Steamed

by Conan-Park, Jessica

  “All right, give me his last name, address, and phone number.” The detective had a pen and notebook ready. Oh, great, like I really needed the police questioning Noah about Eric’s murder! Now Noah would definitely know that my date had been a miserable failure. And be totally pissed at me for siccing the police on him.

  “No, no, please don’t talk to him! He didn’t even know where I was going tonight,” I pleaded.

  “We just have to cover all the bases here.”

  I reluctantly reeled off Noah’s info.

  “Now, you also said Eric got a phone call. He had an argument on the phone. Do you know who he was talking to? Or what they were arguing about?”

  I shook my head. “I have no idea. Just someone named Phil. Can’t you trace the call? And it wasn’t exactly an argument. It sounded more like Eric was irritated with whomever he was talking to. Like he’d already had the same conversation before. He just said something like, ‘I told you to take care of it.’ And that’s when he left to finish the call. And that was the last time I saw him. Well, saw him alive. His phone was on the floor next to him in the men’s room. And it rang while I was in there.”

  “Let’s go back to just before you left for the ladies’ room. See if you can tell me who you saw.”

  “Just people at their tables. And Garrett. The chef. And Cassie. Our waitress. She showed me where the restrooms were,” I said.

  “So you didn’t see Timothy or any other staff members?” the detective questioned me.

  “I don’t know. Um, well, no, not that I remember.”

  “Okay, and this waiter? Ian? What exactly did Eric say to him when he was walking away with him?” The detective leaned over the table and looked right at me.

  “Um, I think he said, ‘Remember what we talked about.’ That’s all I heard. Eric didn’t say anything about it when he came back to our table. I don’t know what he meant. But it was a statement. A reminder. Not a question.”

  Detective Hurly asked me to point out the couple who had had the dispute with Ian, but they were nowhere in sight. “They must have left soon after that,” I said. “They were getting dessert, so they must have left while Eric and I were still eating.”

  “All right. That should do it for now. I’ll get in touch if I have any more questions for you, but you might as well get home. And, hey. Chloe? I’m sorry you had to find his body. It’s not pleasant stuff. I’ve been doing this job for almost twenty years, and it’s not easy.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Um, can I ask you a question?”

  He nodded.

  “Well, when I found Eric, I didn’t do anything. I mean, do you think . . . was there anything I could’ve done? What if, you know, he was still alive?” I started to tear up.

  “No. From what I know, there wasn’t a thing you could’ve done. Except contaminate the crime scene. That’s what Timothy did, trying to help. Did more harm than good.”

  “I saw the knife. In there. It was a strange knife. With that curved handle?” Now I could feel a few tears run down my cheeks. My disbelief and shock were wearing off, and I was scared and confused.

  Without saying anything about the knife, Detective Hurley reached over and patted my hand. “Here’s my card, Chloe. Call me if you think of anything else. Now, why don’t you go home and get some rest.”

  So I left Essence without saying good-bye to anyone.

  SIX

  I slept deeply that Sunday night, almost as if my blind date’s murder had put me in a protective coma. I woke up late on Monday morning and flicked on the television only to be bombarded with news updates detailing Eric Rafferty’s murder. Tim Rock appeared on an interview. Looking haggard, he kept repeating that he was so sorry this had happened and that the entire staff sent their condolences to Eric’s friends and family.

  I’d left a message for Adrianna the night before, and when the phone rang at eleven that morning, caller ID informed me that she was getting back to me. Finally. I picked up the phone and started crying.

  “I’m coming over,” she promised. “Just hold on. I’ll pick up supplies and be there soon.”

  For once, I was glad that she worked unusual hours and could drop everything to rescue me. While I waited for her, I made a pitiful attempt to continue painting my living room but found myself too distracted to get anything done. An hour after we’d talked, Ade burst into my apartment, her arms full of bags that she dropped to the floor when she saw me frozen on the couch clutching a dripping paint roller, my leftover mascara smeared down my face and paint splatters everywhere.

  I looked up at my best friend, stunning as always. Today’s outfit consisted of shiny lavender pants, a sleeveless ivory top, and strappy sandals. By comparison with her usual wild style, the look was tame. Adrianna was seriously beautiful: piles of blonde hair, chocolate brown eyes, perfect skin, knockout body. Most women would hate her, and, in fact, she was not very popular among other females. I’d never been threatened by her good looks or her assertive, even aggressive, nature. One of the few women in her life, I couldn’t have been more grateful for her friendship.

  “Chloe! This isn’t worth ruining your wood floors over.” Adrianna eyed me and my apartment and pronounced us both filthy. “Time to get you two fixed up. Listen, I don’t know what to say about last night. We’ll get to that later. We’ll take things in chronological order. So that means the Noah situation first.” She wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “It sucks, and it’s embarrassing. He may be hot and sexy and charming, but he’s an insensitive, egomaniacal ass. And you already know all that, and you knew he wasn’t good for you, but he was there and charmed you into bed, and you made the same mistake we all have. So cry it all out today. Then you can tell me what the hell happened last night.” She stood up and carried a huge box of pastries to the kitchen. “I brought over every season of Alias on DVD, so we’ll gorge ourselves on Thai food and the pastries I

  brought over from Mike’s in the North End. Let’s finish painting and clean this disaster area up,” she called from inside the fridge. “Oh, and I’m staying over tonight.” I smiled to myself. I wasn’t alone.

  At 6:30 that evening, Adrianna and I had finished up the living room. She’d patiently tolerated my diatribe on the woes of my involvement with Noah, and she’d repeatedly shaken her head in disbelief as I’d described everything about my evening with Eric, including the meal, his pretensions, and, of course, his murder.

  After the painting, we sat on the couch together. “Come on,” Adrianna said, “it’s not like you had any relationship with this guy. I mean, it must have been exceedingly disturbing and revolting to see a bloody body, but you can’t actually be sad, right? This date with Eric was only supposed to be a retaliation for Noah’s philandering. It’s not like you gave a shit about him.”

  Adrianna is always practical, sometimes to the point of seeming coldhearted. Objectively, I suppose, she was right. But I did feel sad. “Ade, the thing is, though, you didn’t see Eric’s dead body on the floor. You didn’t see all the blood. It’s not like on TV. It smells, and it’s just awful looking. Somebody died last night, and it doesn’t matter, in a way, who it was. I feel sad about that, and I feel sorry for myself that I had to see what I did. Is that selfish? And maybe I got what I deserved for my stupid attempt at revenge, but as annoying as Eric was, he didn’t deserve what he got. I mean, being annoying and pretentious didn’t mean he should die. Because if it did, Noah should be dead, too.”

  “Not such a rotten idea,” Adrianna responded. “But you’re right. I’m a bitch. Forget I said any of that. You can feel whatever you want to feel. It must have been terrible. I’ve never seen a dead body, so I don’t know what it was like.” She leaned over to give me a hug.

  “You know, even though I was there, in a way, I don’t even know what it was like, either. God, Ade, his throat was cut open! And . . . well, what if it was my fault? If I hadn’t gone on that stupid Web site, and we hadn’t made this date, maybe Eric wouldn’t have bee
n at the restaurant and would still be alive and doling out his preposterous culinary observations! And why did everyone think Eric and I were practically on the verge of marriage? How could he have been talking about me when he only found me on the Internet yesterday?”

  Adrianna lit some scented candles—she believes in aromatherapy—and, amid the smell of wild strawberries, she tried to reassure me. “Chloe, you don’t know why Eric was killed. If it was random violence, that’s not your fault. Look, we live in a big city, and the reality is that people get murdered, and if it’s some psycho out there, then I’m glad you weren’t hurt. But if this Eric was a target, someone wanted him dead for whatever reason, and you just happened to be there.”

  “You’re right. But I still feel terrible. This whole thing is confusing and upsetting, and I wish to God I’d never met Eric!” I fell to pieces for a few minutes while my good friend rubbed my back and fetched me tissues. The image of a lunatic out there randomly killing people in restaurant restrooms didn’t reassure me. In a gruesomely comforting way, I preferred to think that Eric in particular had been the intended victim.

  When I pulled myself together, Adrianna took my head in her hands and asked, “Okay, you done? Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You’ve cried enough to flood this place.” Adrianna got up and went over to grab her purse, which she’d left on a chair. “Now, for one of this evening’s activities . . . ta dah!” She whipped around to show me a box of hair dye.

  “Why are we dying my hair?” I demanded.

  “We’re not dying yours,” she responded. “We’re dying mine. I don’t know how to fix the Eric problem. But I do know something about friendship. I’m too blonde, and you’re in no state to be socializing with blondes right now. In an act of solidarity, I’m going brunette. Or more precisely, I’m going Walnut Shine.”

  “Oh, Ade! I don’t hate all blondes now. Just Noah’s blonde tramp. You have gorgeous hair.” She did have excellent hair: a thick, silky mane of magnificent locks that curled softly the way you see in all those shampoo commercials. She regularly colored her hair at home and had at least four different blonde shades streaked through her tresses. How her hair stayed healthy, I had no idea. Mine was full of split ends and frizz no matter how many times I conditioned, hot-oiled, or trimmed it.

  “Yes, yes, Chloe, I know there are many lovely, friendly blondes out in the world, but right now we’re going to hate all of them! Get me a towel, and help me get this glop in my hair. And get the menu for Bangkok Bistro. We need major takeout tonight.”

  After we’d ordered half the menu to be delivered, we holed up in my bathroom, Adrianna seated backward on the toilet, half-naked, with a towel wrapped around her shoulders.

  “I can’t believe you’re trusting me with this,” I murmured as I massaged the brown dye through her hair.

  “It’s just hair,” she replied, a comment I thought was pretty generous, considering that hair was her profession.

  As I worked on her new look, I found that instead of wanting to complain about my nightmarish love life, I just wanted to be quiet. I didn’t even want to think about Noah or my year and a half of infrequent and unsuccessful dating or the bloody mess I’d seen on the men’s room floor. I just wanted a night with my best friend.

  After washing Adrianna’s hair in the tub and declaring her new walnut shade a victory for scorned women everywhere, we sat in front of the TV. I had showered and scrubbed the paint out of my own hair and was comfortably wearing my sushi-print pajamas with my hair twisted elegantly on top of my head, thanks to significant tugging and pulling from Adrianna.

  Having not eaten all day, I was so famished that when the deliveryman arrived with our Thai food, I practically tackled him. The day of fasting was unlike me. I typically spent a good portion of each day thinking about what I was going to have for my next meal. Whenever I was depressed, I usually had a few hours when I didn’t want anything to do with food, but when my bad mood even hinted at lifting, I craved food. And not just food, but gourmet food. I was all about soothing trips to Whole Foods or dinner at Boston Magazine’s review of the month. When I’d ended my last serious relationship, I’d ransacked my shelves of cookbooks and selected Charlie Trotter’s Rack of Lamb with Vegetable Ragoût, Mustard Spätzle, and Mustard and Thyme Reduction as my medicine. Instead of slaving over homemade spätzle, I’d substituted store-bought gnocchi, but I’d figured that under the circumstances, Mr. Trotter would forgive me for cheating.

  We opened pad thai (no peanuts), tod mun, chicken curry, warm beef salad, and white rice. The smells were spicy, salty, and sweet. I inhaled the aromas and felt a cozy, healing comfort wash over me. While Sydney Bristow continued to kick some serious ass, we polished off the delectable chocolate mousse cake Adrianna had brought and washed it down with tall glasses of milk. The last time Adrianna had broken up with a boyfriend, the highlights of the evening had included, from what we could both remember, drowning our (her) woes in apple martinis, getting kicked out of the Purple Rose bar, and vomiting in my bathtub late into the night. The hangovers we’d both had the next day led to the resolution that future heartaches were to be dealt with sober.

  And sober we were when late that night we both crashed in my bed together. I was exhausted from my emotional-roller-coaster day, and Adrianna had to get up early to do yet another final hair run-through for a bride-to-be. Ade pulled the comforter up to her chin. “I keep telling her to wait until a few days before the wedding to decide, since she keeps changing her mind about what she wants. One day it’s up, the next it’s down,” Adrianna complained.

  We giggled and chatted like kids having a sleepover until we were both silent and falling asleep. I rolled on my side and pulled a pillow on top of my head, a habit that always left me in a state of potential suffocation but was my favorite way to sleep. It felt nice to have a warm body in my bed, even if it was just Adrianna. Better her than Noah. Or Eric, obviously.

  I slept dream-free and woke up cozy and warm and still satisfied from the delicious Thai food. It was only 6:45 a.m., but I could hear Adrianna in the shower preparing for her bridal nightmare. I snuggled in my comforter and remembered when my food-love connection had first begun, namely, during a family trip to Europe when I was thirteen. When my now-beloved parents, Bethany and Jack, had packed us up, the last thing Heather and I had looked forward to was vacationing with our parents, and we’d especially resented the expectation that we girls actually learn something. I’d devoted the first part of the vacation to devouring Gone with the Wind and delectable food. While Scarlett pursued her precious Ashley, I munched on buttery baguettes smeared with a triple-cream Brie and air-dried beef, the perfect love story and perfect food. I’d taken breaks from the Civil War (truces, I guess) for meals with my family. When I finished Gone with the Wind, I started The Great Gatsby. While our parents toured the Louvre and Notre Dame, my sister and I sat on benches in the Paris sun enjoying spinach-filled crepes and cones of exotic sorbet. I embedded myself in the world of Gatsby’s all-night parties, lavish food, and romantic quests, and looked up occasionally to join Heather in gazing with vague longing at beautiful French boys. (At that point, my graphic knowledge about boys came from the one pornographic picture my classmate Elliot had shown me.) So, my pursuit of the perfect blend of romance and food dated to that summer, when I basked in literary love and bombarded my senses with new tastes and smells. Especially since then, good food had always meant love or the hope of love: Scarlett, Ashley, Rhett, Gatsby, Daisy, French boys, and surprisingly good times with my family. It had meant weddings and holidays. Until now, it had never, ever meant death. Never before.

  Adrianna interrupted my reminiscing when she entered the bedroom looking intolerably glamorous in a black spaghetti-strap sundress. “How can you look like that this early in the morning? Or ever, for that matter?” I demanded.

  “Oh, shut up!” She waved away my words and handed me a steaming cup of perfect coffee that she’d somehow extracted from my defective coffeemaker
. No wonder I was the only woman friend she had. No one else could tolerate her perfection.

  “I’ll walk you out.” Holding the coffee cup, I hauled myself out of bed, walked her out the side door to the fire escape, and sat down in the one rickety chair I had managed to squeeze onto the little landing. I was just about to say my good-byes and thank-yous to Adrianna when I heard foot-steps coming up the stairs. Noah.

  This was how my life worked. Faced with an ex, I was dressed in silly pajamas, and my hair was a mess. Meanwhile, my gorgeous friend stood beside me in all her glamorous glory with Noah flagrantly ogling her, black dress and all.

  “What do you want?” demanded Adrianna, who stood beside me in more ways than one.

  “Hi, Adrianna.” Noah leaned flirtatiously against the railing. “You look good.” Oh, I hate him! “So, Chloe, I see you’ve moved on nicely. A little switch for you, but you’ve got good taste.”