Looks to Die For (19 page)

Roy pointed to the sofa, but I shook my head. Green velveteen wasn’t in my plan. Nor was the leather ottoman with a switch on the side in front of it.

“Massaging chair,” Roy said, flipping the toggle. “Sit down and you’ll see how good it feels.”

I shook my head. “No thanks.”

“Women love it,” Roy said.

I shook my head again. But Roy took a step closer and leaned against me. His motion was so quick and natural that I couldn’t really say he pushed me down — but suddenly I was sitting on the vibrating ottoman, and when I tried to stand up again, his hands on my shoulders were just heavy enough that I stayed where I was.

“Tell me what you know about Tasha Barlow’s murder,” he said. His tone was no longer that cozy conversational singsong he’d mastered, and his eyes boring down on me had turned mean.

“Not a thing, really.” I sat very still — or as still as I could with a square of leather throbbing under me — trying to stay cool.

“But you’re trying to find out. Snooping around. Thinking maybe you’d like to pin it on me instead of your husband?”

“It’s not my job to pin it on anybody,” I said shakily. “I just came over here to help you decorate.”

He snorted but let go of my shoulders, and I stood up.

“Then let’s decorate,” he said, his voice back to normal. I wondered for a moment if I’d imagined the threatening tone. “Come see my bedroom.”

Normally, that offer would have been easy to resist. And given what had just happened, maybe I should have escaped while I could. But no, I shouldn’t be melodramatic. I’d come here for a reason, and something told me that the key to Tasha’s killing was as likely to be found in Roy’s king-sized bed as anywhere else.

I took a deep breath.
He likes kinky stuff,
Nora had said. And sure enough, instead of a welcome mat, the doorway to the bedroom boasted a pair of upended spiked sandals, the heels so long, sleek, and sharp they might have been miniature daggers. Next to them, a shiny purple garter belt with a sheer stocking dangling from it hung tantalizingly over a knob. Roy obviously hadn’t bothered to clean up from his long night with Deanna, and the remnants were everywhere. On the imposing mahogany four-poster bed, a tangle of twisted black satin sheets trailed off the side like an overturned trellis, and heaps of pillows lay piled at odd angles. Two empty bottles of Mumms champagne and a half-empty bottle of Absolut Citron vodka littered the floor, along with a couple of shot glasses and a wine flute stained with crimson lipstick. Another wineglass — which had seemingly been shattered against the wall — lay in a thousand pieces on the blue carpet. The sweetly pungent, acrid smell that hovered in the room was partly explained by the burned-down nubs of expensive candles and cheap incense. The discarded butts of hand-rolled weed flung carelessly around probably accounted for the rest.

It took me a minute to notice a woman’s stocking flying proudly from one of the posts of the bed, and a long, pale pink scarf waving like a flag from another.

Roy gave an evil chuckle when he caught me staring at the suggestively decorated posts. “Deanna likes it rough. And I want my Deanna happy, you know? Because she’s a nasty girl. And I like my girls nasty.”

Unwittingly, I took a step back. What was going on here? Roy had worked so hard to seem smooth and sophisticated in our first meeting, and now all pretense was gone. Did he have some reason for letting me see his lustful side — or was he just feeling invincible from his night of drinking and pot smoking and wild sex?

“So,” I said brightly, standing solidly on my flat pink Guccis. “Decorating ideas. Let’s think about what you need.” I paused. My standard question to clients, “What do you do in the bedroom?,” usually got a laugh. But that was from my usual roster of suburban wives who sometimes wrote their thank-you notes in bed (they could use a small desk) or liked to read the newspaper there (ditto a comfortable chair). But I didn’t dare raise the topic with Roy, whose boudoir behavior clearly included more variety acts than an old Ed Sullivan show.

“Let’s see, what do I need in here?” Roy asked in a deep, suggestive voice. “Well, let me show you what I collect.”

“A collection is wonderful!” I said eagerly, as if he’d just produced a dozen Fabergé eggs. “I know one house that has a whole room just for Elvis mementos. A client of mine had every
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit issue — so I framed them and displayed them in a glass-fronted case.” I grinned wickedly to let Roy know that whatever he collected, he couldn’t shock me.

“Then can I interest you in a little S-and-M display?”

My heart thumped a little harder than I wanted it to.
He likes to tie people up
, Nora had said. And where exactly could that lead?

“Historical S-and-M artifacts can fetch thousands these days,” I said primly. “They’re treated as serious antiques.”

Without a word, Roy reached under the bed, felt around in the mess of sheets and soiled tissues, and pulled out what looked like a dog collar.

I swallowed hard. Maybe I could be shocked. This was a long way from Elvis in sequins. Roy held the piece out for me as if he were displaying the Hope diamond, but in this case it was a pale blue circle of leather, encrusted with colored stones in gaudy shades of purple and turquoise and yellow. A slim piece of leather — a very short leash, in dog terms — was attached, and ended in an odd metal ring.

“So what would you do with something like this?” he asked. “A little too nice for a display case, I think. It needs to be used.”

I looked at it again. Definitely not a Fabergé egg. “I don’t really know what it is,” I admitted, though I had a pretty good idea.

He turned it around and around in his hands — he had delicate fingers for such a big man — then sauntered over to the far wall and snapped the metal hook into a grommet I hadn’t previously noticed. The collar hung there like some odd, ugly necklace.

“I have more, lots more,” Roy said. “Better than a Picasso for decorating, if you ask me. Though with all the naked women in his pictures, I’d bet the old boy liked S and M himself, don’t you think?”

I didn’t really have an opinion, though I’d definitely check out
Les Demoiselles d’Avignon
a little more carefully next time I went to the Museum of Modern Art.

“Come here,” he said. “You have to look at this closely.”

I took a few hesitant steps, and I was just saying, “So what do you think —” when he put his arm around me again and I felt his warm skin rubbing against my bare arm and then all of a sudden —

SNAP.

I felt like I was gagging and I gasped for air, not completely sure what had happened. A second ago I’d been examining the gaudy collar and now my face was pushed against the wall, the collar nowhere in sight, and I couldn’t move.

And then I got it. The collar was around my neck.

Behind me, I heard Roy laugh. “Some people like it forward and some like it backward,” he said. “I think it’s quite attractive on you this way.”

I tried to turn around but there wasn’t any give in the leather, and the ugly, cheap stones cut sharply into my neck. I reached up to feel if there was blood and tears popped into my eyes.

“You okay?” Roy asked.

“Take this off me.” I thought I was screaming, but my voice came out in a throaty whisper.

“Of course I will,” Roy said heartily. “But I want you to get the whole picture. You believe in originals? This is original. And historic. Very nineteenth century. King Charles the Fifth was quite involved with sadomasochism, I’ve heard.”

“Charles the Fifth was fourteenth century,” I whispered. “Hundred Years’ War and all that. You’re probably thinking of King
George
the Fifth.”

“Thank you for correcting me.”

“It could have been Henry the Eighth,” I said, babbling on. Maybe if I kept talking, I could pretend that nothing so awful was happening. “He was sixteenth century, but he had a lot of wives, so he probably liked —”

“Sex,” Roy said, interrupting. “He liked sex. And so did Napoleón. What century was he?”

“Late eighteenth,” I said, even though I knew Roy was mocking me now. Why was I discussing the kings of England when I was bound to the wall?

“How come you know so much?” Roy asked. He was standing too close, breathing into my face, and I thought I could smell the alcohol on his breath, barely masked by a haze of peppermint Altoids. “You’re just a smarty-pants, huh?”

“Roy,” I said softly, trying not to panic. “Take this off me. Right now. It’s not funny.”

“Not until you tell me how you know so much,” he said, hissing through his teeth. I had a feeling he wasn’t talking about the kings of England anymore. “In fact, not until you tell me everything you know.”

“I don’t know much at all,” I said.

“Oh, you do. Or you think you do. And you’re hiding something from me. Which makes you a bad girl who needs to be punished.”

Just like Tasha was punished?

My teeth chattered, even though the room was hot.

“This hurts. You’ve got to get it off me,” I said. I heard an edge of desperation creeping into my voice — which might be exactly what Roy enjoyed. I tried to change tactics, sound less scared. “I’ll find you more antique collars, if you want. Charles, Henry, Napoleón. We’ll go to Sotheby’s.” Calm, calm, calm. “We could go this afternoon.” Was I really trying to get out of this bind by promising him expensive antiques?

“This afternoon? Maybe. Depends what happens before then.” Roy made a show of looking at his watch. And then he was gone. Out of the room.

“Roy?” I called.

But there was silence. I thought I heard the front door open and close again.

“Roy!” I tried to scream, but my throat was dry. I couldn’t see anything except the wall in front of me. I was in a bind — quite literally.
Don’t panic,
I thought, but I was already gasping for breath, hyperventilating. If I collapsed, I would probably strangle on this horrible contraption. My whole body trembled in terror. I felt like a fish flopping helplessly at the end of a line — shocked, sensing the end.

Pull yourself together,
I told myself sternly.
There has to be something you can do.

I raised my hands above my head, feeling for the connection that bound me to the wall. The hook was solid metal, and no matter how I twisted and turned, I couldn’t budge it. I ran my fingers carefully along the length, hoping for a loose link. Nothing but a tiny keyhole. And I definitely didn’t have the key.

I could start screaming. There were probably six condos on this floor, and somebody would have to hear. Didn’t people in condo buildings always complain about noisy neighbors? I strained at the collar, trying to look around the room. Despite the drawn shades, small patterns of sunlight peeked in from the corners of the three big windows, offering a dance of color in the center of the otherwise darkened room. Three windows. Three walls with windows. That meant none of those walls was shared with neighbors. And the only other wall, the one where I stood, abutted Roy’s living room.

If Roy was an S-and-M freak, he’d picked his apartment well — a back bedroom where nobody could hear you scream.

Somebody had to live downstairs. I stomped on the floor as hard as I could, but the beige wall-to-wall carpet underfoot muffled the sound, and my flat heels weren’t making much of an impact. I tried one additional blow, but my foot landed so hard that I slipped and the collar snapped against my neck with whiplash force.

“Owwwwww,” I heard myself howl, as tears began running down my cheeks.

Is this how Tasha Barlow had died? Victim of some sick practical joke? Or had she been a happy participant in Roy’s deviance, only to have something go dramatically wrong with their bizarre sex play? Strangled on a dog collar. That was a headline the newspapers would like.

I closed my eyes, trying to be rational. Roy wouldn’t leave me here to die. Whatever drugs had stoked him this morning had to wear off. Tasha had been strangled in her own apartment, and Roy was barely willing to admit knowing her. My turning up dead in his silent back bedroom would be worse. A definite crimp in his network career.

How long would I stand here? Time stopped meaning anything. Five minutes passed, maybe, or twenty. I heard the door open and close again, and then Roy was standing beside me.

“What are you still doing here?” he asked, with a big smile.

I didn’t say anything.

He looked at my red eyes and tear-streaked face and said, “Oh no, Lacy, I’m sorry. You didn’t realize this was a joke?” He leaned over to the ledge that was easily reachable from where I was standing and stood up, holding a key in the palm of his hand. “The key was right here. I figured you’d get it in a minute.”

He unlocked the chain and I was free. I stood there rubbing my neck, backing slowly away from him and into the living room. The key hadn’t been there. No way. I’d examined every inch of the room that I could see or reach while he was gone.

“Hey, I didn’t mean to scare you.” He touched my fingers and smiled ingratiatingly, the charming network guy again.

“Then what were you doing?” I asked. I sat down on the sofa, too traumatized to leave. I knew I should run out of the apartment and never seen Roy Evans again — but part of me needed to hear his explanation.

“Oh, one of those candid camera things. Reality TV’s very popular these day. I thought I’d try it out for my show. I figured you’d ace this ’cause you’re such a smarty-pants.”

I knew he was lying. And he knew that I knew. It would be easy to dismiss Roy Evans as a psychopath. But he was something much more frightening. A clever and careful manipulator, in complete control of his own game.

“Well, anyway,” he said easily, “you should be careful. You don’t want to get yourself into any more bad situations.”

So he was trying to scare me off something. With Dan, that made two men who didn’t want me snooping around. Had Roy set up this scene with collar and lock? Planned it? Or was it spontaneous — sparked by his coked-up conscience?

I couldn’t stand this. I jumped up and walked to the door. “I’ve gotta go,” I said.