Free Unsafe Harbor by Jessica Speart

one of those big charity wingdings that she was always so good at. Oh, I guess it must have been about a year ago. This one was to raise money for cancer awareness. Bitsy wanted to do something different, so she decided to auction off shahtoosh shawls.”
    “Did you attend?” I asked.
    Tiffany wrinkled her nose and leaned back against the brocade couch. “Andrew was already dead. I was told that my invitation got lost in the mail. Fat chance. In any case, I hear that people snapped them up like so much beluga caviar.”
    “That’s great. The problem is, dead women don’t talk, and Bitsy had the invitation list,” I pointed out.
    “You’re right about that. Except for the PR firm that coordinated the event. I bet they still have a record of all the attendees,” she slyly revealed.
    Beneath that mound of sequins, Tiffany was proving to be a lot sharper than she’d originally let on.
    “I don’t suppose you’d happen to have the company’s name, would you?” I asked.
    This last glass of scotch had apparently done the trick.
    “I just might,” she said, and standing up, dumped the pooch on the couch.
    I watched as she walked over to a French provincial desk and opened the top drawer. What do you know? The nameand number of the firm had already been neatly written out on a plain piece of paper. She picked it up and then walked me to the door.
    “I have only one request. That you don’t use my name. I had nothing to do with where you got this information,” she said, and handed me the creamy white sheet of paper.
    “No problem. By the way, that’s some rock you’re wearing,” I said, getting a better view.
    It made my own diamond look puny by comparison.
    “Thanks. It’s a fifty-six-carat emerald-cut, D-color stone,” she disclosed, and held it forward for closer inspection.
    “D color? What does that mean?” I asked.
    “That it’s the top of the line. The very best there is,” she proudly told me. “See? The color is icy white.”
    The diamond appeared to be absolutely flawless. Its fifty-eight facets sparkled intensely, producing a myriad of tiny rainbows.
    “Believe me, honey. I worked hard for this stone and everything else that I have. Andrew was okay, but he was certainly no angel,” she commented. “Come to think of it, Bitsy always wore quite the boulder of her own. I wonder whatever happened to it? Probably some cop, or whoever knocked her off, slipped the ring from her finger and into their pocket.”
    This was the first I’d heard of any diamond. Perhaps the shawl hadn’t been all that Magda had snatched. The ring could very well be stashed away inside the Kielbasa House at this very moment. If so, Magda was in bigger trouble than she could have ever imagined.

Six
    E veryone has a scam. No one turns informant for no reason. So, what was Tiffany Stewart’s stake in the game? Why had she come forward? And why give me the information? What did she have to gain?
    I thought back again to her phone call. She’d had no hesitation in supplying Bitsy von Falken’s name. Then why the reluctance in tapping the other women? Not only that, but Tiffany must have planned to tell me about the PR firm all along. Why else had it been written down and so readily available? Just who was playing whom, anyway? One thing for certain was that sainthood wasn’t running rampant on the Upper East Side these days.
    I shelved all such thoughts for the moment and focused on what I had in hand: the phone number for Haller and Associates public relations firm. Pulling out my cell phone, I quickly placed the call.
    “Haller and Associates. This is Joy speaking,” answered a woman in a professionally cheerful manner.
    “Hello, Joy. This is Chrissy Hilton. I’m going to be throwing an event to raise awareness for Hashimoto disease, and I’d like your firm to handle it,” I began, launching into my spiel.
    “Excuse me, but are you a member of the Hilton family?” she inquired, unable to contain the