Elinor went to the bank. The inside was built of marble and gla.s.s, with long counters in stainless steel. How bizarre, she thought, that one could stroll in to such a pristine environment and casually withdraw a half million dollars in cash. Five thousand one-hundred-dollar bills.

Of course, it no longer worked that way.

Instead of the cash (for which she'd have needed a suitcase, because it would have weighed more than a ten-pound sack of potatoes), she received credit cards. One hundred prepaid credit cards, each worth five thousand dollars, that she could use at ATMs back in New York.

All perfectly legal.

No questions asked.

No need to report any interest that would be taxed.

Because she was paranoid that the cards wouldn't work, the bank teller went with her to a downtown ATM, swiped one of the cards, and cashed out the five thousand, two hundred dollars at a time.

"It's either this, or I can wire the transfer," the teller said.

A check would take too long to clear (up to seventeen days), and the wire transfer would alert her bank and maybe Malcolm, too.

"The cards will be fine," Elinor said.

An hour later she stood on the wharf where the tenders came in. She called her home number.

The connection went through, but CJ didn't answer.

She tried calling again, this time to CJ's cell.

Thirty-three.

CJ reached in her pocket and flicked off the ringtone. The last thing she needed was to attract attention. She wedged herself into the revolving door between two men in gray suits and slipped through the lobby, which was crowded with more suits and luggage on wheels.

The elevators weren't hard to find. She stepped inside one and quickly pressed 4.

On the way up, she tucked her wispy curls behind her ears. She'd never seen a wig that looked natural; she'd decided the dress and the sneakers would provide sufficient disguise. It felt strange, though, carrying only a small wristlette that held lipstick, a few breath mints, and a twenty-dollar bill. Other than her driver's license, which she'd stuck inside her bra, CJ had left all her IDs in her car at the train station. No sense advertising who she was in case she was stopped by security.

The doors opened on four and she stepped into the hall. So far so good.

She scanned the area for a housekeeping cart but saw none. A bra.s.s plate on the wall had an arrow that pointed to the right for suites 401 to 412, so that's where she went. To the right, past the ice machine, around the corner. There it was. A rolling miniature Bed Bath & Beyond.

CJ inhaled a long breath and promised herself this was the last time, the very last time, she was going to enable her sister.

She went to an open door across from the cart, though it was marked Suite 406, not 402. She pushed open the door and looked in.

The living room of the suite was cozy yet plush, in a prewar-building sort of way. Ivory wainscotting belted taupe silk-papered walls that were topped with crown molding, artfully carved. A latte-colored sofa sat beside a mahogany bar; two dark leather wing chairs hugged a wide-manteled fireplace that CJ would bet wasn't faux.

"Hola," she said into the room, though who knew what language anyone spoke in New York anymore.

A short, round figure emerged from another doorway, a squirt bottle in one rubber-gloved hand, a box of disposable something in the other. The woman stared at her but didn't respond.

CJ smiled. "Are you the woman who cleans four-oh-two?"

The woman stared at her blankly. She didn't move.

CJ repeated her request, this time in Spanish.

No recognition.

Great, CJ thought. French was the only other language CJ knew, but she doubted the woman had come to New York by way of Paris.

She smiled again.

The woman screwed up her face.

CJ stepped back to the door, pointed to the numbers, then made a four, a zero, and a two with her fingers.

The woman set down her squirt bottle and reached into her pocket. In an instant she was on a cell phone.

"No!" CJ said, waving her hand. "No, it's okay!" She backed out of the room, her face frozen in its smile. Not wanting to alarm the housekeeper any more than she apparently had, she spun around just in time to come face-to-face with another woman, a larger woman, who had on a dress identical to hers, except that it puckered at the bulge of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"You need help?" She had unpleasant breath and a furry dark moustache that Yolanda would no doubt love to wax.

"Oh," CJ said. "h.e.l.lo. You speak English."

The woman shifted her New York Giants' shoulders.

"I'm trying to find whoever cleans suite four-o-two. A friend of mine stayed there last week and left something behind." Perhaps it was too soon to have mentioned her quest. This woman probably wouldn't believe that a housekeeper had a friend who'd actually stayed at the Lord Winslow in a suite that cost at least a thousand dollars a night.

The big woman laughed. "What did your friend leave? The room service tray with the leftover scones?"

CJ blinked. Elinor always had dry toast and jam unless she was away. Then she ordered scones, a lapse into decadence she thought would go unnoticed, undeniably like the affair.

"I gave them to the birds," the big woman said, revealing a row of surprisingly small teeth. "Why do you want them, Miss Elinor?"

CJ sucked in her cheeks. "I'm sorry," she said. "Apparently you can't help me." She snapped her face away from the woman and walked down the hall at an unreasonable clip.

"But, Miss Elinor, I was just teasing. I'm the one who is sorry. Please don't tell..."

CJ waved her hand and called back, "I don't know who you think I am, but my name isn't Elinor."

"I like what you've done with your hair. I think your man-friend will like it, too."

Man-friend, CJ thought as she pushed through the exit door and scrambled down the stairs. She wondered if the large woman had any idea that Elinor's man-friend was who he was.

Thirty-four.

Manny didn't get back to Yolanda's until after one o'clock in the afternoon. While Yolanda worked in the shop, Poppy played with Belita in the apartment upstairs, brushing her hair, tying it with ribbons, painting her fingernails and toenails bright pink. Who would have thought Poppy could make a little girl giggle just by being silly, by being herself?

"He's gone," Manny announced.

Poppy looked up from her seat at the tiny child's table, locked eyes with him, and reminded herself she was a married woman before she realized what he'd said. "What?"

"Duane. He left town with a couple of suitcases and his brother. Your houselady saw him go."

There was something sweet about the way he called Nola her "houselady" and not her "housekeeper" or "maid."

"Where did he go?" Poppy asked.

"He didn't tell her. They packed up his brother's car and drove away."

"Bye-bye," Belita said, making her small, manicured fingers open and close in her hand.

"Yes," Poppy said. "Bye-bye is right." She straightened the bottles of polish and creams on the table, then lifted Belita from the soft rug on the floor. "They must have gone back to Nevada. But Elinor's gone. If he's the blackmailer, he needed her money.... Oh! Maybe I've been wrong. Maybe my husband isn't involved in any way-"

"Or maybe he is."

"I don't understand."

"Your woman-Nola-said one of the suitcases was very lightweight. As if there was nothing in it."

She gasped a small gasp, then Belita did, too. "Elinor's gone to get the money. Do you think Duane found out and followed her there?" Poppy asked breathlessly.

"Where is she?"

"Grand Cayman. She went yesterday."

"Why didn't anyone tell me?" He seemed more slighted than angry.

Poppy tried to smile. She didn't want to say she hadn't thought that he cared.

"When will she be back?"

"Tomorrow."

"Is she alone?"

The question surprised her. She had no idea if Elinor had gone by herself. Had her lover gone with her? "I...I don't really know. I think so."

"Is she traveling under her own name?"

"Of course. I doubt she has a pa.s.sport with an alias on it just because she is rich."

Manny winced.

"Sorry," Poppy said, standing up, so small beside his tall, hard-bodied self. She went up to her tiptoes and kissed him on the lips. "I'm so scared for Elinor, and I'm so confused. Are you going to go to Grand Cayman?"

He paused. "Someone should. To make sure she's okay. It can't be me, though. She doesn't know me. I'd probably scare her to death."

Poppy didn't say that Elinor didn't scare easily. "But CJ's guarding the house, and Alice is in Orlando, and Momma's too fragile, and I'm under arrest."

He put his hands on her waist. They were so big and she was so small that his fingers and thumbs nearly clasped together, from front to back. "Which leaves my sister."

"Yolanda?"

"I'm sure she won't mind rescheduling appointments. In the meantime, you and I will be at your house."

"At my house?" Poppy asked, trying to drag out the conversation so he wouldn't remove his hands from her waist, so he would hold her and hold her and never let go.

"Yes," he said again. "Your house. I need to search it."

She blinked and she blanched and her throat went quite dry and she wriggled from his grasp because suddenly she couldn't breathe.

They were able to get Yolanda on a 3:40 flight. Poppy paid for her to travel first cla.s.s. After a quick scramble to gather Yolanda's and Belita's things (Belita would stay with Poppy and Manny tonight), and several frenetic attempts to call CJ at Elinor's (There was no answer! Why was there no answer?), they piled into Manny's black SUV and drove to JFK.

Thankfully, Belita fell asleep in her car seat and did not have to say bye-bye to her momma.

"Before we go to my house, can we please go to Elinor's?" Poppy asked as Manny pulled away from curbside drop-off. "I need to find out why CJ hasn't answered the phone."

They were pretty quiet on the return trip to Mount Kasteel. Poppy's stomach was all knotted up, like those macrame plant hangers the girls had made in art cla.s.s at McCready's back in the '70s.

"Prepare to turn right in three hundred yards," the faceless woman inside the navigation system said. Manny had been impressed that Poppy had known how to program the thing, which might have mattered if she weren't so d.a.m.n nervous. About Elinor. About Duane. And now, about CJ. Not to mention Manny searching her house.

It was, of course, what Poppy didn't know that had her cat-nervous. She'd never gone through Duane's things. She might have told herself that his things were none of her business, but the truth was, she hadn't wanted to find what she might find: love notes from ladies; receipts from restaurants and hotels and Victoria's Secret; photos in his darkroom that didn't involve nature, at least, not the flora and fauna kind.

And now, Manny might unearth it all, right there in her presence, where she could no longer deny Duane's out-and-out obsession with women.

Oh, Poppy moaned to herself, what had she ever seen in Duane? Why hadn't she listened to Momma?

The female inside the navigation system said they had reached their destination. Poppy told Manny to turn left up the drive. As Elinor's house came into view, Manny said, "Well, it's almost as big as yours."

Poppy detected a sad undertone in Manny's words, but she didn't dare ask. She couldn't possibly think of one more problem right now.

There were no cars around, which might mean that CJ had parked in the garage. Duane, too, for that matter.

"I'll go," Poppy said, but Manny said no.