by Lowe, Sheila
She hid her melancholy behind a bright smile as Marcus opened the car door and gave her his hand to help her out. The appreciative flicker in his eyes told her what he thought of her appearance, even before he said she looked terrific.
Inside the restaurant, the maitre d’ greeted Marcus with the kind of deference accorded a longtime customer.
“Mr. Bernard, madam, good evening. How are you this evening?”
Marcus helped Claudia out of her coat and unwound the fine cashmere scarf from his neck, handing it, with their overcoats, to the coat checker. Indiana Jones of this morning had disappeared, leaving a well-turned-out gentleman in his place.
The indoor dining room gave the impression of an airy patio on the Riviera: pillars and arches; a stone fountain and potted orange trees; chandeliers with low lights. The conversation was subdued, the mood music barely audible. Nothing casual here. The servers were dressed almost as well as the diners.
Each table was generously spaced from other diners and ensured a sense of privacy.
“The food is excellent,” Marcus told Claudia as the maitre d’ guided them to their table. “I hope you like it. It’s next to impossible to get a reservation.”
The maitre d’ made a subtle show of drawing out Claudia’s chair and helping her into it. “Most of our guests have to call three months ahead,” he interjected, whipping a white linen napkin from the dinner plate that was already in place, and laying it across her lap with some ceremony.
Claudia looked at Marcus, wearing an innocent expression. “You’ve had a reservation for months?”
“Oh, not Mr. Bernard,” said the maitre d’ before he could answer. “We always make room for him.”
“Tomás is very accommodating,” Marcus said, taking his seat. He nodded at the man, who promised that their waiter would join them momentarily, and glided away.
“Too bad for the people on the waiting list,” Claudia said, not altogether comfortable at jumping to the head of the line.
Marcus gave a naughty-boy grin and rubbed his fingertips together, suggesting the exchange of a healthy tip for the good table. “I love this place. I come here a lot. They know me. And money talks. ”
The grin saved his remark from complete crassi tude, but wealth notwithstanding, Claudia could see that Marcus Bernard was a little rough around the edges.
The sommelier joined them, and he and Marcus began an animated discussion of the wine list while Claudia listened in, hoping to learn something. Then she and Marcus made desultory small talk until the wine arrived and Marcus made a ceremony of tasting it before giving the sommelier the go-ahead to pour.
Claudia thought it a shame to spoil the artful design by eating the starters they had ordered, but Marcus had no such qualms. He dug into his sea scallops, decimating the art in one bite.
“You’re very attractive, Claudia,” he said after swallowing. “I don’t usually find myself drawn to older women, but—”
“We were going to talk business,” she interrupted, piqued at being called “older.” Forty was the new thirty, wasn’t it? And besides, he was thirty-eight. Claudia picked at tortellini with chanterelles and a savory sauce, reminding herself that Heather and Shellee, both of whom he had dated, had been in their twenties. “You did say you need a handwriting analyst?”
“I do, but what’s wrong with mixing a little pleasure with business?”
“Not a good idea, I’ve found.”
He put on a contrite face. “I can see I’ve offended you. I didn’t mean to suggest that you were old. I just—”
“I’m not offended, but it doesn’t make any difference how old I am.”
“The mixing business with pleasure thing, eh?”
“That’s right. Why don’t we do what we came here for?”
“We are,” said Marcus. “I wanted to get to know you better.”
“Getting to know people is my job,” Claudia retorted. She smiled to take the edge off. “You don’t need to know me to have me analyze handwriting for you.”
He laughed. “Maybe I should have your handwriting analyzed before I hire you.”
“I have no problem giving you a handwriting sample. I’ll even refer you to a good analyst. But it could become like a hall of mirrors—you have someone analyze them, who analyzes them, who—”
“That could get out of hand, fast,” Marcus agreed with a chuckle. “I guess I’ll just have to trust that Grusha knew what she was doing when she picked you. Has she given you my handwriting?”
“Of course.”
“Well, come on, what did you say about me? Did you tell her I’m a perverted ax murderer?”
“Yes, I did, and the cops are waiting right outside to pick you up.” She grinned at him. “You have no idea how many people ask me that very question. They’re so afraid I’ll uncover their deepest, darkest secrets, they have to make a joke of it. Is that why you asked?”
“You’re not big on tact, are you?”
“Nope. But I don’t think you are, either, so I think you can take it.”
“You’re right. And I don’t have any deep, dark secrets. I’m an open book. Just ask me.”
“Actually, there is something I wanted to ask you—it’s a little delicate.”
He looked more interested than concerned. “Go right ahead.”
“I understand that you and Shellee Jones were dating.”
Marcus let out a breath that sounded like air rushing out of a balloon. “Dating. Yeah, I guess that’s what we were doing. Obviously you must know what happened. The restaurant is being sued. Tomás swears they never use peanuts or peanut oil, but—”
“Tomás? You mean it was here that she died?”
“Grusha didn’t fill you in?”
“No. She certainly didn’t tell me where it happened.” There was something distasteful in his bringing her to the very place where the woman he had been dating expired only a few weeks earlier, and she didn’t like it.
“We were having dinner,” Marcus went on, not seeming to notice her coolness. “Just like you and I are right now. We were talking about me taking her to see a new condo site where we were having a groundbreaking. She said her throat was hurting; she thought she was catching a cold. Then a couple of minutes later, she starts wheezing. All of a sudden, her eyes get big, she’s trying to say something. I thought she was choking on her filet. I jump up and run around the table, trying to help. Next thing I know, she’s on the floor and her face is all swelled up. She’s clutching at her throat, gasping for air like a—a landed fish.”
Marcus set his wineglass on the table and Claudia saw that his hands were trembling. “God, it happened so fast! Someone called 911, but she was dead before they got here.” He shook his head, as if he couldn’t believe what he was saying. “Later, I heard she had an epinephrine kit in her purse that could have saved her. She was probably struggling to get it while I was trying to give her the Heimlich. You can’t imagine the guilt.”
“You can’t blame yourself for her allergic reaction.”
“You know what’s really crazy? Dr. McAllister was here that night—you know, the club doctor? He’d stopped by our table only ten minutes earlier, on his way out. If he had still been here when it happened, he might have known what to do. He might have been able to save her.”
“Ian McAllister was here when she died?”
“He was with some guy. When he saw us he said hello, kissed Shellee on the cheek, messed around with her silverware—then they walked out.”
“What do you mean, he ‘messed around with her silverware’?”
“I guess he thought Shellee’s salad fork was tilted, so he straightened it up. You probably don’t know him, but he’s what you might call a real anal type. Personally I think he’s more than a little nuts. And he was jealous; he wanted her. She was one hot chick.”
“You think Dr. McAllister had a crush on Shellee.”
Marcus grinned. “ ‘ A crush’? I haven’t heard that one since high school. I gu
ess you could call it that. But he couldn’t have her because she was Grusha’s client. And, of course, she was seeing me.” The grin faded. “And now she’s—”
“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” Claudia said, her brain racing through this new information. Could McAllister have had something to do with Shellee’s death? More pieces of the puzzle would have to surface before that question could be answered. She would like to see his handwriting.
“You dated Heather Lloyd, too, didn’t you?”
“Is that why you won’t have a personal conversation with me? You think I’m the angel of death?”
“I just prefer to keep my business and personal life separate. Anyway, you could just as easily be afraid to get near me. I’ve been close to death myself a couple of times.”
“There are very few things I’m afraid of, and I can tell you one thing—getting near you isn’t one of them.”
Marcus reached out and took her hand. She withdrew it.
“Marcus, please. Let’s not. I’ve got too much happening in my life for any more complications. Now, what about Heather?”
“What is this, the third degree?” He was getting irritated. “Sure, I dated Heather a couple of times. So what?”
“What was the problem with her?”
“We just didn’t hit it off—nothing particular. She started seeing someone else.”
“Someone from Elite Introductions?”
“You’d have to ask Grusha,” Marcus said, drumming his fingers on the table. Two servers arrived and uncovered plates of spiced chiboust and chocolate fondant in front of them at precisely the same moment. Fancy.
After the servers had departed, Marcus said, “Okay, so Shellee is dead and Heather is dead and yes, I dated them both. It’s like a bad joke and the joke is on me.”
Claudia spooned rich chocolate fondant into her mouth. Comfort food, she told herself. “Do you ski?” she asked.
“One of my passions,” he said. “I have a ski house on Lake Rescue near Killington. I guess next you’re going to suggest I helped Heather into that tree?”
“You don’t have to get defensive. I was just thinking about going to Stowe. I’ve never skied myself. In fact, I’ve seen snow only a couple of times in my life—when my parents took us up to Big Bear Mountain when I was a little kid.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing. Let’s drive up to my place tomorrow. There’s still plenty of snow. Maybe I can talk you onto some skis, show you the ropes.”
“Thanks for the offer, Marcus, but I’m not quite ready for that.” She grinned at him. “Remember, I’ve seen your handwriting.”IT
Chapter 13
“I want to know how you got that video of Joel and Alex.” Claudia flopped onto her hotel bed, earpiece in place, and prepared to listen to Annabelle’s story.
Grilling the girl felt wrong. She suppressed a flicker of shame for using Annabelle to back up Jovanic’s version. Wouldn’t a good surrogate mother make it clear that what the girl had done was unacceptable, and then refuse to listen to the explanation? But the gnawing pain of betrayal felt even worse, and she had to know.
“It was so easy,” said Annabelle, sounding smug. “I hooked up with my friend, Scooter, before school, and he drove me over to stake out Joel’s apartment. We just waited till he came out. When he did, we followed him.” She snickered. “He’s supposed to be a detective, but he didn’t even see us.”
“Wait a minute; who’s Scooter? What’s his real name?”
“Scooter’s one of my old homies. They just use nicknames. When I was hanging out with them before, they used to call me Baby Brown Eyes.”
“Jesus, Annabelle! You’re not hanging out with gang members again?”
“Scooter ’s cool.”
“I don’t care how cool he is, this is not happening. You cannot socialize with gang members! Do you understand me?”
“Well, you’re not here and . . .”
“Don’t lay a guilt trip on me, Annabelle. I’ll be back in a few days. Please don’t make me worry about you any more than I already do.” Claudia took a deep breath and refocused. “You still haven’t told me how you got that video.”
“We followed him to this gas station over by Sawtelle and Washington. He met that girl there, Alex. She brought him some Starbucks—it was a venti, too. She’s such a suck-up.”
“Enough editorial comments. Just tell me how it went down.”
“Okay, fine. They both got in his Jeep and drove up the street; then they parked. Scooter parked down the block across the street and we watched them for a while, but they were just sitting there. I can’t believe they didn’t see us.”
Maybe he was preoccupied with Alex.
“You had absolutely no business being there.”
Again, the smug snicker. “It’s like those videos on YouTube, of cops who get caught doing all kinds of stupid stuff. They never even saw the person video-taping them.”
“Joel didn’t expect you to be spying on him.”
Why am I defending him? It was an old feeling that reminded her of things she didn’t want to remember, and she didn’t want to connect it to Jovanic.
Claudia got up and went into the bathroom and shook four ibuprofen from the bottle she carried in her travel kit. A pain like an ice pick hacking at the back of her right eye warned of an impending migraine. “What happened next?” She gulped the caplets with a glass of water from the bottle she kept on the nightstand.
“After they sat there for a while, Joel got out of the Jeep and went back to the gas station.” Annabelle giggled. “He was walking fast. I guess he shouldn’t have drunk that whole venti. Alex stayed in the Jeep, but right as he was coming back, she got out and ran over to him and they started kissing. I knew you wouldn’t believe me, so I took the video with my cell phone.”
The girl could be so infuriating!
“Believing you is not the point. You weren’t supposed to be following him. You were supposed to be going to school with Monica.”
“Don’t you even care that your boyfriend is swapping spit with some other chick?”
Claudia bit back the sharp retort that was on the tip of her tongue. She knew that in Annabelle’s mind she was just trying to help. “Look, kiddo, my relationship with Joel is something I have to work on myself, okay? I don’t need to have you spying for me. I need you to behave yourself and stay out of trouble.”IT
There was an exaggerated “tch” at the other end of the line. “Whatever.”
“By the way, where was Monica while all the spying was going on?”
“She wanted to go with us, but I didn’t want her to get in trouble if we got caught.”
“Well, that was semiresponsible of you,” Claudia said. “I wish you’d applied it to yourself.”IT
“You know she’s my BFF. I couldn’t let her get in trouble.”
BFF? It took her a second to remember the twenty-first century teen jargon stood for Best Friend Forever.
Claudia could hear her brother ’s voice in the background. Annabelle said, “Pete’s calling me. I have to go do my homework.”
“Excellent idea. Remember to do your graphotherapy exercises, too.”
Annabelle mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “Love ya,” but Claudia knew better than to ask her to repeat it, and they rang off. She lay back on the pillows, waiting for the ibuprofen to kick in.
After a restless night filled with unhappy dreams of Jovanic telling her that he wanted to be free to play the field, Claudia woke in a funk.
She made herself some lukewarm coffee in the coffeemaker on the dresser. Ugh, powdered creamer. Nasty.
While she was in the shower, she decided to call the police department in Stowe.
The detective who had investigated Heather Lloyd’s death was out of the office, she was told, attending a seminar in Manhattan.
“Could I speak to another detective?”
“We don’t have another detective,” the voice on the other end
of the line informed her. “We’re a very small department. Except for the detective sergeant, who’s not here, either, Jim Gray is the only one we’ve got. You could call him on his cell phone. The seminar finished last night. I imagine he’s on his way back up here by now.”
Claudia jotted down the number as the woman recited it. She thanked her, clicked off, and punched in Jim Gray’s number. The detective answered on the second ring.
“Gray.”
“Hi, Detective Gray, my name is Claudia Rose. I got your number from your office.” She hesitated. “I was hoping to speak with you about the death of Heather Lloyd a couple of months ago. I’m just visiting New York.”
“And how might you be connected to Ms. Lloyd?” His New England accent flattened the vowels to a hard edge.
Claudia explained that she worked with Elite Introductions and that she was looking for information on the progress of the case.
He seemed to deliberate for a moment. “ME’s office ruled it an accident. There’s nothing to progress on.”
“Detective, do you think you and I could get together and talk about this?”
“Not sure what there is left to talk about.”IT
“If you’re still in the city, how about letting me buy you a cup of coffee and maybe we’ll find something?”
He admitted that he had not yet left Manhattan. “I’m in a cab,” Detective Gray said. “On the way to meet the Vermonter.”
“The Vermonter?”
“The train. There’s only one a day back. Leaves at eleven thirty.”
“What station are you leaving from? I’ll meet you there.”
“Penn.”
“Perfect, it’s just a few blocks from my hotel.”
His scheduled departure allowed Claudia plenty of time to get dressed and make the twenty-minute walk to Pennsylvania Plaza to meet him—down to the underground level of the busiest train station in the country via escalator; another five minutes to locate the Starbucks where she’d arranged to meet the Vermont detective at eleven o’clock.
