Killer Riff

by Sheryl J. Anderson

  Dear Molly,

  Why are the most important questions in life the hardest ones to ask? Like “Am I happy?” and “Is this really what I want out of life?” and “Do you still love me?” If I hesitate to ask these questions, is it because I’m afraid of the answer or because I already know the answer? Is it better to have called and asked than never to have called at all?

  Signed

  Breach Out and Touch No One

  Framing my problem as someone else’s letter always gave me clarity and perspective, and this time was no different. I wasn’t being proud, I was being a coward. If I was really that afraid of Kyle rejecting me, then it was better to get it out in the open and get it over with. Yank the Band-Aid off instead of peeling it back bit by painful bit. I took a deep breath, lifted the receiver, and began to punch in his number.

  “Sorry, am I interrupting?”

  My finger hovered over the last digit, and I plunked the receiver back down, embarrassed by the accompanying sense of relief. I smiled at Dorrie Pendleton, the editorial assistant who fidgeted before me, frowning nervously. Dorrie did everything nervously, but she also did it dependably and well. She even dressed dependably and well, just this side of tweeds and sensible shoes, which made her stand out in our pool of burgeoning fashionistas, but she seemed oblivious to the contrast. “What can I do for you, Dorrie?”

  “Is it true that staffers are going to be given an opportunity to submit work for consideration for replacing you on ‘You Can Tell Me’? Not that anyone would really replace you, but—”

  Impressed by how efficiently the rumor mill was operating, I held up my hand. “I appreciate that, but I’m sure one of you will prove quite capable of filling my kate spades. Eileen’s going to circulate a memo about the process.”

  Dorrie perched in the chair beside me, leaning forward to create the illusion of intimacy. She had to be just as aware as I was of the number of our colleagues who were suddenly easing back in their chairs to catch a snippet of our conversation. “Your column sets this magazine apart. It’s crucial to maintain its integrity and insight.”

  “Thank you.” I smiled, bracing myself for the pitch for herself as leading candidate.

  “And I’m so relieved that the rumors about Eileen forcing you out turned out to be wrong.”

  My smile locked into something that felt more like a grimace. “Yeah, me too,” I managed out of one side of my mouth. Hearing my private paranoia voiced as office gossip was unsettling, even in light of this afternoon’s events. Had talk about my leaving the column because of my new position been misunderstood, or had Eileen really been trying to get rid of me? Either way, why was I the last to know?

  “You’re an inspiration,” Dorrie continued, but her adulation was making me uncomfortable now, and I started edging out of my seat.

  “Thanks again, and good luck in the competition,” I said as I stood up, even though I wasn’t sure I knew where I was headed.

  “No. Thank you,” Dorrie said, and she quickly slipped back to her desk, leaving me to stand awkwardly beside mine and realize that at least four people had dropped the subterfuge of working while eavesdropping and were staring directly at me. I considered blowing them a big kiss, but despite not being known for discretion, I thought I’d give it a try; I grabbed my cell phone and headed for the elevator.

  There’s nothing like not wanting to confront one problem in your life to make you willing to confront another. I’d barely stepped out into the constant rumble of Lexington Avenue before I’d flipped open my phone and speed-dialed Kyle. I had no idea what I was going to say, but I was determined to say it.

  He answered on the second ring, before I had a chance to change my mind. “Hey,” he said, and my knees wobbled and my eyes dampened with the sudden sharpness of missing him.

  “Hey,” I replied with all the eloquence I could muster. “Am I interrupting?”

  “No. How are you?”

  “Miserable,” I said without thinking.

  “Good.”

  “What?”

  “‘Cause I am, too.”

  “Sounds like something we should talk about,” I said, resisting the impulse to shout over the blood rushing in my ears.

  “Good idea. What are you doing tonight?”

  Anything you suggest, I thought, but I swallowed hard and said, “I’m meeting Tricia and Cassady for drinks at six. Care to join us?”

  “No. No offense to them, but I just want to see you.” I was about to break a cardinal rule and offer to cancel with them, but he continued, “Where are you meeting them? I can meet you somewhere near there afterwards.”

  “The Bubble Lounge.”

  “Champagne before dinner? Why? What happened?”

  That was the downside of being involved with a detective, but hesitating now would only make it worse. “I got promoted. They’re making me a feature writer. My first article is about this woman Olivia Elliott, who’s trying to protect her late father’s legacy. It’s not about his death, he just happened to die, and now she’s trying to make sure he gets remembered properly,” I overexplained, wanting it perfectly clear that this was a homicide-free assignment and nothing to worry about.

  There was enough of a pause for sweat to bead along my spine before he said, “Russell Elliott the music guy?”

  “Yes.”

  “I loved Subject to Change Without Notice.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Our similar taste in music?”

  “Your new job.”

  “Is it?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Then it will be.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Okay, count me in for the champagne. But I’d like dinner to be just the two of us.”

  “Absolutely,” I said, wondering if my hands would have stopped trembling by then.

  “See you there.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m glad you called.”

  “Me too.”

  I stood on the sidewalk, catching my breath and blessing Ben Lipscomb at the same time. The tiny helium balloons returned, and I felt as if I could float all the way to Central Park with one decent gust of wind. I had to do something with all the adrenaline that was coursing through me or I was apt to start grabbing strangers as they walked by and hugging them, inviting them to dance, and otherwise making a fool of myself. Determined to channel my energy a bit more productively, I fished Olivia Elliott’s business card out of my pocket. I considered calling her office number but decided it would be simpler to leave a message on her cell phone than to explain myself to a receptionist.

  “Olivia Elliott.”

  Her voice had the dusky richness of a jazz DJ and caught me by surprise. I hadn’t expected her to answer, so it took me a moment to frame my response. “Ms. Elliott, my name is Molly Forrester, and I’m a writer for Zeitgeist magazine. Henry Kwon talked to you—”

  “Yes, yes, and Henry spoke highly of you. I’m so pleased you’ll be doing the article about my dad.”

  “Thank you. I was—am—a fan of his, especially his work with Subject to Change.”

  “Very kind. Though I need you to understand from the outset that I’m not interested in participating in an article that will be yet another rehash of Dad’s so-called glory days.”

  By the end of the sentence, all silkiness was gone from her voice, replaced by a sharp, bitter edge. I waited a respectful moment before replying. “Henry and I discussed your concern that his contributions to contemporary music are being overlooked, so I thought we could focus on your role in ensuring your father is remembered properly.”

  “And I can’t really do that until he’s buried properly, can I?”

  “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “Ms. Forrester, I assumed Henry had chosen you for this article because of your body of work. I thought you’d be more attuned to the central issue here.”

  “And that issue is?” />
  “No one seems to care that my dad was murdered.”

  2

  “Maybe she’s just hoping her father was murdered,” Cassady suggested, pushing my still-untouched champagne glass closer to my hand. The whole point in coming to the Bubble Lounge, a bar that specializes in champagne, was to be celebratory, but apprehension was letting a little helium out of the balloons, as it were.

  Tricia shivered. “What an awful thought.”

  “If it’s between believing he was murdered and believing he committed suicide …” Cassady shrugged. Tricia considered that a moment, then nodded in agreement.

  Not a theory I’d broached with Olivia on the phone. What I’d done was take a deep breath and say, “It was my understanding your father’s death was accidental.”

  “That would be a misunderstanding, then. An all-too-common one, which is why I want it cleared up. You’ll discuss that in the article, won’t you?”

  I could hear the train whistles screeching, yet I said, “When would you be free to meet with me?”

  “I have patients in the morning…. Are you free for lunch tomorrow?”

  Patients. It took me a moment to remember that the papers had described Olivia as a therapist. Interesting choice for someone who’d grown up around the outsize behavior of a band like Subject to Change. “One o’clock?” I suggested.

  “Let’s make it twelve-thirty. The Grill Room at the Four Seasons? I’ll get us a table.”

  A very old school, pro-establishment choice that struck me as odd. But maybe she was consciously separating herself from the wilder world in which she’d grown up. I agreed to meet her there, making a mental note to check with Henry about the expense account that went with my new job. She had thanked me for calling before she hung up. It had impressed me, but I still felt as though the heat of her anger had scorched my ear. Even now I considered putting my champagne glass against it as a salve.

  “So,” Cassady continued, drawing out the word deliberately, “what are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to have lunch with her.”

  “Will you try to talk her out of her theory?” Tricia asked.

  “Not until I’ve heard it.”

  “What if she’s right?”

  I did my best to sound matter-of-fact and ignore the odd gnawing in the pit of my stomach, especially since I couldn’t tell if it was nerves or excitement. “Then it’s a bigger story than we thought it was.”

  We all knew what the next question was and everything that was riding on it, but Cassady voiced it anyway. “What are you going to tell Kyle?”

  I checked my watch. Was he late, or was he not coming? “That I’m very glad to see him. I hope you’ll do the same.”

  Tricia gave that little snap of the head that makes her shining hair bounce beautifully yet still conveys total disagreement. “If you really want Kyle back in your life, you have to stop hiding things from him. Especially things that are central to your relationship.”

  “Tricia,” I said lightly, “did I tell you they’re looking for someone to take over my column?”

  Tricia frowned less lightly. “You’re only being mean to me because you know I’m right.”

  “She’s not being mean,” Cassady said soothingly, “she’s being snippy. But give her time, it’s early.” She checked her watch. “Earliness being a relative concept.”

  “Now you’re being mean. He’ll be here,” Tricia said crisply.

  And suddenly, he was. Even though I’d been doing my best to watch discreetly as people passed the front window and approached the entrance, Kyle was standing in front of us, breathtaking in his effortless way, running his hand through his hair to absolutely no avail. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  Tricia bounced to her feet and hugged him in greeting, while Cassady rose more elegantly. I stayed planted on the sofa right where I was because I wasn’t sure I could stand up. As he hugged both of them, those amazing blue eyes tried to lock on mine, but I wasn’t sure I could do that, either. I wasn’t sure I could do any of this. I swallowed a sharp urge to cry.

  Freed from my friends, Kyle held out his hand to me. I took it and felt as though he were lifting me to my feet. Eye to eye, I was even more flustered and hoped he couldn’t feel it through my hand. It’s times like these that I want so desperately to be Lana Turner, all cool composure and well-timed gesture. But I’m always June Allyson, all stammers and earnest smiles. I try to comfort myself with the fact that June Allyson usually winds up with the guy at the end. Even if he never gets Lana Turner completely out of his system.

  What on earth were we thinking? We, not just I, because he’d agreed to it. Given that we hadn’t seen each other for almost two months, how did we think we could meet in a club for a drink and carry it off as if it were a normal after-work rendezvous and not a reunion carrying the weight of everything hat had gone unsaid and unresolved in the meantime? Drinks with friends and then what? Dinner? Dessert? Depositions?

  Then again, there was a lot to be said for taking this step in the presence of other people, said presence making it all the more important to be polite and restrained and not get all weepy and hyperventilate. Not that I thought Kyle was considering that, but I certainly was.

  He, damn him, had the presence of mind to look me in the eye, squeeze my hand gently, and say, “Good to see you.”

  I smiled. “You too.” I kissed him on the cheek, and he pressed his cheek against mine. I thought of Lana Turner and John Garfield in The Postman Always Rings Twice and considered throwing him down on the coffee table before God, my friends, and all the patrons of the Bubble Lounge. Instead, I remembered my manners, took a deep breath, and gently guided him to sit next to me on the couch.

  “Are you on duty, Kyle, or can we buy you a drink?” Cassady asked, already signaling for the waitress.

  “I’m here to celebrate,” he said, casting a dubious eye on my kir royale. “But nothing fancy.”

  Cassady ordered him a glass of Taittinger while Tricia leaned out of her chair to put her hand on his shoulder. “It’s so nice to see you, Kyle.”

  “Good to see all of you, too.”

  “Isn’t it great news?” she said with a nod in my direction.

  “Yes, it is. Amazing how people can be slow to recognize how lucky they are to have her in their lives.” He looked down to take my hand and squeeze it gently, so he missed the huge eyes both Cassady and Tricia gave that pronouncement. Having an audience for this definitely wasn’t such a good idea, because it made me want to jump up and proclaim, “Did you both hear that?”

  Again, Cassady got to her feet first. “Excuse me. I can never remember where the restroom is here.” Tricia started to point helpfully, but Cassady arched an eyebrow at her. “Come help me find it, Tricia.”

  Tricia smiled guiltily, and they swept off, arm in arm. I watched them go because I didn’t quite trust myself to look right at him. Especially when he said, “You look great.”

  I tried to clear the flutter out of my throat before I turned. It wasn’t my imagination; his eyes had gotten bluer since the last time I’d seen him. Licking my lips delicately to make sure I wasn’t drooling, I said, “You too.”

  He studied my face for a long moment before saying, “Thanks for calling.”

  “Thanks for coming.”

  “Seriously, you been okay?”

  I started to shrug and say something noncommittal, then remembered what Cassady had said about vulnerability. And what Jesus had said about the truth. “No. Have you?”

  He was the one who shrugged. “No. Serves me right. I wanted time to think. And all I’ve done is think about you.”

  I touched my fingertips to his lips, almost expecting him to pixilate away like some hologram I’d created out of desire and frustration. But other than kissing my fingertips, he didn’t move, he didn’t go away, he was really there, really back.

  “I missed you,” I said quietly.

  He nodded, taking my hand and pressing his lips to the
palm. I could have sat there for a century, easily, but then what came next was even more amazing. “I’m sorry,” he said with a simplicity that knocked the wind out of me.

  I groped for something stunning and memorable to say in response, but all I came up with was, “So am I.”

  “I’m proud of you. The new gig.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’ll do great.”

  “Olivia Elliott thinks her father was murdered.”

  “Excuse me?”

  I’d said it before I thought it. Or at least before I was aware that I was thinking about saying it. Now I wasn’t sure what else to say, though “Oops” seemed like a reasonable option. Instead, I said it again. “She thinks her dad was murdered.”

  “Why?”

  “I want all my cards on the table. I don’t want to repeat mistakes.”

  “Not ‘Why are you telling me,’ why does she think he was murdered?”

  Although it would have been nice to blame the champagne for the sudden rush of blood to my cheeks, I sadly knew better. Guilt can do wonders for a girl’s appearance. “I don’t know yet, I haven’t actually interviewed her. I’ve just talked to her on the phone and she mentioned it and I thought I should mention it so I didn’t look like I was trying to hide anything because I’ve done that before and it was such a bad idea, but I’ve learned and I really don’t want this to be an issue for us.”

  His pressure on my hand increased slightly, just enough to make me realize I was going to run out of breath long before I ran out of justifications. Sliding into silence, I leaned back against the couch and tried to slow my heartbeat by sheer force of will. The fact that he then leaned over me, his mouth almost on mine, shot that plan to smithereens.

  “We can decide what comes between us, can’t we?” he whispered.

  “I hope it’s a very small list,” I whispered back.

  “Might come down to nothing.”

  “Even better.”

  He leaned in a little more, and his lips brushed mine. Goose bumps sprinted across the back of my neck, and I had to really concentrate to hear what he was saying. “Especially because it was an overdose.”