Killer Heels

by Sheryl J. Anderson

  “After. She stonewalled appropriately before.” A smile flickered across his face, probably in response to the grimace stomping across mine.

  “So now that you’re here …” I prompted.

  “What did you take out of Teddy Reynolds’ office?”

  I almost put my hand on my pocket. Tragically, the thing that stopped me was not good sense but remembering that I had changed clothes. The picture and the key were on my dresser at home. It still took a lot of concentration not to pat my hip guiltily. “Stuff,” I told Edwards, a noncommittal shrug thrown in for good measure.

  He sighed. “What kind of stuff?”

  “Personal stuff. Why?”

  “Because stuff is missing. I went back to his office to look for something and stuff is gone. Where did it go?”

  I embraced what little righteous indignation I could justify. “Helen asked me if I’d pack up his personal stuff. She didn’t feel up to it. I assumed she had cleared it with you.”

  He semi-nodded. “Where’s the stuff you took?”

  “In my apartment.” I said it with as straight a face as possible, lest he read anything into it or worse, think I was hoping he would read anything into it.

  “If you packed it up for Mrs. Reynolds, why doesn’t Mrs. Reynolds have it?”

  “Because Mrs. Reynolds has other things on her mind.” It was infuriating to be standing in front of him, really angry about his insistence that Helen had something to do with Teddy’s death and really captivated by those damn blue eyes. I hate talking to someone in sunglasses because I get self-conscious about seeing my own reflection, but right now I would’ve happily shelled out the cash to corral those blue orbs behind a pair of mirrored Armanis.

  He squinted, which helped my concentration slightly. “Which one are you protecting? The wife or the mistress?”

  I gripped the bar as hard as I could and hoped the effort didn’t show. He knew about Yvonne already? That was good, if it helped get him off Helen’s case, but I was a little miffed somehow. I had wanted to present Yvonne to him in a pretty little package, slam-dunk, whaddya think of that? “I’m not protecting anyone. I’m trying to do—”

  “The right thing by your friend, yeah, I remember.” He shook his head. “I think you need a better class of friends.”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “No disrespect, but even his mistress didn’t have a lot of nice things to say about him.”

  “I find that hard to believe.” Why wouldn’t Yvonne have gushed for Edwards the way she did for the staff? She was smart enough to know that trashing him would make her look bad.

  Edwards shrugged. “Of course, she strikes me as someone without a lot of nice things to say about anyone.”

  I had to nod at that one. Yvonne was abrasive on a good day, scathing on a bad one. Which made her affair with Teddy all the more fascinating, aside from the breaking-Helen’s-heart part.

  “I was actually kinda surprised. She looks so sweet in all those perfume ads.”

  I nodded again, but now it was to buy time. I had no idea what he was talking about. Yvonne in a perfume ad? Was he drunk? “Appearances can be deceiving,” I said because it seemed to be a safe thing to say.

  He looked me over, head to toe, then nodded. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t a safe thing to say in the middle of a murder investigation. “Guess that’s what being a model is all about.”

  Excuse me? A model? Teddy was having an affair with a model? And with Yvonne? I clenched my teeth hard so my mouth wouldn’t hang open. “How did you find out?” I asked.

  “She was all over his PDA, which we did take out of his office last night. The first time I saw ‘Camille,’ I thought that must be one of the perks of the business. But she was in there often enough that Lipscomb and I decided to go have a chat with her. She’s meaner in person, but she’s prettier, too.”

  Model … Perfume ads … Camille … Oh, no way. No. Way. Camille Sondergard sleeping with Teddy? Our Teddy? No offense to Helen, but it’s amazing he only bragged about it in his PDA and didn’t rent a billboard somewhere. Suddenly, against my will, I could see the video clip playing on the Jumbotron in Times Square—with product placement by Trojan, of course. Camille was hot, in all meanings of the word. She’d gone from a couple of jeans ads to a huge deal with Chanel in what seemed overnight, even for her ridiculous business. Her ads were all over our magazine. Maybe now I knew the reason why. Wow.

  “She said they just broke up.” He looked at me for a reaction and I went back to nodding. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I just found out recently myself.” I smiled apologetically. How far can you bend the truth before you have to consider it broken? “So is she your suspect now?”

  He shook his head. The lighting in the restaurant was even better for him than it was for Peter. Oh, yeah, Peter. I should probably be trying harder to get back to him than I was. In a minute.

  “She was a celebrity auctioneer at some big animal rights deal uptown, alibi checks out solid.”

  I felt breathless, but did my best not to sound that way. “But if they just broke up, that helps Helen, doesn’t it? Why kill your husband after he breaks up with his mistress ?” Because you realize he has more than one would have been my guess, but I wanted to see what Edwards had to say.

  “Because it’s not enough.”

  I wanted to object, but I pictured Helen’s face as she told me about regret and I couldn’t summon the energy to convince Edwards he was wrong. Was I wrong? Had Helen found out about Camille, made Teddy break it off, and then found out about Yvonne and hit her breaking point?

  “Let’s get back to the stuff,” Edwards said, having let me stew in my silence a moment.

  “I’d rather get back to my dinner date.”

  Edwards shot a look across the room, then frowned. “Really?”

  I didn’t intend to laugh as loudly as I did. I didn’t intend to laugh at all—it gave him the upper hand somehow. But still, there was something about his frown that cracked me up. I clamped my own hand across my mouth and glanced guiltily across the room. Peter was looking at us with his own frown and his was neither amused nor amusing.

  Edwards looked at me, still smiling. “He’ll keep.”

  I shook my head, more vigorously than before. “Nope, I’m thinking about throwing him back.”

  “Over your limit?”

  “Not even close. I’m a choosy fisher.”

  “What do you use for bait?”

  “It’s not about the bait, it’s about the lure.”

  “It certainly is.”

  “The trick is to get the fish on the deck before he even notices he’s out of the water.”

  I’ve never been fishing once in my entire life, unless you count arcade games at the carnival and I’m pretty lousy at those, too. But when a metaphor turns itself into foreplay, you have to go with it, see where it leads you. Edwards’ grin had softened, so had his gaze, and he was leaning toward me, his hand slipping along the edge of the bar toward mine. And I was loving it.

  His fingers overlapped mine and his hand stopped, resting comfortably. “I don’t want to be the enemy.”

  “Good.”

  “I’ve found out a lot about you in the last eighteen hours and I’d like to find out more.”

  “Good.” If I could get away with the same answer for a while, it would free up some of my concentration for important things like breathing evenly and not drooling.

  “So are we on the same side?”

  “Good” wasn’t going to work here and I took a moment to think. How sincere was this? I knew he didn’t want to be my enemy because he didn’t want me messing up his investigation. He didn’t have a warrant or he would have played that card already. He probably thought he could use charm instead. But was the rest of it for real or just a sales pitch? His hand was warm and firm and I had a fleeting thought about how warm and firm the skin on his chest might be. But I forced myself to be careful. I wanted to be the one doing the
reeling in here. “Sure. We both want the same thing, right?” I paused, giving him a chance to nod, before elaborating. “The murderer caught and justice served?”

  The smile slid back into grin territory and his hand moved to cover mine completely. “Yeah. That, too. So when can I see the stuff?”

  “Ask Helen.”

  “She doesn’t have it.”

  “She will.”

  “Is it at all clear that I’m angling for an invitation to your apartment?”

  “I’m just evaluating your pretenses.”

  “You’re also obstructing a criminal investigation, but I didn’t want to have to go there.” His smile didn’t change a bit as he said it, his eyes never left mine. It wasn’t a threat, it was a simple statement of fact. And somehow I found that incredibly compelling. This guy was trouble. I really wanted to get into trouble. Not the “can I play with your handcuffs” kind of trouble, necessarily. But trouble on my own terms.

  “I need to go home.”

  “I’ll take you.”

  “That wouldn’t sit well with my date.”

  This time, Edwards didn’t so much as glance in Peter’s direction. “Does that matter?”

  “Yes.”

  “But only because your mother raised you right.”

  “Maybe.”

  “What if we tell him it’s police business?”

  “Is it?”

  His fingertips moved lightly on my wrist. “Partly.” The word “swoon” has always fascinated me—it sounds just like it should, like Merle Oberon falling back against Laurence Olivier’s arm. The actual mechanics of swooning, however, have always eluded me; how do you get your knees to give just enough so that they don’t buckle and dump you on your rear end at the feet of a man who’s trying to sweep you off your feet? I locked my knees because this didn’t seem the best time or place to find out.

  “I’m not the kind of guy to force an issue, but this has to happen tonight.”

  There actually was a moment when I wasn’t sure if he was talking about the partly-police-business part or the partly-not-police-business part and I didn’t want to overreact on either front. “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want to lay awake all night thinking about you …” He paused to measure how beautifully he was stringing me along before continuing. “ … burning anything you don’t want me to see.”

  I smiled because he deserved it. “You’re not the enemy, remember?”

  He leaned his head in Peter’s direction. “He’s not going to think so.”

  Now I paused, because I realized he really was going to make me give him Teddy’s stuff tonight and because he was enjoying the idea of Peter sizing him up as a rival. This could be delicious or messy or both. It was certainly going to be interesting.

  So much of the art of relationships is knowing when to stop—when to stop talking, when to stop kissing, when to stop seeing other people, when to stop seeing each other. Most of the time, it’s difficult to make that decision in the heat of the moment. Occasionally, rarely, you can almost hear the music swell because it’s so totally time to make a move.

  I moved across the room, returning to my table and Peter, fighting the impulse to turn around and make sure that Edwards was following me. I was pinned between their gazes: I could see Peter glaring at me as I approached and I could feel Edwards’ eyes on my back. Caught in the crossfire.

  I couldn’t blame Peter for being unhappy, but I was feeling pretty good, giddy even, and I knew better than to let that show. I dove in, taking the offensive before he could. “Peter, I’m so sorry, but I have to go.” I stood beside the table to emphasize my point. I could feel where Edwards’ hand had lain against mine and imagined for a moment that Peter could see it, like a sunburn or a tattoo. I covered it with my other hand. “Something’s come up …”

  “Obviously.” Peter wasn’t going to make this easy. Edwards was no help either, standing just slightly behind me, letting me take the brunt of Peter’s displeasure.

  I was considering how to pay him back for that when he stepped forward and gave Peter an official scowl. “I apologize, but—at the risk of sounding clicheéd—this is police business.”

  I winced. I didn’t want Peter to know any more about this than necessary and here was Edwards, enticing him with coming attractions. Peter cleared the napkin off his lap. “I absolutely understand.” He flashed Edwards one of those annoying “let’s all be sports about this, old chum” smiles that should come with its own navy blue blazer and deck shoes, and stood up. “Let’s go.”

  “Excuse me?” Edwards was as surprised as I was, but I was the one who spoke.

  Apparently, Peter was going to play the Gentleman card. Who coulda seen that coming? “I’m not going to abandon you, Molly. You’ve been through enough already. Whatever’s going on, I want to help.” I could smell the jealousy leaking out of his pores. The question was, personal or professional jealousy? I decided to be flattered on both counts, but that still didn’t mean I wanted him around the rest of the night.

  “Oh, Peter, that’s very thoughtful, but it’s really not necessary,” I demurred, trying to send Edwards a telepathic message that this was the perfect time for him to flash his badge and tell Peter to sit back down and order the cioppino.

  “I insist,” Peter said, as much to Edwards as to me.

  Edwards wouldn’t look at him and apparently wasn’t receiving my message. He sighed and shook his head, as though there were areas of civilian life in which he, gratefully, was forbidden to intrude. He wasn’t going to help me out at all.

  I had no card to play except to proclaim that I wanted Peter to stay behind, primarily in the hope that I could get Edwards alone and entice something more out of him than homicide theories. And announcing that seemed a little premature and a whole lot inelegant. It was like holding one of those original Polaroid photos in my hand, desperate to see the finished picture but knowing that if I peeled the paper back too soon, it wouldn’t develop at all.

  Which is how I came to leave the Mermaid Inn in the company of both Peter and Detective Edwards and driving back to my apartment in Edwards’ car. I was braced for twenty minutes of stony silence or perhaps tense conversation with deeply charged undertones and a dollop of sexual tension.

  But no. Peter and Edwards had the nerve to have a conversation. A friendly conversation. An animated one at that. About the Yankees, of course. If the Titanic went down today, half the men on board would be so engrossed in talking about the Yankees that they’d be in the water ten minutes before they knew they were wet.

  I hate baseball.

  8

  Dear Readers, While Molly is in a cold, dank cell in Albion, serving the longest sentence for obstruction of justice ever handed down in the entire state of New York, your letters will be answered by Kendall and Gretchen, not because they’re particularly insightful young women but because it will irritate Molly and make her time behind bars that much more miserable. Kisses, The Editor

  Most of the time, you don’t know you’re going to truly hate yourself in the morning. Passion or mind-altering substances or emotions of some kind propel you headlong into a situation, you react first and think later, and then you hate yourself once sanity and sobriety have returned. But every once in a while, you do something knowing full well that you’ll hate yourself in the morning and for many mornings to come. But you do it anyway. Is that bravery or cowardice? Daring or strength of conviction? Or is it just stupidity?

  Leaving the Yankees fans in what passes for the living room of my apartment, I went into the bedroom, ostensibly to retrieve the box of stuff. What I really went to do was to hide the key and the picture of Teddy and Yvonne in my sweater drawer. I knew I wasn’t going to give the picture to Edwards, not until I had an explanation for why it didn’t draw a big red arrow to Helen and her guilt. I had the feeling that the key was equally treacherous. And on the off chance that either man wound up passing through my bedroom, for any reason at all, I wanted the photo
and the key out of sight.

  I picked the box up out of the chair where I’d dumped it when I’d come home from work. The thing to do was to march out into the living room, give the box to Edwards, and tell them both to go home. That was the prudent course of action. But, come on. If we always chose the prudent course of action, life wouldn’t be nearly as interesting and I, for one, would be out of a job.

  I lifted the lid off the box and looked again at what remained of Teddy’s personal effects. I’d gotten rid of the condoms. More precisely, I’d stuffed them in an envelope and mailed them to Planned Parenthood’s Manhattan office, hoping they might actually do some good there. Not that they hadn’t done some good by preventing more Teddys, but I was thinking of a greater good here. I had even thought about mailing them to the Manhattan Archdiocese, but I figured I was racking up plenty of karmic problems without actively seeking them out.

  I poked around one last time, but there didn’t seem to be anything else in the box that could embarrass Helen or tarnish Teddy or trip me up. Plus, the longer I took, the more suspicious Edwards was going to get. Or worse, the more he might bond with Peter. So I took a deep breath and carried the box back out to the living room.

  I half-expected them to be drinking beer and scratching themselves. It was possible, because I do keep beer in my fridge, two brands even: Tsingtao, because wine doesn’t go with Chinese food, and Dos Equis, because Mexican carryout cools off too fast anyway and it just dies if you stop to make a margarita. To my relief, they were neither chugging nor scratching. They were having a far too earnest conversation about how you compare pitchers today, when no one ever pitches more than six innings, with pitchers from the “good ol’ days” when guys would rupture their shoulders for love of the game. At least Peter wasn’t grilling Edwards about the case.

  Then again, maybe Peter was just waiting for me so I could observe his keen journalistic techniques in action. Because as I put the box down on my coffee table, Peter stopped and stared at the box with that slightly wide-eyed look little boys get when told they’re about to catch a glimpse of a dead animal, particularly one that’s begun to decompose. Repulsed, yet attracted. I don’t know that they ever outgrow that phase; they might just learn to hide it better. “Teddy’s effects, huh?”