“Oh, honey, honey, I am so sorry this happened to you,” she whispered in my ear. I squeezed her shoulder in thanks and she stood back. She blew a kiss at Cassady that was acknowledged with a twitch of the nose, then turned back to me, prepared to assess. I seemed to meet with her approval, at least given the circumstances, though I suddenly had an urge to brush my hair. But those sorts of urges come over you frequently when you spend time with Tricia. She’s one of those women who is always perfectly put together—hair, outfit, accessories. All the outside stuff, anyway. But with Tricia, it’s impressive rather than irritating, mainly because she doesn’t make a big deal about it. It comes naturally.
And she’s channeling that into her job with great success. Tricia Vincent’s an event designer. Have a good cause? She’ll design you a party that will fill your treasury and boost your media coverage. She started off doing events for her parents’ causes, but her reputation has been spreading and her client base is broadening. She still does a lot of Old Guard stuff, but she’s done some really cool political groups lately. Stuff we were actually interested in crashing.
Tricia pushed a strand of hair back from my face and seemed pleased with the result. Maybe I didn’t need a brush after all.
“How are you feeling? What can we do for you?”
I faltered because I honestly didn’t know what to say. Cassady stepped into the breach. “You brought shoes. A crucial first step.”
Tricia reached into the bag and pulled out a glorious pair of Giuseppe Zanottis, corset-laced sandals I had only coveted since the now-ruined Choos had blown my shoe budget for several months. “I forgot to ask Cassady what you were wearing and these go with anything,” she said, pitching her voice a little louder as a group behind us started guffawing. Cassady had decided backtracking through our evening might give us a sense of comfort, so we were huddled at a table in Django. They have literally millions of pink beads strung like curtains and there’s something very soothing about them, but the crowd was a little too perky. We should have gone to a jazz club. They mute everything. Nothing against Django. It’s a wonderful hunting ground, but I didn’t feel like hunting.
“Put them on,” Cassady suggested. “You’ll feel better.” I took the shoes and held them in my lap while I tried to discreetly remove the plastic sandals Cassady had purchased for me at the 24-hour Rite Aid our cabbie found. She had insisted that I sit in the cab and wait, listing with a certain relish the number of diseases to which I had already exposed myself by walking from the office to the cab barefoot.
When we first stepped out of the office building, I was struck by the beautiful simplicity of fresh air. Not that I normally think of the air on Lexington Avenue as being fresh, even in October, but in contrast to what we’d been breathing for the last hour, this was like a morning breeze blowing across acres of newly mown hay. Not that I’ve actually ever smelled newly mown hay, being a city girl, but I can appreciate the contrast nonetheless. I breathed in as deeply as I could, as often as I could, until Cassady grabbed my arm in concern.
“Are you hyperventilating?” She didn’t seem to approve.
“Would it help?” I was feeling a little lightheaded, but I actually welcomed the new sensation.
“Help what?”
“This.” I rubbed at a spot on my chest, right in the center of my breastbone, that was so tight I figured she could see it pulsing. Coming down in the elevator, it had felt like some malevolent little creature had crawled into my chest and was gnawing at the spot, making itself a nest. Now it felt like the little wretch was trying to claw its way back out. Somehow, I’d become Sigourney Weaver in Alien, dreaming of monsters exploding out of my chest. Thinking about the movie for a minute actually distracted me from the pain. That, and imagining myself with Sigourney Weaver’s cheekbones. But it only helped for a minute.
“Scream,” Cassady suggested.
“Excuse me?”
“Scream. A great, big, deep one. From your toes.” I hesitated and Cassady gestured around us. “Come on. This is Manhattan. Unless you scream more than once or scream ‘Fire,’ you’re not going to bother anyone. And you’ll feel much better afterwards.”
The nasty creature was about to rupture my sternum from the inside out, so I decided to give it a shot. I took a deep breath, rocked up on my stockinged toes a bit, and screamed. The force of the scream ripped that little sucker right out of his nest and blew him about two blocks away. It was raw and uncomfortable where he’d been digging, but Cassady was right. I did feel better.
I wasn’t sure about Cassady, though. She was looking at me with this odd mixture of respect and fear. I think she’d been expecting something a little closer to my mild sound of concern from upstairs. “Wow,” she said finally and stepped to the curb to hail a cab. “Want to call your therapist now or wait till morning?”
“I’m better. I’m okay.” I really was better and the okay thing was going to be a matter of time. I knew that. There was still a disconnected quality to everything that had happened and it was going to be a while before I got it all sorted out. But then again, I’m not sure I want to be the kind of person who can see a dead body and take it in stride.
Now, in the bar with Cassady and Tricia, the creature was trying to worm its way back into its nest. I thought about screaming again and decided it would draw a little more attention in this setting. I settled for another deep breath, trying to get my glass to my mouth without spilling, while picturing great cheekbones.
“Cassady, how are you doing? You experienced this horror, too.” Tricia moved her stool so it was directly between Cassady and me.
“Thanks, but this is Molly’s deal. She’s the one who knew him and she’s the one who lost the shoes.”
“Still.” Tricia climbed up onto her stool. Tricia’s the small, delicate one in our trio. Too tall for gymnastics, too short to model, was her mournful cry in college. Not that she was really committed to either field. She’s always been a behind-the-scenes type, and her impulse for orchestrating people’s lives keeps the two of us on our toes. Tricia’s quiet, but she’s cunning, and you can find yourself talked into anything from a blind date to a charity pledge before you realize what she’s done to you.
“What are you drinking?” Tricia asked me, more like a nurse taking a medical history than a friend trying to decide what to have herself.
“A lemon drop.”
“I ordered champagne. You know that’ll make her sleep,” Cassady said.
Tricia snapped her head in a tight little move that made her chestnut hair skate on her shoulders. “Where’s the waitress ?”
“Why?” Cassady asked, sensing dissent.
“She needs a brandy alexander.”
“Why?” Cassady repeated, this time sounding a little offended.
“Because they don’t serve Häagen-Dazs here.”
“You think she should have ice cream? She found a body, she didn’t have her tonsils out, Tricia.”
Usually, at this point in a conversation about me, I would try to speak up for myself, but I found, at the moment, that I had neither the energy nor the desire to do so. I was grateful that I had such good friends who were willing to debate the best way to get me back on my feet. Or get me falling-down drunk, whichever would be more beneficial in the long run. I just needed to be sure that I had gotten Tricia’s shoes on and successfully navigated all the little straps before I got too buzzed.
“She needs fats and carbs,” Tricia replied crisply.
“When did those become good things?” Cassady didn’t look too impressed with Tricia’s edict, but I had to admit, it sounded great.
“It’s a basic, chemical stress reaction. Adrenaline makes the body crave fats and carbs. Lest she dive face-first into a pizza or inhale raw cookie dough, we’ll allow her this drink.” Tricia glanced over at me. “Okay?”
I shrugged in acceptance. Besides, pizza-stuffed cheeks would defeat the effect of my Sigourney cheekbones. Tricia flashed Cassady a small smile of tr
iumph. She loves taking control of a situation—any situation but her own life, that is. It’s kind of in her blood: Her dad runs political campaigns and her mom’s a compulsive volunteer. The whole family’s a little tightly wrapped, but they’re New England Republicans for a hundred generations, so what else can you expect? I mean, Tricia was named after Tricia Nixon, for crying out loud. She doesn’t like anybody to know that, but she won’t let anybody call her Trish either. She’s a very precise person, but she’ll do anything for someone she cares about.
The waitress came back with the champagne and Tricia ordered the brandy alexander. “Does that mean I don’t get any champagne?” I asked as the waitress withdrew and Cassady started pouring. Cassady made a point of sliding the first glass over to me.
Tricia didn’t take offense. “Drink whatever makes you feel better, sweetie. How do you feel?”
I groped for a moment, then settled on, “Surreal.”
Cassady raised her glass and we followed her lead. “To Molly the Surreal.”
“To Teddy,” I responded. They hesitated, but I went ahead and took a sip. I meant it. May he rest in peace. But I only took one sip, because the idea of the brandy alexander was sounding better and better and I didn’t want to press my luck by mixing my cocktails too freely.
“She thinks she’s doing well,” Cassady told Tricia, “but she’s still in shock. She says she’s going to play Nancy Drew.”
“That’s not what I said,” I protested.
“You said you want to solve this crime.”
Tricia looked horrified. “Molly, what are you thinking?” she asked, sounding a little too maternal for comfort.
“I want to help,” I said and it came out a little weaker than I had intended. Maybe the nasty little creature in my chest was pressing against my voice box now, too. Small price to pay for good cheekbones. “Teddy was a friend of mine and I want to make sure he gets the attention he deserves.”
“So plan his memorial service,” Tricia suggested. “Don’t turn vigilante.” She turned to Cassady so I couldn’t protest. “What did the police say?”
Cassady picked up her cue. “Robbery gone wrong.”
“They know what they’re talking about, Molly,” Tricia cautioned.
“Yeah, but they don’t know Teddy. He would’ve given a robber anything he asked for, plus a little something extra to go away quickly.”
“That’s not always enough,” Cassady said quietly. “Sometimes people get killed because the robber’s crazy, not because they put up a fight.”
“I understand that. There’s just something about this …” I wasn’t in any shape to debate this with them. It was a feeling I had that I couldn’t fully articulate yet. “I could have an insight on this that the police don’t.”
“Because of your close, personal relationship with Teddy,” Cassady muttered.
“Okay, we weren’t best friends, but I did know him. They don’t.”
“But they get paid to figure him out. And to figure the crime out,” she continued with a hint of impatience. “But you—” She stopped as a new thought pinched her on the bottom. “I get it,” she said slowly, then turned to Tricia as though she were about to recite the alphabet for a preschooler who would struggle to keep up with her. “Molly wants to solve the crime. Molly wants to be a real journalist when she grows up.”
“Thanks for the support, Madame Supreme Court Justice,” I sniped back. Cassady being right was beside the point. She didn’t have to be so bitchy about it.
“Wait a minute.” Tricia was working to catch the train. “Molly, you’re going to use your friend’s death as a stepping stone in your career?”
“That’s not why,” I protested.
“You’re such a Good Samaritan that you’re going to thrust yourself, completely inexperienced and unwelcome, into the middle of a murder investigation,” Cassady said. “And get a feature article out of it along the way.”
To hear Cassady say it, out loud and with that special tartness of hers, didn’t help. I could feel my resolve slipping. It probably was silly of me to think that I could help New York’s Finest solve a murder. And if Detective Lipscomb thought it was a robbery gone wrong, he was speaking from experience and, chances are, he was right. Just because I have this little flair for the dramatic and I’m always looking for a big story-behind-the-story doesn’t mean that there was really more to Teddy’s murder than met the eye.
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, a holdover from a dalliance with yoga last year. It didn’t help. I could feel my new cheekbones dissolving. Tricia reached across the table and put her hand gently on mine. Tricia has these delicate little hands that are always cool and dry. They’d be perfect, except she picks at her cuticles and can’t wear nail polish for more than about three hours before she starts chipping it off with whatever’s handy. We used to go get our nails done every Saturday morning, but Yooni, the salon manager, told Tricia she couldn’t come back until she started respecting their artistry and stopped chipping the polish. “You need to do what you think is right, Molly.” She left her hand on mine and smiled reassuringly. Leave it to Tricia to make it about doing the right thing.
Cassady leaned in, making a big deal about giving me an appraising look. I should have known trouble was coming. “This isn’t about helping or about a big break. This is about an incredibly handsome homicide detective.”
That wasn’t it, but I still couldn’t articulate my reasons. Besides, when I saw how Tricia brightened, I decided to let it go. “How incredibly handsome?” Tricia asked, and I could see from the set of her mouth she was willing me to follow this new, lighter path of conversation.
I actually found myself starting to smile. “Moderately incredible.”
“What’s his name?” Tricia looked like she was about to start taking notes.
“Detective Edwards.”
“Does he have a first name?”
Cassady and I looked at each other, each expecting the other to come up with it. “Don’t think he said,” Cassady admitted.
“Cassady was too busy trying to bed the babyface in uniform, so she wasn’t paying much attention.” I patted my pockets and found Detective Edwards’ business card. “Kyle,” I read.
“Great name,” Tricia nodded approvingly. “Single?”
“No ring,” I answered.
“You looked,” Cassady said triumphantly. “I knew you liked him.”
“Looking isn’t a sign of liking, it’s a sign of being alive,” I countered.
“Still, you liked him.”
“Swear to God, I haven’t thought about it.” Back in the office, with Teddy on the floor, it had seemed wrong to think about it. I had appreciated Detective Edwards—all the cops—on an instinctive aesthetic level. Anything beyond that, though, would have been inappropriate, like hitting on someone at a funeral. It seems wrong to look for action in a setting where the guest of honor can’t possibly get lucky. Of course, Cassady once did pick up a guy at her uncle’s funeral and had sex with him in the back of the florist’s truck, but that’s Cassady. And even she will tell you she threw her neck out, the relationship went nowhere, and she can no longer stand the smell of lilies.
But now that I did stop and think about it, “He might have potential, if I’m remembering correctly.” I glanced at Cassady for confirmation.
Cassady nodded enthusiastically. “A lot there to work with, no doubt about it.” She smiled lasciviously and Tricia laughed approvingly.
“So are you going to wait and see if he calls to ask if you’ve remembered anything helpful, or are you going to call him and offer new information?” Tricia asked. She’s a natural planner. No matter what the situation, she’s always the first one mapping out angles, options, plans of attack.
I shrugged. “I don’t have new information.”
“You’re a clever girl,” Tricia prodded. “Come up with something.”
“But see, that’s my whole point. I really think I could come up with
something they aren’t going to see. I want to do something.”
“So do the detective and leave the rest to the rest,” Cassady said. “This isn’t something you want to play around with, especially if it turns out to be more than a robbery gone wrong. God knows, we don’t want to be here a week from now, toasting you in absentia because you’re in jail or the hospital or worse.”
“Which would be worse, jail or hospital?” Tricia asked, trying to keep the conversation from running up onto the rocks.
“The morgue trumps them all,” Cassady persisted.
“Point made,” Tricia assured her.
“Then smack her on the head or something, you’re sitting closer.” Cassady set her drink down in frustration. “You’ve got such a good heart, Molly, and always have great reasons for the things you do, but that doesn’t mean you should push your luck. Promise us.”
I knew she was right, they were right, but I couldn’t let go of the notion of helping, especially now that it was coupled with the notion of getting to know Detective Edwards better. That was even more attractive than the feature article, which I knew was a long shot. The waitress arrived with the brandy alexander, allowing me to take a moment without being accused of stalling. I took a sip and decided to let Tricia prescribe the drinks for all my traumas from now on. This was the perfect concoction for my situation and I was going to enjoy it.
The drink, that is, because the situation was about to become, believe it or not, even more uncomfortable than it already was. I was letting the second sip slide down my throat in a frosty trickle when a square, firm hand came to rest—a little too heavily—on my shoulder. Startled, I gagged slightly and had to cough before I could turn around and look. By then, my girlfriends had already looked and I could tell from their expressions that I didn’t want to hurry in turning around.
I thought about the weight of the hand as I turned and was reasonably sure whom I was about to see. And because the evening hadn’t been complicated enough, I was right. Nothing like a current boyfriend showing up just as you’re contemplating the possibilities of a new man.
Killer Heels Page 3
