Killer Cocktail

by Sheryl J. Anderson

  The fabulous blue eyes crinkled, but I couldn’t tell if he was going to laugh or swear. He ran his hand through his hair and it had absolutely no effect. “You asked me to come out.”

  “No, you said you were coming out and I told you, you didn’t need to.”

  “You were being polite.”

  “And serious.”

  “So the question about chlorine and fingerprints was what—cramming for a chemistry test?”

  “Research.”

  “Why am I here?”

  “Now we’re back at the beginning.”

  “You knew I’d come.”

  I hated that he was right and I hated that he looked so good and I hated Detective Cook. All excellent reasons for me to go right back upstairs, pack my bag, and leave. Go back to the city, optimally with him. But the longer I was awake, the more I was convinced that Lisbet’s death was not some tragic lover’s quarrel gone bad. She’d made a sufficient enough scene that David could have walked away, never spoken to her again, and most people would have applauded the choice. Why on earth would he have killed her?

  “Stop,” Kyle said, in a low, controlled voice.

  “What?” I asked, amazed that my attention could have drifted from him for even a moment. He didn’t seem all that pleased about it either.

  “You’re trying to solve this murder.”

  “So you agree it’s a murder.”

  “I agree you think it’s one. I don’t know what it is. I haven’t heard all the evidence.”

  “Neither have I.”

  “Which isn’t slowing you down a bit.”

  “They suspect Tricia’s brother and he didn’t do it.”

  “You’re sure.”

  “Yes.”

  “Based on your vast experience.”

  “I’m batting a thousand, aren’t I?”

  “You’re one for one. Retire now and preserve your perfect record.”

  “Have you missed me at all?”

  “Of course.”

  He even let himself smile. That’s when I knew I was in trouble. But while that was wonderful to hear and see, it wasn’t enough to drive the million questions I had about Lisbet and David out of my head. Kyle was right. I was trying to solve this murder.

  Which is what Tricia had asked me to do.

  The night before, after Detective Cook busted me with my cell phone out on the patio, we’d had quite a little chat. I’d done my best to be professional and respectful, but you didn’t have to be an advice columnist to see this woman wore both a semiautomatic and a whole lot of issues strapped to her hip, and it was hard to tell which was deadlier.

  Standing outside, she’d pushed me for details about whom I was calling and why, until Cassady had objected to both the tone and the direction of the questions. In an effort to keep things from getting any more agitated for anyone, I’d thrown myself on the grenade and suggested that if Detective Cook had specific questions, she should ask them and get it over with. I could tell by the curl of Cassady’s lip that she didn’t approve of my strategy in the least, but I suggested she keep an eye on Tricia and let me take care of this quickly. Cassady reluctantly withdrew and the detectives and I adjourned to the small sitting room where they had talked to David.

  “So you’re a friend of the sister,” had been her warm and imaginative segue to the heart of the matter. We were all trying to be on our best behavior, but the strain was already showing on both sides. Part of it was the setting. It was a narrow, stuffy room with red brocade Victorian couches and dark oriental wood, the only incongruous touch being the Vaio laptop on the desk. My guess: an ex-husband’s smoking room, inspired by some vague memory of a bordello in a since-forgotten emerging country that his corporation ran.

  Detective Myerson sat off to one side, outside the pools of light cast by the brass lamps. It seemed instinctive for him to shun the light. He kept his notebook open and his eyes on the ground, deferring to his partner. That seemed less instinctive than beaten into him.

  “Tricia and I go way back,” I said, trying to be amiable. I knew I shouldn’t antagonize her, but Detective Cook was just one of those people who brings out the combatant in me. Not that I ever enjoy being questioned about anything more vital than “More iced tea?” It’s just with some people, it’s like a chemical clash, but instead of provoking the fight-or-flight mechanism, it provokes the slap-or-snub reaction.

  “You know the family, too?”

  “Spent time with them over the years, yes.” I tried to think of this as a job interview instead of any species of interrogation. If I put my best foot forward, perhaps I could quell my growing desire to kick her in the shins with it.

  “How well do you know David?”

  So he still topped the suspect list, even after they’d talked to him again. “Fairly well, socially. Well enough to know he didn’t do it.” I thought of David standing with us beside the pool, trying not to look at Lisbet’s body. The hunch of his body, the slackness of his face—it was the picture of defeat. He was destroyed. He didn’t kill her.

  “So you were asking someone about fingerprints because …”

  “David’s the boyfriend and you’re going to look at him first.”

  “So, preparing to defend him, you called …”

  I’ll admit, I thought “my boyfriend,” but I knew better than to say it. It’s a tricky enough word when you’re my age, but it’s especially tricky when it has yet to be validated by use in his presence.

  “A good friend of mine.”

  “And this friend knows about fingerprints because …”

  “He’s a homicide detective.”

  It was the first thing I’d said to her all night that surprised her. Detective Myerson didn’t so much as glance up from his notebook, but Detective Cook stopped playing with the brass cigarette lighter she’d picked up off the console table and looked at me with new sharpness. “Really”

  “Really” I could see her trying to figure out how good a friend I might be with a homicide detective, but I wasn’t about to fill in any of the gaps for her. “Did the Vincents ask you to bring this detective in as a consultant?”

  “You’re joking.”

  “She doesn’t joke,” Detective Myerson said quietly, a conclusion I should have reached all by myself, much earlier.

  Detective Cook cut him a deadly look, but she made no effort to disagree. What she did was sit down next to me in an intensely uncomfortable caricature of friendship. “You know, my job’s hard enough in a town where everyone has a lawyer on the end of a very short leash and they stonewall public servants for recreation. The last thing I need is some tanked-up party girl coming all the way out here just to go down hard on my watch. The second-to-last thing I need is some perky Nellie Bly starting her own investigation and getting in my way”

  She was chafing from whatever weight Aunt Cynthia had already thrown around and was suspecting there was plenty more where that came from, rightly so. Still, that wasn’t a battle I needed to get dragged into. But for Detective Cook to leave me alone, I had to promise to leave her alone.

  I gave Detective Cook the most sincere smile possible under the circumstances. “You find me perky? Thank you.” I stood and considered trying to shake her hand, then decided not to press my luck. “Detective Cook, I won’t get in your way. I just made a phone call to calm my friend. To allay her concerns about clearing her brother of the suspicions we all know you have about him. I’m sorry if I offended you and I appreciate your taking the time to explain. Now, I assume you’d prefer that I stay far, far away from you so let me start right now.”

  I turned and walked toward the door, expecting to hear “Wait a minute” at best and a bullet whizzing past my ear at worst before my hand reached the doorknob. But the only sound was Detective Myerson clearing his throat—at whom, I’m not sure—so I opened the door and walked out.

  I’d barely gotten five yards down the hallway when Tricia came zipping out of the drawing room with Cassady right on her
heels. Tricia’s perfect complexion was marred by two crimson patches on her cheekbones; she’d been crying. Cassady looked pretty composed, just anxious to know what had happened. I told them briefly and quietly.

  Tricia put her hand on my arm. I thought I could feel it trembling. “So do they think it’s Davey?”

  “I’m not sure they have a theory yet,” I answered carefully.

  “Molly, I need you to figure out who killed her.”

  I hesitated. It wasn’t that I had just given my word that I’d stay out of the way. I didn’t want to promise anything before I thought it all through myself. And before I had a viable suspect to suggest in place of David. “Tricia …” I attempted.

  “Remember what happened last time,” Cassady warned, but I wasn’t completely sure to which one of us the comment was directed.

  “She was right,” Tricia insisted.

  “In the end,” Cassady said.

  Tricia shook her head. “I can’t just stand back and watch. Whoever did it, I need to know.”

  Cassady slid Tricia’s hand off my arm. “Why don’t we all get a good night’s sleep and talk about it in the morning?”

  The night’s sleep had not been terribly good and here it was, morning, and to further complicate matters, here was Kyle. Who had come all the way out to the Hamptons on the basis of one impulsive phone call. Which both impressed and puzzled me.

  “It’s not so much about solving it,” I explained to him. “I just want to give Tricia something to hold on to. She’s freaked.”

  “Because she thinks he’s guilty or because other people do?”

  The Pause is no better in person than it is on the phone. Still, I had to employ it because I didn’t want to lie to Kyle, but I didn’t want to paint too bleak a picture either. “She’s confused and upset.”

  Kyle nodded, adding up the nonanswer and the Pause. “Which is why you called about the fingerprints. Besides it being the simplest way to get me down here.”

  “Yeah. Whenever I see a dead body, it makes me think of you.”

  “I’m not used to such flowery compliments.” He sighed and buried one hand deep in his pocket. The other hand pinched the sides of his lower lip together, which meant he was trying to make a decision. After a moment, he released the lip and nodded, having reached one. I expected him to give me a quick kiss on the cheek and say good-bye, but he said, “There don’t seem to be any usable prints on the body. They haven’t gotten much in the way of trace evidence off her yet, but that only makes it look worse for your boy.”

  It took me a moment to realize he was reporting, not speculating. “You’ve already talked to the police.”

  Kyle nodded again. “You visit somebody’s backyard, you check in and say hello first.”

  “Doesn’t sound like you stopped at hello.”

  He shrugged in semisurprise. “She was pretty forthcoming.”

  She. Of course. How could I have expected anything different? And how could I have not been there to engineer that meeting, to control the topics of conversation, to make sure they didn’t take a shine to each other? “You talked to Detective Cook?”

  “She’s the lead, she’s the one to talk to.”

  “Yeah, I’ve already had the pleasure.”

  Kyle tried to squash it, but his amusement danced right up to the Big Blues. “She mentioned.”

  “And?”

  “How can I help?”

  “Change the subject back to Detective Cook.”

  Kyle stepped closer, eyes still laughing. “C’mon. Why do you want to talk about her?”

  “Why don’t you?” .

  He stepped even closer. Was he teasing me, soothing me, or distracting me? It was sort of working on all three levels. “Because she’s just trying to do her job, but she obviously ticked you off in the process. They teach us at the academy, crossfire’s deadly.”

  “So you’re keeping your head down?”

  He lowered his head to demonstrate, then turned it into a masterful approach for a kiss. Just as his lips touched mine, the door boomed open and Tricia sailed into the room, full of caffeine and angst.

  “You came!”

  In her rush to embrace him, I doubt she even realized she’d interrupted what was promising to be a delicious, much overdue kiss. Instead, she planted a sweet peck of greeting on his cheek and squeezed his hands. “Thank you so much.”

  “Tricia,” I warned.

  She looked at me, perplexed, then looked back at Kyle, even more so. “You are here to help?”

  “He came to tell me to behave,” I said.

  “To make sure you were all okay,” Kyle said firmly, not interested in opening up a debate of his motives. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “But you can help,” Tricia continued stubbornly.

  “Tricia, there are rules. It’s not my case. Not even my jurisdiction.”

  Tricia hadn’t let go of his hands yet and I was trying to figure out the best way to distract her while there was still some circulation in Kyle’s fingers. “Let’s take it one step at a time, Tricia,” I urged.

  “Cook seems like a very smart detective,” Kyle said.

  Tricia and I both said “Oh?” at the same time. The trouble was, her “Oh?” was a pretty, round little sound, full of hope and trust. My “Oh?” was a flat, grating tone, full of envy and dread. Tricia didn’t hear mine, she was so focused on Kyle. But Kyle did and tilted his head slightly as though checking the calibration of his ears to make sure he’d heard it correctly.

  “He didn’t do this, Kyle,” Tricia said with a little more calm. “Detective Cook has to see that. She has to know how much Davey loved Lisbet, how happy they were to be getting married. It was a dream.”

  I knew how much Tricia had disliked Lisbet and it made me love Tricia even more to see her engineering enthusiasm for a relationship she had seen as awful, all in the hopes of helping her brother.

  Kyle took a deep breath, framing a statement that I was pretty sure was going to take some of the hope out of Tricia’s “Oh?” But before he could get it out, Nelson walked in from the hallway and closed the door behind him.

  “Nelson?” Tricia finally let go of Kyle’s hands and stepped toward Nelson, who paused by the door for a moment, framing a statement of his own. “What is it?”

  Nelson walked in closer to us. His face was grim and there was a droop to his shoulders that I wouldn’t have thought was physically possible, given his usual ramrod posture. “Pardon my intrusion, but something has come to my attention and I thought I should bring it to yours. I was packing Lisbet’s things, preparing for her parents’ arrival. I found this in the wastebasket.” He held out his closed fist, fingers down. Tricia held her hand out underneath. Nelson opened his hand and a four-carat solitaire framed by terraced baguettes dropped into Tricia’s palm.

  “Lisbet’s engagement ring?” Tricia looked like she might cry. “She wasn’t wearing it?”

  Over Tricia’s bowed head, Kyle’s eyes met mine. Why do you take off your engagement ring and throw it in the trash, especially when its fair market value could sustain the economy of a small Caribbean nation for a year? Why else? That’s the problem with dreams. They end.

  5

  Death certainly brings out the worst in people. Not that there aren’t plenty of folks who make absolute fools of themselves at weddings or sob their way through christenings or show up for their college graduations with hangovers that would cripple a lesser being and manage to sit through three hours of pomp and circumstance in the blazing sun without ralphing and still plaster on a smile and kiss Grandpa when they’re done. But death brings out a raw panic in people that translates itself into such bizarre behavior that I was beginning to think it’s a good thing you don’t get to go to your own funeral. At least you end the day with your reputation more or less intact. As long as you didn’t die under embarrassing circumstances.

  Not that this was Lisbet’s funeral. It was the champagne brunch that was supposed to have kic
ked off a day of engagement celebration and frivolity—swimming, golf, tennis, and drinking, not necessarily in that order. But given the circumstances and thanks to Aunt Cynthia’s masterful working of the phones, it had morphed into a memorial gathering of people who were still trying to absorb the news that Lisbet was dead. Aunt Cynthia had been so organized in her calling, in fact, that most of the guests had heard the news from her and not from the police; they were a step behind her in contacting the guest list and making their inquiries.

  “And it was too late to cancel the caterer,” Cassady hypothesized as we milled on the lawn and watched other guests arrive in varying degrees of shock, grief, and disbelief. Aunt Cynthia had at least persuaded the caterer—or promised to pay him extra—to switch to more muted linens, so people were wiping their tears with dark blue napkins instead of the fuchsia and yellow Lisbet had originally requested.

  Lisbet’s parents were still inside with the Vincents. They’d arrived shortly after Kyle, and Aunt Cynthia had quickly cloistered the four parents to give them a chance to talk privately. Lisbet’s mother, Dana Jeffries, had appeared to be deep in the grip of some major tranquilizer when Lisbet’s father, Bill McCandless, had walked her into the house. Bill looked pretty haggard himself, but his gait had been stiffened by Crown Royal, not softened by Xanax.

  Mr. and Mrs. Vincent had requested that Cassady and I station ourselves on the lawn to encourage the guests to congregate there. It didn’t seem to matter that we hardly knew anyone. It was the principle of party physics in which guests are drawn by the gravitational pull of other guests into a central space until an overpowering force, such as the bar opening, interrupts that pull. I theorized most of our gravitational pull was due to Cassady’s sheer Tadashi accordion-pleated top and mesh skirt.

  While Cassady and I aerated the lawn with our high heels and tried to remember faces and names from the night before, Kyle and Tricia were touring the grounds. This had been explained to Aunt Cynthia as an introductory tour for a friend from the city. But when I volunteered to go along, its true purpose was made clear: Tricia was literally showing Kyle the lay of the land in the hopes that he would discover something to compel him to help us figure out what had happened to Lisbet.