“I hate you both! Leave me alone!” Lara protested.
“It was supposed to be the best rehab program on the East Coast,” Tricia said to me, just a little louder than conversationally. “I’m very disappointed.”
“Can we get a refund or should we just try to send her back for another couple of weeks?” I asked. The handful of guests who’d bothered to look up shook their heads in sadness or sympathy and returned to their own affairs.
The hotel doorman opened the cab door so that we never had to let go of Lara and we slid into the backseat like one thrashing, six-legged creature. “You’ll be part of the kidnapping charge!” Lara hissed at the driver.
The driver, a pockmarked Slav with big, sad eyes and a huge belly, popped open his glove compartment, consulted a small spiral notebook, and checked his watch. “There’s a meeting at St. Aidan’s in half an hour,” he offered, closing the glove compartment back up.
“Thank you, but we’re taking her to see someone.” I gave him Jake’s address.
“No!” Lara shrieked. “I don’t want to see him ever again! I hate him! I hate him!”
The driver shook his head as he pulled away from the hotel curb. “Sounds like she needs a new therapist.”
“Among other things,” I assured him.
Tricia snuggled into Lara’s shoulder and whispered, “The sooner you cooperate with the police, the better off you’ll be. Because if my brother suffers any more pain because of what you did, I’ll personally escort you to your execution.”
“What’s your brother got to do with this?” Lara snapped.
Tricia and I looked at each other in disbelief. “Lara, everyone thinks David killed Lisbet. Including the police,” I said.
“Why is that my concern?”
“Because he shouldn’t be accused of a crime you committed.”
Lara yanked her sunglasses off again. I was expecting the evil eye, but she whooped with laughter. Gut-busting laughter. Tricia poked her sharply, but that didn’t stop her. “This isn’t funny,” Tricia protested, poking her again.
“You think I killed Lisbet?” Lara asked, struggling to stop laughing. “Why would I do that?”
“Because she had sex with Jake,” Tricia responded, irritated.
“If I killed every slut that dog humped, I’d be a serial killer like no other,” Lara sniffed. “And you wouldn’t be here,” she sniffed at me.
“I didn’t sleep with Jake,” I said.
“Then why were you coming around, calling all the time?”
“I was trying to figure out if he’d killed Lisbet. And I only called a couple of times.”
“All the ugly phone calls about the Web site?”
“Wasn’t me.”
Lara laughed again. “Wasn’t me. I don’t need to kill them, I just need to leave him. I was slow in figuring that out, but I finally did.”
“Yet you tried to run him over tonight,” Tricia pointed out politely.
Lara shrugged disdainfully. “I lost my head. But I stopped at the last second because it seemed too hysterical. More effort than he’s worth.”
“Still, there’s a police detective in the hospital. You need to earn Brownie points wherever you can.”
“I have nothing to offer because I did nothing, I know nothing. Lisbet was alive when I took Jake out of there and I didn’t see her again.”
I didn’t want to even lean on a conclusion, much less jump to one. “Took Jake out of where, Lara?”
“The pool house. He and Lisbet were in there, screwing and making one of his movies. I found them, I took him and the camera, and we left.”
“What else?” Tricia asked.
“There was some screaming and begging and crying,” she admitted and it was pretty easy to figure out which of them did which, “but no killing.”
“Jake said no one knew he’d slept with Lisbet,” I told her.
“He’s lying. Are you shocked?” Lara asked.
“Sounds like he’s covering for you,” Tricia said.
Lara brightened. “He still cares for me?”
I shook my head. “He thinks you killed her.”
“I didn’t kill Lisbet and you know it!” Lara screamed at Jake moments later, after Tricia and I had gotten her upstairs to the apartment. It hadn’t required nearly the amount of dragging I had anticipated. She’d gained momentum on her own as she’d considered the possibility that Jake was encouraging us to believe he thought she was guilty so we would think she was guilty.
“I never said you did, baby!” Jake cooed, wisely staying on the other side of the living room. He took a step toward Cassady as though to hide behind her, but Cassady stalked away, leaving him to cringe behind a chair.
“You want everyone to believe it was me!” Lara continued. “But I can prove it wasn’t!” She yanked the camera bag from my shoulder, almost pulling me off my feet in the process, and shook its contents out onto the couch.
“My film!” Jake sighed, showing more emotion over its return than Lara’s. The boy just wasn’t very smart when it came to women, because she picked up on it, too.
“You’re pathetic,” she spat. “You’re a terrible filmmaker. And even worse as a lover.” She turned to address Tricia, Cassady, and me. “Don’t waste your time. He’ll give you no satisfaction.”
“That’s a lie!” Jake protested.
“As a lover or a filmmaker?” Cassady asked.
“Both,” Lara answered, stalking into the bedroom. We all followed her, Jake still calling her a liar.
Lara sat down at the computer, slid the disk in, and started loading files. Her hands flew over the keyboard and the mouse. “Who’s the real talent here, Jake?” I asked.
“We’re a team,” Jake croaked.
Lara laughed. “My English is so bad sometimes. Is ‘team’ the word you use when one person carries the other but gets none of the credit?”
“That’s one of its most common usages, yes,” I told her.
“I don’t have to take this abuse,” Jake protested.
“No, you don’t,” I agreed. “But if you walk out of here, you walk right back to the top of the suspect list.”
Jake glared at us for a moment, then plopped down in the chair next to Lara’s. He leaned in close to her and she growled something at him in Portuguese. I don’t know if he understood it any better than I did, but her tone was quite clear. He sat back up.
Lara clicked open a file. “Watch this. Inside the pool house.” On the screen, Jake faced the camera while he hurriedly tucked his shirt into his pants. Lisbet lounged on a divan behind him, taking her time about pulling her dress back on. A bottle of champagne—the bottle?—sat on the occasional table beside her. Jake continued dressing and yelling at the person behind the camera. Lisbet finished sliding into her dress, not seeming terribly bothered by what was going on. She was either really drunk or burned out from all of the emotion of the day. She bent down to pick up her Marc Jacobs pumps and almost lost her balance. Really drunk got my vote.
Jake backed out of the pool house and the camera followed him. He was gesturing and talking a mile a minute, pleading and bargaining. Then the camera fell to the ground and from that angle, caught a bizarre angle of Lara pummeling Jake, Jake taking it for a moment, and then Jake pulling Lara into his arms. Then, unbelievably, he started kissing her and she responded. The kissing got more and more passionate until Lara pushed him away.
“Thank God,” Cassady muttered.
But then Lara grabbed the camera, picked it up, and the picture got difficult to understand. Was that the pool or the ground or … ? I was lost.
“We’re walking away from the pool house here. Going to ‘make up.’ Because I’m an idiot,” Lara explained.
The footage ended. There was an uncomfortable moment of silence while everyone debated what to say next. I was frustrated. The footage showed they left Lisbet alive, but how could they prove one of them didn’t go back later? And how could we prove one of them did?
“Beautiful angles, Lara,” Jake said respectfully. “Great use of available light.”
Tricia rolled her eyes, but Lara turned to Jake with a hint of hope in her eyes. “You really think so?”
“Honey, as soon as we get this other thing figured out, we’re taking you to a deprogrammer,” Cassady warned. Jake tried to give her a menacing look but Cassady was so past that. “Puh-leez.”
“I know ‘wordless cinema’ is your thing, guys,” I said, “but is there any audio on this?”
“Yeah, it’s just turned off,” Jake explained.
“Can we watch it again—”
“Must we?” moaned Cassady.
“—with the sound?”
Jake leaned over, clicked on a couple of icons, and the footage began to play again, with sound.
“Put down the camera,” the onscreen Jake demanded.
“You like everything on film,” Lara’s voice taunted from behind the camera. “Why not this?”
Lisbet said, “He told me you were only working together, nothing else.”
“We’re all adults here, there’s no need for anyone to get upset or for things to get ugly,” onscreen Jake tapdanced. “This shouldn’t negatively impact on any of our relationships.”
“Forget it, Jake,” Lisbet said as she bent down for her shoes. “This shouldn’t have happened and your movie isn’t going to happen. Just forget it.”
“Let’s not be hasty. Any of us,” Jake pleaded.
“She’s done with you, Jake. So am I,” Lara replied.
Jake backed out of the pool house. “Wait, Lara, please. I know you’re upset, but let’s look at this as an artistic experience we can both learn and grow from.”
In the real world, Cassady smacked Jake on the back of the head. “There should be a law against you.”
On-screen, Jake kept trying. “I made a mistake. But it made me realize what a treasure you are. Why, when I’m living with Godiva, did I have a craving for a Hershey bar? I don’t know. I’m weak, I’m stupid,” he wheedled.
“Amen, brother,” Tricia said. Jake was sinking down in his chair; even he was embarrassed by his conduct. Only Lara was getting any pleasure out of watching him make a fool out of himself.
“I’m so sorry,” on-screen Jake said. “What can I do to make you feel better?”
That’s when the camera fell—or was thrown down, it seemed now—and Lara started pummeling him. It was hard to understand what Jake was saying as he worked to calm her and pull her into his arms. Especially because there was an odd sound and then voices somewhere else offscreen.
“What’s that?” I asked.
We all leaned in as Lara backed it up. “I didn’t play it through with the audio before.”
She backed up to the point where the camera fell and played it again. She cranked the audio and we all held our breath, listening. We could hear Lara crying and Jake apologizing and something jangling, like wind chimes but not as melodious. Then the other voices. One was indistinct, but Lisbet’s was loud and defiant, saying, “I don’t care anymore. About any of you.” The other person said something and Lisbet repeated, “I don’t care!” even more defiantly. Then Lara picked up the camera and she and Jake walked away, leaving Lisbet and the indistinct voice alone in the pool house.
But who was it? I asked Lara to back it up one more time. She did and I closed my eyes to concentrate on just the sound, as blasphemous as Jake and Lara might find that. As I waited for the sound, my own memory of the pool house rushed back. Running up to see Lisbet lying there, wet and dead. Aunt Cynthia walking out with her shoes and the champagne bottle.
I felt ill. The sound came again. That jangling of gold on gold. Ring upon ring of bangles clanging together with every grand wave of her arm. I opened my eyes and found myself staring at an ashen Tricia who looked ready to faint. Jake and Lara had left Lisbet alive in the pool house.
But what if Aunt Cynthia hadn’t?
19
Dear Molly, If I’m willing to lie to a man, does that mean I don’t care for him as much as I thought I did? Or am I naive to think that any relationship can be completely truthful? This question has tremendous implications for my future in dating, working, and voting, so I’d appreciate an honest answer. Signed, Diogenes’s Daughter
Tricia grabbed my hand as we stepped out of the elevator and headed for the door of her parents’ apartment. “You sure you’re ready for this?”
I’d heard so many lies in the last few days and told enough of them myself that I thought it was time to tell the truth. “Nope.”
Tricia actually seemed relieved. “Okay. Me either. So what do we do?”
“I’d say turn and run, but I can’t run in these shoes.” Of course, I don’t think Mr. Blahnik had fleeing in mind when he designed the d’Orsay black satin pumps I was wearing, even if they did have only a two-inch heel. And honestly, running wasn’t actually that appealing at the moment. The thought of going into this luncheon and pretending all was unchanged while trying to seek out a way to corner Aunt Cynthia was daunting, but it was enticing, too.
Tricia, Cassady, and I had stayed up all night turning it inside out and upside down, but Aunt Cynthia had maintained her theoretical integrity as a suspect. While Lara and Jake had retired to the bedroom to “discuss their relationship,” the three of us had raided Jake’s kitchen and, over a midnight supper of cheese and crackers, microwave popcorn, Lucky Charms, and a couple of bottles of Rosemount Estates Shiraz, we laid out what we knew.
Aunt Cynthia had been the last one in the pool house with Lisbet. She’d emerged from the pool house with Lisbet’s shoes and a champagne bottle that she could have disposed of well before the police started digging through her trash. She knew the house better than anyone else, so she could have stashed the bottle somewhere no one else would have found it. She was bigger than Lisbet, played tennis three times a week so she was stronger than Lisbet, and had been decidedly more sober than Lisbet.
But why? Why would she have done it?
“Image vincit omnia,” Tricia had surmised, her eyes brimming with tears. “Aunt Cynthia’s not a model of decorum, but even she has her limits. And she loves Davey. Perhaps she felt Lisbet had gone too far, embarrassing herself at the party and then sleeping with Jake. Aunt Cynthia doesn’t mind a scene, but she hates a mess. And Lisbet was a mess.”
“Aunt Cynthia doesn’t strike me as the sort who’ll crumple easily, even with Molly’s knack for asking the proper question at the improper time,” Cassady said. “What’s the next step?”
“There’s not enough to call Kyle and certainly not enough to tell Detective Cook,” I admitted. “Tricia, are you going to the luncheon?”
“More than ever. And you’re invited. Both of you. Let my mother try and keep us out.”
“What’s it going to do to your relationship with your parents if you help nail your aunt for this?” Cassady asked gently.
Tricia spent a moment carefully picking green clovers out of the box of Lucky Charms, then lining them up across her palm. “Nothing worse than what it will do if I know she’s guilty and they close ranks around her.”
That and the fact that Jake and Lara never emerged from the bedroom led to a discussion of relationships in general and the limits of forgiveness. Which led to my having to call Kyle. I didn’t mentioned my suspicion of Aunt Cynthia because I knew it would only infuriate him because I didn’t have coherent supporting evidence. Yet. I only told him that Lara had been driving the hit-and-run SUV, and she and Jake were coming in with their lawyer later in the morning to give statements and aid in the investigation as much as they possibly could. Cassady would be with them, but I didn’t tell him she was going to spend the morning introducing them to their lawyer, a friend of hers, or that she would have the footage in her pocket; she was going to hold that in reserve until the proper moment. And to buy Tricia and me some time at the luncheon.
The call with Kyle hadn’t been as strained as I’d expected. Almost, but not co
mpletely. I’d actually considered calling Kyle at work in the hopes that he wouldn’t be there yet and I could leave a message with another detective. But that seemed cowardly, so I called him on his cell and didn’t ask where he was. He didn’t ask where I was either. That and the fact that we’d gone all night without talking didn’t bode well for future conversations or for the future itself.
Why was I putting this case between us? Had I sensed his six-month stumbling block? Was I giving him a way out so that I could put the blame on his sense of professionalism instead of my lack of allure? Was I really so into solving this murder that I was making it the most important thing in my life? Or was it just that solving a murder seemed simpler than solving my own life? Maybe too many years of dating in Manhattan had so muted my emotions that I could only handle strong feelings in other people’s lives.
The phone conversation had ended with Kyle asking me, “Do I want to know how you found any of this out?”
“Probably not,” I answered.
“Do I want to know what else you know?”
“Definitely not. But I will call you soon.”
The Pause took hold of the entire conversation and we left it at that, as cold and spiky as it was. I tried not to think about it now, as Tricia and I prepared to plunge into the bosom of her family and pluck out her aunt as a murder suspect.
Nelson answered the door. He was wearing a gorgeous Armani suit, which was apparently his city uniform. “Your parents are receiving guests in the drawing room,” Nelson informed Tricia. “Your aunt is in the kitchen, instructing the staff.”
“And my brothers?”
“With your parents. Your sister-in-law, as well.”
Tricia made a face like the word didn’t smell good and as we entered the drawing room, her look grew that much darker. In the drawing room, stationed at Mrs. Vincent’s elbow, was Rebecca, wearing a Nanette Lepore multihued embroidered skirt and yellow scalloped sweater, Christian Louboutin yellow patent leather T-strap sandals, and the emerald necklace. With the marble fireplace behind them, flanked by bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes, they looked like they were posing for a portrait artist. Or maybe just posing.
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