Killer Cocktail

by Sheryl J. Anderson

  “Absolutely,” I said, instinctively giving the Girl Scout salute.

  No such salute from Cassady. Tricia and I both looked at her, Tricia’s eyes widening in disbelief and mine narrowing in anticipation. Cassady sniffed at us both. “We’re talking actual congress, right? Being wickedly drunk on New Year’s Eve and pawing each other for an hour or so in a dark corner should hardly put me on a suspect list.”

  Tricia swallowed hard. “You and Davey?”

  “Let’s devote our attention to Molly’s fascinating hypothesis and forget all about it, shall we?”

  “You and my brother Davey?” Tricia repeated.

  “So momentary. And this is why I never said anything. But you asked directly and I never lie to you, and now we’re moving on.”

  Tricia wasn’t moving on. She wasn’t moving at all. She was standing still and staring at Cassady with a mix of awe and distaste and complete bewilderment.

  “Maybe we should go sit down,” I suggested, trying to guide them both toward the tent. “What time did Aunt Cynthia say brunch would be served?”

  “We could ask her,” Cassady said, pointing to where Aunt Cynthia and Kyle were returning to us from their garbage safari. Kyle was expressionless, which is his personal default mode, but Aunt Cynthia looked shaken, something I didn’t know was possible.

  “They are looking for champagne bottles,” Aunt Cynthia announced.

  “Not something that should be broadcast, Mrs. Malinkov,” Kyle cautioned.

  “You could rebuild the boathouse with the champagne bottles we’ve emptied in the last twenty-four hours. I don’t know what they expect to find.”

  “Fingerprints, hair, blood,” I said, not realizing I was answering before Kyle until I’d already done it. But why else would the police be going through the trash and looking for bottles? “The police must think Lisbet was struck with a champagne bottle.”

  The Pause reared its ugly head and then Kyle simply said, “Looks that way.”

  Tricia sobbed suddenly. Even though she cupped her hand over her mouth to try and hold it in, it was a sharp, startling sound. Aunt Cynthia and Cassady each took an arm and started to walk with her to the tent.

  Which left me with Kyle again. “Sorry to take off like that,” he said. “Just thought I might be able to help Mrs. Malinkov understand what was happening.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Ready to leave?”

  Even less so than the last time he’d asked. It was good, though sad, that the police thought they had identified the murder weapon. But I’d seen a lot of champagne bottles hanging from a lot of hands the night before and I knew what an incredible task lay before them. Needle in the haystack. Then again, DNA could probably help you zero in on that needle these days.

  “I’d like to stay for brunch, to be polite,” I suggested. It would also give me time to come up with a compelling reason to stay beyond that. Which raised the question of why I didn’t feel comfortable just saying, “You go back, I’ll stay here.” Mysteries abounded.

  Kyle checked his watch, then turned the gesture into offering me his arm. “So let’s eat.”

  As we joined the movement of guests toward the tent, I tried to think of the right thing to say to Kyle to steer him back to his unfinished sentence. I almost had it when my cell rang. Kyle stopped walking and released my arm, just assuming that I was going to answer it. He’s a real gentleman, which is pretty amazing, given the people he deals with all day.

  I checked the number and almost didn’t answer it; it was the magazine. But then it occurred to me that if Eileen really wanted a story, I would have to stay and Kyle would have to understand about it all being about the job, his being a gentleman and all. So I answered.

  “What were you wearing?”

  It wasn’t Eileen, it was the next best/worst thing. Caitlin, our fashion editor. She’s used to summing up and dismissing fashion trends and her approach to people isn’t much different.

  I was sure it was going to be more efficient to skip defending my outfit and figure out why she was calling. “When?”

  “Last night. You really should be wearing skirts that break right at the knee, Molly. You have nice calves but bony knees. We’ve had this discussion before—”

  “Caitlin? How do you know what I was wearing last night?”

  “I saw the video. So sorry about Tricia’s sister-in-law-to-be, by the way. My point is, you go to a high-profile function like that, you’re representing the magazine in some way and more precisely, it’s a reflection on me if you don’t look good.”

  Forget about the twisted logic that made any of this about her. “Go back. What video?”

  “Some snot-nosed auteur has film from last night on his Web site already. Says it’s an artistic statement and a tribute to the dead girl. A friend heard from a friend and called me about it. Looks like things got pretty wild. But let’s get back to your dress.”

  “It won’t happen again,” I apologized quickly, hoping to get past this and move the conversation to more fertile ground. “Tell me about this film.” I’d only seen one camera in plain view last night, but I wanted to be sure.

  Kyle detected something in my tone and turned to look at me. I knew better than to give him the Hand, so I held up one finger—the polite finger—to ask him to wait, hoping it didn’t look too imperious. He didn’t seem to take offense, just fixed me with his piercing blue stare and waited to see what I’d say next.

  “The lighting sucks and it’s hyper-edited, but she looks great. At least people will remember her looking brilliant.”

  “What’s the Web site?”

  “Honey, you don’t want to see. Give yourself some time. And get another dress.”

  “Caitlin, if I promise to hide my knees forever, will you tell me the Web site?”

  “Deal. It’s like jakesjazz.com or something.”

  Bingo. Jake takes tragedy and turns it into a self-serving “artistic statement.” What little I knew of him thus far, it fit. “Thanks for the information, Caitlin,” I said.

  “Just watching out for the magazine’s reputation. Are you still in the Hamptons?”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you wearing now?”

  “Nothing.”

  I hung up and slid my cell back into my pocket. Kyle looked at me expectantly. “Just a friend checking in from the magazine.”

  “What Web site?” Kyle was getting that focused look, which increases the intensity of his gaze to a practically incandescent level.

  “Some goofy fashion thing, it’s nothing. You want to go ahead and sit down? I just have to pop back inside and use the rest room.”

  “I think I should stick with you,” Kyle said firmly.

  “Kinky.”

  “If you were going to the rest room. Which you’re not.”

  “Say I don’t. Anything I see, you might feel compelled to share with your new friend Detective Cook before I have an opportunity to put it in a proper context.”

  “’Cause that’s my job and it’s not yours.”

  “Which is why I’m going to the rest room. That simple.”

  Kyle rocked back on his heels slightly. “Nothing in your life’s that simple, Molly.”

  “Keeps life interesting.” I hurried back toward the house and resisted with every fiber of my being the impulse to turn and look to see if he was following me.

  I did go to the rest room. At least, I entered and took a moment to gasp appropriately. I know people who would gladly pay two grand to rent that much space and still wouldn’t expect all the marble or the raw silk window treatments. Besides, I wanted to be able to look Kyle in the eye and say I’d kept my promise.

  I checked my hair and makeup and gave my knees a quick inspection. They’re not bony, they’re just not rounded. Thanks a lot, Caitlin. I went back out into the hallway and tried to remember which door exactly led to the bordello room.

  I found it on the third try. Blissfully, it was empty and the laptop was on. B
etter yet, Aunt Cynthia had DSL, so I was online in what seemed like two seconds.

  Caitlin’s memory was better than she’d given herself credit for. At wwwjakesjazz.com, I found a self-aggrandizing Web site from Jake, complete with a new notice on the home page proclaiming his great sorrow at Lisbet’s passing, but touting the fact that he possessed and, of course, had posted the last footage of Lisbet ever shot. There was also some intensely creepy stuff about being able to love her on screen forever, now that we could no longer love her in the flesh. Taking a deep breath, I clicked on the link to the “memorial footage.”

  One of the first shots was a pan around the great room, which included Tricia, Cassady, and me. My knees looked fine. But the film quickly moved on, catching people dancing, people drinking, and finally the guys holding Lisbet upside down. Yeah, that’s how she’d want to be remembered.

  Feeling slightly ill, I was about to sign off, when I realized the footage continued. There was a cut, then it picked back up with David carrying Lisbet out of the room. The camera followed them out into the hallway, where Lisbet almost jumped out of David’s arms. She gesticulated wildly, apparently screaming at him. There was a quick flash of someone else coming out into the hall and then the piece ended. I couldn’t tell who the other person was, but Jake might remember. As for what else had been on the camera and hadn’t made it onto the Web site, I was willing to bet he’d remember that, too.

  I needed to make my next move carefully, so I had to get Tricia and Cassady into the loop. I dialed Cassady’s cell. She answered on the second ring, which didn’t bode well for the brunch conversation, and I told her that she and Tricia needed to go to the bathroom. And then to continue on down the hall to the bordello room. She made some flip comment about men who didn’t like to take no for an answer to let me know that Kyle was at the table with her and hung up.

  I watched the footage again while I waited, searching for clues, for some direction. Other than the fact that everyone seemed to have a champagne bottle in their hands, I wasn’t able to glean much from the shaky images or identify who was out in the hall.

  Cassady knocked on the door by drumming her fingernails on it, her classic knock. I ushered them in quickly. “You’re probably wondering why I’ve called you here,” I began, trying to lighten things up because I knew what came next was going to be tough on Tricia. I explained Caitlin’s phone call. Cassady was intrigued but Tricia was pained, whether by this last glimpse of Lisbet or by David’s obvious and potentially incriminating anger, I couldn’t tell.

  “So what do we do now?” Tricia asked quietly.

  “We divide and conquer. You guys stay here and I’ll go back and talk to Jake.”

  “Kyle’s not going to go for that,” Tricia protested.

  “Were you planning on telling him?”

  It’s very important, whenever you have the opportunity, to give a man credit for the idea he came up with, even if your reason for finally going along with the idea diverges somewhat from his. Which is why I returned to the tent slightly ahead of my friends, sat down next to Kyle, who really had only my best interests at heart, and told him, “You’re absolutely right. I think we should go back to the city as soon as possible.”

  I didn’t score hugely because Kyle is by nature suspicious, but I did score. And points in a relationship are like slams on his old girlfriends. You gotta take ’em where you can.

  7

  Returring from a weekend out of town with a man is a delicate mix of reentry, reorientation, and review. The reentry is the simple process of slipping back into the rhythm of the city, sort of like stepping onto one of those moving sidewalks at the airport; it’s always going a little faster than you think it is, but once you get both feet on it, the pace is just right.

  The reorientation is the slightly more complex process of checking mail, voice mail, and e-mail, educating yourself on everything you’ve missed, and marveling at all the contortions your friends, loved ones, and business associates can put themselves through in a weekend.

  The review is the intricate and treacherous process of replaying the events of the weekend, reconstructing them to glean every possible emotional clue from each action, reconsidering their potential as anecdotes, and renewing your pledge to go out of town only with men who have demonstrated actual long-range potential because the short hops with the short bops reliably cause more problems than they solve.

  Then again, I kept reminding myself on the drive back to Manhattan, this had not been intended as a weekend away with Kyle. Certainly not the weekend I’d had in mind when I’d made my big suggestion. This had mutated into a day away with him and he’d made the first move. He seemed to view it as coming to my rescue, but I couldn’t quite see it that way, since I hadn’t gotten into trouble.

  “Yet,” Kyle pointed out.

  He wasn’t being mean, he was being honest, and I had to acknowledge that. We’d only been on the road about twenty minutes and I didn’t want to start arguing with the bulk of the drive yet ahead of us. I was still trying to reconcile the fact that he was driving an Isuzu Rodeo with everything else I knew about Kyle. I’d never driven anywhere with him before; we always met somewhere or did taxis and even the occasional subway though they make me claustrophobic and sweaty.

  I picked up the CD wallet on the console between us and flipped through it, but that just added to my confusion: Good Charlotte, Fountains of Wayne, Josh Rouse, and Wilco were not the sorts of things I’d imagined Kyle listening to. Blame too many Clint Eastwood movies, but I’d expected him to be a jazz guy. If I’d had to predict a surprise, I would have gone for reformed metalhead.

  Of course, what I held in my hand could very well be the musical equivalent of the fingerprints of a former girlfriend. Forensic evidence of the one who came before. Kyle had been enormously reticent about sharing any details of his romantic past, which he portrayed as being discreet and which I construed as his having a huge advantage over me since he had met—and helped to usher out—Peter Mulcahey, the guy I’d been dating when I’d met him.

  Peter and I hadn’t been on the best of footings. He was a fellow journalist—make that, rival journalist—and our professional vying had been a sore spot in our relationship. I was developing a knack for getting involved with men who brought out my competitive streak. Since we’d broken up, Peter had finagled his way on to the Times. One more reason not to think about him anymore.

  “Nice CDs.” Felt like a neutral-enough opener.

  He shrugged. “I guess.”

  “What else do you listen to?”

  “Whatever’s on.”

  “On what radio station?”

  “TAC one, unless we’re instructed to go to TAC two.”

  “I meant regular radio.”

  “I don’t usually bother.”

  “So what made you buy these CDs?”

  “They’re not mine.”

  I knew it. I was closing in on a subtle but telling piece of his past. “Someone left them with you?”

  “She loaned them to me.”

  My throat tightened. Loaned? Was this the revelation of some current arrangement? “She?”

  He glanced over at me, frowning at my sudden interest in his musical taste. “My niece’s car. Her CDs.”

  “Oh.” I blinked as the swirling images of another woman evaporated and a new piece of the Big Picture slid into place. He’d mentioned family in passing, but we’d never dwelt on it. Kyle as favorite uncle was a whole new concept and one that, at first blush, I found sweet and appealing. “She must like you a lot to loan you her car. On a weekend, yet.”

  He shook his head, grinning quickly. “She’s grounded for the next fifty-four years for busting curfew, so she didn’t get a vote. My sister’s about the only one I can call in the middle of the night to hit up for healthy wheels.” He shrugged again, but it was the first time I’d thought about all the trouble he’d taken to come to my aid.

  “Have I thanked you for coming?”

  �
�No. You’ve pretty much ragged on me since I arrived.”

  Even though he was smiling, I winced at the truth in his statement. “I just want to help protect David,” I protested. “Actually, I want to help Tricia and she wants to help David.”

  “Detective Cook strikes me as a very competent detective.”

  “How else does she strike you?”

  “You want to take a nap or something? I’ll wake you up when we get back to the city.”

  “You don’t want to talk to me or you don’t want to talk to me about this?”

  “Want me to take you back to the Hamptons?”

  I took a moment to wonder how things were going back at Aunt Cynthia’s. When they’d returned from their semicovert “trip to the rest room,” Tricia and Cassady had done a lovely job of expressing dismay and displeasure, respectively, that I’d decided to follow Kyle’s advice and get back to Manhattan as soon as possible. Tricia had insisted that there was investigating to be done there at the house, but Kyle’d insisted more strongly that the situation was under control and that the greater the distance between me and Detective Cook, the better. I had suggested that Tricia and Cassady help me throw my things back in my suitcase while Kyle went and talked to the valets about getting his car unblocked by all the brunch guests.’

  Up in the guest room, we’d reviewed our bathroomhatched plan. Tricia and Cassady would stay until the family headed back to Manhattan, while I tracked down Jake as quickly as possible. “Jake’s gotta know more than he’s posting and he’s probably sitting on it until he figures out a way to use it to make a name for himself.”

  Cassady nodded. “Everyone’s going to take off as soon as brunch is over anyway. Aunt Cynthia isn’t serving dinner and even this crowd will find it too morbid to hang with no buffet.”

  Tricia pressed her fingers into her forehead, but Cassady pulled her hands away “You’re going to work yourself into one huge zit. Pick your cuticles if you must, but don’t trash the face.”