'Til Death Do Us Part (30 page)

“It’s just great,” I said, wiping mayo off my mouth with my napkin. “It’s perfect comfort food.”

“Are you in need of comfort food, dearest?” he asked, reaching across the table to touch my arm. “You do appear a little green around the gills.”

“Yes, I’m in desperate need of comfort. As
you
would say, my life has gone to hell in a handbasket.”

“Oh, no, do tell. Does it have something to do with Ms. Peyton Cross to Bear?”

I spilled everything, starting from the attack last Friday night right through to my drinks tonight with Brace.

“How dreadful,” Landon exclaimed as I wrapped up my saga. “What in the world do you think is going on?”

“I still haven’t a clue. Since there’s not a shred of evidence the deaths were anything but accidental, I’ve been busy trying to focus on finding a motive.”

“And?”

“There are several people who have reasons to be pissed off about Peyton or the wedding, but nothing seems big enough to kill someone over. For instance, David dumped Mandy for Peyton, but that was two years ago, and if she was going to take revenge, why direct it at the
bridesmaids
? Peyton humiliated Phillipa, but again, why take it out on us? And though Trip seems to have unsuccessfully put the moves on a few of us, a bruised ego surely isn’t enough reason to turn into a serial killer.”

“What about this Wall Streeter you met with tonight?”

“Yeah, he’s worth taking a closer look at. He was clearly bummed about splitting with Robin. At first I dismissed him because I couldn’t understand why he’d
start
by killing Jamie, but now I’m wondering if he thought she was trying to make sure he and Robin didn’t get back together. The hitch is I can’t figure out why he’d also have to kill Ashley. He may have thought she suspected him, but she
didn’t
—or she would have told me so. What
she
kept harping on was some occurrence at the wedding. And I can’t ignore that, either.”

“It’s all enough to make one’s head spin,” he said, clearing the plates. He returned from the kitchen with a plate of chocolate biscotti.

“Did you ever hear the expression
Cherchez la femme
?” I asked.

“Of course. I used to say it to my sister when her husband started taking their bulldog for hour-long walks at night. And it turned out I was totally right. Of course, what I should have said was
Cherchez la femme avec le chien
.”

“What do you mean?”

“He was having an affair with one of my sister’s closest friends. She had a dog, too. The two dogs had the pleasure of watching them schtup each other in a hotel room.”

“Well, Cat used that phrase with me this afternoon. I hadn’t heard it before but I realize what she means. I need to find a clear, straightforward motive on someone’s part.”

“You mean like greed?”

“Yes. Or rage. Or revenge for some significant wrongdoing. I’m just hoping that the answer is waiting for me in Miami—that this bartender-model guy really saw something. It’s supposedly hot down there, and I can’t wait to be in the sun. I don’t think I’ve ever been so cold in my damn life.”

“Well, when that boyfriend of yours finally moves to New York, maybe you won’t be so cold.”

“Hmm. That’s a whole other story. We had a bit of a blowup the other night.”

“Oh, don’t be mad at Jack. He’s too yummy.”

“Do I strike you as someone who has a commitment problem?”

“Is that what he said?”

“More or less. He started to do this psychological profile of me—implying that I had a history of being skittish in matters of the heart. He made it sound as if getting me to commit was about as easy as teaching a cat to swim. Do you think that’s true?”

He picked out a biscotti and broke it in two. A few chocolate crumbs spilled onto the table.

“You’re avoiding my eyes,” I observed.

“I’m just thinking,” he said. “Of course, I’ve only gotten to know you since your divorce, so I have no idea what you were like
before
then. I’d have to say you
do
seem a bit skittish about getting involved. But isn’t that to be expected? I have a friend who told me she was three years into her second marriage before she’d recovered from the first. And the wonderful thing about you, Bailey, is that you’re your own girl. You’re not Liz Taylor. You don’t have some driving need to hook up with the first man who admires your tits.”

“I wish I could needlepoint,” I said. “That would look great on a pillow.”

It was close to eleven when I let myself back into my apartment, too late, I realized, to call Jack. Since he’d been the one to break the ice with me, I’d planned to ring him tonight, to say hello, to continue our efforts to get back on an even keel. But he had an early class on Wednesdays, and there was a good chance I’d wake him up if I phoned now. Instead I went on-line and checked the forecast for Miami one more time. It was still supposed to be in the eighties all week long. I added a halter top to the stuff I was taking with me in my carry-on bag.

As I was slipping into flannel pajamas, imagining how tomorrow I’d be sleeping butt naked against satiny hotel sheets, the phone rang. Please, don’t let it be Chris with some problem, was all I could think. But it was Jack.

“There you are,” he said.

“Did you call before?” I asked. “There wasn’t a message.”

“Just once, but when I didn’t get you, I tried your cell phone and left a message on that.”

“I was over at Landon’s,” I revealed. “I was going to call you when I got back, and then I saw how late it was. How are you? Any more girls swoon in your presence today?”

“No, and I found out that the one who did yesterday has been diagnosed with chronic fatigue syndrome. So it apparently had nothing to do with me. How about you? Any new developments with the case?”

“I talked to a few people today, and I’ve dug up some interesting stuff. But it’s not adding up to anything yet. My big news is that I have a promising lead in Miami, and I’m going to run down there tomorrow for a day and a half.”

“
Miami?
What in God’s name for?”

“Do you remember me mentioning that Robin asked Ashley if she’d noticed anything strange about the wedding? Well, I keep coming back to that. And it turns out that one of the bartenders who worked the reception apparently did notice something odd. But he’s reluctant to talk about it on the phone. So I’m going down to Miami where he’s working as a model. To interview him. I’ve got something to do for
Gloss
down there anyway. I mean, I’d have to go down there anyway this month.”

I realized that I was talking too fast and too long, like a kid careening down a hill on an oversize bike.

“I can’t believe you have to go all the way down there. You, the infamous Bailey Weggins, couldn’t charm him into telling you on the phone?”

“Well, I didn’t actually talk to
him
. I talked to a friend of his. He’s the one setting up the meeting.”

“Jeez, Bailey, this is sounding like the proverbial wild-goose chase.”

“Jack, why don’t you let me be the judge of that, okay?”

There was a long silence, the kind that was unpleasant and almost palpable, like a sopping wet dishrag.

“Well, look,” Jack said finally. “I was just calling to say good night. There’s a chance I may be coming in early on Friday—I don’t have any appointments. Are you going to be back by then?”

“Yes. Like I said, I’m only going down for a day and a half. I’ll be back by late Thursday afternoon. Once you know what flight you’re taking, just let me know.”

“I’ll leave a message on your cell phone. Good night, then.”

“Good night, Jack. I—well, look—have a nice day tomorrow. I’ll call you from Miami.”

I’d barely put down the phone when I felt a lump begin to grow in my stomach. There had been the most dejected, almost defeated sound to Jack’s “good night,” as if he’d given up on something. On what, though? Trying to talk some sense into me about the Miami trip? Or on
us
? Sure, we’d had a blowup, but there was no reason to think that one fight should put us on the road to relationship ruin. Yet things had gotten so
clunky
between us since Sunday, and I was acting bizarrely. I’d sounded defensive and prickly talking about my trip to Miami, and that kind of approach was hardly going to help things get back to normal between us. Yet at the same time I couldn’t help feeling bugged by him lately—the “I know what’s best for you” attitude he’d whipped out tonight, topped only by the “I know you better than you know yourself” attitude he’d displayed on Sunday. What had happened to us? This was a guy who only a week ago could make me feel positively loco in lust.

I told myself that things would surely return to normal when I saw Jack in person, that it was impossible to normalize things over the telephone.

My flight for Miami was at nine-twelve, and I was up by six, relieved to see that though it was as cold as a meat locker outside, the skies were clear. I took a ten-second shower, ate a bagel with coffee, and made one phone call, which turned out to be surprisingly fruitful: I rang Prudence in London. It was just before twelve UK time.

Until now, I hadn’t been very focused on Peyton’s maid of honor, as she was pretty far from the action in London. But in searching for motive I was desperate for info, and maybe she’d remember something the rest of us hadn’t.

Her clipped, haughty tone reminded me a little of Ashley’s, though Prudence had a light version of a British accent, sort of like Madonna’s. As soon as I identified myself, she informed me that she’d heard from Maverick, then peppered me with frantic questions.

“I wish I knew what was going on, but I don’t,” I said. “I have a question for you, though. Was there anything at all about the weekend that seemed
off
to you—or weird?”

“Weird?”
she asked, as if the word were almost foreign to her. She was, from what I recalled, the richest and most buttoned-up of Peyton’s friends. Weird to her was probably people who laundered their own clothes.

“What I mean,” I said, clarifying, “is someone acting inappropriately—or suspiciously.”

“Not that I recall
now
. I actually didn’t get to mingle much that day. Unfortunately, I was stuck sitting next to David’s best man, Trip. He seemed ready to crawl out of his skin.”

Hearing Trip’s name triggered another question. I asked her if she recalled anything specific about the blow-up between David and Trip at the church the night before.

“Oh, that nasty little tiff. David was pretty upset—which is unusual. You practically never see him at a full boil. I think Trip must have really screwed something up. David asked him where the profits were from—from this company called Phoenix, I think. Yes, that’s right—I remember it because it was the name of my yoga studio.”

“Say that again.”

“He yelled, ‘Where are the profits from Phoenix?’ I guess Trip had blown something.”

“Hmm, I don’t know anything about that world. My brother does, though, so maybe I’ll ask him about it.”

“Do you think
my
life could be in danger?” Prudence asked fretfully. “Should I be taking precautions?”

I told her that she should be careful, but at the same time it didn’t appear that for now anyone was going to head across the Atlantic after her. I nudged her off the phone then, promising to give her an update when I had more time.

The rest of the morning went like clockwork, as if just for this day I’d been given a pass to avoid all of life’s hassles. The car service that was taking me to the airport arrived on time, there was no line at security, and the flight was smooth. And when I stepped out of Miami International Airport to hail a cab, the feel of the sun on my face was pure bliss. My stress slipped away from me like a shawl tossed onto a chair. I realized that part of my pleasure derived from finally feeling safe. The killer clearly wasn’t opposed to travel—he’d killed Jamie in New York, Ashley in Greenwich, and Robin possibly in Vermont. But I’d told only Jack about my Miami plans, and I was banking on the fact that I had nothing to fear.

It got even better when I arrived at my hotel. I’d stayed at the Delano once before, but I’d forgotten just how magical it was and how much it plays with your mind. You step into a lobby that’s minimally furnished—mismatched leather chairs and tables on a wide planked wood floor. The ceilings are high, about eighteen feet, and there are big white columns and row after row of gauzy white curtains. Being there makes you feel as if you’re in a dream sequence in a movie, one loaded with Freudian symbolism.

Though I’d booked my room last minute and in the high season, I’d somehow managed to score an ocean view. The water was blue in some spots and gray in others, and it looked cold. My room, however, was seductively warm and enchanting. It was all white, like a sanctuary—white bed, desk, chair, blinds, and a potted white orchid sitting on a plant stand. Even the wooden floor was white, painted and then glazed, so that you could practically see your reflection in it.