Several photographs of Bailey’s grandfather adorned the walls. In them, he posed, all smiles, with heads of state, religious leaders, celebrities, and the celebrated. It was hard to tell who was happier to be photographed: was Bill Clinton grinning because he was with Mark Warfield, or the other way around? Coco focused on a particularly startling photograph of Warfield with Malcolm X. It felt familiar, and it was—it was the famed photojournalist Bill Ray’s iconic Life magazine shot from 1964—one of the last professional shots taken of him.
Bailey didn’t take her three new adversaries to this room by accident. She wanted them to know who she was, who her family was, and who they were dealing with—a trick she’d learned from her mother. Mother was the master of the subtle jibe, the underhanded hint, and the passive-aggressive screw you.
“I’m not changing my mind. I won’t be blackmailed, and I certainly won’t be bullied by anyone,” Bailey announced to start the discussion. She settled into an odd but strangely elegant curved chair with a striking ladder back. Coco’s minor in art history suddenly kicked in, as she realized it was most likely an authentic Frank Lloyd Wright Barrel Chair. Bailey was laying it on.
Coco couldn’t quite focus on the matter at hand. The mix of styles and genres in the room was dizzying. It was so typical of the Greenwich filthy rich: a synthesis of modern and ancient that disregarded tradition yet, defying logic, somehow worked.
“I don’t think you are fully grasping the gravity of this situation,” CJ said. “We are being blackmailed by the mayor, who, if you’ll recall last night’s little theater, is not averse to lethal violence.”
“Please. I’m begging you.” Olivia was nearly in tears. “I can’t lose my house. If we just go along with this, he won’t release your tape either. And who’d believe our word over his anyway? I haven’t seen any reports about a missing girl….”
“What makes you think that if we agree to keep our mouths shut he wouldn’t humiliate us anyway? And for god’s sake, he’s capable of murder! How on earth does that make him a man of his word? He’s the last goddamned guy we should trust! It doesn’t make sense,” Bailey said. “We go to the police. It’s the right thing to do, and really our only choice.”
“That’s what I said all along. We have to do the right thing for that poor girl,” said Coco, snapping out of her reverie. Growing up in a tough neighborhood may have hardened her as a youth, but it also gave her a deeply ingrained sense of community, and respect for others.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Olivia sighed. “Point taken. It’s not like he’s given us a reason to trust him. On top of everything else, he’s a politician.”
“That’s what I’m telling you,” said Bailey almost convincingly. “We have all the evidence. There’s got to be a fingerprint, something on one of our envelopes, or some kind of forensic material. Maybe some article of her clothing is still in his house. I say we don’t give in and we nail that bastard. And, of course, you know, stand up for that poor woman who no longer can.”
“Okay, so it seems like we agree.” Coco had changed direction. It really hadn’t taken much to convince her—her conscience had been nagging her all along. “Bailey, you said you’d already spoken with a Detective Casey. Who is he, can we trust him, and what does he know already?”
“Well,” said Bailey, lightening up momentarily, “you won’t believe it, but the officer who came this morning when I called about the envelope was Olivia’s crush from last night! And guess what, sweetie. He’s single!” She winked at Olivia.
Olivia gasped. And blushed. “That guy was a detective? A real one?”
“Yep. He was working. Hence the just-making-sure-you’re-okay business,” said Bailey, attempting to imitate Rob’s deep, manly voice.
Coco and CJ were cracking up by now.
“Anyway, on the way over here, I had Detective Rob Casey checked out. I’ve got a guy who knows how to get info fast. I totally had to after I found out what was in my envelope and he said he’d seen it. So, here’s what I know: ex-Marine, was in training at Quantico to become an agent in foreign counterintelligence for the FBI, but had to quit when his mom got sick. He moved back to Stamford to care for her, got a job here with the Greenwich police, and has a completely clean record as far as I know.”
Olivia opened her mouth to ask more questions, but before she could, they were interrupted by a dainty knock at the door. Bailey looked up to see Amihan, her mother’s Filipino house manager, who, from what Coco could gather, was the equivalent of a female butler or a modern-day lady-in-waiting.
“You have a guest,” Amihan said, narrowing her eyes at Bailey. “But I work for your mother and not for you; so if he wants a cocktail, you will go and get it for him. If he wants any food, you go make it for him. I don’t work for you.”
Oh yeah, Amihan was a bitch.
Not only that, but she had particular disdain for Bailey. There had always been tension when Bailey was growing up, but the final nail in the coffin of their relationship had come three years earlier. Amihan’s twenty-four-year-old nephew came to visit for a summer. Bailey had never before seen such a sexy, gorgeous specimen of a man and promptly seduced him and smoked all his pot. Both were the best the Philippines had to offer. When her nephew complained bitterly to his aunt over the loss of his weed, she blamed Bailey for everything. Amihan didn’t know that her nephew had been smoking for years and insisted that Bailey had corrupted this innocent young man. But by the way this guy was in bed, Bailey knew he hadn’t been innocent in a long, long time.
“Fine.” Bailey glared. Before she could ask who it was, Amihan stepped aside to reveal Detective Casey himself.
“I’m sorry I’m late, Miss Warfield. Can we talk? I only have a minute.”
“Thank you, Amihan,” Bailey said as the house manager rolled her eyes and walked away.
“Detective Casey, you may remember Coco and CJ from last night. But, uh, I’m not sure—did you meet Olivia?” She grinned devilishly.
Olivia awkwardly held out her hand as if to be kissed, and while Detective Casey couldn’t completely conceal his interest—a flicker of a wide-eyed smile breezed across his face—his training immediately took over, so he firmly, if awkwardly, turned her hand counterclockwise as he politely shook it and said hello. He was here on business, and it was his priority to be taken seriously. A true professional.
“Yes, of course. We did meet. Very nice to see you again, Olivia,” the detective said as their eyes met. “Nice to see you all, in fact, now that you’re no longer the same person.”
Bailey was all business. “Thank you for coming, Detective. Okay, so who sent me that tape? What did you find out?”
“I, uh, maybe we should speak in private.”
“It’s fine. Just tell me, who was it?”
“Well, it’s still unclear who sent it or how it was obtained, unless…. well, unless it was the other person on the tape.”
“Well, who was it?” She looked at him as if he should understand that it could have been any number of people.
“Miss Warfield, do you have any reason to believe that Ryan Reynolds would want to blackmail you?” he asked.
“The actor? Ryan? No, why would he?” Bailey replied.
“I’m asking because….” The detective trailed off, looking around the room uncomfortably. “Maybe we should discuss this privately.”
“Fine. Let’s step out into the hallway,” Bailey suggested, then turned to the others. “Excuse us. Sorry.” She was getting frustrated.
With the heavy wooden door closing behind them, Detective Casey looked at Bailey. She felt like he was trying to read something, and he was.
“Okay, so if it wasn’t him, then it had to be Alanis,” he said.
“Why her?”
“Because I cross-checked the time stamp on the tape with his personal life. He was cheating on her with you.”
Bailey was instantly incensed. “No fucking way! Not possible. I can prove it.”
“
Miss Warfield….” He looked at her closely, wanting to see if she would lie to him. She knew the trick; good journalists always know when they’re being bullshitted, and they know when someone is trying to find out if they’re bullshitting. “Did Miss Morissette know about the affair? Suspect? Could she have secretly taped you? The tape, is uh, really high quality, but it looks like a stationary camera, probably hidden. But you can see…. the whole thing, both of you. Quite clearly.”
“No way. That’s wrong. I was with Ryan way, way after he and Alanis broke up. As a matter of fact, he ended things with me when he met Scarlett Johansson. That date stamp isn’t right,” Bailey insisted. “And there’s no way that tape can be real.”
“I don’t think you can readjust a time or date stamp, Miss Warfield. Are you sure?” the detective had to know.
“I am one hundred percent sure.” Bailey was firm. “And, trust me, I know techie guys at the station who could change the date stamp no problem. Someone switched it deliberately.”
Casey knew she was right. And telling the truth. “Well then, with your permission, I’d like to investigate further. It seems like this goes much deeper.”
“No way am I letting this go. Nobody blackmails a War-field and gets away with it,” Bailey said as she led him back into the room.
“Well, I’m sorry to interrupt you folks. Have a wonderful rest of your day,” the detective said. As he swung the door open to leave, he stopped, thoughtfully, and turned back. “One more thing, Miss Warfield.”
“Yes, what is it?”
“Could you be having any issues with a member of the local government?” he asked.
Olivia let out a slight gasp but held it back when CJ shot her a look and gave her leg a quick tap with his foot under the table.
“Why would you say that?” Bailey asked, calmer than she should have been.
“The envelope that your tape came in is government issue, and there is a particular watermark on the stationery that was familiar. We have them in our office,” the detective said.
“You mean like this one?” Olivia took her envelope out of her bag. She was bringing Rob into their party whether the others liked it or not.
“Why yes, actually. Do you work for the government?” Detective Casey asked.
“No, I received an envelope as well,” Olivia replied.
“Excuse me?” He let the door shut as he stepped back into the room. “You also received one of these envelopes?” His eyes widened as he realized the case was becoming much more complex…. and much more interesting. Small-town detective work was normally on the dull side, quite frankly. He also realized he would now have a reason to work with Olivia.
“We all did,” Coco chimed in, looking askance at Olivia.
“Hang on a second. You all received what exactly?”
At that they invited him to sit down and explained the whole thing. Detective Casey convinced them to come down to the precinct and talk to the chief. Besides, this was huge. There hadn’t been a big murder in Greenwich since Martha Moxley in 1975, and he was eager to sink his teeth into a real investigation. If only he’d stayed long enough last night to walk next door with them!
On their way out, CJ pulled Bailey aside and asked her in a hushed tone, “What was on that tape? Can you tell me?”
“It was a sex tape, but don’t tell the others,” Bailey said. “Anyway, it had to be a fake.”
“Oh, precious, there have got to be dozens of tapes of you doing the nasty out there. Why on earth would this one be a problem?”
Bailey smirked, looked in CJ’s eyes, and extended her middle finger in front of his face.
“Bitch.” CJ loved to sass.
On the way to the police station, Coco began to regret being involved in the whole affair, though she dared not express her misgivings, as the rest of the group—taking their emotional cues from a suddenly animated Detective Casey—seemed a little too excited by being part of a big “investigation.” She felt like she was riding in the Mystery Machine van instead of a limo. All they were missing was Scooby-Doo. She’d heard Olivia mutter the term sleuthing, for pete’s sake; and CJ said he couldn’t wait to get to the “bottom of this caper,” then made some off-color joke about always liking to get to the “bottom.” Even Bailey began asking about Coco’s boyfriend—a big step for Bailey, since it suggested that she might actually have an interest in something besides herself.
It had been ages since Coco had felt part of something—like a group or a social circle—that had nothing to do with work or Sam or the dogs. It seemed like most of her adult life had revolved around being the creator of Butt-B-Gone, or Sam’s girlfriend, or a doggie “mommy”—but where was she in all of that? Despite all she had going on, she’d recently spent an entire night staring at the ceiling worried that Farnsworth, her new Italian Spinone puppy, wouldn’t like his gigantic, overpriced, new doggie bed, which took up a sizable portion of the room. If he didn’t like it, she’d have to hire a crew to help lug the offensive eyesore back down three flights of stairs. She had finally fallen asleep when, around 4:00 A.M., she heard clumsy feet walking on the hardwood floor toward Superbed. And just as abruptly, Farnsworth plopped his goofy, oversize body right down in the cozy abundance of his goofy, oversize bed. She didn’t want to wake the sleepy pup and stifle her exuberance, so she woke Sam instead.
“Sam, Sam! The puppy’s sleeping in his bed!” she whispered.
“And I’m sleeping in mine,” Sam grumbled and turned over.
There had to be more to life than this, she thought.
When they moved to Greenwich, she’d let many of her friendships lag. This wasn’t entirely her fault. Many of the women she grew up with had had children or moved away like people do, but she’d never bothered to make new friends, or at least none who weren’t connected to her work. She found now that it was nice being with a group of people who didn’t want anything from her but conversation.
Coco gazed absently out the limo window at nothing in particular, momentarily indulging herself in the thought that this foursome could become the inner circle she had so desperately needed. She was reminded of an old boyfriend whose family owned the Rainbow Room at Rockefeller Center, one of the grandest established restaurant-ballrooms in the country. When she first met him, she thought he was pretentious and spoiled, but soon she learned that he was only one of those things. He was spoiled, but in a way she never would have imagined. He had this wonderful, supportive group of friends who had known each other since high school and looked after one another like family. They visited each other in college, went on vacations together, were in each other’s wedding parties, and took summer shares together. She had never seen such a close group and was instantly jealous that she didn’t have these kinds of friends, ones you could always count on, trust, and share secrets with. Not that she couldn’t do that with Sam, but she would have liked a sisterhood of sorts. There was something to be had in a female bond that she didn’t think was possible with a man. Any man.
One thing stood in the way, Coco thought. What did this yoga group even have in common, other than they’d happened to be dressed the same way at a costume party? Sure, they’d witnessed a murder, but was that enough? Look who she was talking about, after all. To hear CJ tell it, Bailey Warfield didn’t need friends so much as lovers—and many of them. Olivia seemed to be one of those new moms who would end up like all the women Coco grew up with, ditching her friends to become Super Mom. And CJ. While they seemed to have hit it off, he probably wasn’t looking to add any more females to his busy life, and could she really handle his apparent constant drama?
So, was there a basis for any kind of relationship, let alone a close-knit friendship? Probably not. Pop. Burst that bubble. Back to the matter at hand.
The car stopped in a part of downtown Coco hadn’t yet been in and was not at all familiar with. Detective Casey led them into a very small, antiseptic building that looked more like a museum than a place where law was enforced. It actually
took a moment for Coco to recognize the Greenwich Police Station, clearly not the nerve center she had imagined it would be. Jeez, she thought, even the precinct was a bastion of immoderation.
On their behalf, Detective Casey informed the chief of police that his presence was requested immediately for a sensitive matter being brought by four of Greenwich’s most prominent residents. That’s how he put it: “most prominent.” Coco laughed to herself as she watched the chief look over the detective’s shoulder at them and purposefully not smile. He didn’t seem happy about this at all; as a matter of fact, he looked downright upset they were there. He asked the detective to come inside and shut the door. It stayed shut.
It soon became apparent that the police chief wouldn’t be seeing them right away, if for no other reason than to communicate his power over these Greenwich elite. Undeterred, Bailey tried to play the reporter card, CJ flirted with an officer he was sure was gay, and Olivia and Coco shared a soda out of a vending machine that took their money four times before finally giving up its booty. It was an exercise in futility for all. Now they had that in common, Coco thought.
An hour and twenty minutes later, the police chief opened the door with a big, gleaming smile pasted on his face. Obviously, Coco thought, he didn’t care for Detective Casey; that was what his original grimace must’ve been about. The group was asked into the chief’s office.
“Come in, sit down, welcome! Can I get you a coffee or a drink of some kind?” the chief said exuberantly.
“No, we’re fine, thank you.” Coco made herself the spokesperson for the group.
The chief continued. “Detective Casey told me quite a tale about you four, but he is always a bit overexcited when it comes to his cases. That’s what we love about him, we call him the molehill mountaineer, heh, heh, heh.” He laughed a strange little laugh under his breath.
“Well, it’s not a tale so much as it was…. oh, what’s the word for it…. a murder?” CJ said sarcastically.
“And blackmail,” Olivia added. “Is that the other word you were looking for?”
The Yoga Club Page 8
