Too Rich and Too Dead

by Cynthia Baxter

  “And here I would have pegged you as one of those people who can quote the best year for every wine imaginable,” she teased.

  “Not at all. My feelings about wine are similar to those about art: I don't know much about it, but I get pretty excited when I stumble upon something I like.” Staring at her intently, he added, “I guess that's true in a lot of different areas.”

  Was that a compliment? Mallory thought, alarm bells going off in her head. Maybe I'm not as good at this flirting business as I thought.

  “Speaking of wine,” she said lightly, trying to move the conversation back to a more comfortable topic, “I'm hoping to learn something about it tomorrow. I'm scheduled to take a workshop at the Cooking School of Aspen. The participants prepare an entire five-course dinner, and then they're instructed in which wines to pair with each course. The best part is at the end, when the class gets to sit down and eat what they made.”

  “That sounds like fun,” Gordon said. “Want some company?”

  So much for safer territory! Mallory thought. “I—I don't know. Astrid made a reservation for me a few days in advance, so I'm not sure if there's any room.”

  “I'll give them a call first thing tomorrow,” Gordon insisted. “I bet they can fit in one more person.”

  “Great,” she said simply after they picked a place to meet right before the class was scheduled to start.

  “It sounds as if you're really keeping busy while you're here,” Gordon observed.

  “I have to,” Mallory replied with a shrug. “My job entails becoming an expert on a place in a very short time. That means squeezing in as many activities as I can.”

  “I hope you appreciate what a great job you have!” he said heartily.

  “I do.” She swirled the wine in her glass, watching its movement and admiring its deep red color. “But this time is different. I actually feel bad having such a nice time after what happened.” Sighing, she added, “I'm still reeling. Aspen seems like such an idyllic place that it's hard to believe that something as horrible as murder could actually take place here.”

  “It's not the first time, either.” Gordon paused to sip his wine. “You're probably too young to remember this, but in 1976, an Olympic skier named Spider Sabich—his first name was actually Vladimir—was murdered by a former showgirl. She was French and spoke with a very strong accent. At the time the incident occurred, she had a mildly successful career as a singer and an actress. She'd also been married to a famous crooner, Andy Williams, which did wonders for her visibility.”

  “I remember all that,” Mallory said. “Her name was Claudine Longet, wasn't it? I was barely a teenager back then, but the case was all over the news. It was a really big story.”

  Gordon nodded. “Huge. If I recall the details correctly, Spider had recently told Claudine that their relationship was cramping his lifestyle. The fact that she had a few kids—three, I believe, all of them still pretty young—no doubt had something to do with it. Anyway, the next thing you know, the two of them are in a room together right after he delivered the news and the gun she's holding goes off and kills him. At the trial, she claimed it was an accident. Her story was that Spider was showing her how the gun worked when it accidentally fired.”

  “Was she found guilty?” Mallory asked. “I remember the sensational headlines, but not the outcome.”

  “The jury found her guilty of criminally negligent homicide after not much deliberation. She could have gotten two years. Instead, she convinced the judge that her doing time would be bad for her kids. In the end, she spent something like thirty days in jail.”

  Gordon took another sip of his wine. “Legend has it that she had her cell at the Pitkin County courthouse here in Aspen redecorated. I've heard that she had the walls painted pink. But one thing I know is true is that before she showed up to serve her sentence, she was allowed time to take a month-long vacation in Mexico. With her defense attorney. Who happened to be married at the time. Of course, he didn't stay that way for long. He got divorced and married her.”

  “You'd think a defense attorney would know better than to marry a woman who'd already bumped off one of her lovers,” Mallory observed.

  Gordon chuckled. “I guess some people never learn.”

  “Still, this relationship must be going better, since I haven't seen her name mentioned in conjunction with any other murders.” Mallory thought for a few seconds. “I seem to remember something about the Rolling Stones writing a song about the incident.”

  “That's right. It was called ‘Claudine.’ They actually recorded it, but they never released it because they were so afraid of lawsuits.”

  With a shudder, Mallory commented, “It all sounds like something you'd see in a movie.”

  “It was a movie,” Gordon replied. “A TV movie. And it had an absolutely awful title: Murder On the Slopes.”

  “How dreadful!” Mallory exclaimed.

  “The title or the murder?”

  She couldn't help laughing. “Both, actually. Still, even though it was a terrible thing to have happened, I can see that it made for a good film.”

  “Ah. So you're one of those people who has an eye for a story,” Gordon observed. “Maybe I should hire you. To help me fulfill my fantasy of finding a good script, I mean.”

  “Don't tell me that's the best fantasy you can come up with.” Mallory had barely gotten the words out before she set her nearly empty wineglass down firmly on the table. She suddenly had the frightening feeling that she was overdoing it in the flirting department—and that the wine was at least partly to blame.

  “Actually, my fantasy isn't to find a good script. It's to find a great script.” He poured more wine into Mallory's glass, then refilled his own. “In fact, that's why I came to Aspen in the first place.”

  Aha, she thought. So it wasn't the excellent cuisine at the Bermans’ after all. “Let me guess—in addition to all the movie stars who supposedly live here there are also a few screenwriters.”

  “There may be. But it wasn't writers who brought me here.” Now it was his turn to swirl the wine in his glass and stare at it as if he was enthralled. “I wasn't kidding last night when I joked about having an ulterior motive for being in Aspen. I was hoping to talk Carly into selling me the rights to her life story.”

  “For a movie?” Mallory asked, surprised.

  “That's right,” Gordon replied. “You've got to admit that she had a pretty fascinating life. Since you two grew up together, I'm sure you know that she started out on what looked like a clear trajectory. She was the star of her high school class, wasn't she? Pretty, popular, athletic, the whole kit and caboodle.”

  Miss Red Delicious, too, she thought generously. Don't forget that.

  “But it all faded fast,” he continued, “with not one but two disastrous marriages.”

  Mallory was instantly jerked out of the delightful haze the wine had lured her into. “I didn't realize they were that bad,” she said. “She mentioned something about having been married twice before at dinner last night, but I wasn't even sure she was serious.”

  “She was serious, all right,” Gordon assured her. “Her first husband abused her. Physically, I mean. It was actually a relief when he ended up in prison. It gave her an excuse to divorce him that even her parents couldn't argue with.”

  “I had no idea.” A wave of sympathy swept over Mallory as she realized that Carly had not only met up with a tragic end, she had also withstood more than her share of misfortune while she was still alive. “What was the story with her second husband?”

  “He died,” Gordon said simply. “Once again, I'm pretty sure that having him out of the picture was actually a great relief for her.”

  “Oh, my,” Mallory said breathlessly.

  The dinner conversation was taking such a dramatic downward turn that Mallory was relieved when the waiter chose this moment to return for their order. An animated discussion of the pros and cons of the small plates on the menu versus the large
plates was much more pleasant.

  “Are you willing to order several small plates and share them with me?” Mallory asked Gordon. “I'm supposed to be evaluating the food for my article, so the more different entrees I get to try, the better.”

  “So you weren't kidding when you threatened to eat the food off my plate.”

  “I never joke about food.”

  “I'm certainly not one to stand in the way of someone doing their job,” Gordon said seriously. “Order away. In fact, I'll leave the whole thing up to you.”

  “Delegating again, huh?” she said with a grin.

  “You got it.”

  Mallory took a few moments to study the menu, earnestly considering each item and trying to come up with a combination that would give her the best idea of the chef's talents. But as she sat in silence, she wasn't only weighing the pros and cons of the farm green salad with homemade goat cheese versus the Tuscan-style tomato soup.

  Spending time with Gordon was giving her the chance to discover how clever he was. How intelligent. And how appealing he looked when he spoke about something he cared about and his eyes lit up. In fact, she had already reversed her initial impression of him as someone she didn't find physically attractive.

  After she ordered four small plates for them to share, she turned to her dinner companion and said, “My friends back in Westchester are going to be very impressed when they find out I had dinner with a real live Hollywood director.”

  His response was a grimace. “Frankly, I don't think they'll be all that impressed, since as you probably know I haven't made a picture in nearly two decades.” With a wry smile, he added, “If you hadn't known that already, Brett certainly made a point of pointing it out to you.”

  “Given everything I've ever heard about Hollywood, it's hardly surprising,” Mallory said quickly, doing her best to be diplomatic. “From what I understand, talent means nothing. Instead, it's all about money.”

  “Some people might argue that talent and making money go hand in hand,” he commented lightly. “Or that the ability to make money is a talent in itself.”

  “At any rate, I'm sure Carly's life story would make a wonderful movie,” Mallory went on. “Especially the part about traveling all over the world to create a potion that people have been seeking for… well, probably forever.”

  “You're right. It would have made a terrific film,” Gordon said somberly. “In fact, I was convinced that her story would provide me with the opportunity to make my comeback.”

  “But you're talking about it in the past tense,” Mallory protested. “You can still make a movie about her, even though this horrible thing has happened.”

  He shook his head. “I'm afraid not. It's extremely unlikely, now that she's gone. Brett was never crazy about the idea. Now that she's gone, there's no way he'll ever let me get my hands on the rights.”

  “Why not? Isn't he proud of everything his wife accomplished?”

  Gordon just smiled. “Let's just say that while I like Brett personally, he puts a lot of effort into convincing people he's the way he wants them to see him. That doesn't necessarily mean it's the way he really is.”

  Interesting, Mallory thought. Exactly Harriet's take on the man.

  Of course, the word she had used—phony—wasn't quite as kind.

  “But we didn't come here to this lovely restaurant to talk about movies that will never get made,” Gordon said jovially. “We came to get to know each other better. And to sample some of this renowned chef's cuisine. I suppose we could classify it as ‘nouvelle.’ Or perhaps we should call it ‘ nouv-elk’…?”

  Even though he made a face at his own bad pun, Mallory laughed. “I like that turn of phrase,” she said. “Do you mind if I use it in my article?”

  “Not at all. But I bet you anything your editor takes it right out.”

  “I'm going to take the risk.” As she pulled out her notepad to jot it down, she added, “Promise that if I borrow your idea you won't think I'm doing something unethical?”

  “I'm from Hollywood, where doing unethical things is as commonplace as plastic surgery,” he said seriously. “Or guzzling Rejuva-Juice in the hopes that it will take off enough years to land a coveted role.”

  When they'd finished their meal and their waiter brought the dessert menu, Mallory couldn't resist poring over it.

  “Fortunately, I'm not in the movie business,” she told Gordon, “so I don't have to worry about looking young enough or thin enough.”

  But as soon as she glanced at it, she gasped.

  “Are the desserts that outstanding?” Gordon asked, looking amused.

  “It's more like I've never encountered an eighteen-dollar dessert before.”

  “Are you joking?” Gordon picked up the other menu and studied it. “Wow! And here I thought L.A. was out of control!”

  “Fortunately, this entire meal is on the magazine,” Mallory replied. “Which means we can't say no to the El Rey Chocolate Tasting.” Reading aloud, she said, “‘Venezuelan artisan chocolates that include a milk chocolate almond tartlet with Earl Grey gelato, chocolate cake with peppermint crème, orange pudding cake, and a malted chocolate milkshake’… How can one person possibly eat all those desserts?”

  “Trust me. You're going to need a magnifying glass to find them.”

  When the waiter came by, she ordered one chocolate tasting and two forks.

  “Microscopic or not, I'm counting on you to help me out with this,” she told Gordon.

  “How could I live with myself if I refused to come to the aid of a damsel in distress?” he replied.

  Mallory laughed. “Or at least one who was at a terrible risk of not being able to fit in her clothes anymore.”

  When dessert arrived, Mallory saw he was right.

  “No wonder no one in Aspen is overweight,” she joked, peering at the narrow rectangular plate dotted with three dollop-size blobs of chocolate and a chocolate milkshake in a shot glass.

  “Are you sure you still want me to split that with you?” Gordon teased.

  “A deal is a deal.”

  As he picked up his fork, he commented, “I hope you're not just being nice because you're planning on having your way with me later. It just so happens that chocolate is my weakness. One of them, anyway.”

  Once again, Mallory could feel her cheeks burning. “No! I—I wouldn't… I mean—”

  He smiled. “You're not very good at this, are you?”

  “It depends on what you mean,” she replied, still flustered. “Do you mean eating in restaurants, handling alcohol, dating—”

  “That last one,” he said earnestly, gesturing with his fork.

  By this point, her cheeks were burning. She would have bet the entire dessert that her face was as red as the wine in their glasses.

  “I guess I owe you an explanation,” she said. “I recently lost my husband—”

  “I was only joking,” he insisted. “And seriously, Mallory, you don't owe me anything. The last thing I want to do is embarrass you.” He reached over and took her hand. “It sounds as if you just need a little practice.”

  “You're right,” she admitted.

  “In that case,” Gordon said, digging into the chocolate cake, “you can consider me a willing rehearsal partner.”

  Walking on air was such a tired old expression, yet as Mallory stood outside the Hotel Jerome, watching Gordon walk away, she had to admit that it perfectly described the way she felt.

  She wanted to savor the moment, to luxuriate in the feeling of having just experienced such a marvelous evening. In fact, as she turned and floated into the hotel lobby, it was all she could do to keep from breaking into “I Could Have Danced All Night.”

  She was picturing herself sliding between the silky sheets and reliving every moment of the evening when the concierge interrupted her reverie.

  “Ms. Marlowe?” he asked as she passed the front desk. “There's someone here to see you. He's waiting in the lobby.”

&n
bsp; She stopped in her tracks. “Someone to see me?” she asked, frowning.

  “He specifically said Mallory Marlowe.” Pointing toward the sitting area just beyond where they stood, he added, “He's right over there.”

  Mallory was still convinced that the concierge had to be mistaken. That is, until she stepped onto the thick Oriental carpet in front of the black marble fireplace and spotted the silhouette of a man. She recognized him immediately, even though he was sitting in one of the upholstered chairs with his back to her.

  “Trevor?” she cried in astonishment, for a moment wondering if she was hallucinating or if her boss, the managing editor of The Good Life, had really materialized here in Aspen. “What are you doing here?”

  He jumped to his feet and whirled around. “Good God, Mallory. I've come to see what's going on with the story I assigned you, now that Carly Berman has been murdered! I also wanted to make sure you're all right!”

  Trevor ran the fingers of one hand through his dark, silver-flecked hair. While he always wore it on the long side, at the moment it was so disheveled that it perfectly matched his wrinkled dark brown pants. He also wore a puffy blue coat that struck Mallory as the kind of jacket Manhattanites assumed people wore in ski towns like Aspen. The bags under his hazel eyes were almost as puffy. In short, he looked like someone who had just spent too many hours on a cramped plane, suffered from jet lag, and badly needed to down a few quarts of water before serious dehydration set in.

  “But… but there was no reason to come all this way!” she cried. “I told you on the phone that everything was fine. I'm perfectly all right!”

  “But you didn't sound all right.” Trevor sighed deeply. Holding out both hands helplessly, he said, “Look, Mallory. I was worried. Can I help that? It's not that I don't think you can take care of yourself. Of course I do! Otherwise, I never would have hired you. Not for a job that requires infinite flexibility and plenty of common sense and the ability to think on one's feet…”

  He stopped long enough to take a deep breath. “For heaven's sake, since I came all this way, aren't you at least going to invite me to join you for a drink so we can talk about what's been going on out here?”