The Jinx (17 page)

M
y fairy godmother, who had been egregiously negligent of late, made a cameo appearance in the guise of the empty cab that was pulling up the street. I was out of Jonathan's car like a shot, yelling a hasty goodbye and promising to talk to him later while throwing myself in front of the taxi. It skidded to a stop, and I raced around to the side, opening the door and slamming it shut behind me. “Copley Place,” I said, “and step on it.” The driver obliged, and I turned to look out the back window. Jonathan was standing by his car, clearly stunned. I gave him a fake smile and a wave and reached over to lock the doors on either side of me.

My head was spinning. I felt like Linda Blair in
The Exorcist,
minus the satanic possession and spewing green slime parts. Jonathan Beasley—
Love Story
guy himself—was a serial killer?

My head slowed its spinning long enough to begin ticking off pieces of evidence. First, nobody that good-looking could be normal. Second, he had one of those stupid scarves that the police had linked with the crimes. Third, now that I thought about it, he did seem to have a complex of some sort when it came to Boston's underclass. I remembered the off-putting way he'd spoken of how his ex-wife had become caught up in their problems, and the resentment that seemed to tinge his words. Maybe that was what motivated him?

But the clincher pretty much made all these pieces of evidence superfluous—because the clincher was that Jonathan Beasley was carrying bodies around in duffel bags and loading them into trunks.

And, even worse, he'd quasikissed me.

Blechh.

And not just once.

Double blechh.

I found a piece of Kleenex in my coat pocket and used it to scrub at my cheeks and lips until the tissue disintegrated into pieces of lint that I had to pick out of my mouth. We were crossing the river on the Mass. Ave. Bridge by then, and the driver was eyeing me in the rearview mirror with a concerned expression.

“Everything okay back there?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said with dignity, forming the words as clearly as I could around a mouth full of tissue fragments. I seemed to be making quite an impression on the Boston area's fleet of taxi drivers.

 

Copley Place had sprouted several new appendages since I was last there, including a couple of new hotels, a new office building that bore more than a passing resemblance to R2-D2, and a maze of shopping arcades. I'd passed the same Ann Taylor three times before I realized that I was repeatedly missing the turnoff that would take me to the pedestrian walkway to Copley Place proper and the restaurant we'd designated as our meeting place.

I scurried along the passageway, ignoring the stores I passed and zigzagging through the crowds of Saturday shoppers in search of post-holiday bargains. By the time I'd reached my destination I felt as if I'd run a marathon.

My friends were seated calmly around a table on the floor of the mall outside the restaurant, chatting and sipping coffee and orange juice. “Hil, do you have Detective O'Connell's card?”

She smiled. “Well, good morning to you, too. There's something white on your lip.”

I tried not to snarl. “Do you have it?” I repeated.

“Do you want me to help you get it off?”

“Get what off?”

“The white thing.”

“No, I want to know if you have O'Connell's card.”

“Of course I do.”

I knew that I could count on Hilary for something. “Give it to me. Now.”

“Will you give it back?” she started to ask, but then she got a better look at the expression on my face and handed the card over without saying anything else.

* * * * *

I found a relatively quiet corner and dialed O'Connell's number, swiping at the bits and pieces of tissue that were stuck to my lips. I may have been ambivalent about calling him to report my suspicions regarding Barbara Barnett, but I was pretty comfortable calling to tell him that I knew who his serial killer was. I decided in advance that I would leave out the part about the serial killer having kissed me.

My fairy godmother had returned to the cave where she seemed to be hiding out of late. It took three tries for my call to go through, and when it finally did O'Connell wasn't there and whoever answered his phone refused to page him, which seemed irresponsible, at best. I left a message, stressing repeatedly the urgency of the matter.

That done, I returned to my friends' table and handed the card back to Hilary. Then I deposited my frazzled self in the empty chair, gripped the edge of the table with my hands, and began beating my head against it at a slow but steady pace.

“Something wrong, Rachel?” asked Luisa dryly.

“Everything's wrong,” I answered plaintively.

“Stop that,” said Emma, grabbing hold of the knot of hair at the back of my head. “You'll end up doing serious damage.”

“Do you think anyone will be able to tell the difference?” asked Hilary.

“Rachel, why don't you sit up straight and tell us what's going on.” Jane had her matronly voice of reason on, the one that she usually reserved for recalcitrant students.

“Poor Baby Hallard,” I said.

“What do you mean?” Now Jane sounded offended.

“Eighteen-plus years of being lectured to by your matronly voice of reason.”

She laughed. “Just imagine how Sean feels. But seriously, Rach, what has you all worked up?”

“Where should I start?” I asked dejectedly.

“At the beginning,” said Emma. “And look, we got you a Diet Coke.” She waved the can before me, and I perked up.

“Wow,” said Hilary. “If only Pavlov could have seen Rachel and Diet Coke. He wouldn't have needed to keep tormenting those poor dogs.”

 

Under the careful questioning of my friends, I recounted that morning's adventures, starting with the takeover the Barnetts had launched and my suspicions about the attacks on Sara being a little too convenient.

“Let me get this straight,” said Luisa, ever the skeptic. “You think that Barbara Barnett tried to kill Sara? All so that she could help her son take over a not very big company when they already have plenty of money?”

“From everything you've said before Adam sounds like such a weenie,” said Hilary. “Are you sure he has it in him?”

“Adam's just the puppet,” I said. “Barbara's the puppet master.”

“I just can't believe that she would be chatting you up about makeup and diet tips in the ladies' room if she were behind the attacks on Sara,” added Jane.

“Oh my God. I am a complete idiot,” I blurted out.

“Don't be so hard on yourself, Rachel. Everybody jumps to conclusions sometimes,” said Emma. “It's perfectly understandable that your thoughts got a bit convoluted.”

“No, it's not that at all. If anything, I just realized how unconvoluted my thoughts are.”

“We're listening,” prompted Jane.

“Ephedra. Or some other sort of diet pill. I bet that's what Barbara was taking in the ladies' room this morning. And it's the exact sort of thing Matthew was talking about last night. If you gave a big dose of that to someone you could kill her. Hell, a big dose put Sara into cardiac arrest. Barbara Barnett has a stash of ephedra, and she used it to try to kill Sara.”

Hilary snorted. Unfortunately, she'd been drinking orange juice at the same time, so some of it dribbled out of her nose. Jane grimaced and handed her a napkin. “You're saying that Barbara Barnett tried to kill Sara with
diet pills?
”

“I don't know. But maybe. I mean, she was at the hospital yesterday afternoon, too. And when we left she was saying that she'd left her gloves in Sara's room. Maybe she sneaked back in and put something in Sara's IV while she was asleep. It's possible. Anyhow, the takeover and Barbara trying to kill Sara are only part of the problem. I haven't even told you the worst part yet.”

“You mean the part about your boyfriend cheating on you?” asked Hilary.

“No, the other worst part. The part about
Love Story
guy being the prostitute killer.” I filled them in on my encounter with Jonathan Beasley and his hoisting bodies into the trunk of his car with a telltale Harvard scarf knotted around his neck, the same one he'd used to strangle various Boston area “lowlifes.”

This time Luisa snorted orange juice out her nose. “You've got to be kidding. You really think Jonathan Beasley—the Ryan O'Neal to your Ali MacGraw—is a serial killer?” I knew I should never have told her about the Ryan O'Neal/Ali MacGraw thing.

“Why not? I mean, Ted Bundy was supposed to be totally charming.”

“Rachel's right,” said Hilary. “Ted Bundy was a hottie.”

“I can't believe you just called Ted Bundy a ‘hottie,'” said Jane.

“I can't believe you just used the word ‘hottie,'” said Luisa.

“I didn't even get a chance to see him,” said Emma sadly.

“Ted Bundy?”

“No, you idiot.
Love Story
guy.”

“He's very cute,” said Hilary.

“In a Ken doll sort of way,” added Luisa.

“But Rachel likes that sort of thing,” interjected Jane.

“Could you all shut up already?” My voice, which had been plaintive before, now sounded downright whiny. “I need your help, here. On any other day, I could handle it. But not when everything with Peter is going up in flames. Or down in flames. Whichever.”

Emma patted my hand solicitously and flagged the waitress for another Diet Coke.

“Which part is worse?” asked Hilary. “That Peter's cheating on you or that your other love interest is a serial killer?”

“Is that a helpful comment, Hilary?” asked Luisa.

“You'll feel better once you can tell the police everything,” Emma reassured me. “I mean, it's one thing for you to have to worry about the takeover and whatever's going on with Peter, but they should be dealing with all of the other stuff.”

How could I tell her that all of the other stuff was almost a welcome distraction from the takeover and whatever was going on with Peter?

“Oh, no,” said Jane.

“Oh, no what?” I asked.

“Don't look now.” In unison, we all turned to look in the direction she'd told us not to look.

We were sitting near the base of an escalator leading down from the shops on the upper floors. So when I saw the woman on the escalator carrying the trademark blue Tiffany's bag, laughing up at something her companion had said, it didn't immediately register. After all, there was a Tiffany's up there, among other stores.

Then I noticed that the woman holding the Tiffany's bag looked familiar.

With a sinking feeling, I realized that not only did I know her, the man standing next to her, the one making her laugh, was someone I knew very well. In fact, we'd shared a bed the previous night.

It was Peter, with Abigail. And they looked as if their shopping expedition had been an unqualified success.

T
hey moved as if in slow motion, she standing one step below him on the escalator. I watched as she turned back toward him, to better catch his words. The movement made her long dark hair swing, a silken curtain flowing from one shoulder to the other, and as she tilted her face up the light glossed the fine curves of her high cheekbones, delicate nose and oval forehead. I could see Peter's familiar profile, bending down to make himself heard, gazing into her expressive dark eyes with the affectionate look I knew so well and speaking with the lips I knew even better.

“Is that Abigail? If so, she really does look like Christy Turlington,” said Hilary.

Jane, Luisa and Emma shushed her in unison, and I was pretty confident that Jane added a sharp elbow to Hilary's ribs.

“I mean, she looks like how Christy Turlington would look if Christy Turlington were a hussy. You're much prettier, Rach.” But I could barely hear her over the laughter of the Jinxing Gods.

Peter and Abigail stepped off the escalator and paused, still deep in animated conversation. He put his hand on her arm, as if to emphasize a point. Then Abigail kissed him on an indeterminate spot somewhere between the cheek and the lips—it was hard to tell from where we were sitting since the back of her head blocked his face. Being tall and gazellelike, she didn't need to stand on tiptoe to kiss him, the way I did. Then Peter headed off in the direction of the convention center at a rapid clip.

“That's it,” said Hilary. “He can't treat Rachel like this. I'm going after him. He needs to get his head on straight.” She was half out of her seat, but Jane and Luisa each took an arm and managed to restrain her.

Abigail, meanwhile, had started toward the Starbucks adjacent to where we sat.

I don't know what possessed me. If I'd been thinking clearly, I would have hid under the table until she'd passed. But so much had happened already that morning that I seemed to have entered an altered state of consciousness. Unbidden,
Twilight Zone
Rachel called out Abigail's name, loudly and in a welcoming tone.

Abigail stopped and looked around, trying to identify where the voice had come from. I stood and waved, a forced smile plastered on my face, until her eyes focused on our table. I didn't think I imagined the way her expression changed, morphing from pleasant calm to flustered embarrassment, but by the time she reached us she seemed calm again, although slightly pinkish in the cheeks. And she clutched the Tiffany's bag in one hand, trying to shield it with her body, as if I would snatch it from her and run off with it.

“Rachel!” she cried. “What a surprise. What brings you here?” She leaned her willowy self down and gave me an awkward one-armed hug, careful to keep her body between me and the Tiffany's bag.

“Slut,” I heard Hilary mutter under her breath.

When in doubt, be gracious. These were words I tried to live by, usually unsuccessfully. And I wished I felt more doubt about what I'd just seen. Still, I dredged up enough graciousness to introduce Abigail around.

“It's so nice to meet you all,” she said, her smile revealing even, pearly white teeth and a fetching dimple in her right cheek. “Peter mentioned you have your annual reunion with your college roommates this weekend. It sounds like a great tradition—I should do something like that with my friends from college.”

Hilary muttered something else, but Emma's coughing fit covered up her words.

“It is a great tradition,” I agreed. And then, scraping the bottom of my graciousness pool, I managed in a voice that sounded genuinely nice, “It's just too bad that Peter's been too busy with work to join us. How's the sales effort going?”

“Slowly,” she answered. “The negotiations have been pretty intense.”

“Not too intense to get some shopping done,” Jane pointed out, in a tone that could only be described as arch. I turned to her, surprised. Arch was a tone I'd never heard before from Jane. Perhaps pregnancy was sharpening her tongue.

The pink in Abigail's cheeks seemed to deepen into red, but it could have been a trick of the light. She shifted the Tiffany's bag from one hand to the other. “Um, yeah. Actually, it's, um, a gift for the, um, the client. If we get them signed up as a customer. We got them some, um, some—”

“Pens?” supplied Emma helpfully. Only if you knew Emma as well as I did would you pick up on the sarcasm in her tone. And sarcasm from Emma was even more rare than archness from Jane.

“Yes. Pens. As a gift.”

“How considerate,” said Emma.

“Well, I'm glad I ran into you, Rachel, and it was great to meet you all, but I need to get going. I'd just stopped to get some coffee before heading back to the convention center.” Abigail indicated the Starbucks. “We have yet another meeting with the potential client, and I don't think I can handle it without a big dose of caffeine. I haven't had a decent night's sleep since I got here.”

This time I heard what Hilary said, but Abigail was busy saying goodbye to everyone, and she didn't seem to notice.

“Knock 'em dead,” I said as she rushed off.

Hilary turned to me. “Knock 'em dead?”

“What was I supposed to say?”

“You could try ‘Keep your hands off my boyfriend, you skank,' for starters. Are you sure you don't want me to go after her? I'd be delighted to tell her for you.”

“Hilary,” began Luisa, “I think we may be on the wrong track—”

The ring of my cell phone was a welcome interruption from their spatting. I checked the caller ID, relieved to see that it was neither Peter, with more lame excuses, nor Jonathan Beasley, my favorite serial killer. “Hello?”

“Ms. Benjamin. This is Detective O'Connell. I'm returning your call. You said it was urgent?”

 

My friends were concerned enough about my delicate mental condition to insist on coming with me to the police station for moral support. In fact, Hilary volunteered to accompany me before the phrase “moral support” had even been uttered.

Ten minutes later we'd retrieved Jane's Volvo from the garage where she'd parked. I sat up front with Jane, trying to ignore Hilary's monologue about the various things she would do to Peter, and to Abigail, if she were in my shoes. I knew that this was Hilary's way of being supportive, but mostly I was just wishing I weren't anywhere near my shoes. My phone rang again, as if it could sense when I needed a break from Hilary. This time it was the Caped Avenger.

“Rachel, darling. Whitaker Jamieson here.”

“Hello, Whit.” He liked to be called Whit. He felt it lent him a raffish air that went nicely with his cape.

“Wasn't this morning fabulous? Such a rush. And this deal's going to be such fabulous fun! I only wish you could have been part of our side of it, but Stan Winslow said you'd have a conflict of interest or something absurd like that. I tried to get around him, but he foisted me off on this Epson fellow. I must say, my dear, that boy's nowhere as much fun as you are. He never wants to go anywhere fabulous for dinner. And he definitely lacks your charms.” The way the Caped Avenger said “charms” made me wish I didn't have any, but it was probably a good thing I did. Or at least that he thought I did. Otherwise, he would never have agreed to meet me in an hour to discuss his “fabulous” deal. (“The bar at the Ritz, darling. It's so fabulous.”)

 

I must have passed the Cambridge police station in Central Square on more occasions than I could count, but I'd never been inside. It turned out that I hadn't been missing much.

Jane found a metered spot across the street from the entrance, so she parked and we all went inside together. Hilary didn't bother to hide her disappointment when O'Connell sent a uniformed officer to bring me, and only me, up to see him. Telling my friends I shouldn't be long, I followed the policeman up a flight of stairs and down a hallway.

O'Connell's office defied all stereotypes. I was expecting chaos, overflowing ashtrays and coffee mugs with dregs of whisky remaining from the bottle any seasoned detective must keep stowed in a drawer. Instead, O'Connell's desk was spotless except for a couple of neatly labeled file folders and a liter bottle of Poland Spring water that didn't look like it was even spiked.

The man himself looked nearly as spotless as his office—he'd clearly managed a shower and a change, even if the haggard set of his features suggested that he hadn't managed to sleep since I'd last seen him. He rose when I came in and ushered me into his visitor's chair with a grave courtesy before resuming his seat behind his desk. He rested his elbows on its surface and templed his fingers together, balancing his chin on their tips. “What can I do for you, Ms. Benjamin?”

“I'm sorry to bother you—I know how busy you must be—but this is important. I'm actually here about two of your cases.”

“
Two
of my cases? Now this is a blue-ribbon day.” Sarcasm seemed to be in the air today; if it had infected Jane and Emma, I held out little hope that a hardened police detective would be immune.

“I think I know who the prostitute killer is. And I also think that I may know who's behind the attacks on Sara Grenthaler.”

“Yes, you mentioned that in your previous message. Grant Crocker.”

“I know, but I may have been wrong about that.” I related the events of this morning's board meeting to O'Connell. “I think Barbara Barnett might have tried to smooth the way by making sure the primary opponent to a takeover was out of commission. The witness said he wasn't sure if he saw a man or a woman, and Barbara's tall. And really fit for a woman her age.”

“So let me get this straight,” said O'Connell after hearing me out. “Barbara Barnett attacked Sara Grenthaler in the boathouse in order to prevent her putting up a fight for control of the company.”

“I think so. She probably knew about Sara's rowing schedule. And she probably has one of those scarves. It seems like everyone has them.”

“And then, when the first attempt didn't work, she put ephedra in Ms. Grenthaler's IV bag?”

“She was at the hospital yesterday afternoon,” I pointed out. “We left at the same time, but she mentioned that she had left her gloves in Sara's room. Sara had just taken a painkiller when we left, so she was probably asleep, and Barbara managed to get drugs into her IV. And then maybe it took a while for the drugs to work their way into her system and have any effect. I'm pretty sure that Barbara's on some sort of diet pill. I saw her taking something this morning, and she's obsessed with weight loss.”

Why was it that what had seemed to make perfect sense in my head sounded so flimsy when I laid it out for someone else? I had the same feeling I'd always had as a child when I'd been sent to see the school nurse. I could have been puking my guts out, but she still made me feel like I was faking. I shook my head to clear that memory but now that I was actually telling my story to a trained professional, it did sound pretty absurd.

“Look,” I went on, “I know it sounds implausible. But having Sara out of it while her son's making a run for her company makes it all a lot easier. Barbara had motive, means and opportunity.” I'd read my share of Agatha Christie novels, after all.

“It's an interesting idea, and I'll look into it. Now, let's move on to the other case. Who's the perp in that one?”

I was having a bad day, and this time there was no smile to take the edge off his tone. I stood up. “I am not, I repeat, not, a hysterical female. I wouldn't be here if I thought I was wasting your time.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Please. Ms. Benjamin. Sit down. I don't mean to make light of your hypotheses.”

I didn't sit down. “Listen, buddy.” I had no idea where the “buddy” came from. “I'm not here for my health. You may be fine and dandy with Jonathan Beasley running around killing prostitutes willy-nilly, but I think some of the area's concerned citizens might be a little upset about it.” I had even less an idea as to where I'd come up with “fine and dandy” and “willy-nilly.”

Now his lips were pressed together, as if it were the only way he could contain his laughter. After a long pause, he seemed to trust himself to open his mouth. “You think that Professor Beasley is the prostitute killer.”

“Yes, I do,” I said in my most confident and authoritative voice. And I used the same voice to tell him about watching Jonathan load a body into the trunk of his Saab, as well as my theory about his potential motivations.

“You really saw a foot poking out of the duffel?” O'Connell asked me.

“Yes. Caucasian. With red toenails.” I gave an involuntary shudder.

“Caucasian?” he repeated, arching an eyebrow.

“I watch
Law & Order.
Isn't that the term I'm supposed to use?”

“And the bag seemed heavy?”

“Beasley's a pretty strong guy, but he was having trouble lifting it, like it was unwieldy.”

“Okay. I'll check into it.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“And the thing about Barbara Barnett? You'll check into that, too?”

“I'll check into that, too,” he affirmed. “And in the meantime, we've still got a guard at the door of Ms. Grenthaler's hospital room and UHS has beefed up their security protocol.”

He seemed to be taking me seriously, but I hadn't forgotten his barely suppressed laughter. “I'll be going then,” I said in my most haughty voice and headed for the door.

He called after me. “Listen, Ms. Benjamin. Rachel. Wait.”

“What?” I asked, spinning around to face him. There was nothing smug or supercilious about the expression on his face. If anything, he looked embarrassed.

“I—I owe you an apology. I didn't mean to be rude. And I hope I didn't give you the wrong impression. I do appreciate all of this information. It's just that I'm really, really tired. We found another body last night. I've been up for two days straight, and I'm sort of on edge.”