25

Archibald Enders and his wife, Vernella, had long enjoyed living on Gramercy Park. Both in their seventies, they had traveled the world over but were always happy to come back to the town house where Archibald had grown up and give their staff a hard time. They weren’t happy if there wasn’t something to complain about.

The Settlers’ Club virtually falling apart right across the street from them gave them a lot of fat to chew on. Archibald made sure he knew every disgraceful thing that was going on there.

As a boy walking docilely in the park with his nanny, as a lad on holiday from prep school, as a Harvard-educated young broker in the family firm, invited to teas and formal dinners at the Settlers’ Club, Archibald could remember when the club had been worthy of its surroundings. But it had been in decline for the last quarter of a century. The rumblings of commercialism had become a stampede. Now its new president was turning the place into a tacky madhouse.

Home to a dating service! The setting for a third-rate film!

And all the hoopla last night, with the wailing of police sirens and the shrill of an ambulance. All the people out on the street stopping to gawk. Whispers of diamond theft and murder!

Not such good publicity for an old club that was trying to attract new members. The Settlers’ Club will close its doors, he thought. No doubt about it. It will soon be occupied by someone more worthy of the surroundings.

And come to think of it, I have just the one.

He put through his second call to England that day.

“Thorn,” he said into the phone. “I suggest you get over here on the last flight out tonight. We’ve got work to do this weekend.”

26

Regan and Stanley cabbed it down to the converted gas station.

Now I’ve seen everything, Regan thought as Stanley escorted her inside.

“What do you think?” he asked with a big smile. “Other people convert warehouses into palatial apartments. I turned a gas station into a cozy home.”

“You’re a genius,” Regan said.

“Thank you. Please sit down.”

Regan sank into the couch, still amazed at her surroundings. She’d seen a lot of crazy abodes in her day, but this one took the cake.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” Stanley asked.

Fill ’er up, Regan wanted to say, but thanked him and accepted a cup of special herbal tea that Stanley assured her cleared everyone’s sinuses. I’m not really sure I want my sinuses cleared in this place, Regan thought. But the tea did taste good.

Stanley sat down and slipped one of the tapes from the party into the VCR hooked up to his big-screen television. The tape began with people milling around, chatting. The butlers were passing hors d’oeuvres.

“Pigs in blankets,” Regan commented.

“Some people consider them low class. But they always go over well,” Stanley said as he stared admiringly at the screen.

How did some of them end up in Nat’s garbage can? Regan wondered…“What did you make of the crowd?” she asked Stanley.

“Generally nice people. Not everybody wanted to be on camera.”

“How many didn’t want their faces shown?” Regan asked.

“About half of them. As you can see, I still got the feeling of a big party. There’s Lydia conferring with Maldwin and the other butlers in the kitchen…”

“There’s a female butler,” Regan observed.

“A hard worker,” Stanley said vehemently. “A hard worker.”

Now they were watching a man talking to a woman holding a Snoopy purse.

“That’s some purse,” Regan said.

Stanley sighed. “She hung onto it all night. As a matter of fact, she got very upset when the whole commotion started and we found out Nat Pemrod had died.”

“Did she know him?”

“She said to me that she had met him at one of the other parties. He told her he liked her purse.”

Could she be Buttercup? Regan wondered. Could one of these other women be Buttercup?

Regan didn’t have time to watch every minute of the nearly four hours of tapes, but what she saw acquainted her with some of the people she’d be meeting at the party tonight. “What happened when the police showed up?” she asked Stanley.

Stanley fast-forwarded to the end of the tape, which showed a policeman standing outside Nat’s apartment. Then it went blank.

“That’s it?” Regan asked.

“I ran out of tape.”

It figures, Regan thought.

“But they wouldn’t let me inside anyway.” Stanley pressed the OFF button on his set. “Was that helpful?”

“Yes,” Regan said truthfully.

“You know, I take a lot of footage and then boil it down to the most interesting sound bites.”

“I understand,” Regan said, then lowered her voice in a way that indicated she wanted to make Stanley a confidant. “Bring a lot of tape tonight, would you? I’ll pay for it. Your camera can be another set of eyes for us. You never know what we’ll pick up.”

Stanley beamed. Maybe I’ll get a network show out of this, he thought.

When Regan left, she hailed a cab uptown. It was four o’clock, and even though it felt cold and wintery, the days were getting longer and longer. Springtime was just around the corner.

Of course, April is the cruelest month, she thought. Although I think that for certain people March is a strong contender. Certainly for Nat and Ben.

I so want to help Thomas, she thought. But it seems as if he just makes things worse for himself. If someone from Lydia’s party stole the diamonds or killed Nat, it’s because Thomas allowed Lydia to invite strangers into the club.

But there was no sign of forced entry. Anyone who ended up in Nat’s apartment, Nat must have known.

Regan took out her notebook. She jotted down a few thoughts. Talk to Clara again. Find out if there was anything she saw in the apartment that might indicate the presence of another woman. Get a list from Thomas of everyone who lives in the club. Talk to the waiter who served Nat, Ben, and Thomas lunch. Find out who Nat’s lawyer is. Where is the will? Finally, she wrote: Talk to the owner of the Snoopy purse.

For some reason, I think she’s going to be pretty interesting, Regan mused as she leaned her head back and stared out the window.

27

When Maldwin and his posse returned to Lydia’s apartment, he found her in the master bedroom with the covers over her head.

“Miss Lydia,” Maldwin said to her. He knew that something was up. “May I bring you some tea?”

“I don’t think tea will solve my problems,” Lydia declared as she lowered her quilt.

Maldwin sat on the side of the bed. It was not something a butler of the old school would have done, but Maldwin believed that butlers of the twenty-first century should practice compassion for their employers. He felt he was Lydia’s protector, confidant-in a way, her soul mate, even if she did occasionally drive him crazy. “What is it, Princess?” he asked.

“Burkhard called.”

“That no good…”

“Why was I ever attracted to him in the first place?” Lydia implored.

Good question, Maldwin thought, but he tried to appear thoughtful. “At first Mr. Whittlesey gave an impression of class and breeding.”

“Someone with class doesn’t stick the lady with the check all the time…”

“I understand.”

“Someone with class doesn’t threaten to take things I said in private and twist them around.”

“You mean about making fun of your clients?”

“Maldwin!”

“Sorry.”

“He was only interested in my money. He thought he could manipulate me because he went to college and I didn’t. But I’ve got street smarts.”