If Looks Could Kill (34 page)

It took me about fifteen minutes to secure a cab, and then it was only because I outsprinted a lawyerly-looking chick wearing
the last asexual all navy woman’s suit in Manhattan. I had the driver drop me at a bar/restaurant called Martell’s on 83rd
and Third. It was a bit of a hike from Cat’s, but it was the only place that I could think of, since the Upper East Side isn’t
my usual stomping ground. I slid onto an empty stool at the bar and ordered a draft beer.

As I sipped my beer I kept my eyes focused mainly on the foam at the top of the glass, because the bar area was becoming packed
quickly, and all it would take was a slight turn of my head and a nanosecond of eye contact and I’d have some bozo standing
next to me asking me something like “Why so sad—did you lose your puppy?”

Out of the corner of my eye I could see that the place was full of guys who reminded me of Kip. Guys who had an air of entitlement
that had been swelling like Jiffy Pop since Duke or Dartmouth, the kinds of guys who still got a thrill from pushing someone
into a swimming pool with their clothes on. Actually, Kip belonged to a brainy subspecies. He had the sense of entitlement,
but his rush came from saying something witty at your expense or dropping a brilliant reference he knew you wouldn’t get.

It had been fascinating to see the smugness fall away when I’d had him cornered earlier. Taking another sip of beer, I thought
of the drink he’d ordered. Bourbon, neat. And I thought of what he said about making the trip to Litchfield uninvited. That
meant Heidi had extended the invitation to someone else. Kip wasn’t the mystery man after all.

Then who was? I had to figure out whom Heidi had planned to play the hot little hostess for. If she’d been following her usual
MO, it was someone bigger and better than Kip. And there was more than a better chance it was someone who could help hatch
her schemes for success. Her modeling dreams hadn’t materialized into anything. Nor had her fantasy about a career at MTV.
Had she churned up a fresh scheme and then zoomed in on a fellow who could facilitate her plans? Or had she met someone who
opened her eyes to a bold new possibility?

Most important of all, was
he
the one who’d killed her?

The din around the bar was so great, I almost didn’t notice my phone ring. I answered it with my head tucked into my chest
so I could hear who was on the other end.

“Jesus, Bailey, there you are.” Cat Jones at her most direct.

“Hey—are you okay? What’s happening?”

“What’s
happening?
What’s happening is that someone tried to poison Patty Gaylin. There
is
some kind of conspiracy.”

“You’re kidding!” I exclaimed. The news was so startling, I was at a loss for words.

Patty Gaylin, editor in chief of
Women’s Journal
, was a woman in her mid- to late fifties known for being tough, sometimes tyrannical, but not without mercy if you begged
hard enough. Cat called her “Crock Pot” Patty because the magazine ran gobs of recipes for one-dish family meals, most of
them calling for several pounds of stew meat.

“No, I’m
not
kidding. Someone wants us all dead.”

“Are you home now? I’ll come by—I’m only a few blocks away.”

There were muffled words as she apparently turned to speak to someone in the room with her.

“I just got to Leslie’s. We’re having dinner here. Jeff left this afternoon for a shoot in Miami tomorrow and I’m in no mood
to go home alone right now.”

“Is Patty Gaylin okay?”

“As far as I know. But I’m not. I’m sick to death of this whole thing.”

“Cat,” I said, trying not to sound as discombobulated as I felt, “I need to talk to you. I came up to your neighborhood thinking
I’d be able to meet you here. Is there a chance I could come by—to Leslie’s?” The idea of joining a Leslie and Cat get-together
was about as enticing as a dermapeel, but I didn’t have a choice if I wanted to see Cat.

Again she turned away and spoke to someone, presumably Leslie, who was being asked if she would be kind enough to include
me in the festivities. How had I found myself in this position, as a supplicant to Leslie? When Cat came back on the phone,
her voice was drowned out by the escalating din in the bar and I had to ask her to repeat herself.

“I said fine, come,” she told me, sounding short of patience. “You know the address—One Forty Central Park West?” In terms
of invitations, it was hardly one of the most inviting I’d ever been given.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” I said.

I had to fight my way through a thicket of bond traders who insisted that the fun was just beginning and I was nuts to leave,
but I managed to get a taxi the minute I stepped off the curb. I told myself not to jump ahead, not to start hashing things
out in my mind until I had all the facts, but I couldn’t help myself. Had I been totally off base with my theory about Heidi?
Had I just spent the last day and a half sidetracked, pursuing an idea that was completely ridiculous—and then given Cat misleading
information? But I couldn’t have been wrong. There was the Jiffy bag that had been in Heidi’s trash basket, the one with the
flower petal that I was convinced came from the Godiva box. There had to be some other explanation for this Patty Gaylin situation.

Traffic was surprisingly light, and I landed at Leslie’s apartment building in under fifteen minutes. Once, after a
Gloss
event on the Upper West Side, I’d shared a cab with Leslie and dropped her off at her building, but I’d never stepped foot
in the apartment. I had heard plenty about it, however. It was legendary around
Gloss
because it was huge and luxurious and had a breathtaking view of Central Park. Her husband, Clyde, the one who had made the
killing in the market and then been smart enough to get out, worked out of the apartment, managing his money and dabbling
in a variety of other pursuits.

It was actually Clyde who answered the door of their fifteenth-floor apartment after I’d managed to get through a screening
by the doorman that was just shy of a strip search. He greeted me as if we’d never met before. At least he seemed cognizant
of the fact that I was expected.

“They’re in the kitchen, having something to eat,” he indicated. He was dressed as if he’d just come from some kind of meeting—cobalt
blue dress shirt, black slacks, and an exquisite black leather belt that looked as if it might be from someplace like Hermès
and probably cost as much as a Ford Taurus. I thought of what Cat had told me—about trying to draw him out and being accused
of dirty flirting.

“Should I just go through, then?” I asked.

“By all means,” he said in a tone that indicated he didn’t care one way or the other what I did. “Why don’t you take a drink
with you. The bar’s over here.”

The seven sips of beer I’d had already hadn’t made a dent in my nerves, and I figured a glass of wine might help. I followed
him down a spacious, gallerylike foyer into a large wood-paneled study. Two walls were nothing but floor-to-ceiling bookcases,
and on the other two walls, mounted on brackets, were at least thirty gleaming silver swords with ornate handles. They looked
as though they might have been used to drive the Turks from Constantinople.

“I’ll just take a glass of red wine,” I said, pointing to a bottle of Bordeaux that sat half-full on the wet bar.

He seemed to have no interest in chitchat, so I asked for directions to the kitchen and he pointed to a hallway that ran perpendicular
to the foyer, explaining that I’d stumble upon it eventually. The apartment was amazingly huge and decorated expensively,
but without any warmth, in shades of pale blue and gray. On my way toward the kitchen, I passed a massive living room with
just one lamp burning, a dining room in near darkness, and a hallway that appeared to lead to a bunch of bedrooms. Leslie
didn’t have kids, but maybe she was planning on it one day or she had scads of overnight guests. Though it was hard to imagine
anything fun or festive ever taking place here.

Leslie and Cat were both in the kitchen, a huge room with acres of pale wood cabinets, sitting at a center island beneath
a dozen copper pots that hung by hooks from a black wrought-iron frame on the ceiling. In front of them on the island was
a half-eaten roast chicken carcass, a wooden bowl with the soggy remains of a green salad, and a near empty bottle of white
wine. Cat still had on work clothes, a lavender skirt and a tight-fitting black T-shirt, but Leslie had obviously changed—into
a brown turtleneck and a pair of khakis with front pleats that made her look pudgy. The mood was somber, and though they both
turned when I entered, neither said hello.

“There’s plenty of food left,” said Leslie as I walked toward the island. “Do you want anything?”

“Not right this sec, thanks,” I said. She was being pleasant enough now, but I knew it would be only a few seconds before
she started that boxing-out thing she did whenever she was with Cat and me. In fact, I had that weird feeling you get when
you’ve accidentally blundered into a conversation that you suspect was about you and probably wasn’t flattering. “So what
happened?”

“We don’t have all the details yet,” Leslie said, pulling out a stool for me to sit on. “What we’ve heard is that Patty received
a package of chocolate-chip cookies in the mail today. They were wrapped up like a present from a friend, but there was no
note. She would never have eaten them, of course—not knowing who they were from. But her secretary was especially suspicious
because of what’s been going on. Apparently she took a whiff and it was clear that there was something wrong. They smelled
bad. She called the police and they’re going to run some tests on the cookies.”

“Has anyone gotten hold of the detectives investigating Heidi’s death?” I asked, turning to Cat.

She just sat there silently, looking as if she were giving a bad mood a chance to build. It was Leslie who answered.

“Yes, Cat called them as soon as she heard.” Why, I wondered, was she being so damn friendly?

“Tell me more about the cookies, though,” I said, taking a sip of wine and trying to act, at least, like an integral part
of the girls gab fest. “When you say they smelled bad, what do you mean? Could they just have been spoiled?”

“Spoiled?”
Cat said in a near shriek. “For God’s sake, why are you having such a tough time getting your arms around the idea that someone
is after the editors of women’s magazines?” She sounded mad and mean, and though I certainly had heard her use that tone with
other people over the years, it had never been discharged at me. When I responded I spoke slowly so I wouldn’t give away that
I felt as if I’d been slapped.

“Cat, you’ve said more than once that one of my skills as a writer is that I keep pushing, asking questions. Why would you
want me to do otherwise in this case?”

“I’m not suggesting you shouldn’t be asking questions,” she snapped. “But it might help if you start asking the
right
ones.” She’d been looking in my general direction as she spoke but not making perfect eye contact, and now she turned back
to her wineglass. I started to say something, a feeble attempt to defend myself. Leslie, however, cut me off.

“Look, we’re all a little crazed right now, and justifiably so. But we need to keep our heads. Let’s hear what Bailey has
to say, okay?” Cat said nothing, only took another swig of wine, but obviously Leslie interpreted this as a sign to forge
ahead.

“Bailey, you don’t think what happened to Cat—what
almost
happened to Cat—could be part of somebody’s plan to harm editors of women’s magazines, maybe as revenge—or even as some kind
of
statement?”

“She doesn’t think it has anything to do with me period,” Cat said angrily. “She thinks it’s all about Heidi.”

“Heidi?”
Leslie exclaimed. “What are you talking about?”

“She called me today to tell me she thinks Heidi was supposed to die all along.”

“But why would someone kill Heidi?” Leslie asked, looking thoroughly bewildered.

“Let Bailey tell you,” Cat said, at full-blast nasty. “She’s the smartest girl in the class, the one with all the answers.”

“You know,” I said quietly, standing up from my stool, “I think it would be better if I just left.” I picked up my purse and
tote bag from the floor and strode out of the room.

When I reached the gallery, I could hear someone behind me, but I didn’t turn. Then I heard Leslie’s voice.

“Bailey, wait a second. Don’t just fly out of here.”

I stopped and waited for her to catch up to me. As she reached me she glanced toward the study, presumably looking for her
husband, but he had apparently roamed off somewhere in the cavernous apartment.

“Cat’s coming unhinged because of this whole thing, so you can’t take it personally,” she said.

“Thanks, Leslie, I appreciate your support.” It came out even more sarcastically than I’d planned.

“Bailey, we’ve never been friends and we’re never going to be, but I respect you—more than you realize. You can’t let this
bother you. Cat’s too crazed to be nice right now. Why don’t I call you later. I can fill you in on anything we learn about
Patty.”

“Fine, I’d appreciate that.” I couldn’t believe I was being so damn cordial to Leslie.

“Do you really think the killer was after
Heidi?
Who would want to harm her? She was such a nonentity.”

“I
do
think that. And she
wasn’t
such a nonentity. Guys found her incredibly desirable, and one of them may have killed her. I’m going to figure it out.”

She smiled. “I’m sorry Cat’s not more appreciative of all the effort you’re putting in.”

She let me out of the apartment, and I found my way down to the lobby on automatic pilot, unable to give full attention to
anything other than how extraordinarily pissed I was at Cat. What had I done to make her tear into me like that? Something
seemed to be eating her,
beyond
the fact that she didn’t think my theory held any weight.