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Authors: Sheryl J. Anderson

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

Killer Cocktail (15 page)

BOOK: Killer Cocktail
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“Walked in on them?”
“Red-handed. Bare-bottomed. Something. ‘In the act,’ she said.”
“Veronica and David. Friday afternoon,” I repeated back to her.
She nodded emphatically. “I offered to fire Veronica, but Lisbet said no, she couldn’t be involved with anything that would keep the memory fresh in her mind. I begged her to think about it, not to decide rashly. She was sooo good.”
“In the part?”
Abby now shook her head just as emphatically “For box office.”
“But not in the part?”
Abby scrunched her face up so hard that her bottom lip almost touched the tip of her reddening nose. “Hell, no. Veronica’s got her limitations, but she’s poetry compared to Lisbet. God rest her soul.”
I nodded. “What happened?”
Abby sighed rather grandly. “Lisbet called me later that night and said she’d talked to David and he apologized and she was staying.”
So not only had Veronica lost the role and the boy, she’d
done it at the same time. Despite all her best efforts. Giving the star an ultimatum and then giving the boyfriend a tumble. “Veronica must not have been very happy about losing out to someone who didn’t deserve it.”
Abby propped her chin up on her hand. “Veronica was making all kinds of noise about Lisbet better get the part right or she was just going to take it back. Like that was ever going to happen.”
“But it has.”
Abby twisted her chin on her hand to look at me more fully, eyes widening so much that mine started to water in sympathy. “Wow. Isn’t that amazing. Veronica got her wish.”
The question was, how much work had she done to make it come true? I thanked Abby for her help, agreed to be in touch about the CD, and persuaded Tricia and Cassady to come with me, rather than staying behind to do more tequila shots with the costume designer and the lighting designer. Amid waves and grand promises to attend opening night, we made our way back outside.
Stepping out of the bar onto the sidewalk wasn’t nearly as refreshing as I’d hoped it would be. It was a muggy night, with summer trying to sneak into town ahead of schedule and spring rolling over for it. The air was damp and heavy and I felt its weight in my lungs and in my hair. Or maybe the weight came from something else.
Tricia waved for a cab. “So, what did she say?”
I let my breath out slowly, but it didn’t lessen the weight in my lungs. “Your brother had sex with Veronica Innes Friday.”
She brought her arm down and spun back around with such a vengeance that a couple walking past her flinched, bracing for some ninja assault. “What?!”
“You don’t really want me to repeat it.”
“Why on earth would she say such an ugly thing?”
“Lisbet told Abby she walked in on them. And wanted to leave the show because of it.”
Tricia looked like her knees were going to give, so I grabbed her and Cassady worked her magic to get a cab. One stopped and we all slid in cozily, Tricia in the middle. I gave the driver my address. After a moment, Tricia said, “That’s why he feels guilty, not because he hurt Lisbet but because he thinks he did something that caused it.”
“Has he said anything to you about Veronica?”
“Not in ages. He was so completely into Lisbet, he didn’t talk about any of his old girlfriends. To me, anyway.”
“Sounds like Veronica was crazy enough about him that she couldn’t take no for an answer. Especially after she slept with him again. And she took it out on Lisbet,” Cassady suggested.
The accusation hung in the thick air of the cab like stale cigar smoke and no one knew how to wave it away. Tricia was right: Even if David was completely uninvolved in Lisbet’s death, his actions had exacerbated the situation and it was easy to see the load of guilt he was going to carry for quite some time.
“Don’t say anything to David yet,” I suggested after several blocks.
“Until we know how bad it is, you mean,” Tricia finished.
The silence returned for half a block before Cassady had had her fill. “How does Mexican sound?”
“I can’t eat,” Tricia replied.
“Yes, you can. I’ve seen you do it a number of times.”
Tricia sighed warmly. “I meant, I don’t feel like eating.”
“That’s because you haven’t been properly tantalized,” Cassady insisted. “We’ll go to Changa and have freshly made guac, brought to the table by a magnificently swarthy
young man. A little more tequila, a few more swarthy young men, and you’ll be ravenous. You might even wind up wanting dinner.”
The only thing more remarkable than Tricia giving in was that Cassady persuaded the cabdriver to reroute and take us the extra twenty blocks south. But she was absolutely right, as Cassady generally is: Music may soothe the savage breast, but Cuervo Reserva and guacamole can do quite nicely in a pinch.
Of course, the laughter of friends is really what makes the difference and that laughter got a little stronger with each round of Cuervo. We were laughing so hard, in fact, that we almost didn’t hear the cell phone ringing.
“Oh, that’s me,” Tricia said, breathless from cathartic cackling over a crack Cassady had made about a couple three booths behind us. Changa is a cozy, hospitable place in the Flatiron District, filled with deeply polished woods and rich, earthy tones that give the whole place an inviting warmth. Even before shots are poured.
Cassady and I attempted to rein in our laughter, less out of respect for the couple in question than for Tricia’s phone call. Which was remarkably brief. She protested to the caller that she was in the middle of dinner, listened grimly to the response, said thank you, and hung up.
“What the hell was that?” Cassady asked.
“Allow me to be twelve years old again, since that’s how I’m being treated by certain people,” Tricia hissed. She made a face, poking dimples into her cheeks with her fingers, and said, “My daddy says I have to come home now.”
Under the table, Cassady’s foot immediately found mine and pressed down hard before I could even get my mouth open to say something less than gracious about Mr. Vincent.
You know someone well when they anticipate your rotten comment before you even finish thinking it. Above the table, Cassady exclaimed, “You’re joking.”
I pulled my foot free, deciding that if Cassady could be inflammatory so could I. “This is the same father who asked you to go away earlier today?”
“Mother convinced the doctors David didn’t need to be kept overnight and he’s being released. So the family’s gathering at the apartment to welcome him home. Because despite the murder thing and the overdose thing, we’re very happy to have David back home with the family that loves him.” She slapped her napkin down on the table, grabbed her purse, and stood.
“You’re not going?” Cassady asked.
“I have to.”
“No, you don’t,” Cassady insisted. “You’re an adult. You get to say no.”
“It’s not that simple,” I said, reading the pained lines on Tricia’s face. Cassady was right, but I could also imagine the toll Tricia would pay for taking a stand like that at a time like this. And despite everything, Tricia still wanted to help her brother. That’s why we were doing all of this.
“We’re gathering because it’s what we’re supposed to do. What’s expected of us. That’s what Vincents do.”
“
Image vincit omnia,
” I said.
“Precisely. Besides, Richard and Rebecca are going to be there and I’m not about to let them look more dutiful than me. Not when I’m the one who’s talked you into solving this damn thing so we have some chance of saving Davey.”
From the law or from himself was the question that went unasked, but Cassady and I could both tell it was pointless to try to change her mind. One of the toughest things in any
relationship is knowing when to stop fighting and when to accept the other person’s decision, however wrong it may seem to be.
But Cassady and I did insist on settling the bill, escorting Tricia to a cab, and sending her off with hugs. “I’m going straight home, so if you need to, just come. Don’t have to call first,” I told her.
“Yes, she does. She has to call me so I can meet her there,” Cassady corrected.
“You’re the best,” Tricia said with deliberately false cheeriness.
“No, you are,” we chorused back and blew kisses as the cab drove away.
“Oh. My. God.” Cassady tapped her toe madly in exasperation. The high heel on her Castillos gave her plenty of leverage. “Bad enough that family has raised denial to an art form—they’re about to start charging admission.”
My heart ached for Tricia, but there are certain things—root canals, dress fittings, family cataclysms—that no one can go through for you, no matter how much they love you. “She turned out remarkably well,” I said lightly.
“Because we found her young,” Cassady replied. “Are you really going straight home?”
“I told her I would, so I should. Just in case.”
“Okay. Me, too.”
“It’s just … ?” I prompted.
“I didn’t say that.”
“But there’s just this thing …”
“Did you notice Detective Cook does that? Gives you the sentence she wants you to finish?”
I had a sudden desire to brush my teeth. “I’ll never do it again. And that was mean.”
“I wasn’t trying.”
“Just gifted, I suppose. So where do you want to go?”
“A silly little gallery thing. I’ll skip.”
“Go. Keep your cell on, don’t go home with anyone who lives below Fifteenth and you can get to my place in no time.”
“I want to be on call for Tricia, but it’s that sweet young Greek thing from Allison’s dinner party last week.”
“The one who does installations about decomposing animals? Yeah, you don’t want to miss that.”
“It’s a metaphor.”
“So’s a wheelbarrow full of manure.”
“Isn’t it a red wheelbarrow glazed with rain?”
“Not in this case. Have fun.”
Cassady grabbed a cab and headed west to Chelsea and I headed north to my apartment, thinking about Tricia and the Vincents feeling they had to put on a show of solidarity just to bring David home from the hospital. There had to be a way to link Veronica to what had happened strongly enough that the police would want to go visit her and collect her champagne bottle. Then David could grieve, Tricia could relax, and life—for everyone but Lisbet—could go on.
I was mulling over justice and revenge, where they overlap and where they miss each other completely, as I entered my building, so it took me a minute to register that the doorman was holding up a small, clumsily wrapped package.
“Good evening, Danny,” I said, not sure if I was supposed to take the package or just admire it.
“The detective was by,” Danny said, pushing the package into my hands.
“It’s not ticking, is it?” I shook it to support the joke and it sloshed.
Danny nodded sympathetically. “The detective said you’d had an uncomfortable conversation.”
“He did?” I wasn’t sure which surprised me more, the admission or the description. Danny seemed to be waiting for me to open the package, so I did, thinking only at the last moment that if it were a bottle of lubricant or even bubble bath, I was going to be staring at the floor every time I walked by Danny for a very long time.
Fortunately, it was neither. Oddly, it was a jar of green olives. Some sort of martini reference? I couldn’t figure it out until Danny pointed out the note trapped under the bottle. It read:
You know how hard it is to find these things still on the branch? Call me. Kyle
.
Danny patted me on the back. “He’s a good man.”
I was still grinning in agreement once I got upstairs. Slipping my shoes off respectfully, I picked up the phone to call him back and realized I had three messages. The first one was from Fred Hagstrom, a former colleague at
Zeitgeist
, inviting me to a cocktail party. The second one was from my neighbor Marshall who wanted me to water his plants while he was on vacation next week. As I considered how deeply Marshall must hate his plants, the third message played. A deep, distorted voice that said, “Stop or I’ll kill you next. They say it’s easier the second time.”
Being stalked is no
excuse for screwing up your priorities.”
“She’s not being stalked, she’s getting death threats. There’s a difference.”
“You’re going to get legal with me?”
I strive to take it as a compliment that the people in my life are willing to argue over how close they are to me, but it can also be a little frustrating, especially when one’s as volatile as Cassady and one’s as stubborn as Kyle.
After I heard the bizarre message on my answering machine, I did the logical thing. I listened to it three or four more times, trying to recognize the voice. It was difficult to tell if it was male or female, much less identify it. Then I played it a few more times, trying to convince myself that it was a bad joke or, even better, a wrong number. Not that I was wishing dire messages of doom onto anyone else’s answering machine, just off mine. But the more I listened to it, the less I could hear any hint of humor, however misguided. And even though Probability and Statistics was the low point of my academic career, I knew chances were, the message was meant for me.
So I made the next logical choice. I called Kyle and explained the situation to him in very controlled, or at least
not-nearly-as-hysterical-as-I-felt, terms. He said he’d be right over. Then I called Cassady who also said she would be right over. But when she arrived and found Kyle already there, she was somewhat miffed.
She hadn’t even put her bag down before she was complaining that I’d called Kyle first. “I didn’t want to interrupt your party,” I explained.
“You think I’d put that before your personal safety?”
“How good was the party?”
She wasn’t amused. Kyle’s silence as he sat on the couch, elbows on his knees, watching her with an expression of vague disapproval, didn’t tickle her either. His gaze was fixed on her feet, either to avoid looking at her or to figure out how she could walk in her shoes, I couldn’t tell which. “We have a deal,” she muttered to me.
We do, Tricia, Cassady, and I. Whatever happens, whenever it happens, you need me, you call me. It’s that simple. And that beautiful. It has withstood time, men, jobs, and all the other complications of modern life that can muck up a friendship. But I apparently had compromised the integrity of the arrangement by calling Kyle first.
“Where’s Tricia?” Cassady asked.
“Her family thing? I’m not going to call.”
“Did you call anyone else?”
“Yeah, someone from the
Times
should be here any minute. C’mon, Cassady, he is a cop,” I felt compelled to point out.
“Which means that he can put his little red light up and zip on over here, while I still have to flag down a cab like an ordinary mortal.”
“When we found Teddy’s body, you’re the one who insisted we call the cops first.”
“Because I was already with you.”
Clearly, there was a larger issue at work here, but before I could attempt to identify it, Kyle stood. He moves with an effortless grace I’d call arresting if it didn’t seem like some sort of bad cop joke. Standing got Cassady’s attention, which seemed to be his point. He stepped in close enough to ask her to dance, but she held her ground.
“I’m impressed you care for each other so much. That’s pretty special.”
Cassady frowned. “But?”
Kyle shrugged. “Relationship that rock solid, what threat am I?”
Cassady blushed, an event I had not witnessed since our senior year of college and had not expected to see again in our lifetime. Eyes locked on his, she quietly said, “I don’t want her to get hurt.”
Kyle slowly shook his head. “Not gonna happen.”
There was a quiet moment while they stared at each other and I tried to decide whether to run from the room or to embrace them both. The lump in my throat kept me from saying something stupid, so it was Kyle who broke the silence. “So who do we think it is?”
I wanted to explain the unwieldy path that had led me to this suspect, especially since I’d stumbled a time or two along the way in my desire to identify someone—anyone—other than David. And as much as I would have liked to lay this at Jake’s insufferable feet, I had to admit that I’d moved past him and stopped at, “Veronica Innes.”
“From the party?”
On the drive back from the Hamptons, I’d filled Kyle in on the interesting folks we’d met Friday night, but more from the angle of good conversation than an examination
of suspects. Now, what had passed for gossip was starting to look like muddy footprints leading in a definite direction. “I can’t think of anyone else. Can you, Cassady?”
Cassady shook her head. “Not that you don’t have other enemies, but I think most of them have more class than this.”
I nodded in agreement. “I considered Detective Cook, but I’m sure she’d be more creative. Like stake me on the beach at low tide. For that extra measure of satisfaction.”
Kyle didn’t say anything for a moment, demonstrating much better impulse control than I have. “This is no time for jokes.”
“To cope, it’s either jokes or tears and I thought this might actually be less distracting.”
Kyle frowned. “Let’s try the tears, just for comparison’s sake.”
Cassady shook her head again, this time at Kyle. “Trust me. You don’t want to see that. She’s a messy crier.”
“Let me tell you about Veronica,” I said, a little louder than necessary, just to make sure the conversation didn’t drift any farther. I told Kyle about Veronica’s romantic past with David, the alleged liaison Friday afternoon, Lisbet’s calls to Abby, and our visit to the theater. Including the champagne bottle. As I said it out loud, it sounded coherent. Persuasive. Maybe even logical.
He listened to it all carefully, his eyes fixed on me like a camcorder lens, not missing a thing. When I stumbled to a stop, having attempted to convey the creepiness of Veronica crying over the champagne bottle, he blinked once. Slowly. That part of the Kyle Enigma Code I had deciphered. He was trying not to lose his temper.
“I was gonna tell you,” I hurried to assure him.
“When?”
“As soon as I had a little more to support my theory?”
“Like another hole in your shoulder?”
“I was hoping more like a confession,” I offered lamely, looking to Cassady for assistance. She was frowning in concern at Kyle’s tone; if he was this upset, this threat carried more weight than we’d been giving it.
“Think carefully. What did you say to Veronica Innes to indicate that you suspected her of Lisbet’s murder?”
“I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t even sure I suspected her until I saw the champagne bottle.”
Kyle looked to Cassady, which she appreciated, but she couldn’t offer anything further. “I stepped out to … gather some information myself,” she explained.
“Lots of theory,” Kyle muttered.
“How much more do they have on David?” I asked.
Instead of answering me, Kyle picked up the phone and handed it to Cassady. “Check your messages at home.”
She took the phone uncertainly. “You don’t think I have one of these on my machine.”
“Let’s see.”
“You’re 02 on speed dial,” I offered, feeling a need to do something besides get increasingly cold.
“Who’s number one?” Cassady asked as she dialed, throwing a look at Kyle.
“My parents, thank you.”
Pleased, Cassady started punching buttons as her machine picked up. She rolled her eyes once or twice as she went through the messages, but she didn’t seem bothered. She turned the phone off and handed it back to Kyle. “Nothing more threatening than boys who should know better asking me out again.” Kyle hung up the phone and picked up her
handbag, a sweet little green Dolce & Gabbana hobo, which displeased her. “I don’t know whether you’re looking for gum or a gun, but I’m not carrying either.”
Kyle didn’t open the bag, he just held it out to her. “Don’t talk to anyone about this. Including Tricia. Molly will call you in the morning.”
Cassady refused to take the purse from hum. “What makes you think I’m leaving?”
“Experience.”
I started to protest, because I didn’t want either of them to leave. In fact, I was thinking about getting on the phone and inviting lots of people over for an extended party, because I wasn’t planning on sleeping for quite a while. But then Cassady just nodded and took her purse. Somehow, that was even more disturbing. That meant she agreed with Kyle that we could have a serious problem.
Cassady hugged me and whispered, “Behave yourself,” in my ear.
“Call me when you get home,” I requested.
The eyebrow arched slyly. “But if you don’t pick up, how will I know it’s for a good reason?” With a wink, she swept to the door. “Keep her safe, Detective Edwards, or you’ll answer to me.”
It was quiet after Cassady left. Not the comfortable, cozy kind of quiet, but the thick quiet that makes it hard to breathe. “What do we need to do now?” I finally asked.
Kyle pinched his bottom lip, thinking and staring at the floor. I could feel the words building up in my throat, ready to spill forth whether or not they made sense, just to fill the silence. I swallowed hard to keep them down as Kyle walked over to me, took my face in his hands, and kissed me with such gentleness I almost wept.
“Only thing on my list,” he said quietly.
“Does someone really want to kill me?”
“You evoke strong feelings in people.” He traced my cheekbone with his thumb. “I’ll take the machine to a buddy in the morning. But the most important thing to do right now is convince your caller that it worked and you’re scared.”
“Not hard,” I had to admit.
“And that you are going to back off.”
The Pause happened before I could come up with something to fill it with. Truth was, I couldn’t answer right away. While I was genuinely disturbed by the threat on my answering machine, its existence had to mean that I’d ruffled the proper feathers and was on the right track.
“Molly.” Kyle sighed my name in frustration and walked away. The benefit to having a small apartment is that he couldn’t go far, as long as he didn’t go out the door. Fortunately, he only went as far as the sofa. But he picked up his jacket, which he had laid there earlier, and held it in his hand. Was he leaving? “You have got to take this seriously.”
“I know,” I answered, tapping my bullet scar nervously.
“Because I do. And I can’t be a part of this—any of this—unless you do, too.”
Wait a minute. How all-encompassing was “any of this”? Were we still talking about the threat on my machine or had we changed without signaling into a much faster lane? Did this have anything to do with the weekend stalemate? Though it didn’t change my answer, I realized. Whether he was asking about the investigation or our relationship, the answer was still, “I do.”
He put the jacket down again. Adrenaline—or maybe sheer panic—fluttered in my throat as he turned back to me. “There are so many reasons this is a bad idea.”
I walked toward him slowly, stopping a breath away. “List them.”
He snaked his arm around my hips and closed the distance. “I can’t concentrate when you’re around.”
“Is that on the list or a general complaint?”
“Both,” he said, kissing me firmly. Hunger and heat had replaced the gentleness and reserve of our last few kisses and that was fine with me. I didn’t want to think about Veronica or David or Lisbet anymore, I just wanted to think about Kyle and me and how we were going to make this work long term because it was delectable and right and we were going to find a way to fix everything—
Unless his phone rang.
As immensely flattering as it was that he didn’t answer it right away, I felt like both a bad girlfriend and a bad citizen letting him ignore it. “Phone,” I whispered.
“I know.”
“Yours.”
“Yeah.” With a deep breath, he stepped back from me and grabbed his phone. “Yeah,” he repeated into the phone. He pulled me against him with his free hand and I wrapped myself around him, imagining what piece of police business had to be dealt with quickly and efficiently so we could have the night free and clear and I could ignore everything in it except him. Instead, I felt the muscles in his arm tense. “Where? … Okay … Yeah …”
I kissed him on the cheek before I slid out of his embrace and picked up his jacket, determined to be good about this and not resent the intrusion of the real world on a night whose potential already had my head spinning a little. He closed his phone and sighed again. “Lipscomb says hi.”
I held up his jacket and he slid into it, a comfortable gesture that I found oddly exciting. “Tell him I said hi back.”
“Double homicide.”
“Sorry.”
“Get your stuff.”
“What?” As much as I didn’t want to let him out of my sight, I had no interest in accompanying him to a crime scene. I was finding enough dead bodies without him. “I’m not going with you.”
BOOK: Killer Cocktail
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