sat down at a café table near the fireplace. “We just got back this morning.”
I smiled. “Candy canes by candlelight?”
“Yes, yes—it was all quite romantic, but that’s not what I’ve come to tell you. Something alarming has occurred.”
“Are you talking about the ferry incident? Did Matt tell you?”
“Ferry incident? No, there’s nothing here about a ferry . . .” She reached into her blond leather tote bag and pulled out a tabloid newspaper. A yellow Post-it marked the Gotham Gossip column. “This is what I’m talking about!”
“Oh my God.”
Splashed across the tabloid’s fold was a series of color photographs, set up frame by frame, showing an intimate moment between Phyllis Chatsworth and her executive producer, James Young. The two were standing in the foyer of a storefront, looking at jewelry. James put his arm around Phyllis and squeezed. She put her head on his shoulder. And in both of their hands were shopping bags—Tourneau, Saks, and Tiffany. The exact same bags I’d seen in Young’s apartment the day after Alf was killed!
“Didn’t Mr. Young tell you he was out shopping the day Alf was murdered?” Madame whispered. “Didn’t he tell you he thought Alf saw him with bags from high-end shops and decided to burglarize him?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what Young obviously didn’t tell you was that a photographer was following him, too.”
I quickly looked at the photo credit. “Ben Tower!”
Madame nodded. “Mr. Dewberry is very upset, Clare. The Chatsworth Way is an important asset for him, and these photos threaten that asset.”
She was right. I skimmed the column, written by a man both Madame and I had tangled with before—scandal hound Randall Knox. Knox speculated whether the married relationship counselors who hosted one of the hottest TV shows on the air didn’t need counseling themselves.
I added it up. “Madame, did Mr. Dewberry approach you with this? I mean, does the man expect you to do something about it?”
“Yes, but I should explain. You see, Otto and I have had a number of very nice dinners with Mr. Dewberry and his wife. They’re very generous people. And Mr. Dewberry has a very good memory. He recalled my mentioning our previous dealings with Randall Knox and Ben Tower, the photographer of record here.”
“You’re dining out on tales of our sleuthing, aren’t you?”
Madame looked sheepish. “Well, they are good stories, dear. Quite entertaining!”
“Okay . . .” I sat back in the café chair. “What’s your plan?”
“I have a few angles to play with our Mr. Tower—and I wanted to know if you’d like to accompany me. I thought you might be curious, given the timing of his pictures, so close to Alf’s murder.”
“I am curious. Tower may have seen something incriminating. He may even have a proof sheet that shows more . . .” I quickly brought Madame up to date with Dwayne Linford’s arrest. “But the police still haven’t found a murder weapon or gotten a confession from the kid. So every little bit of evidence is going to help the authorities pin him to Alf’s murder.”
I checked my watch. “I’m going to Alf’s memorial service right after my shift. You go to see Ben Tower and do your thing. Let’s talk afterward, okay? You can tell me what you dig up.”
Madame nodded, her blue eyes brightening. “What fun!”
TWENTY-THREE
“CLARE, I’d like you to meet someone . . .”
Vicki Glockner approached me with a shaky smile; her hazel green eyes, so much like her dad’s, were still red and puffy from the moving memorial service we’d attended in the storefront church above. We were now mingling in the church basement—a brightly lit space with colorfully painted walls and a big Christmas tree in the corner.
At least two hundred Traveling Santas packed the place. Homeless men and soup kitchen workers had come, too, people who remembered Alf from his entertaining “stand-up Santa” visits in the shelter system. Even some of Alf’s old Staten Island friends were here. Omar Linford was not among them, and I wasn’t surprised. Shelly Glockner wasn’t here, either. But Vicki had warned me a week ago that her mother probably wouldn’t come to today’s service.
Like me, Vicki had worn a simple black pantsuit for the event. Her mass of caramel-colored curls was tied back in a tame ponytail. Walking close beside her now was a big, bald man. Tall and only slightly paunchy, he was dressed simply in black slacks and an open-neck black shirt. The man’s cheeks were cheerfully ruddy, his brown eyes lively under bushy brows, and the soft brown