“All of them, including my ex- father, though he doesn’t live here. But don’t limit your expectations. You haven’t met all the Parasites, yet.
“Like who?” I asked.
“Like . . . Galina Lockhart,” Kyle said watching Ursula Uxbridge. “Galina was Mom’s biggest rival. She wanted Mom’s part in Diamond Sands, and never forgave Mom for getting it. Hell, Galina’s always wanted anything Mom had.”
“Sounds like a sweetie.”
“I’ll point her out when I see her. She doesn’t seem to be here tonight, but watch the way she and my ex-dad look at each other. There’s chemistry; I just don’t know if they ever made a toxic mix of it. Just watch the people who actually “pose” beside the casket tomorrow. You’ll find Galina, eventually.”
My eyes filled despite myself. Dominique DeLong in a casket.
I thought the guests would never leave, especially Ian, who acted as if he owned the Gothic white-granite showplace and that everyone was there to see him instead of Kyle. Fact was, Dominique got the Fifth Avenue mansion in the divorce settlement.
One thing I already knew about Ian is that he never went anywhere without a glass of Scotch in his hand. And when he held a glass, the very crooked baby finger on his right hand became more noticeable. The pinky curved right then back toward the left and pointed to the rest of his hand.
Kyle’s little finger did not resemble his ex- father’s, but one of the Parasites had a little finger that did.
Nineteen
Eventually everything connects—people, ideas, objects. The quality of the connections is the key . . .
—CHARLES EAMES
The genetic crooked baby finger thing didn’t prove that Kyle wasn’t Ian DeLong’s. But it sure made me question the paternity of another member of the Parasites.
So . . . had Ian fathered another child? If so, did that speak to motive? Possibly, so I guessed it was worth questioning all three: potential mother, father, and child. Meanwhile, useless speculation had no bearing on the immediate facts surrounding Dom’s death.
I’d save my curiosity for opportunities to speak to each of them separately, and by separate, I meant alone and one-on-one, without the others in the vicinity.
Still, the coincidence bugged me, and I turned to Kyle. “Who exactly did your dad leave your mother for?”
Kyle shrugged. “You know, we never found out. He’s such a player, it could have been a number of women, and he never married after the divorce.”
Note to me. Find out who Ian DeLong fooled around with. Oh, yeah, I already knew: anyone who wore a skirt.
I needed to mingle, but I was too tired for intelligent speech. I longed to discuss my ideas about Dominique’s death with someone, preferably Nick. My head was spinning and I knew talking would help me clarify my thoughts. Nick had texted me that he’d returned to FBI headquarters after the “kneeing” incident, and he still hadn’t returned by the time the household retired.
That’s when I learned that they put Nick and me in separate bedrooms on different floors. Great. I wanted to talk to him and to make sure he wasn’t permanently disabled.
Kyle had given me Dom’s room, so I could look around, and frankly, I avoided the closet. That’s how tired I was. I was avoiding clothes altogether.
Making myself at home in Dominique’s bedroom made me miss her something fierce. I curled up in her boudoir chair, the stuffed bunny from her bed in my arms, and I had a good cry.
When Nick slipped into my room around midnight I was surprised my inelegant sobs didn’t scare him away. His expression turned to concern when he saw me, then he was there, picking me up and carrying me to the bed.
He kicked off his shoes, loosened his tie, and we sat against the headboard while he held me and let me cry and talk about Dom and my impressions of the Parasites.
“Feel better?” he asked when I went silent.
“I do. Thank you. How about you?”
“Embarrassed as hell. Where’s Eve?” Nick asked. “I was hoping you’d be bunking together so I could beat her.”
“Her room’s on the same floor as Kyle’s, big surprise, but yours is two floors up.”
“Eve’s influence, no doubt. Never mind, I’ll find my room first thing in the morning when I need a change of clothes.”
I wiped my tears, loving the feel of being in Nick’s arms after so long, my big, sturdy fed with the colorful silk boxers hidden beneath the deceptive dignity of his black suit, though that dignity had been impugned tonight, and I should remember to treat him gently and not expect much.
“I know that you’ve talked to the police and the FBI, Nick. What did Dominique die of?”
Nick kissed my brow. “There’s no official medical examiner’s report, yet.”
“Nick,” I begged.
“The forensics investigation being over doesn’t mean the crime’s been solved, ladybug.”
“How did she die, dammit?”
“The police and the Feds combed the dressing rooms and stage last night, checking under every splinter for the diamonds or some kind of murder weapon.”
“Whatever that might be,” I said. “Stop stalling.”
Nick hesitated as if trying to choose his words while he swirled my hair around his finger. “It appears she died of anaphylactic shock. She had a fatal allergic reaction to something.”
“Peanuts?”
“Yes! They found traces in her bloodstream. I take it that was an issue?”
“God yes. But that’s impossible. Dominique would never go near a peanut. She was so allergic that you couldn’t touch a peanut, then touch her because the imprint of your finger would welt up on her skin.”
“That’s insane.”
“Some people are that allergic. I know because she told me that Kyle did that to her once when he was a kid. He’d had a peanut butter sandwich at nursery school. After he touched her cheek, not only did she welt up, her throat closed and she was rushed to the hospital.”
“So that’s why she had her own cook,” Nick speculated.
It still didn’t make sense. “That doesn’t explain what happened to her face.”
He stood and unbuttoned his shirt. “There were traces of peanut oil in the welts on her face, Mad, hence the swelling. So that’s how the poison entered, through her facial pores.”
“What? She got splashed with peanut soup?”
“I didn’t say it made sense, which is why the case hasn’t been solved. I’m just telling you what the cops got from the preliminary forensics report.”
“And what about the diamonds? Was she killed for them? Are they connected?”
“Nobody’s sure, but we’re keeping a watchful eye on her lover, from a distance for the moment.”
Twenty
There is only one gift you should accept on your first date—diamonds.
—MISS PIGGY
“Dominique had a lover?”
“A young lover.”
I sat forward. “In other words, she paraded him around?”
“Yes, but they kept it cozy and private, and she had nothing to say about him to the press. No one can even find a picture of him facing the camera.”
I chuckled. “He wasn’t her lover. She hired him to bolster her image. Sexy actress flaunts boy toy. It’s called publicity, Jaconetti.”
“Well, her toy’s a suspicious character, who we’re watching. Gregor Zukovski, from a small Slavic country. He’s known to the Bureau and every other intelligence agency. We suspect he might have taken the diamonds for terrorist purposes.”
“Oh, I hope I’m wrong about her hiring him, then. Would he have poisoned Dom to get them?”
“Yes, but one wonders why he would murder her in public.”
“So he was nowhere near her when it happened,” I said, “which pretty much makes the Parasites, and anybody who worked at the theater, suspect.”
“Right. Problem with Zukovski is that he knows every government employee in the tri-state area. So, if he gets on a p
lane, the Bureau has asked me to get on it with him.”
“That’s dangerous.”
“Nothing new, and you know it. That’s my job, ladybug.”
“I didn’t need it confirmed, thanks, today of all days.”
“If I can find the diamonds while we’re still in United States airspace, I can take them and Zukovski back with me.”
Damn. Seducing Nick to keep him safe wouldn’t work. He’d recently had a run-in with a live nutcracker. “I might need you here,” I whispered. “This is difficult for me.”
“Yes, you’ve lost your friend, but you’re the most independent and least needy person I know. Don’t try to give me the guilts. It won’t work. Besides, I’m here now.” Nick’s eyes smoldered and he leaned my way.
“Don’t let those bedroom eyes of yours make any promises the big boy can’t keep,” I whispered against his lips.
He frowned and his cell phone rang before his lips met mine.
“Tucking A!” I snapped, as he sat up to answer it.
“I’m on my way,” he said a minute later. “Airport, ladybug.” He slipped on his shoes. “Gregor Zukovski’s on the run. Looks like he’s taking the next plane to Slovenia.”
“And that’s where?”
“In a galaxy far away.”
“You’re going after the man who might have killed Dom, alone? You’re chasing a possible diamond thief on his own turf?”
“I won’t be alone. Your brother’s waiting for me at the airport.” He kissed her nose. “You didn’t hear that from me, and you’re not to tell a soul.”
“I know the drill, you rat. You knew this was going down, or Alex wouldn’t already be here.”
Nick sighed, leaned over the bed, and consoled me with a practiced kiss filled with yearning. He pulled away but came back for more. “I’d hoped it wouldn’t happen for at least an hour.”
“Fat lot of good that would have done us.” I walked him upstairs to his bedroom for his packed bag, then to the curb. His final kiss held a passion that would only grow with distance.
I couldn’t admit that I missed him already. We didn’t say such things out loud. It would be like admitting we were in a relationship. “Guess we’re off again,” I said.
He winked. “Until I get back.”
I crossed my arms. “We’ll see.”
Twenty-one
Clothes are . . . nothing less than the furniture of the mind made visible.
—JAMES LAVER
Instead of sleeping, I dared to open Dom’s closet and study the contents from a distance with no intention of touching anything wearable.
Unfortunately, the minute I did, I thought I heard footsteps above me. But that would be somebody’s bedroom, not the attic. Whew.
Just in case, though, I opened the cream, pink, and mint green curtains and looked outside to see if those bruised vines Nick pointed out were at this end of the house.
Oh scrap, they were right here, one floor down, several curls of ivy having reached this very window. Why couldn’t I have noticed that before Nick left?
I stepped back to look for some kind of weapon to keep near me and focused on the matching mosaic tables that Dom used for nightstands. They were round and unusual in antique white, inlaid with bits of Italian stained glass and old rose chinaware, with triple drawers, small, medium, and deep, and topped with small priceless mementos. Nothing I’d want to break over somebody’s head in case of an emergency.
Was I letting my imagination run away with me? Did the wind offer a warning as it rattled the windows?
Now looking for clues and a weapon of sorts, I pulled down boxes from the closet shelves and looked through them.
I found love letters from several men, but one stack, clearly newer than the rest, had a note dated as recently as three weeks before and started with: “If you’re nervous, dearest, please, go to the police.” This guy spent a lot of time telling Dom why and how much he loved and adored her. The letter ended: “I can’t wait to tell the world.”
Tell the world about what?
The wind answered with a winter wail.
I looked for a return address on the torn envelope, but found none. Maybe they saw each other regularly. He signed his letters with an ornate V.
V. Victor? Pierce Pierpont’s father was the only Victor, or V name, I’d heard since I got here.
I hoped it was Victor Pierpont and wondered if Pierce, who didn’t seem fond of Dom, knew.
Gregor Zukovski was flaunted as Dominique’s young lover to the world while she might have had a more mature lover tucked away somewhere. Dom, you cheeky thing.
But Dom having Victor Pierpont as a lover was an assumption on my part. This V person, except for calling her “dearest” in the letter, could have been Dom’s smitten paperboy for all I knew.
Right, and I was Nick’s old prom date.
What exactly did this Victor know? I threw the letters on the bed, intending to read them in chronological order after I finished ransacking my friend’s bedroom.
Nosing into her personal affairs was killing me. The need for a weapon was nearly as unnerving.
I looked out the window, again, this time toward the starry winter sky. “My apologies, my sweet friend. But you tagged me, and now I have to get nosy to follow through.”
My cell phone rang. “Dolly, hello. Why are you up so late?”
“You know me,” Dolly said. “I never sleep, and I’ve been sitting here trying to figure out who murdered your movie star friend.”
I tried not to patronize her but encouraged the friendly speculation of an elderly neighbor who had always been there for four motherless Cutler kids. I mean nobody went to that many after-school events, from soccer to dorky plays without a great capacity for love or a gun to their heads. “Did you succeed in figuring it out?” I asked.
“I did,” Dolly said. “It was Dominique DeLong’s longtime rival. That rich ingénue biotch, Galina Lockhart, if you’ll excuse my French.”
Ah, Galina, Dom’s rival in every way, according to Kyle. She who had noxious chemistry with Dom’s ex. “And you came to that conclusion how, Dolly dear?”
“I’m a member of Dominique’s fan club, and do you know that Galina dame keeps popping in?”
“Does she now? Where does she pop in?”
“On the computer chat page of the Dominique DeLong Fan Club, of course. Get with the times, cupcake. Join a dating service. Nick is just not getting off the stick.”
Only because his stick is broken just now, I thought. “Dolly, back to Galina.”
“Galina is saying outrageously sweet things about your friend as if she’s lying to preserve Dom’s memory, as if it needs preserving, like Dom deserved what she got.” You know how gossip cats ace innuendo. They make the person they’re saying something great about come out reeking. “Probably because the new star of Diamond Sands wants to smell sweet,” Dolly conjectured incorrectly.
“Galina is not the new star of Diamond Sands. Ursula Uxbridge is.”
“Oh,” Dolly said. “Then why is Galina sniffing around Dominique’s fan club?”
“Galina’s an actress,” I said, “Dom is dead. Ms. Lockhart always wants whatever Dom has, or had, in this case. Could she be angling for you and your friends to change your loyalty to her, bring you into the Galina Lockhart fan club?”
“Oh, that’s too low to be believed,” Dolly snapped.
Personally, I think Dolly called looking for details to share with Dom’s fan club, but I didn’t doubt that Galina—or more likely, her assistant—was nosing around pretending to be Dom’s great and sad friend to cull a few fan club members for herself.
“I still think Galina did it,” Dolly said, a little less certain. Really, you should tell the police. Promise.”
“I’ll tell.” Nick. “Now try to get some sleep.”
Dolly cleared her throat. “When’s the funeral?”
There, that’s what Dolly wanted to know. What a sly boots she was, so sharp for nearly a
hundred and four years old.
“I’ll have Eve email you when we get details.” And I would too. Eve could email from her cell phone when we were on our way to the cemetery—since she’d asked about the funeral, not the wake—too late for a slew of fans to show up.
“Thanks and take care of yourself, cupcake.”
“I will, sweetie. You, too.”
“Night.”
I clapped my phone shut and smiled. I’d needed a bit of normal. It was like Dom heard my prayer and sent me a kind heart to sustain me.
My guilt over Dom’s death somewhat eased, I opened the deepest drawer at the bottom of the nightstand, probably on the side near which she slept, because it was closest to the bathroom. And what I saw in there left no doubt in my mind that Dom did, indeed, fear for her life.
I thought of Victor’s words while I sorted through her munitions store. Why didn’t she go to the police as he suggested? I found brass knuckles, a small handgun, loaded, a Barracuda stun gun, which I slipped in my pocket, advanced Taser, mace and pepper sprays, both tinted, and lipstick size, but one “stung wildfire hot.” I also found a fogger and a mini alert alarm.
Every set of instructions was dog-eared; every item that needed a cartridge or batteries had freshly dated ones. Beside them were spares marked with future expiration dates.
All in all, Dom’s arsenal spelled panic and the need to be prepared for anything.
Little good it had done her. She’d died of anaphylactic shock onstage in front of an audience without a chance to use one of her weapons.
I hadn’t found anything like this at the theater, which made me look for her purse, and I remembered seeing it with the personal possessions that Kyle took home from the morgue today. She’d last carried a Gucci Hysteria bag in pewter, big enough for a small arsenal.
When I finished searching her room, I went into her bathroom, where I hung my dress on her door and washed my face. But while I was wiping it dry, I saw in the mirror that a drawer of the rattan lingerie chest had a Hermès scarf hanging from it, the vintage one I’d always lusted after.
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