by Greg Herren
Isn’t this what you wanted? he asked. He’s dead, and now you have no rival. With him out of the way you can have everything.
I couldn’t move, I couldn’t scream—it was like my feet had grown roots, immobilizing me permanently to that spot in the grass. And as the man carrying the corpse drew nearer, his features became clearer to me despite the mask, which was just some kind of nylon stocking. My heart started racing, and in that moment I knew absolute terror.
And just when I was almost able to recognize him—
I sat up in bed, gasping. I glanced over at the digital clock. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it, and I was dripping with sweat—according to the clock it was about ten minutes to six. I’d set the alarm for six—I had told Roberts we would be leaving for the city at seven, which I figured gave me enough time to shower and grab some breakfast first. There being no point in staying in bed, I stood up, rubbing my eyes. Minette opened her eyes and thumped the bed with her tail, but didn’t get up. I walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower.
I stared into the mirror. My eyes were bloodshot and my hair damp. The dream had been so disturbing—although I shouldn’t wonder I dreamed about witnessing Timothy’s murder.
“He wasn’t murdered. It was an accident,” I said loudly to my reflection. “He had sea water in his lungs—the autopsy showed quite clearly he’d drowned.”
But as I opened the glass door into the shower, I remembered that Spindrift’s pool was salt water.
And wasn’t it odd that all the servants had been given the night off? How often was Timothy—or anyone, for that matter—ever in this big house all alone?
Resolutely I put that out of my mind and focused on my day.
I showered quickly. I had packed one of my suits, a shirt, and some other clothing into a rolling suitcase the day before. I shoved my laptop and its power cord into a computer bag, and went downstairs, pulling the rolling suitcase behind me. I left both bags near the front door and wandered into the kitchen.
Delia was yawning when I walked into the enormous kitchen. She nodded at me as I walked over to the coffeemaker and poured myself an enormous mug.
Delia Leatherman was in her late thirties, and barely over five feet tall. She always wore flat shoes and sometimes had to stand on a small stool to get into the cabinets. She had dishwater blond hair she always pulled up into a bun, and always had a chef’s cap on her head. She was a little on the stocky side and was an amazing cook. Everything she made was amazing—her grilled cheese sandwiches were works of culinary art. She’d trained at the Cordon Bleu, but had told me once she preferred being a personal chef rather than running a restaurant. “This is much easier,” she’d said with a wink.
“I can just eat in here,” I said, sitting down at the big butcher block island in the center of the enormous room. The coffee was incredible—she made the best coffee I’d ever had. “I’m sorry to get you up so early. I could have scrambled some eggs for myself, and made some toast.” I stifled a yawn.
She waved her hand wearily. “It’s no problem, I told you. With you and Mr. Romaniello out of the house, I got some extra time off. Believe me, once you’re on your way into the city I’m going back to bed and plan on sleeping till about noon or so.” She grinned at me. “So, pancakes? Waffles? Oh, wait.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a computer printout. “None of that for you—I forgot you’re on a diet now! Brad e-mailed me your new meal plan.” She stared at the printout and grimaced. “Well, this stuff is all bland, but nothing some spices and good vegetables can’t make tasty. Sit down and relax, your breakfast will be ready in a jiffy.” She shook her head. “I’ll make you a snack to take with you into the city—this says you’re supposed to eat every three hours.”
The egg white omelette she made was delicious, and she also prepared a thermos of coffee for me to take in the car. She also gave me a plastic container with sliced fruit—berries, bananas, peaches, and apples—for the prescribed snack on my eating plan. I was pretty full from breakfast, but Brad had told me it didn’t matter—when it was time to eat, I had to eat. It didn’t make a lot of sense to me—why eat if you weren’t hungry—but he was the expert.
When I made my way back to the front door of the house, my bags were gone. I opened the front door and saw Roberts was waiting for me in the car. I got in the backseat, and we headed for the city.
I couldn’t get the dream out of my mind, or the possibility that Timothy’s death might not have been an accident.
There’s a different kind of justice for the rich than for most people, I heard Nell saying again.
The implication being rich people could get away with murder, and the police would just look the other way?
As much as I hated to admit it, Nell was right about that. The rich got a different kind of justice than anyone else—I’d read enough of Maureen Drury’s articles in Street Talk to know that.
Maureen Drury.
I fumbled my cell phone out of my bag and scrolled through the contacts. I smiled to myself—her number was there; I’d had to call her any number of times on Valerie’s behalf. She was the perfect person to talk to.
Maureen Drury had been an actress when she was younger, had been nominated for a couple of Oscars in the supporting actress category, and had starred in her own television series for a few years, adding a pair of Emmy Awards to her résumé. But she retired when the show was canceled—she married a poor relation of an old society family, and wanted to be a wife and mother. She turned to writing, and her first play had won a Tony and a Pulitzer Prize. She developed and produced television series—she had an uncanny knack for knowing what viewers wanted, and she became a bit of an empire. Her husband died young, and she never remarried, focusing on her two children, both of whom followed her into the acting profession. Her daughter was killed by a stalker when she was merely twenty-two and her career just starting to take off; it was an extremely notorious case, made even more notorious when her killer was sentenced to a few years in a mental hospital.
This shocking lack of justice turned Maureen into an avenging angel. She sold her production company at an enormous profit and began writing about crime. She wrote a couple of novels based on true stories where a wealthy killer got away with their crime, which became huge bestsellers and were made into enormously popular television miniseries. As a member of society through her marriage, she had access to the upper echelons of society that most writers couldn’t achieve—and people talked to her. She became Street Talk’s crime reporter, covering the trials of the rich and famous, while also still writing her bestselling novels. She was also a big advocate for victims’ rights, and started a foundation in her daughter’s name to help crime victims through their ordeal.
She’d always been gracious and kind to me—she’d sent me a lovely arrangement of roses to Spindrift to congratulate me on my marriage. It was a nice gesture, but I knew there was more to it than that. She was hoping to use me as one of her sources—which I didn’t have a problem with, frankly. No, the real problem was I hadn’t exactly made a lot of friends out there, so I didn’t have anything to tell her.
I knew she’d be more than happy to share anything she knew with me—she’d want me to be in her debt. But I would have to be careful—I didn’t want her writing anything about Timothy or Spindrift.
Not now, at any rate—later things might be different.
I dialed her number. She answered on the second ring. “It’s about time you called me, you dreadful little beast,” she said.
“Did you get the card I sent you? The flowers were lovely. It was very kind of you.” I replied.
“Of course I got the card—I was hoping you’d call so we could dish,” she replied with her standard hoarse laugh, “and since you no longer work for the magazine, I’m hoping this call means you have some juicy gossip from the Hamptons for me? You know I’m always looking for new sources—and I never name names.” It was true—it was why people would still talk to her; she n
ever used a source’s name in any of her pieces. She would always just say, “A source close to the family said” or “Several ladies discussed the case over cocktails one afternoon, and…”
I’d always wondered about that—after all, wasn’t it possible some people would use her to get negative things into print about people they didn’t like? Things that weren’t true?
“I was wondering if you had some free time this afternoon? I’m coming into the city today to run some errands, and I’d love to buy you a coffee or a drink or something,” I said cautiously.
She snorted. “Just come by the brownstone, and I’ll make coffee. I’m stuck on the new book and am pretty much giving up on the day as lost. Maybe some gossip from out there will do me some good, give me some inspiration or something.” She sighed. “It’s been a pretty dry summer, you know, for murder amongst the rich and famous.”
“I’ll be there around one,” I said, after consulting my watch and estimating how long I’d be with the costume designer. “You do know we’re putting on the Independence Ball again this year?”
“I’d heard something to that effect,” she replied. “I’d better be on the guest list.”
“Of course,” I replied, hanging up. I took a deep breath.
Once we reached the city, I had Roberts take me to the costume designer’s. Her studio was in the old meatpacking district, and after being buzzed in I found myself inside a big open space, with racks and racks of costumes as far as the eye could see. I could hear sewing machines running in the back. Joyce had told me that Mendelbaum Costumes’ primary income came from making and renting costumes to stage, television, and film productions in the city. As soon as I spoke to the receptionist, a Goth-looking young man with dyed black hair and black fingernail polish and more piercings in his face than I’d even seen before, he called back and before long a small woman came walking hurriedly toward us through the racks of clothes.
Ruth Mendelbaum was legendary in theater circles, having dressed every major Broadway diva and having won any number of Tony Awards for her costumes. In person she was short with thick iron-gray hair, almost skeletally thin, and was wearing a black T-shirt and baggy black pants. Her eyes peered myopically at me from behind steel-rimmed glasses. She could have been any age between fifty and eighty. She looked me up and down, and signaled for me to turn around. She snapped her fingers. “Follow me,” she said in a raspy voice that sounded like too many cigarettes and even more bourbon. She started walking and I fell into step behind her. She led me to an office where a cigarette burned in an enormous ashtray filled with ash and smashed butts smeared with lipstick. She shut the door and took an enormous puff before grinding the cigarette out. She folded her arms. “So, what are you thinking?”
“I—”
“Come, come, I don’t have all day,” she snapped. “Spit it out.”
I pulled the folded picture out and handed it over to her. She examined it, looked at me, then back at the picture again. “Of course this is doable,” she said, tossing the picture back onto her desk. “Get undressed.”
“Um—”
“I don’t have all day!” She spat the words out, snapping her fingers at me. “Get undressed! I need to take your measurements and I can’t do that with your clothes on. Are you planning on wearing your clothes underneath your costume? No? Good, because that would look ridiculous. Okay then, get undressed.” She lit another cigarette, expelling a plume of bluish smoke toward the ceiling. “You can leave your underwear on, of course.”
A little cowed, I undressed, folding my clothes and placing them neatly on a chair. Once I was standing there in my underwear, shifting nervously from foot to foot, she grabbed a measuring tape and started measuring me. “I’ve just started working with a trainer, and he put me on a diet,” I explained as she took notes on a notepad. “So I’ll look better in my costume.”
“The trunks will be white lined Lycra-cotton blend, so your junk won’t show—the cotton will help it breathe so you won’t sweat through it, and the Lycra will make it shiny so it’ll catch the light and be more flattering.” She sniffed, crushing the cigarette out and tossing the notepad onto her cluttered desk. “The Lycra will also stretch, so if I make it to fit with a give-or-take a size up and a size down from where you’re at now, it’ll still fit and be flattering. And the harness that’ll keep the wings on will be made of white leather, and it’ll be adjustable. So don’t worry your pretty little head about it.” She made a face at me. “But if you’re going to wear white, I’d suggest you work on your tan.” She waved her hand. “It’ll be delivered the week of the ball. It shouldn’t need any fittings.”
I got dressed and fled.
From there, I had Roberts take me to Maureen’s brownstone in the village. “You can just take my things to the apartment,” I instructed him as I got out, “and I’ll either take a cab or the subway over there when I’m finished here. I won’t need you again until it’s time to go to the theater.”
I shut the door and he drove off, and I crossed the street and rang the bell. I had been to Maureen’s once before, to drop off proofs of one of her articles. It had already been vetted by the magazine’s lawyers, but Maureen always wanted to see the proofs and sign off on them before the magazine could go to press. Early in her career at Street Talk, a major error in one of her articles had resulted in an out-of-court settlement for an undisclosed amount of money—and since then Maureen insisted on seeing the page proofs. I hadn’t been allowed inside—she’d simply answered the door and took the pouch from me. I’d waited in a coffee shop nearby until she’d looked them over and initialed them so I could pick them up and return them.
This time, she led me into the courtyard behind her brownstone. It was a jungle. Maureen was of medium height and was now approaching seventy. She dyed her hair black, but even in the worn-out sweat suit she was wearing, she gave off an air of dignity and class. She poured me a cup of coffee from an insulated carafe, and then one for herself. She took a sip and sighed in satisfaction. She then looked at me shrewdly.
“I have to congratulate you,” she said with a slight nod. “I would have never in a million years believed you’d wind up married to Carlo Romaniello.”
“You’re not alone,” I replied.
That made her laugh. “I’m sure Valerie had a few choice things to say, bitch that she is.” She shook her head. “When she told me, she was still swearing. I don’t know why it bothered her so much—but I told her she’d been a fool if she’d offended you.” She winked at me. “She’d give anything to get in with society, that one would—always hounding me to see if I can get her invited to the right parties.” She shook her head. “I told her she should be kissing your ass—since you could get her an invitation to the Independence Ball. I’ll be there, of course. I always spend July in the Hamptons visiting Dorian Castlemaine—she was a cousin of my husband’s.”
The one who called me a gold digger to Nell, I thought, keeping my face impassive. Maybe I should get her disinvited.
“But that’s not why you’re here.” She poured herself another cup of coffee. “And you clearly don’t have any gossip for me—I just talked to Dorian, and she’s said no one’s seen or met you since Carlo brought you to Spindrift. So why are you here?”
“Someone said something to me the other day, and I can’t get it out of my head,” I said slowly. I took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “It’s probably nothing, but—someone told me that Timothy Burke’s death wasn’t an accident.”
She didn’t reply at first. She just looked at me and sat back in her chair. “Well, well, well,” she finally said, crossing her legs and lighting a cigarette. “They certainly didn’t waste time, did they? Are you afraid you married Bluebeard?”
“Bluebeard?” I stared at her as her meaning took root in my mind. “Carlo? Carlo didn’t kill Timothy. Carlo loved Timothy.”
“The first person the police look at when someone is murdered is their spouse or partner.”
&nb
sp; “Carlo wouldn’t have done it,” I replied vehemently. “That’s absurd.”
“If you say so.” She inhaled on the cigarette and gave me a wry look. “Are you afraid someone unbalanced is in love with Carlo and kills off his husbands?”
That hadn’t occurred to me. “You think that’s possible?”
She laughed, but her eyes were still shrewd. “Anything’s possible, young man, as you’ll know when you’re as old as I am.” She shrugged. “I suppose you’re here wondering if I’ve heard anything.” She tapped her ash into a full glass ashtray. “Obviously, last July when I stayed with Dorian, all the Hamptons gossip was about Timothy’s drowning. I’d never heard anything bad about him, you know, until he was dead. For some reason which I’ve never quite understood, it was after he died that the gloves came off—which was quite unusual in that circle, you know.” She gave me a brittle smile. “I heard he was actually quite active sexually, cheating on Carlo. That ‘studio’ of his was apparently one of his favorite places to meet lovers—and of course, he would often come into the city and use the penthouse. I didn’t believe any of it—I’ve known Carlo Romaniello for years, and he would have to have been a fool to not know what was going on almost right under his nose—and if there’s one thing Carlo Romaniello is not, it’s a fool. And I can’t imagine he would tolerate any of this, can you?”