'Til Death Do Us Part (11 page)

“I was hoping to get some information. Do you know anyone who might have known her fairly well?”

As she lathered her hands, she raised her eyes upward, thinking.

“You know who you should talk to?” she said. “Did you ever meet Alicia Johnson, the food stylist we use sometimes? About thirty, African American? She knew her. In fact, I think she actually lives in the building where Jamie died.”

It sounded like a promising lead, though as I told Babette, I didn’t recall ever meeting Alicia.

“Actually I just booked some dates with her yesterday. Why don’t I call her for you? Here, follow me.”

I trailed Babette to her small office across the corridor, which had cookbooks stacked on every surface. After thumbing through a giant Rolodex for the number, Babette got Alicia on her cell phone and briefly explained the situation. Then she handed the phone to me. Sounding rushed, Alicia explained that she was in the middle of a shoot but would be happy to meet with me. We agreed to get together the next morning at her place downtown—at ten o’clock.

It was finally time for my meeting with the deputy editor. I needed to discuss my latest story with her to make sure she was happy with the direction I’d decided to take the piece. The story centered on a twenty-three-year-old pregnant woman who had disappeared without a trace from her home in New Jersey—and her husband was behaving extremely suspiciously. The girl’s family was sure he’d killed her and dumped the body in a reclusive spot, à la Scott Peterson. I’d already driven out to Jersey to interview cops, family, and friends, but that wasn’t going to be enough. The story had received national media coverage, so for a monthly like
Gloss
, which couldn’t keep up with breaking news, I needed a special angle or subtheme. I loved what I’d come up with. According to several studies I’d seen, the number one cause of death among young pregnant women was murder by the father of the baby, and I was going to weave information about this into the piece. The phrase
I’m pregnant
has always been bad news for certain men, but it seemed that these days more than a few were taking action to unload themselves of the perceived albatross.

I sat down with the editor and ran my idea by her. She thought it was fascinating and told me to go ahead with it. I could have just cleared it with Cat personally, but I’d always tried to follow proper channels at
Gloss
. That way nobody thought I was abusing my relationship with Cat, and in the end things just ran more smoothly for me.

I grabbed another cup of coffee on my way back to my office, and once I was at my desk, I got busy. I had time to kill before I met up with Maverick, and I wanted to do as much background research about the bridesmaid deaths as possible.

First, I tried the number from the Post-it note that Ashley had pulled from the kitchen drawer. Robin had called it her lifeline, and I had a hunch it was the psychiatrist who had prescribed the MAO inhibitors or possibly a therapist Robin had been working with. To my surprise, there was a recorded message from someone named Carol Blender announcing in a light, breezy voice that I had reached her cell phone and please leave a name and number. She sounded a little too perky for a shrink. I left word saying that I was both a reporter and an acquaintance of Robin’s and I wanted to talk to her about Robin’s death.

Next I went on-line to find out what I could about electrocution by small appliance. According to the Consumer Product Safety Commission, the electrocution rate had been declining since 1994, yet on average a few hundred people died that way each year. Extension cords, microwaves, and battery chargers were the big offenders, with CD players very low on the list. Interestingly, hair dryers
used
to be a major culprit, but since 1991 they have all been manufactured with shock interceptors that switch them off instantly if they fall in water. CD players have no such device.

I also did a search on MAO inhibitors. Several sites carried information on them, though what I came away with was mostly an expansion of what Dr. Petrocelli had shared with me. They were mood lifters, held in regard by many doctors but dangerous when taken with certain foods. I learned that in addition to the foods Paul had mentioned, overripe fruit was a no-no and so were yeast extracts. And a whole list of other items—like coffee and chocolate—could be eaten only in moderation.

I became so immersed in my research that I was running late by the time I left for Maverick’s. Her apartment turned out to be on the thirty-ninth floor of a building on the corner of Third Avenue and 70th Street, and my ears popped as I went up in the elevator. Even though the doorman had announced me, Maverick kept the chain on when she opened the door and replaced it as soon as she let me into the apartment. She was at least five feet eleven, mid-thirties, more handsome than pretty. She’d cut her hennaed hair since the wedding. It was short now and brushed back today under a two-inch-thick stretchy brown band.

“Come in,” she said. “As you can probably guess, I haven’t been out of my apartment today.” She was referring to the fact that she was wearing a fairly low-key outfit—slim navy pants, a navy shirt with three-quarter sleeves, and a pair of brown leather slides.

“Are you worried something might happen?” I asked.

“Worried? Try
terrified
.” Her speaking pace was clipped and rapid-fire. “My husband’s in Dallas on business, and I demanded that he come home. Do you want sparkling water? Or a glass of white wine?”

“Actually, wine would be great,” I said.

She led me down the hall to a large open living space that included kitchen, living, and dining areas, all decorated with bold, modern pieces. But the best part was the view. The floor-to-ceiling black-framed windows were slightly curved, and I could see not only south but to the west and east. A million city lights twinkled below. It was like being in the cockpit of a plane.

While I parked myself on the low black couch, Maverick pulled a bottle of white wine from the refrigerator, opened it, and poured us each such a large glassful that if I’d come by car, I would have had to ask for a designated driver.

“You’ve been in touch with Peyton, I take it?” I said as she set the wineglass in front of me on the coffee table.

“No, I haven’t gotten through to her,” she said. “I’ve tried her house four or five times and gotten either voice mail or the housekeeper, who said she was unable to come to the phone.”

“But the press is already onto this. Shouldn’t she be strategizing with you?”

Maverick had taken a seat across from me, and she paused before answering. Nestled in the lower lashes of one eye was a tiny beauty mark that made it look as if that eye were tearing up.

“I don’t do Peyton’s press anymore. I haven’t since late October.”

“Really,”
I said. Was this yet another falling-out? “How come?”

“Nothing negative,” she said, clearly reading my mind. “I run a small, boutique business, and Peyton and I both felt she’d outgrown me. We’ve been together for three years, and we’ve had a great run. But I don’t have the manpower to handle an account as big and important as hers is now—and I’m not interested in growing. I suggested a few bigger companies, and she went with one of them. Of course, I’m a friend and I’m available for private consultation if she needs me.”

She had slowed her pace a bit as she spoke and chosen her last words carefully. I suspected I wasn’t getting the full story.

“I’m surprised she hasn’t returned your calls, though,” I said. “I would have thought she’d want your input right now.”

“But what about
us
?” she demanded. “Aren’t you worried we could be in some kind of danger?”

“I’m trying not to jump to any conclusions,” I said. “Instead, I’ve been gathering information. That’s why I thought it might help if you and I talked. Something significant might jump out as we compare notes.”

“I don’t think I can contribute very much. The police sent someone here today and—”

“They sent someone
here
? Maybe they’re taking it more seriously than I thought.”

“I wouldn’t bank on that. I got the feeling it was just a routine visit. Them crossing their Ts. And like I said, I didn’t have much to offer. I’ve been out of the loop since October.”

“How well did you know each of the girls who died?”

“Jamie I didn’t know at all. I met her the day before the wedding, and I doubt we said more than two words to each other the whole weekend. I’d seen Ashley at the farm a few times, of course. We’d chatted briefly, but that was about it. But Robin—well, I
did
know her fairly well. We worked together on some of Peyton’s television gigs and big cooking demonstrations. She used to help pull in props for us. I was very upset when she died.”

“Did any alarms go off in your head when you heard about the
way
she died?”

“I have to say no. Like everyone else, I assumed that Jamie’s and Robin’s deaths were just—”

“I know, a bizarre coincidence.”

I took her then through my side of things—the visit from Ashley, her fears that Robin and Jamie had been murdered, our trip to the farm yesterday.

“My God, we really
could
be next,” she said, her voice cracking.

“Think back on the wedding, will you?” I urged. “You were working with Peyton then. Can you imagine any reason someone would want to harm one of the bridesmaids? Did anyone have an issue about the wedding or a complaint or a grudge?”

“The
wedding
?” she exclaimed. “Can’t you see? This has nothing whatsoever to do with the
wedding
.”

CHAPTER 6

W
HAT ARE YOU
saying? Do you know of some other connection they had with each other?” I asked Maverick, caught off guard by her remark.

“Not some other connection. I absolutely think they died because they were Peyton’s bridesmaids. But it’s not because someone has a grudge about the wedding.”

“Then what?”

“Don’t you see?” Maverick asked. “It’s because someone has a grudge against
Peyton
. They’re out to get her, bring her business down.”

I took a sip of my wine, staring out at the twinkling city.

“I’ve considered that,” I said. “But if someone wanted to get Peyton, why go about it in such an indirect way? Why not sabotage her business instead? They could burn down her catering barn, for instance.”

“Because if you did a direct hit to her business—burned down her barn, as you say—people would be outraged on her behalf. They’d probably rally around her. And Peyton would also be able to confront the situation, deal with it directly. There’s practically nothing she can do with
this
. There’s no proof even that anyone did anything. It’s what in my business I call an ‘ether attack.’ You can’t see it or touch it—but it can kill you.”

“But how can the deaths possibly hurt her business? They’re a tragedy, and tragedies usually produce sympathy.”

“Not if the tragedy is that people around you are dropping like flies,” she said. “Peyton’s business is successful in huge part because of her image, the aura she has as a supersuccessful domestic diva. This situation is going to create a stain of some kind on her. The food she makes in her catering business, the recipes she demonstrates on TV—those won’t change. But there’ll be this free-floating sense that there’s a negative force around her. And people don’t want to be connected to that.”

I took another sip of wine, rolling her words over in my mind. Considering the way the media had reacted so far, she could very well be right.

“I take it you saw the article in the
New York Post
.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” she said. “They’ve even got a name for it—the Peyton Cross Curse. The irony is that I gave Peyton a big lecture on this kind of thing last summer.”

“Why? Did something happen?”

“Nothing major, but it had the potential to be a problem. Peyton burned her arm while testing recipes in the barn. I happened to be there that day and I saw her do it. It was bad enough that it had to be bandaged. Well, she was being interviewed that week, and when the reporter commented on it, she refused to talk about it. Maybe she wanted to look invulnerable in the kitchen. But in the article her evasiveness came across as odd—suspicious, even—and I’m sure people wondered about it. I mean, she’d just gotten married, and now she had a mystery bruise—how fast can you say ‘Nicole Simpson’?”

“Was there any fallout?” I asked.

“We were lucky. It was only a local paper, and nothing came of it. But I warned her and Mary about ether damage and how they had to be careful now that Peyton was on her way to becoming a household name.”