Over Her Dead Body (15 page)

“Bailey,” he’d say, “I’d like you to meet my fiancée, Lake.”

God, the sheer thought of it made me want to sob, though I was the one who had kicked the man to the curb.

I was trying to push thoughts of Jack, his fiancée, and their sterling silver pattern out of my head when the phone rang. The sound of it, so loud in the silent room, slammed my heart against my chest like a baseball.

“Hello,” I said, trying not to sound as if I were already in bed.

There was only silence. Oh Christ, I thought, not this again.

But then someone spoke my name. It was Robby.

“Hi,” I said, using my free elbow to push up into a sitting position. “I’ve been thinking about you.”

“Have you? I tried to call you a couple of times tonight.”

“Those were your hang-ups?”

“Yeah, sorry,” he said. “I didn’t want to go into some long, involved message. I sort of thought
you
would have called
me
by now—I mean, to check on how things were going.” The last sentence was delivered forlornly.

“Well, like I said, I’ve been thinking of you. But I was a little concerned by the fact that you left me out to dry with the police. They weren’t too happy when they found out that I’d been looking for your letters on Tuesday night but hadn’t informed them of that earlier.”

“I’m sorry,” he said regretfully. “I know you said that you’d been mum about that. But my lawyer told me to admit that I’d sent you to collect the letters. He thought it added legitimacy to my claim that I’d gone there that night for the letters and not to kill Mona.”

“So you found a good lawyer?”

“Yeah, he seems decent enough. Of course, I’m going to go broke paying for him. And if they charge me . . . God, Bailey. I don’t know what to do.”

“Robby, you know there’s a chance your phone may be tapped.”

“I don’t have anything to hide. Bailey, I swear I didn’t do it. You know me, I couldn’t hurt a fly. I never even saw Mona that night. I just went in, took the letters, and left.”

“The guy from the art department, the one who let you in—was his name Harrison?”

“I’m not sure. He has long blondish hair. He’s only freelance.”

“No one else was there?”

“No, I told you that the other night. You don’t believe I’m innocent, do you,” he added plaintively. “You think I killed Mona.”

“I didn’t say that. You just threw me a curveball, that’s all, by not letting me know you were going to share that information about the letters with the police. Tell me, what does your lawyer say? What’s his assessment of your situation?”

He let out a long, despondent sigh. “He says that right now, they don’t seem to have any evidence. How could they? There
is
no evidence. But who knows what will happen if they don’t figure out who the murderer is? They may charge me on circumstantial evidence, based on the fact that I had a motive and I was
there.
Because they don’t have anyone else to blame.”

He was sounding noticeably more agitated as he spoke.

“Robby, try to stay calm,” I urged.

“You’ve got to help me, Bailey,” he said. “I’m so worried I’m going to be railroaded. Is there anything you can do?”

I gathered my words carefully. There was a lot brewing, and some of it might be of value to his lawyer, but I had to be circumspect with Robby—with
anyone
—until I knew what I really had.

“I don’t know if you heard this, but I’m writing up the story of Mona’s death for
Buzz,
” I told him. “I’m doing a lot of investigating on the case. If I find anything that might help clear you, I will turn it over to the police immediately and let you know, okay?”

“What have you learned so far? Do you have any ideas who could have done it?”

“No, I don’t have anything yet. But like I said, I will definitely let you know if I learn anything significant. In the meantime, I want you to do two things. Listen to your gut about your lawyer. You said he seems decent enough, but if you have even the vaguest thought that he’s not as smart as he should be or not giving you his full attention, you need to find someone else. People who get screwed by their lawyers often admit later that they had a bad feeling but didn’t put it into words or felt reluctant to act on it. Also, you have to be straight with your lawyer. One of the biggest mistakes innocent defendants make—at least from what I’ve seen—is not being forthcoming enough. Don’t leave anything out. Don’t convince yourself he doesn’t need to know certain things. Okay?”

“Yeah, thanks. That’s good advice. I just feel so miserable. I think of that drink we had in that wine bar and how I wish I could have my old life back again.”

“You will,” I said with as much reassurance as I could muster, which wasn’t much at all.

We said good night, and I was aching inside as I hung up the phone. It would be horrible to be in his shoes right now.

The next morning I was up by six-thirty. I still felt unsettled about the incident last night and the chance that it might be connected to Mona’s death. A shower and a cup of coffee, enjoyed on my terrace in the balmy quiet of the morning, did a pretty good job of chasing away some of my anxiety. Plus, I kept reminding myself that no one knew exactly where I was going last night, so chances were it wasn’t connected to Mona’s murder.

By ten of eight, I was seated at the restaurant in the Mark Hotel on Madison and 77th Street. I wanted to get the lay of the land before the duchess arrived so that I’d remain in control of the meeting. From what I’d been able to surmise by both her tone and office chitchat, she was the wily type who could strip you butt naked—metaphorically—before you had a clue what was going on. The dining room of the hotel was dark and hushed, filled mostly with banker types in expensive, well-draped suits and middle-aged female tourists.

At exactly eight Mary Kay appeared in the doorway, dressed from head to toe in pink Chanel, probably a size twelve. I’d never met her but I’d seen photos. Her champagne-colored hair was in a large, tight French twist, which except for the color looked identical to a hornet’s nest. “That’s Mary Higgins Clark,” a woman at the next table announced sotto voce to her three fellow diners. “I’m sure of it.” The maître d’ led Mary Kay to my table, where she waited regally for him to pull out the chair for her.

“So you’re the famous Bailey Weggins,” she said as she shifted in her seat for a comfy position. She was wearing more bling than I’d ever seen on a woman before noon.

“Famous?” I asked with a polite smile. “I don’t know who would call me
that.
”

“Excuse me if I sounded facetious,” she said. “What I meant to say is that I’ve heard a great deal about you. Mona—God bless her soul—believed you were making a wonderful contribution to the magazine. And Nash clearly thinks you’re the bee’s knees.”

“I didn’t know you dealt much with Nash.”

“Well, I do
now,
of course,” she said. “He’ll be named editor, don’t you think?” Her eyes were a faded blue, as if the color had been leached out over the years, but they managed to hold mine tightly as she spoke.

“I’m probably the worst person to ask about that,” I said. “I’m still too new to be privy to much inside information. And Dicker didn’t give away anything about his intentions when he spoke to the staff.”

She had slid pink reading glasses onto her powdered nose in order to study the menu, and she peered curiously over them in my direction. “I suppose he’s all worked up—Dicker, I mean. He always seems so overheated, doesn’t he? Maybe it’s all because of that unfortunate name of his.”

“I’ve never had much contact with him, actually,” I said. “Mona did, of course, but not the rest of the staff.”

“And how
is
the staff? Does anyone seem truly saddened by Mona’s death? Or are they all crying crocodile tears?”

“Well, like I said, I’m new and no one is going to confide in me. But I sense that people are very upset and disturbed by what’s happened. Whether anyone is actually grieving for her personally, I don’t know.”

She considered my comment without remarking on it and then turned her attention to the menu, which she perused briefly and tossed on the table. As she flicked her wrist, her thick gold and diamond bracelets clicked together.

“Do you know what you’d like?” she asked.

“Just some scrambled eggs.”

“Wonderful,” she said, signaling for the waiter. She motioned for me to give my order first and then offered her own: two poached eggs, moist but not runny; whole-wheat bread toasted twice and already buttered; a selection of jams, but only berry and no marmalades; cantaloupe, sliced thin; and coffee, very, very strong. My guess, just from looking at the waiter’s expression, was that she had about a sixty percent chance of receiving everything she’d requested.

“Now tell me, what can I do for you?” Mary Kay asked as the waiter walked away still scribbling. “You seemed very anxious to talk.”

“I don’t know if you’ve heard yet or not, but I’m writing the story about Mona’s death for
Buzz.
I need to interview people on staff, and Nash has asked everyone to cooperate with me.”

“I hope you understand, dear, that I was on an airplane for a good part of yesterday. I returned your call as soon as I could.”

“Um, of course . . . I know that,” I said, sputtering. “I was just explaining the reason for my wanting to see you. I need to ask you some questions for the story.”

“I thought someone else was doing the profile of Mona, a young man.”

“You mean Ryan. Yes, he’s doing the profile. I’m reporting on the actual crime—on Mona’s murder.”

“What could I possibly contribute? As you know, I was in Los Angeles at the time of her death.”

The waiter arrived with a white ceramic pot and poured coffee for both of us. Mary Kay took a long sip of hers, leaving a pink lipstick mark that might require a blowtorch to be removed.

“I know,” I said. “But you called Mona’s office at around seven. And you asked that she be at her desk at seven forty-five. I need to know if you talked to her again that night.”

Mary Kay just stared at me. Through the pale blue eyes, I could almost see her mind working.

“I assume Mona’s assistant told you that,” she said finally, her tone huffy. “Yes, I
did
call Mona’s office at seven, but I did
not
call at seven forty-five.”

“Then why did she need to be at her desk?”

“I had arranged for someone else to call her—a photographer.”

That explained the confusing phrasing Amy had relayed to me.

“And do you know if he made contact with her?”

“I don’t know, actually,” she said vaguely. “I was just the middleman, as they say.”

From Mary Kay’s caginess it was clear that something was up, but I didn’t have a clue what. Surely Mona talked to photographers all the time.

“Who was this guy?” I asked. “Is there any chance he came to see Mona in person that night?”

“Good heavens, no,” she said. “The police would be all over him in that case. The photographer’s in Los Angeles, and besides, I don’t think he’s ever even met Mona. He’s just a paparazzo who had some exclusive information that he thought Mona might be interested in. He wanted me to talk to her first so that she’d take his call.”

“
Information?
I thought paparazzi sold
photos
.”

“Of course. But sometimes, in the course of their work, they turn up extremely valuable information.”

She made them sound like guys doing stem cell research.

“And what information did this photographer have?” I inquired.

“I don’t see how that could possibly be relevant to you,” she said after fortifying herself with a sip of coffee. “Besides, I don’t
know
what it was. Like I said before, I was just the middleman in the situation.”

I fought the urge to yell, “Liar, liar, pants on fire.” It wasn’t that Mary Kay couldn’t tell a fib convincingly, but it was hard to believe that a busybody like her had been out of the loop.

Our food arrived and conversation ground to a halt as the waiter set it before us, then lifted off the silver warming covers. Mary Kay rested her palms, slightly cocked, on the edge of the table and surveyed her plate as if she were inspecting a blue velvet-lined tray of raw diamonds.

“Well, I’d like his name and number,” I said as soon as the food show was over. “I need to talk to him, to find out if he spoke to Mona or not. It will help establish exactly when she died.”

Mary Kay winced and set down her knife and fork as if she had briefly lost her appetite. “Dear me, how gruesome,” she said. “And what an unpleasant assignment for you.”

“Oh please,” I was tempted to say. This was a woman who’d had small parts in some of the worst movies ever made.

I used the rest of the breakfast to inquire about her career—how she got started, the highlights. Generally, pumping people about their life’s story is a sure way to soften them up, but Mary Kay never came round. She seemed to dislike me, as if she considered me beneath her. Maybe it had something to do with my being a crime writer, that she’d finally found another professional that she, a gossip consultant, could look down on. Sensing that she was anxious to leave, I ordered the check the moment the waiter cleared our plates. As I was paying the bill, I reminded her of my need for the photographer’s name and number. From her handbag she withdrew a black address book as thick as a club sandwich, flipped quickly to the correct page, and then jotted down the name and number for me.

“I’m not thrilled to be doing this,” she said, sliding it across the table to me, “but since Nash has asked that people cooperate, I will. And please be sure to tell him that I gave you all the help I could.”

I glanced down at the piece of paper. The name on it was Jed Crandall and then a phone number that I assumed was for a cell phone.

“Oh, just one last question,” I said. “Why did Mona take a sudden dislike to Brandon Cott?”

“That nasty little man? Sooner or later the whole world will take a dislike to him.”

“But did he do something to her?”

“It was at a premiere party that
Buzz
sponsored in L.A. It wasn’t particularly rude by Hollywood rudeness standards, but Mona found it humiliating. There was a photo op with several people, including Mona and Brandon. He kept ramming her with his hip, forcing her out of the picture.”