“What do you do, Mrs. Reynolds?” Detective Lipscomb asked.
“I’m human resources director at Anderson and Wood. We’re a law firm.”
“Where are your offices?”
Helen sighed. “We’re two doors down from the magazine.” She waited for the detectives to make something out of that, but Detective Lipscomb just jotted it down and Detective Edwards kept gazing at her.
“Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt your husband?” Detective Edwards asked.
“What happened to the robbery gone wrong?” I said, a little too loudly. But it worked. They all looked at me, Helen most importantly. I couldn’t—didn’t want to—believe she had anything to do with this so I wanted her to be careful about what she said, especially to Big Blue Eyes. Of course, Big Blue Eyes was looking at me pretty intently now, too, but I could handle it. I hoped. This was certainly not the time for me to blurt any affair-related thoughts.
“We’re looking at all the options,” Detective Lipscomb said, his tone much more friendly than when he’d told me that back in the office. He was in sincerity mode and I wasn’t going to shake him out of it. His eyes swung back to Helen, but Detective Edwards kept looking at me. He was trying to figure out what I was up to. So was I.
“Teddy doesn’t have any enemies. Everybody loves—” Helen crumpled so suddenly that I was afraid she’d fainted. “Loved …” she corrected herself before she started sobbing. Yvonne grabbed her like she was going to perform some cockeyed Heimlich and started rocking with her. Helen hadn’t let go of my hands yet, so I had no choice but to sit beside them and wait for the fury of Helen’s acceptance to pass.
After a moment, Detective Edwards eased back in. “There aren’t problems with debts or drugs or—”
“No,” Helen snapped. She worked out of Yvonne’s embrace and blew her nose loudly. “We were fine. We were happy and we were fine.” The words had a surprisingly forced crispness. Helen wasn’t telling the truth. What had gone wrong?
The detectives exchanged an unreadable look. Surely they heard the brick wall in her voice, too. Helen was done talking. She was wrapping herself in her myth of happiness and shutting the rest of us out.
Detective Lipscomb flipped his notebook closed. “Is there anyone we can call for you, someone who can come stay with you?”
“I want Molly.” Helen grabbed at me, her hands still filled with wet tissues. I tried not to recoil from the tissues or the thought of staying with her all night.
“I can stay, too,” Yvonne offered.
“Thank you, Yvonne,” Helen said. Yvonne beamed. She was probably picturing some wonderful bonding experience that would make us all better people. I was picturing a lot of weeping and wailing and feeling useless, none of which I enjoy.
Detective Edwards held his business card out to Helen. “We will need you to come down and formally identify him, but you can wait until morning if you’d like.”
Helen stopped, her hand withdrawing from the business card. “I have to see him—like that? Molly already told you it was him.”
“If there’s another family member—”
“Oh, my God. The family. His parents. Oh, my God.” Helen sagged against Yvonne as a new wave of tears overtook her.
Detective Edwards turned back to me. I held his gaze as best I could, but it was hard. Helen’s weeping was compelling and I could feel the urge to cry tickling the back of my throat. It overrode any chance of Big Blue Eyes lulling me into saying anything. He placed his business card on the glistening surface of the coffee table and stood. Detective Lipscomb slid forward in his chair. I thought he was going to reach out to comfort Helen, but then I saw he was easing himself to his feet.
“Mrs. Reynolds, call us if you think of anything or if you need anything,” he said with surprising tenderness. He put his card next to Detective Edwards’ and stood. Detective Edwards inclined his head toward the front door. Leaving Helen literally in Yvonne’s hands, I followed them.
Detective Lipscomb paused long enough to say, “Good evening, Ms. Forrester,” before he went out into the hallway. I stood just inside the doorway with Detective Edwards, still a little confused. Were they really done? What were they thinking? What happened next? Who was Teddy sleeping with? Who was Detective Edwards sleeping with and how serious was it?
Okay, so random thoughts sneak in at the most inopportune moments. But it had been quite a night, so I was entitled to a slight loss of control. As long as my mouth didn’t blurt at the same time my mind was wandering. That could get complicated and/or embarrassing.
“Why didn’t you tell me he was having an affair?” Detective Edwards asked quietly, not interested in Helen hearing this line of questioning.
“Because I didn’t know. I mean, I’m not sure he was. Helen’s not thinking clearly,” I finished, each statement more feeble than the one before it.
“So he wasn’t having an affair with you,” Detective Edwards persisted.
“No,” I answered, trying very hard to be mysterious. Let Detective Edwards wonder who was having an affair with me. And please, let him think of someone more exotic and challenging than Peter. He seemed pleased with the answer, but I wasn’t sure if he was professionally or personally pleased. Just in case he was getting more personal, I tried to be more businesslike. Couldn’t prove the girlfriends right too early in the process. This was about helping Teddy, not bedding Detective Edwards. Yet. “When will they do the autopsy?”
“Why?”
“If she has to see him, I want her to see him before that.”
“So you two are close?”
“Not at all,” I admitted. “But she’s looking for someone to help her get through this and I’m trying to do the right thing.”
“She’s lucky to have you here.” I shrugged off the compliment and tried to ignore how nice it felt. “We don’t control the autopsy schedule. But the sooner she comes down, the better, across the board.”
“I’ll have her call you first thing, see if she can get some sleep first.” I was certain Yvonne would have some sort of pharmaceuticals in her purse to make sure Helen passed out for at least a few hours, but it didn’t seem the sort of information to share with a detective.
“Anybody you need to call, let them know you won’t be coming home?”
I had the presence of mind to pause for a moment before answering. Didn’t want to seem too eager to assure him that there was no competition on the live-in level. Or was it going to seem like I had to pause and think whether I’d left some boy toy draped across the four-poster when I went out this evening? “No,” I answered and stopped there. This one-word-answer approach was very interesting. I might have to try it again.
“Okay.” He seemed content with my answer.
I pressed my luck. “Your roommate must be used to the awful hours.”
He nodded and my stomach fluttered in disappointment. “That’s the great thing about fish. They’re very understanding.”
“Fish?” I tried not to sound too happy.
“A salt water tank. A childhood passion I haven’t outgrown.”
“Fascinating.”
“Actually, it’s pretty geeky, but I enjoy it.”
I was trying to figure out how to invite myself to a fish viewing when Detective Lipscomb stepped back into the doorway. I felt like my father had flipped on the porch light while I was kissing Randy Gochenauer good night in ninth grade. Embarrassment doesn’t get easier with age.
“You booked on a later elevator, Edwards?” Detective Lipscomb growled.
Detective Edwards took a step toward his non-smiling partner. “You have my card. Call us in the morning and we’ll arrange to meet you at the morgue. Ten or eleven, maybe.”
“I will. Thank you, Detective Lipscomb.” I stuck my hand out instinctively. Detective Lipscomb shook it without comment. “Detective Edwards.” I moved my hand to him and he shook it with a gentle pressure that made me want to leave my hand in his.
“Good
night.” Detective Lipscomb walked out of the doorway again, giving Detective Edwards his exit cue.
Detective Edwards released my hand slowly and started out after Detective Lipscomb. “Call me if you think of anything.”
There was an invitation I could do something with. “Count on it.” He was almost out of the doorway and I blurted one more time. “Too bad your partner’s already buying you breakfast.”
He vanished into the hallway and I wondered if maybe he hadn’t heard me or worse, if he had heard me and decided that such a stupid line wasn’t worthy of response, but a second later, he was leaning back into the doorway. “Lipscomb can wait.”
“Carnegie Deli about eight?” I suggested. “Yvonne can stay with Helen. I think I could have some ideas for you by then, people you should talk to, that sort of thing. Official business.”
Detective Edwards smiled. “Doesn’t have to be official. But I’ll be there.” And he vanished from the doorway again. I closed the door behind him and waited there until I could wipe the stupid grin off my face. That was the last thing Helen needed now.
4
“What you need,” Tricia advised, “is something businesslike, with a hint of provocative softness.”
Cassady grimaced. “Thank you, Melissa Rivers.”
It was seven o’clock in the morning and I should have been standing there counting my blessings that I had two such good friends who were willing to be up, dressed, and in my apartment taking control of my life at that wretched hour. But I was not in the most altruistic of moods at that moment, so what I was doing was standing there, wrapping myself up in my bathrobe and hating the contents of my closet. Hating my waistline and thighs was next on the list, but that’s such a natural progression it hardly needs mentioning.
My apartment’s not bad by New York standards, but the bedroom was feeling a little small this morning with all three of us in there and my being cranky. I actually love my apartment. I’m in the West 40’s, I get a little morning light, and the bathtub’s not in the kitchen. I’ve been here three years, but I still haven’t progressed past the framed movie posters and bookcases-wherever-possible level of decorating. I need to paint, but I keep changing my mind about how dramatic to be, so I keep putting it off. The apartment’s in transition and so am I.
“It’s breakfast,” Cassady said.
“So, a moderately plunging neckline,” Tricia suggested.
“I don’t want him looking at my breasts,” I muttered.
“Yeah, I can see that,” Cassady nodded.
“Excuse me?” My less-than-perfect mood had the slam-sensors working overtime.
Cassady grimaced at me now. “I’m agreeing that it would be distracting. What did you think I meant?”
With a good night’s sleep, I might not have thought she meant anything, but this comment combined with her question while we were strolling through the lingerie department at Saks a week ago—had I ever thought about a Wonderbra?—put a different spin on it. Clearly, she was trying to find a way to tell me, “You think my breasts are too small.”
Cassady blinked slowly so I had time to appreciate how ridiculous a statement she thought that was. “I try very hard not to think about your breasts at all, but it’s hard, given their sheer perfection and outright magnificence.”
“Then why did you ask me about a Wonderbra last week?”
Cassady took a moment to dial back to our shopping trip, then shrugged. “Idle curiosity. Molly, I could ask you right now if you’ve ever had sex with two men at a time, but that doesn’t mean it’s something I think you should run out and do as soon as possible.”
She was right. I was being overly sensitive. Tricia was being wide-eyed and quiet. “What?” I felt compelled to ask her.
“I was waiting for you to answer the question.”
“About the men or the bra?” Cassady asked.
“Both, actually,” Tricia replied.
“Ooookay. If you two would like to follow me, we’ll be moving back over to the subject of my clothes.” I put down my cup of coffee and gestured at my closet.
“I’d go for the purple Wonderbra and the white lawn blouse.” Cassady doesn’t let go of things easily—except men.
“You’re not being very helpful,” Tricia cooed with a little hint of warning thrown in.
“I don’t think she wants my help,” Cassady cooed back.
“Left to her own devices, she’ll go in her bathrobe and we can’t have that, can we?” Tricia sniffed. They really love each other. It can take people a while to realize that because they snipe at each other with the greatest of ease and come off like enemies. But it’s really more like sisters.
“She works for a fashion magazine, she can always proclaim she’s starting a trend. What’re you wearing to bed these days, Moll?”
“An extra large Redskins T-shirt,” I confessed, pulling a nice, classic pair of black slacks out of the closet. I wasn’t sure whether Tricia’s gasp was in response to the T-shirt confession or to the slacks. “Now that I live here, it’s the only time I can wear it. I know better than to wear it out on the streets and invite bodily harm from Giants fans.”
Tricia was, however, reacting to the slacks. She ripped the hanger out of my hand and jammed the slacks back into the closet. “No.” Tricia is one of those potentially annoying women who is always perfectly accessorized, down to her color-coordinated underwear, no matter the occasion or lack thereof. Yes, I work for a fashion magazine—a lifestyle magazine with a large fashion section, that is—but I have been known to wear a pink bra with purple briefs. I even own white. But I know when to wear it—basically, when I am absolutely certain that no one else is going to see it. And while Detective Edwards was unquestionably gorgeous, I was pretty much in a white cotton mood right now.
I like sleep. I enjoy sleep. More importantly, I need sleep. I try to keep myself properly caffeinated so the world doesn’t have to experience me without sleep, but every once in a while, the timing’s off. Like this morning. I’d just spent five hours with Helen and Yvonne, which would classify as a debilitating activity if it occurred on a sunny afternoon. The fact that it had transpired in the middle of the night only added to the difficulty.
Actually, while I was there, adrenaline did a lot of the work and I was able to keep any of us from jumping out windows, emptying medicine cabinets, or otherwise causing damage to self or companions. Though I thought about causing Yvonne some damage more than once. But now that I was home, I had that awful adrenaline hangover thing going, where your head feels like it’s still vibrating because you just stopped screaming and your extremities start to fill with molten lead. Fortunately, I was ten ounces into a pot of Kenya Gold, so hope was in sight.
“You really need to get over the Redskin thing,” Cassady suggested. We both grew up in the Virginia suburbs of Washington, DC; we discovered that during Contemporary American Literature freshman year of college, and the friendship was launched. Cassady doesn’t have much use for professional sports, but I continue to spend sixteen Sundays a year hoping that this will be a Super Bowl year. I like to think of those Sundays as an indication of a hopeful, optimistic heart. Cassady considers them a waste of time. This from a woman who will date married men.
“This is a date,” Tricia insisted, selecting a teal silk blouse. It’s a great blouse, with a top button that’s in just the right place for a black, front-clasp bra but a bit too low for your basic white back-clasp.
“No, it’s not,” I insisted, guiding her hand back. Tricia and Cassady looked at each other and laughed. Warmly, but they still laughed. I gulped another two ounces of coffee. “He has date potential, but this is not a date. And I’m not going to dress like I think he’s taking me out to dinner when I’m meeting him for breakfast to discuss my dead colleague.”
It came out a little harsher than I meant it to, but then again, it should sound harsh to say “dead” and “colleague” together. Part of the adrenaline burning off was also the reality setting i
n. I’d had a really long night and I’d learned a lot. Many things I could have quite nicely continued living without knowing, but too late now.
Right after I found Teddy, I thought I understood how awful his death was. When we told Helen, I realized it was even more awful. And then when I sat with Helen and Yvonne at three o’clock in the morning while Helen tried to dial her parents’ phone number so she could tell them, I thought I was going to shriek and not stop. Her agony was so palpable and I wanted so desperately to do something, even take it on myself, to relieve it for even a moment. And I couldn’t. Because the only thing that could make it better for her would be to bring Teddy back from the dead and I know my limits. Most of the time.
I wasn’t sure any of us were going to make it through the night. But once Helen had called Teddy’s parents, her own parents, and her sister, she actually settled into this kind of dignified Zen deal which was pretty impressive to see. She started getting super-organized, making lists of who else to call, who to call right away and who to call once the sun came up, who would be offended if they heard after someone else. Maybe it was shock, maybe she just ran out of tears, but she kept going, she kept thinking, and I admired that. I would have scammed pharmaceuticals from my visitors, curled up in the fetal position, and moaned for at least three weeks.
Of course, when her sister Candy arrived from Queens at about five o’clock, Helen went to pieces again, but she was entitled. Especially since Yvonne had been hovering over her most of the damn night, despite my best efforts to get her to heel. When she wasn’t suggesting that I write a series of articles for the magazine on how to deal with this kind of situation, Yvonne was grabbing Helen and telling her, “We all loved him so much.” It wasn’t helpful. I finally came up with the multi-purpose idea to send Yvonne out to an all-night pharmacy to get some Valerian and anything else she thought might be helpful (the pill case in her Prada handbag having proven to be deplorably empty). You’d think Eisenhower had asked her to take Omaha Beach all by herself. She seized upon the mission with frightening zeal, kissed us both about eight times before she left, and raced off.
Killer Heels Page 6
