On What Grounds

Matteo shot me a look—I think he was amused at my getting into the act. I ignored him, and did my best to keep a straight face.

Darla Hart may not have pushed her stepdaughter down a flight of stairs, but she had pushed her into nude dancing at one time, and she might have been trying to enlist the girl in some sort of blackmail scheme. Matt and I really did need to resolve any outstanding questions about the woman—including the question of her alibi.

“Well,” Eddleman said, his eyes on the floor. “You know how it is…” His voice trailed off.

“We know you’re a married man, Mr. Eddleman.”

“Oh, please…please don’t tell my wife about this.” He looked panicked. “Thirty-one years I’ve been married. I do care for my wife, and I’d never think of leaving her.”

“Then why were you seeing Darla Hart?” I pressed.

Eddleman sighed and his shoulders sagged.

“We met in one of those sexy Internet chat rooms,” he said. “She flirted with me. I flirted with her. We exchanged a few e-mails, and after a while…”

His voice trailed off again and he shrugged as if what came next was inevitable.

“When did you begin sleeping with Darla?” asked Matt.

“Just a few days ago, after she came into town,” Eddleman replied. “We had a date and hit it off.”

“You say you love your wife, Mr. Eddleman,” said Matt. “Didn’t you consider blackmail?”

Eddleman sighed again. “I’m a very wealthy man, Agent Savage.”

“All the more reason to fear blackmail,” I pointed out.

“I have money to spare. You see what I mean?”

“No,” I said.

“Darla…Women like Darla…They think they’re clever. Sharp operators, you know. They meet a man like me and see dollar signs. Darla never talked about money, but I knew she would get around to it. By that time I figured we’d be sick of one another or the romance would go sour. Then I would part with a little money. Enough so that she would go away, no hard feelings.”

“Sounds like you’ve done this before,” Matt said.

Eddleman nodded. “Yes, I have. And do you want to know why?”

Matt shifted, didn’t ask. For the first time, he looked uneasy. Well, Matt was a man. He probably already figured he knew the answer. But I sure wanted to know Eddleman’s answer.

“Why, Mr. Eddleman?” I asked pointedly.

Through the thick lenses, his eyes were watery blue, almost as washed out as his skin. Even sitting up, the little man’s shoulders were slightly hunched, his chest sunken. Mr. Arthur Jay Eddleman had clearly spent too many long, unhealthy hours indoors, poring over numbers and ledgers.

Suddenly I did know why. He didn’t have to say it. But I’d already asked—

“I got married young, Ms. Vanderweave,” he said. “Young and poor may sound romantic, but it is not. I spent my twenties working in the daytime and going to night school. In my thirties and forties, I worked fifty, sixty, seventy hours a week to provide a good living for my wife and family. In my fifties I started my own firm.” He paused, his eyes seemed far away. “That was when the real work began, let me tell you. Eighteen years of it.”

Arthur Jay Eddleman shook his head. “Now I’m older and richer, but frankly I was feeling too old to enjoy my riches. My wife has her friends and shopping and in these last few years she has been sickly. My kids have their own lives, they don’t need me hanging around.

“So I decided to meet women…Sometimes we hit it off. Sometimes we don’t. I just want a little romance, a little fun, before the lights go out for good.”

We sat in silence for a moment. Matt seemed to have run out of questions. Finally I spoke.

“Did Ms. Hart ever mention a stepdaughter named Anabelle?”

“No, never,” Eddleman said. “Darla said she had friends in New York City, but I didn’t meet any of them.”

“One more thing we’d like to confirm,” Matt said, rising. “And then I think we’re finished.”

“Sure,” Eddleman said. “Anything to help prevent drug peddling or smuggling or…whatever you’re doing.”

“Were you and Ms. Hart together this past Wednesday night?”

Eddleman didn’t even hesitate. “The whole night,” he replied. “My wife went to Scarsdale to visit our daughter. I met Darla at eight o’clock, Wednesday evening, right here at the hotel. We had dinner at the Rainbow Room, then walked around the city. We got back around midnight, and I left at seven or seven-thirty Thursday morning—my wife was due back at noon.”

Matt and I exchanged glances. Darla’s alibi was solid, all right. I nodded.

“Thank you, Mr. Eddleman,” Matt said, taking him by the elbow and leading him to the door.

“Should I stay away from her?” Mr. Eddleman said, pausing on the threshold. “Darla, I mean.”

“That would be wise,” Matt replied. “But if you do see her again, don’t mention this encounter. It may jeopardize our investigation, and that’s a crime.”

So’s impersonating a federal official, Matt, I thought.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” Matt said, pushing the door.

“Nice meeting you, Ms. Vanderweave,” Eddleman said with a creepy smile that told me the guy wasn’t about to quit with Darla. Yuck, I thought. And with his wife still at dinner right downstairs.

He was still waving at me, his eyes on my cleavage, when Matt closed the door.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Matt said. “Darla could come back any minute.”

“Even worse,” I replied, my stomach rumbling. “We could miss the main course.”

Twenty-Four

George Gee and his Make-Believe Ballroom Orchestra had just begun bouncing big band swing off the four- story ceiling, coaxing a slow parade of couples toward the dance floor, when Matt and I returned to the charity dinner.

“The band’s good,” said Matt over the jaunty jump of woodwinds and barking brass.

“Very,” I said. “That’s George Gee and his band. They’re the darlings of the Rainbow Room these days.”

The Rainbow Room was one of the most elegant dinner-dance clubs in New York—high atop Rockefeller Center, it was about the only place left where dancing cheek-to-cheek in elegant evening clothes was even remotely possible.

“Wanna take a spin with me?” Matt asked.

I gave him the puh-leeze get real look. “I’m going for the Engstrums,” I said, double-checking the seating chart in the silent auction program.

“What are you going to do?”

“Stir up the nest,” I said. “See what flies out.”

“Good. I’d like a whack at Junior, myself.”

I noticed Matt’s fists clenching and made a split-second decision.

“No,” I said. “Let me do this, Matt. I’ve got an act in mind. It will work better solo. Get a drink at the bar and wait for me there.”

“Really? You think you can pull something off alone?”

“Sure,” I said, even though I wasn’t. On the other hand, the Vanderweave impersonation went pretty well, and my doing it alone was a much better bet than bringing Matt along wearing his fury on his sleeve.

“Well, okay, honey, if you’re sure. You knock ’em dead for me. Especially that little shithead.”

The “honey” caught me off guard, but I let it pass. Matt and I were working well together tonight, I thought to myself as I wove around the tray-toting waiters and crowded tables in the vast ballroom. We were even having a little fun with each other, but that didn’t mean we were a couple again. Matt had to know that, I assured myself, so there was no need to set him straight.

The Engstrums were seated at table fifty-eight, about mid-room and not far from the dance floor. I recognized Richard, Senior, from photographs in the Web site articles Darla had bookmarked on her laptop.