"Yes, fair point. She is quite a character. Do you think Mike knows?" I asked, since her analysis of Kitty was spot on.
"John might have leaked that info when he met with Mike. Or Mike has a kernel of an idea that we're onto him. Or maybe Kitty told Mike. Especially if they're in cahoots. But if they're having an affair, well, that wouldn't make any sense."
I interrupted Ginny, remembering our dinner the other night with Mike. "I don't think I told you this, but Mike did make a comment about me when I brought up Ted. He thought it was a little too convenient that we reconnected after Ted's death. I think he was fishing for some information, but we never quite got there."
"I'm not sure that he believes you're involved in any sort of investigation."
Maybe I was overthinking it.
"I guess you're right, my dear."
Ginny slipped off her shoe and started rubbing her foot against my shin.
"What are you doing?"
Her foot had maneuvered itself to my pant leg opening and was now working its way up my bare right calf. She looked at me curiously as she moved the pen top across her bottom lip. I ignored her games and continued with my analysis.
"What about Clarke or the Seth guy?"
It was clear that Imogen had checked out of this conversation. The pant leg was now pushed up above my knee and rapidly rising. Her foot was quite dexterous. Regardless, I forged on. "Maybe they have something to—" Her foot now left the pant leg and was veering dangerously close to my slacks zipper. "Umm, I was saying… You know what? Forget it." I stood up, walked around the desk, grabbed Ginny's chair by the arms, and pressed my lips against hers. The email could wait.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Later that night I sat in my brown leather club chair, admiring my bookshelf that lined the entire wall of my living room. Jabber was snuggled up next to the fireplace, although there was no wood in it and it was not lit. I was sipping on a scotch, legs crossed, deep in thought about nothing in particular, my eyes tracing the bookshelf book by book until they reached the bay window. My eyes drifted toward the billionaire's brownstone. Unfocused, I peered through the window, admiring the colors that melded together from the priceless masterpieces mixed with the yellow glow of his parlor.
I didn't know if it was the alcohol or the colors of the masterpieces that sat in my blurry gaze, but something hit me. Rich people have rich tastes. They always want more. Always looking for something better. Something to add to their collections. Something that excites them. Motive.
My eyes continued their journey to the scene below. The snow had covered all of the trees and lampposts that lined the street. Undisturbed white mounds piled on top of the stoops, handrails, and steps of the multimillion-dollar dwellings.
Contrasted against this picturesque setting was the road below, bleeding brown snow. Cars and taxis sped by, throwing slush in their tracks.
"What are you doing, Max?" Imogen asked, appearing from the kitchen.
"Just admiring the city."
"It is pretty, isn't it?" Ginny said as she strolled over to the bar. She began fixing herself a drink.
"And thinking about Kitty."
"That dreadful woman again!"
"Not like that," I nonchalantly corrected Imogen. I loved that Ginny got jealous of Kitty. As if there was anything to get jealous about. "I was thinking that she might not be all that she appears to be. Maybe she's the one who's playing games with us."
"Why would she bother? She's already enough of a nuisance. Why play games when she can just come out and tell us whatever she wants to say?"
"I agree, but she's a liar. We know that much. It also feels like Kitty sent that email. She's the only one who knows we are involved besides Carrington. That is what's nagging at me. It's not like we've sat anyone down and questioned them. I just can't figure out why she would do such a thing."
"She could have sent it, I guess." Imogen was not convinced. "But if she did send it, it would be inconsistent with her previous behavior. And, more importantly, I don't think that she's that clever."
"I wouldn't underestimate her, my dear."
"I'm not underestimating her. I'm just not convinced."
Imogen walked over with her scotch and soda then seated herself on the couch. She took a sip and looked out of the window. She started to say something, but before any sound emerged from her lips she stopped and raised her glass. She took another sip of her drink and waited for me to speak.
I decided to shift gears. "I still can't help thinking how young Ted was. It's upsetting. He wasn't much older than I am. It's never the right time to go, but forty-two seems so young. He had so much life left to live. New chapters to be written, new experiences to be had."
"A couple of weeks ago you told me forty was old," she said.
"I don't know what forty is anymore. I do know that I want to see a lot more birthdays. More snow on the trees, sunsets, hazy summer afternoons…"
"Dutch, let's not bring the evening down. I'm quite enjoying my drink," Ginny said.
"What?"
"Snap out of it."
I lowered my glass after taking a contemplative sip. "Life is fleeting."
"So is this conversation." She rose to her feet and took the few steps over to my chair. "Up! Let's go." She pulled my arm.
"Hey! Don't spill my drink."
"Dutch, get your arse out of that bloody chair before I give it a swift kick."
I obeyed and stood.
"Now what?"
"Get your coat on. We're going to grab dinner."
In an effort to appease Ginny, I submitted to her command.
"And finish that drink. Maybe it will snap you back to reality." Ginny swigged the rest of her scotch as an example. For the record, one should never throw back a glass of eighteen-year-old scotch. Especially after you've defiled it by adding soda water.
I was half expecting her to slap my face. I finished my glass in one gulp and put it down on the dining room table.
"There," I said, waiting for some acknowledgement.
"Gold star. Now let's go have some fun."
"Yes, ma'am."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The next day I called Kitty. Imogen was still skeptical, but after some cajoling on my part she had come around to the idea that Kitty might not be the white knight that she appeared to be. That maybe, just maybe, she had an ulterior motive. Novel idea. She had traded up once before. What was to stop her from again scheming to get something that she wanted?
I arranged to meet the recently widowed Mrs. Baxter for dinner. Pump a few drinks into her and see what I could dig up. Shake the information tree. And what better way to interrogate a wealthy socialite than a meal at a top-notch restaurant.
There was another reason for our dinner plans. I wanted to see where Kitty was going to go after dinner. I wanted to see if she was going to meet Mike Miller for a nightcap. Ginny and I were rolling the dice, but we needed to pump her for information and then see where this social butterfly fluttered.
At 7:30 p.m., I drove down to Union Square for my dinner date with my long-lost fiancée. Imogen rode in the passenger's seat. The plan was for me to exit the car, walk a couple of blocks down to the restaurant, and then have dinner. Imogen would wait in the car, around the corner, and then, on my cue, a text message, she would pull up to the restaurant, pick me up, and we would follow the unsuspecting Kitty Baxter on her night's journey. Wherever that might lead.
Once out of the car, I turned and looked at Imogen standing on the corner of E. 16th Street bundled up to protect herself from the icy cold. The snow on the sidewalk had already turned into a slushy mix of street dirt and dog urine. In preparation for such a wintery mix, Ginny was wearing a pair of old Ugg boots in case she accidently came in contact with the yellow snow. She wore a long black quilted coat that came just above her ankles and made her look like a giant walking sleeping bag. Her hands were in her pockets.
"Just stay here and wait for me to text," I said.
"What are you doing out here? Get in the car already. And turn on the heat, for God sakes."
She nodded. "OK."
She walked around to the driver's side and hopped in the Audi. I waved good-bye, gave her a black-gloved thumbs-up, and off I went. I could see the smoke coming from my exhaust pipe. Leaving the car running. I guessed she had to. It was cold out here tonight.
I made my way into the restaurant two blocks down Union Square from where Imogen was parked. I had reserved a table downstairs in the jazz room. I would attempt to have a nice dinner, pump Kitty for information, and then follow her. You know, a relaxing night. I might not have convinced Imogen that Kitty had sent the email, but I was hoping that tonight's dinner would rectify that.
I sat at the bar sipping on my drink. I had told myself that I was on a strict limit of two drinks tonight, since I was going to have to pay attention to the conversation. Try to connect some dots or at the very least try to find the dots. Not simply glide numb through the barrage of sentences that Kitty would throw my way. I couldn't eliminate alcohol altogether or Kitty would certainly be suspicious of my decision to suddenly implement a dry dinner policy. After all, she knew me. Unfortunately, a little too well.
I checked my watch, 8:05 p.m., and then took another sip. She was late. Not surprising. Kitty had always been on her own schedule. Selfish was certainly one of the words one would use to describe Kitty. I had always hated that about her, and now it was just an added inconvenience.
With my head buried in my drink, trying to milk this small glass of alcohol, I heard my name being called from behind.
"Dutch!" Kitty had entered the building, walked down the large marble steps right into the jazz room. Blue Water Grill was once a bank, so it had very grandiose features, like extremely high ceilings, marble everywhere, and gigantic marble steps that led down toward the jazz room.
She walked over to me at the bar, didn't even allow me to get up, and provided me with two air kisses. One on each cheek. At least she let me turn around.
I greeted Kitty.
"So, what does a girl have to do to get a drink around here?"
"It's simple. Order one." I turned to the bartender and ordered Kitty a dry gin martini. Two olives.
"Make it three."
I asked the bartender to throw another olive in the drink. He obliged with a slight eye roll.
"Exactly what I wanted, Dutch. You have such a good memory!"
"Some things never change," I said.
We had a quick drink at the bar then asked the hostess for our table. We sat at a round table for two, with views of the jazz band that was in the process of setting up.
Kitty talked in circles for a bit. Telling me nothing and everything that had been going on all at once. Wasn't this weather dreadful? She'd prefer to be down in Palm Beach this time of year.
She and Ted always spent at least three weeks at their place down there to break up the winter. In fact, she'd go now, but she had too much to deal with in New York. Maybe she'd go skiing if she could work it out, but she wasn't sure if she would be able to get away. She'd been filling her time by shopping but hadn't made it into the city very often. It was a hassle. She missed lunching at Cipriani and shopping in SoHo.
"So what brings you into the city tonight?"
"Why, dinner with you, of course."
"You braved the weather and drove in?"
"Is there any other way? I'm certainly not taking the train! That's…so pedestrian!"
"Why not call a car service?"
"Now you're just being silly."
We ordered, the music started, and then the food came out. I always got the same thing. I was a creature of habit. I had the wood-fired grilled swordfish. Kitty had the Chilean sea bass and another martini. We made small talk while we ate.
"Well this is nice, Max. I had quite forgotten how much I enjoy sharing a meal with you. You're always, well, interesting."
I guessed that was a compliment. I'd take it and run.
"Why, thank you, Kitty. I always knew you had a soft spot in that stone heart of yours for me."
"Hey, wait just a minute there, Dutch. Stone heart? I hardly think so. Why, I'm one of the sweetest people I know."
"Especially with a few drinks in you."
"You're so ridiculous." She laughed. "See, I miss this about you. You always could make me laugh."
"Laughter wasn't the key to your heart, I reckon."
"Oh, Max. It wasn't like that. You know it. I loved your sense of humor, but we weren't meant to be. That's all there is to it. It had nothing to do with Ted's millions."
Nothing like a walk down brokenhearted memory lane. I'd play along.
"I thought we had something there, Kitty. That's why I asked you to marry me."
She interrupted, "And that's why I said yes. But—"
"But what? See, it's the buts, always the buts that kick you in the butt."
"But it was a mistake. And I'm sorry for that, Max. I really am. I never wanted to hurt you. But I was young. We were young. Too young to be making decisions like that. Too young for us to be together."
"Ted wasn't much older. Just a couple of years."
"But it seemed like he was. Especially at the time. He was at another point in his life. He was settled. He was mature. He was rich."
"But he couldn't make you laugh."
She laughed, and then seemed lost in thought for a moment. "No. I guess he couldn't. And maybe I should have realized at the time that money isn't everything." She took a sip of her drink. "But that would be lying, wouldn't it? After all, money is everything. Isn't it?" Then she let out a slight cackle that slowly morphed into a laugh.
Rich people always want more.
I didn't answer. She was the same. Same as the day that she left me. Same as the day she ran off with Ted Baxter. Off to his mansion. Nothing had changed in two decades.
"How's your dinner?" I asked, shifting subjects.
"Delicious," she answered. "Always is. I love this place. How did you know?"
"Educated guess."
"Kudos to you, Dutch," she said, and popped another forkful in her mouth.
I needed to shift this conversation into less reminiscing about our broken romance and more into her current love life. There was someone floating around in that bed of hers. She wasn't the type to remain single for very long. Even when she was married.
We must be on the same wavelength, albeit in a parallel universe, because after swallowing her mouthful of food she asked, "Could you imagine if you and I got back together?"
I nearly gagged on my food. I let out a slight cough and tried to repress it. I didn't want to insult Kitty. But for the record, no, I couldn't imagine getting back together with Kitty. That would be miserable, in addition to many other negative words and phrases.
"That would certainly be, um, interesting."
"Well, you're not married. I'm not married." She took a sip of her drink. Liquid courage. "Why not?"
Why not? I could give her fifty reasons why not. Top of the list being that I couldn't really stand her. I admit that I had, once upon a time, had feelings for her. Strong feelings. But I was over her. Very over her.
I took a deep breath then sighed all of the air out of my lungs, inhaled, then said, "For starters, Kitty, your husband is barely out of the picture."
"But I guarantee you, he won't be back."
"Oh, Kitty. That's terrible. He was your husband, for Christ's sake."
"I know, I know. But we weren't friends. We weren't even lovers. I hate to say this, but—"
"Then don't. Don't say it," I pleaded. But, of course, I knew what she was going to say, and I wanted to hear her say it. It would confirm my suspicions about her. It would also help me to convince Imogen that she wasn't who she claimed to be.
She ignored me. "I hate to say it, but I'm kind of glad that he's dead. For once, I feel free."
There. She had said it. She was happ
y that Ted was dead. Happy to be free. But happiness usually comes at a price. In this case, Ted's death.
"I'm sorry, Kitty. I am. I didn't know that you were so miserable."
"Of course, I didn't want him to die. But it's been a blessing."
We continued to eat our dinner. In silence. At least the jazz band was playing. The music was low but good. My mind drifted a bit as I listened to guy on trumpet perform his best Miles Davis impersonation.
"So, what have the police told you?" Kitty asked, jarring me back to my present company.
"Not much. But they seem to think that I had something to do with it. Imagine that."
I needed to find out what Kitty had told the police that night. Carrington's outlandish assumptions didn't add up. Something didn't make sense.
"They're a bunch of crazies, if you ask me."
"Who?"
"Who do you mean, who? The police. You tell them something and they run with it. Make everything out to be a big deal."
"What did you tell them, Kitty?"
"I told them the truth, Max. That we were lovers. That we were engaged. That I broke your heart. That you hated Ted. You wanted him dead so we could be together."
"Seems a little dramatic to me."
"Dramatic as it seems, it was the truth. I didn't know it would set them off. That they'd think that you killed Ted. That's why I called you. That's why I came to you the next day. To warn you."
I didn't know what to make of it. It did make sense. Sergeant Williams certainly was a case in point for running with a fact and jumping to conclusions.
I needed to lead her on, to give her the impression that there were no hard feelings, and that I never doubted her or her motives for a moment.
"And I appreciate that, Kitty. I do. I just need to figure this whole thing out. Make sure I'm not the one left holding the gun."
"So, have you made any progress?" Kitty asked.
I nodded.
"So tell me about it."
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