Part 8 (1/2)

”Well, that's the worst of it. We're not staying here. I was supposed to meet Momma here in the lobby so we could enjoy your wonderful tearoom. But she's nowhere to be seen. And Momma's never late.”

”Maybe she was held up in traffic.”

”She lives just two blocks from here. She prefers to walk.”

”What does she look like? Do you know what she's wearing?”

”She's small, about my height. And she has white hair. She said she'd be wearing her navy picture hat and a short-sleeve navy dress.”

The young woman didn't ask what a ”picture hat” was, as if she knew about all the fas.h.i.+on from the 1940s and '50s. ”I'll call security.”

Which, of course, was exactly what Poppy had hoped for.

In less than a minute, a gentleman in a gray Armani suit arrived.

”My goodness,” she crooned, her drawl sliding out on a thin, syrupy stream, ”your handsome attire is hardly befitting a security officer.”

He a.s.sured her he was dressed for the comfort of the hotel guests. ”We don't want anyone feeling as if big brother or sister is watching.”

She took a quick, longing look at the new silver call bell-a pair would look lovely atop Momma's piano-then said, ”But security is so important. At my daddy's cotton business down in Winston-Salem, they have cameras everywhere that see all the goings-on. Do you have cameras like that? Would they have seen Momma?” Her fingertips touched her throat as she spoke; Momma always said she'd have made a fine actress, she had such an ability to tune out the real world.

”Why don't you follow me, Miss...”

”Miss Bartlett.” Poppy used Alice's last name because she couldn't be expected to make everything up right there on the polished-hardwood-floor spot.

They took the elevator to the bas.e.m.e.nt, down a dark hall to a door marked Security. The man in the Armani waved a plastic card next to the door handle. Two green lights flashed and a beep beeped.

He pulled open the door to a tiny room that had no windows-just a console, two chairs, and about two dozen monitors lined up on the walls. When Poppy had come up with the plan, she hadn't considered that her claustrophobia would be a deterrent.

A man in black jeans and a black polo s.h.i.+rt sat at the console in one of the chairs.

”Hey, Jake,” Poppy's escort said as he stepped into the room.

Poppy sucked in a reservoir of air, then followed him in. It smelled as if Jake had eaten Chinese takeout for lunch.

”A woman is missing,” the Armani-man said, and Poppy restated Momma's made-up description.

Jake pressed a few b.u.t.tons on the large console, which resembled a control panel on the Stars.h.i.+p Enterprise from those silly old TV shows Duane liked to watch.

Struggling to scan the monitors without hyperventilating, Poppy wished she had a better idea of what a Dumpster looked like. Her only frame of reference was a green one in the back of the parking lot at Stop & Shop.

”My goodness,” she said, ”you have cameras everywhere.”

The men didn't answer.

She fiddled with her wig.

”I can fast-forward through the last thirty minutes of the hotel lobby,” Jake said.

Armani-man nodded.

Speeded-up images suddenly appeared on one screen; Jake slowed it down whenever anyone pushed through the gla.s.s and bra.s.s revolving door. Except for the fact that it was in black and white, the picture was eerily reminiscent of the video of Princess Diana and her boyfriend entering the Paris Ritz-Carlton on the last night of their lives.

Poppy's gaze flitted to the other monitors, searching for the Dumpster, the back door, the alley. But the other images looked like the X-rays that had been taken when Duane broke his foot on a ski slope in the Alps. She hadn't known what she was seeing then, either.

She tried taking in a breath now, but there was no air left in her lungs.

”Excuse me, gentlemen,” she whimpered. ”Perhaps I've been mistaken.” She turned to the door just as there was a knock. Armani-man reached past Poppy, turned the handle, and pushed.

In the doorway stood the man with the badge. The same man, the same badge, she had witnessed at Yolanda's. It was Manny, the hairstylist's cute brother. ”Detective Valdes from the twelfth over in Brooklyn. We're working on a case and I could use your a.s.sistance.” He nodded at Poppy as if he'd never seen her. ”Ma'am,” he said coolly, ”if you'll excuse us, this is official business.”

Manny?

Manny!

Poppy skipped from the room into the dark hallway, her heart all atwitter, as Momma would describe it.

What was Manny doing there? Had he been following her? Though Momma believed life was irony, surely coincidence played a small part.

Suddenly, Poppy had to pee. Stress and excitement often did that to her. She glanced up and down the dark hall. She spotted a woman in a tan and white dress pus.h.i.+ng a cart stacked with thick white towels.

Ah. A housekeeper.

”Please,” Poppy asked, as she power-walked toward her, ”is there a ladies' room nearby?”

The woman pointed to a door with a sign that read Staff Lounge. Wasting no time, Poppy skipped into a large, square room. A bank of gray lockers circled the inside perimeter. In the back corner was a doorway; beyond that stood several metal stalls. Poppy ducked into one, used the facilities, came out, then leaned against a well-worn enamel sink. Espionage was exhausting.

She closed her eyes and took a few Yoga breaths.

It was nice that Yolanda's brother had followed her. Was he playing Sir Lancelot to her Guinevere?

She wondered if that was what Elinor's lover did for Elinor-made her feel special when her husband no longer did.

Then Poppy remembered that Manny was not her lover. She didn't even, in fact, know his last name. What had he said? Sergeant Valdes? Maybe he'd made up his name the way she'd borrowed hers.

With a small sigh, Poppy opened her eyes. She turned on the faucet to wash her hands. That's when she saw a stack of laundry in the mirror's reflection-not towels like she'd seen on the cart, but tan and white uniforms like the one the housekeeper had worn.

Suddenly Poppy had another bright idea: what if the housekeeper had stolen Elinor's panties from the room? What if she'd wanted a special pair of La Perlas for herself? (Who wouldn't?) What if the housekeeper had then learned that a rich lady from Mount Kasteel and Was.h.i.+ngton, D.C., had been in the room? Could she have realized she'd struck a lace gold mine?

Poppy's fingers flew to her throat once again, the little hollow at the base, where her pulse resumed its twittery race.

If any of this was true, could they prove it?

She supposed one of Elinor's friends could dress up as a housekeeper. Maybe then they could learn who'd cleaned room 402 after Elinor had been there. Maybe they could trace the La Perlas from there! Maybe Duane would be off the hook!

Oh! Poppy thought. Oh!