'Til Death Do Us Part (16 page)

The waiter arrived with our plates and slid them onto the table. I took a bite of my sandwich as Carol sawed off a section of her all-white omelet, which looked about as appetizing as a braised washcloth.

“Okay, let’s talk for a minute about how someone could do it,” I said. “Any ideas?”

She frowned, thinking.

“It’s possible, of course, they could do it unintentionally, not knowing about Robin’s situation—like what happened with the chocolate. But Robin was generally good about asking what was in everything she consumed. So if that’s not what happened, someone snuck it into her food. Which wouldn’t be all that hard. You could put cheese in a sauce, for instance.”

“Wouldn’t she smell it, or at least taste it?”

“I guess cheese isn’t the best example. Another possibility is wheat germ. That’s loaded with tyramine.”

“And is the flavor pretty mild?”

“I’m a nutritionist, not a chef, so I’m not all that familiar with disguising tastes. But I know it
can
be done.”

According to Ashley, Robin had left for Vermont in the morning. Had someone paid her a visit beforehand, bearing food? Or had she stopped someplace on her way out of town? That’s something I’d have to ask about when I returned to Greenwich.

I’d elicited everything I could from the nutritionist, and I was anxious to bolt. I took the last two bites of my sandwich but had to wait until she’d finished her omelet, which she did at a maddeningly slow pace, setting down her fork after each bite. It was as if she were waiting for some all-clear signal from her stomach before she could resume. As I paid the check, she begged me to keep her posted, and I promised I would.

Since I was almost positive no one had followed me uptown, I ended up taking the subway home after walking four blocks west to the station on Lexington Avenue. My train car was half-empty and I wrote as I rode, scribbling down a few notes from my meeting. I hadn’t learned much, but what she’d shared had at least bolstered my belief that Robin hadn’t played Russian roulette with a wedge of Roquefort.

As I approached my building from the station, I slowed my pace and surveyed the area. A few people were hurrying down the street, braced against the biting wind that had kicked up in the past few hours. But no one was just standing around, looking as if they were casing the place.

I had a half hour before Jack was due back, and I decided to use it to draw up my to-do list for Greenwich. After making coffee, I took my mug and my composition book to the pine dining table that’s at the far end of my living room. After thumbing through to a clean page, I jotted Phillipa’s name at the top. When I stopped by the farm tomorrow, she’d be one of the first people I would talk to. She’d apparently been mad as a bull about being excluded from the wedding day lineup. I knew it was a long shot, though. Being banned from the bridal party hardly seemed motive enough for killing three women. Even if being rejected had fueled a murderous rage in her, wouldn’t she have directed that rage at
Peyton
rather than us—a group of women whose only sin had been wearing butt-ugly dresses not of our own choosing and so much hair spray that you could have bounced a basketball off our heads? Still, I wasn’t going to ignore any possibilities.

While I was on-site, I planned to chat with the salesclerk again to see if she’d recalled anything useful, and also Mary, Peyton’s executive director. As Maverick believed, there was a chance someone was doing this to cast a pall over both Peyton’s business and her burgeoning career as a media star. Mary would know if there was a former employee who hated Peyton’s guts—or a competitor who was also vying for first place in the “I’m the Next Martha Stewart and You’re Not” contest. Of course, I could also ask Peyton about it, but she seemed to be mildly paranoid about everything having to do with her business, and Mary might have a more objective view.

I also wanted to find a way to meet David’s ex-wife. Though David had insisted that it was far-fetched to consider her a suspect, Peyton had seemed very suspicious of her. I wanted to chat with her and see exactly how much she resented being the
former
Mrs. Slavin.

I’d stop at the Greenwich Library, too, at some point. The newspaper in most towns that size featured a “police blotter,” a listing of all recent arrests, and I’d go back to the last April and see if I could locate information on the accident that had delayed us the night of the rehearsal dinner.

Another place I wanted to visit was Wellington House, the historic mansion where Peyton was married. Maybe visiting it again might jog loose a memory of something significant. If I could only figure out what strange thing Robin had been referring to, I might be able to see a clear motive on someone’s part. So far I’d come up empty-handed.

After refilling my coffee cup, I grabbed my purse and dug out the pack of photos I’d taken from Robin’s drawer. I spread them out on the table in front of me. Jamie had apparently given these photos to Robin for safekeeping, so it stood to reason that the “something strange” was captured or hinted at in these pictures. But nothing at all seemed amiss. Beyond the two solo shots of Peyton and the one of her and David kissing under the trellis, the pictures were mostly of the bridesmaids or guests—mingling, talking, dancing. There was a shot of Trip speaking to a man by the bar, a business associate of his and David’s, perhaps. The only photo that wasn’t of guests was a view of the ballroom just before dinner had been served. The tables sparkled with silver and candlelight. Mary was in the edge of the frame, speaking to a waiter. Just as Megan Bliss had said, Mary had been stuck playing two roles that day.

Suddenly a thought occurred to me, and I kicked myself: Maybe one of the pictures was missing. I counted them and compared them to the negatives. Twenty-six. They were all there.

I picked up my pencil and composition book again. As much as the whole wedding angle intrigued me, I didn’t want to lose sight of the fact that the murders might have nothing at all to do with the wedding—or even the fact that the three women were bridesmaids. As I’d already considered, Jamie might have been involved in something that led to her death, then Robin and Ashley were killed because the murderer suspected they knew too much. If that was the case, I was clearly under suspicion now—either of knowing too much, too, or of butting in.

I also needed to keep in mind that my attacker Friday night had seemed like a
man
. I wasn’t a hundred percent certain—it could have been a woman, someone big and wearing an overcoat—but that was my sense. At this moment, there were no men smack in the middle of the radar screen—though David’s fight with Trip intrigued me. Of course, even if my attacker
had
been a man, that didn’t mean the murderer was. The murderer could be a woman who had hired someone to try to scare me off.

The phone rang just as I felt ready to blow a fuse in my brain.

“Sorry to be so late calling.” It was Jack. “I ran into a few complications.”

“Everything okay?” I asked.

“Could be better,” he said, clearly irritated. “The landlord doesn’t think the apartment’s going to be available after all. So my sublet is about up and I’ve got no place to live. I was tempted to strangle him on the spot, but since there’s a small chance it
could
work out, I had to restrain myself.”

“Oh, Jack, that’s too bad. Do you want me to get out the real estate section of the
Times
? We could even look at a few places today.”

“Nah, that’s a lousy way to spend a Sunday. I’ll call some agents this week from Washington and see if I can get them on the case. You’re not looking for someone to split
your
rent, are you? I’d even go sixty-forty.”

It took me a few seconds to comprehend the full meaning of what he’d just said, and when I did it almost knocked the breath out of me. I couldn’t be sure from his tone, however, whether or not he was merely jesting.

“Are you just kidding?” I asked.

“Yes. No. Maybe not. Look, this is hardly the moment to discuss it. I’ll see you in about half an hour, okay?”

“Uh, sure,” I said. His comment had left me pretty much tongue-tied.

As soon as I hung up the phone, my heart began to do this odd little skipping thing. Up, down, up down. I couldn’t tell exactly what was happening, but there was one thing I knew for certain: It wasn’t jumping with joy.

I circled the apartment aimlessly a few times, like one of those demented wildebeests on the Discovery Channel whose brain is playing host to a parasite. I finally ended up in the kitchen, where I poured myself a glass of Chardonnay from a near empty bottle I used for cooking. It was early in the day for wine, but I felt edgy, because of both Jack’s comment and all the coffee I’d consumed. The wine tasted woody, like a cardboard box. I poured it down the drain and opted for a glass of Saratoga water instead.

Just sim, I told myself. Maybe Jack had merely spoken off the cuff and had never actually given a moment’s thought to living with me. But when I’d asked if he was kidding, he’d said, “Maybe not.” Did this mean that he had been toying lately with the idea of taking our relationship to some new level? My heart felt as if it were careening around my chest like a squash ball, hopelessly confused.

But
why
, I asked myself, was I feeling so weird? And why, for that matter, should his words even surprise me? We’d known each other since last May, and though we’d gotten off to a bit of a rocky start, we’d been seeing each other exclusively since October. And not just on weekends. Since my schedule was the more flexible one, I’d made a few trips during the week to Washington. And we’d also spent five days right after Christmas at Lake Louise in Canada for a travel piece I wrote. Jack would be moving to New York for good this summer, and I’d already given some thought—as I’m sure he must have—to how our relationship was going to intensify when we were in the same city 24/7.

But summer was still a long way off, and up until fifteen minutes ago I’d told myself that I still had plenty of time to get used to the idea of seeing Jack more often and really figuring out my feelings for him. I felt as if I’d gradually been falling in love with Jack—but I wasn’t totally there yet.

I decided the best thing to do right now was just to ignore the phone conversation. Jack’s sublet situation might work out in the long run anyway, and there was a good chance the subject wouldn’t come up again.

In the time I had before he arrived, I worked 411. I got the phone numbers I needed, including one for Mandy Slavin and her address. Then I called both the Greenwich Library and Wellington House for directions. There must have been an event going on at Wellington House because I could barely hear the person over the music and clinking of glasses. As I set down the phone, I thought suddenly of the bartender I’d talked to at the wedding reception. He’d stood in one spot for hours, not only serving everyone, but also surely surveying the scene—and probably swapping comments about it later with the other help. Maybe he knew something.

His name had been Chris something, and he’d been by far the best-looking guy in the room—about six feet tall, blue eyes, sun-kissed brown hair, a struggling actor, he’d said, who supplemented his income by modeling and taking on the occasional bartending gig. At first I’d assessed him as a jerk. That’s because when he’d handed me a glass of red wine, he’d suggested that next time I should try a drink called a buttery nipple.

I’d shot him the most withering look I could summon. But before I’d had a chance to turn away, he’d flashed me a killer smile and said he’d only suggested it because he’d overheard my name was Bailey and the drink was made with butterscotch schnapps and Baileys Irish Cream. I’d smirked and strutted off. “If you prick us, do we not bleed?” he’d called out after me. Shakespeare delivered by a guy that hot was hard to resist. I’d refilled my glass often that night and flirted with him each time. He’d asked for my number toward the end of the reception, and I’d said I’d take his instead. But in the end I never got around to calling him. I’d just started dating an investment banker who made me weak in the knees (until, that is, I discovered he believed in diversification in matters of the heart and flesh), and then before long Jack arrived on the scene. Besides, during one of my exchanges with Chris I’d realized he was only twenty-five. I was practically old enough to have baby-sat for him when he was a kid.

But now the idea of talking to him made sense. I still probably had his cell phone number, I realized. I scrolled through my Palm and found it—and his last name: Wickersham.

As the phone rang, I realized there was a good chance it wasn’t even his number anymore. But it was. An easygoing voice announced, “This is Chris. Leave a message.”

I reminded him who I was and how we had met and said I needed to ask him a quick question. Mine was the kind of message that didn’t stand a huge chance of being returned, but I wasn’t sure how else to play it. If I tried to be coy, he might find it obnoxious, considering I’d never called him last April. If I sounded serious and claimed it was important, he might be worried that I’d given him an STD—until, that is, he remembered he hadn’t bedded me.