by Tracy Kiely
“Okay.” Ann fell silent, tracing some invisible line along the counter with the tip of her finger. After a moment, she said, “Elizabeth, do you think you could be here when the police come? I could use some moral support. If it makes it easier on you, you could stay tonight as well. In fact, you can stay as long as you like. That is, if you think Kit won’t mind.”
“Absolutely, I’ll be here and I’m sure Kit won’t mind. She’ll probably be happy to have a break from me and my ‘pedestrian spaghetti.’”
We joked a little more, pretending that everything was fine even though we both knew it wasn’t. Michael Barrow had been murdered and buried underneath the pool at the Reynoldses’ house in St. Michaels and he had “allegedly” embezzled almost $1 million from the family’s company before his death. Add to that a broken engagement with one sister and a drunken attack on another, and the picture became even grimmer.
* * *
Any hope I might have entertained about organizing my thoughts on Michael’s murder during the day flew out the window within seconds of sliding into my desk chair. Sam Wallace, another of our staff writers and probably my closest friend in the office, sidled up to my desk. More than one female head turned his way as he did. Sam is hands down the best-looking guy in the office. Of course, the competition isn’t too fierce; the guy in second place is balding with stubby fingers and a paunch. Still, with his broad shoulders and chiseled features, Sam’s not too shabby. Over the years, Sam’s friendship with me has prompted a few catty comments, but that’s all we’ve ever been—friends. He’s been happily dating a girl named Amanda for over a year. However, even though Sam has Amanda and I have Peter, that doesn’t stop the office gossips from making their assumptions.
“Don’t get too comfortable, Parker,” Sam said with a smirk. “Hannigan’s here. Apparently he’s got some brilliant new idea. Come, the conference room awaits us.”
Shit. Richard Hannigan—or Dickey as we subordinates call him when he is out of earshot—is the managing editor/owner of the paper. Once a month or so he appears unannounced armed with some new idea that he guarantees will revitalize the paper’s “chi” (his word) and boost circulation. The staff is then herded much like cattle into the conference room Dickey commandeers whenever he visits, where we listen in rapt silence to this new idea. These sessions last anywhere from two to four hours. Lunch is not served.
My eyes darted from Sam to the conference room to the elevators. Did I have time to sneak out unnoticed and then call in sick? Before I could bolt, Sam anticipated my move. “Don’t even try it, Parker. I will rat you out in a heartbeat. Sharon already knows I’m here. If I have to waste my day in there, then so do you.” To prove his point, he called out, “Sharon? Elizabeth is here. We can get started when you’re ready!”
“You bastard!” I said, laughing. I couldn’t be mad at him; I would have done the exact same thing if the situation were reversed. Sam and I depended on each other during those meetings, mainly to help one another stay awake, although sometimes a quick sanity check was in order.
Grabbing my notebook, I trudged into the room behind Sam and took a seat at the large oval table next to him. While the rest of the staff filed in, I studied the walls for any new additions.
As Dickey used the conference room as his office, he decorated it as if it was his as well. Therefore, there was the standard vanity wall—or in Dickey’s case, three vanity walls. For those unfamiliar with such walls, every inch is covered with framed pictures of celebrities from all fields—politics, entertainment, sports, you name it. Most of them have meaningless inscriptions scrawled across the bottom, such as “Dear Richard, You’re the best! Keep up the great work!” Although most of the pictures are standard publicity head shots, Dickey does feature in a few of the pictures himself, “caught” at some function yakking it up with some bigwig. These pictures are usually the same, a group of people standing around at some cocktail party all grinning foolishly at the camera. Dickey’s always easy to spot. First of all he’s completely bald, five foot five and a good deal north of two hundred pounds. He’s also usually on the edge of the crowd, looking like he just ran over in time for the shutter to snap, which, knowing Dickey, is probably the case.
However, the first time you see Dickey’s vanity walls, you tend to be impressed. You believe that he actually knows all these people. I did, anyway, until we received a publicity still of Angelina Jolie along with a form letter thanking Dickey for his fan letter. Two days later I noticed the picture on the wall—framed—complete with an inscription that Dickey presumably had added himself. Although it could have been signed by his secretary, Barbara Clark. For unknown reasons she adores Dickey and probably would give him her kidney if asked. I should also mention that Barbara lives alone with six cats.
Of course, I wasted no time relaying that story to Sam. Since then we’ve taken turns trying to sneak celebrity photos onto the walls—complete with inscriptions—to see if anyone notices. Last month, I hung a head shot of Steve Carell with the inscription, “Thanks for the inspiration!” Before that, Sam hung a picture of Renée Zellweger that read, “You complete me.” So far no one has noticed either one.
Sitting at the head of the table, Dickey clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention. “All right, everyone! Let’s get started!” My immediate boss, Sharon, sat to his right. While Sharon isn’t my favorite person, I did feel for her. Whenever Dickey descended on our office, her whole day went out the window. She sat quietly, her long face immobile and her gray-green eyes appearing resigned to her fate. Turning to her, Dickey said, “You’re going to want to write this down.” Sharon dutifully nodded at the blank tablet in front of her and held up her pen as evidence of her readiness. “Oh, right,” said Dickey. “Well, everyone should write this down.”
Around me everyone pulled out pads and pens in lackluster anticipation of Dickey’s pronouncement. When he saw that we were all ready and waiting, he leaned forward, cleared his throat, and said, “Significant Human Beings.” Then he sat back.
Nobody wrote anything down. Nobody spoke, either. Really, what could any of us say? Sharon was the first to venture a response. “Um, well, you certainly have our attention Di … er, Richard. How do you see us going forward with this exactly?”
Dickey beamed at her. Spreading his hands, palms outward, and eyeing us with almost maniacal pride he said, “Our new feature! Every week we’ll run a story on some person, a Significant Human Being. You know, someone from the community who is making a difference. We’ll run a picture of him or her—with me, of course—and then tell the story. I was thinking we could call it Significant Humans in Town.” He punctuated each word by high-fiving the air in front of him.
“But wait, there’s more,” he added, like one of those TV commercials for a gadget that promises to change your life (but doesn’t). “I have a brilliant idea for our first article. He was a great man who, sadly, recently passed, and who has a special connection to our little staff here.” A nasty feeling of apprehension slid down my spine. Glancing at Dickey, I saw that he was beaming in my direction.
“It is my pleasure to announce that our first Significant Human in Town will be none other than the late Martin Reynolds, who as you all probably realize was the great-uncle of our very own Elizabeth Parker.”
All heads swiveled my way. Shit, I thought with appropriate vulgarity, Uncle Marty was to be, as it later became known, our first SHIT.
By the time Dickey adjourned the meeting, my legs were numb, my deadlines were looming, and I was being pestered by the rest of the office for details on my dearly departed uncle. I spent the rest of the day hunched over my desk frantically trying to get everything done and deferring personal questions. When I’d finally finished, my neck ached, my shoulders were sore, and my fingers were cramped from holding my red editing pen.
I sighed and rubbed my eyes. I was in a lousy mood and was finding it hard to cheer myself up. My apartment was still infested with mold. I was living with my b
ossy pregnant sister. I hated my job. My boyfriend was constantly traveling. Oh, and let’s not forget—my extended family was wrapped up in (another) murder investigation. Given all that, Sam’s invitation to get a drink and “shoot the shit” seemed a perfect idea. Glancing at my watch, I saw that I had enough time for a quick drink before I headed back to Ann’s.
We headed for the DC Grill, a little bar/restaurant down the street from the office. It’s not bad and it’s not great; mainly it’s convenient and sometimes that’s all you need for success. Sam and I headed to the crowded oak bar and ordered. As I still had to drive to Ann’s, I ordered a Diet Coke. Sam opted for a beer.
When our drinks came, I raised mine. “What shall we toast to? SHIT, my Uncle Marty, or both?”
Sam laughed. “I vote we toast Dickey. But don’t toast my glass. It’s bad luck to toast with a nonalcoholic drink.”
“Who told you that?”
“I don’t know, it’s just one of those things people don’t do.”
“By ‘people,’ I take it we’re referring to drunken frat boys?”
“Hey, drunken frat boys are people, too,” he said, pretending to look hurt.
“Yes, I believe that is the literal translation of Alpha Gamma Delta.”
Sam laughed at me. “That’s a sorority, not a fraternity.”
“Does it matter?”
“I take it you didn’t pledge.”
I shook my head and took a sip of my Diet Coke. “Nope. I went to an all-girls Catholic school. They don’t need sororities. It’s already one big giant sorority, complete with hazing and drunken pledges to be friends forever.”
Sam cocked an eyebrow at me. “You seem jaded.”
I dipped my head in acknowledgment. “Another by-product of the all-girl Catholic school experience.”
Sam started to say something when his attention was caught by someone behind my left shoulder. From his frankly appraising expression, it was an attractive someone.
“Who are you gaping at?” I asked, turning to scan the room. “Need I remind you that you are dating a lovely girl named Amanda?” While there were several attractive women in the bar, I instinctively knew which woman held his attention. She wore a backless tangerine dress that hugged every one of her curves. Her shapely tanned legs were supported by four-inch pumps, the kind with that sexy ankle strap. Her glossy black hair hung in heavy waves down her Nautilus-defined back. I knew it was a Nautilus-defined back, because I knew the owner of the back. It was none other than my cousin Reggie.
“That’s my cousin Reggie,” I said.
“Oh, yeah? I can see the resemblance,” said Sam with false politeness. I laughed outright at the absurdity of the idea. “Who’s that with her?” he asked. “Her husband?”
“No, she’s not married. At least she’s not currently married. That’s a status that frequently changes with her, though.” I craned to get a better look at the man on whose brawny arm Reggie now hung. He was tall, tan, and muscular. His dark hair was cut short, as was his beard. He was also no one I’d ever seen before. However, from the way they were talking, this did not appear to be a casual first meeting at a bar. His head was bent down low to hers. From their somber expressions, their conversation appeared anything but casual. My cell phone went off just then, preventing me from catching Reggie’s eye and waving hello. It was Peter. I turned my body toward the bar and pressed the phone against my ear so I could hear better.
“Hey, there. Where are you?” he said.
“I’m out having a drink. Then I’m going to head over to Ann’s. You wouldn’t believe the day I had. Dickey took over the day with another one of his harebrained ideas.”
“You have my sympathies. Who are you out with?”
“Sam. So get this—Dickey wants us to write a fluff piece each month of some local bigwig. Guess who he picked! Uncle Marty, that’s who! He’s got this really stupid acronym for it, too. He’s calling it Significant Humans in Town. So it’s basically SHIT.”
There was the briefest pause before he answered. “Sounds pretty dumb. Well, I don’t want to hold you up. I just thought I’d call and say hi. I’ve got to run back into a meeting. I’ll call you later, okay?”
“Oh, okay. I’ll talk to you later then. I love you.”
“Love you, too,” he said, but he said it kind of fast. I hung up wondering if Peter could actually be upset that I was out with Sam. I pushed the idea away, dismissing it as silly. Peter knew we were just friends; after all, Sam was the guy I went with to see those chick flicks that Peter couldn’t stomach. Looking back up for Reggie, I saw that both she and her date had left. The weird thing was, she would have had to walk right past me to get out. Had she not wanted to interrupt my phone conversation with Sam, or had she simply not wanted to be seen? Reggie had never been unfriendly toward me before, leaving me to wonder if her avoidance had more to do with the man than with me. God, I hoped he wasn’t married.
* * *
Traffic being what it was, it took me almost an hour to get to Uncle Marty’s house. Ann answered my knock almost instantly. “How are you doing?” I asked as I stepped into the foyer. She was wearing black tailored pants and a lightweight lavender cashmere sweater. This color normally looked great on her. However, today it would take more than a complementary hue from her color palette to liven up her ghostly complexion.
She shrugged. “As well as can be expected, I guess. I got a message that the detective in charge of the case will be here around seven thirty. I called Reggie and Frances and told them everything. They said they’d be here to talk to him.”
“I actually just saw Reggie, but I don’t think she saw me,” I said. “How did she take the news?”
Ann shook her head. “I couldn’t tell, to be honest. She got very quiet. I’ll have a better idea once I see her.”
I glanced at my watch; it was a quarter to seven.
“Come on,” said Ann, “help me get the living room ready. I figured we could all sit in there.”
Within minutes, Ann and I had made what little adjustments were necessary. We brought in a few extra chairs and arranged them around the coffee table. Once done, Ann turned to me and said, “Do you think I should put out cheese and crackers or anything?”
I thought about it. “I don’t think so. A, we want this over as quickly as possible; no need to encourage the police to linger; B, we don’t want to appear like we’re not taking this seriously; and C, this isn’t a social meeting.”
“Agreed,” she said. “God, I could use a drink, but I doubt that’s a good idea. I should have my wits about me for this.”
“I’ll tell you what,” I said, giving her arm a friendly squeeze. “Once the police leave, I’ll take you out and buy you all the drinks you want.”
“Deal,” she said with a faint smile.
There was a brief knock on the door before it swung open. It was Reggie. There was nary a hint of distress on her perfectly made-up face. Looking calm and cool, she was wearing the same tangerine dress I saw her in earlier. The only difference was that she had pulled her hair back into a smooth, tight bun. She even made that look sexy.
Scarlett ran excitedly to the door. However, seeing that it was Reggie, she turned and walked away. Scarlett did not care for Reggie. Inasmuch as Reggie sneered when she saw the little dog, I assumed that the feeling was mutual. After a perfunctory greeting to me and Ann, Reggie said, “So I take it Bonnie went on her silly spa retreat anyway?”
“Yes,” said Ann. “I drove her to the airport this morning. She … she didn’t seem overly concerned about any of this.”
Reggie scoffed. “She wouldn’t be overly concerned if the house fell down around her, just so long as it didn’t interfere with her five o’clock martini. Is Frances here yet?”
“No,” said Ann, “but I expect her any minute. I thought we could use the living room for when the police come.”
Reggie nodded. “Right. Well, I may as well make myself comfortable. Is there any wine in the fridg
e, Ann?”
“Uh, yes, there’s some Chardonnay. Do you really think it’s a good idea to have a drink, though?”
“Why in the name of God shouldn’t I have a drink? Hell, if there was ever a time when one was warranted, I think it would be when your ex-fiancé turns up dead and buried under the family pool.”
“I have to say, I think that’s a fair point,” I said.
“Exactly,” Reggie said, nodding in my direction. Without a word, Ann turned in the direction of the kitchen, presumably to get Reggie her wine.
“Lord,” said Reggie, “whatever are the police going to think? You know they’re going to think one of us did it.”
“Not necessarily,” I said, more out of politeness than any real conviction.
“Well, if they don’t, then they have no imagination.” She turned on her heel and glided into the living room. With almost feline grace, she made herself comfortable on the couch.
A confident knock sounded on the door, and it opened. It was Frances and Scott. Frances was wearing one of her standard A-line tweed skirts with a red blouse. Scott was casually dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Unlike Reggie, neither presented a calm façade. “Dear God,” said Frances when she saw me, her voice shrill, “this is just like a nightmare! Who would have ever believed that all these years Michael was actually dead!” Next to her, Scott did not speak. He stood awkwardly with his hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans, his body tense. “Is Reggie here?” Frances asked.
I nodded and gestured to the living room.
“Reggie, I just can’t believe this,” said Frances, rushing over to her sister. “How are you? Are you all right?”
Reggie sighed with annoyance. “Of course, I’m all right, Frances. Please don’t be melodramatic. We already have enough drama as it is. Besides, you seem to forget, I broke it off with him. It’s not as if he left behind some lovesick pale copy of the girl he loved. Besides, that was eight years and three marriages ago.”