Chelsea accepted her strawberry daiquiri from Lintang and forced herself to make small talk until Edie and her latest boyfriend, Stuart, arrived, which was ten minutes later and ten minutes too long. In the interim, Bianca kept examining Chelsea from her perch, a large ornate wicker chair that was like a throne, Aaron stared at Bianca, Kate and Grant were as lovey-dovey as a couple could be, piercing Chelsea with envy, and John, the man who wouldn't commit to her, kept casting angry glances in her direction.
Grateful for the distraction of Edie and Stuart's arrival, Chelsea lavished them with attention and introduced them around, everyone smiling and nodding and saying nice to meet you, including John, who had never met Edie in person. When Chelsea saw that Aaron was friendlier even with the newly arrived couple than he was with her, she couldn't take it another second. Why had she come? Why hadn't she realized what a disaster tonight would be?
She stood up. "Excuse me. I have to go to the powder room."
Bianca looked her way again and John studiously looked down at his drink. Chelsea flashed a smile at everyone and then hurried away. Just a breather, she just needed a chance to get her nerve back up. Then she'd get through this night and it would be over, only a bad memory.
She went to the bathroom near the foyer entrance, closed the door behind her, and leaned back against the door to take a deep breath. Just as she was about to step away from the door, it shook under a pounding fist.
Jumping away as if scalded, Chelsea cried, "I'll be right out!"
"It's me. Let me in. Quick," John whispered urgently on the other side of the door.
Chelsea startled and then hurried to unlock the door before anyone saw them. John slipped in and locked the door behind him before turning toward her. Wrapping his arms around her, he pushed her up against the wall.
"What?" she said.
"You," he whispered, taking her face in his hands and kissing her deeply.
She kissed him back, feeling herself grow aroused.
Suddenly he pulled away, pushing her shoulders painfully against the white marble of the bathroom wall. "You're mine. Do you understand? Mine. Not that idiot Aaron's."
Wincing with pain as John crushed her shoulders under his hands, Chelsea felt an impotent rage well up inside of her and let it spill out of her mouth. "Then make me yours! Leave her! So what about the money? I don't care anymore. Let's just be together, really together."
John narrowed his eyes. "I'm not letting her take it, what I made, not letting her take my son. Wait. Just wait."
"I won't wait forever, John!" she whispered hotly. "You'll have to let me go!"
"Never," he said, pushing her even harder against the wall until her whole body seemed to be cracking under the pressure.
Then they heard a woman calling, "John? John!" It was Bianca.
John gave Chelsea one last shove against the wall and released her, opening the door and leaving Chelsea to crumple to the bathroom floor, bruised and wanting and alone.
Mojito
Bianca sat at the head of the table in their black and white dining room, cool sea breezes coming through the open windows and pushing the white sheer curtains so that they rippled. Her dream was coming true. Everything was going exactly to plan.
Mixing the rotten oysters into the bouillabaisse had been too easy. She simply dumped them out of the slimy stained paper bag they were in, stirred so that they blended with the rest of the ingredients, re-sealed the lid, put the pot on the range, and then went to find Lintang. Bianca had waited by the kitchen door for twenty minutes to make sure she'd be there when Lucie arrived and that no one else would get in the way. John was still showering and Lintang was easy: Bianca told her that the upstairs carpet needed a run with the vacuum and, while she was up there, to keep an eye on the new nanny, Tiffany.
Tiffany was doing fine, happy to have a paying job now that she didn't work at Grant's practice anymore. She was hopeful, too, as Bianca had lied to Tiffany about finding her another administrative job, asking if she could pitch in meanwhile with Sebastian. Bianca was between nannies currently and needed a hand. Camilla had been caught stealing. Well, Bianca planted her own jewelry in Camilla's bureau drawer and then she and John confronted her and "found" it, but still. They had to get rid of her. And now, Bianca had suck-up moral-free Tiffany with the brains of a toadstool at her disposal. She was perfect.
Lucie had just cleared the salad course, which Bianca had dug into hungrily after simply playing with her soup. She remembered the odd look Lucie had given her when she'd come to clear that course and found Bianca's soup untouched. Bianca, feeling high after watching everyone empty their bowls, had wanted to laugh at Lucie's naive confusion. Instead, she had cut her eyes away and pressed her lips together to keep from giggling. Later, after everything, she would admit it tasted off, that she couldn't eat it. She could hardly be blamed considering the massacre that would unfold tonight as a result of Lucie's poor hygiene practices.
Bianca averted her eyes again now as Lucie placed a plate with the main course - duck breast, potatoes and haricort vert - in front of her. After Lucie had moved around the table, putting the plates before all of Bianca's guests, and then left the room, Bianca allowed herself to look up. Everyone was clearly having a wonderful time, chattering and sipping from their wine glasses. Even Grant, who was drinking from his roofie-spiked glass like a good boy. In fact, Bianca was happy to see that he'd almost finished it and looked flushed and a little wild-eyed. So soon he would be hers. All she had to do was wait and watch for the first green face. The others would follow swiftly. Those raw oysters were really bad.
She smiled over the candles and small flower arrangements that marched down the center of the table at John, who sat at the opposite end. John looked up from his duck and hesitantly smiled back, looking almost cowed. Good, look guilty, she thought. In a week, you'll look even more so, the cheating husband murdered by his suicidal mistress.
Actually, the whole thing worked out in the end. Chelsea knew too much about Bianca's role in Jenna Butler's murder back in high school. Chelsea may still have believed that Bianca did it for her, but it was too dangerous for her to know anything at all. It had been Bianca's first murder of a human being and it had turned out to be much harder to get away with than anything else she had ever done.
Studying bomb-making had been the easy part; Bianca had, after all, a quick mind in spite of what her lackluster academic record reported. The hard part was all of the variables that were tough to control, like witnesses. In the end her father had stepped in, but there had been a high price to pay at the convent. Bianca may have had to learn the hard way but the lesson was set in stone now: murder was incredibly difficult to pull off. So, you saved it for something worthwhile, not taking a huge risk on some some silly bitch who'd only been trying to steal your boyfriend.
Now, when it came to Chelsea and John, they were worth it. Get rid of John and get all his money, and while she was at it, remove problematic Chelsea. Bianca was still amazed how easy it was to find out about the two of them, how blatant they had been. All she had to do was a tiny bit of digging, checking his phone while he was in the shower, logging on to his home computer with its obvious password "Sebastian", following him one day in a cheap rental car while wearing a wig and sunglasses. It was a piece of cake. Like tonight. Still, she felt like playing with them a little, seeing them squirm.
"Chelsea, I have to say that I just can't keep my eyes off your necklace! It's simply gorgeous," Bianca purred. "Don't you think so, Edie?"
Chelsea looked up with alarm, still mid-chew, while Edie, a plump woman in her forties with frizzy brown hair and a ready smile, swallowed and looked at Chelsea's neck with interest. "Oh, yes. Beautiful. Is that real?"
Bianca let out a tinkling laugh. "Of course it is. Trust me, I know my jewelry. That had to be quite a boyfriend you had, Chelsea. And to think I've never even seen it before. You've got to wear it more often."
Chelsea only nodded, wide eyed.
&nbs
p; Edie leaned in to get a closer look. "Wow, that really is spectacular. Honestly, I would have hocked it if I had it. Money's too tight these days for me to hold on to anything but family heirlooms. But a boyfriend gave it to you? Which one?"
Chelsea smiled painfully. "I just...yes. I guess so, should have hocked it." Her eyes darted around, as if searching for a getaway.
"But which boyfriend, Chelsea?" Bianca asked, restraining the laughter that bubbled within her.
"Ah..." Chelsea said. "I can't remember?"
Edie made a loud tsking noise. Kate, who had been engaged in conversation with Edie's boyfriend, Stuart, an equally chubby balding forty-something, tuned in at that moment. Kate said, "What? Chelsea's necklace?"
"John," Bianca said. "I would never be able to forget it if you bought me a necklace like Chelsea's. Did you see it?"
John looked up from his plate, his swarthy face starting to turn the shade of spring lettuce. Bianca smiled even wider. So he would be the first.
John blinked and looked over at Chelsea and then quickly away. "Yes. Very nice."
"Nice?" Bianca teased. "It's beautiful. Promise me you'll find one just like it for me. Maybe Christmas? I promise to be a good girl if I can get something like that in my stocking. Chel, we'll have to make sure we don't wear it at the same time when we go out, okay?"
John's eyes widened and he covered his mouth to burp carefully before replying. He cast a fleeting look at Chelsea before turning back to Bianca, a pleading look on his face. "Uh...sure. Of course, honey."
"Good," Bianca said, gloating. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Aaron give a little start, as if goosed, and put his hand on his stomach. The signs were appearing; the herd nearly ready to stampede. Bianca hunkered down in her seat and prepared to pounce.
Vodka Martini
Sharon watched Dean walk off in a huff, crossing the lawn toward his own house with long strides, head down. Why had she done that? Made such a big deal out of it? But she knew.
Since that morning in the diner, she and Dean had become almost inseparable. With the exception of when they were both at work - Dean managing a group of programmers at a small local software company and Sharon now working with a different team of analysts at TMB and out from under Bob Crandall thanks to the kind and ever-so-interested help of Molly Knowles - Sharon and Dean did everything together. On the weekends when the weather was good, they were out on Dean's boat, a Cobalt 220, and when rain was forecasted, they stayed in, watching movies and playing board games with competitive zeal. Dean was always at Sharon's house, staying over every night and belting out AC/DC and Rolling Stones songs in the shower every morning, his off-tune earnest voice cute at first.
Everything had been cute at first, wonderful actually. Here was life, real noisy messy life. And then it just got too messy, too noisy. Did Dean have to drop his clothes and moist towels all over the floor? Couldn't he put them in the hamper or hang them up? Did he have to be the big chef almost every night, cooking her dinner, but then leaving her kitchen a wreck with piles of dirty pots and pans in the sink and the counter slovenly with bits of leftover chopped vegetables and puddles of oil decorating it? And did he have to play the radio or the television all the time? Couldn't they just have a moment of silence? And the bathroom singing!
This morning, when he started hollering the lyrics to "You Can't Always Get What You Want" before she'd even fully woken up, she'd jumped out of bed and shrieked.
"What?" Dean called over the pattering sound of water hitting the shower liner.
"I said," Sharon said, sticking her head into the steamy bathroom. "I'm trying to sleep!"
"Oh...sorry."
He'd been apologetic and sweet after that, getting back in bed with her and nuzzling her once he was dried off, offering to make her pancakes.
"No, I have to go to work. I don't have time to clean up," she said, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice and barely succeeding.
But tonight she'd taken off from work early, wanted to enjoy her house alone, revel in the silence and clean neatness she'd managed to effect before leaving for work. Luxuriating in it as she walked through the house, she straightened the cushions on the couch and perked her ears to take in the pure sound of sighing quiet while Fred followed her and waited for her to sit down so he could climb into her lap. She realized then that she felt more at home and truly relaxed than she'd felt in ages. Well, since Dean and she became a couple.
Then she heard it. The key in the front door.
She spun around. What? Only Dean had a key? Fred took off, skittish with anyone besides Sharon.
The door opened and Dean walked in, spotted her, and threw his arms wide open. "Surprise! When you said you were leaving early, all I could think about was you all alone and lonely, so here I am, da-da-da!"
Sharon struggled to catch her breath. "What? Don't you have to be at work?"
"Nah, I've got plenty of PTO. I never use it. Speaking of which, we've got to plan our summer vaca soon. Why don't we do that tonight?"
"I...," Sharon sputtered, frustration making her muscles clench. All she'd wanted was an hour alone. Was that too much to ask? "No! Not tonight!"
He walked over to her and putting his hand on her shoulder. "Is it the dinner party? We could have gone. I don't mind if your friend ribs us a little. Who cares what she thinks?"
"No, it's not the party. I just...it's nothing," Sharon said, not knowing how to put it.
"Oh, okay. I guess we can wait. But we can't wait too long if we want to go to the Cape - things book up fast. You know, maybe we could invite our friends? Do a big group thing, get a whole house! That would rock!"
Sharon winced a little, thinking of them with a group at some beach house, the whole vacation rowdy and aggravating with every plan and decision having to be unanimous. When she'd suggested the Cape, she'd pictured just the two of them at a quiet inn, long walks along the beach and watching the sunset holding hands.
Before she could stop herself, she said, "No, it wouldn't! It would drive me crazy! You're driving me crazy! I just wanted a little peace tonight, a moment to breathe. It's always something with you. Let's do this and let's do that. Can't we just sit? Just do nothing?"
Dean blinked and shook his head, pulling his hand away. "What? We do? We sat on the couch last night, watching TV?"
"No! I mean, doing nothing. Not even watching TV. I just like to hear nothing sometimes. No music, no television, nothing."
"Fine, we'll do that. Whatever you want," Dean said, shrugging and looking perplexed.
"But you don't get it!"
"What?" he shouted back at her, his face hardening.
"I just want some time alone!"
Dean rolled his eyes at ceiling and threw his hands out. "Is that all? Fine. I've got a house right next door. I'll go there. You'll be alone. Okay?"
In that moment, looking at him, angry but still trying so hard, Sharon felt contrite. "Oh, Dean, I just-"
"No, you've got it. Bye." He turned and walked out.
Sharon following him to the door, not knowing what to say. This was what she wanted, wasn't it? But now, watching him cross the lawn and disappear around the corner, she wasn't so sure. The quiet settling again in her house sounded hollow. She turned away and walked into the living room. The recently plumped couch cushions seemed to slouch. Maybe Dean was right. They should have just gone to Bianca's party, put up with the inevitable teasing from Bianca. It wouldn't have been that bad.
But it was bad, the terrible feeling she'd had about Bianca stayed on. Sharon kept seeing that movement Bianca had made at the top of the steps at The Birdcage, the way Bianca had smiled a little before turning to look around and spotting Sharon. The way their eyes had locked. The whole thing had taken only seconds and it had been seen from across a room, yet Sharon knew in her gut that something had happened that night. Even when her head told her she was being crazy, even when Lucie and Chelsea and Kate disputed her claims, getting their backs up about it, Sharon coul
dn't ignore the heavy dark feeling inside of her.
And tonight, it felt heavier than ever.
Sharon shook her head quickly, trying to shake the feeling once again, but it clung, tenacious and solid. Then she had an idea. Why not do a little research on the web? Find out if there was anything there about Bianca? She knew that Bianca's hometown was Stamford and that she'd once worked at Pinnacle Funds. She also knew Bianca's married name was Rossi, but she could find out her maiden name easily enough by looking for their wedding announcement in the Greenwich Time. It was probably also in The New York Times, too, as their wedding had been held at the boat house in Central Park. Bianca had talked about it once, how September was supposed to have the best weather, but it had poured on their wedding day and she'd been so glad they'd been under a roof and not in some flimsy tent.
Two hours later Sharon knew that there was nothing on the internet about Bianca that justified her fears. As she had thought, it was easy to find out her maiden name, Moretti, as the lavish wedding had been announced in both papers. Digging for more, Sharon found out that Bianca's father, a lawyer who was now deceased, had run for mayor in Stamford and lost to the incumbent. Bianca's mother was either a housewife or had done nothing newsworthy, as Sharon couldn't find anything on her. Bianca had an older brother, Anthony, who had graduated with honors from Yale Law School. Bianca, evidently less academically gifted, had graduated from non-Ivy-League Fairfield University with a B.A. in Psychology and no mention of any honors. That was all Sharon could find.
She leaned back in her chair and sipped her peppermint tea, absently stroking Fred, who was purring in her lap. Nothing. It was hard to swallow, how wrong she'd been. And worse, her bad feeling was growing, not abating as she had expected. There was one last thing she could check. The Stamford Herald had its older archives in downloadable PDF format. Not as easy to search as the newer archives, where you could just type a name and pull up any stories on a person, but Sharon could at least scan through the headlines. She'd start with Bianca's senior year in high school, go back until junior high, and then work her way forward. She was glad she knew that Chelsea was the same age, thirty-three, making it easy to pinpoint the year.
Cocktail Hour Page 37