Killer Heels

by Sheryl J. Anderson

  “Molly …” the weeper finally said. “Oh God, Molly …”

  “Who is this?” I repeated, willing the person on the other end of the phone to pull it together and answer me.

  “Gretchen …”

  I should have known. I should have recognized the sobbing, given all I had heard in the last couple of days, but this had a raw quality to it that was new. “Gretchen, I need you to take a deep breath and tell me what’s wrong.”

  “You better … come …”

  “Gretchen, did Yvonne fire you?” A fresh wail keened out of the phone and I jerked the phone away from my ear for a moment. “Gretchen, what the hell is going on?”

  “Yvonne’s dead.”

  15

  I don’t like déjà vu. Probably because in my line of work, you go to all sorts of extremes not to repeat yourself, so that little glitch feeling of having done or said all this before isn’t a pleasant one.

  Yet here I was Friday morning, standing before the assembled staff of the magazine and talking about untimely passings and service times to be announced and how awful it all was. Somehow it had fallen to me to find the words to explain something that made no sense, even to me. Why was Yvonne dead? How far did this mess go?

  Tricia, Cassady, and I had rushed to the hospital as soon as I hung up with Gretchen. I didn’t want to get into the whole story on the phone, I wanted to talk to Gretchen face-to-face.

  It was a pretty banged-up face. Gretchen was sitting on a gurney in the St. Vincent’s ER, holding an ice bag to the back of her head, a bruise blossoming on her right cheek, her lip split, her eyes swollen from crying. She started hyperventilating when she spotted the three of us doing a strength-in-numbers approach on a nurse who asked us to please wait outside. Finally, Cassady identified herself as a lawyer and us as her associates and the nurse gave up and let us pass.

  “What the hell happened?” I asked. The whole cab ride over I’d been trying to line everything up. If Yvonne had killed Teddy, then who had killed Yvonne? How deep did this go, how big was it that it warranted two murders? As if anything warranted two murders.

  “She needed a new outfit for Teddy’s funeral,” Gretchen sobbed.

  “You went shopping?” My voice almost squeaked with disbelief. Sure, I had recently succumbed to Gretchen’s tears and gone out with her, but Yvonne, rest her soul, was made of stronger stuff than I. No way waterworks and wheedling had moved her.

  Gretchen’s lip curled, either in scorn or from the sheer power of her sniffing. “I didn’t say that. She needed to go out and that meant someone had to come along and carry her bags and juggle her cell phone and wineglass and zip her up in the back.”

  “Fred bailed?”

  “He said he couldn’t participate in anything that might involve Yvonne being naked.”

  “Understandable,” Tricia murmured.

  “So she picked you?” I asked, trying to make it sound inquisitive and not mean.

  “I’m an assistant, remember? Never, ever more than an assistant. What better way to rub my face in it?” Gretchen’s nostrils flared in indignation, but that made her nose start running again, so she went back to sniffing. Tricia mercifully produced tissues from her handbag and gave them to Gretchen.

  “So you felt you had to go,” Cassady prompted.

  Gretchen nodded. “She wanted to take the Jag and come to Chelsea.”

  “Her Jag? Why not a cab?” I asked. Driving didn’t seem practical, but that’s coming from someone who believes parking prices in Manhattan are a conspiracy to bankrupt the American people. The only thing worse than being extorted for a daily parking space is being extorted for a daily parking space and then leaving it during the day to be extorted for a short-term space somewhere else.

  Gretchen shrugged. Her mouth jerked like she was trying to force a smile, but it didn’t come off. “At least I got a chance to ride in it.” It was a classic XKE, an automotive work of art. Yvonne drove it to attract men, but it was still a beautiful car. “So she pulls onto this little side street, says she knows a great lot, and these guys come out of nowhere …” Gretchen gestured, indicating that the guys had walked in front of them, as her sobs increased in speed and volume.

  “I know this is hard, honey,” I coaxed, selfishly wanting her to finish.

  “Yvonne slammed on the brakes to keep from hitting them. They started yelling, she started yelling, one of them banged on the hood which really freaked her out. Then all of a sudden, the other one—really big guy—rips open Yvonne’s door. I tried to help her, but the other guy opened my door.”

  “He waited until you were distracted,” I offered, hoping it sounded comforting rather than patronizing.

  “Of course,” Cassady prodded, leading me to believe it hadn’t sounded comforting at all.

  I opened my mouth to offer a defense of myself this time, but Tricia gave us both a silencing look. “I’m listening,” Tricia said, taking Gretchen’s hand. “What happened then?” To me, Tricia was employing the same even tone she’d use to coax a client torn between gazpacho and con-sommeé. But such was her charm that Gretchen squeezed her hands and continued without acknowledging our interruption.

  “I smacked my head on the pavement. I pretended they knocked me out ’cause I thought they might think I was hurt worse and freak and run. But Yvonne wouldn’t get out of the car.”

  “She fought them?” I interrupted again, absurdly thinking of an article we’d run only two issues before about safety basics for women in the city. “Give them the car” was pretty high on the list, but I guess “Don’t think you’re invincible” should have been even higher.

  “She called them all kinds of names and she wouldn’t get out of the car. I was just sitting up to tell her not to argue …” She clamped her free hand over her eyes, willing the memory away, but it didn’t work. “The big guy shot her,” she finished in a whisper.

  Tricia gently hugged her. “I’m so sorry.”

  I felt numb. My brain didn’t want to move forward. Was this connected to Teddy’s death? It had to be. It was just too weird to think that this might have happened independently, some cosmic justice stepping in because we weren’t going to figure it out for ourselves.

  Gretchen had already talked to the police at the scene, so we just had to wait for the doctors to release her. The main concern was a concussion, but Gretchen swore she’d go home and take it easy and her roommate would keep an eye on her, so the ER doctor let her sign herself out.

  Tricia wanted to escort Gretchen home, but Gretchen insisted that she just wanted to be alone for a while. So we put her in a cab, then hailed one for ourselves and went out for a morose round of cocktails. None of us was very enthusiastic about dinner, so we split up early and went home. I soaked in the bathtub so long that I had to add new hot water twice, but I still couldn’t figure it out. Loan sharks? Drug dealers? Nothing made any sense. But violent death doesn’t make any sense, so maybe that was the whole problem right there.

  The next morning, I went in early. I had to tell Fred and then I had to send him home, he was so freaked out. Gretchen came in with a little makeup on her bruises and an air of crushed optimism that was palpable. She’d told people bits and pieces of what had happened by the time I called everyone together, but there were still gasps throughout my little talk as the staff tried to grapple with this double-whammy.

  A double-whammy that explained the appearance of my dear Detective Edwards and Detective Lipscomb as I wrapped up my rambling comments. Gretchen glanced at the approaching detectives in alarm, but I told her not to worry about it.

  “Ms. Forrester,” Detective Edwards said, in greeting or in warning, I couldn’t be sure.

  “Detectives,” I responded. “I’m sorry to be seeing you again so soon.”

  “We know this is a difficult time for all of you here at the magazine, but we have some questions,” Detective Lipscomb said in precise understatement.

  “I can imagine. Let me make sure the conference r
oom’s open.”

  “That’s okay,” Detective Edwards said. “We’d rather do this at our office.”

  “I don’t know that Gretchen’s up to that at the moment.”

  “We don’t need to talk to Gretchen. She gave a statement yesterday.”

  Gretchen took her exit cue and walked quickly back to her desk. Even though I’d been immersed in it for the last three and a half days, I was still new to this whole homicide deal and it took me a minute to understand what he was saying. When I did understand, I didn’t want to believe it. “You’ve got to be kidding,” I said, trying to keep my voice quiet and light.

  “That’s usually a waste of time,” Edwards replied.

  “You don’t want to talk to the whole staff?” I offered, giving them an elegant out.

  “Not at this point.”

  Not only was he serious, he was going to make me say it. I glared at him with every ounce of strength I could muster. Oh, to be that Cyclops guy from X-Men right about now. “You want to talk to me at the precinct.”

  “If you could make yourself available, we’d really appreciate it,” Detective Lipscomb said, trying to keep things polite.

  “And if I can’t?” I asked, a little shrill but not without cause.

  “We’ll have to insist,” Detective Edwards said. At least he was having difficulty looking me in the eye for any length of time. I’d take that small satisfaction for the moment.

  “This is so bogus,” I said, grabbing my purse and jacket.

  Driving to the precinct with them was definitely a different experience from driving to Helen’s with them on Monday night. I sat in the back seat alone, not wanting anyone to see me. The detectives were content to let me stew in silence, so I hunkered down and tried to lay in the new pieces of the puzzle.

  Teddy was dead and my interest in that was perceived as too keen. Now Yvonne was dead and the only link between the two anyone could come up with was me? What is it they say about no good deed going unpunished? But this wasn’t about me. It was about Teddy and Yvonne and missing money and affairs and God knows what else. How was I going to get them to see that?

  The detectives walked me through their dreary, government-issue bullpen, strangely devoid of all those saucy prostitutes who are always leaning against the desks in TV shows. We threaded our way between battered metal desks and backbreaking chairs until we reached an interrogation room. We entered and Detective Edwards closed the door behind him. I could have sworn I heard the hiss of the room being hermetically sealed.

  In this brave new world of ours, preemptive seems to be the way to go. I sat down at their ugly metal table. “I can’t tell you anything,” I said to open.

  “Can’t or won’t?” Detective Lipscomb clarified.

  “Can’t. I don’t know anything you don’t already know. This is an exercise on someone’s behalf.”

  “Tell me about your relationship with Yvonne Hamilton,” Detective Edwards said quietly, sitting down across the table from me. He scooted the chair in a bit closer and it grated horribly, nails on a blackboard. I bet they practice that one.

  “I’m sorry, but you must be joking. It’s bad enough that you had your doubts about me with Teddy. I can almost forgive that since I found the body and was a little too eager to help. I understand all that now. Believe me, this has not been an easy week for anyone at the magazine and since I’m inclined to take things to heart, it’s been pretty miserable for me.”

  “Take things to heart? That mean you hold grudges?” Detective Lipscomb followed up.

  “Wow, that was nice. I didn’t see that coming. Point to Detective Lipscomb,” I said with a fake smile, then dropped it. “No, it doesn’t mean I hold grudges. It means I don’t feel emotionally capable of handling the death of two colleagues in the space of one week.”

  “How do you suppose that happened?” Detective Edwards asked. Here, he was more willing to look me in the eye. Home court advantage.

  Something about being unjustly accused turns me back into a mouthy fifteen-year-old. “I’m sure if I’d paid more attention in math class, I could give you a formula for why two random events occurred in circumstances that make them look less than random. But I’m sure I was drawing on my blue jeans when that was discussed.”

  “You think these two deaths are unrelated?”

  No, I didn’t think that but I didn’t want to offer a theory that was only going to get me into more trouble until I had something to back it up with. Better than what I had provided so far, apparently. My silence provoked a glance exchange between the detectives and that provoked a response from me. “No, they could be related since both Teddy and Yvonne worked for the magazine and they were having an affair. But then we’re talking about hit men, aren’t we?” Were they making me say all that for someone on the other side of the mirror? Otherwise, I felt stupid telling them what they already knew. I also felt sad it made it look bad for Helen again. But then, was Helen sitting in the interrogation room? No, thank you very much.

  “Are we?” was all Detective Edwards offered.

  That was what I’d sat up most of the night trying to figure out. If Yvonne had killed Teddy, who had killed Yvonne? Had Helen hired someone out of rage and revenge? Or was this whole phantom ad agency thing the tip of some huge financial iceberg where Powers That Be had told Yvonne to kill Teddy and then had killed her to clean up? I’d know a lot more if I got to keep my appointment with Will at two thirty. They wouldn’t keep me that long, would they?

  “How did you feel about the affair?” Detective Edwards asked.

  “I didn’t know about it until after Teddy died. They didn’t let it affect anything at work,” unless their financial shenanigans were undermining the fiscal health of the magazine. Man, I hoped not.

  “Yvonne told us you didn’t like her very much,” Detective Edwards continued. Detective Lipscomb had dropped back, leaning against the wall, letting Edwards drive.

  “She wasn’t very likable. Not to speak ill of the dead.”

  “Were you jealous of her?”

  I surprised myself by laughing. “Is that what she told you?” I suspected he was pushing my buttons and I was going to do everything in my power to stay unpushable.

  “Was the way you spoke to each other yesterday morning typical of your relationship?”

  “Do you know anything about women?” I asked, not caring who was listening. “If you think that little spat was significant, the women in your life are on Prozac. Maybe with good cause.”

  “No need to get personal,” he said with a hint of warning.

  Maybe I was the one pushing buttons now. “Why not? This has been personal since the get-go. I have a dead co-worker, I try to help, I have another dead co-worker, I don’t even get a chance to help, and you insist on reading all sorts of dark, ulterior motives into that. Do I look like I know hit men? This job’s gotta be a breeding ground for cynics, but I’d think it also forces you to develop a sixth sense about people and yours has to be completely out of whack if you think for one damn minute that I’m capable of killing anyone.”

  Detective Edwards was at a loss and I savored the moment. I was so angry at him, I knew it wasn’t just what he was saying, it was that I wanted to believe that he felt something for me that would make him dismiss any doubts that were raised by Yvonne’s sniping or anything else. Sure, he had to do his job, but he had to respect me, too. Or I was the biggest fool on Manhattan since the Indians sold it.

  I opened my mouth, prepared to dig myself in deeper, but the door banged open and Cassady strode in, wearing her brand-new Balenciagas and prepared for battle. I was tempted to push up her sleeves and look for the Wonder Woman bracelets. “You’re not talking to them? Haven’t I taught you anything?” she growled at me.

  “You remember Cassady Lynch? She wasn’t my lawyer then, but she is now.”

  The detectives nodded in acknowledgment.

  “Are you charging her with something?” Cassady asked.

  “We�
�re just talking,” Detective Edwards attempted.

  Cassady gave him a withering look that made it clear to all that she knew everything that had occurred between Detective Edwards and me since the moment we met. “How nice you have time to just talk. Ms. Forrester and I, on the other hand, both have jobs to do. If you’ll excuse us, we’ll go do them.”

  Tight-lipped, Detectives Edwards and Lipscomb dismissed us and Cassady marched me through the bullpen and hallways on a single-minded path to the front door. “Nothing. They have nothing. You have an alibi, for God’s sake.”

  “Yeah, but it’s you and Tricia.”

  “Don’t you dare start sympathizing with them. They’re grabbing at straws and you’re an idiot if you allow yourself to be treated that way.”

  “Thanks so much.”

  “‘Idiot’ is a legal term for a client who doesn’t stick up for him- or herself.”

  “Look at all the fun things you lawyers know. How did you know I was here?”

  “I called to see if you wanted to have lunch, thank God. You should’ve called me.”

  “I didn’t want them to think that I thought I needed a lawyer.”

  Cassady stopped in a relatively quiet corner by the front door and dropped her voice to an earnest whisper. “I don’t like this anymore, Molly. I don’t like that you’re nosing around in something that’s gotten two people killed and has the police looking at you—”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I know you didn’t do anything, idiot, but getting dragged into this and sullied by association could be a major pain in the ass and really screw your life up for a while.”

  I thought of Garrett Wilson and his impeccable office, his stunning assistant, all that perfection, and nodded. “So what do I do now?”

  “Drop it.”

  “I can’t.”

  Cassady started to protest, but she’s known me too long. “I know,” she sighed and guided me out the front door.