by Clea Simon
Damn, there went my career with the Mail .
“No, no, I have nothing to say for the record.” How often had I been on the other end of this type of conversation? But this was important. “I do have a lead for you though. You cannot use my name. I am not really involved in this anyway.” God, I could only hope he’d respect my request—I mean, here I was talking to a journalist and then asking to be kept off the record. “But I do think you should look into Rose’s finances further. That’s where your story is. Think about it, if she’d been behind the cattery thefts, wouldn’t she have been flush with cash? So there’s every reason to believe that she wasn’t. That, in fact, she’d been trying to raise a large sum of money because she’d been threatened. Maybe even threatened by the criminals behind the break-ins. I don’t mean to tell you your business.” Which, of course, was exactly what I was doing. “But I think if you poke around you’ll find out that she was more likely the victim of this crime ring than a member. Just ask the cops.”
“Ask the cops, great.” I didn’t hear him typing anything. Probably as soon as I said I wouldn’t be quoted I’d lost him. But I had to try. “What do you think I’ve been doing? I got this story because every single woman in the western suburbs has been calling to ask if they’re going to be next. The cops aren’t talking. This one hint is the only thing anyone’s given me at all.”
“Well, ask them about threats, about extortion. She wasn’t just a random victim, you know.” She was my friend, I almost repeated. But then I risked being discredited. Disinterested observer, that’s what I had to play.
“Be a lot easier if I had a statement from someone who was there.” He was fishing.
“I’m sorry, I really am.” For more reasons than he knew. “But go with this, maybe you’ll get an even bigger story out of it.”
“Right.”
“Thanks,” I said, and hung up. So the cops were going with the theory that Rose had brought about her own death. At least, that’s what someone had leaked to the Independent . All the warmth of my morning dissipated, and I set out to do my own work.
***
Sunny had beaten me to Lynn Ngaio’s studio. When the designer buzzed me in, the slight photographer was already wandering around the large, airy space, taking light meter readings and jotting down notes on a small pad.
“So you must be Theda?” The woman who greeted me could have been a model, if she hadn’t already introduced herself as the designer. At least three inches taller than me, with waist-length midnight-silk hair and the kind of almond eyes that perfume advertisers die for, she made the jeans and man-tailored blouse she wore look like haute couteur. “Your photographer is already here. It’s Sunny, right?”
I agreed that indeed it was and let her walk me across the concrete floor to where Sunny had begun to browse through what looked like a rack of dresses.
“I see you’ve found my spring evening wear,” said Lynn, deftly maneuvering herself between Sunny’s less than spotless hands and the silks and feathers on the hangers. “These are just samples, but I’m very excited.” She took two of the hangers off the rack and held them up for us. “Several of the Newbury Street boutiques have already placed orders, and some of the department store buyers may be coming by, too.”
“For this spring?” I tried to imagine a Boston in which wealthy women wore colors as bright as these, and couldn’t.
“No.” She had a musical laugh. “Not so soon. It takes a year at least for everything to go into production. But if they like what they see, then somewhere down the line they’re going to place an order, and…” Her eyebrows arched.
That was my opening. I pulled out my miniature tape recorder, and a pad and pen for good measure, and started in. “So you’re still looking ahead for a break, even though you’ve been in this business since the ’90s. Tell me, how long does it take to get established in the fashion world?”
“You really want to know?” I nodded, and she burst into a very unladylike guffaw. “Oh baby! The stories I could tell you….”
We talked for a good hour after that. With Sunny still blessedly preoccupied, I got all my questions answered and lots of colorful detail, literally, as Lynn led us around her atelier. A lot earthier than her ethereal good looks implied, she dove into cabinets and drawers full of notions, showing us how she was working a variety of fabrics, beads, leather, and even feathers into updated evening wear. Elegant, sure, but with a sense of fun.
“I’ve got a friend who would love this stuff.” I was fingering a length of rose-colored lace and thinking of Bunny. As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I realized what my comment had sounded like. “I mean, I do, too. Of course!”
Another guffaw. “It’s okay!” Lynn laughed almost as much as she talked. “I can see that maybe this isn’t your style.” Talk about understatement, but that was a kind way to refer to the jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt I had on. “But why not bring your friend by? I’m having a trunk sale, selling off some of my samples, on Friday.”
“Well, I don’t know.”
“I have special prices for people I know.” Those elegant eyebrows were raised in suggestive invitation.
“My friend isn’t exactly built like a model.”
Lynn slapped her own slim thigh. “Well, good for her! But don’t worry. I do samples in a variety of sizes. I think it’s important for clothes to be wearable by women with real bodies. And more and more, the stores think so, too. So I go out of my way to show them that bright turquoise with feathers”—she held a draping top against her own slender torso—“and purple and gold and green as well as basic black look just fine on full figures. Even zaftig ones.” At her use of the yiddish, even I laughed. Only Sunny was silent.
“Okay, Sunny?” Ralph must have done a number on her. I worried that she’d fallen asleep.
“Over here.” Ignoring the bright fabrics around her, the photographer was standing by the window, looking through the ancient glass down onto street.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, just tired.” She smiled and seemed to rally. “Are you ready for your close-up now, Miss Ngaio?” I was happy to hear that she’d taken a cue from my pronunciation of the designer’s name, and left them to it, with Lynn reaching for hangers and Sunny’s flash popping in a whirlwind of color and light.
***
Four messages awaited me when I got home. None were from Bill. Musetta performed some balletic leaps as I returned two, from florists, and set up visits to their shops for the following week. The third was from Monica Borgia, the web whiz. She had called to chat as much as to inquire about the story, and I ended up on the phone with her longer than I’d thought, telling her about Lynn and, with some editing, about Cool and Rose, as well.
“God, that’s awful about your friend.”
“Thanks.” It was nice to get some straight sympathy, without hearing Rose blamed for her own murder.
“But I’m glad you’re still writing about her. Maybe it’s more important now, you know?”
Those had been my thoughts too, and I found myself warming even more to the young entrepreneur.
“Hey, do you have any interest in fashion?” I’d been toying with the idea that it might be fun to get some of my “millennial women” together. Cool wasn’t likely to come out and play, but Monica and Lynn might just hit it off.
“Well, as you may have noticed, I’m no size six!”
“So much the better.” I relayed Lynn Ngaio’s defense of full-figured fashion and finished by telling her about the trunk show.
“Sounds like fun,” she’d said, before we hung up. I left a similar message—along with glowing descriptions of Lynn’s bead and featherwork—on Violet’s machine. Maybe she and I could splurge on something extravagant for Bunny, call it a handfasting shower gift. The hell with the boys; we’d have quite a girls’ outing on Friday.
There was one boy left to deal with, though. The last message had been from Rick. Sounding a little embarrassed, a little pleased
with himself, he’d said he wanted to see me again.
“So, that was some show the other night, huh?” He’d made no reference to our kiss, but his meaning was clear. “I thought there were some sparks in the air. Call me, kiddo, will you?”
I hit the erase button and went to feed the cat.
***
If only real life were that easy. Memories of my dinner the night before had me walking over to the Casbah a few hours later. But instead of the quiet that would have let me unload on Risa, I found the club’s front room packed and noisy. Making my way to the bar, where a few stools still stood empty, I heard a familiar voice.
“Well if it isn’t our fellow feral!” It was Rick. Seated right next to him was Ralph, both of them looking like they had a good head start on me in the beer department.
“Hey, guys,” I said, looking around for an empty table.
“Oh no you don’t.” Rick slid over toward the Mail critic and patted the empty stool next to him. “What are you drinking?”
“I’ll have a Blue Moon.” I resigned myself to the inevitable. Maybe with Ralph here the talk wouldn’t turn personal. “But I’m looking to order some food, too.”
“Food? What a concept.” This from Ralph.
“Hey, how’s the ‘youth initiative’? I hear you’ve got a new boss.”
“Oh, man, that’s too painful to talk about. I need another beer. Garçon! ” Ralph leaned over the bar to signal Risa.
“That means ‘boy.’” Rick corrected him before I could, and then turned toward me. “I’ll share some baba ganoush with you, if you’d be willing.” I nodded. What was one appetizer between old friends?
“Risa?” The bartender was already refilling Rick’s mug and Rick placed our orders, asking for a menu for me.
“You don’t have to,” I interrupted. I didn’t want to drag out this encounter. “I’ll follow the baba with the shikel mishi. Thanks.” She walked away and I found myself hyper aware of the man on the stool beside me.
“You know Risa’s into drawing now. She’s got a show at the museum school next month.” My eyes followed our bartender as she moved toward the kitchen.
“Really?” Rick didn’t look at the bartender once. I didn’t even know if my words had registered.
“Yeah, she’s gotten really serious about her art since you went away. Been trying different media and everything.”
“Theda?” He put one hand over mine and I fell silent. “I wanted to talk to you about the other night, about Saturday.”
Why couldn’t Ralph butt in when I needed him to? I looked over Rick’s shoulder, but the ponytailed writer was busy surveying the crowd for available females.
“Rick, that was a mistake.” Whatever was going on with Bill, I knew I wasn’t ready to dive back in with Rick.
“It was. My bad. I should have been more sensitive.” This was new. I looked up just as he pushed his hair out of his eyes. He reached for my other hand.
“Theda, I should never have gone away and left you like I did, all alone. I was confused, I know that now.”
I tried to swallow, but my mouth was dry.
“You know I had problems out there, in Phoenix. But they’re not the only reason I came back. Theda, I came back because of you. I missed you. I screwed up, and I want to try again with you.”
I didn’t know what to say. Two years of back-and-forth, followed by eight months of absence, weighed against the warmth of his hands, the pleading in those big, brown eyes.
“Rick, I’ve been seeing someone.” It was time for full disclosure. “I don’t know what’s going on with us, but he’s been pretty important to me since you’ve been gone.” As I said it, I realized how true my words were. “He’s, well, he’s sort of outside our circle.” I remembered our time in this very club, but images of afternoons in bookstores also sprang into my memory. Of the Cambodian restaurant in Jamaica Plain that he’d introduced me to, and the quiet evenings when he’d put some blues on the stereo and we’d both curl up and read. None of which I knew how to explain. “He’s a cop,” I said instead.
“A cop!” Rick threw back his head and laughed, then leaned close to me, his long forelock once again falling into his face. “Theda and a cop. No, no, no.” He shook his head, and although he was trying to sound sad, I could hear the smile creeping back into his voice. “That won’t work at all.”
I started to protest that until a week or so ago it had been working just fine, but he put up a hand to stop me.
“Theda, darling, this is what you call a rebound. You can’t be serious about a cop. You just can’t be. You’re never going to fit into the straight world, remember? We’re the ferals. I know you, and you are just like me.”
Just like him? Since when did he know me, and how did he know I hadn’t changed? With that thought, it all came back: to Rick who I was never mattered. Us being together was always on his terms, and always had been. When he wanted, what he wanted, how he wanted it, and nothing I did or said came into play. Why had I even tried to explain?
“You’re wrong, Rick. You’re wrong but you won’t ever believe me. Yeah, I quit my job to freelance. And, yeah, I may be having some career problems, too. But I’m a hard worker and I am willing to change and to grow. I’m going to make my own place in the world—in the straight world even—and I’ll do it on my terms.”
“With a cop?” He was openly chuckling now, a wide grin on his face.
“I don’t know. I don’t know what’s going to happen with Bill. But I do know that I’m not going to waste any more time on a man who is only there when he wants me, and never when I want him. I’m going to be with someone who listens to me and takes me seriously, or I won’t be with anyone at all.”
“Have fun, darling. Call me when your cop gets too boring.” He raised his beer in a mock salute and swivelled his stool away from me. I fumed for a moment, trying to think of a good parting shot, and then just signalled to Risa to pack my food up to-go.
Chapter Fifteen
I could call it righteous indignation, but the more likely truth is that I needed to prove something to myself. Either way, Wednesday saw me diving into my assignments and clearing a lot of work off my desk, or at least my computer screen’s desktop. Two interviews with florists, one of whom provided the requisite white bouquet, were conducted and transcribed, and all my notes on Cool, Monica, and Lynn were if not publishable at least on their way, all put into some kind of prose by early afternoon. I should have been content, but the day yawned ahead of me like a hungry beast, and I had nothing to feed it.
“Musetta?” The kitty, sleeping on the window ledge, opened one eye and shut it again. She wasn’t coming to my aid.
Truth was, I felt helpless. After weeks of indecision I was ready to hash things out with Bill, only now I couldn’t reach him. And one week after Rose had been murdered, I had the horrible sneaking feeling that her death was already forgotten by everyone but me. The cops were looking to blame her. Her sister wanted to get rid of what had been her life’s work. My own feeble attempts at detection had introduced me to Sally, who at least seemed to understand. But that was it—except for nearly getting me and Violet tossed out of the cat show. At least Vi had gotten some more shopping done, and maybe her unlikely rapport with that pet-store manager, a Mutt and Jeff pairing if ever I saw one, would pay off for her shelter. That would be something. But I needed more—revenge, action, some way to attack. I was sick of being spooked by shadows and waiting by the phone. I wanted to fight back.
Just as I was reconsidering my career choice yet again, I was saved by the bell. The phone rang.
“Theda, I’ve got some papers for you to look at.” It was Ivy. I must have been getting used to her brusque delivery because she sounded almost warm on the phone. “I need someone who understands the lingo and whatnot. Can you come over and read them here?”
“Sure, where are you?” I expected her to give me an address on the North Shore. Beverly or Peabody, one of the nicer suburbs.
<
br /> “Oh, I’m at Rose’s. I’ll be here all afternoon.”
My curiosity was piqued. For her to commit several hours, there must be something at Rose’s to hold her interest besides the cats. Besides, maybe I would find something that would give me a clue about who had killed my friend. I promised that I was on my way and, giving my own sleeping feline a quick ear scratch, grabbed my coat and headed out.
The foliage was sparse and brown, but driving up Rose’s quiet street brought a flood of memories. I realized I was tearing up by the way the street numbers started to blur, and was grateful for the glossy green holly that marked her house. But as I was waiting at the door the horror of that last visit came back as well. As I rang the front bell, shivers began to climb up my back. Why wasn’t anyone answering? Had tragedy struck twice?
Just as I was deciding whether to try the garage door—or run for the cops—I heard footsteps and then the click and sliding of locks.
“Sorry about that.” The woman who answered the door couldn’t look less like the polished matron I’d seen at the funeral. Sure, her corduroy jeans were from L.L. Bean, and the floral smock she had over the fine cotton shirt looked just as upscale. But the Ivy who stood in the doorway couldn’t have seen her own face in hours. Her mouth was bare of lipstick, her mascara had settled raccoon-like below her eyes, and any foundation she’d once applied had been sweated off to reveal a healthy pink glow underneath.
“Ivy?”
“Come in, come in. We’re busy.”
I followed her into the entrance hall, noting how she carefully locked the new deadbolt behind me. She led me to the left, away from the living room, and into the small, converted sunroom that had served as Rose’s business office.
“Here you are. Everything we got back from the police.”
On an antique rolltop desk, a present to Rose from their father, sat a pile of papers, Xeroxes by the look of them, all with official looking markings.
“From the police?”
“They took everything at first. They seemed to think it wasn’t just a random break-in.” I’d forgotten that Ivy might not have heard the rumors and murmured something noncommittal. It would be great if the police found who had been threatening Rose, but it seemed more likely they were following up her contacts in the hope of uncovering disgruntled co-conspirators.