Lethally Blond (7 page)

“Oh God. What happened to him?”

“Chris, I hate doing this over the phone. The body was burned. I’m not sure how he died, but it’s possible someone killed him. Like I said, I think it’s Tom, but I’m not a hundred percent sure. I’m waiting for the police to show up now, and maybe I’ll know more in a little while.”

“Oh God, this is awful,” he said, his voice tight with anguish. “I need to tell Harper.”

“Why don’t you hold off for tonight, at least? There’s no point in upsetting her if it turns out not to be Tom. In fact, it’s probably better not to say anything to anyone yet. There’s going to be a police investigation.”

“Are you all alone there, Bailey? Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m alone but I’m not in the house anymore,” I said, touched by his concern. “It was just too awful. I’m down the road in my car, waiting for the cops.”

“How did you end up there, anyway? I mean, I didn’t even know where the house was.”

“One thing just kind of led to another. I think I see the cops. I’ll call you back as soon as I have a sense of what’s going on.”

What had caught my attention through the fir trees was a vehicle slowing down along the main road, just before the turn onto Dabbet. But it turned out to be a tow truck, headed to a breakdown somewhere. I waited in the car, restless and anxious, trying to banish the memory of the horrible ooze in the tub. It was another ten minutes before a Delaware County sheriff’s car finally made the turn and pulled up beside me.

There was only one officer in the car, a woman probably in her mid-thirties. She rolled down her window.

“I’m Deputy Sheriff Sue Dannon. Are you the person who called 911?”

“Yes, I’m Bailey Weggins. I found a badly decomposed body in the house up the road. I think it’s Tom Fain, who owns the house.”

She eyed me warily. “Is there anyone else in the house at this time?”

“There doesn’t appear to be. Tom’s been missing for almost two weeks, and it looks as if he might have been dead about that long. Do you want me to show you?”

“All right—I’ll follow you.”

She waited while I turned the Jeep around, which was no easy feat on the narrow rutted road. As we neared the property, my heart leapt. Light was now seeping out of one of the windows along the back of the main house. But then I realized it had to be the light from the chandelier spilling into the rest of the house.

Dannon pulled up her vehicle right behind me, and we both climbed out. As she approached me, I noticed that her hand instinctively touched her gun. She was about five six, probably just a few years older than me. If she was attractive, it was hard to tell because her hair was all under her big black hat and she had that tough-as-nails expression that cops are trained to wear.

“The body’s in the big house?” she asked, cocking her head toward it.

“Yes, in a second-floor bathroom off one of the bedrooms. I don’t think I can go in there again,” I said.

She started to say something, and then I actually saw her nostrils flare. The breeze had shifted direction, and a hint of the putrid smell had found its way to us. The expression that suddenly crossed Dannon’s face suggested that someone had just offered her a slice of grilled river rat.

“Jesus,” she said.

“It’s pretty bad. Do you have a mask?”

“Please stay right here,” she said, ignoring my question and heading off across the lawn. I guess she didn’t want to appear wimpy by taking me up on my suggestion, but as she walked I saw her yank a white handkerchief from her pocket and squash it against her face.

I jumped back into the Jeep and turned the AC on high. I knew she’d said to stay right where I was, but I wasn’t going to take her literally. I couldn’t stomach breathing in that smell and knowing it was probably Tom.

Less than ten minutes passed before I saw Dannon emerge like a specter from the darkness of the lawn. She was talking into a walkie-talkie, clearly calling in reinforcements. As soon as she’d attached the device to her belt, she dabbed at her mouth with the hankie. Something told me her last meal was somewhere back on the grass.

I jumped out of the Jeep again and discovered that the wind must have shifted because the smell wasn’t as horrific now.

“Please get back into the car,” she said. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

She slid into the passenger seat next to me. Up close, I could see that her brow was damp with sweat. I knew from covering crimes that cops could work a lifetime without seeing body soup. This very well might have been the worst, most retch-worthy thing she’d ever laid eyes on.

“You think the body must be this fellow Tom Fain?” she asked after drawing a long, deep breath.

I told her yes and then offered a shorthand version of the story, leaving out details about the various players involved—like Tom shagging the star of the show. She listened thoughtfully, taking notes, but retained that wall of wariness she’d displayed from the first moment we’d spoken. To her, my tale probably sounded oddly far-fetched—I didn’t even know Tom personally, yet I’d been out searching half the state for him. As far as she knew, I could have killed him myself and then returned to the scene of the crime.

She was still peppering me with questions when I heard the rumble of a vehicle above the AC and lights pierced the back window of my Jeep. We spun around in unison. Reinforcements had arrived.

“Please wait here,” she told me. In my rearview mirror, I watched her hurry toward the sheriff’s car that had pulled up behind us, and then I lost her in the glare of the headlights. For ten minutes I waited, wondering if she’d been beamed up, and then suddenly someone killed the high beams and I could see her in discussion near the car with two men in sheriff’s hats. Soon, several other vehicles arrived, and people in uniform began tramping back and forth across the lawn, barking comments to one another. Despite all the activity and how rattled I felt, I almost nodded off a few times. I felt exhausted, achy, heartsick. Thirty minutes later, I was still by myself in the car, and despite all the excitement outside, things on my end seemed to be moving at the speed of melting ice.

Finally, Dannon rapped on my window and asked me to follow her. There were more lights on in the big house now, illuminating a huddle of several people in uniform outside, but she led me instead to the porch of the cottage, where she introduced me to a Sheriff Schmidt—a guy with a torso the size of a redwood tree and a thick, wiry mustache that looked as if it would hurt as much as a bitch slap if you tried to kiss him. He was probably fifty and appeared far less shaken than Dannon.

“Thank you for waiting, Miss Weggins,” he said. “Have a seat, please.”

With my butt perched on just the edge of one of the old wicker rockers and my arms wrapped tightly around me against the mountain chill, I went through a slightly more expansive version of my saga than I’d given earlier: who Tom was, why I was looking for him, how I’d ended up in the town of Andes. He nodded politely, less stern looking than Dannon, but his next question proved I wasn’t going to get an easy ride.

“Quite a bit of trouble to go through for someone you don’t even know,” he said.

“True, but I do know
Chris
well—he’s a good friend,” I said. “And since I’m a freelance writer, I had the time to check out a few leads.”

Though he observed me expectantly, waiting for something
more
, I forced myself to stop. What I’d learned about cops—both as a crime reporter and having been interrogated by them myself—is that overexplaining makes them
real
suspicious. Plus the more you say, the greater the danger of becoming tangled in your own words and blurting out the wrong thing. All of a sudden, you’re confessing to setting a string of warehouse fires or having helped Lee Harvey Oswald escape from the Texas School Book Depository.

“So you never met Mr. Fain personally?”

“Never, no, but I have a picture of him,” I said, drawing the head shot out of my purse and handing it over to him. “Of course, it won’t help with the identification, but you might want it for your inquiries.”

After studying the photo, he flipped it over and read the résumé with furrowed brow, as if I’d just handed him a clue to the three secrets of Fatima. I took out a pen and paper from my purse and jotted down Tom’s address and also Chris’s phone number. They would want access to Tom’s apartment to search for clues. It wouldn’t be long before they’d be stumbling onto Locket’s note.

“As you’ve been following up on your so-called leads, Miss Weggins,” Schmidt said, looking up from the photo, “have you found any information that would be relevant to our investigation? Was Mr. Fain depressed, for instance?”

“Are you thinking suicide?” I asked. “The thought crossed my mind—but then how do you explain all that blood?”

“Just answer the question, please, Miss Weggins.”

“Apparently, Tom was depressed at one point. After the death of his mother. But there wasn’t any indication he’d been upset lately.”

“Any enemies you’re aware of?”

“No, not that I’m aware of. There is one thing you should know. Tom had apparently withdrawn seven thousand dollars in cash before he came up here. I don’t know why or what for.”

He considered the info wordlessly. I sensed he had something else to ask me, but suddenly he announced that I was free to go. He added that his office might be in touch with me over the next few days.

Dannon walked me out to my car, which gave me an opportunity to check directions back to the highway with her. As soon as I reached the end of the pitted road and turned onto the main drag, I rolled down all the car windows and let the wind blast away at the interior. The cool air whipped my hair around my face so hard that it stung, but at least I could breathe again.

The ride back to Manhattan was god-awful. My head had started to throb, along with my legs, and I could find only one Advil in my purse, a quantity that proved to be as useful as swatting at a fly with a rubber band.

Each time my mind found its way again to that horrible mess fermenting in the tub, I’d force myself to focus instead on the overall situation. During the next few days, forensic evidence would surely confirm that it was Tom lying dead in the house. I supposed there was a remote chance it could be someone else—a workman, for instance, who’d been painting the bathroom—but why would Tom’s possessions and his car still be on site? It also seemed pretty obvious from the evidence that Tom had died the very day he’d arrived. His last phone call, after all, had been made that day, he’d barely unpacked his bag, and the one newspaper had been from that Saturday. I tried to re-create part of the day in my mind: He’d picked up a sandwich—perhaps at that little café in town—chowed down while reading the paper. Had he washed it down with champagne? That part was hard to explain. Had someone shared the bottle with him? Perhaps after lunch he’d taken a walk around the property (the muddy boots) and squeezed in a nap (the rumpled bed). Alone?

At some point before dark, he’d headed over to the main house, most likely to tackle the bathroom. This may have been the work he’d been referring to when he’d spoken to Harper. And then probably not long after he’d started, someone had shown up and killed him. Was it a burglar who had thought the house would be empty? But what had he been hoping to steal? Maybe Tom had an enemy in Andes, someone he’d enraged during one of the summers he’d spent there. Or maybe it was someone from the city who had known where he’d be or had followed him up there.

Of course, there was also the suicide theory. It had occurred to me and to Schmidt, too. But it didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Stab yourself and then light yourself on fire? And there was no evidence that Tom had
recently
been depressed.

As I neared the city, I realized I’d been so roiled up, I’d never called Chris back. I punched in his number.

“You’re not still there, are you?” he asked tensely as soon as he heard my voice.

“No—I’m about thirty minutes from home. How you doing?”

“Not good. But what about you? You’re the one dealing with all this firsthand. I can’t believe I got you into this.” There was a note of real tenderness in his voice.

“I’ll be okay. The police talked to me, and it’s clear they don’t know anything yet. I gave them your name and number because they need access to Tom’s apartment.”

“Um, okay,” he said.

“Any chance we could get together first thing in the morning and I can go over everything?”

“Yeah, I really need to see you. I’m not shooting till ten, so I could come around eight,” he said.

As soon as he hung up, I realized how quiet the car was. I hadn’t played any CDs on the ride back because I’d thought the noise would drive me even crazier. The only sound now was my breathing and the whirring of cars outside. I was startled when my cell phone went off again. I figured it had to be Chris, calling back with a question.

“Hey,” I said.

Nothing. And then the sound of someone—it was hard to tell whether it was male or female—crying with hard, anguished sobs.

“Who is this?” I asked, my voice catching.

Then there was only silence.

CHAPTER 6

W
ho is this?” I asked again, my voice catching. Nothing. When I glanced at the phone to see the number, the words announced “Caller Unknown.” A second later, I was disconnected.

Hesitantly, I rested the BlackBerry on the seat next to me, troubled by the sound that I’d heard, wondering if the person would call back. Had it simply been a wrong number—or perhaps an obnoxious prank? For a split second, I considered whether it might have been Chris. Had he broken down after he’d called me, phoned me back, and then hung up out of embarrassment?

My attention was yanked back to the highway. The traffic was picking up now that I was approaching the Tappan Zee, demanding my full attention. By eleven, I was finally back in the city, and the first thing I did after stepping into my apartment was strip off my clothes and stuff them into the hamper. Then I limped into the shower. I needed to get the smell off me—out of my hair, off my skin, out of my pores. I shampooed my hair twice and used a loofah to scrub my body so that it was flushed red by the time I was finished.

Wrapped in a towel and with my hair sopping wet, I traipsed to the kitchen in search of nourishment. I hadn’t eaten since lunch, and I was ravenous, yet the thought of most food still made me gag. I settled for toast and tea. Just as the teakettle squealed, my intercom buzzer went off. I had no idea who would be stopping by out of the blue at nearly midnight on a Thursday night.

“Chris is here to see you,” the doorman said as soon as I answered.

“Um, okay,” I said, surprised. “Send him up.”

I was anxious to talk to Chris, yearned, for that matter, to share the whole awful story with him, yet I hadn’t prepared myself mentally to do it
tonight
. I threw on a pair of jeans, a tank top, and a pair of flip-flops and warned myself not to start blubbering. It would only make it worse for him.

Chris was in jeans, too, and a dusty green polo shirt, almost the color of his eyes. The look on his face said that the news about Tom was eating him up.

“Sorry to barge in like this,” he said soberly. “I just couldn’t wait until tomorrow to see you.”

“No, I understand. Do you want a beer?”

“Definitely.”

He was standing in the middle of the room, staring at the old kilim rug on my living room floor, when I returned a minute later with the bottle of beer and my mug of tea. There was only one lamp lit in the room, the one on the wooden end table by the couch, but it was enough to see his face by. He looked heartsick.

“Any developments since I talked to you?” he asked as I handed him the beer.

“No, and I’m sure the sheriff’s department isn’t going to want to share anything with me as things move forward. It’s going to be tough to get news about the investigation.”

“You said the body was badly decomposed. What makes you think it was really Tom’s?”

“For one thing, his car was there, and his duffel bag was in the guest cottage.”

I described the setup of the property, as well as some of the details of the scene, leaving out the most gruesome parts. He absorbed it all, his mouth clenched.

“Is there a chance that he died of some kind of freak accident?” Chris asked.

“I don’t think so, though I wouldn’t have any way of knowing from the brief glimpse I got of the scene. The sheriff who questioned me even suggested suicide, but—”

“Suicide?”
he exclaimed.

“I just don’t buy that, though. There was blood all around the sink and on the mirror above it. My guess—and it’s just a guess—is that he was attacked with a knife or some heavy object and set on fire afterward.” I didn’t add,
Possibly while he was still alive.

Chris shook his head in utter disgust. “Do you think—do you think someone from the show could have killed him?”

“It’s a possibility.” Alex Ottoson’s name flashed across my brain suddenly. What if he’d learned of Locket’s affair with Tom?

“I hate the fact that I got you involved, Bailey,” he said. “But at the same time, who knows when Tom would have been found if you hadn’t started looking.”

I explained how I had made the connection to Andes and tracked down Tom’s address through the Internet.

“He never mentioned to you that it was in the Catskills?” I asked.

“Uh, not that I recall. I mean, he might have, but if he did, it went in one ear and out the other. I do remember him saying that it had gone to seed after his father had died and that he was relieved to have finally sold it—this was in the beginning of the summer, when I was living with him.”

“It seems like the deal fell through. I’ll see what I can find out about it.” I hesitated. “It’s funny that he never told Harper about it, either. Or at least she never mentioned it as a possibility for where he might be.”

“Speaking of Harper, do you still feel I should keep her out of this for now?” he asked.

“Actually, I’ve been rethinking that. Since it may be a few days before anything is confirmed about the identity, news is going to leak out. It’s better for Harper to hear it from you than thirdhand. Why don’t you tell her tomorrow?”

“I should probably tell the executive producer as well. Better he hear it from me, too.”

I sipped my tea and thought a moment. “You know when we spoke earlier—while I was driving back?” I said. “You didn’t call me right after that, did you?”

“No—why?” he asked.

“The phone rang, and someone was crying. It was a wrong number, obviously. At the time, though, I just wondered . . .”

“No, it wasn’t me. But I’ve
felt
like crying.”

“Gosh, Chris, I’m just so sorry.”

I set my mug on the coffee table and squeezed his arms. Through the soft cotton fabric I could feel how hard his biceps were. Late last winter, those arms had wrapped around me on several occasions. I’d engaged in some pretty heavy make-out sessions with Chris on my couch, his jeans bulging and my bra bunched around my waist. But I had never gone to bed with him. It wasn’t because that gorgeous face and awesome body of his had failed to make me crazy with lust. They
had
. But I could never stop associating my breakup with Jack—and
hurting
him—with my attraction to Chris, and every time I was about to urge us off the couch and into the bedroom, I would find this weird guilt dousing my desire. Tonight, though, Jack seemed like a long time ago.

“I just feel lucky to be with you tonight, Bailey,” Chris said, and offered a grim smile. “This would be awful to handle alone.”

He set down his drink then and pulled me into his arms. It was a friendly, caring hug, like the one he’d given me the other night. But as he held me, he sighed and his body relaxed into mine. He lifted his right hand and stroked my damp hair, softly at first and then with firmer, more urgent fingers. I felt something stir in me.

Chris pulled back slightly and stared into my eyes. Then his mouth found mine. I was instantly reminded of how good his soft, full lips could feel and taste. He kissed me hungrily, and I kissed him back with the same urgency. As I relaxed into his body even more, I couldn’t help but notice the hardness between his legs.

“God, Bailey,” he said. “I want to consume every inch of you.”

“Okay,” I whispered without any hesitation. I realized I was saying yes for a whole bunch of reasons—because what girl could resist a line like that one, because I
wanted
Chris and there was no guilt this time, and because I felt, as he probably did, that sex would chase away our sadness for a while.

“Why don’t we just go to bed, then,” I said.

I turned off the lamp and walked with him to my bedroom. I kicked off my flip-flops and found a stretchy to tie back my wet hair. When I turned around, Chris was pulling off his shirt. He was less tan than when I’d seen him before—perhaps from working all summer—but the color he did have accented his well-defined abs. He had two Chinese characters tattooed on his right arm, meaning good fortune, something I’d nearly forgotten about. I reached up and stroked his chest with my hands.

He leaned down and kissed me, his tongue in my mouth. He laid both hands on my breasts and, through the fabric of my tank top, circled my nipples with his thumbs.

“You know what the first thing you ever said to me was?” I asked. “When you were tending bar at that wedding?”

He shook his head almost imperceptibly, his eyes squinted.

“You asked me if I wanted a buttery nipple.”

He smirked. “I couldn’t disguise my fascination with you even then.”

With both hands, he pulled my tank over my head and took my breasts in his hands, stroking and massaging them while he kissed me again. My heart was racing now, and my legs felt all rubbery.

Still kissing me, he laid the heel of his hand against my groin and pressed, released, pressed, released. I let out a moan, not meaning to. He yanked apart the top snap of my jeans, pulled down the zipper, and then tugged off both my jeans and underwear. I tried to reach for the button of
his
jeans, but he lifted me and laid me back on the white duvet that covered my bed. He took off his own jeans and stepped out of a pair of gray boxer briefs. His naked body was as gorgeous as his face. It seemed almost illegal that I was about to have sex with someone who looked like that.

For the next hour, he did what he had promised—consumed me. His fingers and mouth explored every inch of me, making me writhe with pleasure. I could see that he was being driven in large part by his despair over Tom’s death. Was this what you’d call a grief fuck? I wondered. Maybe, but it felt too good to worry about. By the time he finally entered me, I was barely thinking straight anyway.

I fell asleep almost instantly in his hard, strong arms, totally spent. But an hour and a half later, I woke, needing to pee, and then there was no going back to sleep for me. After pouring myself a glass of milk, I absorbed the view beyond my terrace. Even at this hour, buildings were dabbed with lights—suggesting party animals and floor pacers like me. For two years after my divorce, I’d been dogged by merciless, unrelenting insomnia, which had finally abated about seven or eight months ago. Any bout of sleeplessness put the fear of God in me. I hoped tonight was a fluke, a response to all the thoughts bubbling in my head—about Tom’s ugly death, sleeping with Chris, thinking about Beau the moment Chris had thrust himself into me. From my coffee table, I picked up
The New York Times
that had been delivered the day before and skimmed through it. At about three, I dozed off on my couch and then at five crawled back into bed with Chris.

“Where’d you go last night?” Chris murmured when we both woke at about seven.

“Just a little floor pacing—due to everything that happened. Want a bagel? They’re frozen, but if you slather them with raspberry jam, you can hardly tell.”

“Sure,” he said, slipping his hand between my thighs.

We made love again, quicker but just as urgent on his part as before. While he showered, I made coffee, dug the bagels from the freezer, and scraped ice crystals off them.

“So what do we do from here?” Chris asked, plopping down at the old pine dining table at the end of my living room. For a second, I thought he was referring to
us
—where did
we
go as a couple from here—but then in relief I realized he was referring to Tom’s death. Because I wasn’t at all sure where we should go from here.

“Well, as we said last night,” I said, “you should tell Harper—and the executive producer. I’m going to break the news to this guy Barish. I’m not sure how close he and Tom were, but it will probably be upsetting.”

“But how are we going to know if it’s really Tom or not—like you said, the cops have no obligation to tell us. We’re not family.”

“I’ve got a few ideas on how to stay on top of this,” I said. “Leave it to me.”

Chris took a final slug of coffee and raked his hand through his hair. “Listen, Bailey,” he said. “A bunch of us from the show usually get together on Friday nights at this pub in Chelsea—the Half King. It’s mostly crew members and minor players, but everyone will be buzzing tonight about this. Do you want to come? Maybe we’ll learn something about Tom we didn’t know. Plus—I’d like to see you tonight. Every inch of you again, if it’s okay with you.”

“Sure, that would be great,” I said, smiling—and meaning it.

“I’ll call you when we finish up—it could be as late as eight tonight. If it’s all right with you, I’ll just meet you at the Half King.”

After he’d left, kissing me gently good-bye, I grabbed my phone and called Detective O’Donnell.

“Goddamn,” he muttered after I broke the news. “I said I didn’t have a good feeling about this one.”

I described the whole awful situation to him, and he pressed me for even more details. I sensed him silently calculating whether he could have done anything to prevent Tom’s death.

“I’ll touch base with the sheriff up there,” he said, “and see what I can find out. The state troopers will probably get involved, too, and I’ve got contacts at their headquarters down here.”

“I was thinking I’d better phone Mr. Barish as soon as I got off with you.”

“Why don’t you let me do that for you?”

“Great, thanks. But tell him he’s welcome to call me if he’d like.” I also asked if he’d call Professor Carr and break the news to him, since that was about the last thing in the world I wanted to do. He agreed and took down the info.

“May I call you in a day or two, just to see what you’ve learned from the sheriff’s office?” I asked in closing.

“Sure. I’ll tell you what I can.”

After obtaining the number from directory assistance, I phoned Nest of Treasures, the antiques store I’d stopped in front of in Andes. I wasn’t sure anyone would be in yet, but a woman answered and it was the same husky voice that had given me directions to Dabbet Road yesterday. I asked if it was Beverly.

“Yes, this is she.” She sounded positively grim. Something told me the news had found its way to her.

“This is Bailey Weggins, the woman who asked directions to Dabbet Road yesterday. Have you heard about Tom Fain?”

“Good God, yes. Someone called me just a little while ago. You’re the one who found him?”