Over Her Dead Body (19 page)

“Yes, I’m driving out with Jessie.”

I hadn’t told him about Ryan, because I was afraid that would incite the situation even more. Nor had I told him about the attack in Little Odessa. I was reluctant to bog him down with that if it wasn’t related to the murder.

“Got plans for tonight?” Nash asked, tugging a twenty out of his wallet as he slid off the stool.

“Just seeing an old friend.”

“Well, have fun. And I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He leaned over and to my surprise gave me a kiss on the cheek. It wasn’t such a big deal, really. People did it all the time in New York, including co-workers. In this case, it could easily have been a nonverbal way of saying, “We work together and we like each other and we’ve been through one hell of a week.” But here was the problem. He laid his left hand on my back when he did it, and there was something a little too intense about the press of his fingers and a little too long about the amount of time they were there. I knew that kind of touch—what woman didn’t? It wasn’t at all about working together and being through a tough week. It was the kind of touch that said, “I’d like to have my way with you.”

But there was nothing lascivious in the look on Nash’s face and I felt perplexed. We said good night, and after seeing me outside, Nash merged into the human traffic flow. For a few moments I lingered on the sidewalk, watching him weave through the crowd and replaying our conversation in my mind. I had told him I liked working with him and that I liked his editing. Nothing misleading on my part, I was sure of it. Maybe it was just Nash being his Mr. Flirty self.

Still standing in front of the bar, I took a few seconds to figure out which subway line to take. A FedEx truck that had stopped directly in front of me suddenly gunned ahead, and as soon as my view cleared, I spotted Hilary standing across the street in front of a deli. She was staring right at me. It was obvious that she recognized me, but she gave no indication of that and then hurried off. I wondered if she’d seen me leave the bar with Nash. She’d be just the type, I realized, to start some ugly rumor. Gosh, what a fun day so far.

I ended up taking the R from 49th and Seventh Avenue, getting off at Prince Street and walking the rest of the way. For years Cat had lived in a town house on the Upper East Side, but her nanny had been murdered there last spring, and after discovering that no amount of scouring or redecorating could purge the negative vibe, Cat had sold the town house and moved in February to a loft downtown. I had visited there only once, just before I left
Gloss.

Her place was on Lispenard, just to the west of Chinatown. Cat answered the door herself when I arrived, dressed in tight tan capris and a black top with what I believed would be described in the pages of
Gloss
as little cap sleeves. Her long blond hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, and she’d forgone her usual pink or red lipstick for a nude-colored one tonight. She’d topped it with a thin layer of clear gloss or Vaseline—not just on her lips, but on the very outside edges, too, making her mouth appear even fuller. I’d seen this glistening trick on a few other women, but when I’d attempted it myself I had looked as though I’d just eaten a hunk of whale blubber with my hands.

“Bailey, it’s so good to see you,” Cat announced. This was the first time I had laid eyes on her since I’d left
Gloss.
She hugged me in the awkward, arms-held-stick-straight way that Cat was famous for, but nonetheless I could feel warmth in her touch. She really did seem pleased.

“It’s quiet here,” I commented. “Are you on your own tonight?”

“It’s just me and Tyler,” she said. “Want to say hi?”

“Sure.”

She led me toward his bedroom at the far end of the loft. The place looked smashing, in a much more finished state than when I’d been there previously. It ran east to west, the entire floor of a small building, so there were wonderful views of both uptown and downtown. The walls had been painted white, and Cat’s off white couches and chairs from her town house fit in well, accented by her collection of black-and-white photographs. One wall showcased a huge abstract painting of red splashes that must have been newly acquired.

Tyler was in animal-decorated jammies, looking precious and watching a
Dora the Explorer
video. He gave me a little handshake when I said hello, but he seemed about as interested in talking to me as he would be in hearing a lecture on cybernetics, so Cat and I drifted back to the living space. She motioned for me to take a seat on the couch and poured us each a glass of Bordeaux. On the black coffee table in front of us was a board of cheeses, as creamy colored as her couch and chairs, and little cloth cocktail napkins bordered in gold. Man, I felt like a passenger on the
QE II.

“So how
are
you?” she asked, settling into one of the big armchairs across from me.

“Still kind of rattled, I guess. And as you’ve probably heard, the police have their eye on Robby Hart. You remember him from
Get,
don’t you?”

She nodded, though I wasn’t sure if she really did. Cat often fell short of knowing the names of the low-rung people on her staff. “Start from the beginning,” she said. “I want to hear it all.”

Ahh, perhaps that’s what I owed the gold-trimmed napkins to—Cat’s desire to learn everything she could about Mona’s murder. I complied by offering her a ten-minute overview. She peppered me with questions, some of which I felt comfortable answering, some of which I had to play dumb to.

“I’ve got a couple of questions for
you,
actually,” I said. I tried to make it sound casual, so that she wouldn’t suspect it was the only reason I’d hiked down to TriBeCa. “I’m writing the story up for
Buzz,
and I could use some background information.”

“
Buzz
is actually
covering
the murder?” she asked. I could tell by her expression that she was both surprised and mildly annoyed with herself for not having realized it.

I nodded quickly, and then, not giving her a chance to lob any more questions at me, said, “Tell me what you know about Mona’s situation there. What was her relationship with Dicker like?”

“From what I hear, she couldn’t
stand
the man,” Cat said. “Mona was hardly to the manner born, but she apparently thought Dicker was the crudest thing she’d ever come across.”

“He certainly liked to keep his nose in what she was doing—looking at covers, stuff like that.”

“Oh yeah, and that galled her, I hear. It’s one thing to be stuck with an editorial director, but at least they occasionally have something worthwhile to say. Dicker’s just a business type who started off selling women’s shoes, and suddenly he’s trying to make suggestions to her about putting out a magazine. I heard he even had the nerve to suggest cover lines from time to time.”

“She supposedly got paid over a million a year. Doesn’t that make all the hassle and interference worth it?”

“Not to someone like Mona. In fact, not to most editors. Who wants some former shoe buyer in a Hugo Boss suit telling them what to put in their magazines? I heard lately that Mona’s contract was coming to an end, and though Dicker offered her a fat new one, she’d been sitting on it for weeks. And he’s not a patient man.”

As soon as she said it, a memory shot through my mind: Dicker dashing out of Mona’s office the day I was there for my job interview. I sipped my wine, trying to conjure up the words he’d uttered that afternoon. They were something like “Take time to review it, but we need to get moving on it.” He may very well have been referring to the contract. Had Mona gone up to his office Tuesday night to tell him she wouldn’t be signing it? Had she asked Amy for luck knowing how pissed he’d be when he heard the news? This was getting interesting.

“Do you think she was going to take another job?” I asked.

“Possibly. There were always rumors—including one that she might try TV. But I hadn’t heard anything specific.”

“So what would Dicker have done if she didn’t sign up again?”

“Been extremely pissed. Not only is she good at what she does, but Dicker’s put up with a lot from her and he probably felt she owed him.”

“Couldn’t he have just given the job to Nash?” I asked, feigning ignorance.

“The rumor around town is that Nash
is
actually going to get it. But I think he lucked out because of all the turmoil right now. I don’t think he would have gotten the job if Mona had simply not renewed her contract. Dicker would have taken his time and done the search of the century for a hot new editor. . . . Do
you
think Nash has a chance?”

“I haven’t been there long enough to have any intuition about the politics of the place,” I said, pleased with the way I’d avoided answering. “I’d
like
to see Nash get the job. He seems like a good guy—and he’s a terrific editor.”

“Yeah, that’s what they say about him. That he’s a terrific editor.” She’d left something unspoken.

“But . . . ?”

“Well, he’s a great word editor and a great boss, but he’s no visionary. His staff loved him when he was editing that men’s magazine, but he bombed at the newsstand.”

“What’s the deal with his marriage? Do you—”

“Oh please. He’s a total tomcat. But his wife doesn’t deserve any sympathy. Apparently, all he has to do is beg for two minutes and she takes him back.”

“What about
Mona’s
marriage? Do you know anything about that?”

“I met the guy once. He seemed like a loser. He writes these ridiculous plays. He’s got a kid from a previous marriage, and I can only imagine what kind of stepmother Mona must have been. But enough about all of them. Tell me about you. What’s happening?”

I explained that there was nothing much to report: My book was still slated for the fall and my love life was in a holding pattern.

“What about you?” I asked. “How’s the new, improved
Gloss
?” It slayed me to have to inquire, but it would seem lame not to.

“Good, I suppose,” she said. “It’ll take a few months to see how readers are responding to it. I’m trying not to let the material bore me to tears.”

“You mean all those articles on living your best life ever and sniffing vanilla to reduce anxiety?”

“Yeah, those. I hope you’re not still mad at me, Bailey. I miss having your articles, but I had to change
Gloss
or it was going to catch up with me. I’m in a lifestyle with a huge overhead, and I can’t take any chances. You know, I envy you. You’ve created a life for yourself in which you’re pretty much a free agent. You don’t have to do things you don’t like.”

Oh sure, I wanted to say. I was a real free agent. That’s why I was working at a magazine that used endless amounts of ink to speculate about the authenticity of women’s tits.

“Well, look, I’d better get moving,” I said. “You need to put Tyler to bed and I’ve got an early morning tomorrow.”

“I’m so glad we reconnected,” she said warmly as she unbolted the door for me. “Let’s plan on seeing each other again soon.”

“Absolutely,” I told her. It had been nice to break the ice tonight. Yet I felt a gap between us, a distance that had never existed in all the years she’d been my boss—and certainly not when I’d investigated the death of her nanny and Cat had saved my life.

I opted for a cab home, stopping at the deli at my corner for a few supplies. My place was like an oven all over again. There was a note under my door from Landon, announcing that he’d gone to Bucks County for the weekend and that I should feel free to drive out if I wanted to. After firing up the air conditioner, I stripped off my clothes and made an omelet with the eggs and mushrooms I’d bought at the deli. I drank a glass of wine, too, hoping I’d feel more relaxed; but as I stuck my plate in the dishwasher in my tiny kitchen, I realized that I was even more tense than I’d felt earlier. Everything that had happened over the past twenty-four hours seemed to have hardened in my gut, like one of those giant rubber-band balls that some people keep on their desks and snap when they’re bored.

For starters, there was the lingering fear from the episode in Little Odessa. I couldn’t get those terrifying white shoe tips out of my mind. If the guy was connected to the murder, he might even be spying on me here in Manhattan.

Then there was all the crap that had gone down today: Kimberly’s visit and her threat about me burning in hell; Ryan’s outburst and his snide remark about how I shouldn’t play detective. Why was he being so nasty—and what was he hiding from me? I could still feel his bony arm as I’d brushed past him. A terrifying thought suddenly occurred to me: Ryan was tall and skinny, just like the person in the baseball cap and white sneakers.

And let’s not forget Nash, I thought. Had I imagined the suggestiveness in his touch, or was it for real? Was he just constantly putting out feelers and seeing what woman bit, or did he have a particular interest in bagging me? The last thing I needed in the middle of this mess was my boss propositioning me.

Last, but hardly least, was Cat’s revelation about Mona and Dicker. If she was right, Mona’s visit to Dicker on Tuesday night might have related to a decision on her part not to sign a contract. That would explain the brevity of the meeting (Mona might have told him simply that she wasn’t signing up again or that she still hadn’t made up her mind and that there was nothing more to say until she had) and confirm Amy’s suspicion that Mona had needed courage for her encounter.

No wonder Dicker had offered that seemingly bullshit story about Mona visiting him to discuss the cover. He’d probably offered that version of events to the cops, too, because he wouldn’t want it known that his meeting with Mona had been contentious. Was Dicker the killer? Had he become enraged when he’d learned that Mona was leaving and later shown up in her office to continue his fuming?

I had too many suspects. And too few pieces of real information.

I opened the door to the terrace and slipped outside with my wine. Through the wood stockade fence on the right, I could see the amber light on Landon’s terrace. To my left, beyond a low wrought-iron fence, was the open roof area, filled with shadows. I’d never been nervous sitting out on my terrace before, but tonight I felt creeped-out. I went back inside.