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BLUFF
Publishers Weekly Top 10 Mysteries for Spring 2019
“Jane Hitchcock pulls off another stunning tour de force in her newest crime novel, Bluff. Nobody writes high society and its down-low denizens better than Hitchcock—and this book is her best yet. It’s all in the cards—and it’s masterful.”
—Linda Fairstein, New York Times bestselling author
“With the heart-pounding suspense of a high-stakes poker game, Bluff is a vivid, compelling novel about deceit, seduction, and delicious revenge that will have you spellbound and cheering as you turn the last page.”
—Susan Cheever, author of Home Before Dark and Treetops
“Jane Stanton Hitchcock’s Bluff is the royal flush of suspense novels! The queen of both writing and poker aces it again!”
—Linda Kenney Baden, celebrated attorney,
legal commentator, and author
“This delicious novel of sweet revenge reveals, with wit and stylish vigor, a world—New York high society—that the author clearly knows intimately.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Hitchcock pokes fun at the gossipy upper class, at the verbal tics of crass hangers-on, at the street-smart capability of former strippers and former advertising executives alike. The biggest takeaway: He who underestimates women of a certain age certainly does so at his own peril. Frothy fun with a backbone of feminist steel; as quick-moving and intricate as any heist movie.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“The axiom ‘write what you know’ deliciously foretells this poker-themed thriller...A smartly plotted upper-crust caper.”
—Karen Keefe, Booklist
Bluff
Jane Stanton Hitchcock
Poisoned Pen Press
Copyright
Copyright © 2019 by Jane Stanton Hitchcock
Cover and internal design © 2019 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Holli Roach/Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover image © ararat.art/Shutterstock Images
Sourcebooks, Poisoned Pen Press, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60563-4410
(630) 961-3900
Fax: (630) 961-2168
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Library of Congress Cataloging 2018949096
Printed and bound in the United States of America.
Contents
Bluff
Dedication
The Flop
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
The Turn
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
The River
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Showdown
Acknowledgments
More from this Author
Contact Us
For Jim Hoagland, the love of my life,
and for
Jim Fennell
and
Jane Ellis
The Flop
“Poker is the game closest to the western conception of life, where life and thought are recognized as intimately combined, where free will prevails over philosophies of fate or of chance, where men are considered moral agents and where—at least in the short run—the important thing is not what happens but what people think happens.”
—John Lukacs
Chapter One
October 10, 2014
Death is colorful in the fall. The trees in Central Park bristle with red and gold leaves, like a beautiful dawn before the dark of winter. On this crisp, sunny October day in New York, I’m all dressed up for a lunch to which I’m definitely not invited. I want to look my very best. I’m wearing a tailored Saint Laurent black wool suit, one I bought in Paris years ago when Yves was still designing. Affixed to my right lapel is a fake gold and sapphire pin in the shape of a flower, a decent copy of the real one from Verdura I had to hock years ago because I was broke. I have on a pair of secondhand black patent leather Louboutin shoes with scuffed red soles I recently bought at a thrift shop just for this occasion. I think labels matter much too much in New York. But, alas, they do matter, and I’m on my way to a place where they matter most.
I whisk a comb through my bobbed graying hair and apply a little lip gloss to my lightly made-up face. It’s not an unattractive face, just an older one, silted with apprehension. I’m satisfied I look like what I’m supposed to be: a middle-aged lady of means with a conservative sense of style. I re-check the contents in my faux Birkin bag to make sure I have everything I need. It’s all there: wallet, glasses, compact, lipstick, comb, cell phone, gun.
My name is Maud Warner. I grew up in New York. Many of the girls I went to private school with lived in the grand houses and apartment buildings of the Upper East Side. My parents’ duplex apartment at 1040 Fifth was stocked with fine antiques and paintings. I never thought about how rich we were. No one in my young world thought about such things. Money and possessions were simply the view we’d all grown up with, like farmland to a bunch of country girls. We wore uniforms in my all-girls school so there wasn’t the egregious sartorial competition there is today. The only thing I knew for sure was that the girl sitting next to me in class was probably just as miserable as I was.
I pass several haunts of my y
outh: The Knickerbocker Club, where I attended my very first dance when I was twelve years old and sat like a wallflower until the bitter end, despite having learned how to do a mean foxtrot in dancing school.…A La Vielle Russie, the elegant jewelry shop on the corner of 59th, where my stepfather bought me a Faberge pin for my twenty-first birthday which had belonged to one of the last Tsar’s kids—so much for a good luck charm… F.A.O. Schwartz, where my beloved Nana took me to sit on Santa’s knee every Christmas…The now-defunct Plaza Hotel, where Mummy and I had tea in the Palm Court once a month, and where I lost my virginity to a Harvard boy in a white and gold suite on the tenth floor after he plied me with mai tais from Trader Vic’s…And lovely Bergdorf’s, where I bought my coming out dress and the wedding dress I burned when I got divorced, plus so many of the clothes that enhanced the great and small occasions of my seemingly privileged life…Tiffany’s, where I ordered my pale blue monogrammed stationery… And Trump Tower, which used to be Bonwit Teller, the old department store, where I had my first summer job in the gift department, and learned that the road to hell was actually paved with beaded flowers and gilded frames.
I pass Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, where I always went to light candles for the dead. I walk in and light a candle for my beloved brother, Alan, recently deceased. He was the last of my family and one of the main reasons for this outing.
I cross over to Madison Avenue, then Park, where I pause to look up at the elegant Seagram’s Building, my final destination. My stepfather knew the architect, Mies van der Rohe. My parents had many famous friends. Their glamorous parties were so packed with celebrities, I used to refer to myself as “the only person there I didn’t know.”
I turn down 52nd Street toward Lexington and stop at the entrance to The Four Seasons restaurant, that bastion of social climbing in Manhattan. I take a bracing breath and walk purposefully inside. As I climb the marble staircase, I hear the hum of conversation, which is the music of power in this power restaurant in this power city. I gird my loins, as the Bible says, and take the last few stairs up into the airy restaurant where the best tables are reserved for the best bank accounts.
I’m greeted by the famous maître d’, who knows who is who and who is not. This guy can size up a customer before he or she has reached the top step. That’s why I’ve taken care to dress well. He doesn’t recognize me, thank God.
“Good afternoon. Do you have a reservation?” he says, his polite smile conveying a soupçon of suspicion.
“I’m meeting Mr. Burt Sklar,” I say. “I believe he’s dining with Mr. Sunderland.”
“Ah. Mr. Sunderland, of course!”
It is Sun Sunderland’s name, not Sklar’s, which sparks deference in the maître d’. He inclines his head in the direction of “the Sunderland table,” as it’s known. It’s the best table in the house—a banquette against the wall. Anyone sitting at it can see and be seen from a decorous distance. Four times a week, at lunch, it’s occupied by Mr. Sunderland and at least one of an array of prominent guests who comprise the media, financial, political, and artistic elite of New York, the country, and the world. But on Fridays, Sunderland always dines with his best friend and business partner, Burt Sklar. It is their ritual. I know this because it is well known and often commented on.
The maître d’ leads me through the restaurant. I recognize a few famous faces which stand out in the crowd like the fresh pepper grinds on the chef’s famous white truffle risotto. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a table of three lunching ladies I used to know quite well. Once upon a time, I would have detoured to air kiss them all. Not today. Today it’s eyes straight ahead, one foot in front of the other in a grim gangplank demeanor. Nothing can distract me from this plunge into the depths.
As we approach the table, I see that Sunderland and Sklar are deep in conversation. Sunderland is a stocky man who looks ponderously prosperous in his dark suit, gray Charvet tie, and starched white shirt with knotted gold cuff links. He has a full head of silvering hair and tired brown eyes. He’s a solid man who exudes Mount Rushmore gravitas.
Burt Sklar, by contrast, is gym-fit and spray-tanned. Strands of his black hair are carefully combed over a shiny pate. He’s dressed all in black—black suit, black shirt, black tie. Contrary to Sunderland’s rocklike presence, Sklar is all motion, using his hands to hammer in a verbal point. He reminds me of a bat. I overhear him repeating his mantra, the words he prefaces every sentence with in order to reassure people of his veracity: “Candidly…? Honestly…? Truthfully…?”
I’m careful to stay behind the maître d’ so the two men won’t see me coming. My heart’s beating fast. I glance down at my bag to make sure all is in order. It’s open in a fashionably casual way, like a pricey tote. The gun is nestled in the side pocket where it will be easy to grab.
I’ve rehearsed this moment in my mind and in front of my warped closet mirror too many times to count. I know exactly what I want to do. Whether or not I’ll be able to do it right there on the spot is the question. Let’s face it, no one ever really knows how they will perform until the curtain goes up for the live show.
I hear the maître d’ say, “Mr. Sklar, your guest is here.”
Sklar looks up, clearly irritated at having been interrupted mid-spiel.
“What?” he asks, puzzled.
“Your guest is here,” the maître d’ repeats.
Sunderland turns to Sklar. “You invited someone?”
“Hell, no,” Sklar says.
Sklar furrows his brow and leans to one side, trying to get a look at me, the uninvited guest. He can’t see my face because I’m using the maître d’ as a shield until I’m ready. I draw the gun from my purse. Sunderland sees me before Sklar does. His eyes widen as he gasps: “Lois! No! We killed you!”
I’m so startled by Sunderland’s outburst, I lose my concentration as I pull the trigger. The noise is deafening. Chaos erupts in the room. People are screaming, scrambling, diving for cover. I drop the gun, turn around, and start walking. If I’m caught, so be it. If not, I’ve come prepared. Amazingly enough, no one stops me. Out on the street, I hail a cab and head for Penn Station, where I board an Acela train back to Washington, D.C.
So it begins…
Chapter Two
This crime is so shocking that even the most jaded reporters are impressed by its brazenness, and even more impressed by the unlikely shooter—a fifty-six-year-old socialite named Maud Warner, who somehow escaped and is now on the run. Sun Sunderland, billionaire financier and philanthropist, was shot while lunching at The Four Seasons restaurant.
Fifty-second Street between Park and Lexington avenues is cordoned off. A gaggle of media is camped outside the restaurant hoping to snag beleaguered patrons as they exit the building, one by weary one, after being questioned by the police. People are phoning, texting, Facebooking, tweeting, instagramming, belching, screaming, practically vomiting the news.
Inside the restaurant, the maître d’ has been sedated, sick with the knowledge that this terrible thing has happened on his watch. The Four Seasons will no longer be known as New York’s premiere power eatery. It will now be known to the rubbernecking masses as “the place where that billionaire got shot.” Tourists will book a reservation there, not for the restaurant’s gourmet food, elegant Bauhaus setting, or to mingle with its elite clientele, but to view the scene of high-class carnage.
The maître d’ feels responsible because he now realizes exactly who Maud Warner is. How could he have been so stupid not to recognize her right away—he, who never forgets a face or a name? Had he recognized her, he never would have brought her anywhere near Burt Sklar. He never would have let her into the hallowed Grill Room. He would have ushered her straight out the door, or perhaps to the Pool Room, where the lesser-known rub elbows with the unknown.
Maud Warner has famously been proclaiming her hatred for Burt Sklar for years, accusing the “accountant to th
e stars,” as he’s known, of looting her family fortune. She has been nicknamed “Mad Maud” for going around predicting doom for anyone associated with Sklar. People think she’s nuts to question the integrity of a man who has so many celebrated clients and—most of all—whose best friend and business partner is the honorable, estimable, and immensely powerful Sun Sunderland. Like everyone else who knows the history, the maître d’ is convinced that Sklar, not Sunderland, was the intended target, and that Maud Warner is just a lousy shot.
There’s an APB out for Warner, who is in the wind after a miraculous escape. Sunderland has been whisked away to New York Hospital in critical condition. Burt Sklar is being questioned by the cops before being taken to the hospital to be checked out.
Sklar talks even faster than his usual carnival patter because he is so damn relieved to be alive. He’s suffered a sprained wrist from diving under the table. No social tennis for awhile. He tells officers he knows exactly who the shooter is: She’s Maud Warner, this crazy woman who claims he’s responsible for her mother’s misfortunes, her brother’s recent death, and all her family’s woes.
“Truthfully? Maud Warner’s been the bane of my existence for years,” he says.
He tells cops he’s sure she was aiming only for him, not his “best friend” Sun Sunderland. But by some “mysterious quirk of fate,” Sunderland somehow got into her line of fire. The “mysterious quirk of fate” of which Sklar speaks was, in fact, his own arm pulling Sunderland across him to shield himself the instant he saw the gun. In Sklar’s mind, his action was nothing more than a reflexive survival instinct, a natural response he could no more help than, say, fleeing a rabid dog. Unfortunately, pulling your best friend in front of you to take a bullet clearly meant for you, might possibly be construed as a cowardly act by those who were never actually in that dicey situation. Better not to mention it, he concludes.