Kiss of Death

by Linda Palmer

  Cathy Chatsworth gave a little wave toward the hallway. “Goodbye, George,” she cooed. “Have a nice day.”

  I gripped my purse and stood up. “That was cruel!”

  “It’s foolish to waste your sympathy on Laura.” She smiled like a thirsty vampire who’d just discovered an unguarded neck. “Why do you think she takes so many tennis lessons? I can assure you it’s not because that pro is famous for his backhand.”

  Cold, bony fingers fastened around my left wrist. “Don’t forget my consultant’s fee.” She shoved a card into my hand. “This is my home address. Send it there, not to the paper. And make the check out in the name of Olive Flitt—with a double t.”

  “I’ll remember the spelling,” I said. “With one t you’d be an insecticide.”

  Chapter 21

  AFTER LEAVING THE Winthrop Plaza I started walking to rid my nostrils of the stench of spending time with Cathy Chatsworth-Olive Flitt. It took twenty blocks before I managed it.

  I had no intention of invading Ralph Hartley’s AA meeting, but I telephoned his office.

  “I’m sorry, but Mr. Hartley’s out of town,” his secretary told me.

  I gave her my name, said that I was an old personal friend of “Ralph’s,” and asked where I could reach him.

  “He left for Tokyo last night,” she said. “But if you’ll leave your number, I’ll give it to him when he calls in.”

  “I would appreciate that,” I said. “It’s very important that I speak to him.” I gave her both my cell phone and my home numbers.

  “What can I say this is in reference to?”

  “It’s personal,” I said. “Please tell him it’s about a mutual friend of ours.”

  She agreed to give him the message, but cautioned me that unless he knew what my business was, he might not return the call. “He’s a very busy man,” she said.

  Telling her that I would take my chances, I hung up.

  I spotted a convenience store, bought a small bottle of orange juice, and drank it on the street outside. With that shot of temporary sustenance, I had the clerk point me toward a telephone directory where I found the location of the Boston Public Library. A call to their main number let me know that they had newspapers from all over the country on Microtext, and that the room was on the first floor of the library’s McKim Building at 700 Boylston Street.

  Out on the street, I saw a UPS man delivering packages. I asked him how far it was to 700 Boylston and learned that it was less than half a mile. An easy walk.

  The McKim Building’s Copley Square facade has magnificent arched windows, and a triple-arched main entrance. Among the inscribed tablets beneath the window arches and the medallions in the spandrels, I recognized the head of Minerva, goddess of wisdom, carved in the central keystone.

  Inside, the entrance hall ceiling is vaulted, with domes in the side bays. The turn of the main staircase is guarded by a handsome pair of lions, carved from unpolished marble and crouched on pedestals. I wished I could examine all of the visual wonders of the building, but there wasn’t time. Instead, I crossed the white marble floor to the information desk and told the woman there what I wanted.

  “Go to the left,” she said. “When you pass the pay phones turn right, and you’ll see the Microtext Room.”

  The librarian in charge of the library’s vast collection of newspapers on microfilm directed me to a viewer, supplied me with a year’s worth of copies of the Boston Chronicle, and showed me how to use the machine.

  Threading the films into the viewer, I located Cathy Chatsworth’s columns. Her reports from the social front alternated between fawning and sarcastic, but I had to admit that the woman could be entertaining. Although what I read left a bad taste in my mouth, I kept at it until my eyes ached.

  Returning the rolls of microfilm, I thanked the librarian for her help. Outside in the evening air I had to admit to myself that this library visit had been a wasted effort. Of the people Veronica knew in Boston, the Reynolds and the Hartleys still seemed to be the most likely murder suspects.

  Because I felt so grubby after my session with Cathy Chatsworth and after reading nearly one hundred of her gleefully nasty columns, I stopped at the nearest drugstore for a bottle of body wash. As soon as I got up to my room at Adams House, I filled the tub with hot water, stripped, and pinned up my hair. Adding several generous squirts of lilac liquid, I sank to my chin in fragrant foam and tried to scrub away images of the apathetic, overprivileged, ethics-challenged class of people who cheat on their spouses as routinely as they add to their wardrobes.

  Judging from what I’d learned today, Cathy Chatsworth and her “dear friends” thought sexual betrayal was some sort of game. To read their quotes in the columns, it seemed they gave more consideration to their designer wardrobes than to those they’d once sworn to cleave only unto. In front of family and friends they’d promised to let no man—or woman—put them asunder, but in Veronica Rose’s lofty circle, a lot of “asunder” had been “put.” Tonight I knew more about her, and liked her even less.

  When the bathwater finally lost its heat, I got out of the tub. Shrugging into the hotel’s terry cloth robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door, I took the pins out of my hair and went to the desk next to the king-size bed to see what the room service menu had to offer this hungry traveler.

  I was trying to decide between Boston clam chowder or a hamburger, when I heard a knock on the door.

  It was a little after eight o’clock, about time for a maid to turn down the bed. I crossed the room to the door. Automatically cautious, before I touched the knob, I looked through the peephole. It wasn’t a maid. What I saw produced a gasp of surprise.

  My unexpected visitor knocked again, louder this time. I opened the door.

  “Matt!”

  He stared at my robe and his jaw tightened. “Are you alone?”

  “Of course I am.” I stepped aside to let him in and closed the door. “What are you doing in Boston?”

  “Apparently, the same thing you are—except you’re not supposed to be doing it.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  He wasn’t smiling, but for once he didn’t look angry. “You’re so convinced Nancy couldn’t have killed the woman that I dumped all Veronica Rose’s phones and found she made close to a dozen late-night calls to Boston. I came up—on my time off—to nose around. Most of the calls were to the home of George and Laura Reynolds. I couldn’t find him, but I met his wife. She was upset, but she told me she’d been talking about Veronica Rose earlier. To you. She told me where you were staying.”

  I could hardly believe what I was hearing. “You’re here because you’re trying to help Nancy?”

  “I’m trying to find the truth,” he said.

  “Thank you!” Without thinking, I threw my arms around Matt in a hug of gratitude.

  It was either the wrong move, or the right one. Before my brain processed what was happening, his arms went around me, his mouth was on mine, and we were kissing. My lips opened, our tongues met, and suddenly all restraint vanished. Matt slipped his hands through the opening of my robe and began to caress my breasts. All I wanted was more—more of his mouth, more of his hands. I wanted to feel his skin against mine.

  Wriggling out of the robe, I let it fall to the floor. He stripped off his jacket and shirt, and in moments we were naked, kissing … On the bed, at the point when I wanted nothing else in life except to feel him inside me, he drew back slightly. “I didn’t expect—I don’t have anything with me.”

  “It’s all right,” I whispered. “I can’t get pregnant.” Before he could ask anything else, I lifted my lips to his. He kissed my mouth, my neck, my nipples, until at last … Only a few deep thrusts, and then we exploded together in that ecstasy I had no words to describe. We made love again, and this time it lasted much longer.

  In that magical afterglow, relaxing in each other’s arms, I thought about the fact that I was lying to Matt by misdirection. I’d to
ld him “I can’t get pregnant,” wanting him to assume I meant I was on birth control. He trusted me, and we made love, but if we were going to have a real relationship—if this was more than just a powerful attraction to each other—then I’d have to tell him that I couldn’t have children. He deserved the chance to back away from me …

  “What are you thinking about?” he asked softly.

  “How happy I am.” That was true; it just wasn’t the whole truth.

  “I’m happy, too,” he whispered.

  Later, we ordered Boston clam chowder from room service. Both ravenous—Matt had skipped dinner, too—we consumed the bowls of thick soup and the crackers, and then the cheese and fruit that came with them. While we were eating, I asked Matt if he’d learned anything from Laura Reynolds that might help Nancy.

  “She and her husband are worth taking a look at, but I’ve got to work that angle on my own time. G. G. will help, but as far as our captain is concerned, we cleared the case when we arrested Nancy.”

  I said, “I found out about two other possible suspects: Ralph and Gloria Hartley,” and shared what I’d heard about that couple.

  Matt nodded thoughtfully, and said he’d see what they could find out, but he cautioned me that he’d have to work outside the department.

  Walter and I don’t have to worry about a department, I thought, and had one more reason to be grateful that Walter Maysfield was back in my life.

  Matt pushed the rolling cart out into the hallway for the waiter to collect, and came back to bed. Wordlessly, we reached for each other again. When we finally fell asleep in each other’s arms, we slept for eight hours.

  The touch of Matt’s fingertips lightly caressing my breast woke me. I opened my eyes and smiled at him. “Good morning …”

  Showering together, our naked bodies slick with soap, we kissed. What began as a sweet, playful brush of our lips became passionate. We began to make love as the water streamed over us. After months of frustration and self-denial at last we were free to savor each other, and we did …

  As we were drying ourselves with thick towels, Matt’s cell phone rang. He muttered, “Damn it,” hurried into the bedroom, and picked up his jacket from where he’d dropped it last night. Finding the phone, he answered, “Phoenix.”

  Following him into the bedroom, I heard Matt say, “I’m in Boston, Captain,” and knew the call was from his boss at the Twentieth Precinct. As he listened, Matt’s expression—relaxed and smiling just seconds ago—became sober. “I’ll get right back.”

  Matt disconnected and grabbed his clothes. Dressing at warp speed, he said, “Half an hour ago, one of our young cops was murdered, shot down a block from the precinct house. Everybody’s on deck for this one.”

  “Oh, that’s terrible! I’ll go back with—”

  “Sorry, I can’t wait for you to get your things together.” He pulled me into his arms for a quick kiss. “See you in the city.” Hair still wet and uncombed, jacket in his hand, Matt rushed out the door.

  An hour later, after I’d dried my hair, brushed my teeth, dressed, and was ready to check out, I discovered that Matt had stopped long enough to pay the hotel bill.

  Outside on the street, waiting for a cab, I thought about him. Leaving, he’d said, “See you in the city.” Remembering his words brought back to me a scene I’d written for the show a couple of years ago. Our Sylvia character explained to her unhappy stepdaughter that there were really two English languages. “There’s the one we use every day, and then there’s man-speak.” Sylvia comforted the tearful girl by saying that, in man-speak,“‘I’ll call you tomorrow’ can mean he’ll call you in two or three days, or even in a week. Men are wonderful, sweetheart, but they don’t figure time the same way we do.”

  Every woman I knew told me she related to that scene. We’d received more positive mail about it than for any other bit—until my “pool scene” a few months ago. In that scene, still being discussed in the Love chat rooms, the character Jillian, naked, pulls Gareth into her swimming pool where they make passionate love.

  I couldn’t help wondering what Matt’s “see you in the city” was going to mean …

  Chapter 22

  AS SOON AS the Jet Blue Airbus landed in New York, I turned my cell phone on and called Walter. I told him I was on my way back to the Dakota.

  “Did you get some useful information in Boston?”

  “We have four new suspects to check out.”

  I heard Walter’s deep chuckle. “That was a good trip.”

  The trip was even better than he knew. I smiled, remembering how wonderful it felt to be in Matt’s arms.

  Walter met me at the door with Magic riding on his shoulder. “Come into the kitchen. I made us sandwiches for lunch.”

  While Magic munched on his Natural Balance dry food, Walter set out thick turkey sandwiches and a plate of sliced fruit.

  “A very nice woman named Penny called about an hour ago. She’s having a little shindig for your friend Nancy tomorrow night.” He scrunched his face, summoning Penny’s exact words. “She said it’s a getting-out-on-bail party.” He grinned. “She invited me, too. That okay?”

  “Of course it is! I want you to meet Penny. Matt’s partner, G. G. Flynn and G. G.’s wife, Brandi, will probably be there, too. The Flynns are my favorite couple.”

  “I’d like to meet your friends,” he said.

  Meaning Matt, I asked, “Did anyone else call this morning?”

  “Nope.”

  That was a pretty dumb question. Matt was on a case, trying to find out who murdered one of their police officers. I couldn’t expect to hear from him so soon.

  I handed Walter the list I’d made on the plane: Laura and George Reynolds, and Ralph and Gloria Hartley. With Boston addresses and phone numbers. “The two men had affairs with Veronica Rose in the last year or so. Both the wives found out. To say the least, they didn’t take the news well.”

  “That’s about as sure a thing as skunks showing up in the spring.”

  I filled Walter in on my nonlunch with Cathy Chatsworth, recounting the scene in the Santa Maria Room.

  Walter shook his head. “Anybody who thinks that Chatsworth woman is their friend is a fool.”

  “Gloria Hartley had a nervous breakdown over her husband’s affair, and is now supposedly in Paris, getting even, but I don’t know if any of that is true. Yesterday, I saw for myself that Laura Reynolds has a very bad temper. George and Laura Reynolds are in Boston. Ralph Hartley’s secretary said he went to Tokyo, but I don’t know if that’s true. According to Cathy Chatsworth, he goes to AA meetings in Boston every day.”

  As an afterthought, I took back the list and added two more names: Cathy Chatsworth, a.k.a. Olive Flitt. “This woman is vicious. I don’t know what she’d be capable of if she thought she was in danger of losing something she wanted. Suppose Veronica stole a man from her—or maybe Veronica was in a position to threaten her job at the Chronicle. I don’t think we should overlook her. Maybe that’s why she tossed us the other suspects.”

  “All six of these folks—we gotta count Chatsworth with her two names as two people—will have to be checked out: police records, court records, financial records, where they go, who they know, what their bad habits are, what they’re hiding—all kinds of stuff. Deep-sea fishing, so to speak. It’ll take a while.”

  Trying to sound casual, I said, “I heard from Matt. He’s going to try to help us, unofficially. I’m going to tell Kent Wayne about our list. Nancy needs all the resources we can gather.”

  “Don’t tell the lawyer ’bout Detective Phoenix being on our side,” Walter said. “The NYPD isn’t going to take kindly to one of their own working to free somebody they already arrested. Professionally, he’s on dangerous ground.”

  I realized Walter was right. “Any help Matt gives us will be our secret,” I said.

  MY CELL PHONE rang just before midnight. It was Matt.

  “Hi, honey. Did I wake you?”

  “Yes, bu
t I don’t mind.” Remembering our delicious night together, a happy little shiver went through me. “What’s happening with your case?”

  “We caught the guy who shot Officer Drew. A miserable crack addict, so out of his head he said he didn’t know Drew was a cop—he thought the uniform meant Drew was in the Navy!” He took a deep breath and let it out. That seemed to relax him a little. “Killing a cop is murder one. New York hasn’t put anybody to death since the nineteen sixties. He’ll die of old age in prison.” Matt’s voice took on an edge. “Unless he gets a lawyer like Kent Wayne. Then he’ll probably get off with a fifty-dollar fine.”

  “That isn’t very likely.” Quickly changing the subject, I said, “Penny’s having a little party for Nancy tomorrow night.”

  “Yeah. Because we arrested her, I wasn’t sure G. G. and I should be at her getting-out-on-bail party, but we talked it over and decided that since technically the case is closed, it’s okay. We just won’t advertise it.”

  “Thank you for keeping an open mind about Nancy.”

  “I’m glad I did.” I heard a teasing smile in his voice. “Are you bringing a date tomorrow night?”

  “Walter Maysfield. Did you tell Penny about him?”

  “What little I know, which isn’t much.”

  That was another subject I was eager to avoid. “I’m looking forward to the party.” To seeing you, is what I meant.

  “Me, too,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”

  WEDNESDAY EVENING, WALTER and I met Nancy at her building, the Bradbury on West Eighty-first Street. I’d called her just as we were leaving the Dakota, so she was downstairs, waiting for us.

  Walter and I climbed out of the back of the cab, but left the door open. I introduced Nancy to Walter.