Killer Heels

by Sheryl J. Anderson

  “Really. I wish we could publish it, but I’m not sure whether it would go under ‘Beauty Tips’ or ‘New Spring Looks.’ But you should think about it.”

  “Thanks,” I said, actually grateful to her for easing my guilt for coming to her under a not-completely-honest pretense. “I will.”

  “But don’t tell anybody you heard it from me,” Stephanie added as I walked out. “I don’t want to come off as a gossip-monger. At least until after the funeral.” She gave me a crooked smile to make it clear she was uncomfortable with the joke she was making. At least she felt like she could make one right now.

  I walked back to the office, Stuart Weitzmans and all. I needed the air—which was full of that ripe apple crispness that we get sometimes in October if the wind is just right and the rain hasn’t started—and I needed the time. And I needed to decide what to do next.

  What I didn’t need was an absurdly large bouquet of flowers on the middle of my desk when I walked back into my office. Since I work at home a lot, precious office space is otherwise allocated and I lay claim to a desk near Yvonne’s office. I don’t keep much on it and I quite often find other people’s junk all over it when I do come in, so I had a moment of hope when I thought the bouquet might belong to someone else. That’s how messed up my head was: I looked at a hugely expensive floral arrangement and hoped it wasn’t for me. But seriously. Flowers at this point could only mean trouble.

  Gretchen hurried over to meet me at my desk. “I’m so glad you came back. I was trying to figure out how I was going to get these to you if you didn’t and I couldn’t imagine carrying them on the subway.”

  “Cab. It’s the only way,” Kendall announced as she walked up. Kendall seems like a nice person, pretty smart, but she takes a strange pride in never smiling. Perhaps it’s out of respect for the two inches of lipstick that she trowels on every morning, always in some deep earth tone that looks like something Starbucks scrapes out of their pots at closing. But since dark gray is the bright end of her wardrobe’s color range, the lipstick works. Maybe it isn’t a fashion thing. Maybe she just hates us all. But she was probably right about the cab.

  “Yeah, the cab,” I said, mainly because they were both looking at me expectantly so I felt I should say something.

  But they didn’t care about the cab. “Who are they from?” Gretchen asked.

  Getting flowers at the office can be a very cool thing. It’s an excuse to announce to everyone that it’s your birthday or you have a new boyfriend or you’re having great sex with an old boyfriend—all sorts of happy things. But there was no way this bouquet was good news. After all, whom could they be from? Even if Edwards could afford such a mongo display, he didn’t seem the type to go this far to get an apology accepted. And as painful as it was to admit, I had to: There was only one other guy who could be sending me flowers right now.

  “Peter,” I told them after I opened the card and confirmed my suspicion.

  “Is he your boyfriend?” Kendall asked. Without a smile, the question was as grim as I felt.

  “We’ve been seeing each other.” I smiled when I answered, thinking it might scare her back to her desk. She just nodded like I was passing on the great teachings of our beloved ancestors.

  Gretchen buried her nose in the flowers and breathed deeply. “Must be going well,” she said with heavy-handed wistfulness, in case there was any chance we’d forgotten things weren’t so hot for her right now. She even sighed as she withdrew her face. She actually had pollen on one cheek from the day lilies.

  I brushed her cheek off rather than responding. “Pollen,” I explained.

  Kendall leaned in to inspect Gretchen’s cheek. “Your blush is all messed up now,” she reported with a sidelong glance at me. The news seemed to distress Gretchen greatly, because she excused herself and hurried off to the ladies room. Mercifully, Kendall followed her.

  I sat down and read the card again. R U OK? PETER. The only thing more distressing than Peter trying to be sincere was Peter trying to be cute. And Peter trying to be cute to cover up his lack of sincerity just took the cake.

  I called him. What choice did I have? I had to acknowledge the flowers at the very least. And I couldn’t exactly leave him dangling while I figured out the murder and Edwards and everything else. I did have an emotional investment here, though the market seemed to have softened significantly in the time Peter had been out of town.

  Not that the call was all about doing the right thing by Peter the boyfriend. This was also Peter the operator, and I had to figure out what exactly he was up to. Big flowers at the office were not his style. He wanted something.

  “Dinner tonight. I don’t suppose there’s any chance you’re free.” I’d reached him on his cell, on his way to interview some baseball player whose name I was clearly supposed to both recognize and revere. Strike two.

  “I might be able to make myself free.” I had nothing on my calendar except solving Teddy’s murder, but he didn’t need to know that.

  “I’ve missed you and I keep thinking about this horrible experience you’re going through …”

  And wondering how you can horn in on it? “That’s very sweet of you, Peter.”

  “The Mermaid Inn. Eight. Okay?”

  That was a lot to consider all at once, especially because having missed a whole night’s sleep was beginning to wear on me a little, synapses hiccupping here and there. Let’s take it one at a time. Mermaid Inn. Cozy but cool, not an overtly romantic place but not businesslike either. He was playing this one straight down the middle. That seemed doable. All right, then, eight. With proper applications of caffeine, could I make it to eight and still be good company? I don’t mean to sound like a wimp on the sleep issue, but there was a certain emotional toll being taken here, too. I was beginning to feel a little battered and that usually leads to my being weepy and I had no interest in being anywhere near Peter if my body chemistry kidnapped my usual effervescent self and transformed me into Weepy Girl. But with God and Starbucks on my side, I could probably make it until at least ten.

  But then there was the big question: Was it okay? With my feelings as mixed as they were at the moment, should I be meeting this man for dinner? Was there any point? But how might he take it if I said no and what might he do—as aggrieved boyfriend or as journalistic rival? Well, if worse came to worst, we could go dutch and I could write it off as a business expense. Okay.

  “Sounds good,” I said with a tone I hoped was sweet but otherwise lacking in emotional indicators. “I’ll meet you there.”

  It satisfied him. For the moment, anyway. “Great. Bye.” I hung up and took a deep breath. Having something in the evening to look forward to always makes the afternoon go faster. And with one dead body already on my mind, why not add a dying relationship?

  7

  Dear Molly, Recently I was at dinner with a man in whom I am no longer as interested as I once was. In fact, I’m thinking about breaking up with him. During dinner, a man in whom I am increasingly interested walked up to us and engaged me in conversation. What is the etiquette in this situation? Should I have invited the man with potential to join us? Should I have asked him to call me later and let me get back to my date? Should I have run to the ladies room, snuck out the window, and met him out front? Did I mention the second man was a homicide detective who had, as recently as breakfast, suspected me of murder? Signed, Like Dating’s Not Hard Enough

  One of the fringe benefits of my job is that I can go to sleep every night knowing that there are women out there with far more serious problems than I have. Not Schadenfreude, exactly, more a lesson in perspective, a comfort in understanding my place in the universe. Said comfort began to slip away from me as I sat in the Mermaid Inn with Peter across the table from me and Detective Kyle Edwards coming across the room to me.

  I’d actually managed to get some work done in the balance of the day, between agreeing to meet Peter for dinner and leaving to get ready. I’d literally kept my head down, read
ing letters and checking email, doing my best to avoid meeting Yvonne’s eye as she bustled about the office, doing her best to pretend that nothing had changed. Of course, everyone was doing that to a certain extent, except perhaps Gretchen, who was being open and even a little showy in her grief. I wondered if she’d had a crush on Teddy. Maybe that’s why she’d stayed with him longer than any other assistant.

  I felt guilty, sitting there in the office and thinking about Yvonne as a murderer. It seemed like some bizarre violation of her hospitality or something. Plus there was no doubt she would can me in the blink of an eye if she knew how I felt. Would I stay at the magazine after she was arrested or would I need to move on?

  My cousin Caroline dumped a guy after they’d been in this hideous car crash together, not because she blamed him or anything, but because every time she looked at him, she heard the squeal of brakes and the crunch of metal. There was probably something a little Freudian going on there as well, but you’d have to know Caroline to fully appreciate those possibilities. Still. Associating a person with something traumatic can wreak havoc.

  On the other hand, my friend Danielle once stayed in a relationship about a year longer than she later realized she should have because she nursed the guy through some awful ulcer thing and started feeling responsible for him. She also worried that the stress of breaking up would bring back the ulcer, and it took her a long time to work up the resolve to accept that guilt. Of course, the ulcer didn’t come back, but he started dating his dietitian and Danielle hasn’t been with anyone serious since.

  All of which was putting the cart before the horse. Why worry about what I was going to do after Yvonne was arrested when I wasn’t sure she was going to be arrested? Because it kept me from having to worry about how I was going to get her arrested. I have a gift for worrying about things that might happen at some undetermined point in the future instead of taking care of things that need immediate attention in the present. If you’re going to worry about something, which I do as a nervous habit, it’s much less pressure to worry about what to name your children than worry about whether the man you’re meeting for dinner has the potential to be their father.

  That was not an issue here. At some point during the cab ride to the East Village, I realized I’d already decided to end my relationship with Peter. When we were first dating, I thought of him with excitement and anticipation. Now I thought of him with irritation. I told myself it had nothing to do with my territorial issues with the article. But even if it did, that had to say something, didn’t it? If I really cared about the guy, I’d want to share with him, wouldn’t I? Or I’d at least trust him enough to be willing to tell him what I was doing and ask him not to horn in.

  A little wave of cold washed over me. That was it. I didn’t trust Peter. How could I be involved with a guy I didn’t trust? Had I withdrawn my trust at some point or had he never had it? Maybe this was one of those relationships that never got deep enough for it to be an issue. I’d apparently never given it sufficient thought. And that pretty much sealed the deal right there.

  Now, it was all I could think of as I looked at him across the table, studying him as he studied the menu. It’s a charming restaurant, walking that fine line between fun neighborhood place and destination of choice, with all sorts of seafaring and seafood art and memorabilia on the walls. The lighting in here suited Peter, the golden hues bouncing off the whitewashed walls and playing up the warm tones in his skin. He was a hunk, no question. He was rich, handsome, smart, good in bed, kind to animals—what a bummer that that wasn’t enough.

  I was also fairly sure that he would not be devastated when I broke up with him. But there was still that nagging thought that I would become “that bitch” in all his conversations for the next six weeks and that’s a tough psychic hit to take, knowing you’re sending someone out into the big, wide world who will speak your name as though he’s spitting out rancid milk. If I was willing to be perfectly honest, I might say there were already people out there spewing my name, but I still had to psych myself up to add Peter to that list.

  He put the menu down and smiled lazily. “Know what you want?” he asked with just the proper shade of innuendo.

  “Order for me,” I smiled. I wasn’t going to be able to eat it, anyway, so what did it matter? Peter has this Old World streak in him that would get off on picking my dinner and I could keep my mind focused on more pressing issues—like the best way to break up with him. And when. After dinner but before dessert? As we walked out? Now, so he didn’t feel like he was getting stuck with dinner?

  He put down his menu and smiled. I smiled back. “Great. Now that that’s taken care of, tell me how you are.”

  “Fine,” I responded automatically. I needed to start getting myself in the break-up mindset. Hone in on his ex potential, make cons out of the pros. Like—he’s good in bed. Okay, he’s good in bed. Not great, just good. I deserve better. That’s one.

  “Must be weird in the office, with Teddy gone.” He furrowed his brow. Man, the golden light in here really did suit him. Maybe it was the robber baron in his blood. Next thing you know, he’s lighting up a cheroot and building a railroad. But he’s rich. And the rich boyfriends can be hard work, because they aren’t used to working hard. Things come to them—opportunity, power, other women—and they forget how to make an effort. That’s two.

  “It’s … interesting. Tell me more about the wedding.” I didn’t want to talk about work. I wanted to make it as hard as possible for him to direct the conversation to writing an article. Especially now that I had a meeting at Manhattan.

  “You should’ve come with me. It would’ve been more fun.” He was deflecting my line of inquiry. It hadn’t occurred to him until this very moment to take me to the wedding with him. We were barely dating at an in-town wedding level; we certainly weren’t at the out-of-town-with-the-family-for-four-days level.

  There’s that whole weird thing about taking a date to a wedding—I’d rather take a friend and proclaim him to be such than take a boyfriend. And it’s not the whole pressure-to-be-next deal that comes of being together at a wedding. It’s really all the introductions. And the pictures. Not only are you constantly having to explain your relationship to the bridal couple, you have to characterize your relationship with the guy you brought with you. “And this is my boyfriend/special friend/lover/stopgap/occasional sexual partner/whatever, Peter.”

  Yeah, I know Miss Manners tells you to just say, “And this is Peter,” and make it clear that it’s nobody’s business how close you are, but you gotta wonder—when’s the last time she had to do it? Not as easy as she makes it sound. The only thing worse than having to characterize the relationship is not characterizing it at all, which leads to weird looks and/or smirks from the people around you and a pretty stony gaze from the non-characterized fellow himself. A glaring omission, I believe they call it.

  And the pictures. Pressed between the sweet white leather covers of a dear friend’s wedding album, you are forever paired with some guy you could come to loathe. Every time the pictures get dragged out, you have to put up with, “Good God, what did you ever see in him?” Of course, the same fate has been known to befall the bridal couple itself, so maybe that’s not as big a deal.

  “What’s the craziest thing you did?” I persisted, driving the conversation back into shallow waters.

  It worked. He got this goofy grin on his face, then leaned forward, looking around the restaurant as he did so as though checking to make sure his grandparents weren’t somewhere within earshot. I leaned forward and scanned, too, figuring I should help him go for the joke, but instead I almost collapsed on the table.

  As I scanned the indistinct faces of the other diners, one came sharply into focus. I couldn’t believe it, but Detective Edwards was striding across the room, his eyes dead on me. I couldn’t sit back up, I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t do anything but stare.

  “Molly?” Peter asked, probably concerned that I had had a sudde
n brain seizure of some sort, since I was staring, slightly open-mouthed, I will admit.

  I straightened up and, in those three seconds, concocted a whole bunch of reasons Detective Edwards could be in the restaurant, none of them having anything to do with me. He had a date. He was meeting friends. He was a part-owner. He was in hot-foot pursuit of a nasty perp who had ducked into the kitchen from the alley and Edwards was heading him off here in the dining room. He wouldn’t even see me.

  “Ms. Forrester, good evening.” So much for my great theories. He walked right up to our table, acknowledged Peter briefly—“Excuse me for interrupting”—then turned the big ol’ blues right back on me.

  “Detective Edwards.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Peter react. Surprise doesn’t suit him. Probably doesn’t happen to him very often either.

  “I’m sorry to intrude on your meal, but may I speak to you for a moment?”

  Peter started to slide over like he was going to invite Edwards to sit down with us, so I got up as fast as I could. “Will you excuse us, Peter?” I walked past Edwards to the bar and hoped that only he would follow.

  Peter stayed in his seat and Edwards followed me. Peter was displaying no possessive instinct, not even an appealing amount that he might be working to keep in check. That’s three.

  I put a hand on the bar to steady myself, but decided to stay on my feet. That whole subliminal thing about this conversation won’t be long, so why bother sitting down. Edwards knew exactly what I was doing and leaned back onto a barstool. Okay, so who was going to be right?

  “I have to ask. How did you find me?” No way he was having me followed. I didn’t even want to have to decide if being followed was flattering or creepy, it was just way too expensive. Edwards seemed shrewder and more economical than that.

  “I went to your office and the grim young woman I spoke to said she’d overheard you making dinner plans on the phone.”

  Had to be Kendall. Okay, we were having a talk in the morning. “Was she that helpful before or after you identified yourself as a homicide detective?”