Manolos In Manhattan

Chapter Nine

On Monday morning, Christa Shaw took the key her manager had given her in London the day before and opened the front door. The townhouse, located in Gramercy Park, would be her new home for the next couple of weeks. A pair of topiary trees as round and green as lollipops flanked the entry.

Despite her jet lag, she was beyond curious to see the interior.

“Wow,” she breathed as she came inside and dropped her bags by the door.

A staircase rose to the left of the entrance hall, and a Victorian chandelier hung overhead like an elaborate, old-fashioned jewel. Dark-red flocked wallpaper adorned the walls.

She might’ve stepped back in time to the turn of the century – the nineteenth century. It looked like something out of an Edith Wharton novel. She half expected to see Lily Bart come sweeping down the stairs to greet her.

“Come in and have a look at this, Dev,” she called over her shoulder. “You won’t believe it.”

“Crikey,” he echoed as he brought in two more suitcases and set them slowly down. “This place looks like the inside of a candy box...or a bordello.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” She picked up a white card from the elaborately carved half-moon table in the hall. “‘Gavin Williams and Associates, Interior Design.’” She put the card aside and added, “Well, we know who to blame for this Victorian nightmare, then.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Devon mused. “I kind of like it. I wonder how many bedrooms in this place?”

“Five. Or was it six? Max told me, but I don’t remember.” Max Morecombe was the manager Christa shared with Dominic Heath, British rock singer and one of her closest friends.

She smiled coyly. “Why do you ask, Mr Matthews? Did you want to christen the bedrooms?”

He slid his arms around her waist. “Not just the bedrooms, love. Every room.”

Christa draped her arms around his neck and kissed him. “That can be arranged,” she said huskily, and kissed him again.

Devon dragged his mouth from hers a few minutes later and turned to pick up the suitcases. “I might as well take this stuff upstairs. I don’t know about you, but after that flight from London, I’m knackered. I could do with a few hours of sleep.”

“Thanks for coming along. I’m glad the CID let you have a couple of weeks off.”

“I think they were all glad to be rid of me for a bit, to be honest. And I know you’re more than a little nervous about this concert.”

“I am,” she admitted. “I mean, I’ve performed in plenty of other places, but...Madison Square Garden is the biggest venue I’ve ever played.”

“You’ll be fine,” he said firmly. “You’ve played Glastonbury and the Royal Albert Hall, for crying out loud.”

“But this is huge,” Christa said. “And it’s my first U.S. concert. What if no one shows up?”

“The show’s sold out. It sold out within two hours.”

“What if I forget the song lyrics? Or bollocks up one of the dance routines? There’s a lot of choreography.”

“That’s what rehearsals are for,” Devon reminded her. “And you’ve got one first thing in the morning, don’t forget. Now, stop worrying. You’ve got this, babe.” He reached out and took her hand, then lifted it to his lips. “What you need is rest. You’re tired. Come on, let’s go upstairs and go to bed.”

“And get some sleep?”

“Yeah. That, too.”

“Listen to this,” Devon said the next morning as Christa joined him at the kitchen table for coffee and toast. He began to read out loud from the New York Daily News in his hand.

“’Manhattan’s elusive cat burglar struck again last night, robbing an undisclosed Park Place apartment and stealing an estimated $2 million in jewels.’” He lowered the paper. “The thief made off with a small fortune in stolen jewels, and not for the first time, apparently – yet no one saw a thing. ‘There are no suspects and no leads.’” He snorted. “Pathetic.”

Christa sipped her coffee. “Well, it’s a good thing you’re not on duty, then, Detective Sergeant Matthews,” she pointed out tartly as she stood up. “So why not take your D.S. hat off and just enjoy your holiday?”

“It’s habit,” Devon said, and shrugged. “A good D.S. is never really off duty.”

“This one is.” She bent down to brush her lips against his. “Christa’s orders.”

He grabbed her around the waist and deepened the kiss. “Umm, I like it when you get bossy,” he murmured when he dragged his mouth from hers. “Fancy a quick shag?”

“Love to, but I can’t.” She laughed and slapped his hands away. “Stop it, Dev. I’ve got to get ready for rehearsals.”

“Ten minutes, that’s all I need. Five.”

Christa sighed and pushed him reluctantly away. “I wish, but I really don’t have time. Today promises to be a long day.”

“And one, and two, and three, and STOP!” the choreographer roared. His voice echoed in the cavernous rehearsal studio on West Fifty-Seventh Street.

As the dancers around Christa held themselves immobile in their positions, she let out a quiet breath of frustration. She just couldn’t seem to get this particular move down. She steeled herself for the bollocking that was sure to follow.

“Christa,” Wilhelm barked, “what is the problem, hein? You keep going left when everyone else is going right.”

“Sorry. I can’t seem to concentrate.”

“Well, my dear, you must try harder. We have a concert to choreograph and we have less than two weeks to do it! Let’s try it again, from the top, shall we? Jetzt!”

This time, through sheer force of will, Christa executed the move perfectly. As the pianist pounded out an accompaniment on the old upright and Wilhelm clapped his hands in time, she and the dancers finished the opening set choreography without a hitch. The rest of the rehearsal passed without incident.

But the seed of self-doubt, already planted in Christa, grew a little stronger.

How, she wondered as she showered and dressed in her street clothes, could she possibly do this? How could she remember all of those dance steps and memorize the lyrics to twenty songs in under two weeks, without screwing up in front of 18,000 people?

Christa didn’t know. Not for the first time, she wished she hadn’t rocketed to fame quite so quickly.

She wasn’t remotely ready for it. Any of it.

But it was too late now. The venue was booked, the rehearsal hall rented, the set list in place.

She was performing a sold-out show at Madison Square Garden...whether she was ready or not.

Chapter Ten

“Oh, Rhys – take me with you, please?”

Natalie stood behind her husband the next morning and slid her arms around his waist, peering over his shoulder as he stood before the mirror and tightened his tie into a Windsor knot.

“Not today, Natalie. I’ve got a million things to do and the store launch to deal with. Have you seen my silver cufflinks?” he asked as he turned away and began to look for them. “I’ve a meeting with Alastair and the staff in twenty minutes. You’re not bored already, are you?”

“Look in the enamel box on your dresser. And no, of course I’m not bored.”

Which wasn’t strictly true, exactly. But after lobbying Rhys to let her come along with him to Manhattan, she didn’t dare admit that after a month spent shopping, lunching, walking, and museum-going, she was...well, she was a tiny bit bored.

It wasn’t much fun to do things – anything – on your own. And Rhys worked such long hours each day, by the time he got home he was tired, so they hadn’t gone to see so much as a film together, much less a Broadway show, and their meals thus far had consisted of takeout sushi and pizza.

“They’re not here,” he called out irritably from the bedroom.

“That’s odd. The movers assured me they unpacked your suits and things and put them all away on Saturday.”

“Someone put them away, all right – in their pocket. These’ll have to do,” he said, and he put on the onyx cufflinks she’d bought him for his birthday.

“Darling,” Natalie added tentatively as she followed him down the hallway, “Why don’t I work at D & J for a couple of days a week, just for a bit? I could fetch your lunch, come up with a few marketing ideas. What do you think?”

“It’s not necessary. I told you, there’s an entire team in place and everything’s well in hand. And I have Chaz to fetch my lunch and keep track of my diary. He’s amazing – don’t know what I’d do without him.”

“Don’t forget, I was the one who planned the relaunch for the London store. It’s how we met, after all.”

“Yes, and you nearly bollocksed it up when you forgot to ask Poppy to model in the catwalk show until the last minute.”

“How was I to know she’d be in Sri Lanka on a photo shoot?” she retorted.

“Natalie, her time is scheduled weeks, months in advance. You knew that, yet you left it too late.”

“Oh, do be quiet,” she said crossly. “It was a tiny mistake that anyone could’ve made.”

“A tiny mistake that nearly ruined the entire relaunch.”

“You’d best go,” Natalie retorted, “or you’ll be late for your meeting.”

He leaned forward and kissed her. “Don’t sulk, darling, it doesn’t suit you.”

“I’m not sulking.”

“Why don’t you two have breakfast‒” he reached down and patted her just-starting-to-show belly “‒and then do a bit of shopping? Buy some more baby things. Or start doing up the guest bedroom as that nursery you’re always on about.”

Although Natalie wasn’t due until mid-September, they’d decided to turn one of the guest bedrooms into a nursery, even though she planned to have the baby in London. But, as she pointed out, they’d need a place for the baby to stay the next time they came to New York to visit, wouldn’t they?

Rhys had agreed. The only things in there at the moment were a pram, boxes of nappies and baby clothes, and a pile of the most darling stuffed animals that somehow kept growing taller by the day.

“I can’t,” she said. “I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Then hire someone to come in and decorate,” Rhys said. “Now – I’ve really got to run. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Bye,” Nat said, her expression forlorn as Rhys grabbed his briefcase, kissed her cheek, and slammed out of the apartment like a well-dressed whirlwind. “I love you.”

But he didn’t answer. He was already gone.

She made her way down the hall to the kitchen and brewed a cup of decaf, carefully avoiding the intimidating espresso machine that resided beside the coffee maker. With its dials and levers and steam arm, the machine terrified her.

Well, what to do today? she wondered as she sat down at the kitchen table, coffee cup in hand. She could sort through the new baby clothes...but she’d already sorted through them twice. She could clean the apartment – but it was spotless, thanks to the maid who came in twice a week to scrub and polish and tidy things up. Her gaze settled on the New York Daily News Rhys had left abandoned on the table.

She took a sip of her decaf and pulled the newspaper towards her.

CAT BURGLAR STRIKES AGAIN! The front-page headline screamed.

Curious, she began to read the article.

Manhattan’s elusive cat burglar struck again last night, robbing an undisclosed Park Place apartment and stealing an estimated $2 million in jewels.

The jewels, including a Harry Winston diamond choker and matching earrings, were reported missing after Honoria Van Landingham and her husband Thomas returned from a charity ball held at the Ritz Carlton late last night. Police Chief Anthony Smith stated there was no sign of a break-in.

As in recent burglaries, the security system was armed. Mrs Van Landingham informed police that she activated the system before leaving her apartment, and notified authorities upon discovering the jewels, valued at $1.9 million, were missing from the apartment safe.

There are currently no suspects and no leads.

“Goodness,” Natalie murmured. A cat burglar? Images of a suave thief, dressed in black as he rappelled from a tenth-story window following a successful heist, flickered through her head.

It was all terribly mysterious and exciting. But not, of course, for poor Mrs Van Landingham, who’d had her jewels stolen.

Natalie had a sudden thought. Rhys’s silver cufflinks – which the movers assured her they’d put in the enamel box on his dresser – had gone missing. Was Rhys right – had one of the movers pocketed them?

Or had someone – the cat burglar, perhaps – stolen them?

Her eyes widened. After all, she’d seen someone in the apartment on Sunday night...someone with a gun.

She set her cup down on the table and hurried to the bedroom, and reached for the little enamel box on Rhys’s dresser.

It was empty; a quick search confirmed that her husband’s cufflinks were, indeed, gone. And although she searched the entire bedroom for evidence of a visit from the burglar, there was nothing.

Those bloody thieving movers, Natalie thought indignantly as she returned to the kitchen, and her coffee. We certainly won’t be using their services again.

Still, she knew she’d seen someone in the apartment the night before, looming over her in the darkness with a gun in hand.

Was it the cat burglar? Had he been there to rob their apartment?

What if she hadn’t screamed and wakened Rhys? Who knew what might have happened?

All these thoughts of burglaries and cat thieves made her a bit nervous. She went to the phone and dialed Rhys’s number.

“Good morning, Dashwood and James, Rhys Gordon’s office,” Chaz chirped. “How may I help you?”

“Hello, Chaz. I’d like to speak to my husband, please,” Natalie said.

“Good morning, Mrs Gordon. I’m sorry, but Mr Gordon just got here, and he’s already in a meeting. May I take a message?”

Ordinarily Natalie would thank him politely, leave a message, and ring off, but the newspaper article had left her more than a bit rattled.

“I need to speak with him straight away. It’s important.”

“Very well,” Chaz said doubtfully. “One moment, please.”

A few minutes later Rhys picked up the phone. “Natalie, what’s wrong? Is it the baby?” There was a trace of alarm in his voice.

“No, nothing like that. The baby’s fine. So am I.”

“Thank God. Why did you call, then? I’m in the middle of a meeting. Chaz said it was important.”

“It is important, very important. Oh, Rhys,” she wailed, “there’s been another cat burglary, and practically next door! I was reading about it in the papers just now. I think the burglar must’ve stolen your cufflinks on Sunday night, right after he robbed the Van Landinghams.”

To her surprise – and annoyance – he began to laugh.

“Rhys,” she said crossly, “it isn’t funny. I’m alone and pregnant in an apartment that’s been struck by the most notorious burglar in Manhattan, and all you can do is laugh?”

“Sorry, darling,” he told her. “But I hardly think the thief would break in to our apartment for a pair of cufflinks.” He paused. “I should’ve told you.”

“Told me what?”

“I found the cufflinks in my suit pocket on the way in to work this morning. So there’s no need to worry. And there was no burglar in our apartment on Sunday night. I checked, remember?”

“Yes, but—”

“I’m sorry, Nat,” he cut in impatiently, “but I have to go. Don’t worry – you’re perfectly safe. We’ll talk later, when I get home.”

And before she could respond, he rang off.

Chapter Eleven

Why, Holly wondered as she eyed the stacks of shoe boxes crowding Dashwood and James’s shoe department the next morning, had she agreed to work today?

Even though Monday was normally her day off, she’d promised her father she’d help prepare for the grand opening – which meant making sure all was in readiness for Karl von Karle’s personal appearance at the store’s launch.

According to Natalie, von Karle was the hottest shoe designer since Manolo Blahnik.

“There you are, Holly.” Alastair strode down the aisle, Coco just behind him. “Thank you for coming in to help today.”

“Good thing I did,” she observed as she eyed the teetering stack of von Karles waiting to be arranged on the display shelves. “With all the buzz his appearance is generating, you’d think that silly German shoe guy was a rock star.”

“That ‘silly German shoe guy’ is a gifted designer,” Coco informed her coolly. “Every woman wants a pair of von Karles.”

“I don’t,” Holly retorted. “I get vertigo just looking at those stiletto heels. They look ridiculous. Not to mention unsafe. And uncomfortable.”

“Fashion isn’t about comfort, Holly,” Coco said, “it’s about style.” Her glance swept dismissively over Holly’s belted, short-sleeved sweater and creased linen skirt. “Something you obviously don’t understand.”

“And you obviously don’t understand the concept of asking before you give out personal information.”

“What are you talking about?”

Before Holly could respond, her father, oblivious to the hostile current between the two young women, consulted a clipboard in his hand. “Holly, I need you to help Coco upstairs for a couple of hours, if you would.”

“Okay,” she said, even as her heart sank at the prospect. “Dad,” she added as Coco turned away to take a call, “I need to leave early this afternoon. I’m meeting Ciaran. He’s looking at apartments and asked me to go with him.”

“Ciaran?” Alastair echoed, and his brow rose. “But you just spent all day with him yesterday.”

“Yes, for publicity,” she reminded him. “His TV show starts filming soon, and he’s looking for a permanent place to live. He wants me to help him look before he returns to London. What’s wrong with that?”

“Doesn’t he have an estate agent?”

“I’m not showing him properties, Dad, I’m just going along to look at a couple of apartments. He wants my opinion.”

“Ciaran is a charming young man,” her father said, his jaw set in a hard line, “but he’s not someone I’d chose as a potential suitor for my daughter.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you don’t get to choose, then, isn’t it?” she retorted. “And I’m already engaged – or have you forgotten? Besides, Ciaran’s just a friend.”

“He’s a film star, Holly, and he’s accustomed to women throwing themselves at him. And I’ve no doubt,” he added with a scowl, “that he takes full advantage of it.”

“I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”

“I’m sure you can, Holly, but—”

“Mr James, so sorry to interrupt, but you’re needed in receiving,” Coco informed him. “I’ve just had a call from Mr Baxter. There’s a problem with one of the shipments.”

Alastair sighed. “There’s always a problem, isn’t there? Very well – I’ll be right there.” He turned back to Holly, his expression grim. “We’ll talk about this later.”

“Holly,” Coco informed her as he left, “I need you to go up to the attic. The workmen have cleared everything out except for some odds and ends; probably junk, but I want you to go up and have a look, please. Here’s the key.”

“But I’m not dressed for rummaging around in the attic,” Holly objected.

“I only want you to look at what’s up there and report back to me. Here – take a pad and pencil with you. I’ll want a full inventory so Alastair and I can decide how to dispose of it all. Now go.”

Without another word, Holly took the key, and the pad and pen Coco held out, and turned to leave.

She took the lift up to the fourth floor and found the attic stairs. After unclipping the velvet rope, she climbed the steps to the attic door and unlocked it.

Holly pushed the door open and groped for the light switch. The place was crammed from one end to the other with boxes and junk and festooned with cobwebs and dust. She sneezed.

At least this attic was the kind you could stand up in, with a wooden floor and a small, diamond-shaped window at either end. It would make a nice office for her father eventually. She stepped through the door and wondered where to begin. A pair of dangling light bulbs illuminated an assortment of mismatched chairs, a dressmaker’s dummy, old lampshades, and boxes...

...dozens and dozens of boxes.

Grimly Holly set to work opening the nearest one. It contained a bottle with a model ship inside, stacks of old magazines, a jumble of jelly glasses and plates, most of them chipped or broken, and what looked like an old-fashioned bottle opener and several cocktail shakers.

It was the same story in the other boxes. She unearthed an old toaster, galoshes, stacks of dinner plates, a lamp harp, old newspapers, and a rusted plant stand – all junk. But Holly suspected some of this stuff might be of value; that Victrola, for instance, or the lamp – Tiffany, if she wasn’t mistaken – standing in the corner. She spotted a charming wicker settee; with a bit of cleanup and re-caning, it’d be perfect for the entryway. Her father really needed to take a look at this stuff. He knew a lot more about antiques than she did.