Killer Deal

by Sheryl J. Anderson

  “Then it wouldn’t be haunting.”

  “What’s Kyle think of him popping back up?”

  I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have to. Cassady’s known me too long and has that telepathic polygraph old friends develop; she can feel my pulse change from across the room. “Oh, Molly,” was all she said, but with that deep disappointment your mother uses when you’ve spilled hot chocolate down the front of your satin Christmas dress five minutes before leaving for church.

  “Not intentionally. I’ll tell him.”

  “When?”

  “When the time’s right.”

  And I should’ve known then, but I had to learn it again the hard way: Like an unfamiliar highway exit ramp, the right time is something you usually only recognize after you’ve missed it.

  Twelve

  DEAR MOLLY, WHY IS IT so difficult to keep a promise? Is it some sort of performance anxiety thing, where the pressure gets to be too much? Is it because we make them in the heat of the moment and when that cools off, the promise loses its appeal, too? Or is it because we make promises about things we know we can’t achieve, but we’d still like to get points for good intentions? Signed, Cross My Heart and Fingers

  “We had a deal,” my editor growled.

  At least I thought it was my editor. It was about the right size and the proper level of antagonism, but the shape behind the desk was swathed in an absurdly large amount of white terry cloth and where the face should have been, there was a bright blue oval.

  “Maybe I should come back when you’re done. I don’t want to undo all of Suzanne’s hard work by making you yell at me,” I said, throwing a sympathetic look at Suzanne. Her martyrdom was genuinely earned this morning, since she was in charge of giving the tiny bundle of shroud and fury a facial, right there in her office.

  “It’s all right,” Suzanne whispered, picking the already hardening blue goo off her fingers.

  “Any particular reason you didn’t go to a spa or a salon?” I dared ask.

  “And be seen in public like this? Are you insane? And don’t try to change the subject. I’m upset with you.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, in the interest of saving time.

  “I would hope so. You promised me a sensational cover story about Gwen Lincoln. Now you’re saying she might be innocent?!”

  “Wasn’t that the original hope, the reason Emile asked you and The Publisher to make room for the article?”

  “But Quinn Harriman’s going to have the real killer on his cover! Of his first issue!”

  “Assuming Peter Mulcahey figures it out in time, which is not a given.” This whole exchange was my mistake. I should have known better, when summoned into the inner sanctum for an update, than to be truthful and specific. I should have just assured her that I was working hard, that I had no ideas about Gwen’s guilt or innocence, then complimented her on something and eased my way out. But no, in my excitement, I’d overshared.

  “And we’re going to be stuck with the Widow Lincoln on ours!”

  As intrigued as I was by the image of Gwen dressed as Mary Todd Lincoln, I couldn’t stop to consider it. This was no time for pride or subtlety. My article was slouching toward the scrap pile and I had to lure it back to safety. “Of course, she’ll be wearing a headline that says ‘Eileen Fitzsimmons Set Me Free’.”

  It was like releasing a helium-filled balloon—you let the gas escape, then wait a moment until it stops flinging itself around the room. Eileen’s eyes opened as wide as the hardening facial masque would permit, so I continued. “If the magazine proves Gwen is innocent, doesn’t she have you to thank? You’re the one who assigned the article,” I said, trying not to grit my teeth. Better to have written and have credit stolen than never to have written at all.

  Eileen’s head wobbled slightly as she let the idea bounce around and become her own. “Maybe Gwen and I could be on the cover together,” she suggested.

  “How Oprah of you. Want me to call a photographer in right now, take a few practice shots?”

  “I have very delicate skin,” Eileen protested.

  “Which is why you’re protecting it from the entire visible light spectrum, I get that.”

  “Fine, be one of those disgusting girls who swipes with a little soap and water and glows for days. Some of us must be pampered.”

  Momentarily distracted that Eileen had, in her own way, complimented me, I faltered for a moment, then refocused. “So I’m going back to work now, on helping you save Gwen. I’ll keep you posted.” I gave her a wave and a smile as I backed out of sight. She might have tried to smile back, but it was hard to tell through the mask.

  I alighted briefly at my desk, uncertain as to my next move. Which made me think of Cassady’s new beau and his buddy Heisenberg. If observing the particle changes the behavior of the particle, I was going to have to sneak up on the atom if I had any chance at all of splitting it.

  Since I needed to talk to Tessa, I asked for Lindsay when I arrived at GHInc. Now that we’d had dinner together, it appeared natural for me to want to see her, talk to her again. I was banking on her maternal reputation being well earned, and that part of the mothering instinct would be she was the one who kept tabs on everyone, listened to their problems, and refereed their arguments. If I could get her to share those sorts of stories with me and tell me everything I needed to know about Tessa—preferably without even realizing that’s what she was doing—I’d be that much closer to the atom without the atom knowing.

  Fortunately, Lindsay was delighted to see me, greeting me in the reception area with a warm hug. She ushered me to her office, which was immaculate and streamlined, as I would’ve expected, its main adornment a large, ornately framed picture of her and Daniel on their wedding day.

  “Such a nice picture,” I said, surprised by the wistfulness I heard in my own voice.

  “Thanks. We really enjoyed seeing you guys last night. Daniel had so much fun talking to Kyle.”

  I smiled politely. “Kyle enjoyed it, too.”

  “We’ll have to do it again. Have a seat,” she said, moving several large bags off her sofa to make room for me. “Sorry, Francesca cleaned out her closet and brought me all the goodies for Daniel’s thrift shop.”

  “Daniel has a thrift shop?”

  “Rising Angels does. In the basement at St. Aidan’s. It’s a really fun place. I’ll take you over there one day if you like that kind of shopping.”

  “Haven’t met a kind I don’t like. That’s so sweet,” I said, sitting on the now vacant buttery leather, “Francesca supporting Daniel’s work that way.”

  Lindsay started to make a face, then caught herself. “You’re right, it is.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  “No, I do, I do. The whole group is very supportive, we’re all there for each other. It’s just with the thrift shop, I sometimes think they bring it here to me so they don’t have to deal with it themselves, make a trip out of the way or anything.” She pressed her lips together, then smiled. “I’m sorry, I don’t really mean that, I shouldn’t have said that.”

  I wanted to tell her that people who said things to me they weren’t supposed to say were my favorite people in the world, but I refrained. “I understand,” I said instead. “It’s tricky when you feel friends are taking advantage of you.”

  “So, what brings you by this morning?” she asked brightly, thinking she was changing the subject when really, she was just reinforcing it.

  “I heard a rumor and I wanted to run it by you,” I said, dropping my voice to a confidential level. “I won’t name names in the article, but who is it that’s thinking about leaving?”

  I immediately regretted my approach because Lindsay looked as though I had gut-punched her. “One of us? Leaving?”

  “Maybe there’s nothing to it,” I said quickly, hoping I hadn’t torpedoed the conversation before it even began.

  “Maybe that’s why Francesca’s cleaning out her closet,” Lindsay said, giving one of
the bags a little kick. “After all, when do you clean your closet this thoroughly—when you lose a lot of weight, which she hasn’t, when a man moves in, which hasn’t happened, or when you’re getting ready to move, which she would only do for a new job because she’s got this great rent-controlled place in the Village.” Lindsay kicked the bags again, her sadness swiftly giving way to anger. “I’ve worked so hard to keep this group together and—” She gave the bags a third, decisive kick and the toe of her pumps popped a hole in one. Pulling up short, she planted herself in her desk chair like a kid being put in the corner.

  “Why’s it up to you to hold everyone together?” I asked quietly while I tried to figure out whether I’d missed something about Francesca. But Tessa was the one with the absent bracelet, the one I wanted to know about. “I thought Tessa was your ringleader.”

  Lindsay’s eyes flashed and I thought she was going to kick me this time. “Did Tessa tell you that?”

  “No, but the dynamic when I came—”

  “Tessa likes attention, so she thinks she deserves it and she’ll do just about anything to get it. It was really sort of sad with Garth, the whole Electra complex. He played into it, enjoyed it, but that was a little sad, too.”

  Here was the first run in the perfectly smooth pair of pantyhose. Now, if I could just tug in the right direction, the runs would multiply. “Think it’s going to be hard for Tessa, with Gwen and Ronnie?”

  “I’m sure she already has a plan for Ronnie,” Lindsay said, her jaw setting. “She’s going to have a tough time with Gwen, though. They rub each other the wrong way.”

  “Why? Think there’s some sort of jealousy there?”

  Lindsay shrugged. “Like Tessa wants to be in charge and resents Gwen? I hadn’t thought about that, but I can see it.”

  “I was thinking on a more personal level. If Tessa’s feelings for Garth were a little less Electra and a little more, say, Cleopatra.”

  I expected either assent or denial from Lindsay and I was silently cheering for the former. What I got instead was such a naked look of pain that I almost blurted out an apology without knowing what I’d done. But while I was still groping for a response, Lindsay said in a low, tight voice, “I’m really not in a position to comment on the personal lives of any of my coworkers.”

  If it was exactly what I was looking for, why did it hurt so much to hear it? I guess I’d been hoping for a catty narc-out, but this had a self-flagellating quality to it, like she was blaming herself for not having caught on to whatever was going on after hours—maybe even during hours—and where it might end up. “Garth and Tessa were having an affair?” I asked gently, just to be sure I was interpreting properly.

  Lindsay’s expression didn’t change at all, but her voice got more jagged. “You’re not going to put this in the article, are you? I don’t see how it helps anyone to know.”

  “I just want to understand the emotional landscape Gwen’s entering,” I said with the conviction available at a moment’s notice.

  Lindsay shook her head. “You really don’t want to get into this. Tessa’s so good at what she does, the rest shouldn’t matter.”

  Before I could press further, Lindsay’s office door flew open and Wendy stepped in, eyes wild and wet. “Moron said no!” she exclaimed, not registering my presence on the sofa. Lindsay looked at me instinctively and Wendy turned, her shoulders sagging at the sight of me. “Sorry. Didn’t know you had company.”

  “Want me to give you a moment?” I asked, standing. I could even wander down the hall and try to bump into Tessa while they sorted this out, whatever it was.

  “I need so much more than a moment, it’s not even funny,” Wendy replied. She pivoted back to the door. “Later, Lindsay.”

  “Wendy, let me make some phone calls,” Lindsay said with a bright trill to her voice I wouldn’t have thought possible a moment before.

  “Whatever,” Wendy said, vanishing back out into the hall.

  “She’s trying to get a loan, and Daniel and I know a lot of financial people because of all his fund-raising, so I’ve been trying to hook her up,” Lindsay explained, easing the door closed behind Wendy.

  “She seems pretty discouraged.”

  “Her last boyfriend stole her credit cards and trashed her rating, so she’s still recovering,” Lindsay said. She forced a smile. “That’s why we’re all so good at our work. We’re running away from issues in our personal lives.”

  “What are you running away from?” I asked, looking at the wedding photo again. “You seem to be doing great.”

  Lindsay shook her head, her lips folding together again. “We want something we can’t afford and it’s … It gets hard.”

  That quality was back in her voice; this wasn’t a trip to Europe we were talking about. “I’m sorry,” I said simply, wanting to pry but refraining.

  “In vitro,” she said so quietly I could barely hear her. “Not the sort of thing people give you a loan for.”

  That’s why she’d looked so pained at dinner and why she’d been happy to change the subject. Even though I was just getting to know her, I felt for her. Here I was thinking she was all set, with a job she loved and an adorable husband, but she was looking at things I hadn’t even begun to consider and discovering she might not be able to have them. She made good money, but he didn’t if he worked at a nonprofit; from what I’d heard, millionaires could go broke trying IVF. “Daniel gets so upset. He spends his days fixing other people’s lives, taking care of other people’s children and we can’t …” She paused, sniffing, and I groped for the right response, but she spoke again before I did, her voice trying to gain strength. “It’s one of those weird cases where Daniel and I are both perfectly fine, but there’s something about his sperm and my eggs that they just won’t take and it’s what we want most, but it’s just so hard and so expensive and—” She stopped, literally shaking herself free from that train of thought. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, I didn’t mean for this to be painful, I … I’m sorry.” I squeezed her hand and she smiled slightly in appreciation.

  The door flew open again and Helen stuck her head in. Lindsay laughed shortly. “A closed door has a lot of meaning around here.”

  Preoccupied, Helen nodded to me in greeting. “Sorry, but Wendy’s having a meltdown and we could really use your magic touch, Lindsay.”

  Lindsay nodded, not pointing out to Helen that she was having her own moment of despair, just smiling bravely. I assured Lindsay I’d be fine, maybe even visit the ladies’ room while she and Helen tended to Wendy.

  I trailed after them down the hall, getting close enough to the conference room door to see that Francesca was already in there with Wendy, handing her a mug of something steamy and talking to her in a low, soothing tone. I felt somewhat envious, thinking of how lovely it would be to work with other women who were so supportive, so willing to put their own work aside to help a colleague through a rough personal moment. That qualified as blood in the water in my office and the boss loved a good feeding frenzy. Kept her teeth sharp.

  Almost as sharp as the teeth Tessa bared in an insincere smile as she walked up beside me. “I didn’t know you were here. Is there a problem?” Tessa followed my line of sight to the conference room door and sighed unhappily, but made no move to join the gathering.

  “Lindsay said I could drop by if I had any more questions, so I did.”

  Tessa folded her arms across her chest and I could see both wrists were still bracelet-free. “We should keep things slightly more formal than that. Does anyone else know you’re here?”

  “Are we talking about notifying lawyers or just security?”

  Tessa’s grip on her own arms tightened, the silk of her blouse crimping under the pressure. “I’m just looking to ensure a smooth and consistent flow of information. We’re all very anxious to have this article present Gwen to best advantage. That may sound selfish, but it’s just practical. We’re in the midst of a crucial transition.”


  Tessa was almost trembling with the effort to keep her emotions contained and I found that curiously emboldening. “Do you think Gwen minds that you slept with Garth?”

  Tessa’s angry claw shot from her arm to mine before I could step out of range. “Let’s talk in my office.”

  She propelled me down the hallway and into an office that was the same size and layout as Lindsay’s. Tessa’s accents were different—a dramatic dried flower arrangement and framed vacation snapshots on the credenza—but otherwise the offices were impressively democratic. Not until the door had latched behind us did she let go of my arm. “We believe in discretion around here,” she said crisply.

  So my sin was not the question but where I’d asked it? “Excuse me.”

  “Who told you?”

  Wrapping myself in my journalistic mantle, I decided to bluff her. “I’d rather not reveal my sources at this point,” especially because they were named Intuition and Hunch.

  “I’d appreciate the opportunity to know the agenda of the person who singled me out so you know the kind of biased information you’re getting from that source.”

  What fascinated me most at this point was that she wasn’t even trying to deny it. What also fascinated me was the phrase, “Singled out?”

  “Or have you already talked to the rest of them and I haven’t heard about it yet? Is that what Wendy’s crying about?”

  Why my accusing Tessa of having slept with Garth would make Wendy cry was beyond me. I needed to start again. “Perhaps you didn’t understand my question.”

  “I understood it quite well and my off-the-record answer is: I don’t think she could be bothered to give a flying damn. But now that I’ve been gracious enough to answer your question, perhaps you could answer mine. Who singled me out?”

  Dawn comes more slowly some mornings than others. “Are you saying someone else was also sleeping with Garth?”

  Tessa glared at me with frustration, like a teacher losing patience with a truculent child. “I’m saying we all were.”