The Deadliest Option (27 page)

“It’s Dwayne’s. I think we’d better get him to a hospital.” She was not about to have him start fussing with her. She also had no intention of accompanying them to the hospital.

Dwayne groaned. “Are you sure my face is all right?”

“What I can see is fine,” Wetzon assured him. “I’m worried about Ellie.”

“There’s a phone and the answering machine in the kitchen,” Dwayne said. He started to stand, turned an alarming shade of gray-green, and keeled over.

Wetzon touched his forehead. It was clammy. “Carlos—”

Carlos was on his way to the kitchen. He was back less than a minute later with a clean kitchen towel. “The phone is dead.” He wrapped the towel around Dwayne’s head like a turban. “There, now you look gorgeous. I’m going to go out on the street and call 911 and get an ambulance.”

“No!” Dwayne came to howling. “I don’t want an ambulance.”

“Carlos, I’ll stay with Dwayne and you get a cab. You can take him to Lenox Hill Hospital. They have a good emergency room.”

“Okay, Birdie. I’ll be right back. Lock the door after me.”

She followed him down the hall, disguising her limp magnificently.
1 should never have left the theater
, she thought.

After locking up, she went back to the living room, past the squeaky floorboard, and sat down next to Dwayne. She hiked up her skirt and inspected her knee. A nice big tear and plenty of blood. And it smarted when she moved. Where could Ellie be?

“What a mess,” Dwayne said, trying to get to his feet.

Wetzon put her hand on his arm and held him down. “Cool it, Dwayne.” Light came filtering through the wall of curtains along the rear wall and from three large Chinese porcelain lamps.

Dried blood streaked Dwayne’s shirt, which said, SOME OF MY BEST FRIENDS ARE. “What a mess,” he said again. He looked at her. ‘You’re bleeding.”

“I know.”

“Every sliver of glass is a hundred dollars.”

“What?”

“The Baccarat vase.”

“Oh.” Wetzon’s eyes skimmed the house-and-garden room, full of chintzes and fat upholstered pieces, set off by a whitebrick fireplace. On the floor near the arched entrance to the room were the remains of the heavy glass vase that had dented Dwayne’s head. Except for the water, some bloodstains, and the shards of glass and scattered flowers, nothing looked ... A chair was overturned near the staircase, and a rust-and-gold geometric oriental rug was lumped up as if someone had tripped over it. A built-in corner china cabinet’s drawers were half open, their contents bulging haphazardly.

“Dwayne—” She turned back to him and saw he’d passed out, his bloody head staining the chintz sofa cushions. Damn. She checked her watch. It was eight o’clock. Smith would be having a fit. Too damn bad. Dwayne moaned. Why wasn’t Carlos back? She got up and went into the kitchen, which was long and narrow with gray granite countertops and white glass-doored cabinets. There was a full pot of coffee in the coffeemaker, and two cups were set out on the counter.

On an open shelf she saw a white telephone sitting on an answering machine. A little light blinked, indicating someone had left a message. She tried the phone, hoping optimistically that it had healed itself. Not even a dial tone. It was dead. Her eyes followed the white wire of the phone to a jagged end. The phone line had been cut.

She returned to the living room with a cool, wet paper towel and took a close look at Dwayne. Color was back in his face. She’d have to go out on the street and look for Carlos.

The doorbell rang twice, and she dropped the paper towel on the sofa and raced down the hall.

“How did you know who it was, Birdie? You just opened the door without checking,” Carlos scolded, spinning her down the hall in front of him. “I have a cab waiting on the street.”

Together, they got Dwayne out and into the cab.

“Come on, Birdie,” Carlos said, pulling Dwayne closer to him to make room for her.

“I’m not coming. You don’t need me. I’m going to leave a note for Ellie and then go meet Smith.”

He looked at her doubtfully, and Dwayne groaned.

Wetzon waved them off and went back into Ellie’s apartment. She wanted to take a quick look around to make sure Ellie wasn’t passed out somewhere, and then she really was going to Baci and have dinner with Smith.

The upstairs space was divided into a front bedroom overlooking the street, with tall windows curtained in sheer white gauze. The walls were papered in a pale gray stripe, the floor covered in pale gray wall-to-wall carpeting. A low queen-sized bed and all the other furniture in the room were in black lacquer, very spare, very sophisticated. The bed was made up formally with a gray-and-white quilted spread. A large armoire stood on the left of the doorway wall, its doors wide open, its contents tossed. Damn.

To her right another door led to a large dressing room, all black and white marble, and further, a huge bathroom sporting a Jacuzzi.
Very nice
, she thought enviously, opening a door on the far wall of the bathroom and walking into another, smaller bathroom.

The back of the house held another bedroom, a guest room with a four-poster bed and lots of frilly linen, also fully made up with an antique quilt, and a big old teddy bear with one eye and a surprised look on its face. But no Ellie.

Wetzon had just started back down the staircase when she froze. Had Carlos come back? No, too soon. From where she stood she could just barely see the arched entrance to the living room. Hand on the banister, she waited, listening, heart thumping.

Now, clearer, the sound came again, and this time she placed it. It was the creak of the loose floorboard.

W
ETZON STEPPED BACK
up the stairs and flattened herself against the side wall. Her hands shook; she could hear her heart. A tall shadow loomed along the wall below. It couldn’t be Ellie; Ellie would not be creeping stealthily into her own ... the tall shadow merged into a real person.

“Smith!”
Wetzon charged from her hiding place and stood at the top of the staircase.

“Oh!” Smith let out a small shriek and toppled into one of the overstuffed club chairs, holding her hand to her breast. “Wetzon, for pitysakes, you almost gave me a heart attack.”

Wetzon limped down the stairs. “Let’s not talk about who almost gave who a heart attack,” she said, giddy with relief. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t wait at that stupid restaurant forever, you know. I hate being stood up.”

“I wasn’t—”

“So I got into a cab and came on over. I figured you might have run into a problem with Ellie.” Her eyes roamed the room.

“But how did you know where to come?”

“The Browns live next door.”

“I’m sorry.” Wetzon sat down on the sofa and flexed her foot gently. “The Browns?”

“You know the Browns, sugar, that nice young couple. They catered my last party.” Smith got up and examined a chalkware dog on the mantelpiece, picking it up and turning it upside down to read the markings.

“I’m still not following you.”

“The
Browns
, sweetie pie,” Smith said, talking to her gently as if she were retarded. She replaced the chalkware dog. “Jen and Tom Brown live in the duplex above Ellie. I knew she lived here because they asked me if I knew her. Wall Street to Wall Street. We all know each other.”

All that trouble trying to find where Ellie lived, and Smith knew all the time. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew where she lived?”

“You didn’t ask me.” Smith was working her way around the room, taking inventory. “Is Ellie lying down? This is a very nice piece.” She stroked the fleur-de-lis-inlaid end table. “What’s this?” She crouched. “My, how careless. Baccarat,” she said, looking up at Wetzon, who was standing now, hands on hips, growing more and more angry.

“Smith, do you see anything you
just
can’t live without?” Wetzon asked, dripping sarcasm.

Smith straightened and brushed her hands off on her short cranberry skirt. She gave Wetzon a hurt look. “Smart remarks do not become you, sweetie. What a mess this place is. Did you get Ellie to bed?”

“I didn’t find Ellie. I found her assistant lying on the floor with a Baccarat bump on his head.”

“Really? So she’s one of those violent drunks.”

“No, it wasn’t Ellie. She wouldn’t have done it. The door was open and someone had been here, looking for something—maybe.”

“You know, you could have called me.” Smith turned back the edge of the oriental rug with the toe of her white slip-on Keds.

“The phone is dead.”

“Where’s the assistant?” She wandered into the kitchen and came out again.

“Carlos took him to the hospital.”

“Carlos? Really, now? You took Carlos when you could have taken me.” Her tone was accusatory.

“I didn’t know you knew where she lived and her assistant turned out to be one of Carlos’s dance students.” There she was, on the defensive again.

Smith sat down on the sofa. “You never let me in on anything anymore, sweetie. Aren’t we supposed to be partners? We used to have so much fun.”

Wetzon sat beside Smith. “Come on, Smith. Things haven’t changed.” But Wetzon knew they had. Their friendship had always been a rocky affair, close only when Smith was in charge. Smith was definitely an eccentric; always in an adversarial posture, she saw the world differently from Wetzon. In the beginning Wetzon had let Smith’s more dominant personality run their business and their friendship, but in the last couple of years a more confident Wetzon had replaced the pliant one, the one Smith missed. “I’m the same person, Smith. I’ve just grown up. Don’t you think it’s about time?” She gave Smith’s clasped hands a squeeze. “Come on, think about it. I’m still here.”

Smith gasped, looking downward. “Your skirt, your knee—”

Wetzon’s eyes followed hers. The gash looked pretty ugly. “It’ll be okay. I cut it on the glass when I found Dwayne.”

“I knew it. The tarot never lies. We’d better get that cleaned up before you get an infection.”

“Oh, Smith.”

“Listen to me. I’m a mother. I know.” She stood up, capturing Wetzon’s arm. “Is there a bathroom down here?”

“I didn’t see one, but the kitchen—” She paused abruptly. “Wait a minute. Did you lock the outside door?”

“I don’t remember.” Smith frowned. “I’ll check.” She went so obligingly down the hall, past the creaking floorboard, that Wetzon smiled. The new Xenia Smith. Wetzon heard the door open, slam shut, the click of locks turned. Then silence.

“Smith?”

Her return was announced with a lilting, “Coming!” And a pronouncement: “That’s a lovely piece of tapestry in the foyer.”

“Smith!”

“Now then, baby cakes,” Smith said, ignoring her, “where were we?”

“Claire’s Knee.”

“Claire? Oh, I see, another one of your jokes, Wetzon. Spare me.”

“It was a French movie.”

“Yes, the kitchen.” Smith marched into the kitchen, turned on all the water taps and opened all the closets.

“What are you doing, may I ask?” Wetzon said, trailing after her.

“Do you want to take off your skirt?”

“No, I don’t. I’ll hike it up.”

Smith rummaged through a drawer and held up kitchen shears. “Here we are.”

“Oh, no.”

“Stand still. Don’t be a baby. This skirt is ruined anyway.” Smith cut the skirt above the tear. “You wear your skirts far too long.”

The bottom of the skirt dropped to the floor around Wetzon’s ankles and she sighed. “I always loved this skirt.”

“Sit down, here. Let me look at your knee.” Smith pulled a clean linen towel from another drawer and soaked it, wrung it out, and gently wiped the crusted blood from Wetzon’s knee.

The tepid water stung and Wetzon flinched. “Ow!” she said. “That hurts.”

“Sweetie, this is deep.” Smith’s head was bent over Wetzon’s knee, her voice was worried. “I’m just going to clean it a little. I think you’ll need stitches.”

Wetzon’s eyes popped open. “Oh, no, I don’t want stitches.” She looked down at her knee. It was bleeding again. “Shit,” she said.

“Oh, yes. I’ve seen enough of these, believe me, I know.”

“Can’t we stop the blood?”

“Just stay put,” Smith ordered. “There must be bacitracin and Band-Aids in the bathroom upstairs. Don’t move.”

Smith left Wetzon sitting with her foot up on the second chair. Wetzon closed her eyes. She felt dizzy and nauseated. She opened her eyes. The kitchen clock said nine-fifteen. Food. She looked around the kitchen. She knew she had to eat something—a cracker, something.

The light was still blinking on the answering machine. She could hear Smith’s footsteps overhead. This was an old house; it made settling noises. The light on the answering machine blinked on, an invitation.
Not your business
, she told herself.

Then, gingerly, she took her leg off the chair. Blood seeped from the gash and ran in rivulets down her leg. She stared at the wound. Smith was right. It was ugly. The light on the answering machine called out to her, a siren’s call. “Fuck it,” she said. She limped over and studied it. It was a Panasonic, like her own. Play me, it blinked. She pressed the playback button.

Click, click, clatter, clatter, beep, it said, then a man’s voice, “Eight o’clock tonight, Ellie, my place. We have to stick together on this.”

Beep.

“Ellie?” Another masculine voice, this one angry. “Ellie! Pick up, damn you, I know you’re there. I got your message. Ellie? Do you hear me? Don’t do anything stupid. I’m warning you—” Then a hang-up, a few beeps, and the machine clicked off.

“Oh, my God,” Smith said. She was standing in the doorway, holding a first-aid kit; her mouth hung open.

“You recognized the voices?”

“Didn’t you?” Smith set the first-aid kit down on the granite counter and motioned Wetzon back to the chair.

“Yes.” Wetzon sat down and put her leg up on the other chair. “The first voice was Neil and the last was John Hoffritz.”

W
ETZON WATCHED AS
Smith squeezed the bacitracin ointment from a tube onto the gauze bandage.

“Hold this,” Smith said, handing her the bandage. “I’m going to wash the blood off again. If you’d sat still, it wouldn’t be bleeding like this.”