Free Unsafe Harbor by Jessica Speart Page B

many. The auction was a huge success. Mrs. von Falken wanted a record kept for the next time she planned a similar event. You might consider doing something along the same line, yourself. If so, would you be interested in seeing that list, as well?”
    “What a brilliant suggestion. Let me just give you my e-mail address,” I said, and reeled off an undercover addy that I kept for such purposes. “Could you send those to me right away? I’d like to go over both lists tonight.”
    “Of course,” she amiably agreed. That was followed by an awkward pause. “Hmm. This is rather odd. I can’t seem to find your name on either of these lists.”
    Joy caught me off guard. I hadn’t planned on the woman being quite so thorough.
    “How strange. Oh wait. Now I remember. I told Bitsy not to bother with an invitation since I was going to be out of the country. I was on safari with Paris in Botswana and then went to a friend’s tea plantation in Rwanda,” I replied, nimbly tap-dancing my way out of that one.
    I figured I might as well hit her up again while she still had Paris Hilton on the brain.
    “By the way, I’ll need one more favor. Being that Bitsy was so successful, I think I will try auctioning those shawls.Thank you again for the marvelous suggestion. No wonder she used your firm. You’re an absolute lifesaver. Of course, I’ll need to place an order right away for a few hundred of them. Would you mind providing me with the name of the supplier?” I congratulated myself on being oh so clever.
    “I’m sorry, Ms. Hilton, but I’m afraid we had nothing to do with the shawls. Mrs. von Falken took full charge of obtaining those, herself. Perhaps her husband might be able to help you,” she suggested. “Although I suppose this probably isn’t the proper time to ask.”
    “No, I’m sure you’re quite right about that,” I agreed. “In any case, it shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll just call around and ask a few people. Please don’t forget to e-mail those lists to me. I’ll be back in touch tomorrow.”
    “Don’t worry. They’re already on their way,” she assured me.
    I thanked her and hung up. Then I got into my Trailblazer where a number of vehicles prowling the street immediately homed in on my primo parking space. I was tempted to sell it to the highest bidder but instead rushed home, anxious to peruse the list.
    I parked in my garage and then dashed across to the old Essex Street Market. More than likely, there wasn’t any food in my fridge.
    The market opened in 1930 to accommodate all the pushcart vendors. Now it sprawled across an entire city block. These days, stalls offered everything from canned goods to fresh produce, dumplings, tripe, pigs’ feet, and rib belly, in an edible cultural explosion. I made my way down the aisles, along with a parade of local Latinos, Chinese, and Jews, where I was tempted by assorted cheeses, fish, spices, nuts, and fresh fruit. There was even a variety of services available.
    JCC Electronics had once fixed my TV, and I’d had pantshemmed by “Mr. Smith Expert Tailor of London, Piccadilly.” Both stalls were next to a botanica that offered aerosol cans of “Money Attracting Spray,” breast-enhancing cream, laminated portraits of Pope Benedict, and Virgin Mary statuettes. I passed them by and ducked into Schapiro’s Wines, where I grabbed a bottle of cheap kosher burgundy and then left, having forgotten what I’d intended to get in the first place.
    Hightailing it home, I jogged up to the third floor and unlocked the door. Spam raced toward me with the determination of a homicidal linebacker. It was one thing to be loved, quite another to be mauled as the dog nearly knocked me over.
    “Down, Spam! Down,” I ordered.
    But the pit bull continued to lick my face as he pinned me against the wall. So much for my home-school course in obedience training.
    Otherwise, the place was bursting with silence. I was more aware of the quiet than I’d ever been while