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as Mayor Mayer was introducing them to the eager, albeit ancient, crowd, Madison did a quick scan of the room. She had everyone’s admiration and her place in the art world’s high society. Then it hit her.
    Coco hadn’t returned from the bathroom.

3
    Painting the Town
    I n penthouse four of the Waldorf-Astoria tower, twenty-two-year-old Tallula Kayson was readying herself for yet another public appearance. Her fourth in just as many days. She was exhausted. The frenzied publicity schedule had left her feeling less than adequate. Despite the crowd waiting for her downstairs in the Conrad Suite, despite the fact that her newest masterpiece would at last be unveiled to a rapt audience, she wanted nothing more than to grab a pillow and fall asleep. She always loved a party, but for some reason, this luncheon felt more like a chore.
    It was early afternoon. Sunlight filtered into the bedroom in muted shades of red and blue, creating a stained-glass mosaic on the hardwood floors. The delicate colors accentuated the room’s ornate furnishings: a canopied bed with silk cream-colored sheets, a plush duvet, and half a dozen striped pillows; a mahogany desk; and a gilt-framed mirror that hung over the fireplace mantel. Just off to the left was a small nook occupied by an oversized chair. It was Tallula’s favorite piece in the room. Trimmed in red and gold fringe, an exquisite patterned throw draped across one arm, the chair resembled something out of King Arthur’s court. She had reclined on it several times since checking into the Waldorf four days ago. For some reason or other, it seemed to give her inspiration. When she rested her head against the soft upper pillow and closed her eyes, she imagined a blank canvas, big and square and empty. Then she imagined her hand guiding the paintbrush as she made the first delicate stroke on that field of whiteness. Soon, an image formed before her. Vivid blues and greens and yellows. The kind of painting that had made Tallula famous virtually overnight.
    But there was no time now to relax in the wonderful and stately chair. The clock was ticking, and she had a packed day ahead of her.
    Crossing the bedroom to the walk-in closet, Tallula ran a hand through her mane of blond curls. Her hair was still damp from the hasty shower she had taken twenty minutes ago. In fact, she hadn’t even completely dried off underneath the terry cloth robe. The air-conditioning was too low. Sighing loudly—loudly enough that her assistant, Ina, would hear—Tallula quickly began toweling herself dry.
    â€œTallula? Is something wrong?”
    Tallula smiled as she studied her assistant, who had appeared on the threshold.
    Ina Debrovitch was petite and pretty with delicate features. She was twenty-four but still looked like a teenager. Her red hair tumbled past her shoulders in curls. Her milk white skin was smooth and unblemished, save for the remarkable star-shaped birthmark on her chin. She had been born and raised in Romania, then immigrated to the United States at nineteen. She had worked first as Tallula’s housekeeper, but a quick eye and a sharp mind had earned her the assistant position. Ina was organized. She was discreet. She had good fashion sense. What was more, she had learned to decipher Tallula’s moods and didn’t ask insignificant questions. Wherever Tallula went, Ina went. It was Ina’s responsibility to run just about every facet of Tallula’s life, and she had done an excellent job of that so far.
    You wouldn’t have known Ina was handicapped unless you listened to her very closely; then, you might notice the way she slurred certain words, as hearing-impaired people often do. The word
what
often came out sounding like
whaah,
but overall, she had mastered the art of lipreading. She was never without her trusty hearing aid, and when she removed it before showering or going to sleep, she made certain to say so, because neither Tallula nor