'Til Death Do Us Part (35 page)

“His name is Scott something. He knows David from the Belle Haven Club. I’m sure Trip met him through David.”

“Would they have any business dealings together?”

“I have no idea. Like I said, I think he and David were mostly sailing buddies.”

“Why did you smile?”

“Because he made a ridiculous pass at me once. He told me he could make me squeal with pleasure.”

She flicked the photo back toward my hand. “Is that it, then?” she asked as I tucked the picture back into my purse.

“Just one more thing,” I said, summoning my nerve. “When we talked the other day about the wedding, you never mentioned that Lilly had been excluded and how upset she was. That must have been hard on both of you.”

She locked eyes with me, her face expressionless. I became conscious that a few of the guests nearby were glancing at us curiously. Maybe they thought I was accusing her of trying to hook up with my man.

“It certainly wasn’t a pleasant experience. But how lucky for us in the end—I mean what with the way Peyton’s bridesmaids are dropping like flies.”

With a swish of silk she turned away from me and strode off. A good Greenwich hostess would never leave a guest standing solo, so it was clear to anyone watching that I had offended her in some way. I tried to look nonchalant and momentarily studied the view from the window. There was still snow on the ground, but it looked wet and sloshy, and the treetops were partially hidden by fog. The January thaw had clearly begun.

Though people were still eyeing me, I made my way through the room. Once in the hallway, I felt anonymous again. As I headed toward the door, I saw that a lacquered table against the wall was laid with platters of food: cheeses and olives, rolls of prosciutto, and a bowl of tapenade. It looked light and creamy, like Mary’s. Famished, I furtively picked out a cracker and dipped it into the tapenade. It tasted like hers, too.

“Who is the caterer?” I asked the waiter to my right.

“Bon Appetite,” he said. I would have to let Mary know that the competition was on to her dip.

It was practically steamy outside. Water dripped from the tree branches, making large plopping sounds when it hit the ground. I slid into my Jeep and turned on the ignition, then my defogger. I felt majorly frustrated. On the plane I’d gotten my hopes up that the picture of Trip and the stranger held all the answers. In the brief moment in which Mandy’s lips had curled into that knowing smile, I’d been convinced that she was going to reveal something that would pull everything together for me. But she hadn’t. That didn’t mean Trip
wasn’t
the bad guy. It meant, however, that the photo Jamie had taken of him didn’t hold the key to the murders after all. Then what photo
did
? What was the photo that Jamie had wanted desperately to guard? As I sat there, a car pulled into the driveway and a woman stepped out while the driver found a parking place. She was in a white fur coat that looked as if it were made of polar bear.

A thought occurred to me. Ashley had mentioned that Robin’s brother had hustled over to the town house shortly after his sister’s death and carted away her possessions, including a box of photos. I had counted the photos in the envelope, and I knew they were all there, but what if there was another roll or two of Jamie’s photos among Robin’s possessions? Maybe I couldn’t find a clue in the pictures because I was looking at the wrong roll. I searched my memory for the name Ashley had mentioned to me. It was Tom, perhaps—or Ted. I called 411 and asked for any Lolly in Greenwich. There was a Tom on Three Oak Road.

A woman answered in a high, singsongy voice. I identified myself as one of Peyton’s bridesmaids and asked for Tom.

“Tom’s not here,” she said. “He’s in Dallas on business. But I don’t know if he’d want to talk anyway. He’s still very, very upset, and this whole thing about the curse on the bridesmaids is very disturbing to him.”

“I realize it must be. But I’m just trying to figure out what’s really going on. Could I please just ask you a couple of questions?”

“How do I know you’re not a reporter?”

“You can call Peyton. She’ll vouch for me.”

“All right, all right. I don’t want to disturb Peyton—she’s been good to us. What exactly is it that you want?”

“Just tell me this. I know you picked up some of Robin’s possessions. Were there any photos of the wedding and reception in there?”

“Just one. It was of the wedding party—in a frame.” I realized it must have been identical to the one Peyton had given me as a remembrance.

“And you’re sure there’s not an envelope someplace—you know, of photos?”

A child wailed in the background, and I knew I was going to lose her soon.

“Well, we haven’t gone through everything yet,” she said. “We were anxious to get her stuff out of there.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

She was silent, and the kid wailed again. It sounded as if he also might be kicking the wall.

“I really have to go,” she announced.

“Please,” I said desperately. “I think my life is in danger, and I need to know what’s going on.”

“We had reason to believe that Ashley might be picking over some of Robin’s things.”

“‘Picking over’?”

“I’ll put it another way—helping herself to some of Robin’s things.”

“But—who told you that? I can’t imagine Ashley doing that.”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“But Ashley was very concerned about the nature of Robin’s death. She was probably just looking for clues.”

“No, it was more than that. I shouldn’t say anything else. And I really do have to go.”

She dropped the phone without a good-bye.

I quickly dug my composition book out of my bag and jotted down what she’d said so I’d remember the exact words. It made no sense to me. Ashley had been truly distraught about Robin’s death, and it was hard to imagine her rummaging through Robin’s belongings and slipping a necklace or two into her pocket. Robin’s ex-husband flashed through my mind. Had he been making trouble for some reason? It was just one more frustrating question in this case.

I glanced out the window of my Jeep, making certain no one was hanging around where they shouldn’t be. Before I backed out, I saw that I had a message on my cell phone. Part of me hoped it was Jack. I didn’t know what I would have wanted him to say, because I knew there was no hope of going back to where we’d been only a week ago.

But it wasn’t from Jack. To my utter surprise, there was a message from Phillipa, asking me to call on her cell phone.

“It’s Bailey,” I said when I reached her. “What’s up?” In the background I could hear voices and the whirring noise of a motorized appliance.

“Would you mind holding for a second?”

She must have walked into another room because the background noises gradually receded and then disappeared abruptly, as if she had shut a door.

“I heard Peyton say that you were in Greenwich tonight.”

“That’s right. Are you working the party with her this evening?”

“No, I’m out at the farm. I’m prepping for another party tomorrow night. But I need to talk to you.” She sounded less grumpy and irritated than when I’d spoken to her on Monday—in fact, there was something almost needy in her voice.

“What is it? Is everything okay?”

“Not really, no.” Now her voice sounded almost strangled with emotion.

“Phillipa, what is it?” I urged.

“It’s about Ashley. I think I know what happened to her.”

CHAPTER 18

I
CAUGHT MY
breath and instinctively swung my head in either direction, making sure no one was near the car.

“You know who
did
it?” I asked, barely able to get the words out.

There was a long pause, and for a moment I thought she’d hung up on me.

“Philli—”

“Yes, I know,” she said almost in a whisper. “I mean, I’m pretty sure I do.” She sounded as if she were about to cry.

“Who?”

A voice suddenly burst through the quiet of the background on her end, and I heard the intake of Phillipa’s breath. I wondered if she might be in danger.

“Phillipa?” I said. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes. I have to go—they need me back in the kitchen. Could you come out here? We’ll be done in about an hour and we could talk then.”

“Can’t you tell me anything now?”

“No, no. I can’t—right now. But I have to talk to you. It’s urgent.”

“All right,” I said. “I’ll be out there in an hour. You’ll wait for me, right?”

“Of course, of course. I have to go now.”

I turned off my phone and leaned my head back against the car seat. Was this it, then? I wondered. Was this the night I finally found out the truth? Maybe Phillipa had seen someone go into the silo last Wednesday afternoon when she’d fled the kitchen and had been afraid to reveal it until now. Was it Trip? Or maybe she hadn’t seen anything but instead had finally realized the significance of certain information that she’d dismissed earlier. Sometimes someone’s offhanded comment can suddenly make a formerly unimportant fact stunningly relevant. Could that be what happened to Phillipa?

On the other hand, was it possible that Phillipa was trying to trick me? Maybe
she
was the killer and was attempting to lure me out to the farm after everyone was gone. Yet she had sounded so distraught and desperate—and Phillipa didn’t strike me as a master of the Stanislavsky method of acting.

Though I was inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt, I wasn’t going to take any chances. The best bet, I decided, was to arrive earlier than we’d discussed, while there were still people around. I glanced at my watch. David might be back in his office by now. I had time to swing by there, see if I could connect with him, and then head out to the farm.

When I pulled into the parking lot of his building fifteen minutes later, a bank of lights was on on the fifth floor—David’s floor—though the rest of the building looked deserted. Watching my back, I entered the building and took the elevator to five. There wasn’t a soul around, not even cleaning crew. I hurried to the door of his office suite, knocked once, and then tried to open it. It was locked. I heard a sound behind me and spun around. It was only the
whoosh
of the elevator, beckoned to another floor. I rapped on the door four or five times and was just about to bolt when a young guy in blue shirtsleeves, no more than five years out of Dartmouth or Williams, swung it open.

“Can I help you?” he asked, appearing not particularly eager to do so. I could tell he assumed I’d gotten lost on my way to the periodontist in the building.

“David Slavin. Is he back yet from his meeting?”

He eyed me curiously. “I think he might be,” he said. “Whom should I say is calling?”

I gave my name and he motioned for me to come into the reception area, a room with walls the color of raw silk and a deep blue-and-yellow Oriental rug that looked as if it had never been stepped on.

“Why don’t you wait here and I’ll check,” he said. As I stood in the middle of the carpet, he strode off down a hallway, glancing back at me once over his shoulder. What was it about me that made people in Greenwich think I was about to abscond with the furniture?

A few seconds later David appeared, also in shirtsleeves. He had a pair of tortoiseshell reading glasses perched on his nose and an expression of alarm on his face.

“What is it?” he asked. “Has something happened?”

“No, no, I’m sorry if I worried you. There was just something I needed to talk to you about. Do you have a few minutes?”

“Peyton told me you’re staying at the house tonight. Maybe we could speak more comfortably there?”

“I hope you don’t mind, but I’m on the verge of something important, and I—”

“All right,” he interrupted, putting a hand on my shoulder, “why don’t you come in?”

There was no sign of Trip as we walked along the corridor. David’s office turned out to be spacious but impersonal. It had an Oriental rug even thicker than the one in reception and a desk the size of a houseboat, but the only personal touches were a photo of David and Peyton on the desk and an oil painting, above the couch, of a sailboat cutting through a wave. Maybe David was one of those powerful types who had no interest in making their offices homey—or maybe he’d been too busy making zillions to play decorator.