by Jill Winters
Gretchen crossed over to Shawnee and took the cards from her. After reading through them and rewriting a few sloppily scrawled words—God forbid Susanna pronounce fennel seed tunnel sled—Gretchen handed them back and gave Kit the go sign.
"Okay, are we about ready?" Kit said. "Places... and... rolling!"
Taping resumed.
Then several moments later, there was another crisis. As Susanna was chopping lettuce, something she'd done a gazillion times, she cut herself "Ow!" she yelped.
"Cut!"
The cut was deep, too, with bright red blood welling up on the side of her index finger.
"Susanna, are you okay?" Abe asked. As usual, he was standing to the side, staying out of the fray unless absolutely necessary.
"Oh..." she moaned, then looked up plaintively. "Gretchen... I need you." Her eyebrows were cinched, her face pained dramatically; Gretchen crossed over, into the kitchen set, and went right to her side. "Here. Let me see," she said, taking Susanna's injured hand in her own. Leading her over to the sink, Gretchen ran cold water over the cut until blood stopped rising rapidly to the surface. Then she reached for the paper towels, tearing off one to dry Susanna's hand and another to wrap her finger tightly.
Applying pressure, she spoke calmly. "Does it still hurt?" Weakly, Susanna nodded. "Okay, just leave this here for a few minutes, and press, okay?"
"Thanks, Gretchen," she said, her voice a little shaky.
"Sure. Just press," Gretchen said, then called to Kit, "Can we take another five?"
"Yeah, sure, whatever you need," she said quickly. The crew kept their eye rolling at bay, too. There was something about the sight of blood that made Susanna more forgivable to them right now, Gretchen supposed.
"Thank God you're here," Susanna said softly. "Nobody else knows what they're doing." Honestly, Gretchen couldn't think of anything more obvious than what she'd just done, but she accepted the compliment.
Smiling simply, she said, "Don't worry, you'll be fine." But she still had to wonder why Susanna seemed so damn nervous.
Just then, they heard the studio door open. Everyone turned.
Denise, the receptionist from the main floor, entered, looking purposeful as she crossed the long distance of the room, toward the set, her high heels clicking more loudly the closer she came. She approached Abe, who pushed the earpiece of his headset back and leaned down to hear whatever she had to tell him.
Instantly, Abe looked stunned and sobered by Denise's news.
She was shaking her head, looking just as stone-cold sober, and suddenly, Gretchen recalled the conversation she'd overheard that morning, the one about Misty Allbright, and she thought—
No, surely it wasn't that...
Eyes sliding shut for a moment, Abe shook his head. Denise exchanged a few more words with him that no one else could hear—but then Abe gave a nod, and Gretchen managed to read his mouth when he said, "Okay. I'll tell her."
When Denise turned to leave, Abe looked at Susanna—who looked back in confusion. "What is it?" she said.
Wordlessly, Abe walked onto the set, crossing over to her, and he spoke quietly. Gretchen heard the words, too, but Susanna was the one to echo them out loud. Her face crumpled, and she turned and threw her arms around Gretchen, slumping into her and hanging on tight. "Oh, God," she cried. "Misty's dead. Misty's dead!"
As Gretchen processed the words, she had no idea how they would eventually affect her—and how much her life would change before this was over.
PART II
Chapter 16
Rick woke up to the shrill of his ringing phone—at two o'clock in the fucking morning. After a long day that had stretched into the night, he hoped like hell there wasn't a four-alarm in need of backup.
"Hello?" he mumbled into the phone, his voice thick and gravelly with sleep even to his own ears.
"Brody. Thank God you're there."
"Jesus, it's two in the morning. Where the hell else would I be?" Slowly he pushed himself up in bed and rested his bare back against the headboard. Rubbing his eyes only revealed a mostly blackened bedroom; both windows had a view of a brick building adjacent to his own. But that suited him fine. And you know what else suited him fine at two o'clock in the morning? Some goddamn sleep.
"What's up? Is everything okay?" he asked.
"No... everything's so fucked up," Brett said. "I can't sleep... I don't know what to do."
"What is it?" Rick said, instantly becoming more alert. Had Brett started getting threats again? He thought they'd chalked up the few he had gotten over a week ago to pranks. But his brother was shaken up about something.
"Brody, I... I'm scared." Brett's voice cracked on the word "scared." Holy shit—was he crying?
"What is it?" Rick demanded. "Just tell me what's going on." Once his protective instincts kicked in, his gut tightened and he became short on patience.
Finally Brett sniffed and spoke again. "It's Misty—you know, my agent?"
"Yeah."
"She's dead."
"Oh... shit," Rick said, his mouth opened but momentarily speechless. He didn't know what to say. "I'm sorry, man," he said finally. "What happened?"
"It my fault," Brett murmured. "It's all my fault. It should've been me."
Upon hearing the words, Rick didn't know exactly what to make of them. He couldn't help suspecting that they were insincere. "How is it your fault?"
"Remember how Misty got sick at my house? And she left early?"
"Right."
"Well, I don't know if I told you, but she was really sick. We just figured it was the flu or something, but then..."
"Then what?" Rick pressed.
Brett explained. "Apparently, she'd been throwing up for days after she left my house. Her assistant, Ellie, took her to the doctor. They thought it might be food poisoning or something, but the doctor said it was impossible to tell at that point. But I guess her fever was breaking and he said to ride it out, because whatever it was seemed to be passing through her... but then..."
Rick waited, his fingers tightening around his phone as he leaned over to root around in the dark for the pack of cigarettes he'd left on his windowsill.
Brett sniffled again before continuing. "Ellie said she was gonna take her to the emergency room, but Misty was too weak to move, so Ellie called for an ambulance."
When Brett began to sob, Rick's chest constricted. He couldn't handle hearing his brother cry—hell, he couldn't handle hearing anyone cry. Unfortunately, because of his job, there were nights when he heard it a lot. "She died on the way to the hospital," Brett finished. "She was just... dead. The doctors said it looks like kidney failure, but they don't understand it."
As his voice broke off, Rick expelled a shuddering sigh. Jesus. Food poisoning shouldn't cause kidney failure, that was for damn sure. "Did she mess with drugs? Anything?" he asked. "Maybe she had a genetic condition—
"No. No way. She wasn't into drugs—she didn't even drink much. I'm telling you she was healthy." Brett's voice was strung tight as he tried to fight the very information he was reporting. Still, Rick didn't know how his brother could know for certain that Misty didn't have a bad kidney or some other infection or illness that the emergency room doctors just hadn't identified—yet.
Shoving his windowpane hard, Rick brought a cold front into his bedroom; he cupped his hand over the cigarette that was resting between his lips so he could light it. He exhaled slowly, then said, "But she said she wanted to go lie down as soon as she got there. So whatever it was, was starting to—"
"No, goddamn it, she was fine!" Brett snapped, then let out a long, unsteady breath. "I'm sorry, it's just... it should've been me. That's what I'm trying to tell you. It was meant for me!"
"What was? You're not making sense."
"Just listen. Misty was in her guest room. When I stopped in to check on her, she asked if there was anything to eat. She said she hadn't eaten since the afternoon before—said she was starving. So I boiled some pasta for her. T
hen I poured on some sauce that I'd made a couple days before—I had it stored in the fridge. She ate that and suddenly, an hour later, she's got abdominal pain, diarrhea, and she can barely stand on her own two feet. Don't you get it?" he cried, his voice thin and brittle, bordering on hysterical. "The food I gave her killed her!"
"Whoa, whoa," Rick said, shaking his head and squinting into the darkness. "Where do you get that? You still don't know if she had some kind of condition. You don't know if something she ate before she got to your house caused—"
"She said she was starving," Brett reminded him. "She said she hadn't eaten a thing. C'mon, Brody, you've gotta admit, this looks bad." Typical Brett. Concerned more with how he looked, rather than piecing together what actually happened." It was the sauce that killed her," Brett said. "It was something in the sauce, I just know it."
"But you said you made it yourself—wait a second. You're not saying...?" Shit. Comprehension set in before Rick finished his question. Food poisoning wasn't likely to obliterate someone, but poison in the food was a whole different story.
"It fits with the death threats!" Brett exclaimed on a choking sob.
"Someone must have slipped some kind of poison into my sauce in the fridge, thinking, just assuming, that I'd eat it, but instead... And they must've done it that weekend—it was someone at my party."
Wordlessly, Rick felt the impact of what his brother was saying like a hard punch to the chest. If poison really was involved, and if it was the sauce that was poisoned, then he had to admit, Brett's theory stood to reason. Especially if he'd made the sauce a day or two before the party and hadn't had anyone up to his house until the party...
But did someone really want Brett dead? Enough to come armed with poison—enough to execute an actual murder plot? Ironically, now that the possibility was so real, it seemed inconceivable. Rick thought for a second, then said, "But if you had forty or fifty people at your house, anyone could've eaten something from your fridge. That would've been a stupid way to try to target you."
"No, but the sauce wasn't in my main kitchen. That's just for entertaining. It was in my private kitchen. You know. I showed you."
"Yeah. I remember," Rick said, recalling the nook on the side of Brett's house with a narrow set of stairs that led up to his bedroom. It would be out of the way for any of the party guests, though. Who would even know about it?
They were just jumping to conclusions right now. They had no proof that Brett's sauce was poisoned or that the food he'd given Misty had in any way contributed to her mysterious death. They needed to talk more about this—but with a cooler focus. It was hard to talk to Brett when he was all emotional, and if he started crying again, Rick didn't think he could take that.
"You need to go to the police," Rick said.
"What! You're crazy. No way!"
"Why not?" Rick asked, confused.
"So then I can look all suspicious?" Brett began bawling heartily now as he protested the idea of police involvement. "I'm so fucking scared! And I'm not gonna call attention to myself Especially since they don't know what made her sick. Yeah, I'm gonna walk in and be like, 'Hey, I'm the one who made her sick. Arrest me!'
Rick rolled his eyes and stabbed out his cigarette. "Brett, why would they arrest you? If someone poisoned food in your house, they're not gonna assume you did it. Besides, what would be your motive? She was your agent. She was doing hot shit for your career. You can tell them about the threats you got, and—do you have any more of the sauce left?"
"Yeah..." Brett admitted reluctantly. "Just what Misty hadn't finished. I used it all up on her pasta, but she ate only half of it. I hadn't thought to get the bowl from her room until later."
"Good. The police lab can analyze it. Then at least you'll know for sure if you were the target or if what happened to your agent was just a tragic, unexplainable illness or something."
"No," Brett insisted. "I can't do it. Can you imagine the publicity if something like this leaked out? That I—me—famous for my cooking—the biggest freaking star on TCN—might have killed someone with my food? It doesn't matter what the specifics are. That's all that will stick with people. I've got my reputation to think about, man—my image! Something like this could ruin me!"
Rick didn't respond right away. But now that he knew what Brett's tears were really for, they seemed more pathetic than before.
"I think I have an idea, though," Brett said in a wobbly voice that was in direct contrast to his macho image. "But I need your help, Brody. You're the only one who can get me out of this."
Torn between family loyalty and doing what was right—namely, going to the police—Rick agreed to meet him the following day. Of course he would; Brett was his brother. Nothing and no one, not even a murderer, was going to change that.
* * *
By the following evening, they'd struck an agreement. They'd met at a breakfast joint on Twenty-first Street, and the conversation had gone something like this:
"Brett, don't be stupid."
"I'm not. Going to the cops right now would be stupid. I don't even know for sure that the sauce was poisoned. I'd need to get it analyzed."
"I hear the police are doing that now," Rick said sarcastically.
"Yeah, and what if there's nothing in it at all? Nothing toxic, just sauce? Then what? Then I've called attention to myself for nothing. I don't want to be tied up with this, Brody. As far as everyone knows, Misty got to my house, went up to her room to take a nap, and then Ellie found her later, all sick and out of it. That's the story I'm sticking to—at least for now."
"But what if there is something in it?" Rick countered. "That plus those threats you got—I mean, think about it. This is about more than that girl's death, Brett. This is about your protection. How can the cops catch the guy if they don't have a legitimate lead? If Misty really was murdered, and you were the target, don't you think that fact is kind of crucial to their investigation?"
"Investigation?" Brett repeated, confused. "W—why would the police investigate if they don't even know how Misty died?"
"Uh, that is why," Rick said, stating the obvious.
"No, but... I mean, if they don't have any reason to think it's murder, then..."
"Are you kidding me?" Rick said incredulously. "A girl in, what, her late twenties?"
"She was thirty, I think."
"Fine, well, someone who's thirty and not on drugs and basically healthy shouldn't just destruct like that. Of course the cops are gonna investigate. You can bet your ass they're gonna investigate."
"But if it was poison, they won't turn up anything because she barfed up all the evidence and then some."
"You're holding the evidence and you know it."
"Okay," Brett said, holding out his palms, "okay, fine. But this is what I'm thinking. Now, just hear me out."
"I'm listening."
"I need to know if the sauce is what did it. If we can find that out, and if we discover that it was poison and not just some bizarre coincidence, then I'll go to the cops. But... if we find out that there's nothing in it, then no harm done and I can just keep quiet and stick to the story. Misty arrived, went to take a nap, got sick, and left. Period."
Rick paused, thought about it, and agreed it was reasonable. Although, if there was foul play involved in all this, Brett would be putting himself in a suspicious light by waiting to come forward. When Rick tried to pose that to him, though, he'd predictably waved it off. Brett's mind was set. Now the only question was: How did Rick fit into this plan?
"A cop you're friends with," Brett explained. "Get him to find out for us—for you. But it has to be in strict confidence, of course, and it has to be someone you can trust." True, Rick had several acquaintances that were cops, but he ran the risk of attracting attention if he went to them, especially if the NYPD was investigating Misty's death and knew Brett's connection to her. But apparently Brett had already thought of that, because he had someone specific in mind.
"I'm thinking of that
guy who used to play on your baseball team." Baseball team? That went back a few years, when Rick had played in a recreational league in Newark. "I can't remember his name, just that he was a cop. The short, fat guy who was going bald?" Brett said. So far it wasn't ringing a bell. "The one with the sweat stains and the pig nose?"
"Jimmy Yablonk?" Rick said, remembering.
"Yeah! Yablonk, that's it. Ask him. He'll have no clue what it's really about and he'll keep quiet about it."
With a sigh, Rick shook his head; he wasn't saying no, just thinking about the details. "I haven't talked to him in, what, four years?"
"He'll do it," Brett insisted. "The guy worshipped you."
* * *
"He-he-heyyy, what's up Pellucci?" Jimmy Yablonk said when Rick reached him at the Newark Police Department later that afternoon. "Put out any good fires lately?"
With a brief laugh, Rick said, "Just got back from vacation actually. So far it's been quiet."
"Damn, I can't believe how long it's been. When are you gonna ditch the city and come back to Jersey? Or you could at least join the team again. We could use a good hitter."
"I've been thinking about it," Rick said conversationally.
They talked for about fifteen minutes; Rick kept the conversation steered away from himself for the most part, but it wasn't difficult because Yablonk was a blowhard. Finally, Rick said, "Listen, I actually called to ask a favor."
"Sure, anything," Yablonk said. "You name it."
"I need to have something analyzed," Rick said, keeping his tone casual. "It's kind of a bet between me and a buddy of mine—well, it's a long story. I'll tell you all about it after I get the results." He made it sound like a fun thing—a game—but of course he had no idea what he'd tell Yablonk when the time came. He supposed it depended on the results.
Yablonk let out a squeal of a laugh. "That's funny! What is it?"
"Well, that's what I need you to tell me," Rick said, forcing a lighthearted chuckle into the phone, but still evading the question. "It's like... a liquid. Sort of." He needed to be as vague as possible, because if something peculiar did show up in Brett's sauce, the less Rick said now, the better. Also, the remaining sauce that had been swimming at the bottom of Misty's bowl had dried up some by now, though Brett had transferred it to a storage bag, so it was somewhere between liquid and solid. "Is there any way I could drop off a sample of it to you and you could get it analyzed for me? But keep it, you know, off the record? I know it sounds crazy, but—"