Yvonne walked in and looked at us without expression. Fred hovered behind her, peering unhappily. Tricia was using her reflection in the window to fix her hair and I was studying the blowup of the cover of Yvonne’s first issue as editor. How guilty must we look?
“Good morning, Yvonne.” I did my best to look right at her and not at the music box. Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Tell-Tale Heart,” a story that kept me awake three nights in a row in third grade, came back to me and I had a sudden image of me throwing myself on the music box, screaming, “There is the hideous syncopation of her silly souvenir!” Fortunately, the image amused me and I turned the smile into a greeting for Yvonne.
I was expecting a lecture for being in her office or for being in her life or something equally dour, but she smiled back. “So sorry to keep you waiting—Tricia.” Yvonne closed the door in Fred’s face and walked right by me to greet Tricia like some long-lost cousin. Tricia grimaced over Yvonne’s shoulder as Yvonne hugged her, rolling her eyes at the open music box.
I nodded in understanding, but what could I do? Yvonne was already turning around to look at me. “You look like hell, Molly,” was the greeting she offered me.
“Glad to hear it, Yvonne, because I actually feel like crap,” I returned. Yvonne fluffed her hair as she put her bags down and it hit me: Her hair was a different color than it had been yesterday. She’d gone about three shades lighter, passing out of the blonde realm altogether and entering some bizarre peach sorbet area. She was late because she’d paid Sacha, her Croatian hairdresser, to get up at the crack of dawn and color her hair for her. Yvonne at nine o’clock was tough enough. I couldn’t imagine Yvonne at 6 A.M. I hoped Sacha made her pay through the surgically altered nose.
“You, on the other hand, look terrific.” I belatedly picked up my cue and eased myself back over toward the end table, hoping to position myself so she couldn’t see the open music box at all.
“No, no. Weeping non-stop. Not sleeping. I look. Like Death itself.”
Behind Yvonne’s back, Tricia rolled her eyes again, which was not helpful at all. I swallowed hard. “Then Death should be on the cover next issue, because you look wonderful.”
“Oh. I touched up my hair.” She touched it with studied nonchalance. “I want to look good for Teddy’s service. Out of respect.” At the mention of Teddy, her eyes went to the music box. I hadn’t gotten across the room fast enough. She saw the open lid and gasped like she’d seen a ghost. A little condom-shaped ghost came to my mind, but I hoped I was alone there.
Yvonne charged over to the music box and scooped it up like it was a wounded puppy. “Why is this open?” Before Tricia or I could endanger ourselves by attempting to lie, she continued. “Damn cleaning people. I should fire them all.”
“Is something missing?” I tried to sound like Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, well aware that my Shirley Temple routine had never worked on my mother and had little chance of working on Yvonne.
Yvonne clicked the lid shut, locking the box and returning it to its place. “It just shouldn’t be open. Ever again.”
Tricia closed her eyes for a moment, bracing herself for a client meeting with a crazy woman. I would have felt more sympathetic, but I was puzzling over why the box should never be open again. Because the box was from Teddy and he was dead? Teddy had the key because only he was allowed to open it? Was the cardkey from Teddy? Which hotel?
If I could get Tricia to suggest to Yvonne that they talk in the conference room for some reason, I might be able to get back into the music box and figure out from whence came the cardkey. Short of dumping coffee all over Yvonne’s desk, I couldn’t think of why they’d need to move. I was actually hefting my coffee cup, trying to decide how much of a mess I could make, when the door banged open.
“I beg your damn pardon!” Yvonne barked.
“Y’all go right ahead, but this is vital and will not wait.” Brady Cooper, assistant advertising director, who seemed to be grieving more over his shortened vacation than the death of his immediate superior, stood in Yvonne’s doorway with an armload of files that looked precariously close to cascading onto the floor. Fred stood on tiptoe in an effort to be seen over Brady’s shoulder, a tough task—not because Brady’s all that tall, but because Fred is all that small.
Brady’s a medium guy—medium height, medium build, medium color, medium intellect, medium personality. He does his best to get along, given the fact that he was born without the gene that allows you to laugh. Nothing in the world strikes Brady as funny. He’s not one of these guys who’s in a perpetual rage because of world injustice or anything that pathological and entertaining. He just has no sense of humor. Or sense of irony to appreciate that he can’t even get the joke that he can’t get the joke.
Which, of course, makes him a favorite target for the writing staff and any assistant with a half-decent joke to tell. Or, even better, to play. Something about Brady brings out the junior high school prankster in all of us and we should really be ashamed of how much we tease him, but if he didn’t make it so easy, we’d probably move on.
“I tried—” Fred began behind Brady’s back.
“Not hard enough,” Yvonne growled.
“I understand y’all’re in an important meeting and I do hate to intrude, but we have serious problems which do demand your attention pretty damn fast,” Brady insisted.
“Serious problems?”
Brady hesitated before settling on, “Irregularities.” Brady was uncomfortable that Tricia and I were in the room and didn’t seem willing to say any more until we left.
“Maybe Tricia and I should come back later,” I offered, not expecting the dirty look I got from Tricia.
“It would be very helpful to our timetable if I had a moment for a few decisions to be made,” Tricia said in her most professional tone.
“What do you need decided this morning, Tricia dear?” Yvonne’s eyes were still on Brady and they were worried.
“We need to at least choose a venue so I can arrange a tour for you and Mrs. Reynolds, ideally later today.”
The mention of Helen brought Yvonne’s eyes back around to Tricia. “You pick the venue. You tell Mrs. Reynolds and me when to be there. Thank you.”
We were clearly dismissed even before she wagged her hand in the direction of the door. Tricia was about to protest, but we didn’t have time for futility. Or to get dragged down in whatever was causing Brady’s palpitations.
“Thank you, Yvonne,” I said and ushered Tricia past Brady and Fred and out into the bullpen. Fred detached himself from Brady and attempted to follow us, but I turned and plopped a hand on his shoulder, stopping him. “Yes?”
“Did you upset her?” Fred asked with a straight face.
“No, I think you and Brady took care of that,” I said, patting him on the shoulder.
“I thought I heard her shriek, through the door,” Fred pressed.
“Her music box was open,” Tricia explained.
Fred screwed his eyes shut and rubbed his temples. While fully appreciating his pain, Tricia and I exchanged a look of glee: The good and faithful servant was about to explain to us the significance of the music box and its being open.
“God help me, I need a different job,” Fred sighed. Tricia and I exchanged a less gleeful look: Or not.
Fred slunk back to his desk and Tricia and I continued to mine. “Does he drink?” Tricia murmured as we went.
“Wouldn’t you? Why?”
“We could ply him with sweet, girly cocktails and get him to tell us what he knows. Assistants know everything.”
She had a point. The finger that controls the hold button can flip off the whole world. I knew Fred was responsible for all facets of Yvonne’s life—we could all hear her ranting to that effect on a regular basis. But would he be willing to dish about Yvonne and Teddy? I could ask my questions without coming right out and accusing Yvonne of murder. Though maybe Fred already harbored suspicions of his own.
Or maybe Fred wasn�
�t the prime source. I scanned and actually was glad to find Gretchen standing across the bullpen, even though tears were streaming down her face. Girl to girl, I could probably get more out of Gretchen than out of Fred. And as Teddy’s assistant, she’d know more worth getting. I should’ve thought of her before.
Tricia looked over at Gretchen, her eyes widening in alarm at the tears. But emotionally overwrought probably worked to my advantage right now, so I motioned for Tricia to follow me and made my way over to Gretchen.
She wasn’t trying to hide her tears, but no one sitting near her seemed to notice. Of course, she’d been crying off and on for over twenty-four hours now and there was work to be done. “Hey, Gretch. What’s wrong?”
I held out an arm to her. Gretchen slid under it, forehead pressed to my shoulder, and muttered, “How mad is she?”
“Mad as ever.”
“I mean, about Brady and the ads.”
“She kicked us out before they got into details. Something about ‘irregularities.’ What’s going on?”
Gretchen hesitated, casting an uncertain look at Tricia.
“It’s okay, you remember my friend Tricia.” Tricia gave Gretchen one of her best client smiles, the kind of smile that gets people to fork over big bucks without thinking twice. “What’s going on?”
Gretchen glanced around the bullpen, then backed into Teddy’s office, watching us as we followed her. I didn’t relish the thought of stepping back into his office, but I did like the idea that Gretchen was about to tell us something that warranted some privacy.
“I know he’s going to blame Teddy. And Teddy would never do anything to hurt the magazine.” She took a ragged breath and her voice moved up the scale. “He would never do anything to hurt anyone. He would never do—”
“Gretchen.” I couldn’t imagine what the rest of the octave was going to be, but I knew it was going to shatter glass. I couldn’t afford to let Gretchen get too operatic on me. “Are you talking about financial irregularities? Is there money missing?”
“That’s what Brady says, but he’s wrong. I know he is. Teddy would never—”
“Yes, he would never do anything to anybody. I’m sure Brady and Yvonne will get it all straightened out before we go to press.”
Gretchen tried to pull herself together. “I just don’t want them dumping on poor Teddy.”
“We all want to protect Teddy’s memory, Gretchen. That’s why I need you to be completely honest with me. Can you do that?”
Gretchen seemed to shrink before my very eyes. “I’ll try,” she whispered.
I didn’t want to play a lot of games and give Gretchen time to develop cold feet. If I wanted to draw another side to the triangle, I had to come right out and ask the question. “How do I get in touch with Camille Sondergard?”
The sob exploded from Gretchen with such force that I almost fell back a step. I looked at Tricia, perplexed. This was not the reaction I’d anticipated. Tricia looked at Gretchen with detached wonder, like a child studying a hyena at the zoo.
“Gretchen …”
“How’d you know?” she wailed. Poor thing. Not only did she put up with all Teddy’s crap in life, now she was left to try and defend his honor, questionable as it seemed, in death.
“His PDA. I talked to the detective. But I need to talk to Camille.”
“Why?”
“I just need to. For Teddy’s sake.” Telling Gretchen I was trying to solve the crime was one step away from taking out an ad in the Sunday Times, so I had to be careful here.
“They broke up.”
“Still …”
“I’m handling the guest list for the funeral reception,” Tricia inserted smoothly. “In fact, I’ll need to sit with you later and go over some names. But it would be inappropriate for Ms. Sondergard to attend unless she’s willing to present herself solely as a business associate. That’s a conversation Molly has volunteered to have with her.”
News to me, but a brilliant idea. A little smile played at the corners of Tricia’s eyes. She knew it was a great idea and she knew I’d owe her for it. But at the moment, she was focused on willing Gretchen into cooperation. Tricia’s really good at this sort of thing, getting her ideas to look like other people’s ideas. It can be a dangerous trait in a friend, but it’s really nice when she’s willing to throw her mojo your way when you need it.
Gretchen thought a moment, mashing her lips into all sorts of odd shapes. “I have a number,” she finally admitted.
“Thank you.” I hugged her lightly. “This will be so much help.”
She nodded, not completely convinced. She took a notepad out of her pocket, wrote a number on it, and handed it to me. I decided to press my luck. “And there’s no one else?” I asked as neutrally as possible. “Who might be a problem?”
The tears welled back up. She widened her eyes to keep them from spilling over, but it didn’t work. Tricia quickly handed her a tissue. Gretchen took it and twisted it nervously, rather than using it.
“I really like working here, Molly,” she protested.
“You’re not getting fired. No one’s going to even know we talked.”
Gretchen sank into the armchair by the door. “Why did this have to happen? It’s so wrong. It’s not fair.”
“It stinks,” I agreed, sliding into columnist mode. “Especially because there’s not much we can do now except remember him with love and help other people to do the same. But that means that any chance we have to minimize new pain for his family and friends, we have to grab.”
Apparently, I scored on the sincerity scale, because Tricia’s eyebrows lifted in approval and Gretchen’s crying quieted slightly. Tricia handed Gretchen another tissue and Gretchen used this one, wiping her tears and blowing her nose. When she was finished, she took a deep breath. “There is someone else, but I don’t think you need to talk to her. She knows all about keeping up appearances.”
“Who, Gretch?”
“Yvonne.”
My first instinct was to jump up and yell “Score!” but I pretended to be shocked. “Really?”
“She’ll behave, though, because he just broke up with her, so she wouldn’t want anyone to know.”
“Really?” Now I actually was surprised. I’d figured all signs pointed to the affair being current.
Gretchen nodded vigorously. “He broke it off.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because Helen found out and she was furious. I overheard them fighting one night last week, here in the office. She was ready to—” Gretchen stopped herself, horrified by where that sentence was headed. She actually clamped her hand over her mouth.
“Don’t go there,” I advised. Not just because it was the opposite direction from where I was going, but also because it wasn’t a pleasant place to go.
“I didn’t mean that,” she moaned from behind her hand. “Don’t tell anyone I said that. Please.”
“Of course not.”
“You don’t think Helen could—”
“Of course not.” I said that with extra conviction and headed for the door before she could ask me anything that would be tougher to answer.
Tricia followed me, stopping to put her hand on Gretchen’s arm. “I’ll be in touch about the guest list. Thank you for everything you’ve done.”
Gretchen erupted yet again and we left, pulling the door closed behind us.
“Damn.”
Tricia led me back toward my own desk. “That doesn’t mean you’re wrong.”
“Damn.”
“And even if you are wrong, it’s not like you’ve done anything as a result besides think evil thoughts about her, which you pretty much do anyway, so it’s okay.”
“Damn.”
“Except that you hate to be wrong.”
I stopped at my desk and retrieved our handbags from the bottom drawer, deciding in the process that I liked Tricia’s much more than I liked mine. I had my black Fendi messenger bag. Now, I love it, I’ll probably be buried with
it because it will have grafted onto my shoulder by then. But she had her Kate Spade soho bag in porcelain leather and it didn’t have a nick on it anywhere and taking a moment to covet it took my mind off other things for a moment.
“You’re not going to respond to that, are you,” Tricia chided as we headed for the elevators.
“That’s the thing. I don’t feel like I am wrong. But it’s just a feeling.”
“When you’re investigating a homicide, I believe you’re supposed to call it a hunch. Don’t underestimate its importance. If you don’t think you’re wrong, you’re probably not.”
Her certainty made me smile in spite of myself. “You’re a pretty amazing friend, you know that?”
“Is that a hunch?”
“More than.”
“Then, thank you. What’s next?”
“You go ahead and get the reception lined up. Call me when the walkthrough’s set and I’ll be sure to meet you there.”
“Where are you going, so I can worry about you appropriately ?”
“To paraphrase my grandfather, I’m going to see a woman about a dog.”
10
I love the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Of course, I grew up with the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, DC, so it always strikes me as odd to have to pay to go to a museum, but I love the Met. I’m even a member. But still, it would never occur to me to shoot a perfume ad there.
I guess that’s why I advise people about their personal lives and not about advertising. If anything, advertising makes my job harder. It’s bad enough that we jack up our own expectations of what success should look like, what love should feel like, what happiness should sound like. When you add the tsunami of daily advertising with all its secrets for instant bliss, it’s a little hard for real life to measure up. And the realization that life is not a Ralph Lauren ad can be difficult to embrace, especially when you don’t have an appealing alternative in mind.
Killer Heels Page 14
