Oh, I guess it must have been about a year ago. This one was to raise money for cancer awareness. Bitsy wanted to do something different, so she decided to auction off shahtoosh shawls.”
“Did you attend?” I asked.
Tiffany wrinkled her nose and leaned back against the brocade couch. “Andrew was already dead. I was told that my invitation got lost in the mail. Fat chance. In any case, I hear that people snapped them up like so much beluga caviar.”