Authors: Sheryl J. Anderson

Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths, #Amateur Sleuth

Killer Cocktail (21 page)

BOOK: Killer Cocktail

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“Begged her forgiveness, blamed it all on Veronica being a scheming tramp. Spin control, sister dear. Spin control.” He tried to smile, but he couldn’t muster it. “She went with it. After all, the two of them had been having trouble at the theater.”

“Did you know Lisbet was thinking of leaving the play before Veronica told you?”

He shook his head. “I asked Lisbet about it. Once she’d stopped screaming. She said she’d had an interesting offer, but now she knew we needed to stay together, work things out.”

I wanted to phrase my next question very carefully lest I be accused of leading the witness. “You think that offer might have come from Jake Boone?”

“Jerk-off Jake? Lisbet wouldn’t give him the time of day,” David scoffed.

“She slept with him right before she was killed.” I said it neutrally, not wanting to shape his reaction at all.

He shook his head. “No way.”

“You embarrassed her by sleeping with Veronica, then embarrassed her again by carrying her out of the party. Then you fought with her and she took off her engagement ring. And you still don’t think she could’ve been mad enough to want to get back at you by sleeping with Jake?”

This time, he just sneered. “No.”

But, I thought as the goose bumps came back, he would’ve been mad enough to lash out. To lose control. To kill her. The Detective Cook boomerang effect was taking over and she wasn’t even here. Why was it that the harder I tried to prove David innocent, the guiltier he looked? Because it was true?

“This is a surprise.” Mrs. Vincent stepped in from the hallway, Teri Jon pink tweed suit impeccable, Judith Leiber
satin clutch in hand, face impassive. “Good evening, ladies. Time to go, David.”

Tricia spun on her stool to face her mother. “Where are you going?”

“Out for a little dinner, dear. I’m sure Ingrid will cook for you and your friends if you’re hungry.”

David came out from behind the bar, eyes down, avoiding his sister’s questioning glance.

“You’re going out?” Tricia asked, puzzled.

“Just a working meal. We’re planning a little gettogether, an opportunity for people to show David some support during this difficult time.”

“Really.” Tricia tried, but she couldn’t suppress all the doubt in her voice.

“It was Rebecca’s idea. I thought it was quite nice.”

“Really,” Tricia repeated. This time, there was no doubt, only ice. “I didn’t realize. I would have made different plans,” she continued, gesturing to us as she stood up.

Mrs. Vincent waved vaguely for Tricia to sit back down. “It’s fine, dear. We can handle it.”

Rebecca and Richard appeared in the doorway behind Mrs. Vincent. Richard had pulled himself together enough to get a jacket on. Rebecca looked like she was planning on auditioning for Junior League later that evening, in a positively sedate DKNY pink linen suit with a notched collar and tailored waist and Dolce & Gabbana eel-skin pumps.

“Are we ready? Dad’s waiting,” Rebecca said sweetly.

“Mother, I’d like to be included,” Tricia said.

“Oh, dear, no need. I’m sure we’ll get it all figured out.” Mrs. Vincent smiled regally, turning back enough to take Rebecca’s hand. “Rebecca’s been such an unexpected comfort in all this. You girls have fun tonight.” Rebecca and Mrs. Vincent walked away.

If Mrs. Vincent had realized where she’d be standing in thirty-six hours, I bet she would’ve been a lot nicer to her daughter. But the really big lessons are the ones you learn too late.

Some, roar, in pain
and make their anguish known to the world. Some fall silent as they attempt to reconstruct the tortured path that brought them to this sorry moment. But when I’m hung-over, I curl up in a ball and pray for my brain to stop rubbing against the inside of my skull, especially that jagged spot right above my left eye. I want to shave that puppy off, even if it means not being able to do long division or waltz anymore. After all, how often do I use those skills these days?

We hadn’t started out drinking with the goal of overdoing it. Well, I hadn’t. Looking back, difficult as it was to do that with anything approaching clarity, Tricia probably had that in mind all along. Cassady and I went along for the ride.

The ride crash-landed in my apartment in the wee hours of the morning. Tricia had been all for painting the town red, but Cassady had gotten almost strident about her sworn duty to deliver me safely home and what Kyle was going to do to her if I got popped on her watch. Besides, the cocktails at my apartment were less expensive. So we finished off the Veuve Clicquot because it seemed a sin to waste it, piled into a cab, and went to my place.

Once we were inside, Tricia announced that she was sick of hypocrisy and wanted to drink to the truth. My response was to make a pitcher of martinis. A martini pitcher is the best lie detector there is; you see if the story you get when the pitcher’s full matches the story you get once it’s empty.

So the first pitcher we dedicated to truth. Tricia was bold enough to tell me, “Truth is, I’m still mad at you, but I’m madder at my mother, so you get a free pass for the evening.”

“I can handle that,” I promised.

The second pitcher was dedicated to our families and the insidious ways in which they mold us. The third pitcher went to the many ways love goes bad. I think. And the fourth pitcher went to … some worthy cause, I’m sure. It got pretty hazy by then.

In fact, my next semicoherent thought was, “Someone’s stealing my shoes.” It didn’t matter that I vaguely knew I was in my own apartment, my shoes—my beautiful Jimmy Choo shoes—were in danger and I had to act. But acting required sitting up and sitting up caused all sorts of unpleasant sensations like my stomach pitching and the room yawing and a hallucination of Kyle. Except it wasn’t a hallucination. Kyle was real. Beautiful, slightly out of focus, and real.

He shook my foot once more for emphasis and I realized I was stretched out on my couch, fully dressed, a half-filled martini glass still in my hand. “Neat trick,” he observed. He took the glass from me and set it on the coffee table. “C’mon. You’ll feel better after you have some breakfast.”

“What time is it?” I asked as he helped me to my feet. My mouth tasted like thawing Alaskan tundra and I could only imagine how bad my hair and face looked. I felt like I hadn’t moved in days. It had to be almost noon.

“Seven. Danny let me in.”

“Sadist!” I croaked.

“You gotta go to work.”

“I’m calling in sick.”

“Wimp.”

He walked over to the kitchen and my stuffy nose belatedly picked up on the smell of broiling meat. My stomach shuddered. “What’s that?”

Kyle checked the broiler. “Steak. How do you like your eggs? My dad always used to do a raw egg with a little hair of the dog, but that’d probably kill you.” He grinned, enjoying the image, and put a frying pan on the stove.

“I am not eating eggs.”

“You’ll feel better. Speak now or take ’em sunny side up.” He cracked two eggs into the pan without waiting for an answer.

“Have you come to torment me?” I tried to sound gruff, but I was actually delighted at this glimpse of him. The few nights he’d stayed over, we’d gone out to breakfast. When he hadn’t had to leave before breakfast for a call. But he seemed quite comfortable in the kitchen. My kitchen. I found that thrilling. It almost gave me my appetite back.

“I actually came to tell you that Jake Boone called the precinct to file a complaint against you.”

“What?”

“I took care of it, but it was all about you calling and threatening him.”

“I told you—I told him it wasn’t me. He’s cooking up some stupid story to make himself sound innocent while he’s threatening
me
.”

“But it’s a woman on your answering machine.”

“He has a girlfriend who would happily harass me for him. She knows I’m on to him, even though I told her she
was wrong. I’ll bet you she was also the woman at the Algonquin last night.”

He poked at the egg. “How about Cassady and Tricia?”

“I’m sure they agree with me.”

“How do they like their eggs?” My confusion showed on my face because his grin got wider. “They’re in your room. If you can walk that far, go tell them breakfast is ready.”

There’s great comfort in knowing that while you look like hell, your friends look worse. By the time Cassady and Tricia had dragged themselves off my bed, where they had collapsed fully dressed but without martini glasses, I had managed a glass of cranberry juice and was beginning to think I’d live. Kyle had made steak and eggs for all of us and was having trouble chewing his, his grin kept getting so broad.

“Good thinking to stay here last night,” he commended Cassady and Tricia.

Tricia was holding her head up with both hands, acclimating to the aroma of her breakfast before daring to taste it. “It wasn’t a conscious decision. More like an unconscious decision.”

Cassady was tearing into her steak with relish. “This is delicious, Kyle. I may throw it all up in twenty minutes, but I’m enjoying it now.”

Tricia moaned, Kyle laughed, and I got the coffeepot. I had that awful nagging feeling that something had happened last night that shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. And we were all fully clothed with no drug paraphernalia, sex toys, or Krispy Kreme boxes in evidence, so how sinful could it have been?

Tricia saw the look. “What is it?”

“Blank spot.”

“Only one? I have several and none of them in the right
place. I still have to go home and have words with my mother.”

“Can I come watch?” Cassady asked.

“There’s no point, because I’ll lose my nerve by the time I get there.”

“Eat your steak and you’ll have the strength to whup her good,” Kyle suggested. He got up from the table and rinsed his plate in the sink.

Tricia looked at him, inspired, then picked up her knife and fork and started eating. The image of her in her deeply wrinkled Betsey Johnson and bedhead, munching happily on the steak while dreaming of confronting her mother, was heartening to us all.

Kyle had to leave, so he dispensed instructions for us to stay sober and for me to stay away from Jake Boone. I couldn’t believe that idiot had called the cops on me. I couldn’t wait to return the favor, but I didn’t have enough proof. Yet.

“I vaguely remember discussing Jake Boone last night,” Cassady said, holding her coffee mug to her forehead like a compress. “But other than agreeing that he was a murdering bastard, I can’t recall deciding on a course of action.”

“You really think Jake did it?” Tricia asked, actually picking up her steak and gnawing on the bone.

“He gave Lisbet an ultimatum about leaving your brother, which, despite the fact that he slept with Veronica—” An idea hit me and I had to pause a moment to marvel at its beauty. “I bet he sent Veronica to seduce David and then made sure Lisbet walked in on them.”

“Veronica would have done that for him?” Cassady asked.

“She wanted David. It served her agenda as well.” I drummed on the edge of the table as I saw the pieces coming together. “And even then, Lisbet wouldn’t leave David,
which infuriated Jake, so they’re both mad at the party, which explains the floor show. And afterward, Lisbet does fight with David, Jake thinks he’s home free, Lisbet even sleeps with him, but then she tells him she’s going back to David. So he freaks and kills her.”

Tricia and Cassady were engrossed, nodding supportively. I tried to imagine Detective Cook and Kyle sitting in their places, nodding just as supportively, and I couldn’t quite get there. But I was close.

“So where does Lara fit in all this?” Tricia asked.

“That’s it! Lara,” I said, drumming a little faster. “She thinks she’s helping Jake but he’s using her. And if she finds that out, she becomes the weak link.”

“So Lara’s the woman shadowing you.” Cassady leaned over and pressed her hand over mine to stop my drumming. Abashed, I slid my hands into my lap. It was true; the drumming wasn’t helping anyone’s headache. “Who’s the woman threatening Jake?”

“He’s probably making it up. Or maybe Veronica’s figured out he used her and she’s ready for her pound of flesh. She’s a wrathful sort of gal.”

“So what happens next?” Tricia asked, licking her fingers.

“I have to talk to Lara without Jake, see if I can shake her loose.”

“I really appreciate what you’re doing, Molly, the article aside. My family doesn’t deserve it, but …” A wave of pain that had nothing to do with our night’s debauchery swept over her and a memory unexpectedly swam to the surface. Tricia sitting on my couch, her martini glass balanced on her knees, proclaiming that Einstein had proved it was impossible to be truly happy.

Cassady was lying on the floor at that point, her ankles
crossed and propped up on the edge of the coffee table, trying to balance her glass on her forehead. “Missed that science class.”

“Einstein said we could never travel at the speed of light because as a body approaches the speed of light, its mass increases to the point that it slows down and can’t achieve the necessary speed.”

“If you say so,” I encouraged from the armchair in which I sat sideways, my legs over one arm and my head on the other. Very comfortable, though it would make a chiropractor flee in horror.

“Same way with happiness. The closer you get to achieving that moment of transcendence, the greater mass you take on because you start thinking of all the things that can go wrong and whether you deserve happiness and other people pull back on you and you slow down and never get there.” She’d lifted her glass, “To Albert.”

Now, Cassady put her arm around Tricia’s shoulders and I took her hand in mine. I wanted to say something profound and comforting about how it was going to be all right, that we’d get through this, her family would recover. But I wondered if the Vincents didn’t have their own physics problems, with the force of the impact of Lisbet’s death having revealed stress fractures that undermined the stability of the whole structure. But we could help her through that, too. As long as the three of us stayed on the same side, we could work these things through.

The one thing we couldn’t get around in our friendship was that we’re not all the same size. Not being able to freely trade clothes cuts down on squabbling to a certain extent, but it also forced my cohorts to face the long trip home in yesterday’s clothes. As parting gifts, I gave them both Advil
and hugs. The two of them left arm in bedraggled arm, a sight Mrs. Mayburn and my other neighbors were bound to whisper about for at least a month.

I went to stand in the shower until the hot water was gone. Even after two scrubbings with my vanilla aromatherapy bar, my body still shrank from anything but a sweater and jeans, but I forced it into my trusty Banana Republic brown flute skirt and white ballet neck sweater, subscribing to the theory that if you look good, you feel better. I’m not sure if Einstein came up with that one. Might’ve been Newton. Or Mizrahi.

Deciding that a massive infusion of espresso would put the finishing touch on my reconstruction, I slipped on my Kate Spade chocolate and lavender spectator pumps and headed out to Starbucks. The Starbucks across the street from Jake’s apartment building.

My first New York boss, Rob, taught me to always be friendly to doormen and assistants because they have more control and more information than anyone ever gives them credit for. On my previous forays to Jake’s, I’d been pleasant to the doorman and I hoped it was about to pay off.

I waited until I could feel my espresso double shot pulsing in my temples, then darted across the street. It was a decent May day, bright and warm. Under all the diesel fumes, the air still smelled lightly of the night’s dampness burning off. Steve, the doorman, looked quite comfortable in his epauleted overcoat, but he was a gaunt greyhound of a guy who seemed like he never broke a sweat, whatever the weather or situation.

This was crossing the line from flirting with danger to making a blatant pass at it, if my theory about Jake and Lara was right. Further, if Jake had been serious about trying to get me in trouble with the police, I wasn’t going to get very
far with Steve. But since Kyle and Detective Cook hadn’t bought into the Jake theory yet, I had to see what I could do to make it more attractive for everyone.

Steve raised a gloved hand to the brim of his cap as I approached. Good start. “Good morning, ma’am.”

“Good morning, Steve. Is Mr. Boone home?” I asked cheerfully.

BOOK: Killer Cocktail

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