“Maybe you’re right,” I said, closing my laptop and setting it aside. I wasn’t sure I believed her, but I couldn’t get her to come around and she wasn’t going to leave me in peace until I acquiesced.
“Of course I’m right,” Izzy replied with an impish grin. “Aren’t I always?”
Ignoring that last question, I asked, “How long until dinner is ready?”
“The zucchini has to marinate in my secret sauce in the fridge a bit to soak up the flavor.”
“In that case, your clothes should be dry by now.” Even in the tiny dryer, it didn’t take long to dry three articles of clothing. Personally, I preferred to line dry when possible, or spread all my wet clothes out in the bathroom to drip dry, but the electric dryer was more expedient. “Go grab them and I’ll show you how to take them apart so you can reuse the cloth.”
I grabbed my sewing kit and handed her a pair of scissors. She laid the clothing out on the table, and I advised her to cut the seams off, since it was quicker and easier. While she worked on that, I took a seam ripper and carefully removed all of the delicate seams on my silvery dress.
Sewing was meditative for me, from carefully removing each stich of a seam to the whoosh of the sewing machine and repetitive motion of the needle. Then there was the sense of accomplishment when something that had only existed in my mind previously was now tangible in my hands. Plus, for the bonus round, I got new, personally tailored clothes out of the deal.
All in all, it was a win.
Izzy had finished deconstructing her items and I was almost done with all but the collar of mine when I heard a knock on the door. My heart sank. “You didn’t invite anyone over, did you?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Nope. You?”
The downstairs buzzer had never chimed. If it had been a delivery, they would have left it downstairs with the other packages. Which meant whoever was on the other side of the door was either a neighbor or the concierge, come to check up on me and report back to my aunt. I was in so much trouble.
There was another knock. This one was louder, sharper, and was followed by the announcement, “NYPD. Open up.”
10
Dizzy Izzy @IsabelleWilliamsburg ∙ June 25
u wake up in jail handcuffed with your best friend. in 6 words or less, describe what happened . . . #miranda #stuffjustgotreal
IZZY AND I looked at each other with panic in our eyes.
I’ve always been a law-abiding citizen, more or less. As a slightly-below-average-height, curvaceous brunette, I didn’t exactly appear very threatening, except maybe to a chipmunk. Even so, when I was driving and saw flashing lights appear in the rearview mirror, my anxiety shot through the roof. But that didn’t hold a candle to the feeling of the NYPD pounding on the door demanding to be let in.
“What should we do?” I whispered to Izzy. She shrugged.
The apartment was built to muffle as much sound as possible. It was hard enough living elbow to elbow with a bunch of strangers without having to hear them every time they cleared their throats. The walls were thick enough that unless they were watching an action movie, set off their fire alarm, or were listening to music with a lot of bass at top volume, I barely noticed them.
Until they walked past the front door.
Even with a big draft blocker tacked to the bottom of the door, I could see a thin line of light all the way around it, and voices traveled easily from the hall into the living room. I could hear every little tiny noise as people walked from the elevator to their apartments, chatting away on their phones or dog collars rattling. Which meant whoever was on the other side of the door right now could hear me, too.
“Ms. Dean, I know you’re in there. Open the door,” the voice demanded, rapping again.
The concierge had a copy of the key. I found that out when, on my second day, I’d managed to leave my key in the apartment—the door automatically locked behind me—and had to beg Earl to let me back inside. If I didn’t open the door, the cops could do what I had and borrow a key from the concierge. I knew they needed a warrant to enter a private home, but who actually owned an apartment? The landlord? Or the niece of a resident who was letting Izzy stay here against her aunt’s express orders?
I approached the door and jumped when he banged on it again. “Who’s there?”
“It’s Detective Vincent Castillo, NYPD,” he replied, and I felt my heartbeat return to normal.
It still took me a minute to fumble all of the locks open. “Yes?” I asked once I had the door open.
Without waiting to be invited, he brushed past me. “Bad time?”
“We were just making supper,” Izzy said. While I was answering the door, she had abandoned the material she was reclaiming and had moved into the kitchen, where she was filling a pot with water.
“Ms. Wilson, I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
“Izzy is fine,” she said with a flirty grin before moving the pot from the sink to the back burner of the stove. She lit it, and the rhythmic clicks fell silent as she adjusted the gas.
“What’s up with the home visit?” I asked. My voice came out shaky. I knew I had no reason to feel guilty, but I’d never had a cop in my house before, and it was nerve-racking.
“I wanted to follow up with you.” He focused his full attention on me, resting one hand on the granite counter, angled so he could see the door, the kitchen, and me all at the same time. That was quite a talent.
Like yesterday, the detective wore fitted jeans, a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up in deference to the heat wave that had arrived in the wake of last night’s storm, and a slim waistcoat. The color combination was different today—black, cobalt blue, and more black, respectively—but it was the same basic outfit.
And he made it look good.
Dayum good.
I swallowed the sudden lump that had formed in my throat. I needed water. Or maybe tequila. “Can I get you something to drink?” I offered.
“I got some beer while I was out. Not quite the selection we have at the café, but it’s better than nothing,” Izzy added.
“I’m good, thanks,” Detective Castillo said. He turned to me. “Results came back from the ME.”
“They did?” I had expected them to take weeks. Months, maybe. “So fast?”
“In light of the issues you raised, I had her pushed to the top of the list. A young, healthy woman like Ms. Kostolus dying from such a short fall, well, it bore taking a closer look.”
“And?” I asked, barely able to bear the suspense any longer.
“Her injuries were consistent with a fall.” He paused for a beat, watching my crestfallen face. “It’s not what you wanted to hear, but your friend’s death was an accident. I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Wait, that’s it? You’re closing the case, just like that?”
“I understand your frustration, Ms. Dean. It’s hard to accept when a loved one passes unexpectedly. I have to admit, you had me half believing there was something to it, but all evidence says otherwise. There is nothing suspicious about Ms. Kostolus’s death. You need to let it go, and find another way to honor your friend.”
“Thank you.” I might have been disappointed in the results, but I hadn’t forgotten my manners.
Izzy, on the other hand, took hospitality to the next level when she asked, “Why don’t you stay for dinner? We’re having vegan pesto pasta, spicy zucchini salad, and fresh baked bread. Way too much for just the two of us.”
“Sounds delightful, but I have to get back to the station. Ladies,” he said, with a nod. Forgetting that he’d given me his card last night, he left one on the counter and let himself out. The door clicked locked behind him.
I waited until I heard the elevator ding, and then counted to three to make sure the elevator doors closed before turning to Izzy. “What were you thinking?”
&n
bsp; “That he’s cute. And employed. And he doesn’t wear a wedding ring.”
I rolled my eyes. Sure, I’d had similar thoughts last night, but I hadn’t actually acted on them. “He’s a cop,” I said.
“I know, right? Where do you keep the strainer?”
“Top right cupboard.”
“Thanks.” She pulled out the strainer and set it in the sink. The water was boiling in earnest now, and angel hair pasta danced in the pot. She paused to stir it occasionally in between slicing bread, combining other ingredients in a large bowl, and assembling the peanut and sriracha zucchini salad. “This is almost ready. Do you mind setting the table?”
Aunt Melanie’s table was currently occupied by my sewing machine and our projects. “We might be better off eating off the bar,” I suggested as I started moving my aunt’s collection of colorful cookie jars out of the way, and used a damp cloth to wipe down the island counter.
As I pulled mismatched bowls and plates out of the cupboard, my mind wandered back to Bethany. It was one thing for Izzy to want to believe her friend’s death was an accident. And one overworked NYPD detective. But the medical examiner, too?
I could almost believe them. It was three against one, after all. But there was still the matter of her missing bracelet. Bethany didn’t take it off, not ever. I thought it was weird, bordering on tacky, but she took it as seriously as any real medical alert bracelet.
Sure, it could have fallen off.
Except medical alert bracelets were more rugged than ordinary jewelry. As a waitress, I knew better than just about anyone how difficult it was to work in a restaurant, even a tiny café. I couldn’t even begin to calculate how many uniforms I’d ruined working in the service industry. Stains. Spills. Burns. Cuts. Between sliding heavy trays on and off my arm all day, washing my hands dozens of times a day, and juggling multiple orders at a time, it was a minor miracle my hands and arms weren’t maimed by now.
If Bethany’s bracelet was going to fall off, it would have done so a long time ago. It would have gotten snagged a gazillion times, but it had held fast. It was hard to believe that something with the tenacity of a cockroach, or maybe Britney Spears, would break and disappear on the same day as Bethany accidentally went over a waist-high rail, dropped over the edge, and mysteriously died on impact despite only having fallen fifteen feet. It wasn’t just unlikely. It was downright suspicious.
Despite Izzy’s logic, Detective Castillo’s assurances, and the ME’s expertise, I had to trust my gut. Her death was no accident. I knew that in my bones. Bethany deserved justice. Someone killed her, and they weren’t going to get away with it.
Not on my watch.
Even if I had zero proof that she had been murdered.
“Odessa?” Izzy asked, and I could tell from her tone of voice that it wasn’t the first time she’d called my name.
“Huh?”
“Man, you were really off in la-la land, weren’t you? Dinner’s ready. Pass me those plates, will ya?”
* * *
• • •
THE NEXT MORNING, I woke up with a crick in my neck. Dinner had been great, delicious as advertised. The pasta was tender and creamy, and the zucchini salad had just the right amount of kick. Afterward, Izzy tried to convince me to go out with her, but I felt like narping around, so I stayed home and finished the season of The Great British Baking Show I’d started the other night. She got home sometime around four in the morning and despite her efforts to tiptoe around in the dark, kept knocking into the furniture, even kicking the edge of the couch I was snoozing on in her effort to be stealthy.
I could hear Izzy’s snores through the closed bedroom door, long and rhythmic with an occasional loud rattle. Despite my discomfort last night, I was glad I had insisted that Izzy get the bedroom. After listening to some of her housing horror stories, I don’t think she’d had a room to herself for years, if ever.
The only problem was that all of my clothes were in the bedroom. I know, I know. I should have planned ahead and set out my clothes for the day last night, but after the baking show finale, I’d gotten sucked into a new podcast and by the time I was ready to go to bed, Rufus was curled up on my stomach purring in his sleep and I hadn’t had the heart to wake him. Which meant now I had to wake Izzy up or wear yesterday’s clothes all over again. At least my new uniform shirt was still in the laundry closet.
Luckily, Izzy didn’t stir at all when I slipped into the bedroom and grabbed clothes more or less at random. I guess a lifetime parade of roommates made it easy to sleep through anything. After a quick shower and breakfast—organic wheat cereal soaked in unsweetened almond milk—I headed off to work. To be completely honest, I would have preferred something colorful and loaded with extra sugar like Froot Loops or Lucky Charms with a cold bowl of whole milk, but if someone saw me smuggling that yummy sugariness into Williamsburg, they’d take away my MetroCard.
I left the keys on the hook by the front door and let the door automatically lock behind me. I wasn’t sure how this was going to work out, two people with only one set of keys, but it was only for a few days. We would have to figure it out as we went.
The walk down to the waterfront was pleasant and gave me plenty of time to think. In a few hours, these same streets would be sweltering. And to think, just a few days ago, it had been bearable all day long, until the thunderstorm that seemed to drag this heat wave in its wake came to town the night that Bethany died.
It had been so pretty that morning. The temperature held steady in the low eighties without a cloud in the sky. It had been a great day to be outdoors, soaking in a little sun while taking advantage of the slight breeze coming off the river.
If I was being honest with myself, I’d probably have to acknowledge that Bethany wasn’t exactly known for being prompt. Or reliable. Her sneaking out of work in the middle of the shift was totally on-brand. When it came to her own YouTube channel or her Etsy soap shop, she was 100 percent. But at the café? She was a solid sixty. On a good day.
With such a perfect day outside, who’s to say that Bethany didn’t just ditch work to go out and enjoy it?
Sure, she said it was a matter of life or death, but she could have said that just to get me to cover for her while she flittered around the park. I had no idea if she had actually met anyone at Domino Park that day, or if so, who it had been. According to Detective Castillo, she’d been alone in all the photos. But one thing I’d learned was that in New York City, no one was ever truly alone.
I pulled my phone out of my messenger bag and pulled up Instagram. I was still logged in to the Untapped Books & Café account, but I wasn’t planning on posting anything so I left it like that. I searched for Domino Park, and was taken aback by the sheer number of photos that had been uploaded this morning alone, and all of them were model-quality.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve got a killer selfie game. I knew my exact best angle and lighting. I could flash a smile that would blind an unsuspecting camera. But I didn’t have anything on these posers. Literally.
Perfect makeup. Perfect hair, despite the breeze. Perfect clothes. Perfect dogs on perfect leashes with perfect doggy grins. In other words, what was that word I was looking for? Oh yeah. Perfect.
And to top it off, there were scores of photos. I was still scrolling back the forty-odd hours between now and Bethany’s death when I arrived at the doorstep of Untapped Books & Café. Absorbed in my phone screen, I pushed the door open with my elbow. I’m sure the little bell tinkled, but I heard it so many times a day that I’d gotten pretty good at blocking it out now. I wish I could say the same for Todd’s salty voice. “It’s about time, Odessa. I was starting to think you were dead, too.”
11
Untapped Books & Café @untappedwilliamsburg ∙ June 26
NYT bestselling author @RealGeoffreyTate at Untapped Books & Café today only! Reading @ 11, signing to follow. LIMITED
SEATING!! #bestseller #thriller #Williamsburg
I GLANCED DOWN AT my phone display, my thumb still scrolling through perfectly staged Instagram shots. “What are you talking about? I’m early, boss,” I protested. “My shift doesn’t start for another five minutes.”
“Yeah, well, Izzy is a no-show and I need your help.”
Uh-oh. When I’d left the apartment, Izzy was still sound asleep. I wondered if she’d forgotten to set an alarm, or if Todd had changed the schedule without bothering to tell anyone. Either scenario was equally likely. “Let me give her a buzz.”
“No time for that. We’ve got New York Times bestseller Geoffrey Tate coming in for a reading in”—he glanced at the huge clock on the wall—“less than an hour. And nothing’s set up. I need you to move the display tables and endcaps into the back room, and bring out the chairs. Set a couple rows up along that wall, and make sure you get a desk for Mr. Tate.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to arrange the café area?” I asked, looking around the already cramped bookstore. A big-name author like Tate was bound to draw a huge crowd. Come to think of it, the store was already unusually crowded for this time of day. “We could seat more people that way.”
“What? And shut down the café for half the day? Are you nuts?” He shook his head and muttered something under his breath.
“’Scuse me? I didn’t quite catch that last bit,” I said, with a forced grin on my face.
“Never mind. Get to work.”
Like most of the odd jobs I got stuck with around here, it was dirty, dusty work. The ancient air conditioner did a valiant job of taking the edge off the worst of the heat, but when the temperature was creeping toward ninety outside and I was lugging furniture all over the bookstore, it might as well have been a cricket spitting into the wind for all the good it did. Finally, after what felt like a week, I’d squeezed every spare chair we had into the sliver of space I’d managed to clear.
Killer Content Page 10
