Killer Heels (19 page)

“I’m sorry to intrude,” I began.

“They deserve to wait,” she assured me.

“Is there somewhere else we can talk?” I asked, looking around. We were reasonably isolated in our corner, but the combination of lookie-loos and all the people in all the paintings staring down on us was creeping me out.

“No. Say what you have to say, it’s fine.”

Great. “I’m here as a friend of Helen’s as well as a friend of Teddy’s. I’m helping plan the funeral and I want to make sure there won’t be any problems.”

“You’re afraid I will throw myself on his coffin and embarrass the widow?” She seemed vaguely amused by the picture she’d drawn.

“I don’t mean to insult you—”

“No, it’s sweet. Teddy was sweet, so of course he would have sweet friends. I wasn’t exactly in a position to meet his friends.” She smiled with a wistfulness that caught me unprepared. I hadn’t stopped to think about how genuine her feelings for him might have been.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

It came out automatically, but it hit her hard. Her cool gray eyes were suddenly wet and her mouth tightened. She nodded, not trusting her voice for a moment, then proceeded carefully. “I really did care about him. The sex was amazing, but I cared about him, too.”

My mouth tightened as I tried not to dwell on the amazing sex concept. Especially because I found myself wondering what brand of condoms he’d used with her. Still, in its own way, it was a segue to what I wanted to discuss next. I could only hope she’d follow along. “I’m also trying to help wrap up Teddy’s business matters. Pardon me for asking, but are there recent hotel bills I should be looking for? I’d rather that his wife not have to deal with them, I hope you understand.”

She shrugged rather grandly. “You don’t need to protect her, she knows all about it. She caught us at the hotel together. It was a terrible scene.”

I thought about passing out for at least two full seconds. How could Helen have known all this and not said anything to me? If she knew about Yvonne and Camille, why was she suspecting Teddy of sleeping with me? Or had she gotten to the point that she suspected him of sleeping with everyone? And had I gotten to the point of suspecting her?

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. This was …”

Camille’s perfect brow would have furrowed had it been able to move. Botox. Man, shatter all my illusions in one day. She thought for a moment, then said, “Early last week. We are in our regular suite at the St. Regis and Paul, the concierge, calls up to the room that the real Mrs. Marquand was there and what did Teddy want him to do?”

“Mrs. Marquand?” I asked, confused.

“We always checked in as Mr. and Mrs. Marquand. It was a game Teddy liked to play.” She shrugged tolerantly. “He loved games and I loved that in him.”

The games I didn’t want to know about. Was the name significant? J.P. Marquand, the novelist? Richard Marquand, the director? Was there a reference I wasn’t getting? Or did Teddy just like the sound of the name? And how did Helen know the name? Did he use the same name with Yvonne? Ugh. That passed lazy on its way to sick.

“What happened?”

“What always happens,” she said in a tone that implied every woman has been through it a hundred times. I declined to comment. “I hid in the bedroom while they had a screaming fight in the sitting room. But it was such a terrible fight, I was very moved. I thought, she must really love him. So after he sent her away, I ended it.”

“You broke up with him?” Teddy had had a rough couple of weeks. Helen had found out about Camille and Yvonne, Camille had dumped him, and he’d dumped Yvonne. Not exactly going out on a high note.

“I don’t like to be a part of messy things.”

Then why sleep with married men, I wanted to ask, but that would make this conversation a messy thing. Instead, I said, “Thank you very much for your help and understanding. Someone will be in touch about the service and the reception.”

“I’ll be very discreet, I promise. Thank you for coming.” She held out her hand. I thought she wanted me to shake it, but it was a gesture for Peggy to return. I took that as my exit cue and made a clean getaway. I was figuring out that investigating a murder is a lot like dating: Trust your instincts, pay attention to what the other person’s really saying, and don’t overstay your welcome.

Once I was out on the front steps of the museum, I took a moment to catch my breath and consider my next move. Should I go to the St. Regis and nose around or should I get back to the office and try for another look at Yvonne’s music box, see if her cardkey was from the St. Regis, too? Or should I answer my cell phone?

It was Cassady. “I’m not the cute detective, so don’t get all fluttery.”

“Who says my heart doesn’t beat just as fast when you call?”

“Take it up with your shrink, kiddo, and then explain to me why I have to hear about the big kiss secondhand.”

“Cass, I’m a little crazed.”

“And that’s an excuse for a material breach of best friend etiquette?”

“No.”

“Dish and I’ll consider forgiving you.”

“Meet me for lunch.”

“I can’t get away. Besides, you think you’ll be free for lunch?”

“Yeah,” I said, trying to figure out what she was getting at. Was this another dig about Detective Edwards?

“You don’t think Garrett might invite you to stay for lunch?”

I didn’t gasp into the phone, but I might as well have. I could feel the force of Cassady’s sigh through my cell.

“Thank God I called. Go.”

“Cass, I really am crazed—”

“And you can play that to your advantage. Make Garrett think you’re doing him a favor by stopping by, taking a moment out of your hectic crime-solving schedule to throw an idea at him. He’ll eat it up with a spoon.”

There was no point in telling her I couldn’t do it. I already knew the lecture I’d get because I got it every time I confessed to self-doubt, and that’s one of the reasons I love her so much. But I did have some misgivings about going to pitch an idea to Garrett Wilson when I had less than half an hour to pull my thoughts and myself together. “This may not be—”

“It’s the perfect time, you’re going to do well, just hang up the phone and get over there. My thigh only has so much allure for the man. We may not pass this way again.”

“Cassady, I really—”

“I love you, too. Go. Then call me the moment you finish and tell me everything.” She hung up and I hurried down the steps to hail a cab.

Fate gifted me with a cabbie who looked like he had as much on his mind as I had on mine and had no interest in striking up a conversation. I sat in the back and breathed deeply. I had to get organized. I was losing track of the rest of my life—important things that had to be taken care of, like this meeting and breaking up with Peter. Was the odd flutter in my stomach when I thought of that misgivings, anticipation, or too much coffee? That line of questioning was going to have to wait. One mountain at a time and Garrett Wilson came first. I took another deep breath, trying to find the perfect pitch and some calm spot in my soul from which to deliver it.

I hadn’t found either thirty-five blocks later when I presented myself to the receptionist at
Manhattan
. You could tell they were a more serious magazine than we were just by the décor. Our offices were light and airy and always smelled like someone had just scorched popcorn in the microwave and had tried to cover it up with sandalwood incense. Their offices were full of deep, rich colors with thick carpeting and oiled wood paneling that muted sounds. Everything smelled of freshly cut flowers and perfectly brewed coffee.

The coward in me actually hoped the receptionist would sneer at me and announce to anyone passing by that I couldn’t possibly have an appointment with Garrett Wilson because only real journalists got appointments with Mr. Wilson. Instead, she smiled with practiced charm, pointed to the burgundy leather armchairs in the waiting room, and told me Mr. Wilson’s assistant would be out for me in just a moment.

I don’t wait well. In the quirky physics of my world, a body at rest tends to become a body at worry. And I rarely worry about the right thing. For instance, I should have used the moments of waiting for Mr. Wilson’s assistant to worry about whether I was going to make a complete fool of myself when I attempted to convince Mr. Wilson that I was worthy of pages in his magazine. Instead, I chose to worry about what hotel Teddy and Yvonne might have frequented if it wasn’t the St. Regis. It was part of the story I wanted to sell, but not a part the editor was going to get very excited about.

Lucky for me, the assistant appeared before I could make the quantum jump to a new level of knotted worry. She was gorgeous—tall, sleek, perfect—and I concentrated on being intimidated by her rather than by her boss as I followed her down the hall and listened to her heels click on the polished tile hallway floors. Morse code, no doubt, for “Here comes a loser.”

I’m not sure Mr. Wilson got the message. Once I was in his office, I forgot what the assistant looked like and focused completely on being overwhelmed by him. He’s the sort of guy Cary Grant played in the movies with the added benefits of a personal trainer and an eyelift. He’s very well thought of in magazine circles, a darling of the charity circuit, and rumored to be a power broker in state politics. What was I thinking?

He sat down across from me, eschewing the mahogany desk large enough to support a production of
Phantom of the Opera
and choosing a sidechair I was sure had been hand-carried onto the Mayflower by his forefathers. The light pushing through the wall of windows behind him gave him an aura, or maybe just highlighted the one he already had.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he said as he flicked at a piece of dust that had dared land on his custom-tailored trousers. It was the only bit of dust in the entire highly polished room. “My daughter is a huge fan.” Great. My reputation precedes me and gives me something to overcome. “I have to confess, I like your column, too.”

I gulped back my shock and managed to say, “Thank you, sir.”

“Strong point of view, crisp voice. Be interesting to see how it translates to narrative in feature reporting. So Cassady Lynch tells me you’re working on a great story. Want to tell me about it?”

I couldn’t catch my breath, much less tell him a story. Cassady had really greased the gears here. I might have to stop at Tiffany on the way home to find an appropriate reward. But as I scrambled to frame a response, I was momentarily afraid to share any of the story. I wanted to keep it in my head for fear that exposing it to light would make it shrivel up and float away. But how could I blow this opportunity? I took a deep breath and dove in. “It’s a murder case.”

“So Cassady said. I’m sorry about your friend, but I have to say—I love true crime. It sells well, too. Go on.”

“I want to show the progress of the case from the point of view of a semi-detached observer. No emotional agenda, but someone who knows the players and may know the killer.”

“May?” he teased.

I found myself smiling back. “I’m not going to give you all my secrets before I know how interested you really are,” I responded, a little surprised by how flirtatious that sounded.

“I have to know more before I can tell you that,” he volleyed back. “Tell me what the story is really about.”

This is what I hate about trying to sell a story. Or about trying to discuss a relationship. It always makes me feel like I’m pinning a butterfly into an exhibit case while the poor thing is still alive. There are so many things you discover along the way and sometimes, they’re the most important part of the journey. But that wasn’t going to get me the sale. Or the validation that came with it.

Luckily, my subconscious slid into the driver’s seat. “It’s a story about appearances. Who we are when we get up in the morning versus who we become when we go to work or see someone we know or meet someone new. And how we alter that, tailor that, often without thinking about it.” I gave him my best poker face so he wouldn’t know I had no idea where that explanation had come from.

Garrett’s smile disappeared and I didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. He looked at me for a long moment and I did my best not to squirm, despite the nuclear forces at work trying to twist my body into a pretzel, as every microscopic bit of worry in me rushed to the pit of my stomach. The longer he looked at me silently, the harder I had to strain to stay untwisted. I was becoming a living experiment for The Anxiety Unification Theory.

He finally spoke. “That feels familiar. Most people realize we ‘put a good face on’ when we go out into the world.”

The whirling mass in my stomach solidified painfully. Nothing pierces a writer—journalist, columnist, or scrawler on a bathroom wall—more than being told her idea isn’t new. Every person who puts words on a page has to believe they have something new to express, or at least a new way in which to express it. Except for the bridal magazines, which get to run the same stuff issue after issue because you’re either buying it once as you start planning your own wedding or you buy them compulsively, in which case the wedding industry has you addicted and you won’t notice the repetition.

Garrett’s reaction took the apprehension I had about the meeting and the guilt and worry I had about pursuing the article and fused them all into something completely unexpected. Something I was not, I’ll admit, all that familiar with but that I’d felt when I first discovered Teddy’s body: resolve.

I dug deep for a little confidence to dissolve the rock in my stomach and launched into what I hoped would pass for a blinding display of salesmanship and, even better, coherence.

“It’s more than ‘putting on a face’ or playing a role. Yes, we all do that. To a certain extent, it’s how we’re taught to interact with people. Company manners and all that. I’m talking about something more basic, more innate, and less conscious. We all have facets. Like a jewel. Turn us slightly, put us in a new light, and a different facet emerges. It’s still the same stone, but the new angle gives you a new appreciation for it, heightens its value. A lot of us go through life with most people only seeing one or two facets.”