Manolos In Manhattan

Chapter Twelve

Yet she wasn’t afraid. Whatever – whoever – it was meant no harm; she knew that, somehow. Suddenly she noticed the fire escape. How had she missed it? It was nothing more than a short ladder leading to a narrow iron door; it opened out onto the roof, and was hidden behind the pile of boxes she’d just finished investigating.

Feeling herself compelled forward, Holly retraced her steps and came to stand before the fire escape. She hesitated, then climbed the short ladder to the door and tried the handle, but it was rusted firmly shut.

Sirens wailed nearby, and Holly glanced down at her watch, surprised to see it was nearly lunchtime. She turned to climb back down the ladder, more than ready to get out of this creepy attic and go grab a ham and cheese sandwich. Halfway down she felt the sticky, persistent strands of a spider’s web against her face. Holly let out a gasp of disgust and frantically brushed the web away. Coco would so pay for this...

It was then that she saw it. Wrapped in a blanket, wedged under one of the eaves, the object was large and oblong. It looked almost like...a picture of some sort.

Curious, Holly leaned forward as far as she could, still clutching the ladder with one hand, and closed her fingers over one corner of the object. She tugged, it didn’t budge. She tugged again, harder, and this time, with a shower of dirt and a cloud of dust, it dislodged and slid forward.

She caught it with both hands, hoping to hell she didn’t fall off the ladder. It was heavier than she’d thought, and covered in a thick layer of dust. She sneezed, and sneezed again. Staggering slightly under the bulk of it, she backed the rest of the way down the ladder, relieved when she reached the floor. She slid the thing – whatever it was – down her legs to the ground, her heart racing with exertion.

What was it? How had it ended up here? And why was it shoved under the eaves?

Despite her growling stomach and her strong desire to leave, Holly’s curiosity got the better of her. She leaned the mysterious object against a stack of boxes and reached out to pull the blanket off.

She let out a soft breath as the blanket fell away. It was a portrait...a painting of a young woman.

She wore a glittery black evening gown and leaned back, one hand resting on the edge of a piano, the other holding a champagne glass. Her dark hair was cut in a stylish bob; her smiling, cupid’s-bow lips were rouged, and her eyes – dark, like her hair – were kohled. An ornate art deco necklace of onyx and diamonds circled her throat. Her shoulders were bare.

She was a flapper, Holly realized with a thrill of excitement, and she was breathtakingly beautiful.

Again the scent of lavender and vanilla drifted on the air, and Holly thought she heard the faint sound of laughter, light and musical. She frowned. “Who’s there?” she demanded, her eyes searching the shadowy corners uneasily. “Hello?”

But as quickly as it came, the laughter and the scent of perfume adrift on the air vanished.

Holly turned back to the painting. What to do with it? She hated to leave it up here, but there was no way she could drag it down the stairs. And – she didn’t know why, exactly – but she definitely didn’t want Coco to know about this portrait.

She reached into her pocket and withdrew her cell phone. “Dad?” she said breathlessly as soon as he picked up. “I found something in the attic. You should come up and take a look.”

“Holly, I’m terribly busy. Ask Coco to look at it, she’s in charge of the attic inventory and the disposal of all the bric-a-brac—”

“This isn’t ‘bric-a-brac,’ Dad,” she said firmly. “It’s an old portrait I found stuck under one of the eaves. It might...it might be valuable. Please come up and see it. It won’t take long, I promise.”

He let out a long, aggrieved sigh. “Very well, I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

Holly thanked him and clicked “end call,” then slid the phone back in her pocket.

The breeze returned, carrying the scent of lavender and vanilla once again, and this time, it was stronger than ever. Holly froze.

“Who’s there?” she demanded again, louder this time. “Who are you? You can come out,” she added cautiously. “You won’t get in trouble, I promise.”

She waited, half expecting to see a homeless person dart out and scurry across the floor to the stairs, or maybe a customer who’d crept upstairs to snoop around, or an antiques dealer who wanted to get a first look at the stuff up here.

But there was no one.

“I’m here,” Alastair said a moment later, as he appeared in the doorway and made his way across the attic to join her. “Where’s this painting you insisted I come and see?”

“It’s over here.”

He followed her to the portrait propped up against the boxes. He studied it without speaking, his brow knitted in a frown. “Where did you find this?”

“It was stuck under the eaves, over there,” she said, and pointed in the general direction of the fire escape. “Isn’t it something?”

He nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “It is, indeed. She’s beautiful.” He glanced at Holly. “The question is – who is she? And why is her painting hidden away up here?”

“I don’t know,” Holly admitted, “but I’d love to find out. How much do you know about this brownstone, Dad?”

He shrugged. “Not much. I bought it through an estate broker in London. I didn’t set foot in the place until after Sir Richard signed the deed. It was built at the turn of the last century, and it was a speakeasy during the Roaring Twenties.”

“Wow.” Holly’s eyes widened. “This place was a real, honest-to-goodness speakeasy, with a secret password to get in, and gangsters, and bootleg hootch?”

“Yes. I can’t tell you much else, I’m afraid. It stood empty for a number of years after the Depression.”

“Why? What happened?”

He hesitated. “As I said, I don’t have the details, but I do know the police planned to raid the place and shut it down. But the night before the raid, three men burst in with sub-machine guns and massacred five people – all of them gangsters. It was retaliation for the murder of a rival gang’s lieutenant.”

Holly suppressed a shudder. “How awful. There wasn’t...there weren’t any women killed that night, were there?” she asked suddenly as she stared at the painting. That poor girl! Had she been here that night?

“No. All five were men, hardened criminals whose passing likely wasn’t mourned by anyone.”

“Oh. Still,” Holly murmured, “what a horrible way to die. Is that why the brownstone stayed empty for so long? Because of the murders?”

“I imagine so.” He studied the portrait again. “Perhaps we should have someone take a look at this.”

A cool breeze ruffled Holly’s hair. “No,” she said, her words firm. “Her painting belongs here.”

Her father looked at her. “Indeed? What makes you say that?”

“It’s just a feeling. We should leave it here. We don’t want to damage it, after all. Maybe we can get someone to come and examine it...someone who knows about art, and the Roaring Twenties.”

“I could have a look if you like.”

Holly spun around to see Hugh Darcy standing in the doorway. “Oh. Mr Darcy.”

“I couldn’t help but overhear,” he said, and turned to her father. “I apologize for the interruption, but you’re needed downstairs, Mr James.”

“Bloody hell! Can’t this place manage for ten minutes without me?” he grumbled. “Come in, Hugh. We’d appreciate your input.” He bent forward and kissed Holly absently on the forehead. “I’ll see you later. Let me know what you find out.”

“I will.” She waited until he left. She was relieved that he hadn’t brought up the subject of her after-work arrangement with Ciaran, but wished he hadn’t left her alone with Mr Darcy. He always made her feel wrong-footed and defensive.

Darcy glanced at her. “I did my undergraduate studies in Art History at Oxford and I worked for several summers at Sotheby’s in the valuation room. Might I take a look?”

She waited for a cool breeze, which she was convinced indicated the flapper’s displeasure, but it never came. “Be my guest,” Holly replied. She stood back as he knelt down before the painting and studied it intently. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

“What? Oh, yes. Yes, she is.” He frowned. “Of course we’d need to test the pigment to be sure, but judging from the clothing, I’d say this was probably painted in either 1927 or 1928.” He straightened up. “Where did you find it?”

“Shoved under the eaves,” she answered. “I found it by accident when I ran into a spider web.”

“They can be rather unpleasant.”

“I hate spider webs,” Holly agreed, and added, “Most of us shallow girls do.”

His dark eyes met hers. “Miss James—”

She had no wish to hear an apology from him, much less any more criticism. “Never mind. So tell me, how do you test the pigment?”

“Well, the painting should be examined by an art conservator, who’ll take a non-required sampling of the paint. That’s a tiny, non-invasive sample that gives a reasonably good idea of the age of the pigment and, thus, the painting. The other option is X-ray radiography. It’s a more conclusive, but also rather more invasive, method.”

The breeze, absent until then, returned. It seemed that the flapper was not pleased.

“Did you feel that?” Hugh asked suddenly.

Holly stared at him, astonished. “You felt it, too?”

He looked at her oddly. “Yes, of course I did.” He glanced past her at the windows, both shut. “It must’ve come from the attic doorway,” he murmured. “Most odd.”

“Sorry if I was rude the night of the party,” Holly said, all too anxious to change the subject from breezes and odd things and the potential ghost of a flapper. “I was, wasn’t I?”

He shrugged. “You’d just accepted a date with Ciaran Duncan, after all. I imagine he dazzles all the young women.”

“It wasn’t a date, and I wasn’t ‘dazzled,’” Holly retorted. “Well, maybe a bit,” she admitted. “It isn’t every day a girl gets asked to dinner by a film star, after all.”

“No, I expect not.”

“Why don’t you like him, anyway?” she wondered. “Do you know him?”

“Know him?” He glanced at her. “No. But I know of him. He’s charming, persuasive, and very skilled at getting what he wants, with no concern for who he might hurt in the process.”

“Oh, he can’t be that bad,” Holly scoffed. “He’s funny, in a droll, self-deprecating way. And he has very nice teeth.”

“So did the Big Bad Wolf, as I recall.” There was a distinct edge to his voice.

“I hope you don’t mind my asking,” Holly said, wishing to change the subject to anything but Ciaran, “but I wondered – are you seeing anyone? Back in London, I mean?”

His expression – already forbidding – tightened. “I fail to see how my personal life is any of your concern, Miss James.”

“Oh, never mind.” Holly turned away. “I don’t really care, anyway.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“Because I wondered if there’s a real person under that perfectly tailored suit.” She glared at him. “I guess I have my answer.”

His tense expression relaxed. “No. I haven’t the time, apart from anything else. Your father keeps me very busy with legal matters.”

“Well then, why don’t you ask Coco out, Mr Darcy? She’s right here at the store, and she’s single. I’m sure she’d love to go out with you.”

A look of distaste crossed his face. “I can assure you, I’d rather eat rocks than go out with Ms. Welch.”

She stared at him. “Why? Coco’s quite attractive. She’s stylish. And brunette,” she couldn’t help adding.

“Yes, I suppose she’s attractive,” he agreed, ignoring the dig, “but there’s the small matter of a personality.” He paused. “She doesn’t have one.”

Holly blinked. Then she laughed. “Good point, Mr Darcy. At least we can agree on that.”

He glanced at her, and for the first time, his lips relaxed into a slight smile. “Shall we go back downstairs, Miss James? I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling rather hungry. I wouldn’t mind a pastrami on rye, or perhaps a Reuben, from that deli on the corner. Join me?”

“That,” Holly said with satisfaction, “sounds absolutely perfect, Mr Darcy.”

They went to Shatz’s deli and placed their orders at the counter. When their sandwiches were ready, they found a table by the window and sat down. As Hugh bit into his pastrami on rye with extra mustard, and she took a bite of her ham and Swiss on wheat, hold the mayo, Holly basked in the sun streaming in through the window, her sandwich...even Darcy’s somewhat formal company.

He was amusing; he was clever; and when he relaxed a bit, he was almost...fun.

“How long have you worked for my father?” Holly asked as she reached for a crisp.

“Eight years, nearly nine. I went to work for him straight out of Oxford. I never intended to stay so long,” he admitted as he dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, “but I like the work, and I admire Alastair. He’s a good man.”

“Is he?” When Hugh looked at her oddly, Holly hastened to add, “Of course he is. I just mean, I don’t know him in the same way you do.”

“Alastair is one of the few men I know who actually has principles,” Hugh said, “and strong convictions. And he stands by them. But he’s compassionate, as well. He and Sir Richard do a great deal of charitable work on behalf of the store.”

“Really?” Holly chewed her ham sandwich thoughtfully. “I didn’t know that.”

“It seems there’s a lot you don’t know, Miss James.” He raised his brow and took a large bite of his pastrami on rye.

“Is that right?” she retorted. “Well, I do know one thing you don’t,” she added.

“Oh? And what’s that?”

She grinned and reached out to touch her finger to a bit of mustard on the corner of his mouth. “That extra mustard you asked for? It’s not only on your sandwich.”

He sat still and allowed her to dab it away. “Can’t take me anywhere, I’m afraid.”

Holly met his eyes. Her smile faded as she realized her finger was practically in his mouth. It was a nice mouth, too...firm, and chiseled, like a Greek statue’s. She blinked and drew her finger hastily away, and blushed. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“On the contrary,” he said, “I’m glad you did.” He cleared his throat. “I wouldn’t like to go about conducting Dashwood and James’s legal affairs with a mustard smear on my mouth.”

As they finished their lunch and gathered up their waxed paper and crisp bags, Holly turned to him. “You needn’t worry, you know.”

“Worry?” He looked at her in surprise. “About what?”

“About Ciaran Duncan,” she replied. “You said he could be charming, and persuasive. And he can. He is. But you’re not bad yourself, when you make half an effort.” And with an insouciant smile, Holly picked up her tray and made her way to the door, leaving Mr Darcy to follow after her.

Chapter Thirteen

“So how was it?” Chaz demanded on the phone late Monday afternoon. “I want all the details. Where’d you and Ciaran go? What did you eat? Did he try anything? Ooh, please tell me he did.” He paused. “No, on second thought, don’t. I don’t want to know. Did he like your outfit?”

Holly, sprawled across her bed, said, “If you’d let me get a word in, I’ll tell you all about it.” And she did, except for the part where Ciaran kissed her in the limo and she kissed him back.

Some things were probably best kept to herself.

“So he took you to The Russian Tea Room, a carriage ride through Central Park, shopping on Fifth Avenue, and you had a drink at the Café Carlyle,” Chaz repeated, unimpressed. “Romantic, yes; but it’s a textbook ‘New York day out.’”

“Oh, quit being so snarky. That was the idea, if you recall. Not everyone thinks a burger at Rudy’s Bar and Grill followed by body shots at a drag club is the ideal evening out,” she retorted.

“It sounds pretty perfect to me.” He paused. “Speaking of ideal evenings out – I have news, too.”

“Really? Is it news of a romantic nature?” Holly asked.

“It could be,” he said mysteriously. “Guess who asked me out to dinner?”

“I don’t know, and I hate guessing games. Just tell me.”

“Karl von Karle, that’s who,” he trilled.

She stared at her phone. “You mean the same Karl von Karle who designs shoes and carries the tiny little dog everywhere he goes, like a furry accessory?”

“Maximilian,” Chaz told her, and nodded. “I went to your desk to see if you were free for lunch – you were nowhere to be found, by the way – and Karl was talking to Alastair, and he introduced us, and one thing led to another, and...well, he asked me out.”

“Well, um, congratulations. Wow.”

“You don’t sound very happy for me,” Chaz accused her.

“Of course I am.” Holly hesitated. “It’s just – well, he’s famous, Chaz. I don’t want to see you get hurt. And he’s a lot older than you. Besides, he’s been with that Belgian fashion designer forever—”

“They broke up. Jean-Paul was too possessive. And so what if he’s famous? You’re dating a famous guy.”

“We’re not dating. We’re friends.” She paused. “I’m happy for you, Chaz, truly.” She glanced down at her watch. “But I have to go.”

“Oh? Where?” he demanded. “I thought Ciaran was flying back to London today. Has he asked you out again? And where’s Jamie?”

“He has, he’s flying back on Sunday. Jamie’s working.” As usual, she thought. “Ciaran asked me to come with him and look at apartments.”

Chaz let out a soft whistle. “Wow...he’s a fast mover. He’s known you exactly one day and he already wants to look at apartments together?”

“It’s not like that,” she said, annoyed. “He starts filming soon, and he needs a place to live. He wants my input.”

“More like he wants to put it into you,” Chaz muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing. What are you doing tomorrow? Isn’t Tuesday your day off?”

“No, I’m working full time until the launch ends. But I don’t mind – I’m hoping to learn more about the flapper.”

“Okay, I’ll bite – what flapper?”

“I don’t know who she is, yet. I found her portrait in the attic yesterday.” She had a sudden idea. “Why don’t you come over at lunch and help me? You can meet her, and help me find out who she is.”

“Meet her?” he echoed. “You make it sound like she’s still alive and living in the attic.”

Holly almost told him about sensing her presence; but for some reason, she didn’t. He probably wouldn’t believe her, anyway. And he’d think she was bat-shit crazy.

“Well, the painting’s so lifelike, it’s almost as though she’s real,” she explained, and added, “So, are you in? Feel like rummaging through a bunch of dusty boxes with me tomorrow?”

“Ooh, what fun,” Chaz deadpanned. He sighed. “Okay, why not? It’s not like I have anything better planned for lunch tomorrow anyway.”

“Gee, thanks for that,” Holly retorted. “Love you too. I’ll see you then.”

Although Holly and Chaz spent an entire hour in the attic the next day, sneezing and shoving boxes around, they found nothing of interest, only more junk, and plenty of cobwebs.

“I’m not surprised,” Chaz said as he leaned back on his heels. “I mean, why would this flapper’s journals and personal stuff be stashed up here, anyway? You said this place was a speakeasy back in the day.”

“It was. But why is her portrait here in the attic, then?” Holly wondered, frustrated. “Who shoved it under the eaves, and why?”

“Who knows? My advice? Find out her name first. Then you can figure out where she lived.”

“Right,” she agreed. “And how do I do that, exactly?”

Chaz stood and brushed the dust from his pants. “Well, I’m no Nancy Drew, but I’d start with the local library and check old newspapers. Or maybe the chamber of commerce?”

“You’re brilliant.” Holly kissed him impulsively on the cheek and followed him to the door. “That’s just what I’ll do. How’d you like to go over there with me later?”

“No, thanks,” he said firmly. “I can think of lots of things I’d rather do with my evening. And none of them involves the library or the chamber of commerce. Enjoy yourself, sweetie.”

Chapter Fourteen

When her shift at the store ended, Holly drove to the library, and after searching the history shelves, sat down with a stack of local Greenwich Village books. She pulled the first volume towards her and began to read. Halfway through the second book, she found what she was looking for.

The brownstone that housed Dashwood and James was built in 1878 and started out as a hotel. It featured a bohemian clientele, amongst them writers, artists, dancers, and musicians. It wasn’t until the 1920s, and the arrival of Prohibition, that a gangster named Clyde Caruso purchased the hotel and turned it into a speakeasy.

Holly leaned forward. Despite federal law banning the manufacture and sale of alcohol, bootleggers continued to make whiskey and moonshine, and people continued to buy it. Eventually organized crime stepped in. Unlike another notorious criminal of the day, Al Capone – who some viewed as a kind of wrong-side-of-the-law Robin Hood for his many charitable contributions – Caruso had no interest in charity. He wanted power.

After Capone ordered the infamous St. Valentine’s Day Massacre of six rival gangsters, he was convicted and sent to prison, and Caruso began building his own crime empire.

What she needed, Holly realized as she closed the book, were local newspapers from the time period in question. She stood and made her way to the reference desk.

“Excuse me,” she said to the woman behind the desk. “I need to look at some local Greenwich Village newspapers from 1927 and 1928, if possible.”

“That’ll be on microfiche,” the librarian replied. “One moment, please.”

Although she learned a lot about New York in the days of Prohibition and speakeasies and crime syndicates, Holly had no luck discovering the flapper’s identity.

Still, she consoled herself as she gathered up her handbag and thrust her notes inside, she’d found plenty of background information, and even a photograph of Clyde Caruso. She studied the photocopy now. He was handsome, in a dark, Gangsters of New York kind of way. But there was a definite coldness in his eyes. He wasn’t someone you’d ever want to cross.

Holly went back to her table to return her books to the shelves. As she began to stack the volumes in her hands, she sensed someone behind her.

“Hello, Miss James. I didn’t expect to see you here, hitting the books on a Tuesday evening.”

She looked up to see Hugh Darcy and eyed the law books stacked in his arms. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m doing some legal research for Alastair. All very dull and incomprehensible stuff, I’m afraid.” He eyed her own stack of books. “What brings you to the library?”