A Job to Kill For

by Janice Kaplan

  “You saw them?”

  “I came in with Cassie’s keys, and I heard voices. So I tiptoed to the study and peeked in. Roger had his arm around a woman. I didn’t even know who she was until Cassie died and I started reading all the rumors.”

  “Did they see you?”

  “No. They had their heads down, giggling. I just tiptoed out again.”

  “Heads down, and if they didn’t see you, they must have had their backs to you, is that right?” I asked.

  “You sound like a prosecutor,” she said. “I didn’t know I was on the witness stand.”

  “Just trying to figure it all out,” I replied calmly.

  “You want to figure that it wasn’t Molly. But it was. When I walked by her at Roger’s party, I had no doubt. She wears Annick Goutal Passion perfume. Very distinctive. Same scent I’d noticed in the apartment.”

  “You smelled her?” I asked, baffled.

  “I have a good nose,” she said modestly.

  I held out my wrist. “What am I wearing?”

  She sniffed. “Easy. Jo Malone Wild Fig and Cassis. Also distinctive.”

  “Quite a talent,” I said.

  “I work nights at the fragrance counter at Bloomingdale’s. Just don’t get me started on Lovely versus Beautiful versus Happy. Can’t do it.”

  Despite myself, I smiled. Paige was the real deal. Given her style, I’d unconsciously assumed that she topped off her teaching salary with a trust fund, not a job pushing perfume.

  Then my smile faded. “You have no idea why they were at the penthouse,” I said, getting back to her accusation. “Sitting in the study isn’t exactly criminal behavior.”

  “So why all the secrecy? Roger had told Cassie he didn’t want a key until they moved in.”

  “Then he made sure the police knew he didn’t have a key,” I added thoughtfully.

  Our eyes met, and we exchanged a long glance. I wanted Paige to be wrong, but nothing about her suggested she was lying.

  “So what’s your theory?” I asked finally.

  She strummed her fingers delicately against the divan. “Here’s what I know. Three people were definitely in the penthouse the day before Cassie died: Roger, Molly, and me. Any one of us could have poisoned the tea. Here’s the other thing I know. It wasn’t me.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  On Saturday night, Jimmy and I cuddled under a green blanket in the family room to watch Shrek. If kids have such short attention spans, how come they beg to sit through the same movie fifty times?

  “We have all the sequels,” I told Jimmy, looking hopefully at the lineup of unopened kids’ DVDs on the shelf.

  “The original,” he said firmly.

  Knowing the ritual, I turned down the sound so Jimmy could recite the funniest lines of dialogue. When we got to the final, rousing “I’m a Believer,” Jimmy jumped up, danced around, and belted out the words. Very cute. Eventually, some movie studio would catch on and put out a karaoke DVD for six-year-olds. (And save a fortune on Eddie Murphy’s fee.)

  “Want a piggyback to your room?” I asked him when we turned off the movie.

  “Yup!” He grinned and jumped on my back. I staggered slightly under the weight of his firm little body but let him wrap his legs around my waist. I dreaded the day that Jimmy would decide he’d become too grown up to be carried. On the other hand, my vertebrae would send a thank-you note.

  I made it upstairs and plopped Jimmy on his bed. I’d recently redecorated his room, having been forced to replace the astronomy-themed wallpaper once Pluto was no longer a planet. Parents in this town competed to give their kids every educational edge, so normal kid décor (Spider-Man? cowboys?) was out of the question. I’d settled on a world-maps motif. I liked to think that if Jimmy got into Yale someday, he’d thank me for the bedspread that taught him how to spell Uzbekistan.

  “Can I have a story, Mommy?” Jimmy asked.

  “It’s already late,” I said, glancing at my watch. I suddenly felt exhausted.

  “One chapter. Please.” He reached over and handed me James and the Giant Peach, and I opened it to where we’d left off the previous night. For some reason, Roald Dahl’s scariest scenes were more comforting to kids than milk and a Double Stuf Oreo. Sure enough, Jimmy fell asleep with a sweet smile on his face, lulled by the fantasy of the lonely orphan and his insect friends.

  By the time I went to bed, my own fantasies involved creepier images than mutated bugs. I tossed and turned, spooked by Paige’s vision of Molly and Roger buzzing around the penthouse. Admittedly, she’d seen them fully clothed in the library, not naked and necking. But my imagination provided the next scene. What was Molly hiding from me?

  I flipped over and felt a little pool of perspiration forming between my breasts. I needed somebody to comfort me, but Dan had gone to a medical meeting in San Diego for the weekend to present a paper on a new technique for reattaching severed fingers. Right now, I was worried about severed friendship.

  At 3 A.M., the phone rang. I leaped across the bed to answer it. Late-night calls came in regularly for Dan, and they rarely got my blood stirring anymore. But this time I felt my heart pounding. A hospital emergency when he wasn’t home?

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Mom, I’m sorry to wake you up.” Grant’s voice sounded strained on the phone, soft and raspy.

  “You didn’t.”

  “Can you come pick me up?” he asked.

  “Sure, where are you?”

  “On campus. Tonight was the initiation into Delta ij, remember?”

  Of course I remembered. I hadn’t liked the idea, but part of being a parent involves letting kids break free. He’d planned to sleep over Jake’s afterward. Obviously, there had been a change in plan.

  “Are you drunk?” I asked. We’d made a deal long ago that he’d never drive after drinking. If he got into a bad situation, he could call me any time of the night, no questions asked. Of course, I’d just asked a question.

  “Not drunk, but it’s a long story,” he said. “I’m not up for driving home, and it’s too late to go to Jake’s.”

  “I’ll come get you.” Even as we talked, I quickly made my plan. I could dash out and be back home long before Jimmy woke up. Ashley was home in case anything happened. “Just stay where you are, honey. I’ll be there.”

  He gave me an address, and twenty minutes later I pulled into the residential part of campus. Lights still shone in dorm-room windows, and I heard the sounds of late-night partying and drunken catcalls. Grant must have spotted me before I saw him, because he emerged from the shadows of a building and got into the Lexus.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  I took off, feeling as if I were at the wheel of a getaway car, but not knowing why we needed to get away.

  I took a few sideways glances at Grant who seemed pale and shaken. I didn’t smell liquor on his breath, though maybe he’d been drinking vodka. He had red lacerations on his left arm and an angry welt swelling at his neck.

  We drove for a few minutes without a word. Finally, Grant said softly, “Cone of silence, Mom, okay? What I tell you doesn’t go any farther.”

  “Of course.”

  I waited.

  “The night started out pretty typical,” Grant said. “Three of us being initiated. A bunch of guys tied us to a tree and we had to figure out how to get free.”

  “How’d you do it?”

  Grant shrugged. “They’d left a knife on the ground, just out of reach. I took off my shoe and kicked it over so it hit the handle at the right angle—and popped the knife up toward us.”

  “Very clever,” I said.

  “Delta ij’s a secret society for physicists,” Grant said. “Basic mechanics isn’t much of a stretch.”

  “It’s a stretch for me. I’m not used to dealing with geniuses.”

  Grant snorted. “Don’t be too impressed. After that, we did the usual stupid games. Beer pong. Flip-cup. Professor Bohr had told them I’m too young, so not to mak
e me drink. All cool.”

  “Thank goodness for that.”

  “Yeah, well this is where it gets strange,” Grant said. “Did you know there’s a whole system of tunnels under the campus?”

  “I’ve heard stories.”

  “They’re locked and off-limits, and you can get thrown out of school for being in them. But everyone does it.”

  I let the proverbial “Everyone does it” pass. Not the moment to be judgmental.

  “We went into the tunnels and crept around for a while with little flashlights,” Grant continued. “Then Professor Bohr showed up and led us to this dark corner that had an open coffin. The first guy had to lie in it and tell about his weirdest sexual experience. The next guy the same. Then my turn. I lay down in the coffin”—he shuddered—“which was pretty creepy, by the way. He said I had to talk about death. Answer five questions.”

  I gripped the wheel. “What did he want to know?”

  “Stuff about murder. Poisonings. Everything about Cassie Crawford and what you knew about her murder. Then he asked me if I thought Molly had killed her and she’d die for her sins.”

  Now I shuddered. “Any of the other guys say anything?”

  “After a while, he told them all to leave, and he gave me a mug to drink from. He said something like ‘Your cup of mead for Delta ij. Also known as Kirin tea.’”

  “You drank?”

  Grant nodded, miserably. “Being in Delta ij’s a big deal. As far as hazing goes, it seemed pretty mild. I took a few gulps and Professor Bohr grabbed it back. Then he left. It was pitch-black in the tunnels, and I didn’t know how to get out.”

  “You poor thing,” I said.

  “I eventually found my way,” Grant said, embarrassed by my sympathy and trying to sound dismissive. “I even got back to my car. I probably shouldn’t have called you.”

  “I’m glad you did,” I said simply. He didn’t have to explain himself. Fatigue. Fear. All good reasons not to drive.

  Grant wrapped his arms around himself, as if he were suddenly cold. “If you want to know the truth,” he said finally, “I felt sick. I threw up.”

  Involuntarily, I let the car swerve. My God, what had I gotten my son into?

  “How do you feel now?” I asked, controlling my voice as best I could.

  “I don’t know. Better. I’m sure it was just anxiety,” Grant said. He rocked back and forth in his seat. “Just anxiety,” he repeated. “Nothing in the tea. But I got scared. Jeez, Mom, I got to tell you, Professor Bohr freaks me out.”

  When we got home, Grant slipped off to his room, and I plopped on my bed with a notepad and pencil. I made a list.

  Cassie: Drinks tea given to her by ???. Dies of arsenic poisoning.

  Grant: Drinks tea given to him by Hal Bohr. Gets sick.

  Me: Sips tea from Andy Daniels. Gets scared. (And pisses off husband.)

  So much for tea being healthy. I wouldn’t get near the stuff again unless the head of the FDA came back from Sri Lanka clutching pekoe leaves he’d picked himself. Back in A.D. 220, the famed physician Hua Tao said, “To drink k’u t’u constantly makes one think better.” Sorry, pal. Looking at this list, I couldn’t find anything sweet about bitter tea.

  I got a couple of hours’ rest, and when I woke up again Grant had slipped a note under my door saying that he felt fine and had gone off to play tennis. Nice that he could bounce back faster than an Andy Roddick serve. I paced for a while, and needing distraction, I headed to the greenhouse. I’d been ignoring my beautiful orchids, but now being in the sunny room with the brave little plants immediately made me feel calmer. I gave a light misting to the dainty flowers of a creamy white Dendrobium that seemed to have stretched upward in the sunlight. A fragile-looking Cymbidium on a long spindly stem had sprouted three broad-petaled pink flowers. I tenderly tied it to a support to keep it from sagging, but just looking at the beautiful blossoms made me smile. Like children, orchids turned out to be hardier than you expected.

  My few rosebushes had bloomed full and fragrant. I’d just started repotting a Belle Amour rose plant when my ringing cell phone shattered my flower-induced tranquility. I pounced, worried that Grant might be in trouble again. But it was a woman’s voice.

  “Mrs. Fields? This is Elsa Franklin.” My silence must have given me away, because she quickly added, “From the UCLA development office.”

  Oh, right. Cassie’s onetime boss. Good thing I’d remembered, or I might have blurted that the only contribution I’d be making today was to a stress headache.

  “Yes, of course. How are you?” I asked, unwittingly matching her patrician East Coast intonation.

  Her manners must have curdled in the LA heat, because she immediately jumped to business. “I heard about Billy Mann’s murder. We need to talk. Can we get together tonight?”

  I demurred, since I’d already planned a special family dinner for the evening—take-out chicken sate and beef with ginger sauce, served on the handmade straw mats I’d picked up at the Vietnamese design store on 3rd Street. Unless it rained, we’d eat on the deck, under the silk-and-bamboo lotus-shaped lanterns imported from a small shop in Ho Chi Minh City. Once Americans bombed there; now we bought there.

  “How about tomorrow?” I suggested.

  “I’m leaving for Boston, and it can’t wait,” she said firmly. “There’s a movie premiere at the Village Theater tonight at six P.M. I’ve invited a lot of donors, so I have to be there. Walk down the red carpet, and then we can sneak off during the film.”

  “Fine,” I said resignedly. Maybe I could get home in time for sweet rice-cake dessert.

  “Black tie, of course,” she added, hanging up.

  I clicked the phone shut. Black tie? I had to put on an evening gown to talk about Billy Mann? Maybe the yellow Nina Ricci.

  Instead, I left the house in a pale green chiffon Valentino cocktail dress that was older than Ashley. Given how often I’d worn it, I figured the gown amortized per wearing better than a Gap T-shirt.

  Down the street in front of the movie theater, a long row of limousines snaked slowly, dropping off actors, studio execs, and first-night hangers-on. The rest of the street had been cordoned off with red ropes, so I parked a few blocks away, probably the only person willing to arrive on foot. Klieg lights flared and the usual array of photographers lined the red carpet, but given that movies opened in LA as often as Starbucks stores, the excitement level was minimal. Still, I liked this theater, a 1930s Spanish-modern treasure that had been well restored over the years. The high tower and sweeping spire suggested a cathedral. And why not? On premiere nights, everyone came and prayed to the box-office gods.

  I walked along Broxton Street, the thin straps on my Versace sandals cutting into my toes and the high heels threatening to end in a turned ankle. Male designers should be forced to do two laps around a track in any shoe they plan to sell. Or to include health insurance riders in the box.

  A young man with very short hair, a black shirt, and too-tight black pants stopped me at the edge of the red carpet. I gave my name and he studied the clipboard in front of him.

  “You’re not here,” he said officiously.

  “Actually, I am here,” I said. “I’m standing right in front of you.”

  “You’re not on the list.”

  “Is that the A list or the B list? Sometimes I’m only on the C list.”

  “It’s the only list,” he said, missing the joke. “I can’t let you through.”

  I shrugged. “No problem, I’ll leave.” I hadn’t wanted to come, anyway. “Just please tell Elsa Franklin that I looked for her.”

  A clipboard-carrying colleague standing nearby overheard our exchange and quickly came over. She was about the same age as the first guy, but lacked the chip on her shoulder. “If Elsa Franklin invited her, she’s probably a big donor,” she whispered.

  The young man clutched his list. “Money doesn’t impress me,” he said imperiously.

  “In this town, that puts you on a li
st of one,” I quipped.

  His colleague laughed and tossed back her thick, long hair. “Great dress,” she said smiling at me. “Whose is it?”

  “Mine. Designed by Valentino.”

  She laughed and waved me ahead. “Valentino is a good enough admission ticket for me. Enjoy the show.”

  I walked quickly down the red carpet, darting by the photographers who had their lenses focused on Jessica Alba, decked out in a low-cut red gown that clung to her flawless body. A handsome stud with broad shoulders and sexy stubble kept his arm draped around her until one of the photographers shouted, “Hey, can we get Jessica alone?” He stepped back, abashed. I wanted to tell him not to feel bad. At least he’d been on the list.

  I spotted Elsa standing ramrod straight near the entrance to the theater. Her long black-velvet skirt and high-necked blouse seemed more appropriate for a Connecticut Christmas than for a hot night in Hollywood. Several well-dressed couples had stopped to say hello to her, and, busy being gracious, she didn’t notice me. As the crowd thinned, I gave a little wave, and Elsa quickly excused herself from the people around her and came over.

  “Give me a few minutes and we’ll go in together,” she said in a conspiratorial tone.

  I found a shady spot and watched Elsa curiously. Her calm, slightly above-it-all demeanor probably served her well as a fund-raiser, but when it came down to it, she might as well be a used-car salesman. Sure she had a worthy cause, but she measured her success by how much money people coughed up.

  “I think my flock has been well-tended,” she said, coming over to me as the last stragglers entered the theater.

  “Tell me your connection here,” I said.

  “I do these events all the time,” she said. “Movie premieres, backstage passes, boxes at Lakers games—just little bonuses for our best donors.”

  “As if they couldn’t afford the tickets themselves,” I said.