'Til Death Do Us Part (28 page)

“When did he—when did it happen?” I asked.

“Last summer. August. You can’t imagine the hell I’ve been through since then.” She picked up a pack of nicotine gum from the table, rapped it two or three times against her other hand until a piece popped out, and then stuck it in her mouth.

“Was he depressed?” I asked. “I—I know he drank sometimes.”

“Yeah, he was depressed all right,” she replied, the words almost strangled by her despair. “Did you know about his DUIs? He got his third one last spring. Blew over a three on the Breathalyzer, and that was it. He convinced himself for a while that the lawyer was going to pull some miracle out of his ass. But it didn’t happen. Andy finally realized at the end of the summer that he’d be going to prison. He couldn’t take it. He was afraid of what would happen there. You hear those horror stories—of guys raping other guys.”

Oh God, I thought. The accident on the night of the rehearsal dinner had sealed his fate in a horrible way.

“What stinks is that he was just a few blocks from here. If he’d just made it those last few blocks, it would all be different. Mike always said Andy had shitty karma.”

“Is that Andy’s brother?” I asked. I was wondering now about avenging angels.

“Yeah, he moved to San Diego after all of this. I don’t think he’s ever coming back.”

“What about your husband?” I asked.

“He’s been gone forever.”

It was hard to know if she meant he was dead, too, or had, like the father in
The Glass Menagerie
, fallen in love with long distances. All I knew for sure was that Sue Flanigan hadn’t been busy murdering bridesmaids—and that I needed to get out of her kitchen.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said. “I shouldn’t take up any more of your time, though.”

“You can’t go until you tell me about Andy,” she said, laying a hand on my arm. “How did you know him?”

“He was just—just a great guy. Look, I’m so sorry, but I’m suddenly not feeling so well. This has been such a shock for me.”

I pulled my arm out from under her hand and started to turn toward the door. She rose as well, practically dumping Nugget on the floor. The dog eyed me suspiciously, and I wondered if she was going to grab my pants leg in her tiny teeth and try to prevent me from leaving. Instead she just followed me as I made my way toward the door.

“What’s your name?” Sue asked, right behind me, the wariness back in her voice.

“Bailey. Bailey Weggins.”

I reached out to shake her hand, which she extended without any enthusiasm. Her blue eyes, which moments ago had been damp with tears, were now dark and hard as river stones.

I hurried down the stairs and made my way cautiously across the frozen driveway. I sensed her standing on the side porch watching me, but I didn’t turn around to check. I unlocked the Jeep, slipped in, and pulled out of the parking spot.

Ten minutes later I was merging onto I-95, a sick feeling in my stomach. How different the ripple effect of that accident had been for Andrew than for the rest of us. We’d been inconvenienced, sure, and we’d been verbally bullwhipped by Peyton for being late. But it had doomed Andrew. As disgusted as I was about drunk drivers, I couldn’t help but feel distraught that he had taken his own life, that his addiction had ruined him. I hadn’t had the nerve to ask where he’d hung himself, but I suspected it was there in the house, perhaps in the basement below where I’d sat. Despite the fact that I felt justified, I felt guilty about lying to his mother.

I stuck in my CD of Maria Callas’s arias. There was something about it that always managed to soothe me, and I needed it now. I felt so distressed by everything that had happened during my stay in Greenwich. What stupid idiot had once declared that the suburbs were a haven?

Thanks to heavy traffic, I didn’t hit the city until close to two-thirty. I was mildly concerned that I hadn’t heard back from Chris yet. I’d left my cell phone on the whole way back, expecting him to get in touch, but it never rang. I was totally dependent on him for my trip to Miami, and if I didn’t connect with him today, there’d be no point in going. I reassured myself with the fact that he’d been reliable so far, and I figured that when he had a break from his shoot, he’d be in touch.

Back in my apartment I finally changed into fresh clothes. Then I began to dig some summer duds out of the back of the closet. According to the
Times
, the temperature in Miami was going to be in the eighties this week, so I picked out two pairs of capris, a sleeveless cotton dress, and a few cotton tops. What I didn’t bother with was a bathing suit. Besides the fact that I probably wouldn’t have time for a dip, my body hadn’t seen the sun since early September, and I was disgustingly white. I’d look like a giant latex glove lying on the beach.

After I’d thrown my things into my black rolling bag, I tried Brace again. This time he picked up. I introduced myself and mentioned that I’d called earlier.

“Yeah, I got the message. What can I do for you?” His tone was abrupt but neutral. It didn’t give away whether the name Bailey Weggins meant anything to him.

“I’m very sorry about Robin’s death,” I told him. “I met her at Peyton Cross’s wedding. I was hoping you might have a few minutes to talk to me about her.”

“Talk? About what?” Now his voice had the slightest edge.

“Her roommate, Ashley, came to see me early last week and expressed concerns that Robin’s death wasn’t an accident. I promised Ashley I would look into it, and now with Ashley’s death, I feel even more of a reason to. To be honest, I don’t even know what I’m looking for. But I’d really appreciate just a few minutes of your time to talk about Robin.”

Superlong pause. I could hear his co-workers in the background barking to one another or into their phones.

“Yeah, okay,” he said finally. “You in the city?”

I said that I was, and he suggested Friday. I asked about the possibility of tonight after work.

“I could squeeze it in,” he said. “But I’ve only got fifteen minutes or so.”

“That should be fine.”

“Six-thirty, then. Why don’t you meet me at Ravick’s on Hanover Square. I’ll be at the bar.”

“Okay, great,” I said.

“So how’m I supposed to know you?” he asked.

“I’m five six, blue eyes, blondish brown hair around chin length.”

“All right. Six-thirty.” He broke the connection without a good-bye.

I was relieved he’d be able to see me tonight, but it meant that the rest of my afternoon was going to be crazed. Before I met up with Brace downtown, I was going to have to head uptown for my meeting with the fact checker at
Gloss
. There was no way I could put it off. My most recently completed article was shipping next week, and there were some details I needed to review with him.

I managed to make it to
Gloss
by three-thirty, and though it was earlier than we’d planned to meet, the fact checker had time for me. We were done by four. Rather than bother going back to my apartment before meeting Brace, I decided I’d try to get an hour’s worth of work done at my office, despite the fact that I felt ready to crawl out of my skin. I opened my computer to my
Gloss
article on the dead New Jersey wife. It had been several days since I’d even glanced at my draft, and it felt as if I were reading something in a language I knew only four words of. I tweaked a few lines here and there and then changed them back. It became clear that I was going to have to take my laptop to Miami and try to work on the plane. If Chris ever called, that is. I still hadn’t heard from him, and I certainly wasn’t flying a thousand miles without doing so.

As I sat staring into space, someone tapped on my partly closed door. I pulled it open, and to my surprise Cat Jones was standing in the hall. The mod look was gone, and she was now all motorcycle mama: black leather skirt with big silver studs up the sides, a tight black knit cardigan over a white lace-fringed camisole, and sky high black leather stilettos. She looked as if she might be itching to hog-tie someone to a bed.

“Are you lost?” I asked.

“No, I had to have a little
chat
with the fashion department, and I saw your light. I left you a message and haven’t heard back, which is unlike you. Is everything okay?”

“Not really,” I said, keeping my voice low. “I was going to stop by later. I’m pretty sure now that all three women were murdered.”

She stepped into my tiny office, pushed the door closed, and pulled over a straight-backed chair I kept against the wall. I noticed that her legs were totally bare. Cat’s MO, like that of all the
Gloss
fashion editors, was to forgo hose not only in the summer, but during as much of the rest of the year as she could get away with. But it wasn’t even twenty degrees today. It seemed as ridiculous as setting off across the Atlantic in an inner tube.

“That’s horrible,” she said, easing into the chair. I updated her on the incident on the Lower East Side, the warning note, and my experience last night in Greenwich.

“Do the police have any suspects?” she asked, frowning.

“No, they still refuse to see the whole thing as anything but a bunch of accidents. I’ve been digging around myself, but I don’t have anything substantial yet.”

“You mean not enough proof?”

“No, not enough
motive
. There are a few pissed-off players on the scene, but I’m not sure if any of them have a big enough reason to have done it.”

She pressed her hands together to form a steeple and rested her chin on the point of it.

“Cherchez la femme,”
she said quietly.

“Huh?”

“It’s a French expression,” she said. “When a husband starts acting funny or decides he wants out of a marriage, he might say he needs his space or some bullshit like that, but more likely than not there’s a woman somewhere. What I’m saying is that people don’t take big actions for little reasons. You need to find a major motivator in the situation.”

“Yeah, but so far I’m not having any luck.”

“And you’re really certain these two attacks on you were both by the killer?”

“
Yes
, I’m sure,” I said, feeling defensiveness beginning to swell in me. “I mean,
I
was in both places, so why couldn’t
he
manage it, too?”

“Look, I’m not doubting the story,” Cat said. “I just—”

At that moment her assistant stuck her head in the door.

“Your conference call is ready.”

“I’ll be right there,” she told her. Then, turning back to me, she said, “Look, why don’t you call me later at home? I want to talk more about this. And be careful, okay?”

“Sure,” I said, trying not to sound sullen.

In frustration I lowered my head in my hands. Why did I always end up sounding like the chick who cried wolf these days?

After a minute of stewing about my predicament, I decided to just get the hell out of there and head for the bar. I might end up being a few minutes early, but it would give me a chance to get the lay of the land and feel more control on Brace’s turf. I made one quick call to the travel agency, making certain everything had worked out with my arrangements, and then hurriedly packed up.

On my way out through the pit, I spotted the photo editor standing at his desk in his cube.

“Hey, Adam,” I said, striding toward his partitioned-off work area. “Do you have a second?”

“Yeah, if you make it kind of quick,” he said. “What’s up?”

“I want to talk about male models.”

“You dating one?” he asked as he shoved four or five black portfolios to one side of his canvas-colored love seat. He was wearing white wool pants and a very loosely knit white sweater over a white silky thermal top. It looked as though he’d gotten tangled in a hammock.

“No, no, nothing like that,” I said, taking a seat. “I’ve got to interview one in Miami tomorrow night, and I need some advice. This guy has some info I need, but he’s playing hard to get. How can I make sure he opens up to me?”

“Truth serum.”

“You mean give him some sort of party drug?”

“Uh-uh,” he said, shaking his head so that his long blond curls whipped back and forth. “Alcohol. Supply him with lots of vodka.”

“These guys all like to drink?”

“Oh yeah—except . . .” He stopped and stroked his chin, deliberating.

“What?”

“If he’s got a shoot the next day, he won’t want to drink—it’ll give him carb face. Then let’s go to plan B.”