Killer Cocktail

by Sheryl J. Anderson

Detective Lipscomb returned with his mug filled and a paper cup of coffee for me. “I forgot to ask how you take it.”

  “To go, thank you.” He handed me the cup without further comment, scanning my face and Kyle’s and picking up all the info he needed. “I’m really sorry to have barged in on you like this. Thank you for coming downstairs,” I said to him, “and thank you for talking to me,” I said to Kyle. “I’ll see you later.” I gathered up what was left of my dignity and went home to contemplate my next move. And my wardrobe.

  My mistake had been to keep thinking I was a partner in this endeavor and, therefore, entitled to Kyle’s information and time. But he didn’t see me that way He saw me as an innocent to be protected. So my impulsive appearance came off as the attack of the high-maintenance girlfriend. The shrew who kicks at the door and demands entrance she hasn’t earned. Worst of all, I looked like I was trying to compete with Detective Cook. And maybe I was, but it wasn’t supposed to be so apparent. I was going to have to play this differently. And get to the answer before Detective Cook did.

  On the way home, I called Genevieve and instructed her to tell Eileen I was on to something for the story, so I was going to be out of pocket for the rest of the day. I also had the cabbie drop me off three blocks shy of my apartment so I could stop in at Stavros’s Grill, a terrific Greek deli, and get that cheesesteak to go. With fries, damn it. And a Vanilla Coke big enough to bathe in.

  I got home and instinctively checked the empty space on the console table where my answering machine belonged. It disturbed me for it to be gone, but this way, I could tell myself my threatener hadn’t called again or, even better, made any other advances into my life. It couldn’t be Veronica. It had to have been Jake, didn’t it? Veronica had been scary but, in retrospect, too involved in her own drama to be plotting against me. She was an actress, but she wasn’t that good. Was she?

  Light-headed from hunger, stress, and too much caffeine, I put on Joni Mitchell’s Miles of Aisles, one of my favorite pondering CDs, unwrapped my sandwich, and took stock. Detective Lipscomb was emerging as the only positive encounter of my day. Someone wanted to kill me. My editor wanted to fire me. A crazy actress was ready to sue me. One of my best friends wasn’t speaking to me, the other was pretty unhappy, the man I cared about wasn’t exactly thrilled, and my prime suspect had vanished, leaving behind nothing more helpful than his girlfriend, Our Lady of Dubious Lucidity.

  And then there was Detective Cook.

  But she could wait. What was weighing most heavily on my heart at the moment—aside from the cheesesteak—was the fact that I couldn’t call Tricia and Cassady and talk this through with them. Cassady would probably make time to talk to me if I called, but it’d be putting her in the middle until Tricia and I worked things out and that wasn’t fair. Nothing that was happening to Tricia and her family was fair. Certainly, what had happened to Lisbet wasn’t fair. I got all that. But it was going to be hard for Tricia to see past it for a while. I worried Tricia and I weren’t going to be able to work things out until I found Jake and uncovered why he’d killed Lisbet.

  And how was I going to find Jake? I moved my portable feast over to the computer and logged on to take a look at Jake’s Web site again. Not that I was expecting a pulldown of “Places I Go When I’m Hiding from My Girlfriend and the Law,” but maybe there’d be some clue there about where I could find him. Or a way to e-mail him that circumvented Lara and her protective instincts.

  Unfortunately, all there was on his Web site was a big screen that announced “This Web site is undergoing drastic renovation. We apologize for any inconvenience this may cause or any offense it did cause.” Everything was gone, most particularly the “memorial” footage of Lisbet. Was it the shameless use of the footage that had forced Jake to scrub the Web site? Or had he realized he was leaving a trail of bread crumbs that led to his own front door and the quieter he stayed, the better? But he’d shown it to me. Of course, I hadn’t suspected him then. Maybe that’s why he’d been so touchy-feely Maybe he’d gotten off on showing it to me while he knew the truth and I didn’t. Who had frightened, threatened, or otherwise cajoled him into taking it down now?

  No matter where I looked, all roads led back to Jake. If he was, in fact, the ghost in my machine, I had to be careful about my approach. Should I play the article card again? Or did I dare approach him directly with my suspicions? That was the more dangerous choice, but it was probably also the more effective. He could ignore the chance for an article, even though that would take considerable ego-wrestling on his part, but how could he pass up the opportunity to confront a person accusing him of murder? The trick was not getting myself killed in the process.

  With that in mind, maybe I should play it more subtly. Appeal to his sense of self-importance and let him fill in whatever was necessary between the lines.

  Picking up the phone, I hoped I’d get the machine, because I worried about Lara’s ability to deliver a message verbatim, depending on her state of mind. Of course, there was always the chance she was going to get the message off the machine and pass it along, losing it in translation, but I’d take that chance. I’d glimpsed enough of the control freak in Jake to believe that wherever he was, he was monitoring his messages.

  I paced around the apartment with the phone in my hand, drafting a message in my head so I didn’t have to stumble and stammer when I got through. I’ve botched plenty of attempts to attract men with awkward phone messages. At least that’s what I like to blame it on. With this much at stake, I wanted to be careful.

  “Hi, it’s Molly Forrester,” I thought initially. “Jake, Lara told me you’re going through some stuff. I think I can help. Call me.” But when I thought about that a little longer, it sounded like I was a therapist drumming up business, not a spider enticing a fly.

  Try again. “Jake and Lara, it’s Molly Forrester. Jake, I know you’re busy but there’s something I have to ask you. It’s life or death. Please call me.” Nah. Nice sense of urgency, but it was a tad adolescent.

  Maybe something more spare. Less Danielle Steele and more Raymond Chandler. “Jake, it’s Molly. I have to talk to you. You know why.”

  Yeah. That had real potential. Best of all, Lara would think it was about the article, but Jake would know better. And even if someone had put a scare into him, his ego wouldn’t let him stay in the shadows for long. He’d want to come out and toy with a person who knew his secret and had the ability to spread it all over town. As I left the message on their machine, asking him to call my cell because my answering machine was “broken,” I was confident he’d respond. I just had to pray I’d hear him coming.

  15

  The Algonguin, Hotel is a shrine to me. The Algonquin Round Table, those bright, bitter, witty folks who hung out in the Oak Room there in the 1930s, are some of my favorite writers. Especially Dorothy Parker, a woman who knew how to balance comedy, pain, and a cocktail and never waste a drop of any of them. By asking Kyle and Detective Cook to meet me there, I felt I was creating a home-court advantage, or at least giving the spirits of Parker, Benchley, and the rest an opportunity to watch over me.

  I’d taken my frustration out on my closet, ransacking it for the right outfit to set the proper tone for meeting Kyle and Detective Cook. Nothing I owned fit the bill. The Algonquin seemed to require black Hollywood trousers and a slouchy white silk blouse and unexpectedly delicate black slingbacks, perhaps with a little rosette. I tend toward the Katharine Hepburn because my shoulders are too wide to try Audrey Hepburn. Besides, there wasn’t anything Golightly about my mood. It was darkening by the moment.

  I kept expecting the phone to ring, hoping it would be Jake and wondering if it would be Kyle with some reason to cancel. Instead, I called Cassady and warned her that I might be cutting my appearance at the Vincents’ a little close because of my date with the detectives.

  “You’re not worried he’s interested in her, are you?” Cassady asked disdainfully.

  “I need to talk to the
m about the message on my answering machine.”

  “How do you expect to get people to answer your questions when you won’t answer theirs?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Which question does that answer?”

  “All of the above.”

  “Don’t be too late. It’s not polite. And frankly, I don’t relish the thought of spending any more time there than necessary.”

  “Did you really sleep with David?”

  “I’m already on record, it was just holiday party pawing. Nothing consummated.”

  “Who started it?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m trying to figure out this alleged liaison with Veronica. How easily do you suppose David strays?”

  “He’s a man, isn’t he? That’s why the penis is shaped like a handle, so they can be led around by it. Put them on wheels and they’d make delightful pull toys.”

  It was difficult to keep that image out of my head as I watched the men entering and leaving the Algonquin, thinking of all the grand art and sex and drinking that had taken place in this magnificent setting. The lobby is dark, the colors and textures rich, the light suspending everything in amber.

  Not owning my dream Kate Hepburn outfit, I’d decided on my Ralph Lauren taupe linen duster and matching pants with a white silk blouse underneath. With Jimmy Choo pumps, Melody in burnt orange leather, I felt I fit in quite nicely. I’d snagged a seat on one of the velvet sofas facing the front door so I’d be able to see my guests enter and told the cocktail waiter I was waiting for someone. He still came back with a drink on his tray, a deep red drink in a martini glass, and put it down in front of me.

  “I’m sorry, but I didn’t order yet.”

  He nodded knowingly. “A gift from a friend. It’s the Parker, a house specialty. Named for Mrs. Dorothy Parker. Your friend said it was a toast to a long life.”

  I’m sure he was expecting me to be pleased, but I was alarmed. Invoking the Queen of Sarcasm in a toast for long life sounded like a threat to me, especially in my current mood. “What friend?” I asked, looking around nervously. Was Jake here, hidden in a dark corner somewhere, watching me and waiting for his moment?

  “A lady She came in right after you.” He looked around, too, puzzled. “Now I don’t see her.” He looked back at me. “You’re upset, I’m sorry. I’ll take it away.”

  He reached for the glass, but I put my hand on his. “Did she pay for the drink in cash?” He nodded. Okay, no paper trail to help there. “Was she blond or dark?”

  “A little dark.”

  “Pretty?”

  He shrugged. “All women are pretty.”

  I smiled, even though I was freaking out. “Thank you. Leave the drink. I’ll figure it out.”

  Dark, maybe pretty. Someone who had followed me to the Algonquin. Somebody who, therefore, had been watching my apartment, because no one else knew I was going to be here except Kyle, Detective Cook, and Cassady. Somebody who’d been right behind me and I hadn’t even noticed. People get shot this way. I got shot this way.

  I wanted to chug the drink for courage, but then again, I didn’t even want to touch the glass. I’d been worrying about Jake all day and now there was a woman after me? Who was she? What did she want? Was she going to—

  The hand on my arm was gentle, but I still cried out and leapt to my feet. I’d been so busy staring at the drink and trying to figure it out that I hadn’t seen Kyle and Detective Cook come in. They were both in their work clothes, suits of an almost identical slate gray, though she was wearing a cream silk tee and he had on a blue oxford. There was a matched-set quality to them I found disturbing, especially because I wasn’t sure if I was overdressed or just emphasizing, for good or ill, that I wasn’t a member of their club.

  I attempted to sound witty and light while I explained the untouched drink on the table, but I wasn’t terribly convincing. Kyle scanned the room carefully before indicating the armchair next to me for Detective Cook. He sat beside me on the couch.

  “I guess I’ve ruffled some feathers,” I said with a stab at nonchalance.

  “Go with your strengths,” Detective Cook replied.

  Now, Kyle was studying the glass as though he could make it slosh up some forensic clue. “You didn’t notice anyone?” he asked.

  “No one. Besides, when I look over my shoulder, I’m looking for the guy on my answering machine.”

  “It’s a woman,” Detective Cook told me.

  I was equally startled, but I didn’t cry out this time. “A what?” I asked stupidly.

  “A woman. Kyle’s tech rat couldn’t tell much else about the tape, but he’s willing to testify that it’s a woman.”

  Several things stood out in that sentence. “Woman,” which blew my Jake theory to shreds. “Testify,” which awakened the concept of all this going to trial at some point, preferably with David not in the lineup. And “Kyle,” which meant the dear detectives had progressed to calling each other by their first names.

  Focusing on “woman” seemed to be the wisest course at the moment. If a woman had called me and a woman had followed me here tonight, either Jake was using Lara as his all-purpose messenger of doom or I’d underestimated Veronica Innes’s acting ability and dismissed her too quickly. “Where do you stand with Veronica Innes?” I asked Detective Cook.

  She looked at Kyle before answering. “And the ground rules for this conversation are …”

  Kyle shook his head. I elaborated. “Here’s one. We put our cards on the table because none of us are in a position to waste time.”

  Detective Cook reached into her jacket, but she brought out a notebook, not a gun, so I hadn’t stepped too far over the line. “Ms. Forrester, I’m not here to make you happy.”

  “Congratulations on your success.”

  “Molly …” Kyle sighed.

  “What? She already told me she doesn’t have to be nice, so why do I? Because my mother raised me right? That’s why the wolves always win. Because the rest of us mind our manners and get devoured for our efforts.”

  Detective Cook looked at Kyle again. “She always like this?”

  “No, you bring out the best in me and I’d really prefer that you insult me directly, rather than making snide comments to him like I’m not old enough to understand.”

  Kyle caught the eye of the cocktail waiter and his pleading look brought the man in a hurry. Kyle slid the suspect drink away from me, possibly to keep me from throwing it on Detective Cook, and asked me what I wanted. I ordered a fresh Parker because I was feeling stubborn. Detective Cook ordered a Diet Coke and Kyle went with club soda; they were on the clock. I was on a different one. I checked my watch. I wanted to allow myself twenty-five minutes to get up to the Vincents’, but I didn’t want to leave until I’d gotten everything out of Detective Cook I could.

  Detective Cook resumed smoothly. “I’m not trying to offend you, Ms. Forrester,” she said, with the clear implication that she wouldn’t lose any sleep if she did, “but I don’t want you to screw up my investigation either.”

  “Then tell me what you have on Veronica Innes so I can figure out if she wants to kill me or just likes taking it out on me after you’ve gotten her all worked up. And please answer me without looking at him.”

  Detective Cook started to put her notebook back in her jacket. “Forget it.”

  “No,” Kyle said quietly. “Someone’s threatening her. She’s part of this.”

  “And no one else could be threatening her because …”

  My desire to kiss him outweighed my desire to punch her, but not by much. “Veronica Innes,” I repeated.

  She glared at me so determinedly, I could tell she was straining not to look at Kyle first. “The champagne bottle’s clean. There were traces of the label in Lisbet’s scalp. The label on Veronica’s bottle was intact. Not the murder weapon.

  “Which doesn’t mean she didn’t kill her.”

  “And her motive would be …”

  �
�To win back the guy and the part. She had sex with David Vincent Friday afternoon.”

  They both reacted to that, Kyle in surprise, Detective Cook in delight. “Which doesn’t make it look very good for David Vincent.”

  How did she keep pinning it on a Vincent and making it look like my idea? “C’mon, Detective Cook, a guy wants to get rid of you for better sex, he dumps you, he doesn’t kill you.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Well, after you’ve had sex, you’ll understand.”

  “Okay!” Kyle exclaimed, more for the benefit of the arriving waiter than for either of us.

  The waiter astutely passed out the drinks and left quickly. My new Parker looked beautiful, somehow brighter and crisper than the other one, and I took a nice, long sip. Vodka Chambord, and a hint of lemon-lime—tart but smooth, just like Parker, and a noble goal for me. I was taking a second sip when my cell rang. I mumbled an apology and fished the phone out of my purse, sure I’d lost track of time and Cassady was calling to yell at me.

  “Molly.”

  It was Jake. It had worked. But I wasn’t sure, in the moment, whether that was a good thing or not. “Hey.”

  “Leave me the hell alone.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Kyle put his hand on my knee in a very comfortable, very wonderful manner. He was watching my face carefully, trying to figure out whom I was talking to. I didn’t know what to tell him and Detective Cook, because I wasn’t sure how to keep her from turning Jake into a black mark against David. Especially because this conversation wasn’t going in the direction I’d expected it to. Not surprising, given my track record for the day.

  “Stop threatening me, Molly.”

  “I didn’t. I asked to see you.”

  “The first message. The ‘shut down the site or die’ one.”

  Someone had threatened Jake, too? Or was this a ploy? “Wasn’t me.”

  “Liar!”

  “I swear.”

  “I closed it down.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Satisfied now? The most beautiful thing I’ve done in my career and I took it down. What more do you want from me?’