Authors: Sheryl J. Anderson
Killer Deal (17 page)
Kyle sighed for effect. “Daniel says Dave Matthews is better than Tom Petty. Molly, you gonna let him get away with that?”
I looked Kyle in the eye and got the nonverbal message loud and clear: He wasn’t enjoying his conversation with Daniel anywhere nearly as much as I was enjoying mine with Lindsay and he very much wanted me to abandon mine to bail him out of his. Of course, I was piecing together a mystery and he was trying to be polite to a guy he’d just met, who struck me as a bit of a cold fish. So since Lindsay’d already given me a great deal to chew on and I owed Kyle big time, I frowned at Daniel in mock horror and said, “Sacrilege!”
Daniel laughed. “Prove me wrong.”
I smiled back and committed to finishing the meal without betraying what I was really thinking about. I gave an impassioned defense of my favorite rock star and Daniel countered for his. The four of us laughed and joked, and the rest of the meal passed in that pleasant, gentle group banter Tricia calls Cocktail Party 101—discussions of favorite movies, bands, TV shows, and books but never politics or religion.
The most interesting aspect of the evening was the feeling that we were gliding across the surface of everything. It was more than my being distracted by the new information on Tessa. It was the dynamics of the four of us. Some people you connect with immediately. I’d felt that Lindsay and I had done that in the office but now here, with the guys with us, I felt as if we were backing up. Maybe I was just tired—it had been quite a day.
Kyle declined coffee and dessert with no nudge from me, telling them that I got very cranky if I didn’t get my fourteen
hours, and we parted company in front of the restaurant with us heading for a cab and them saying they wanted to stroll a while before they headed home. I told Lindsay I was sure I’d be talking to her again, maybe even drop by the office in the morning with follow-up questions for the article. And for Tessa, but Lindsay didn’t need to know that.
hours, and we parted company in front of the restaurant with us heading for a cab and them saying they wanted to stroll a while before they headed home. I told Lindsay I was sure I’d be talking to her again, maybe even drop by the office in the morning with follow-up questions for the article. And for Tessa, but Lindsay didn’t need to know that.
I tried to keep my excitement under wraps, but once we were in the cab, it sort of leaked out. “That was amazing.”
Kyle groaned, dropping his head back against the seat. “It was excruciating. That guy has the personality of a dial tone.”
“I’m sorry.”
“If you’d resisted the Tom Petty challenge, I would’ve gotten up, thrown you over my shoulder, and carried you outta there.”
“As exciting as that sounds, I’m very glad you resisted.”
Kyle rolled his head to look at me. “What’d you figure out?”
“I think Detective Donovan is on the wrong track.”
“I told you that already.”
“And I think I’m on the right one.”
Kyle watched me patiently, waiting for me to continue, but I wasn’t sure I should. “And … ?” he prompted.
“Do you really want to know? Isn’t this the conflict of interest we’ve been trying to avoid?”
“The conflict of interest is me helping you work on another cop’s case. I’m not helping you. I’m listening to your theory. Maybe.”
“And that won’t cause a problem?”
“Knowing you, yes, it will, but a kind I probably haven’t even thought of yet.”
I wanted to take offense, but that’s hard to do when it’s the truth that’s being flung in your face. So I took a deep breath and laid out my theory about Tessa killing Garth, including the charm bracelets, the champagne glass, the perfume, and the party humiliation. Kyle’s head rocked up and down on the edge of the seat as he listened, staying with me right up until the party. “I don’t buy it.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not a motive for murder. Now, if it’s the tip of the iceberg, you may be on to something. But I don’t think you’ve got it yet.”
“So what do I do?”
Kyle sighed. “Keep … working on your article.”
“Do I have to tell Detective Donovan any of this?”
I could see the amusement in Kyle’s eyes, even though he was gazing at the ceiling of the cab. “I like the spirit of cooperation in that question.”
“I’m not trying to be difficult.”
“Yeah, it’s effortless for you and it’s one of the sexiest things about you.” He swung his body across mine suddenly, hungry kisses roaming over my face and neck as he pulled me against him. It was a delicious, dizzying moment until he started chuckling in my ear. I thought about biting him, but he moved away too quickly.
“Are you picking on me?”
“Sweetheart,” he soothed, rolling back into his original position, “I was just trying to get you to stop thinking for a minute. But I know how hard that is when I’m limited by our surroundings and our audience.”
“Don’t mind me,” our cabbie urged.
“You’re not trying to get me to stop thinking,” I protested, “you’re trying to get out of answering the question.”
“She’s got you there,” our cabbie said.
“Does she tip you extra for the help or do I tip you extra to stop?” Kyle asked him.
“Should both try it and see what happens,” the cabbie answered.
Kyle pinched his bottom lip. “Molly, I don’t ever want you to withhold evidence. But you don’t really have evidence. You have conjecture.”
“Which I tried to share with him and he wouldn’t listen.”
“Because you’re really wasting his time until you have more to go on.”
“And should I?”
“Should you what?”
“Go on.”
“Like there’s another option.”
Now I was the one who sprawled across him. The cabbie hummed happily until we arrived at my building and we both tipped him generously.
In the morning, my theory held up to the toughest test: I was still as excited about it as I had been the night before. Even with Kyle challenging me on every conceivable point as he bolted down breakfast and headed out the door. His parting request was a simple one: that I call and warn him if I was going to come see Detective Donovan. I agreed, knowing I needed to plan my “casual follow-up” with Garth’s Girls.
But first, a different follow-up with other girls. I had to call Tricia and Cassady and fill them in on the interesting developments of last night—and discover I’d missed the most interesting one of the bunch.
“He’s very sweet,” Tricia said in a way that made “sweet” a thing to be cherished, not demeaning or condescending at all.
“You met Aaron and I missed it?”
“You had more pressing matters to attend to.”
“Still. I feel like I’m the only one who couldn’t stay awake long enough to see Santa Claus.”
“Trust me, Molly, he does exist and he’s very charming. I really don’t see why she was so skittish.”
“Because they’ve only known each other for a few days. This is whirlwind, even for her.”
“All the better to meet him early then.”
“Before the gala?”
“You’ll have to discuss that with her.”
Which I arranged to do by having Cassady meet me for coffee on her way to a client meeting. Cassady’s idea of a big breakfast is having real milk in her coffee, but I was able to tempt her with a piece of my cream-cheese-and-carrot muffin. “It’s vegetables,” I told her. “And calcium.”
“I’d be more persuaded if I hadn’t heard you give similar speeches in defense of chocolate cake.”
“Eggs, flour, milk. And chocolate promotes serotonin production and we all need more of that. Would you like me to get you a chocolate muffin?”
“No, thank you. Just tell me what Tricia said about Aaron.”
“‘Sweet.’” She wrinkled her nose, but I hurried to assure her, “In a really good way. So I want to meet him now.”
“You and Kyle free for dinner?”
I did owe Kyle a pleasant dinner after he’d gotten stuck with Daniel for such a long time the night before. I told Cassady I’d check with Kyle, then filled her in on my new thoughts about Garth’s death. She nodded excitedly, actually eating another piece of muffin as she listened. “What a great idea.”
“Tessa?”
“No, making him choke on his own pride, as it were. I have a few former bosses I’d like to see swallow more than that, believe me. My question is, was she sleeping with him, too, or is this strictly some sort of thwarted ambition thing?”
“I’m thinking both, which explains the two shots.”
“Very creative. No wonder it’s such a good agency.”
“I don’t think they’ll be adding it to their list of credits.”
Cassady’s business meeting was only a few buildings past mine, so we brushed off the muffin crumbs and headed toward work. The air was muggy, so we both walked with that anti-sweat posture where the elbows are turned out slightly to keep the underarms as well-ventilated as possible while still keeping the shoulders square enough not to lose the handbag. As long as I didn’t have to answer my phone, I could stay cool.
Or unless I saw someone I wasn’t prepared to see. Peter Mulcahey was pacing the plaza in front of my building and while he didn’t seem to have worked up a sweat, I felt droplets on the back of my neck at the sight of him. I thought I’d dealt with him and dismissed him and couldn’t imagine what had brought him back to me. Of course, I work in a very large building and there was always the hope that
he hadn’t come to see me at all, that this was all an unhappy coincidence. But that hope wilted in the heat as Peter strode up to me, barely taking time to acknowledge Cassady as he did so.
he hadn’t come to see me at all, that this was all an unhappy coincidence. But that hope wilted in the heat as Peter strode up to me, barely taking time to acknowledge Cassady as he did so.
“What’s going on?”
“Hello, Peter,” Cassady said before I could.
“Cassady, excuse me, I’m not trying to be rude—”
“Just happens, right?”
“And sometimes even without provocation.”
They were never fond of each other and this was not the ideal situation for them to catch up. “There something I can do for you, Peter?” I asked.
“Tell me why Detective Donovan won’t take my phone calls.”
“Maybe he ran out of free minutes.”
“I’m serious, Molly.”
I tried to remember anything I’d done or said that Peter could point to as proof of my complicity in Detective Donovan shunning him. “I talked to him last night, but I didn’t say anything that would make him cut you off.”
“Other than the fact that he was wrong,” Cassady pointed out.
“You were there?” Peter asked.
“But we didn’t talk about you. Much,” Cassady said charitably. “Molly just offered a different point of view.”
“He wants you to write the book, doesn’t he? Let’s write the book together,” Peter said suddenly.
I wasn’t feeling as charitable as Cassady. “That’s a bad idea for so many reasons, Peter.”
“We’d be a great team.”
“I think we’ve already proven the fallacy in that. Besides, he told me you weren’t interested.”
“Lying bastard.”
A wonderful thing to hear about a detective who’s provided you with crucial information. But I wasn’t going to let Peter shake me up, I knew I was on the right track. “I don’t care about the book, Peter.”
It would have been a more persuasive statement had Cassady not looked at me like I was losing my mind even before Peter did. Peter’s smile hardened. “I don’t know what you and Donovan are up to—”
“Nothing!”
“—but I’m going to figure this out before either one of you. And then I’ll write the damn book myself.” He took a moment to remember his manners. “Nice to see you, Cassady.”
“Always a pleasure to see your true colors, Peter,” Cassady said, waving in farewell.
Peter stalked off and I tried to remember if I’d ever seen him genuinely angry. One of my problems with Peter had always been that his emotions were contained to the point of not being sincere. Maybe we’d just never dealt with anything that was sufficiently important to him.
“Why is it never the pleasant ones who come back to haunt you?” Cassady asked.
“Then it wouldn’t be haunting.”
“What’s Kyle think of him popping back up?”
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have to. Cassady’s known me too long and has that telepathic polygraph old friends develop; she can feel my pulse change from across the room. “Oh, Molly,” was all she said, but with that deep disappointment your mother uses when you’ve spilled hot chocolate down the front of your satin Christmas dress five minutes before leaving for church.
“Not intentionally. I’ll tell him.”
“When?”
“When the time’s right.”
And I should’ve known then, but I had to learn it again the hard way: Like an unfamiliar highway exit ramp, the right time is something you usually only recognize after you’ve missed it.
DEAR MOLLY, WHY IS IT
so difficult to keep a promise? Is it some sort of performance anxiety thing, where the pressure gets to be too much? Is it because we make them in the heat of the moment and when that cools off, the promise loses its appeal, too? Or is it because we make promises about things we know we can’t achieve, but we’d still like to get points for good intentions? Signed, Cross My Heart and Fingers
so difficult to keep a promise? Is it some sort of performance anxiety thing, where the pressure gets to be too much? Is it because we make them in the heat of the moment and when that cools off, the promise loses its appeal, too? Or is it because we make promises about things we know we can’t achieve, but we’d still like to get points for good intentions? Signed, Cross My Heart and Fingers
“We had a deal,” my editor growled.
At least I thought it was my editor. It was about the right size and the proper level of antagonism, but the shape behind the desk was swathed in an absurdly large amount of white terry cloth and where the face should have been, there was a bright blue oval.
“Maybe I should come back when you’re done. I don’t want to undo all of Suzanne’s hard work by making you yell at me,” I said, throwing a sympathetic look at Suzanne. Her martyrdom was genuinely earned this morning, since she was in charge of giving the tiny bundle of shroud and fury a facial, right there in her office.
“It’s all right,” Suzanne whispered, picking the already hardening blue goo off her fingers.
“Any particular reason you didn’t go to a spa or a salon?” I dared ask.
“And be seen in public like this? Are you insane? And don’t try to change the subject. I’m upset with you.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, in the interest of saving time.
“I would hope so. You promised me a sensational cover story about Gwen Lincoln. Now you’re saying she might be innocent?!”
“Wasn’t that the original hope, the reason Emile asked you and The Publisher to make room for the article?”
“But Quinn Harriman’s going to have the real killer on his cover! Of his first issue!”
“Assuming Peter Mulcahey figures it out in time, which is not a given.” This whole exchange was my mistake. I should have known better, when summoned into the inner sanctum for an update, than to be truthful and specific. I should have just assured her that I was working hard, that I had no ideas about Gwen’s guilt or innocence, then complimented her on something and eased my way out. But no, in my excitement, I’d overshared.
“And we’re going to be stuck with the Widow Lincoln on ours!”
As intrigued as I was by the image of Gwen dressed as Mary Todd Lincoln, I couldn’t stop to consider it. This was no time for pride or subtlety. My article was slouching toward the scrap pile and I had to lure it back to safety. “Of course, she’ll be wearing a headline that says ‘Eileen Fitzsimmons Set Me Free’.”
It was like releasing a helium-filled balloon—you let the gas escape, then wait a moment until it stops flinging itself around the room. Eileen’s eyes opened as wide as the hardening facial masque would permit, so I continued. “If the magazine proves Gwen is innocent, doesn’t she have you to thank? You’re the one who assigned the article,” I said, trying not to grit my teeth. Better to have written and have credit stolen than never to have written at all.
Eileen’s head wobbled slightly as she let the idea bounce around and become her own. “Maybe Gwen and I could be on the cover together,” she suggested.
“How Oprah of you. Want me to call a photographer in right now, take a few practice shots?”
“I have very delicate skin,” Eileen protested.
“Which is why you’re protecting it from the entire visible light spectrum, I get that.”
“Fine, be one of those disgusting girls who swipes with a little soap and water and glows for days. Some of us must be pampered.”
Momentarily distracted that Eileen had, in her own way, complimented me, I faltered for a moment, then refocused. “So I’m going back to work now, on helping you save Gwen. I’ll keep you posted.” I gave her a wave and a smile as I backed out of sight. She might have tried to smile back, but it was hard to tell through the mask.
I alighted briefly at my desk, uncertain as to my next move. Which made me think of Cassady’s new beau and his buddy Heisenberg. If observing the particle changes the behavior of the particle, I was going to have to sneak up on the atom if I had any chance at all of splitting it.
Since I needed to talk to Tessa, I asked for Lindsay when I arrived at GHInc. Now that we’d had dinner together, it appeared natural for me to want to see her, talk to her again. I was banking on her maternal reputation being well earned, and that part of the mothering instinct would be she was the one who kept tabs on everyone, listened to their problems, and refereed their arguments. If I could get her to share those sorts of stories with me and tell me everything I needed to know about Tessa—preferably without even realizing that’s what she was doing—I’d be that much closer to the atom without the atom knowing.
Fortunately, Lindsay was delighted to see me, greeting me in the reception area with a warm hug. She ushered me to her office, which was immaculate and streamlined, as I would’ve expected, its main adornment a large, ornately framed picture of her and Daniel on their wedding day.
“Such a nice picture,” I said, surprised by the wistfulness I heard in my own voice.
“Thanks. We really enjoyed seeing you guys last night. Daniel had so much fun talking to Kyle.”
I smiled politely. “Kyle enjoyed it, too.”
“We’ll have to do it again. Have a seat,” she said, moving several large bags off her sofa to make room for me. “Sorry, Francesca cleaned out her closet and brought me all the goodies for Daniel’s thrift shop.”
“Daniel has a thrift shop?”
“Rising Angels does. In the basement at St. Aidan’s. It’s a really fun place. I’ll take you over there one day if you like that kind of shopping.”
“Haven’t met a kind I don’t like. That’s so sweet,” I said, sitting on the now vacant buttery leather, “Francesca supporting Daniel’s work that way.”
Lindsay started to make a face, then caught herself. “You’re right, it is.”
“You don’t think so?”
“No, I do, I do. The whole group is very supportive, we’re all there for each other. It’s just with the thrift shop, I sometimes think they bring it here to me so they don’t have to deal with it themselves, make a trip out of the way or anything.” She pressed her lips together, then smiled. “I’m sorry, I don’t really mean that, I shouldn’t have said that.”
I wanted to tell her that people who said things to me they weren’t supposed to say were my favorite people in the world, but I refrained. “I understand,” I said instead. “It’s tricky when you feel friends are taking advantage of you.”
“So, what brings you by this morning?” she asked brightly, thinking she was changing the subject when really, she was just reinforcing it.
“I heard a rumor and I wanted to run it by you,” I said, dropping my voice to a confidential level. “I won’t name names in the article, but who is it that’s thinking about leaving?”
I immediately regretted my approach because Lindsay looked as though I had gut-punched her. “One of us? Leaving?”
“Maybe there’s nothing to it,” I said quickly, hoping I hadn’t torpedoed the conversation before it even began.
“Maybe that’s why Francesca’s cleaning out her closet,” Lindsay said, giving one of the bags a little kick. “After all, when do you clean your closet this thoroughly—when you lose a lot of weight, which she hasn’t, when a man moves in, which hasn’t happened, or when you’re getting ready to move, which she would only do for a new job because she’s got this great rent-controlled place in the Village.” Lindsay kicked the bags again, her sadness swiftly giving way to anger. “I’ve worked so hard to keep this group together and—” She gave the bags a third, decisive kick and the toe of her pumps popped a hole in one. Pulling up short, she planted herself in her desk chair like a kid being put in the corner.
“Why’s it up to you to hold everyone together?” I asked quietly while I tried to figure out whether I’d missed something about Francesca. But Tessa was the one with the absent bracelet, the one I wanted to know about. “I thought Tessa was your ringleader.”
Lindsay’s eyes flashed and I thought she was going to kick me this time. “Did Tessa tell you that?”
“No, but the dynamic when I came—”
“Tessa likes attention, so she thinks she deserves it and she’ll do just about anything to get it. It was really sort of sad with Garth, the whole Electra complex. He played into it, enjoyed it, but that was a little sad, too.”
Here was the first run in the perfectly smooth pair of pantyhose. Now, if I could just tug in the right direction, the runs would multiply. “Think it’s going to be hard for Tessa, with Gwen and Ronnie?”
“I’m sure she already has a plan for Ronnie,” Lindsay said, her jaw setting. “She’s going to have a tough time with Gwen, though. They rub each other the wrong way.”
“Why? Think there’s some sort of jealousy there?”
Lindsay shrugged. “Like Tessa wants to be in charge and resents Gwen? I hadn’t thought about that, but I can see it.”
“I was thinking on a more personal level. If Tessa’s feelings for Garth were a little less Electra and a little more, say, Cleopatra.”
I expected either assent or denial from Lindsay and I was silently cheering for the former. What I got instead was such a naked look of pain that I almost blurted out an apology without knowing what I’d done. But while I was still groping for a response, Lindsay said in a low, tight voice, “I’m really not in a position to comment on the personal lives of any of my coworkers.”
If it was exactly what I was looking for, why did it hurt so much to hear it? I guess I’d been hoping for a catty narc-out, but this had a self-flagellating quality to it, like she was blaming herself for not having caught on to whatever was going on after hours—maybe even during hours—and where it might end up. “Garth and Tessa were having an affair?” I asked gently, just to be sure I was interpreting properly.
Lindsay’s expression didn’t change at all, but her voice got more jagged. “You’re not going to put this in the article, are you? I don’t see how it helps anyone to know.”
“I just want to understand the emotional landscape Gwen’s entering,” I said with the conviction available at a moment’s notice.
Lindsay shook her head. “You really don’t want to get into this. Tessa’s so good at what she does, the rest shouldn’t matter.”
Before I could press further, Lindsay’s office door flew open and Wendy stepped in, eyes wild and wet. “Moron said no!” she exclaimed, not registering my presence on the sofa. Lindsay looked at me instinctively and Wendy turned, her shoulders sagging at the sight of me. “Sorry. Didn’t know you had company.”
“Want me to give you a moment?” I asked, standing. I could even wander down the hall and try to bump into Tessa while they sorted this out, whatever it was.
“I need so much more than a moment, it’s not even funny,” Wendy replied. She pivoted back to the door. “Later, Lindsay.”
“Wendy, let me make some phone calls,” Lindsay said with a bright trill to her voice I wouldn’t have thought possible a moment before.
“Whatever,” Wendy said, vanishing back out into the hall.
“She’s trying to get a loan, and Daniel and I know a lot of financial people because of all his fund-raising, so I’ve been trying to hook her up,” Lindsay explained, easing the door closed behind Wendy.
“She seems pretty discouraged.”
“Her last boyfriend stole her credit cards and trashed her rating, so she’s still recovering,” Lindsay said. She forced a smile. “That’s why we’re all so good at our work. We’re running away from issues in our personal lives.”
“What are you running away from?” I asked, looking at the wedding photo again. “You seem to be doing great.”
Lindsay shook her head, her lips folding together again. “We want something we can’t afford and it’s … It gets hard.”
That quality was back in her voice; this wasn’t a trip to Europe we were talking about. “I’m sorry,” I said simply, wanting to pry but refraining.
“In vitro,” she said so quietly I could barely hear her. “Not the sort of thing people give you a loan for.”
That’s why she’d looked so pained at dinner and why she’d been happy to change the subject. Even though I was just getting to know her, I felt for her. Here I was thinking she was all set, with a job she loved and an adorable husband, but she was looking at things I hadn’t even begun to consider and discovering she might not be able to have them. She made good money, but he didn’t if he worked at a nonprofit; from what I’d heard, millionaires could go broke trying IVF. “Daniel gets so upset. He spends his days fixing other people’s lives, taking care of other people’s children and we can’t …” She paused, sniffing, and I groped for the right response, but she spoke again before I did, her voice trying to gain strength. “It’s one of those weird cases where Daniel and I are both perfectly fine, but there’s something about his sperm and my eggs that they just won’t take and
it’s what we want most, but it’s just so hard and so expensive and—” She stopped, literally shaking herself free from that train of thought. “I’m sorry.”
it’s what we want most, but it’s just so hard and so expensive and—” She stopped, literally shaking herself free from that train of thought. “I’m sorry.”
“No, I didn’t mean for this to be painful, I … I’m sorry.” I squeezed her hand and she smiled slightly in appreciation.
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