Chapter One
Wednesday, March 28th
“I’m being kidnapped, even if it is with my permission,” I murmured to myself on an afternoon in late March. I gazed out of the limousine’s windows at the passing scenery and wondered what predicament I was headed into this time.
The one thing I could guarantee—almost—was it could not be a major story, for I had not yet returned to my desk in the newsroom of the Daily Gleaner. A reporter incapable of taking off her own coat, much less typing, was of little use to the Long Island paper. Since Valentine’s Day, my surgical site had healed, and although my doctors replaced the first cast with a less bulky one, enough plaster remained to immobilize most of my right arm and shoulder. As far as I knew, this jaunt had nothing to do with my job. I hoped.
I sighed, not entirely out of frustration. I considered my ability to do it comfortably a mark of progress, all by itself. Part of a late morning telephone conversation echoed in my mind.
“Lauren, I want you to come into the city this afternoon,” Robert Mallory told me. “I’ll have a car pick you and Mrs. Fiddler up at the mansion and bring you to my hotel.” He headed off my protest. “Julie will be there.”
“I know you won’t be—Mrs. Fiddler mentioned this morning you are still out of town.”
“I’ll be back either late today or early tomorrow,” he offered.
“What is going on?” I demanded. “You know I hate surprises. What are you cooking up?”
“All I’ll say for now is we have decided you need a change of scene. You’ve been cooped up in the house for a month.”
“I’ll skip reminding you my options have been limited,” I countered with a grimace, grateful he could not see it.
“I’m aware of that. Now, though, you’ve recovered enough to handle a weekend out. We think it’s time.”
“That’s the second time you used the pronoun we. Who, precisely, is we? Was this Julie’s idea? Or O’Brien’s? Or yours?”
“Lizzie,” he replied with a low chuckle, “for once, no arguments. Go along with it, and trust me, please?”
His use of my nickname both reassured and alarmed me. However, it left me no alternative, so I assented. “It sounds like one of your conspiratorial schemes, but I surrender.”
“Good girl,” he commended me, his baritone voice full of mischief. “Leave everything to Mrs. Fiddler.”
“That’s the easy part,” I groused. “I doubt I could deal with folding a handkerchief one-handed. Especially left-handed.”
“The car will call for you both at three-thirty.” He chuckled and rang off.
A requirement for any good reporter was eliciting information through questioning. I was adept at it—with over two years of experience and a few major news stories to my credit. However, I suspected no amount of inquiry—with or without cajoling—would make a dent in Mrs. Fiddler’s determination to maintain the secrecy required of her role in whatever surprise those around me had in store, regardless of how well-meaning they were. That morning, I tried anyway—first while she packed my suitcase, again during the light lunch she prepared for us, and finally on the drive into Manhattan. I did my best. She was polite about it, but I learned exactly what I expected to—nothing.
“Can’t you give me a hint?” I pleaded.
The Mallory housekeeper smiled and shook her head. “You know the master and Miss Julie.”
“Especially when I add you into the plot,” I agreed.
Reluctantly, I accepted the idea that my best friend—Julie—and her father conspired to spirit me away from their mansion in Northwoods Glen on Long Island to spend at least one night in Manhattan for some purpose. I acceded to the plot without further fuss. My reasoning was simple—they gave me no choice. I fought down my curiosity and decided to enjoy the drive. My only other ride in a limo concluded with me on an operating table while a surgeon cleaned up a gunshot wound, complicated by chipped and fractured bones, which was how I acquired the plaster-sleeved undershirt I currently wore.
My friendship with the Mallorys dated back to when I was a kid. A few years before the war which cost my father his life during the D-Day landings on Omaha Beach, Robert Mallory bought the manor house down the road from my family and renovated it to its present understated grandeur. A widower, he installed Mrs. Fiddler as a combination housekeeper and governess for his daughter. Both only children, Julie and I became—as Mrs. Fiddler often phrased it—thicker than Robin Hood’s merry men planning an ambush, despite my being exactly three and a half years older than my cohort. Memories of those days always brought a smile.
Less pleasant were thoughts about my two-week hospital stay, which followed the events of Valentine’s Day. My physician released me only after I promised to spend my recuperation at the mansion under the watchful eye of Mrs. Fiddler. I had not put up any argument; I needed the help, which the housekeeper gave without fuss or coddling. Lucky did not begin to cover it. Any time I attempted to convey my thanks, she graciously rebuffed them. Mallory was correct, though, in one detail. It had been a long month; I felt as if the mansion grew smaller every day. Even Easter, three days earlier, had been just another day. I got the new cast the next day.
I glanced over at the woman who anchored the Mallory household. Mature, slim, with pleasant features, and utterly reliable, she gazed at the world through pale-blue eyes. Her hairstyle had not changed in the years I had known her—an immaculate crown of braids across the top of her head—the only notable difference being an increased amount of white in them. Her appearance was completely plausible and an excellent disguise. She looked impassive, disarming, and harmless, yet she controlled the mansion’s day-to-day activities with the efficiency of a drill sergeant and took any sudden upheavals in stride. Of old-fashioned English stock, she sat next to me with perfect posture.
My reverie ended when the limousine pulled up to the main entrance of the Nottingham Park Hotel in Manhattan. Classic in design, its carved stonework and concrete exterior gave the impression of exclusive and elegant gentility, especially in contrast to its newer and taller neighbors. I watched as the doorman stepped down off the curb to open my door. Our driver beat him to it; he knew I would need assistance climbing out, since he helped me into it. Mrs. Fiddler made certain our luggage was properly attended, and we entered the lobby. I surveyed the luxurious surroundings.
“Lauren!” Julie hailed me from the lounge area. “You made it!” Her usual sense of decorum abandoned, she trotted across the marble floor and gave me an awkward hug, which I returned as best I could.
“Miss Julie, would you take her up to the suite while I see to the luggage?” Mrs. Fiddler stated it as a question, but long years of experience taught us to obey it as an order.
“Sure! Let me have the train case, too.” Julie, five inches shorter than I, smiled broadly as we entered the elevator, her eyes shining with pleasure. Where I was reed-thin and stood sixty-seven inches, with straight brown hair and brown eyes, Julie had curves I envied, wavy auburn hair, and very blue eyes. “Penthouse, please, Carter,” Julie said to the man holding the door for us. “This is Miss Kaye, who will be staying with us for a few days.”
“Certainly, Miss Mallory,” the liveried operator responded. “Welcome to the Nottingham, Miss Kaye.” He closed the metal grate door, and the outer door closed. He made the knobbed control lever seem a part of his hand.
I studied the floor indicator panel. There were twelve floors and PH.
“Now, that is sneaky,” I murmured.
“What is?” Julie’s eyebrows drew together in confusion.
“Floors one through twelve are numbered. The top floor is marked penthouse, rather than thirteen.” I snickered. “A clever, off-beat way to hide the fact the building has thirteen floors.”
“If I may comment?” the elevator man politely asked.
Julie nodded. “Go ahead.”
“Not many people realize it,” he observed with the faintest of smiles.
“Figures you’d notice it right off. It took me three trips to catch on,” Julie told me with a giggle.
“I don’t suppose you are going to tell me what is going on,” I commented as we rose to the unmarked thirteenth floor.
“Nope. It’s Daddy’s party. I’ve been sworn to secrecy.”
“I thought he was out of town.” I turned my head to gaze at her. “I also thought you had classes this week. It’s Wednesday.”
“He is, and I did. I stayed at school for Easter to study, and I took a test early so I’m done for the week.” She grinned. “Relax—you’ll find out soon enough.” Her tone was as smug as her grin.
“You’re at it again and, as usual, enjoying it too much,” I mumbled.
She openly smirked. “Here we are.”
The operator slid the inner door to one side and the outer one opened automatically.
“Thank you, Carter. Lauren, turn to the left,” Julie instructed.
I stepped out into a vestibule with a short hallway branching off to the left and right. The Wedgwood blue walls had white baseboards and upper molding with a rail, from which watercolor cityscapes hung. The carpet was a deeper shade of the blue. I saw two doors, one at each end of the hall.
“Only two rooms?” I questioned as I moved to the left.
“Two suites.” She pushed the button next to the door marked PH1. “She’s here.”
The door swung open.
“Welcome!” Ashton Harper, one of the leading tenors with the New York City Opera Company, gave us a theatrical bow as we entered. The tall, attractive blond man with laughing blue eyes smiled down at me as he stepped to one side. “Lauren, it’s good to see you. Allow me to assist you.”
Harper peeled my heavy cape off my shoulders and hung it in a convenient closet. We were in a small foyer which opened up into a large room with high ceilings, comfortably but gracefully furnished. A living area—with a couch, several easy chairs, end tables, and a coffee table—was off to our left. Another area complemented it on the opposite side with a dining table and wet bar with four stools. A large area rug covered the floor of the sitting room, with a bare, hardwood parquet floor in the dining room.
“Ash, what are you doing here?” I questioned as he took my left hand and kissed it.
“I’ll explain once you get comfortable.” He moved to the bar. “Ginger ale?”
I nodded and turned to Julie. “All right, give over. First, I’m whisked away to the big city without explanation, and now I find Ash waiting for us. What’s going on?”
“I promise it’s nothing sinister. Daddy and I—” She broke off as the outer door opened.
Mrs. Fiddler entered, followed by a bellhop with my suitcases.
“In there,” she instructed him with a gesture to her left. “Please set them on the luggage racks.” She took off her hat and coat and put them in the foyer closet. “That will be all for the moment, thank you,” she told the young man, who left.
“You were saying?” I prompted Julie.
“Before we get to explanations, Miss Julie,” Mrs. Fiddler interposed, “I think we might want to show Miss Lauren where everything is.” She faced me. “I believe this is the first time you’ve been here, correct?”
“I’ve heard about it, but yes.”
“The suite has two main bedrooms, each with its own bathroom. There’s a smaller bedchamber with a half-bath,” the housekeeper informed me. “You and Miss Julie will be sharing that one.” She indicated the door through which the bellhop had taken my suitcases. “The other one is the master’s. Right now, you might want to freshen up.”
“Come on,” Julie urged. “We can get you unpacked.”
I glanced at Harper, who smiled. “I’m not going anywhere. Take your time.”
Julie guided me to the opened door and let me precede her.
“Heaven help us,” I murmured as I surveyed the bedroom. “It’s the size of your room at the mansion.”
“It’s almost exactly the same, except this has twin beds rather than the big one I have at home,” she said with another giggle. “I told you the hotel was sumptuous.”
“Not even a tiny exaggeration.” I peered into the bathroom, which had a commode, a sink, a claw-footed bathtub with a shower, and a tiled floor. “No wonder you like staying here. This suite is bigger than O’Brien’s house!”
In addition to the beds, the room had a mirrored vanity with drawers on either side, an easy chair with a floor lamp next to a bookcase, and a small table with a lamp between the beds. The walls were off-white, accented with pale-blush curtains on the windows which coordinated with the slightly darker blush-tone area rugs on the parquet hardwood floor.
“I’ll unpack. Sit,” she commanded.
I sat in the easy chair and wiggled to get more comfortable in my plaster armor. I felt like a fully outfitted football player. The only things missing were a helmet and knee pads.
“I appreciate the luxury,” I acknowledged, “but why have you gone to this trouble? I am getting better.”
“Lauren, we’ve all been worried about you.”
“Define all.”
“Those of us who know you well, and I’m including Captain O’Brien,” she replied, referring to the captain of the Northwoods Glen police department. “Daddy figured it was time you got out of the house for a few days.” Her frown reflected her concern. “You haven’t been yourself.”
“When I first woke up in my hospital bed, I promised I’d be good. I’ve followed my doctor’s orders, and I’ve been cooperating.”
“That’s our point.” She flashed a broad smile. “It’s not like you.”
“What?”
“You usually bristle, challenge, oppose, and balk.” Finished with the first suitcase, she began pulling things out of the second one. “You also haven’t been begging to get back to work or school.”
“I can’t even change my own socks. How am I supposed to type or take notes?” I gave her words some thought while she hung up my nightgowns. “I admit, I haven’t been up to doing much. But being shot—it made me step back and think about a lot of things.”
“Like what?” She stowed both suitcases under my bed and unlatched the train case.
“My life. What I can and can’t do.”
“You once told me you figured you could do almost anything you set out to do.” She lifted the inner tray of the case and set it on top of the drawers. The remaining contents disappeared into a dresser drawer, and the case itself went into the closet. “Well, you’re unpacked, at least. Let’s join Ash. I think Mrs. Fiddler had an errand to run.”
Mrs. Fiddler was nowhere in sight. Harper rose when we entered the main room and waited until I was seated in a corner of the couch to hand me a glass of ginger ale. He took a seat on the couch and looked up at Julie with raised eyebrows.
“I told her we decided she needed a change of scenery,” she replied to the unspoken query.
“There has to be more to it than that,” I grumbled.
“Ash? Why don’t you explain your part in this,” Julie suggested. She helped herself to a soft drink at the bar and seated herself in an easy chair.
“Auntie,” he began, referring to our roles in the opera production where we met, “I need your help. One of the sponsors of NYCO’s scholarship foundation is having some—well, problems. He’s a good friend, one of my mentors, and I’d like you to look into it.” His handsome face took on a slight frown. “As a favor. It’s important to me.”
“Ash, you know I’d do anything I can for you,” I told him with a grimace, “but as I remarked to Julie a few minutes ago, I can’t even change my own socks right now. I’m not exactly in a position to tackle an investigation.”
“I’m not asking you to investigate, precisely.”
“Then what are you asking?”
“Help me look into it. As best I can describe it, he feels he’s being haunted.”
“Haunted?” I put my glass down before I spilled it, and sat up straight—or as straight as I could. “You mean literally, as in ghosts?”
“I’m not sure ghosts are involved, but something has him worried and on edge. He’s a bit of a recluse and has few friends. I’m hoping if you meet him, we can sit and talk. Maybe together we can figure out what’s bothering him.”
“Who is he?” I shifted my position slightly back into my corner. The cast, although not as bulky as the first one, was awkward and top-heavy because it enclosed my shoulder. The sling I wore only took some of the weight.
“I don’t want to give you his name yet.” He paused. A shadow of worry spread across his classic features. “He came over here from Europe during the war. It’s possible some of his memories have grown into fears. We’ve become good friends, but he’s very secretive about some things in his past.”
“I know an excellent and discreet private investigator,” I offered. “Paul Townsend was one of the people who helped track down—”
“The butler who shot you,” Harper finished for me. He adopted my habit of describing any unknown perpetrator as the butler during our first encounter. “Yes, I met Townsend once at the hospital when I visited you. I thought about hiring him to check around, but I’d like to get your opinion first.”
Mrs. Fiddler returned from her errand, and postponed any reply I wanted to make. She carried a garment bag and another shopping bag. She put them down on the chair near the door, hung up her coat, turned, and smiled at me as she picked the items up again. The smile was one of her it’s for your own good trademarks. An alarm bell went off in my mind.
“The alterations are fine,” she said in her firm, British-accented, soft voice and nodded to Julie. “I don’t think we’ll have any problems.” The alarm bell in my head escalated to a klaxon.
“Bother.” I reached for my ginger ale and took a large sip. “Why do I get the impression there’s more going on here than I’ve been told so far?”
Julie giggled, which gave me another clue something else was up.
Harper sat back with a grin.
I swiveled to face him and treated him to a mild glare. “So there is something else?”
“Must everything be a conspiracy?” Julie put in with an impish smile.
I upped the voltage on my glare and spread it to include them both. “When you two sit there looking like cats with canary feathers stuck to your noses, yes.” I glanced over to the housekeeper. “Alterations on what?”
“Your dresses.” Julie enlightened me with a smug smile.
“Dresses? I have clothes with me. I know—I watched Mrs. Fiddler pack and saw you put them away.”
“Not for going out.” Julie gestured to the over-sized blouse I wore with an old skirt.
“Out?” I echoed. “I am dressed for comfort, not society.”
“You didn’t think we’d drag you all the way to Manhattan so you could sit in Daddy’s hotel suite and feed pigeons on the balcony for the weekend, did you?” she countered.
“How many times do I have to ask what is going on before someone supplies the answer?” I groused.
“I’m taking you out to dinner this evening,” Harper contributed. “I have reservations at Lee’s, one of the finest Chinese restaurants in the city. The menu is in Chinese, and the table is set with chopsticks. The food comes in bite-sized pieces,” he added, shooting down my anticipated objection as I opened my mouth. “I promise I’ll make sure the management lets you use a fork.”
“All right, I surrender.” I finished my drink. “I guess I don’t have much of a say in this.”
“None at all,” Julie replied with a smile. She rose, took the bags from the housekeeper, and disappeared into our bedroom.
The telephone rang, and the sound startled me. I had not noticed one until then. As the bell repeated, I spotted it on a shelf behind the bar. Mrs. Fiddler answered it on the third ring and moved it to the bar’s countertop.
“Penthouse One.” She listened and beckoned to Harper. “Just a moment, sir. Mr. Ashton, Mr. Mallory would like a word with you.”
Julie, back from the bedroom, sat in the chair nearest to me in time to hear me groan.
“So there’s more to this conspiracy than the favor Ash wants?” I inquired.
The doorbell chimed; Mrs. Fiddler went to answer it.
“Come in, Mr. Sebring. You’re expected.” She stood to one side to admit Jeff Sebring.
Sebring, a baritone with NYCO, had been interested in Julie since he first met her at a rehearsal of Gounod’s Romeo et Juliette, the opera production where I met both singers. I knew he planned to escort her to the New York City Opera Gala in May, so I was not surprised to see him. A couple of inches shorter and of a more stocky build than Harper, he had reddish-brown hair and blue eyes. Sebring’s easy-going, warm personality intensified when he was onstage.
Sebring handed his coat and hat to Mrs. Fiddler as Harper disconnected his call.
“Jeff—glad you could make it,” Harper greeted his friend and colleague with a handshake.
Sebring greeted Julie and came over to me. “It’s great to see you out of the hospital. I’m sorry I couldn’t get out to the Island to see you since.”
“Jeff’s rehearsing a new role,” Harper proudly informed us.
“Congratulations, Jeff,” I told the younger singer, one of Harper’s protégés. “Do I get to know what it is?”
“Not until I know I have it down,” he shyly demurred. He regarded Harper as he accepted a soft drink. “Am I late?”
“No, our dinner reservation is for seven, and it’s not even six.” Harper resumed his seat near me and smiled. “Think of it as a test run for tomorrow night.”
“Heaven help us, there’s more? What’s up tomorrow night?” I regarded each of the four people in the room in turn. “Give over. What else is going on?”
“Daddy managed it?” Julie asked with a widening grin.
“Did you have doubts?” Harper returned. “Robert gave me the go-ahead to reveal his grand surprise for the weekend. I admit I helped, but yes, Julie, he reserved the tickets. I’ll pick them up at the box office tomorrow.”
Julie clapped her hands with obvious delight. “Opening night! I can’t wait. I loved South Pacific.”
“Tickets?” I felt dumb asking, but I was lost. “I’m missing something. South Pacific isn’t new. Even I know that much.”
“Robert got us seats for the opening night performance of the new Rogers and Hammerstein show, The King and I, starring Gertrude Lawrence and Yul Brynner.” Harper grinned. “He hopes to be back in town for it, but he’s sure we can find someone to fill the extra seat if he can’t make it.”
“It’s the most sought-after ticket in town,” Sebring contributed. “Everyone is talking about it, and wondering if it will top their South Pacific. Ash, what did you have to do with getting the tickets?”
“I met Miss Lawrence in London a couple of years ago. I was coming back from an overseas tour, and she was starring in September Tide. I got in touch with her last week to see if she could help with this. She did, and also invited us to meet her backstage after the show.” He regarded me. “I didn’t think you’d want to deal with that kind of a crush of people, so I suggested a late supper instead.” He paused and took a breath as if to add something, but stayed silent.
“So, you see, Lauren, it’s all set. You did need a new dress or two.” Julie’s eyes gleamed and she concluded, ”Look at the bright side.”
“Which is?”
“You didn’t have to go to a store and try anything on this time.” Her smug smile returned as everyone chuckled.
“Miss Lauren, I would like to see if any further alterations will be needed,” Mrs. Fiddler suggested, “if the two gentlemen will excuse us?”
Both men rose as I prepared to stand up. Harper extended his hand to assist me.
“Thanks, Ash, but I need to do it on my own if I can.”
He nodded. I used the arm of the couch to get up and made my way to the bedroom, Mrs. Fiddler right behind me.
*****
By the time we returned to the hotel after an excellent dinner, I was tired.
“We won’t come up,” Harper told me in the lobby. “You’ve had a long day, and you need rest more than you need company. I’ll call in the morning, but I’ll definitely see you tomorrow afternoon. We’ll be able to talk about seeing my friend, too.”
We watched as Julie and Sebring began their goodbyes, standing quietly about a foot apart.
“Was this their first date?” I murmured.
“Yes, and he was very nervous. I thought it would be a good idea for him to get used to being around her father before the NYCO Gala.”
“Commendable idea.” I looked up into his face. “I’ve been thinking about your friend and his problem. I’m not sure how much I could do.”
“I’m putting that topic on a list with a few others to discuss when we have time,” he responded.
“Others?”
“The NYCO Gala, Becca’s trial, and,” he impishly grinned, “how to hug you in all that plaster.”
I shook my head with a wry smile. “I know, we need some time alone.” I glanced at the other couple, who seemed to be finished saying goodnight. “Thank you again for a lovely evening.”
“My pleasure.” His warm smile, devoid of any mischief, made me feel a little shy. “Lauren, get a good night’s sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He gently kissed my forehead.
The men waited until the elevator door opened before they turned to leave.
“Are you all right?” Julie anxiously asked when I leaned against the elevator’s wall as we ascended.
“I’m tired, but it’s a good tired. Much better than what I’ve been feeling. I admit it was nice to get out, even if I am awkward eating with my left hand.”
She nodded. “Tucking the napkin into the top of the sling helped.”
“I honestly don’t think I could have done this any sooner, though.” I studied my reflection in the mirrored panel of the elevator. “This dress does hide most of the cast.”
The dress had a loose, shirtwaist-type of bodice with fluttery sleeves and a slightly flared, street-length skirt. The navy-blue color kept it from looking frilly. One of the alterations had been to make the right sleeve open with snaps so I could get the cast through it.
“Mrs. Fiddler strikes again,” I quipped.
“Your dress for tomorrow night looks great, too,” Julie observed with a smile.
We arrived at the top floor and entered the suite. Mrs. Fiddler was waiting for us in the foyer.
“Your father called,” she informed Julie as we shrugged out of our capes. “He will be back first thing in the morning. He gave instructions that you both are to sleep late and not worry about being up to meet him.”
“I can agree to that,” I mumbled with a yawn as we went into the bedroom.
Julie called first dibs for the bathroom and beelined for it.
“Mrs. Fiddler, I feel like such a baby. I can’t get used to not being able to take care of myself,” I told her, not for the first time. “I hate being so helpless.”
“Miss Lauren, it’s not a bother or an imposition on any of us.” She smiled her reassurance as she hung up the dress. “I do understand your frustration. You’ve always been strong and independent.”
“Like you, perhaps?” I ventured as I gazed straight into her eyes. “I’ve guessed you’ve been through some difficult times. It shows around the edges every now and then, but I’ve never had the nerve to ask.”
She dipped her head slightly in a nod. “Precisely.”
Julie chose that moment to step out of the bathroom. The quiet moment with Mrs. Fiddler ended, and I figured it would not be referred to again.
“All yours.” Julie sat at the vanity and turned to me. “Do you need help? I know you can’t shower or bathe in that cast.”
“I’ve gotten reasonably good at managing a sponge bath,” I told her.
Mrs. Fiddler laid out my nightgown and went into the bathroom. I heard water running in the sink. When it ceased, she emerged.
“I have drawn your bathwater in the sink. The washcloth and a towel are at hand, and your wrap is draped over the side of the bathtub. I placed the chair in the usual spot.”
“Thank you,” I murmured as I went by her. “If I’m not out in fifteen minutes, come in and find out why.”
She winked at me with a hint of a smile.
