TMonaghan 12 - Hush Hush

by Laura Lippman

  The sun had barely straggled into the sky. How Melisandre hated daylight saving time’s early start, which was new to her. Back home in London—she stopped, corrected herself, London is not home, you didn’t even have an apartment there, you just ended up there after Mother died because you had to close up her apartment, take care of things—the clocks wouldn’t be reset until the end of the month. Melisandre had awakened at first light all her life, and she felt deprived of an essential birthright when she had to rely on an alarm clock, as she had this morning. The eight-block walk to the gym in darkness was a misery. But the walks to and from the gym were also highlights of her day, among the few times she was allowed out without Brian, who took his job much too seriously. She was determined to live without him once she was in the new apartment. Not that she had told him that.

  Silas chattered amiably on the walk back to the hotel, and Melisandre listened with the top of her mind, making the correct comments at intervals. It was not unlike talking to Poppy, back in the day. Silas was a nice young man. If Melisandre were inclined toward cultural cliché, she would seduce him. But it was unthinkable to her, and not just because Stephen had married a trainer. Melisandre preferred protectors. She was aware that was her downfall, but she wanted a man who could take care of her. That had been Stephen’s charm, even if he was a bit of a rebound, not that anyone had suspected as much. Stephen seemed like Prince Charming to everyone else—rich, decent-looking, not in a wheelchair.

  They reached the Four Seasons and went up to her rental apartment. Lord, she was sick of hotels and corporate apartments. She realized this was an entitled, bratty thing even to think, but Melisandre’s family had always had money, although they had been rich in the old Baltimore way, not making a show of things. Money was like skin. She had been born with it, she was used to it. Money offered her some protection, some comfort, and she couldn’t live without it. But it didn’t make her invulnerable. It had not saved her in her darkest days and it could not get her what she wanted now, except indirectly. She should have come back sooner, but she hadn’t been strong enough to face Alanna and Ruby. She was so ashamed of what she had done. But with her mother’s death, and then the news of Stephen’s new child, a son, she knew she had to return. Not that she believed Stephen would neglect the girls in favor of his new child, but one never knew.

  In the kitchen, she made a cappuccino for herself, a tea for Silas. A vegan and very pure, almost sanctimonious, about what he put in his body, Silas had one interesting dietary tic: He adored sugar. She used to adore it, too, she told him. Had been famous for it among her boarding school friends. That was one of the things that her anonymous taunter knew. But her note writer didn’t know that she no longer loved sugar. Sweet things tasted like ash in her mouth now. She watched Silas heap sugar into his green tea until it was practically a soda. She liked him better for this one weakness. Melisandre always liked to know what others’ weaknesses were. Silas had been a fat kid, and this sugared tea was one of the highlights of his day. She left him to it, heading to the shower. Soaping herself, she wondered idly why she didn’t want to have sex with Silas. She hadn’t been with anyone for a while. Perhaps it would take the edge off? Maybe it was because he brought out something maternal. She saw the fat kid, not the buff young man. She had figured out his history before he shared it, asked him point-blank: You were fat as a kid, weren’t you? Stephen had once accused Melisandre of not caring about other people’s feelings. If anything, she cared too much. She could feel other people’s feelings sometimes—and it was terrifying. When Isadora had cried, it was as if Melisandre had colic, too.

  Showered, she changed into clothes that were really just a more luxurious version of her gym gear—velvet leggings, an Armani T-shirt, a loose cashmere sweater, soft ankle boots—and fluffed her hair, an entity with which she had made peace long ago, although she still sometimes resented it for all the attention it received. She did not wish to be loved for her curly hair alone. Checked her phone: Brian had texted that he would be three minutes late and, knowing Brian, that meant he would be two minutes, fifty-nine seconds late. She hoped—

  Just then, she heard a thump from the living room, then the sound of something breaking. Clumsy boy. That sugar bowl was an antique.

  But it was not just a bowl that had fallen. Silas was on the floor, body in spasms, surrounded by fragments of his morning treat, the rug soaked with tea.

  Melisandre was still standing there when Brian arrived. He dropped to his knees and felt for the young man’s pulse, then called 911.

  “I froze,” Melisandre murmured. “I just—froze. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I just froze.”

  She had no idea how much time had passed. And that frightened her even more than the young man convulsing on the floor.

  11:00 A.M.

  Tess Monaghan believed no one should speak on a phone while driving a car, no matter what device was used. Hands-free, headsets, earpieces, Bluetooth—all of it took one out of driving. It was unsafe at any speed.

  Still, she did it all the time.

  She supposed that made her a hypocrite. And a really crappy mother, too, as she did it even when Carla Scout was with her. But Tyner had called her three times this morning and she had ignored the first two. When his number flashed in the dashboard caller ID a third time, she decided it must be urgent, possibly even personal.

  “What’s up?”

  “There was an incident with Melisandre this morning. It appears that someone tried to drug her or poison her—we’re unsure. At any rate, her trainer drank something while in her apartment and he went into a seizure. He’s going to be okay, but it was clearly meant for Missy.”

  That nickname again.

  “Why ‘clearly’?”

  “Remember, Melisandre told us the notes she’s been receiving are from someone who knows things about her past, things that not everyone knows. Well, she was a sugar fiend once. Used to pour tablespoons of sugar into her coffee, over her morning Rice Krispies. Remember, I was surprised that she didn’t want the sweets at breakfast?”

  Tess remembered. She almost drove through a red light, thinking about how well Tyner knew Melisandre’s breakfast habits.

  “So?”

  “We think someone doctored her sugar. Her trainer used it, she didn’t. Could have been the tea, which was loose, but the sugar seems more likely, as it was in a bowl. The doctor thinks it could have been a large helping of one of the date rape drugs—they don’t normally see seizures from those, but it can happen.”

  “What do the police think?”

  Did paraplegics squirm? There was a squirm in Tyner’s long pause, Tess was sure of it.

  “She didn’t call the police. The boy stabilized quickly, was breathing and alert within minutes. Melisandre chose to take him by private ambulance to her doctor. She goes to one of those boutique practices, one that’s available to its clients around the clock.”

  Of course she does.

  “The doctor attended to the boy as quickly as any ER would have,” Tyner added. “Faster. Melisandre made the right choice.”

  “So why are you calling me? Sandy and I are not responsible for the security in her current location.”

  “She wants to move as soon as possible. She doesn’t want to spend another night in the Four Seasons.”

  “Then tell her to call a moving company. Anyone but Mayflower, though. Then people in this town really won’t be able to forgive her.” Mayflower had been the company that had moved the Colts out of town in the dead of a snowy night. Thirty years and two Super Bowl victories later for the Ravens, Baltimoreans still carried a grudge against the moving company that had taken their beloved Colts away.

  “I’m on top of those details, thank you very much. But I want you to go over to the Four Seasons, make some discreet inquiries. We need to figure out who had access to Melisandre’s suite.”

  “Isn’t that Brian’s job?”

  “It was. She fired Brian. Perhaps a little impetuous and un
fair, but that’s Missy. She will not tolerate failure.”

  Missy.

  “This could have happened in the plant where the sugar was packaged. It could have happened anywhere. Did the hotel provide the sugar? Did Melisandre shop for her own groceries? The opportunities for contamination are endless, from the store to the delivery, to whoever put it in a bowl to begin with. And who still puts sugar in a bowl, anyway? Why so fancy?”

  “Melisandre was raised in a household where things were done in a certain way. Her father was from here, but her mother was British and Melisandre was born in London. Certain rituals were observed.”

  Again, Tess was irked by this intimate knowledge. Sure, it was something any friend could know. And it wasn’t as though Tyner was a virgin when he married her aunt a few years ago. Her fabulous, gorgeous aunt, who was much too good for him. But Tess’s preferred narrative about her aunt and Tyner was that both were sexual adventurers who had discovered true love with each other. Okay, Tyner and Melisandre had dated back in the day. Tyner had dated everyone, back in the day. But family facts, breakfast knowledge—you couldn’t say it was TMI, but it was more “I” than Tess needed.

  “She’s terrified, Tess. I’ve never seen anything like it.” He disconnected without saying good-bye. Presumably to go tend to poor little Melisandre. Missy.

  Tess turned to Sandy, riding shotgun. Oh, yes, that was the other thing she hated about taking phone calls in the car: Sandy had heard every word of the conversation, through the dash. She always forgot to tell callers when someone was listening, although she knew that was the proper etiquette.

  “What do you think?” she asked him.

  “Weird. She’s a puzzler.”

  “Like all women?”

  “No. On an individual basis. I understand a lot of women. You, for example.”

  “The other day you said you never knew what I was going to say next.”

  “I never know what you’re going to say, but your feelings are all but written on your big mick forehead. I just don’t get her agenda, which means I don’t get our agenda. When I was a murder police, I always knew the objective. Find out who did what. Get it cold. Pass it on to the state’s attorney, and if some defense attorney wanted to say, Well, Pinky killed Peaches because his mother didn’t love him, fine with me. Not part of my job.”

  “So what’s going on here?”

  “Got me.” Sandy’s shrug implied something else.

  “You have an opinion, though.”

  “No. I specialize in not having opinions. But—”

  “But what?”

  “Don’t lose sight of the fact that no one had more chances to doctor her guy’s drink than she did. Doesn’t mean she did it. But the obvious answer . . .”

  Is the obvious answer. Tess knew that was an article of faith in Sandy’s old job.

  “Okay, then why?”

  “Not my favorite question, as you know.”

  “Possibly mine. As you know.”

  “Well, they’re making a movie about her, right? Maybe she just needed something to happen.”

  “Tyner said she’s terrified. That’s hard to fake.”

  Another shrug. It wasn’t a who-knows shrug. If anything, it seemed to indicate a world of knowledge that Sandy didn’t want to share.

  “Guy had a seizure. If she’s responsible, then she’s worried that she’s gone too far.”

  Tess chewed on that. Chewed on it almost literally, absentmindedly grabbing a pen from the pocket between the seats, putting it in her mouth, and gnawing on the top.

  “I see you doing that and I think two things,” Sandy said. “One is that, one day, I’m going to have to give you the Heimlich.”

  “And the second thing?”

  “I never want to borrow a pen from you.”

  “I feel like there’s a third thing you want to tell me.”

  Sandy grabbed the handle above his seat. He claimed Tess’s driving made him nervous. “Unfinished business here. She didn’t hire you because you’re the best of the best of the best. Sorry—but you said it first, security isn’t our bailiwick.” He was clearly proud of himself for remembering that word. “So what do you want to do?”

  She wanted to finish the work as contracted and be free from Melisandre Harris Dawes. But visions of sugarplums—food, clothing, braces, college tuition—danced in her head. A visit to the Four Seasons meant more billable hours.

  “Is it okay if I drop you at the hotel and let you approach management alone? This is going to be delicate and you still have your cop gravitas. You’ll probably get further than I ever would.”

  “Sure. What are you going to do?”

  “I thought I’d go to the boathouse. I need to think, and I think best on the water.”

  “Fine with me. But I thought you said you couldn’t go back on the water until April, that it was too cold to row yet.”

  “All the serious rowers get back on the water by March. I’m just not serious anymore.”

  Tess retrieved her shell from the rack at the boathouse. Rowing technology had come a ways since her time as a mediocre college rower, and she now had a shell that was extremely light, yet hadn’t killed her bank account. Workout clothes were different, too, concocted of magic fibers that wicked moisture away and kept warmth in or, depending on the weather, wicked moisture away and let the warmth out. The magic of Under Armour. Like a lot of native Baltimoreans, Tess was amazed when anything from her hometown became a national phenomenon. Yet there was Under Armour’s headquarters on her rowing route, a thriving hive of activity where Procter & Gamble had turned out Ivory, Tide, Dawn, and Cascade. Locust Point, a working-class neighborhood once, was making a move on hip and trendy. It was even the site of a couple of swank condo developments, including 13 Stories, Melisandre’s new home.

  But for everything that had changed about Tess’s rowing routine, one thing remained constant. Tess went to the water to think. Or, more precisely, not to think, which was when solutions came to her. Today, her body was a little stiff from winter; she never worked out as much as she intended to over the cold-weather months, not since Carla Scout’s arrival. Ah, well, she wasn’t even forty. She could return to her peak shape with a little effort, not that her peak was that formidable. More like a Maryland mountain, certainly nothing you’d find out west. Not that Tess had ever been out west. She had barely left her home state. She had never traveled abroad. She could probably count on her fingers the number of times she had been on an airplane.

  How had this happened? No one planned to be a boring stick-in-the-mud. But in her twenties, working as a reporter, Tess had had almost no money and very little vacation time. And then she had had all the time in the world—and zero money, because she had been laid off. Circumstances had thrown her into her PI gig, and she was good at it, even if the local newspaper, the Beacon-Light, had hung that stupid moniker, the Accidental Detective, on her. Crow had said that article was practically a blueprint for stalking.

  Then she became an accidental mom. Soon, Tess supposed, she would be an accidental spouse, assuming she and Crow ever found time to get the license, go to the courthouse. But there was never time.

  Money. Time. The first was theoretically infinite. Tess had always embraced the wisdom of Mr. Bernstein in Citizen Kane: It’s not hard to make a lot of money, if all you want to do is make a lot of money. But the pursuit of money blinded one to the finite nature of time. There was no truer democracy than time. Everyone got twenty-four hours in a day. But, like that game show with the briefcases full of cash, the one that Tess never got the hang of despite having watched it compulsively while being on bed rest during her pregnancy, no one knew how many of those days they were going to bank. So how did you value your hours? Tess wanted Melisandre’s money—and felt dirty for wanting it. Because Sandy was right. Melisandre hadn’t hired Tess because she was Baltimore’s Gavin de Becker, the best of the best of the best. Melisandre wanted Tess because she provided a connection to Tyner. Why? What w
as the unfinished business between them? Why couldn’t Melisandre just stalk Tyner on Facebook and leave Tess out of it?

  The day was cold, typical of this wretched winter, and Tess’s stiffening fingers forced her to turn back early. Walking her shell into the boathouse, she remembered how shocked everyone here had been when Melisandre’s madness had brushed up against this close-knit world. Stephen Dawes had rowed with a private club, competed in all the local races, some regional ones. He never came back to the boathouse after that day, and who could blame him? Melisandre wasn’t really part of the community, except as Stephen’s wife. Tess didn’t even recall seeing her around, back in the day—and Melisandre wasn’t a person who would escape notice easily.

  Feeling nostalgic for the person she was ten years ago, even though that person had been lonely, broke, and miserable, Tess went to Jimmy’s, her post-workout haunt when she had lived in Fells Point above her aunt’s bookstore. She loved Jimmy’s, but she had stopped going there after that newspaper profile—that Accidental Detective nonsense—had mentioned how she always ordered the same thing for breakfast, a toasted plain bagel. Tess’s monomania was a private quirk, thank you very much. Besides, it was now almost two o’clock, so she had a grilled cheese and bacon sandwich and read the New York Times that she grabbed off the front steps every morning and almost never opened. She probably couldn’t pass a grade school current events quiz these days.

  She hit the restroom, and her check was waiting on the table for her when she returned. Okay, okay, I get the hint, you want me out of here, she thought. It’s not like people are waiting for tables at this time of day.

  Upon closer examination, however, she saw that it wasn’t her check, just a piece of paper, in the same handwriting as the note on her car, two days earlier.