Formula for Murder

by Diana Orgain

  “What are you asking me?”

  The phone rang, interrupting us. Jim answered and I could tell by his side of the conversation that it was our insurance adjustor finally calling us.

  Jim balled up the shirt as he listened. Finally, he said, “That’s ridiculous!”

  Laurie kicked her legs and made a face. Suddenly, it struck me that having her in the middle of the bed with clean laundry might be a bad choice. I plucked her off the bed in time to intercept the spit-up partly with my blouse, the balance landing on the hardwood floor.

  Jim tried to wipe my blouse with the T-shirt in his hand. I shook my head to stop him, but he was absorbed in his conversation and insisted on mopping up the floor with the clean shirt. “I can’t believe this!” He paused. “Well, that’s all fine and good, but where does it leave us?” He paused again, then said, “Great. I’ll wait for your fax.”

  He hung up and tossed the now soiled shirt into the laundry basket. “Looks like I’m going to have to fight the insurance company for a new car.”

  “But we’re not at fault,” I said.

  Jim sighed. “Jean-Luc Cheese-head isn’t liable either. His license is issued by the Department of State and his insurance isn’t cooperating because he has diplomatic immunity and basically they can’t enforce anything on them.”

  “He wasn’t driving. You think the kid has diplomatic immunity, too?”

  Jim shrugged. “Does it matter? We don’t even know who the kid is.”

  “Jean-Luc does. I’m sure of it.”

  “Look, honey, don’t worry about it. I’ll handle it,” Jim said, seething.

  Now didn’t seem like the right time to mention the Christmas party.

  Instead I said, “Before the phone rang, you wanted to ask me something.”

  Jim hung his head. “Oh yeah. If I needed . . . to take a trip—”

  “Where do you want to go?”

  I expected him to say he wanted to go to the neighborhood pub, drink some beers with David, Paula’s husband, and watch football. Instead, he sat on the bed next to Laurie and toppled one of my piles of laundry.

  “Honey, I got an e-mail from Dirk Jonson. He’s asking if I can do a trip to New York to pitch the Zenia account. Are you okay if I go?”

  He looked pained.

  “When?”

  “Wednesday. I’d be gone until Sunday. I hate to leave you alone with Laurie. But your mom can help you, right? And Paula.”

  I tried to hide my smile. Jim would be out of town during the consulate party. I could go with Paula, try and track down the kid, and never even have to mention it to him . . .

  • CHAPTER FIVE •

  To Do:

  1. Reschedule holiday photos.

  2. Get Laurie’s dress cleaned.

  3. Christmas cards and shopping.

  4. ✓

  5. Find stupid kid that hit us at party—does he have insurance? Diplomatic immunity?

  6. Research safest car.

  Paula and I arrived at the consulate promptly at 6 P.M. We’d parked in a nearby lot and walked the few blocks to the party. Paula had scored a vintage red dress at one of the shops we had visited on Haight Street. It was a décolleté gown with the neck and shoulder bare. She had covered herself with a winter white shawl and looked the epitome of holiday cheer.

  I was wearing a tiny black dress, the size of which had surprised me. I was sure it fit only because it cost a bundle. My theory is that designer dresses are cut large to make you feel slim as you drop a ton of money on them. Paula tried to assure me the reverse was true, but I didn’t believe her.

  I’d tied in the holiday colors by picking a pair of ridiculously high heels in a delicious red and matching them to a wrap. I loved the feel of my dress and heels as we walked toward the consulate. It was a cold evening and the silk wrap did practically nothing to protect me against the breeze; nevertheless I enjoyed the feeling of sophistication—how long had it been since I’d been dressed up?

  And the purse! The purse was spectacular. A tiny little itty-bitty thing by Rafē New York. It was embossed snake leather and delicately beaded. Only room for my phone, lipstick, and some cash. No diapers, no wipes, no bottles, no pacifier, no baby booties, no baby anything. Oh! Oh! Oh! The joy of a solo outing with a girlfriend!

  I happily glanced at Paula. Pregnant Paula . . . Okay, so babies were never quite out of my consciousness but still I loved the sound of my own high heels clicking on the cement—yes, focus on the heels.

  Sophistication, finesse, grace.

  Wow! These heels are really high . . .

  In fact, the balls of my feet were beginning to burn a little. I glanced at Paula’s feet clad in a pair of green patent leather ballet slippers that curiously made the same wonderful clippity-cloppity noise as my heels.

  Why did I feel like I had to kill myself in high heels in order to feel elegant?

  We approached the glass door of the consulate and a uniformed security guard held it open for us. He indicated a table for us to sign in.

  As we passed him he left out a soft, “Oh la la.”

  I turned back to him and he raised an appreciative eyebrow at me.

  I felt giddy again.

  “Just when you were wondering why you bothered to wear high heels,” Paula said with a smirk.

  I poked her. “How did you know what I was thinking?”

  Paula laughed. “You’re starting to limp.” She produced the invite to a woman who crossed-referenced the guest list.

  “Yeah? Well at least I’m wearing ’em, loafer lady.”

  Paula stuck out a foot. “These are not loafers!”

  “Practically.”

  Paula held back a laugh. “Are you going to rub in the fact that you’re going to drink a cocktail now, too?”

  Since Paula was pregnant and wouldn’t be drinking she was our designated driver.

  I smiled. “No.”

  Paula raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going to rub it in, or you’re not drinking?”

  “Please. Of course, I’m drinking.”

  We made our way to the bar. I ordered a cosmopolitan for myself and a Perrier for Paula.

  The ballroom was decked out in holiday trimmings, with a glowing Christmas tree in the center of the room, just below a staggering chandelier. The Christmas tree was made up of different size LED lightbulbs and gave off a soft white light and an annoying hum.

  Paula and I exchanged looks.

  She raised her perfectly arched brows at me. “Hi-tech. You think it’s green?”

  I smirked. “It’s white.”

  She gave me her famous you’re-not-funny look and said, “I mean, as in energy efficient.”

  I shrugged. “Well, they didn’t kill a tree for it, but for all we know they’re using up enough power to light up San Francisco for a day.”

  The bartender brought us our drinks and I slipped some cash into the tip jar for him.

  A man with unruly curly hair stepped up to the bar and ordered, then he turned to Paula and I and in a French accent asked, “You like the tree?”

  “It’s blinding me,” I answered.

  Paula elbowed me. The man tried to suppress his grin.

  “It’s beautiful,” Paula said.

  “What?” I asked. “I can’t hear you over the tree.”

  At that the gentleman gave an outright laugh, but Paula only frowned at me.

  The bartender returned and handed the man his drink; without another word he slipped into the crowd.

  “Where are your manners? I can’t take you anywhere,” Paula said.

  I spotted Jean-Luc making his way around some guests and pointed him out to Paula just as a plate of Coquilles Saint-Jacques wafted by us.

  Paula glanced at Jean-Luc, then flagged a waiter down. “I don’t know what takes my breath away more—a handsome Frenchman or these hors d’oeuvres.” She reached out and accepted a napkin from the waiter, then as delicately as I’d ever seen, proceeded to pop seven oyster fritters into h
er mouth. The waiter simply stood with the tray held out for her.

  I cleared my throat and frowned. “Talk about manners.”

  With a mouthful of oysters, Paula said, “What? I’m eating for two!”

  The waiter smiled and moved the tray closer to her. She picked up two additional oysters and put them on her napkin. “Merci beaucoup.”

  The waiter gave a slight bow and retreated.

  I watched Jean-Luc mingling. He touched almost everyone he greeted, a kiss here, a pat there, a squeeze, a handshake, a hug. Finally his eyes landed on mine with a generic welcome look. No recognition.

  Maybe I looked a little different than the other day. After the hit-and-run and the trip to the emergency room I must have been even more disheveled than my normal self.

  He squeezed Paula’s free hand. “Welcome, mademoiselle .”

  “Thank you for inviting us. Lovely party. Great hors d’oeuvres.”

  Jean-Luc laughed and pulled Paula closer, whispering something inaudible. Paula giggled.

  He ignored me and proceeded on to another guest.

  “What did he say?” I asked Paula.

  “I don’t know, he said it in French. But it gave me chills. Look!” She showed me her arm filled with goose bumps. “He’s so sexy!”

  I shrugged. “If you like that sort of thing.”

  Paula laughed and pushed my shoulder. “Every woman with a pulse likes that sort of thing! Jealous?”

  “Pfft, he’s a turkey. Besides, he’s only giving the pregnant gal a little attention.”

  “God bless him,” Paula said. “Someone has to.”

  From inside my purse my phone buzzed. I finished my cosmopolitan and placed it on the bar. Paula pinched my elbow as I reached inside my purse. “Look, I think that is the consul and his wife.”

  I glanced across the room as I pulled my cell phone out. A silver-haired gentleman was talking to an elegant woman more or less his age. I looked at the caller ID display. Jim.

  Suddenly I missed him terribly.

  What was I doing here? How angry would he be if I told him where I was?

  “Honey!” I said, into the phone.

  “Kate?”

  “Yeah!”

  “I can’t really hear you. Where are you?”

  “Hold on,” I said. I left Paula in her place, oogling a waiter with a tray of escargot-stuffed mushrooms, and moved toward the exit. “Is this better?” I asked Jim.

  “Sort of, yeah. Where are you?”

  “I’m out with Paula.”

  “Good for you.”

  He was sincerely happy for me. Oh! The guilt!

  “I was missing you and Laurie and wanted to check in with you, but I’ll let you go. Have fun and call me when you get home,” he said.

  I promised to call him later and hung up.

  I returned to Paula’s side and found the waiter pleasantly parked in front of her with the tray of mushrooms.

  She smiled and through a mouthful of food said, “These are so good! You have to try them.”

  I winked at the waiter. “I’m good, you can have mine,” I said to Paula.

  She beamed as she helped herself to another two mushrooms. The waiter bowed and retreated.

  “I love this party,” Paula said.

  I laughed. “I’ll bet.”

  The consul began to make his way toward us. All eyes were on him. He seemed to single me out and was suddenly by my side. “Bonsoir, mademoiselle. Wonderful to have you visiting the consulate. Please tell me, is everything to your liking?”

  His gray eyes were on mine, a smile on his face. He was probably in his late sixties. Definitely a man who was used to getting his way.

  “It’s a lovely party.” I smiled. “Thank you.”

  “And your interest in France is . . . ? Will you be visiting her soon?”

  No! I was rear-ended by one of your vehicles with my infant in the car, am lucky to be standing here in front of your pompous arse, and some half-wit ran away from the scene and refuses to take responsibility!

  Paula leaned in to save me. “I was in Paris for several months. Très magnifique!”

  The consul seemed to grow an inch. “Bravo!”

  A woman I presumed to be his wife, appeared at his side and laced her arm through his. She said something in French. He gave a slight nod to us and ushered her to the bar.

  “What did she say?” I asked Paula.

  Paula shrugged. “My French isn’t that good. I think she wanted a drink or something.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I could guess that, I mean, they sidled up to the bar.”

  Paula tilted her head and waved her hand in a gesture of complete disregard, reminiscent of a French dismissal.

  “What did you do all that time you were in France?” I asked.

  Paula frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “I thought you studied French. That you were at least conversational.”

  “I am conversational! I tramped all over Paris with Danny in tow. I know how to ask all sorts of kids’ things. Like, Où est les toilettes les plus proches de mon enfant vient de ramasser chien pooh.”

  “You’re gonna make me ask, aren’t you?”

  “What?” Paula said, batting her eyelashes at me.

  “I got the ‘where’s the toilet’ part and something about dog pooh?”

  Paula smirked. “It means, Where’s the nearest restroom—my kid just picked up dog pooh.”

  I laughed. “If you can say that, I’m sure you can understand what they’re saying now.” I shifted my eyes toward the consul and his wife at the bar.

  A waiter shimmied past with Coquilles Saint-Jacques on his tray.

  Paula’s eyes were on the waiter instead of the consul. “They’re talking too fast.”

  “Maybe if you focused on them instead of the food, you’d be able to catch it.”

  “No, I don’t think so. But if I hurry I think I can catch him, it’s the second time I’ve missed him,” Paula said, following the waiter.

  I laughed and watched her tap the waiter’s shoulder and demurely accept his offer of Coquilles Saint-Jacques.

  Across the room I spotted Kimberly Newman speaking with Jean-Luc. She seemed agitated. Her hands were moving frantically back and forth. Her gaze spanned the room and stopped just past me to where the consul stood with his wife. Their heads were bent toward each other and they seemed to be sharing a joke.

  Kimberly grimaced.

  From behind Kimberly, I spotted a ponytail. My breath caught.

  Could it be him?

  I jerked around to try to see past the people blocking my view.

  It was him.

  It was the boy who had driven the SUV right into Laurie and me. He looked a bit older than I’d thought initially, more like twenty-one or twenty-two.

  A wave of anger surged through my body, jolting me into action.

  I waved frantically at Paula to get her attention. She was busy talking to the waiter. I pressed through the crowd, bumping elbows and saying, “Excuse-moi,” to anyone who would listen, trying to get closer to her, my eyes still on the boy.

  He was having a heated conversation with Jean-Luc. I had to reach him and I had to confront him or at the very least strangle him.

  I grabbed Paula’s elbow. “That’s him.”

  Paula followed my gaze. “Oh! He’s just a boy!”

  I pulled her arm. “Come on.”

  We pushed through the crowd. The boy looked up momentarily and spotted me making my way toward him. His eyes widened in recognition and then he quickly looked around the room. He darted toward an exit on the right-hand side of the building and disappeared.

  “Go without me, you’ll be faster,” Paula said.

  “In these heels?”

  Note to self: Do not wear ridiculously high heels if you are going to have to chase hit-and-run perpetrator. No matter how delicious the shoes!

  • CHAPTER SIX •

  The wind buffeted me as I exited the building. The do
or opened to a balcony. I peered over the railing: a narrow path led to a garden; off to the right was a staircase that descended to the path. The garden was dark and rather small. I could make out a row of bushes, probably rosebushes. No one appeared to be hiding in the garden.

  Where could he have gone?

  I walked the length of the balcony. Although there were several strings of Christmas lights near the doorway, the main lights were off probably to encourage partygoers to stay indoors. The wind whipped around and I regretted only having a skimpy wrap.

  When I reached the far end of the balcony I was in complete darkness. I guided myself by feeling along the wall. I felt a handle, it was a doorknob. I twisted it, but it was locked. The boy must have escaped through there.

  I pulled my phone from my purse and used the lightup display to look around. Directly in front of me was an ivy trellis, which bordered the end of the balcony. Obviously, the boy hadn’t gone in that direction, he must have gone through the door.

  I punched Paula’s number into my phone, although I was so angry my hands were shaking and I had to dial twice. I took a breath as the phone rang.

  She picked up immediately. “Where are you? Did you get him?”

  “No. I’m on the balcony. On the left side of the building, there’s a door here that he must have used, but it’s locked. Do me a favor and walk through the inside, see if you run into him.”

  “What do I do then?”

  “I don’t know. Entertain him a minute ’til I get there. I want to stay here in case he comes out again.”

  “Okay, well, I’m walking into the bowels of the consulate now. Oh. Red rope. Okay, let me just . . . get . . . over . . . whoa . . . pregnant lady almost capsizes. Don’t worry, I’m okay.”

  “Good.”

  “I can’t believe no one stopped me from walking back here. Ooooh . . .”

  “What?” I asked.

  “Beautiful statue.”

  “Paula focus. We’re looking for a hit-and-run guy. Not statues.”

  “Um . . . yeah. Wow.”

  “What?”