by Lowe, Sheila
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“You got a boyfriend?”
Claudia nodded, but she didn’t feel as sure of herself on that count as she used to. Jovanic had not called back the night before. She had to wonder how late he and Alex had stayed out on their stakeout. “He’s a detective,” she said. “LAPD.”
Susan laughed. “Just as bad, I’m sure. I think it’s the male persuasion that’s the problem, not the career.”
“I like the male persuasion myself. Not ready to give up on them just yet.”
“Me, I’m ready to travel the world. Maybe I’ll find my soul mate out there somewhere.”
“Wouldn’t it be more fun to find the soul mate first and travel the world together?”
“True, Claudia, so true. And I’ve got some ideas about that.” They chatted on for a few minutes about men and relationships; then Susan set her coffee cup in its saucer and showed her hand. “So, you wanna know who the little bird was? The one who told me you were in Manhattan?”
“Hell, yeah. Spill the beans.”
“Grusha told me.”
“Grusha?”
“You didn’t know? I used to work for her before I got sick. I was the one who told her you were on that show last week—the interview show.”
“That’s news to me. She never told me.”
“Typical. She plays her cards close to her vest.”
Claudia was busy trying to figure Susan into the equation, but wasn’t immediately able to see where she fit. “What was she like to work for?”
Susan flapped her hands. “She’s a hoot if you don’t take her too seriously.” Claudia raised a questioning eyebrow, and she added, “Well, you’ve met her; she’s a big drama queen, not to mention paranoid. Everyone’s out to get her—know what I mean?”
Claudia knew exactly what she meant. “What’s her handwriting like?”
“She doesn’t let anyone see it. Claims she’s functionally illiterate, but I don’t believe that for a minute. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” She put her finger to her lips. “Shhh, don’t tell anyone, but I have seen it. I’ll dig out the sample for you.”
“I heard she’d been using another graphologist.” Claudia made an effort to sound casual, but she needn’t have worried about giving away confidential information.
Susan’s face scrunched into a grimace that made no bones about what she thought of her successor. “Andy Nicholson. That awful, awful man. I warned her. Told her he’s a first-class fraud, but she still hired him. He tells the most outrageous lies and he gets away with it, too.”
“I worked with an attorney who’s thinking of filing perjury charges against him for lying about his credentials,” Claudia said.
“Never stick. You know how experts get all kinds of immunity when they testify. Grusha was crazy to use him and I do believe she’s lived to regret it.”
“Then why didn’t she come back to you? Why call me, when I live on the other side of the country?”
“She knows I have no intention of going back to work,” Susan said. “I can afford to enjoy life. It’s about time I had some fun.” She reached for her purse and dug through it, getting out a compact and lipstick. Holding the tiny mirror with one hand, she squinted into it, applying coral pink gloss and blotting her lips on her paper napkin. “Nothing good can come of getting involved with the Andy Nicholsons of the world. Grusha should have listened to me.”
“Maybe she thought what you told her was out of professional jealousy,” Claudia said, remembering Grusha’s warning not to allow her own animosity toward Andy to interfere with her judgment. “She couldn’t have checked out his creds very well. Most people are willing to accept what’s on a Web site at face value without doing any research.”
“You know he’s a friggin’ hired gun. She used him because he’ll say anything the client wants to hear.”
“But how would that benefit Grusha? I mean, doesn’t she want to know the truth about the people she’s matching up?”
Susan reached over and patted her hand. “Yeah, dollface. Her truth.”
Claudia’s thoughts drifted to Grusha’s phone call voicing her concern that Andy had made errors in his reports. If what Susan had just said was true and Grusha had used Andy to make it appear she had screened potential club members, and she had kept negative information about their personalities out of their files, she was now backtracking to cover herself.
“I mean,” Susan was saying, “to hear her tell it, there’s nothing the least bit disturbing about two of her clients dying so close together. But you have to admit, it really is pretty strange . . .”
“Uh-huh,” said Claudia absently, her moment of introspection broken. Then, “What did you just say?”
“Hel-lo!” Susan snapped her fingers in front of Claudia’s face. “Welcome back. I said, isn’t it strange that two of her clients have died so close together?”
Claudia frowned, sure that she must have heard incorrectly. “Two of them? I didn’t know any of her clients had died.”
Susan gave her an odd look. “I guess it’s not something she’d want to broadcast, though it had nothing to do with her. They were both young, too.”
“What happened?”
“The second one was only a couple of months ago. She was one of the last clients I did for the baroness before I got sick and quit. It was kinda creepy. I just happened to see the article about it in the Times and made the connection. She was a young model—not so well known, but . . .”
“What was her name?” Claudia interrupted.
“Heather Lloyd. She was only—”
“Twenty-five,” Claudia finished for her, stunned. She sipped her coffee, not tasting it. “Grusha gave me Heather Lloyd’s handwriting to analyze. Why would she do that if she’s dead? She must have given it to me by mistake.” She thought of the photo of Heather Lloyd playacting the coquette—Marilyn Monroe on Ellis Island. It was hard to believe. “What happened to her?”
“Skiing accident,” Susan said. “She went up to Vermont over the holidays and skied herself right into a tree.”
Claudia’s mouth dropped. “Oh, man! Are they sure it was an accident?”
“Yeah, it was just one of those things. The article said she was an experienced skier, but for some reason—I guess no one will ever know why—she left the trail and hit a fallen branch or a tree trunk or some bizarre thing like that.”
“Was she with someone?” Recalling Heather Lloyd’s handwriting, Claudia knew that it was highly improbable that she would have taken off for what she presumed was a classy Vermont ski house without an audience in tow.
But Susan shook her head. “The article didn’t mention anyone. It’s a crying shame, with her being so young and all. But you know, these things do happen. Remember Sonny Bono? He died the same way.”
“Of course.” Who could forget the former husband and mentor of the legendary singer, Cher, and later, mayor of Palm Springs? He had skied to his death in the late 1990s.
But something wasn’t adding up. “In Heather Lloyd’s file there was an analysis by Andy Nicholson. Why would Grusha have both Andy and me analyze Heather Lloyd’s handwriting when she’s dead?”
Susan gave an eloquent shrug. “That, my friend, is a mystery. The baroness has her own way of operating.”IT
“I intend to ask her about it.”
“Good luck with that; she can be a cagey devil. And don’t tell her I told you.”
“I won’t mention you. But what about the other one? You said two deaths?”
Susan leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Yeah, get this—it’s even creepier. The other one was another client whose handwriting I’d analyzed. He was a medical student named Ryan Turner. Drowned in the Bahamas, scuba diving.”
The name meant nothing to Claudia. Cheered by the knowledge that Ryan Turner’s was not among the client files Grusha had given her, she was still puzzled. “Let’s back up the bus a minute. You did say you had analyzed Heather Lloyd’s h
andwriting, too?”
“Yeah, I remember it. She had persona writing. You know, that superstylized script.”
“Right. But there was only one analysis in her file—Andy Nicholson’s.”
“Well, I certainly wrote a report,” Susan said, her penciled brows forming an arch. “So where the hell is it?”
Claudia returned to her hotel wondering what other important information Grusha Olinetsky might have held back. She could understand why the matchmaker wouldn’t wish to publicize the premature deaths of these two clients. But what was the point of asking a third person to analyze Heather Lloyd’s handwriting? Unless, as Claudia suspected, she hadn’t liked what she had seen in the first two reports and was hoping for something more favorable in the third.
The red message light was blinking on the twentieth century phone as Claudia entered her room. She kicked off her shoes and tossed her coat on the chair, dialed the message center. The recorded voice of Grusha’s assistant, Sonya Marsi, held a hint of reproof.
“You didn’t answer your mobile, so I hope you get this before you come to the office, Ms. Rose. The baroness wants you to meet with our club psychologist, Dr. Pollard, and our physician, Dr. McAllister, this morning. I’ve already made appointments with both of them for you, so call me back ASAP.”
Claudia fished her mobile out of her purse and checked the screen. Sure enough, there was one missed call. She hadn’t heard it ring over the din in the bagel shop.
When she returned the phone call, Sonya informed her that she had made the first appointment for eleven. Grusha’s driver would fetch Claudia from the hotel at ten forty-five and transport her to the offices of the medical doctor and the consulting psychologist who vetted Grusha Olinetsky’s clients. That left a little more than an hour for Claudia to take a second look at the files and collect her notes.
“Oh, and Ms. Rose,” Sonya added, “I’ve messen gered you a file the baroness forgot to give you yesterday. It should be there any minute.”
No more than two minutes after they had rung off, the front desk called to say there was a package waiting for Ms. Rose. She asked for it to be brought up to her room.
After handing the bellman a tip, Claudia closed the door and ripped open the flap of the thick envelope. With a sense of inevitability, she removed the folder and read the name of the client: Ryan Turner. The medical student who had drowned while scuba diving.
She took the folder to the desk and sat down, opening it first to the head shot, then flipping to the photo gallery. Her first impression of Ryan Turner was of movie-star quality looks: thick black hair, strong jaw, six-pack abs, muscular legs.
I wonder what his bedside manner was like.
As with Heather Lloyd, she didn’t want to accept the fact of his death; it was just too sad to contemplate. Yet Grusha had sent her his file so she could examine his handwriting. Heather Lloyd’s file might have been given to her by mistake, but two mistakes of the same kind stretched the boundaries of credulity to the breaking point.
When she turned to Ryan Turner’s handwriting, she was intrigued to note that of all the Elite Introductions client files she had examined so far, his sample had the greatest emotional maturity. Firm, swinging rhythm, good spatial arrangement and simplified forms equaled a smart, adaptable guy with the ability to plan ahead. Not far enough ahead to avoid his own death. Scuba diving. Huh.
Maybe comparing the handwritings to each other would provide some answers. Claudia smoothed the bedspread over the unmade bed and set out the leather folders in two rows of five, each one opened to its handwriting sample.
Her practiced eyes traveled over the handwritings, searching for something in common between the scripts, or something in the personalities of the clients that might clue her in to Grusha’s motive for giving her this mystifying task.
She found that two of the women—Heather and Shellee—shared some similar personality traits. The men’s handwritings were all over the map, but three of them—Avram, Marcus, and John—had red flags for pathological behavior. Ryan Turner’s handwriting was emotionally healthy, but he was dead.
In the next phase of her examination she considered the demographics: four women, six men, aged from their mid-twenties to late thirties. Their careers were varied. From the information in the files, there was no connection that she could see.
Except that two of them are dead. It kept coming back to that.
Why would the baroness want me to analyze the handwritings of two dead clients?
She opened her laptop and signed on to the hotel’s wireless Internet connection. Opening a browser window, she Googled “Heather Lloyd + model + dead” and found a handful of links to minor articles featuring the young woman, most of them covering fashion shows.
Two recent articles mentioned her tragic death. One added an important detail that Susan Rowan had been unable to provide: Heather had been skiing with an unnamed companion when she left the trail. Only minutes later, she was dead from severe head injuries.
Who had her companion been—a match made by Grusha Olinetsky? Since Lloyd had evidently plunked down a big fee to join Elite Introductions, chances were she would be dating a member. Maybe it was her companion’s handwriting that Claudia should be analyzing. Or maybe she already had. She made herself a note to ask Grusha whether Lloyd had dated any of the men in the group.
A search on “Ryan Turner” produced a short article about his drowning death in Nassau, the Bahamas.
According to the reporter, the young doctor was new to scuba diving. The spokesperson for the hotel where he was staying indicated that he had taken a quickie course with their instructor and was not adequately prepared for the difficulty he ran into. He had been strongly warned not to dive alone. That’s the hotel covering its ass. It was assumed that he had ignored this advice, as no one came forward to claim the body, which was found by other divers, trapped underwater in seaweed.
It all sounded on the up-and-up, but Claudia found herself wanting to discuss her questions about the two deaths with Jovanic. She considered phoning him, but if he had been up all night on stakeout, he was probably catching up on his sleep. She would have to wait for him to call. Meanwhile, there was still time to take a look at the other clients. She opened a new browser and Googled Shellee Jones.
She was staring at the words on the laptop screen when “Bad Boys” sounded on her cell phone.
Chapter 6
The Cops television show theme was the one Claudia had chosen for Jovanic’s ring tone. “Hey,” she said, “how’s it going?”
“Hey,” Jovanic said. “It’s going fine here. How’s it going with Anastasia?”
“Grusha. I haven’t seen her yet today. She’s sending me to talk to some of the other consultants she uses before we get together later.”
“What’s the point of that?”
“I haven’t had a chance to ask her. I guess she just wants all the consultants to get to know one another.”
“How about you come home soon and consult with me?”
“Is that your way of saying you miss me?”
“You know, it’s not nice to force a guy to say stuff like that, but . . . okay, yeah, I miss you.” She could hear the grin in his voice.
“I miss you, too.” But I’m liking the space a little bit.
“So, how are you doing, all alone in the big city?” He knew her well enough to detect the nuances.
“I’m fine. Great.”
“You sure? You sound—”
“Stop being so protective, Joel, I’m fine. How’s Alex?” That just slipped out before she was even aware that it had been on her tongue.
When he hesitated, Claudia got a sharp impression that she wasn’t the only one who wasn’t telling all. She thought about pressing the point, but she wanted to see his eyes when she asked him what was up. And she was convinced that something was.
“Alex is fine, you’re fine, we’re all fine.” He sounded fed up, with a weariness that probably had little to do wit
h the number of hours he had worked. “Are you pissed because I didn’t call last night?”
“Of course not. You were working.”
“I got in late, didn’t want to wake you.” He added quickly, “You know how it is on a stakeout.”
“Yeah. Did you get your man? Or woman?”
“No, we’re on again tonight. So, how’s the job really going?”
She told him what she’d learned from Susan Rowan.
“Two dead clients?” he repeated.
“Two young, dead clients.”
“Both accidents, unrelated.”
“There doesn’t seem to be a connection, just a weird fluke.”
“You know what I think about coincidences.”
Jovanic had block-printed writing. That meant he expected things to have a sound, logical reason or he wouldn’t accept them.
“I don’t much believe in coincidences, either,” she said. “But maybe this is one of those times when a cigar is just a cigar.”
“It stinks like a cigar.”
Claudia laughed. “That’s funny, coming from a reformed smoker.”
“Cigarettes smell better than cigars. Maybe I should take it up again.”
“Not if you want to kiss these lips, Columbo.”
He made a huffing sound that passed for a chuckle. “I haven’t had a chance to check out this baroness character yet, but when I get back to the office—” He hesitated as someone in the background called his name. Claudia thought she recognized Alex’s voice. “Gotta go,” he said. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”
She clicked end on her cell phone and went back to her laptop with her stomach churning. Why is Alex with him when he’s off duty?
Put it aside, think about it later.
The article she had pulled up about Shellee Jones before Jovanic’s phone call was waiting behind the screen saver. She ran her eye over the short piece, looking for anything that would add to the scant information she already had. Her hand went to her mouth. Oh crap.
While dining out at a trendy restaurant in the East Village, Shellee Marie Jones, youngest daughter of successful hedge-fund manager Donald Jones, apparently ingested a substance to which she was severely allergic. Anaphylactic shock caused Jones to stop breathing, and although paramedics were called to the scene within a few minutes, they did not arrive in time. Friends and family were at a loss, claiming that Jones was always scrupulous about making sure she touched nothing that contained peanut products. An autopsy is pending.
