Killer Cocktail

by Sheryl J. Anderson

  I made sure to speak loudly enough to please the eavesdroppers, too. “Morning, Gen. She in?”

  “Yep.” Genevieve lifted her hands off her keyboard and placed them on her desk, showing me I had her full attention.

  “May I see her?”

  “Nope.” Genevieve pointed with one French-tipped nail to the light on her phone that indicated Eileen was talking to someone.

  Perfect. “Okay. Tell her I checked in, but had to go out to do some research.”

  “’Kay.”

  My duty done, I cruised back to my desk. “Research?” Tricia whispered when I returned. “Will she buy that?” I nodded, this not being the moment to elaborate. Tricia and I picked up our handbags and I aimed us at the elevators.

  A moment too late. “Molly Forrester, what’s your deal?” The voice shrilled across the bullpen, but this time, the meerkats ducked. They recognized the cry of that predator and knew to stay out of its path.

  Eileen strode toward me, a sheaf of paper crumpled in her hand. By “strode,” I refer more to the purposefulness of her steps than their size, since Eileen is a very petite woman whose stride is roughly equal to my mince. I thought briefly about trying to outrun her, but then decided that facing the music now might make for a slightly less angry song.

  Quickly reviewing my last set of letters in my head, I tried to figure out what had set Eileen off. The letter from the woman who’d given her boyfriend a threesome for his birthday and now couldn’t figure out how to top that for Christmas? Or the one who wanted to throw a divorce shower for her best friend and wondered if male strippers would be inappropriate?

  Eileen wore a form-hugging Lilly Pulitzer of lime green cotton sateen with pink straps and accents. Her Kate Spade patent leather pumps in matching pink had three-inch heels that boosted her clear of the five-foot mark. As she stopped before me, scowling and hands on her hips, she reminded me of Buttercup, the green Powerpuff Girl. The mean one.

  “Good morning.” She didn’t correct me, so I plunged ahead. “I’m sure you have notes on my column, but I’m on my way out, so could I talk to you when I get back? Thanks.”

  “I told you I wanted an update on your article first thing,” she snarled, batting at her spiky bangs with the sheaf of pages.

  “I stopped by, but you were on the phone,” I explained, realizing with quick dread where this conversation was headed and wondering how on earth I was going to keep from having it in front of Tricia. “But that’s why I’m going out, actually. Let me do some quick research and I’ll fill you in when I get back.”

  Eileen shifted her scowl over to Tricia. “This is research?” she asked, as though Tricia were a stack of books.

  “I won’t be long,” I said as evenly as I could, trying to ease Tricia and myself back toward the elevator.

  Tricia, whose proper upbringing never fails her and whose reflexes are faster than mine, held out her hand in greeting before I could stop her. “Tricia Vincent. You must be Eileen.”

  Eileen gave Tricia’s hand a perfunctory squeeze. “So it is research. How’s your brother?”

  Tricia’s expression didn’t change a whit, but her eyes slid over long enough to give me a glimpse of fury, then slid back to Eileen. “As well as can be expected.”

  “Maybe you should write your article from Tricia’s point of view, Molly,” Eileen suggested. “A unique perspective. We appreciate your cooperation,” Eileen purred to Tricia, who was digging at her cuticles with a fervor I’d never seen before.

  “Thank you, Eileen,” I said with the extra lilt that makes it mean “go away.”

  Eileen knew exactly what I was trying to do and deliberately stood her ground. “What’s wrong with your column?”

  “Nothing. Why?”

  “Because you thought I was going to complain about your column. Why?”

  “I write a column, you were looking for me, and you sounded upset. I drew a natural conclusion.”

  “Hope you investigate a murder better than that.” Content now that she’d been cruel, Eileen strode away.

  I stood still for a moment, beaming pure loathing at her departing back and waiting for her hair to burst into flames. No such luck. When I turned back to Tricia, my own hair seemed to be in danger. “And you’re getting death threats. Imagine that,” Tricia hissed. “I should kill you myself.”

  The main difference between friends and lovers is how easily they can hurt you. You expect a lover to hurt you, at least for the first six months, so you keep your guard up. But you don’t expect a friend to kick you in the gut, so not only are you unprepared, it hurts a lot more.

  Tricia’s anger stunned me and left me fumbling for my breath and a clear thought. I felt cornered, scrambling for a defensible position. What I wanted to do was scream, “This was all your idea!” but what I did was lean in and keep my voice down, hoping Tricia would follow my example. “I haven’t agreed to write the article yet.”

  “Your editor doesn’t seem to know that.”

  “She’ll figure it out.”

  “Why can’t you tell her?”

  “Because if she thinks I’m doing the article, she’ll back off.”

  “How nice for you.” Tricia braced her Ferragamo silver bow clutch in her hands like a board she was going to present for my karate kick. Or maybe like a board she was going to smack me with. “I came here to talk to you about what happened last night, but since I don’t want that to wind up in this or any other magazine, I’d better go.” She pushed past me.

  “I want to discuss this.”

  “I don’t.” Tricia headed for the elevator and I followed her with my head at the proper angle so I didn’t have to catch the eye of anyone else in the bullpen, but not so low that it looked like I’d been chastised. Even though I had.

  I caught up with Tricia at the elevator. “I’m just using her desire for an article as a cover for my own investigation.”

  Tricia’s eyes slid to me again and this time, I could see tears brimming. “Who else are you using, Molly?”

  It was another kick, but this one felt different. I was sort of ready for it. And instead of surprised hurt, it made me angry. I wanted to kick back. “You asked me to help. Everything I’ve done has been to help you and David.”

  “And what about your article?”

  “What about it?”

  “What about my family’s privacy?”

  “If your brother is arrested, what kind of privacy are you going to have then? I’m trying to keep that from happening.”

  “And if you get another career boost, that’s fine, too.”

  “Tricia, stop it!”

  The elevator doors opened and Tricia stepped on without looking at me. “Fine. I’m done. How about you?”

  The doors slid closed before I could scream or kick or do any of the several highly mature things I was considering. I moved on to other options. I thought about going back to my desk. I thought about going back to my apartment. I thought about going back to school and majoring in something easy, like quantum mechanics.

  I was working hard to put this encounter in perspective. Tricia was devastated, that was clear, and I reminded myself that she was lashing out at me because she knew she could. Because I was there. Because I’d forgive her. Because she thought I deserved it. It was that last one that galled me.

  I’d gotten involved in this case at Tricia’s request. I hadn’t thought about an article until Eileen had suggested it and even then, I’d hesitated. But I couldn’t stop now. Someone was threatening to kill me, so I had to be doing something right. And whether I wrote the article or not, I needed to solve this murder so I could figure out who wanted me dead next.

  I got out onto the sidewalk by rote and hailed a cab. I had no idea how things had gone with her family the night before. I was so caught up in being right and being threatened that I wasn’t thinking about the toll this had to be taking on her. No wonder Tricia was angry.

  And no wonder my cell rang as I was getting in the
cab. “I’m going to skip right over the fact that you’ve left your office without an escort and go straight to Tricia,” Cassady said with frigid crispness.

  “Is she all right?”

  “In a word, absolutely not.”

  “I still have to do this,” I responded. “If the florist can confirm that Veronica threatened Lisbet before the weekend, that’ll increase the case against her. I know Tricia thinks I’m betraying her, but all I want to do is help David.”

  “Let’s ignore the fact that you have a point,” Cassady said, warming slightly. “You’re still running around town without protection. Kyle will have my head if something happens to you.”

  “I’ll be the soul of discretion. I swear.”

  “Do you want me to meet you at the florist?”

  “No. If I go by myself, I’ll be less memorable. No one ever forgets talking to you.”

  “Don’t try to distract me with flattery. That’s such a guy move.

  “I’ll call you the moment I’m done. Try to get Tricia to come see you.”

  “She’s already on her way.”

  “I like the way you think.”

  “Then after the florist, you’ll hand everything over to Kyle and be done with it?”

  “That’s what you think I should do?”

  “Uh-huh. Like it?”

  “Oh, look, I’m here. I’ll call you back.” I snapped my phone shut.

  The cabdriver, a tall Ethiopian man with deep creases around his mouth that emphasized the length of his face, caught my eye in the rearview mirror.

  “We’re not there yet,” he said with a hesitant politeness.

  “I know. I was just done talking.”

  He frowned and the creases deepened drastically. “Don’t lie to friends. They always find out.”

  I started to get annoyed with his pronouncement, before realizing you can only get so annoyed with the truth. And if I was on the side of truth, upsetting everyone around me in a search for it, then I supposed I should be telling it.

  Unless it got in the way Which is why I bit my lip hard enough to make my eyes tear up before I told the florist, “I worked for Lisbet McCandless, the actress.”

  The flower shop was a deep, narrow profusion of greenery and blossoms. Walking into it was like wedging yourself into The Secret Garden, with Harry Connick, Jr., on a boombox standing in for the birds. The florist was a stork among the rushes, a tall woman with impressively sharp elbows and knees that Caitlin would have banished from the planet. Her name tag read DOROTHY. She wore a smocked tie-dyed sundress that had to have been purchased out of the back of a VW van at a Grateful Dead concert, with hemp sandals flapping on her bony feet. The progression from Jerry Garcia to Harry Connick intrigued me, but I needed to stick to the subject.

  “Then you’re out of a job, I guess,” she replied. Hardly the nurturing, earth mother response I’d been hoping for. “I’m not hiring.”

  “Not why I’m here,” I said, trying to lean away from the razor elbows as she squeezed by me to get eucalyptus sprigs out of the refrigerated case. “I’m tidying things up, for her parents really, and have a question.”

  “A question for me?” She craned her long, thin neck at me, emphasizing the stork resemblance.

  I held up the card, back in its envelope. “This is from here, right?”

  Dorothy snatched the envelope and inspected it nearsightedly. “Yeah, it’s one of mine.” She pointed to the date in the corner. “We delivered them Thursday.”

  “Do you know who sent them to her?”

  She squinted at me suspiciously. “Why?”

  “Lisbet’s family is a real stickler for good manners,” I vamped, managing not to choke on the words. “Lisbet always wrote thank-you notes to everyone who sent her flowers. Her mother has asked me to send notes to everyone she hadn’t gotten to before … you know. Anyway, this card was tucked in her stationery box, but doesn’t match anything on the list of notes she’d written. And it’s not signed, so I don’t know to whom to write the note.” I threw in sad eyes to seal the deal.

  There was a tense moment while Dorothy weighed my story. Just when I figured she’d found it wanting, her narrow face twisted in despair. “That’s beautiful. Who’s got that kind of class anymore?”

  “She was special,” I agreed. She squeezed past me again, slipping behind the counter and fishing out an accordion file. She checked the date on the envelope again, then withdrew a day’s worth of receipts from the file. As she paged through them, I wondered if Veronica had left behind any other clues to her mounting hatred of Lisbet.

  Dorothy’s face brightened and she held a receipt aloft. “I remember now. He was cute.”

  “He?” That couldn’t be. “I thought the flowers were from a woman.”

  “Why? Was there something about the arrangement that suggested that?” Dorothy asked, her artistic instincts challenged.

  “No, I thought Lisbet said something about it. Were there any other flowers delivered to her that day?”

  Dorothy zipped through the other receipts, shaking her head. “Not from me. He was the only one. I remember now, because it was odd he was sending them to her when the show was still in rehearsal. It’s usually an opening night thing, you know.”

  I nodded distractedly. Had Veronica gotten someone to place the order for her? Cassady’s new actor friend? Someone else connected with the show?

  “Oh, but he was the one …” Dorothy slapped the receipts on the counter and picked up the envelope again, sliding the card out. She beamed, turning the card so I could read LEAVE AND LIVE, as though I hadn’t already “Yes. He said he was waiting for her to make a decision and he thought flowers were a nice way to remind her.”

  I tried to stay calm and pleasant while my theory came crashing down around me. “Did you get his name?”

  “No.” Dorothy pressed the card to her chest. “It was so romantic. He said she’d know who he was, but he couldn’t afford for anyone else to know.”

  I bet. “Did he say why? I mean, this doesn’t strike me as a particularly romantic message.”

  “Oh, but it is. See, she was involved with someone else and he was asking her to leave, but he didn’t want it to get ugly for anyone if it didn’t work out.”

  I wondered where along the spectrum of “working out” he would place Lisbet being murdered. Had he killed her because she hadn’t made the choice he wanted her to make? Was Veronica not the killer after all? “So, no name or number.”

  Dorothy cocked her head at me, intrigued. “You don’t know who it could have been?”

  “No,” I said patiently. “That’s why I came to see you.”

  “Then they must have been really careful about their affair, if you worked for her and didn’t know anything was going on.”

  I nodded slowly, trying to think of some shred of information I could take away from this, other than the great big question mark I now had to hang next to Veronica’s name on my mental list of suspects. The problem was, David was the only man on that list. Wait. Could this have been some game of David’s? “This is important. Did he say ‘affair’ to you?” I asked, figuring her fiance wouldn’t use the term.

  Dorothy took a moment to remember, rubbing the card against her cheek gently. “Actually, he didn’t.”

  An ice cube dropped into my chest. So it could have been David.

  “He said he was asking her to leave one love and go to a new one and live more fully. Which is a lot more poetic. Romantic, even, don’t you think?”

  The ice cube melted. “Absolutely.” So it was someone trying to get her to leave David. Veronica wanted David, but who wanted Lisbet? “Can you describe him to me?”

  Dorothy scrunched her nose shyly. “He’s tall and hot and has kind of wavy dark hair and nice eyes.”

  At least we’d gotten past “tall, dark, and handsome,” but not very far. That described half the men who’d been at Aunt Cynthia’s. “Anything else?”

  Dorothy thought another momen
t, then shook her head. I held out my hand and she reluctantly returned the card to me.

  “Thank you very much for your help. I’m sure you can understand that the family would prefer that this sort of thing stay quiet. The circumstances of Lisbet’s passing are tragic enough without her fiance having to deal with a revelation like this.”

  Dorothy grew wide-eyed, whether at the implication of a scandal in the making or of her complicity in it, I wasn’t sure. “I won’t tell a soul,” she assured me.

  “Thank you,” I told her again and tried to find the space to turn around and find my way back through the greenery to the front door.

  “After all, it’s like he said. Words just cause trouble.”

  I stopped abruptly but made a point of turning around slowly so I didn’t startle Dorothy. “He said that?”

  Dorothy nodded. “He said he liked flowers and film because they spoke without words.”

  “Any form of communication that relies on words is inferior.”

  “Yes!” Dorothy cried. “So you do know who he is!”

  Oh yeah. “Yes, I think so.”

  “Did you know?”

  “No. I didn’t suspect him until just now.”

  Dorothy unfolded her arms to their full length and gestured to her shop. “People reveal things here they would never reveal anywhere else. How sad for him to have lost her before he ever really had her.”

  Unless it was his fault she was lost.

  13

  Dear Molly, Okay, if every man has his price, then I suppose it’s not surprising that every woman does, too. But why do so many women have to be so blatant about their price tag? And don’t the women who are willing to sell for less destroy the market for the rest of us? What happened to holding out until you get your asking price? How are those of us who are committed to delivering a quality product supposed to compete with those who are willing to flood the market with cheap product that’s not going to last? Signed, Embittered Econ Major