Killer Cocktail

by Sheryl J. Anderson

  “They took my champagne bottle,” Veronica explained.

  I was pretty sure my face stayed composed, but my stomach flipped twice. “Champagne?”

  “I showed it to you. Remember? The bottle from the party.”

  I don’t like to play dumb, but sometimes it’s the simplest approach. “I think I recall talking about that.”

  “You’re the only one who knew I had it and suddenly the police come and take it. What did you tell them?”

  I didn’t have a story ready. I’d been concentrating on Jake and was no longer prepared for Veronica. She’d caught me by surprise, which was disconcerting. “I’m sorry. I didn’t send the police to you.” I’d told Kyle I’d suspected her, but he hadn’t seemed especially convinced. How could he have thought that was worth acting on officially without more information? Unless he had other information he wasn’t sharing with me. He’d told me to stop and he was cutting me out of the loop to make sure I did. I inched toward that subject. “What did the police officer say when he took the bottle?”

  Veronica sniffed. “She had plenty to say. And plenty to ask.

  She? Kyle had sent someone else? Or … No. Couldn’t be. I heard myself asking, “And her name was … ?”

  Veronica slid a business card out of her pocket and flicked it at me like a miniature Frisbee. “Darcy Cook. Detective and first-class bitch.”

  I refrained from agreeing as I caught Detective Cook’s business card. How had Detective Cook wound up at the theater questioning Veronica? Had it been an independent course of investigation? Or had Kyle said something to her about my suspicions and she’d leapt upon the lead and come charging into the city to track it down in person? If she was in town, had she checked in with Kyle, the way he’d checked in with her? And was that why he hadn’t wanted to talk to me when I’d called?

  “Do you know her, Molly?” Eileen seemed amused.

  “We’ve met,” I admitted, but I wasn’t eager to admit more.

  “This is devastating,” Veronica said, glaring at me.

  “Did Detective Cook accuse you of something?”

  “Of course not. She asked plenty of questions about the party and Lisbet. All the same sorts of questions you asked, which is how I figured out you were in on this.”

  “A coincidence,” I said, ignoring Eileen’s smirk.

  “But she didn’t accuse me of anything. She just took the champagne bottle.”

  “Lisbet was killed with a champagne bottle, you realize that, dear,” Eileen said.

  “Do you have any idea how many bottles of champagne there were at that party?” Veronica countered. “I didn’t kill her.”

  “Then you have nothing to worry about,” I assured her, trying to assimilate all this on the fly

  “I explained to you Low important that bottle was to my performance. They took it, can’t say when I’ll get it back, and we open in a week and a half.” Veronica stood for dramatic effect. “I’m ruined. And it’s all your fault!”

  Eileen gave a few silent claps in my direction, congratulating me on my handling of the situation. I restrained myself from responding and focused on Veronica. “Veronica, I have a thought.”

  Eileen crossed her arms over her chest. “Let us hope.”

  “You told me the champagne bottle represented the sadness of crushed dreams. So if the loss of the bottle is going to impact your performance …” I held Detective Cook’s business card back out to her.

  “Then I’m screwed,” she insisted angrily.

  “Work with me. Don’t come from a place of rage. Come from a place of sadness. Remember what she’s done to your career and then think of that career—”

  Veronica snatched the card, eyes widening. “A beautiful flower trampled in its prime.” I started to ask if that referred to the career or Detective Cook, but I didn’t want to take a chance of derailing Veronica. Her nostrils flared, but no tears came. “Wait, wait.” She took a deep breath, then stared at the card like a superhero burning holes in it with eye lasers. She took a shuddering breath and started sobbing.

  Eileen winced. “Dear God, that’s unattractive.”

  Veronica stopped on a dime and ripped a fistful of tissues out of the box on the coffee table. “You’re good.”

  “As a writer, I appreciate the creative process in any discipline,” I said, offering her a level on which we could pretend to bond.

  “I’m still pretty pissed at you, but this helps.” She waved the business card at me, then slid it back into her pocket. “At least I don’t feel like suing you anymore. Right now.”

  “Thank you.” I could have left well enough alone, but it’s just not in my nature. “But I want you to know, I never spoke to Detective Cook about you and your bottle. I didn’t even know she was in town.” Though it was something I was going to look into at the first available opportunity.

  “Well, you better be careful who you are talking to, because they’re talking to her and who knows who else. And if it gets back to whomever did this, you could be next.”

  Even Eileen reacted to her matter-of-fact delivery of that gem. And I got goose bumps like I haven’t had since the first time I saw Poltergeist. I resisted the impulse to rub my arms. Was it back to Veronica after all and not Jake? “That’s not a threat, is it?” I asked as lightly as possible.

  “Honey, when I threaten someone, they know it. It’s just a word to the wise, that’s all.” Veronica gave me a chilling wink and moved for the door.

  Eileen scampered to catch up with her and walk her properly out of the office. “If you have any further concerns, please don’t hesitate to call me,” Eileen purred, stroking Veronica’s arm like they were old, dear friends who’d just been through a terrible trial together.

  “Thank you, I will,” Veronica replied. Eileen delivered her to Genevieve to be escorted to the elevator, then spun back into the room, easing the door closed behind her.

  “Exactly what the hell are you doing?” Eileen demanded silkily.

  “You asked me to find the story. I’m looking.”

  “Will there be other murder suspects arriving in tears?”

  “Maybe you’d rather I didn’t do the article.”

  “Maybe you’d rather not work here.”

  I’ll give Eileen this. She draws her battle lines clearly. A little misdirection seemed in order. “I’m still seeking to impose a coherent narrative on disparate events which crystallize the societal and sociological pressures which drive people to extreme behavior in the pursuit of pleasure and love.” The scary thing was, that approach could actually work. But all I wanted it to do at the moment was excite the editor in Eileen enough for her to let me out of the office.

  She thought about it for a moment, which I found promising. Then she walked over and took my hand, patting it with just the proper amount of condescension to remind me why I disliked her so much. “Molly. This isn’t the damn New York Review of Books. Tell me a story about sex and violence among the beautiful people. It’s that simple.”

  “I aim to please. Guess I just wasn’t aiming low enough.” I pulled my hand free and walked past her, deciding to save the battle over actually writing the thing for another time.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To find you your story.” And to find myself a cop.

  14

  “You need a, healthier hobby. Something that involves fresh air. Or the production of something positive.”

  “Pottery, maybe? Baking?”

  “Just saying maybe hanging with dead bodies isn’t the best thing to do with your time.”

  Detective Ben Lipscomb is Kyle’s partner. He’s a tall, imposing African-American man in his late thirties who can be quite intimidating without intending it and can be downright frightening when he needs to be. He has the detective’s gift for staying quiet and letting you talk yourself right into the corner where he wants you, so if he does talk, it’s worth listening to.

  When I’d left the magazine office, I’d considere
d eating my way to Kyle’s office. Part of it was that it was lunchtime and I hadn’t really eaten much breakfast because I’d been too stressed. Besides, to Cassady, breakfast is a cup of coffee in a travel mug. I’m still a cereal girl when I have the time and a bagel eater when I’m on the run. The closest I’d come to protein today was the hangnail I was about to pull off with my teeth.

  Manhattan possesses its own special energy. Maybe it’s the by-product of millions of people’s individual electromagnetic fields mingling with each other day and night. Perhaps there’s some glowing gem out in the harbor that keeps us all racing around on a divine jag. But part of it’s gotta be the coffee. There’s a Starbucks on every block—I think that’s a zoning regulation now—and the streets are lined with food carts which sell every kind of portable nosh imaginable, as well as more coffee, so it’s entirely possible to go from one end of the island to the other and never go more than a hundred yards without the opportunity to have something to eat and grab a cup of coffee. The city that never sleeps just can’t.

  Post-Eileen and Veronica, I’d adapted to today’s stress level and I was starving. I thought about grabbing a hot dog, purely for comfort food purposes, but I wasn’t sure whether that would go with a caramel macchiato, which was my other craving. A falafel with a chai tea latte seemed a little more harmonious. A hot pretzel and a cappuccino? Let’s face it—what I needed was a cheesesteak and a Vanilla Coke, but I didn’t have time to go in and sit down somewhere. I had to find out what Kyle and Detective Cook were up to.

  When I got to the precinct, I asked the desk sergeant if Detective Edwards was available for a brief conversation with Molly Forrester. He called upstairs, talked to someone, then hung up. I was debating between being further frustrated or outright hurt when he told me that Detective Edwards was unavailable, but Detective Lipscomb would be down for me in just a moment.

  I hadn’t spent that much time with Detective Lipscomb, but he’d always been cordial to me and right now, he looked like a long-lost friend as he came down the stairs to greet me.

  “Unexpected pleasure,” he said graciously. He shook my hand warmly, but didn’t move to lead me back upstairs.

  “I’m sorry, I should’ve called. I’m a little scattered today.”

  “I hear someone’s trying to kill you.”

  “Yeah, but the person I thought was threatening me just showed up at my office and didn’t do anything but spit venom and cry on command.”

  “That why you’re here?”

  I frowned. “Guess it should be.” He shrugged. I didn’t know how else to phrase my question and Detective Lipscomb had always seemed to be the straight-shooting type, so I just went for it. “Is Detective Cook here?”

  Detective Lipscomb frowned. “I thought you wanted to see Kyle.”

  “I do,” I said, suddenly feeling like a teenager who’s been caught with one leg out the bedroom window as her parents come in to tell her good night.

  “What’s Detective Cook got to do with it?”

  “That’s kind of part of what I want to see Kyle about. What does she have to do with it?”

  “Well, to him, she’s investigating a homicide. But to you, she’s what? Spending time with your man?”

  “You’re good. You should be a detective.”

  He laughed once, then let a silence develop that he was far more comfortable with than I was.

  “So can I see him?” I asked when I had to say something.

  Detective Lipscomb frowned again. “He’s pretty tied up.”

  I’d prefer not to describe the image of erotic bondage that spontaneously leapt to my mind, lest that increase the number of therapy sessions it was going to take to erase it. Or at least erase Detective Cook’s prominent role in it. Suffice it to say, I muttered, “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  Detective Lipscomb thought a moment, weighing variables he wasn’t going to share with me, before he put his huge hand gently on my shoulder. “Want to come upstairs and wait for him?”

  I said a quick silent prayer of thankfulness for there still being good people in the world and told him, “Yes, please.”

  Detective Lipscomb slid his hand off my shoulder and on to my back to guide me to the staircase. As we climbed the stairs to the detective division, he offered his observations on my needing a new hobby, concluding with, “It’s never easy.”

  “Solving a murder?”

  “Being involved with a cop.” He swung his left hand up for me so I could see the bare fourth finger. “Used to have a ring.”

  I wasn’t sure whether to offer condolences or to panic. Especially when he continued, “Good to see you and Kyle doing so well. He hasn’t made it past six months in I don’t know how many.”

  Six months. Was that some sort of watershed for Kyle? The point when he decided if he wanted to renew or cancel his subscription? Brilliantly, it was the point when I’d asked if he wanted to go away for the weekend. I retained my crown as Queen of Great Timing.

  Detective Lipscomb led me over to his desk. I found our bullpen at the magazine dreary and institutional, but at least it had a little style to it. Their bullpen looked like someone had gone to a clearance sale when the War Department closed in the 1940s and bought only the most worn and battered desks and chairs and no one had gone shopping since. There were piles of paperwork on every available surface and the detectives who were at their desks looked weary but resolute. I vowed to remember that the next time I was tempted to complain about my taxes.

  He pulled a spare chair up to the side of his desk. “Shouldn’t tell you this, but your incident this weekend, it’s gotten very political. People throwing their weight around. We caught a double last night, but the bosses still pulled him to help Suffolk County.”

  “I didn’t mean to get him in another mess,” I said quietly.

  “Just wanted you to know the lay of the land. I’ll tell him you’re here. Or not,” he corrected himself.

  I thought he was toying with me, then realized he’d spotted Kyle coming across the room toward us, shirtsleeves rolled, an anguished look on his face. “What now?”

  How stupid did that make me feel? Let me count the ways. I felt catapulted back past the War Department, a full century at least, a stupid hysterical female who was impeding the serious work of men.

  To his credit, Kyle realized how it sounded, probably more because of Detective Lipscomb’s glare than my stricken look, because he quickly amended, “Sorry. What I meant was, has something else happened?”

  “Any results from the answering machine?”

  He checked his watch. “Soon. Why aren’t you at work?” “Veronica Innes came to see me. At work.”

  Kyle’s look of concern deepened. Despite what I’d told him, he still hadn’t dismissed her as a suspect. I wondered what Detective Cook might have told him that I didn’t know. “And?” he prompted.

  “Do you have time to talk?” I asked, trying to sound polite and concerned rather than suspicious and possessive.

  Kyle hesitated, glancing over at Detective Lipscomb, who grabbed his coffee mug off his desk. “Coffee, Molly?” he asked. I nodded and he walked off, stifling a smile and not looking at Kyle once.

  Kyle pinched his bottom lip. “Veronica told you about Detective Cook.”

  “Bingo,” I snarked.

  Kyle stepped in close, keeping his voice down with a visible effort. Unlike the meerkats in my office, his colleagues kept right on working, though they’d probably all been trained so they could listen to our conversation and do their own work simultaneously without missing a beat of either. “Don’t give me attitude. I’m in the middle of this because of you. Try to help me once or twice without adding to the problem.”

  “Which problem is that? Lisbet or you and me?”

  “This isn’t about us unless you want to make it about us.”

  The position I’d put him in was uncomfortably close to the situation I felt Tricia had put me in, but my mind grasped that after my mouth had
already said, “I’m just trying to help. Which is why I came to tell you about Veronica. But you already know. How is Darcy?”

  “Detective Cook’s getting her ass kicked by the people she works for.”

  “I’m familiar with the feeling.”

  “She asked me to pass along anything I heard that might help her out.”

  “Really. She asked me if you were single.”

  Kyle pinched his lip so hard I thought he was going to rip it off. “Tell me that’s not why you’re here.”

  “That’s not why I’m here.”

  “Damn it, Molly.” He caught me by the shoulders and eased me down into the chair Detective Lipscomb had found for me. “Sit here. Give me a minute, then we’ll talk.”

  He was being nice, doing his best to be nice, but it hit me like the wave you don’t see when you’re body surfing that slams you into the sand. I’d made a mistake. A magnificently big mistake. I thought quickly—something I should do way more often than I do—and realized that I needed to reposition myself fast or I was going to destroy more than my credibility.

  “Actually I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I began, though I could tell from his expression I could have begun better. “I should leave, give you the time you need to do what you have to do, then I’ll meet you a little later and we can talk then.”

  He waited a moment for the other shoe to drop. When it didn’t, his grip on my shoulders eased. “What’re you doing?”

  “I’d suggest you come to my place, but I’d like to include Detective Cook in the invitation and she might be uncomfortable there.”

  Now he let go of me completely. He didn’t know what to make of my change of heart. Which was actually a shift in tactics.

  “So how ’bout we meet at the lounge at the Algonquin Hotel at say, five?” I was really pleased with how sweet and reasonable all this sounded, since I was madly tap-dancing in my head.

  Kyle straightened up. “Five-thirty.”

  I stood. I was about to object, knowing that I had to get up to the Vincents’ by six-thirty, but I could figure that out along the way. “Fine.”