Aphrodisiac (27 page)

I knew I’d seen this woman somewhere before. But that night she was a brunette.

The toy-boy cast an admiring look at me and cooed, “I remember you now. Your theories on touching and hugging were so profound. Why don’t you party with us some night? I’d love to sleep between a little round person and a big round person.”

Viv, obviously bored with the conversation, raised her chin and waddled away, ducklings following behind.

Grrrr. Hit me where it hurts. I checked my reflection in a side-view mirror on one of Raffy’s pieces.

Benita shook her head. “What are you doing?”

“Tell me, Binnie. Am I…round?”

“How about you first tell me what the hell a Cuddle Night is?”

“Never mind that. Am I round?”

“Chill, sweetie. The toy-boy meant it as a compliment. But you do have a nice round butt and big round eyes. Now tell me about Cuddle Night.”

“It’s an adult pajama party. Not for sex. Just touching and holding. Very therapeutic.”

“Riiight.” Benita scrunched up her face. “Guys with stiffies farting in their sleep. Sign me up.”

“Uh-oh we forgot something.”

“The nickname.” Benita turned and called, “Hey, Chub Dubs.”

Sure enough, Lady Viv wheeled around to see where the call came from. Unfortunately, so did about ninety percent of the people in the gallery.

“Well done, Bin. Sensitive. Skillful. Very professional detective work.”

A white limousine stopped outside the gallery. Its handsome VIP occupant with designer glasses and sweet turned-up nose didn’t waste time waiting for the driver to do his thing with the door. Fippy Weintraub hopped out of the backseat and bounded into the gallery.

“The weatherman cometh,” I said.

Benita groaned. “Is there a back door to this place?”

Fip looked great in a blue seersucker blazer. The poor guy had barely made it through the door when the two photographers hawked in on him as if they were out to win the shot-of-the-day award. Fippy blocked his face with his hands. “No more pics. You guys got me in enough trouble already.”

Someone yelled, “Has Benita said yes?”

Out came that TV personality laugh. “No comment.” Fip pretended to be checking out the work while making his way in our direction. Benita gave him her back.

“Hi, Saylor,” he said with a pleading smile. My heart was breaking for the man. I opened my arms. Just about everyone in the gallery watched as we shared a big hug.

I tapped my roommate’s shoulder. “Binnie.”

He stepped toward her. “There’s my girl.”

She turned halfway. He gave her a kiss on the cheek and took her hand. All I heard was their whispering. Some muffled words from Fippy about his being sorry and how he “had no idea.” Benita nodding her head one moment, shaking it side to side the next. Just as things seemed to be on the mend, a photographer emerged from behind a sculpture, zooming in on them and snapping off several flashes.

“Get out of my face!”Benita said.

New York’s most adorable weatherman lunged for the camera. Unfortunately it would have to be one of the three photographers in the world who could defend himself. In what appeared to be a judo move, the man with the cam threw Fippy onto the seat of his pants. Making matters worse, the other photographer captured Fip’s embarrassing fall from grace.

Benita swooped in. Another scuffle ensued as she and the second photographer wrestled for his camera. Knowing better than to get in her way, I just yelled at the photographers to leave my friends alone. Big help.

Fip wobbled to his feet. Before he could do anything, Raffy’s two cousins from Bensonhurst pushed there way through the crowd that now surrounded us. Good. Order would be restored.

Not quite. Raffy intercepted them. “Yo, Frankie. Mikey. Hold up. The girl’s 14 and 0. She can handle them.”

Thanks, Raffy.

The photographer made the dreadful mistake of shoving Ms. Morales, which led to the instant rearrangement of his nose.

Mikey turned to Frankie. “Bet ya fifty on the chick.”

I heard Lady Viv giggling next to me. “I just love to see people getting real.”

People like Curtis Bardarson? No doubt he could get very real. I wondered if Lady Viv got her kicks sitting in the back of her limo and watching with delight as her chief strong-arm worked somebody over for her amusement.

Benita added a few extra blows to the snapshot jockey. Down he went.

Our heads all turned in the direction of a shouting match near the gallery’s entrance. The two bouncers from the Jewel stood by the door blocking Mr. Judo Photographer’s path.

“You dykes think your tough?” he said. “Get the hell outta my way.”

“Give up the film, and you can leave.”

He tried to push through them and was shouldered backwards. He tumbled straight into Lady Vivian. As she fell toward me, visions of being crushed underneath a couple hundred pounds of British livestock spurred my reflexes. I jumped out of her path.

Viv’s entourage rushed to maneuver her back up onto her feet. When I looked away, I noticed the Lady’s pink purse on the floor near the wall. Guess it flew out of her hand. In a stroke of brilliance, I took advantage of the confusion and hurried to the bag. I glanced around to make sure no one was watching, scooped it up and headed for the restroom.

As I locked the door behind me—this was a closet turned into a unisex single toilet bathroom—I felt I was re-entering that old hall of shame. What would Mom say? “My daughter the purse-snatcher.”

At sixteen I once lifted a bottle of tanning cream from the local Rite Aid. I had to. My allowance was gone, there was this cute guy who sat next to me in my Monday morning French class, it was February and I looked hideously pale. On my way out of the drug store I gave the cashier one of those dumb “that’s right, I’m guilty, please apprehend me” looks. Which of course they did. But there’d be no apologies or feelings of guilt this time. If Lady Viv was behind Gwen’s death, then I wasn’t quitting till the fat lady sang…to the police.

With nervous fingers I rifled through the brick-sized purse as fast as I could and pulled out a set of keys. They looked like house keys. Viv came here in a limo. These had to be the ones to her apartment. Was I nuts? Maybe. But I was also desperate.

Let’s see. I’d tell the doorman I was going to visit my client Candice Stoutz who lived on the twenty-fifth floor. That would get me in. If Candice was home. Didn’t I hear Lady Viv say her hubby was still out to sea? Excellent. But she probably had an alarm system. More likely she had a live-in maid. Meaning the alarm wouldn’t be on. Good. I’d just have to find a way to deal with the maid once I got in.

A knock on the door. Oh no. “Just a second, please.” I stuffed the remaining things back into the purse and hid it under my arm. Another knock. “Hold on, already.”

I opened the door. It was Walsh Plunkett.

“Dr. Oz. Please, excuse me.”

I gestured to the commode. “It’s all yours. Enjoy.”

His brow furled. “I have to be honest. This crowd makes me a bit uncomfortable. Your artist friend is a lesbian. And your roommate, that Spanish girl. She likes to fight, doesn’t she?”

I shrugged. “Not exactly the Debutante Ball.”

“It certainly isn’t,” he said. Plunkett went inside and slammed the door.

Wow. Somebody was born with a pin up his butt.

I lowered the pink handbag to the floor and used my foot to nudge it beneath what was clearly Raffy’s most ambitious piece in the show.

A twelve-foot creation entitled,
Yo, Dickhead

TWENTY-FIVE

During the walk home Benita displayed a triumphant bounce in her step. “While you were in the restroom you missed the finisher. I paid Mr. Judo back for what he did to Fippy.”

“I just can’t take you anywhere these days, Bin.”

“My friends from the Jewel helped me stop him from getting away with the film. No more embarrassing pictures of me in the news.”

We rounded the bend, hoofing it down the short block of Main Street. Benita had come out of the fray at the gallery without a scratch, but my therapist’s ear picked up a disturbance beneath her plucky exterior. “So, did you and Fip resolve anything?”

She stared out at the Manhattan Bridge Overpass. “I had to tell him we couldn’t get it together tonight. Or tomorrow. He kept begging me, asking for a reason. But what was I supposed to say? I’m in a last minute race to bag a killer? So, he gives me some bullshit about a woman who’s wetting her pants to spend the night with him. Then he turns and walks away.”

“I’m sorry I dragged you into this,” I said.

“It wasn’t you. It was Gwen. And no matter how hard I try, I have a load of anger at her for the whole mess.”

“I understand that. But remember, all Gwen did was use her brilliance to create something no one else could. It’s not her fault. She didn’t know she’d be murdered for it. Or that a little note to herself in her private journal would hurl us into this nightmare race. And it’s up to me to set this whole thing straight. In fact, I can handle things on my own if you want to see Fip tonight.”

“Why do you always have to be so forgiving? You’d make a terrible boxer. Although it did take some balls to steal Viv’s keys.” The red Camry was parked across the street from our loft. Benita clicked her remote, unlocked the car doors and turned to me. “My spy gear’s already in the car. You need to run inside for anything before we head uptown?”

Guess that meant she was still in this with me. “Ready to go,” I said, hopping into the passenger’s side. Benita started the engine and slid in a CD of Olga Tanon.

We’d set our plan as soon as we left the gallery. Benita’s assignment was to record Schumacher’s meeting with “the boys” using her latest listening device. A shotgun mini mic, handheld and capable of picking up conversations from a good distance. And—to be on the safe side—she’d finally get to wear her blonde wig.

I would go solo to Lady Viv’s place, gaining access to her building through my longtime client, Candice Stoutz, who lived just six floors below. Luckily things had fallen into place on that detail. I’d called Candice from the gallery to say I’d be in her neighborhood. She insisted I stop by, as I hoped she would. I even had a feather tickler and silk bondage ties to give her. I make it a point to always carry a few Do-Me-Good trinkets in my bag. Little giveaways to brighten someone’s day.

“Please be careful, Bin. You’re going head first into the lion’s den.”

“What about you?” she said. “Are you sure you’ll be okay going to that Brit’s

place alone?”

“Sure. I mainly have to see about the Kwan Yin figurine. If it’s mine, there’ll be no question that Lady Viv was behind the robbery of our apartment in Williamsburg. And if she claims she bought it from somebody, we’ll insist she prove it by leading us to the person who sold it to her.”

“Let’s go over what else you’re going to do there.”

“Again? Really, Binnie, you can be so parental sometimes.”

Lot a good. She was on a roll. “Check the messages and numbers on all phones. You have the flash drive I gave you? Think you can manage copying her computer files?”

“Of course. Will you stop assuming I’m a total klutz?”

Benita pointed to a gym bag on the floor. “There’s a box of disposable latex gloves in that. Take a pair and use them.”

“Oh great. Now I’ll feel like I’m hunting for a case of hemorrhoids instead of criminal evidence.” I pulled out the box, took two gloves and stuffed it back in with her other supplies. Unfortunately I noticed that those other supplies included her cousin Felix’s gun. “Binnie…”

“Get real, Saylor. We’re talking about Schumacher meeting with Curtis and his men, and you want me to go there unarmed?”

“I guess you’re right.”

From the Brooklyn Bridge we took the FDR Drive. Traffic wasn’t too bad. The car’s digital clock read, 7:02, and daylight was starting to fade. My eyes wandered off to the side view mirror. “Are we being followed?”

Benita checked her rearview. “I don’t see any Hummer.”

“No. I mean a silver Pathfinder. About five cars back.”

“Who can see five cars back?” She flicked me a quick glance. “Yeah, I know. You think every silver SUV is the Mace-man. You have lost it, girl. Gone
loca
on that clown.”

“Okay, Binnie. Enough.” Was it Eldridge? Had he tried to reach me? I checked my cell for any message that might have come in during the fray in the gallery. Hope springs eternal. When I saw none, I slumped back against the seat.

We took the Sixty-first Street Exit and shot up First Avenue. “Next stop, Eighty-sixth.”

I saw the classic brownish gray 1940’s high-rise. “Here we are,” I said. Benita pulled over. I jumped out and went straight for the double glass doors of the entrance. The doorman connected me to Candice right away. Keeping my focus, I trotted through the carpeted lobby and into the elevator. So far, so good. I was in.

After a friendly, but fast cup of coffee with Candice and her blowjob-obsessed husband Harry, I said goodbye and headed for Lady Viv’s. I reached into my purse for the ring of keys I’d stolen. It wasn’t too hard to pick out the elevator key that would give me access to the thirty-first floor.

On the way up I rehearsed my strategy. First, I would make up a name. “Hello, I’m Serena Dennis, a friend of Lady Viv’s. Here for the weekend. Just flew in from the coast.” I stepped out to a hallway with cream-colored walls and beige carpet. A half-moon table against the wall held a vase of gladiolas and spider mums. Pink. Nervous acids shot into my stomach. Should I knock first? No. The lobby doorman would have called if a visitor arrived. Dammit. I’d have to lay on some additional bull…“I decided not to bother you since Viv gave me a key.”

With jittery hands, I tried a key that looked like the best candidate. Didn’t fit. Tried another. Nope. Four more to go. Take it easy. Keep cool. “I’m Serena Dennis,” I murmured to myself. “Here for the weekend. Serena Dennis.” I moved on to the next key, plagued by thoughts of a coded burglar alarm with one of those ear-splitting sirens. And by a picture of myself hightailing it for the stairwell while an angry maid called security.

Suddenly the door opened. A tall man in a white dress shirt, rock glass in hand, stared down at me. “Can I help you?”

“Um, uh, I’m Sorona Donut. I mean, Doona. Or uh, make that Serula Dula. Yes, I um, just came out of the uh…”

“Nuthouse.”

Wishing there were a faster way to disappear, I backed off slowly. “Well, um, sorry I, uh, bothered you, Mr., I mean Lord, um, Hatch-Oliver.

He shook his head, disgusted. “Yeah, I figured you were another one of Lady Vivian’s cohorts. Well, I have news. The silly woman lives on the other side of the hall.” He slammed his door shut.

Okay. Another chance to do this. I’m calm. I’m calm. Knees like Jell-O, I took some deep breaths and approached the door across the hall. Good thing there were only two apartments on this floor. “Remember, the name is Dennis. Serena Dennis.” I can’t believe I even botched my stupid alias.

The lock turned over on my first try. Holding my breath, I slipped through the door and into an entry foyer. I was surprised to find lights on and the alarm panel on the wall set for disarm. Somebody was home.

“Viv?” a man called from a room up ahead. “Is that you, Viv?”

I froze, certain I was on the verge of a heart attack.

Low mumbling in the room. Two people? Gasp.

Faint sound of feet. Move, idiot. Think fast. I ripped off my shoes and scurried into a closet on my left.

“Viv? Viv?” He couldn’t have been more than three feet from where I hid behind a row of cashmere and fur coats. I didn’t move a hair.

“I could swear I heard someone come in.” He had a Spanish accent. Viv’s Columbian artist toy-boy?

“Vee cannot let her find us like dis.” A woman’s voice with a Czech or maybe Swedish accent.

Super. When Lady Viv returned, would these two end up hiding next to me in the closet?

“Sounds must have come from next door,” he said.

I heard him walk away. After waiting a few minutes, I carefully peeked out of the closet. Coast clear to go. But where? At the end of the hall I saw a half-open door. From behind it came the unmistakable sound of two people screwing like maniacs. Good. They’re occupied.

My penlight flashlight was now somewhere in the mulch of East Hampton’s Northwest Woods, and in my haste I’d forgotten to bring along another. But it appeared I wouldn’t be needing it anyway. Tsk. Annoys me the way some people waste energy. Lighting up a whole apartment when all it takes is one room to have sex in.

The brightly lit living room sat directly across the foyer. I inched my way there with the utmost delicacy. Oriental rugs on dark wood floors. A Le Corbusier chaise and a purple leather sofa. A wall-sized painting that I recognized as a Jasper Johns. The tables and bookshelves were covered in sculptures, odd lamps and curious objects. The compulsive collector.

Uh-oh. Judging by the building crescendo coming from the lovers’ room down the hall, it was orgasm time. The professional in me couldn’t help noticing the woman’s deep, expressive grunting. So healthy. Something I try to teach my students repeatedly. Many women shout from the top of their throats or make all kinds of high-pitched squeals when having sex. Can’t say that isn’t fun, but for a fuller orgasm I recommend vocalizing from down low in the stomach. A kind of deep “umph,” a nice carnal grunt. Kudos to the woman in the bedroom, whoever you are.

Except their climax could mean people getting up, walking around, having a drink, a smoke, a shower. Please, guys, go for a twofer. Keeping my ears open, I scanned the bookshelves built into the wall and found one that had several figurative pieces on the upper shelves, which unfortunately were in shadow. I grabbed a leather hassock and stood on it for a closer look. Yes. They were statues of goddesses from India, China, Africa, Greece and some I couldn’t identify. If I could just find my Kwan Yin and get the hell out of here. Hmm, nothing resembling mine. Except for maybe…

On the very top shelf at the end of a line of what looked like Parian Aphrodites I spotted something with possibilities. If only I weren’t so damn short. I had to reach it somehow. Going way, way up on my tippie toes, I stretched with all my might. The figurine was only a few inches from my grasp. You can do it, I told myself. Just a nidge more.

No dice. I’d have to climb on the bookshelf to get to it. Lifting my knee, I slipped my bare foot onto an opening in between some glassware. Now to transfer the other foot next to it. Careful. Slowly. There. Both feet were anchored. My fingers wrapped tightly around the figurine when I realized something. It was too dark up here to check for the chip mine had in the elbow. I had to get down.

Okay. Gripping the object with one hand and the bookshelf with the other, I turned my head in order to see the hassock. Oh no.

I was terrible when it came to heights. Even my stupid kitchen step stool gave me vertigo. Right now I felt as if I could just tip backwards into space. Don’t panic. Breathe. Closing my eyes, I fished around with my big toe until I felt the leather surface. All I needed was to make the shift. Here goes. First the right foot. Perfect. Now the…Oops.

Calump
. My bare heel slid off the hassock, and I hit the floor. The figurine fell out of my hands, striking the carpet with a thud. I held still, crouched on the floor, and listened. All I heard were the welcome sounds of the happy humpers going for their encore. Whew. Not far from me I saw the figurine…the head, that is. I crawled around until I located the other pieces and sat on the rug examining them. Oriental. But not wood. Not even a Kwan Yin. And certainly not mine. But the figurine looked old and rare. And pricey.

Before it was ruined. By me.

I stuffed all the pieces underneath the sofa cushions. A trick I’d devised while working for a housecleaning service when I was eighteen. Funny how desperation makes a person regress. At least this time they couldn’t fire me when it was found. Only arrest me for breaking and entering. Toss in a count of vandalism.

I crept out of the living room, paused briefly and heard only low talking from the hot and sexy corner room. Turned down a long hallway. No one in the kitchen. There was a room to my right. I slipped into it and left the door open a crack so I could hear anyone approach. The room was dark, but I doubted the lovers would notice one more light. I found a wall switch and flicked it on. In front of me was a Victorian kneehole desk. No computer. Two French chairs and a love seat in varied shades of green. A wall of shelves filled with collectibles. And chotchkas of all sizes everywhere.

My excitement mounted when I saw near the windows, on a marble table, a row of Kwan Yin statues. I zoomed in. Twelve of them stood in a line. Four were about twice the size of mine. Rule them out. I took a better look at the others. No doubt one had to be her latest acquisition. Three were carved and painted wood. But the colors weren’t right. And none had that tiny chip underneath the right elbow like mine.

I collapsed into a chair. An unpleasant feeling in my gut told me I’d come all this way for nothing. But what about Inez’s vision of a chubby woman in a little girl’s dress? Why would Inez pick up on the danger of Lady Viv of she wasn’t the guilty one?

I checked my watch. 8:32. Sensing a deep tremor of fear wanting to surface, I got ahold of myself. With only six and a half hours left before my three a.m. deadline, this was no time to fold. I strode to the desk. It was bare except for three sandalwood figurines from India, a Chinese vase and a cordless phone. I began scrolling through her caller ID, but something wasn’t working right. Maybe I pressed the wrong command. This phone was kind of weird, so I pushed a couple other buttons. What did all these flashing lights mean? And why wasn’t it scrolling? I was startled by a long series of beeps. Great. I threw it against the wall. There. Fixed.