Killer Riff

by Sheryl J. Anderson

  “Maybe I just want you all to myself when the time is absolutely right,” he said, running his fingers to the base of my throat. If he’d asked me to go rob a bank right then and there, I would have asked him what denomination bills he wanted.

  Instead, after a brief conversation with Tricia and Cassady about our after-dawn plans, we sent them home and curled into the club chair together, dozing off as Rita Hayworth and Glenn Ford clawed their way through Gilda.

  When I woke up, I was in the chair alone and Adam and Kyle were in the kitchen, clenching their jaws and brewing coffee. I hurried in as fast as the crick in my back would allow.

  Adam greeted me first, smiling sadly. “I’m sorry.”

  “What are you apologizing for?” I glanced over at Kyle, but he was slicing a cantaloupe with great vigor and didn’t look at me.

  “I’m not sure. But I don’t remember big chunks of last night, which usually means I need to apologize for something.”

  “I told him your theory about Gray Benedek drugging him,” Kyle said, still slicing.

  “I can’t believe that bastard thought I was holding out on him,” Adam said, “why he didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t know where the tapes are. This is my mother’s fault.”

  The pause in the rhythmic beat of knife to cutting board told me that this surprised Kyle as much as it surprised me. “You think your mother told him to do it?”

  “No, but if my mother would let him license a couple of songs, he wouldn’t be so desperate.” Adam let out his breath in a silent whistle. “So what do I do now?”

  “You’re willing to work with me?” I asked.

  Kyle turned and looked at Adam, waiting for an answer, and I kicked myself for having missed the conversation—or lecture or bargaining—that preceded it. Adam looked as though he were going to try to negotiate one more point, but his lips had barely parted when Kyle gave him the look of disbelief you give a child who’s been practicing his cursive writing on the living room wall.

  “Yes,” was Adam’s reply.

  Deciding I’d have to hear that story later, I explained the agenda for the day. For Adam’s part, that involved lying low, once he’d called his mother and let her know that he was all right. No point in having her flipping over his unknown whereabouts. Not because I cared about how she felt at this point, but I didn’t want to give her an opportunity to put a crimp in our plans.

  Adam wasn’t thrilled until he learned that a baby-sitter with fabulous legs was part of the deal. Since Tricia needed to spend the day with Jordan getting the party ready, Cassady had volunteered to work from my apartment and keep an eye on Adam while Kyle and I went in. And my day started with planting a seed with Kenny.

  Once I had sent Kenny on his way and thanked Connie one more time, I circled back into the bull pen, stopping at Skyler’s desk. “Do you have something for me,” I said, “besides envy and disdain?”

  With a cool smile, Skyler handed me a file folder. Thicker than I’d expected, the folder contained the audition letters from those staffers aspiring to take my place. “You don’t understand how much I admire you,” she said.

  “Because once an atom splits into all those little teeny bits and quarks and whatever, I can’t keep track of things that small.”

  “You’re confusing the notion that I don’t like you with the fact that you don’t like me.”

  The hurt she injected into that statement was the most genuine emotion I’d ever heard from her. Either she was circling the truth or she was taking acting lessons. “I could’ve sworn it was the other way around.”

  Her eyelids dropped into the hooded expression of a cat about to pounce. “The letters are coded, and Adrienne in Henry’s office has the key.”

  “Which one is your favorite?” I asked.

  Skyler rolled her lips, either thinking or checking her lipstick. “The letters should speak for themselves.”

  “Very nice,” I said, having been braced for a self-serving answer that either pointed out her letter or slammed someone else’s.

  “Eileen wants your vote by the end of the day.”

  “And Claire Crowley wants your head,” Henry said as he walked up to us. He didn’t look like a man carrying a death warrant, with his hands in his pockets and a smile on his lips.

  I checked my watch. “She’s lethal early today.”

  Eileen’s office door flew open, and she stepped into the doorway, gripping the doorjamb with her talons. It was like watching a mole clamber to the top of its burrow because it sensed danger. Or fresh meat. “What have you done this time, Molly Forrester?” If Eileen knew my middle name, she probably would have used that, too, in that special way your elders invoked your full name so you knew exactly how much trouble you were in as a kid.

  “I turned down a bribe and rejected a prewritten article,” I said, deciding to keep the part about holding her son hostage to myself as long as possible.

  Henry nodded. Happily, what I was saying seemed to make sense in the context of what Claire had told him. “She didn’t mention that part. But she did say you accused her of murder.”

  The bull pen wasn’t fully awake yet, everyone still on their first cup of coffee of the morning, but that got them sitting up straight and paying attention, even though I wished heartily that they weren’t. Eileen exclaimed my name with the same shrill tone you’d reprimand a puppy who’d wet in the house. Called on the carpet and now accused of ruining it.

  I pressed on. “That might have come up in the course of the discussion. The same discussion in which she was trying to bribe me,” I said, ready to defend myself however possible.

  “You’ve got to be careful about those sorts of things,” Henry said.

  “I’ve told her that over and over,” Eileen said, cutting in line for a top spot on my firing squad.

  “We have to be able to document everything,” Henry continued without acknowledging Eileen.

  “In case she sues us,” Eileen added helpfully.

  “And if Molly sues her,” Henry said.

  “I kept the bogus article material she gave me,” I said, letting my stomach settle back from being lodged in my throat.

  “Good,” Henry said.

  “Henry. Are you encouraging her to continue, even though she’s offended a prestigious cultural figure with a vast following?” Eileen asked.

  “She didn’t spit on the pope, Eileen. You’re giving Claire Crowley too much credit, and Molly not enough,” Henry responded. “I find that when people call and protest so vehemently about an article they haven’t read yet, it’s because the truth is being uncovered and they’d like it to stay buried.”

  Eileen’s mouth worked soundlessly, like a goldfish lifted out of its bowl. “But you told me Claire was going to sue us.”

  “She threatened. I’m comfortable that she won’t. We’ll find a way to smooth her feathers.”

  Henry headed back to his office, but I called after him, “Would you like an opportunity to do it in person? She’ll be at Jordan Crowley’s private party at Pillow tonight and I can get you in.”

  I could’ve sworn I heard a collective sigh in four-part harmony as the bull pen pondered the joys of attending a private party at Pillow. From Henry’s smile, I gathered the idea appealed to him as well. He walked back toward me. “Excellent strategy. Give Adrienne the information and I’ll be there.”

  “I could get a car and pick you up,” Eileen offered.

  “Are you sure you’re invited?” Henry asked.

  He looked at me, Eileen didn’t. I wasn’t sure if she thought she was forcing my hand or if she just assumed, and for a split second, I thought about making her squirm. But then I decided that would just be mean. Entertaining, but mean. “She’s invited,” I said.

  “I’ll get there on my own, thank you,” Henry told Eileen. “Go read, I’m anxious to compare notes with you,” he told me, and gestured for me to walk past him to the conference room, shielding me from any effort Eileen might exert to drag
me into her office. It was delightful to think he was deliberately running interference for me.

  I closed the conference room door behind me, kicked off my shoes, and sat at the mammoth table with my feet up in a second chair, as if I were settling in at the campus library for a long night of studying. It was odd to be in a room alone and trying to turn my mind to things other than Micah’s twisted family tree and its bizarre fruit. The chance to catch my breath made me want to call Kyle and see how he was doing, how we were doing, but I also knew I’d already made some extraordinary demands on his time and he’d been gracious above and beyond the call about accommodating them. I needed to give him some space and some peace at work, and I needed to read some letters.

  An odd sense of anticipation crept under my rib cage as I held the folder, a mix of excitement and dread about the quality of what might be inside with equal chances of the letters being far better or far worse than I might imagine. Taking a deep breath, I hoped to be pleasantly surprised.

  The first reply I read to the sample letter about whether it was possible to have a relationship when you feel as though you’re struggling for control shifted the barometer from anticipation to dread. “If you want to be in control, you’re not committed to the relationship.” Okay, I thought, this is about interdependence versus independence, fair enough. But then it continued, “You need to find someone you’re willing to surrender to, someone who makes you want to give up control.” Not in this century, not in this magazine. That one went in the “no” pile.

  Reading further, I found several that fell into the empowerment camp: “You deserve to be in control,” that sort of thing. And a few that went for the deeper issue, raising the possibility that the angst was really about something else in life and the writer was taking it out on the boyfriend. They all got extra points for insight, as uncomfortable as the insight made me, and I put them in the “yes” pile.

  Then there was the letter that started: “Of course control is an illusion. Everything in life is illusion. Life itself might be. So why not do what you want? Pedal to the metal!” I’d been trying not to imagine which staffer had written which letter, but that one just seemed to scream Seth in Art Direction, the one with Buster Keaton’s face tattooed on the back of his neck, the eyes peeking out just above the collar line, which made walking down the hall behind him a surreal experience.

  Halfway through the folder, it was well past lunch and my rear end was asleep from my bad posture in the chair, but I had several strong candidates, a couple of possibles, and a large pile of not quites. Then I came to:

  Dear Balancing Act,

  Men and women should both respect control, but they have to respect each other first. Just because you want to take the trip on your terms doesn’t mean it has to be a solo flight. If you really have momentum in your life, find a man who’s going to hop on board and ride shotgun as you build up speed, not one who’s going to flag you down. Or a man who inspires you to slam on the brakes and have a picnic at the side of the road. Get there when you want to, how you want to, with whom you want to.

  It touched me. It amused me. But most of all, it rang a bell.

  Debating between calling Cassady, who was baby-sitting, and Tricia, who was party building, I grabbed the phone. Cassady won, because I knew she’d be more interruptible. “How’s he behaving?” I asked.

  “He’s sleeping again,” she assured me. “It’s all been very Freudian. Poor boy really needs to work things out with his mother, whether she’s harboring Gray or not. Oh, and Adam’s taking us all to a jazz concert at the end of the month. Unless you wind up implicating him, too.”

  That explained the John Pizzarelli album playing in the background. “Hey, it’s not like I get to choose who’s involved here,” I said. “But before we get into that, listen to this.”

  I read her the answer; a thoughtful pause followed. “The last line needs work.”

  “I agree.”

  “Molly, I thought you were leaving that job.”

  “I am.”

  “So why are you writing another column?”

  Now the bell didn’t just ring, it pealed. “Yes! That’s why it sounds familiar, I wrote it!”

  Cassady chuckled, but it had a worried tinge to it. “Have you been sipping out of Adam’s cocktail glass?”

  “No, no,” I said as I tried to rise from my chair, slumbering hindquarters and all. “This letter was submitted by someone who wants my job. But I wrote it.”

  “Plagiarism and shortsightedness. A winning combination,” Cassady said. “Hire that person right away.”

  I told her I’d check back with her in a bit and raced stiff-hipped back to my computer, ignoring the anxious faces that attempted to peer without being seen to peer, wondering what letter had provoked such a strong response that I would galumph through the office barefoot.

  Cracking open my archive folder and searching my past columns for two- and three-word combinations, I was able to pull up five different letters I’d written, each of which was represented in the patchwork letter that lay crumpled beside my keyboard. The metaphors had been adjusted, but they were all there. Except the last sentence.

  I looked up from my computer, and everyone in the bull pen looked down, suddenly busy, like high school students who believe if they do not make eye contact, they will not be called on to answer the pop quiz question. Everyone except Skyler. Tensed, as though prepared to either call Security or dig Mace out of her purse if I moved too suddenly, she stared at me from her desk.

  Could it be Skyler? All I had to do was get the key from Adrienne, assuming no one had tampered with the key, but she was all the way over on the other side of the building. Skyler was right in front of me and starting to sweat.

  I picked up the crumpled letter and advanced on her, waiting for her to blink or bolt or, worse, buzz Eileen. As I walked up to her, I tried to imagine how anyone could believe they’d be able to pass off someone else’s work as their own, even if they claimed to model themselves after that person, to be offering an homage to that person—

  To be that person’s son.

  My freezing in midstep alarmed Skyler, but the idea struck me with physical force, and I couldn’t move for a moment. It was like bracing myself at the breaker line when we were kids at the beach, the breathless exhilaration of staying on your feet as the waves crashed into you even while the water slapping into your face stung your eyes and throat and lungs.

  Gray Benedek might kill for a new hit song, but anything he did with the Hotel Tapes, he’d have to share with Claire and the rest of the heirs.

  But if Claire had the tapes, she could not only lay claim to the songs, she could reclaim her dynasty. In fact, the best way for Claire to guarantee Adam could become his father was to give him his father’s songs and let him sing them as his own. And to kill the only person who knew they weren’t.

  17

  The only thing worsethan a plan that doesn’t work is one that works too well. You revamp your diet to focus on organics, and either you discover you’re allergic or you find that once you’ve shopped for groceries, you can’t pay your rent. You flirt with someone to get his attention, and either he walks right by you or you discover he’s not as much fun as you thought he’d be but you can’t shake him. You construct a press leak, and either no one listens or you wind up getting indicted. Or the entire fourth estate camps out on your doorstep before you’ve had a chance to get presentable.

  But I wasn’t speculating on the potential press mishaps in my future when I slammed the letter down on Skyler’s desk. Invigorated by my new insight into Claire’s motive for killing Russell, I was psyched to smite a few ethical dragons before I left to get ready for Jordan’s party. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Rarely,” she said, sounding nervous for the first time in our acquaintance.

  “What were you thinking?”

  “I wanted to try something new.”

  “By using something old?”

  “I kno
w there are copyright issues—”

  “You better believe it.”

  “But I thought if you liked the concept, we could figure out the royalty issues with the songwriters and see if it was doable.”

  Her lower lip trembled while my mind slid to a stop. “You wrote the answer with the song quotes. The advice Cole Porter and Norah Jones might give.”

  “Yes,” she said tentatively.

  “Excellent answer.”

  She brightened slightly. “I thought you were upset.”

  “I am. But apparently, not with you. I need to talk to Adrienne.”

  Trouble was, I didn’t make it to Adrienne. I made it all the way to the other side of Skyler’s desk before Carlos stood up at his, phone in his hand, and said, “Molly, call for you.”

  Of all the people I considered on the way back to my desk, I did not consider Peter Mulcahey. “I’m the last person in the world you should be holding out on.”

  “I beg to differ several times over,” I said. “What do you want, Peter?”

  “What’s the announcement about the Hotel Tapes?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’ve slept with you enough times to know when you’re lying, Molly,” he said with a certainty that annoyed me.

  “So you knew it wasn’t true when I told you how terrific you were?” I snarked.

  “Don’t bait me while I’m baiting you,” he said. “I’m trying to get a story here.”

  “Peter, assuming I even know anything about whatever story it is you’re chasing, why would I give the story to you instead of telling it myself?”

  “Because you’re too close to it. Give me an exclusive.”

  “To publish in your magazine.”

  “So your guys fire you. I’ll get you a sweet deal over here.”

  “Thanks for checking in, Peter.”

  “At least invite me to the damn party.”

  The twisted notion of fixing up Peter and Eileen occurred to me, but I’d have to ask Aaron about the global implications of introducing an unstoppable pressure to an emotional black hole. “Yeah, see you there,” I said, and hung up.