'Til Death Do Us Part (42 page)

“But wasn’t she afraid you might learn the truth about the other murders?”

“Apparently not. I think she really believed she’d done a brilliant job of making them appear to be accidents. The only evidence was the photo, and she thought she’d taken care of that by having Robin’s brother and sister-in-law cart everything off.”

“She’s really quite awesome, isn’t she?”

“Oh yeah. The thing about Peyton is that for someone so narcissistic, she’s always paid attention to detail. That’s what made her such a perfect domestic diva. And it’s also what made her such a perfect murderer. Electrocuting Jamie was a spur-of-the-moment thing but also extremely clever—a great example of thinking on one’s feet. She knew Robin took medication and had to watch what she ate. She obviously did a little research and found out all she needed to know to kill her. And wasn’t what she did with me clever, too? At first I thought tossing the pictures was a spontaneous gesture, but later I realized it was planned out. There were tracks in the snow, and she’d probably gone down to that area recently and realized that the ice was melting.”

“How could she have brought herself to kill her friends?”

“In her mind she had everything to lose if she didn’t. David was footing the bill for the Peyton Cross empire. If he’d gotten so much as a hint that she was unfaithful, he would have cut everything off. There’d be no Ivy Hill Farm.”

“But these attacks on you—in New York and on the road in Greenwich. They had nothing to do with Peyton, right?”

“Right. They were all Trip’s doing—which just added to her paranoia. She must have been freaking out about who this other predator was.”

“So no one was really after her business, were they?”

“What do you mean?”

“You told me earlier that someone might be trying to screw with her business. Weren’t there party cancellations?”

“Someone
was
trying to screw with her business. But that turned out to be a whole separate thing.”

It wasn’t all that exciting, and I doubted Landon would want the details. But I’d put it together on the drive home. Something about the tapenade I’d sampled at Mandy’s had bugged me. It was such a distinct recipe, and I wondered how the other caterer, Bon Appetite, could be doing it, too. Then Mary had been missing in action for the party Peyton’s catering division had planned. On the drive back to the city tonight, I had called Mandy and asked her point-blank if Mary was the head of Bon Appetite. And she admitted she was. Mary, it turned out, was in the process of launching her own catering operation while still working for Peyton, and Mandy was thrilled to give her business a boost. Anything to get at Peyton for scarring poor little Lilly for life. My guess was that Mary was the one who’d messed up the party dates late last year. She’d wanted to undermine Peyton’s business as much as she could, which would provide her with more leverage in Greenwich. She might have also been the one who tipped off the New York papers to all the bridesmaids’ deaths. After all, she’d learned about ether damage from Maverick. Mary looked like the devoted employee, but she clearly had no loyalty to Peyton. Peyton probably did something to screw her over at some point—or maybe she just hated being treated like a house servant.

“So what do you think will happen to Peyton?” Landon asked. “Do you think they’ll be able to get her for the murders?”

“I honestly don’t know,” I said, staring at the ruby glow of my wine. “She’ll definitely be prosecuted for attempting to kill me. I just thank God the caretaker was there to witness it. As for the murders, I’ll have to wait and see. There’s the picture of her and her boy toy, whoever he is. I called the
Gloss
photo editor at home, and he said water is real bad for negatives but there’s a chance they aren’t completely destroyed. I’m sure the police will find a money trail from Peyton to Jamie. Now that we know she used wheat germ in Robin’s shake, there may be some trail involving that as well. Oh, and Pichowski told me tonight that after he arrested Trip, he ordered the police report from New York and it turns out that on the night of Jamie’s murder, someone reported seeing a woman in the building with strawberry blond hair worn up on her head. It wasn’t viewed as significant at the time because everything pointed to the death as an accident. But it puts someone who looks like Peyton at the scene.”

I poured one more splash of wine into my glass. I’d been hoping to get a buzz going, but it wasn’t happening. Nothing seemed to make a dent.

“Do you want to crash on my couch tonight?” Landon asked. “Just so you’re not alone.”

“Oh, that’s so sweet of you,” I said, smiling warmly at him. “But I’ve got things to take care of at my place.”

Back in my apartment, I took my second hot shower of the night. As I stepped out of the tub, I saw in the mirror that the bandage Clara had applied to my face now hung by a hair, so I peeled it the rest of the way. There was an ugly purple-and-red welt on my cheek and also an inch-long gash. In the back of my medicine chest I located an ancient tube of antibacterial ointment and applied it, followed by my last Band-Aid. Then I slipped into a pair of flannel jammies and crawled into bed.

My bedside lamp cast a warm amber glow, and out my window I could see my fabulous stage backdrop of a view. From the vantage point of my bedroom, the world seemed wonderful. And that only made it harder for me to accept that Peyton Cross—the girl I’d shared four tons of frozen yogurt with freshman year in college and who had once called a boy I was crazy about, pretending to be a poll taker so we could learn his weekend plans—had killed two of her friends and tried to do the same to me.

What I also couldn’t escape as I lay scrunched under my down duvet was the fact that it was Friday night and Jack wasn’t there. It was the first Friday night in three months that he hadn’t slept beside me. Earlier I’d been tempted to call him and describe everything that had happened, but it didn’t seem fair to play that card. I was going to have to learn how to get along without him.

Surprisingly, I felt okay about it. Because I realized that I was about to embark on some new stage in my life. Yes, I was once again divorced and dateless, but this time around I was going to experience it differently—as someone who wasn’t feeling bruised and sorry for herself. There might be all sorts of interesting adventures waiting for me. Chris had left a message on my cell phone earlier wondering what was up with the case, and then I’d left a message for him, promising to fill him in. Maybe once all my bruises healed and I no longer looked as if I’d broken the pavement with my face, I’d see him again.

And I hoped that down the road I really would be ready for a commitment, to someone as nice as Jack. That old, tired expression popped into my head—“Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.” Perhaps someday, a long time from now, I’d actually be a bride once more. But there was one thing I knew for sure: As long as I lived, I’d never be a bridesmaid again.

Special eBook Feature: More Kate White!

A BODY TO DIE FOR

CHAPTER 1

W
hen I think back on everything terrible that happened last autumn—the murders, the grim discovery I made, the danger I found myself in—I realize I probably could have avoided all of it if my love life hadn’t been so sucky. Or let me rephrase that. Nonexistent. Late in the summer I’d been kicked to the curb by a guy I was fairly gaga over, and though my heart no longer felt as raw as a rug burn, my misery had morphed into a sour, man-repellent mood. It was as if I had a sign over my head that said, “Step any closer, and I’m gonna bitch-slap you.”

So when I was invited to spend an early-fall weekend free of charge at the Cedar Inn and Spa in Warren, Massachusetts, I grabbed the chance. Trust me, I wasn’t expecting to meet anyone there—except maybe a few rich women in pastel sweat suits and fanny packs
who thought having their bodies slathered in shea butter would miraculously vaporize their cellulite. I should also admit that I’ve generally found spa stuff pretty goofy. I once had a complimentary prune-and-pumpkin facial, and when it was over I kept thinking that I should be stationed on a sideboard between a roast turkey and corn bread stuffing.

But I do go nuts for a good massage, and I was hoping that a few of those and a change of scenery would improve my mood as well as jump-start my heart.

Unfortunately, soon after I arrived at the inn, all hell broke loose.

I pulled into Warren, just before seven on Friday night. A reasonable arrival time, but three damn hours later than I’d originally planned. A combination of things had thrown my schedule into a tizzy. I’m a freelance journalist, specializing in human-interest and crime stories, and an interview that I was scheduled to do with a psychologist for an article on mass hysteria got pushed from morning to midafternoon. I would have liked to just blow it off entirely. But the piece was due at the end of next week, and I was feeling under the gun. I didn’t hit the road until three-thirty, guaranteeing that I’d have a good chance of getting caught in a rush-hour mess somewhere between Manhattan and Massachusetts—and I did. In addition, I was undone by a smoldering car fire on the southbound side of the New York State Thruway, which caused people on my side to practically crawl by on their haunches so they could get a better look. You would have thought the front half of the
Titanic
had been dredged and deposited along the side of the road.

If I’d arrived on schedule, I would have been welcomed by the owner of the inn, Danielle (a.k.a. Danny) Hubner. She was the one treating me to an all-expenses-paid weekend. An old college friend of my mother’s, Danny had been pleading for me to visit the inn since she’d opened it three or four years ago. But I’d always been too crazed with work—or too caught up in the stages of grief that followed the demise of my flash fire of a marriage: heartache; healing; and manic horniness. This fall, because of my snarky mood, I’d finally said yes.

It would be great, I figured, not only to be pampered twenty-four/seven, but also to spend a nice chunk of time with Danny. She was really my friend, too, and she had a slightly offbeat personality that I found absolutely refreshing. I got the sense my visit would also prove beneficial to
her
. My mother had called right before she flew to Athens for a Mediterranean cruise to say that Danny had seemed in a bit of a slump lately, but she didn’t know why. My mother was worried she might be having troubles with her second husband, George, whom I’d yet to meet—and my mother didn’t seem wild about.

Since I arrived so late, I’d missed Danny. According to the desk clerk she’d driven into town on business she could no longer put off, but she’d left word that she would check in with me later. I was given a brief tour before being shown to my room.

The inn, a rambling, clapboard building probably erected in the mid-1800s, was really quite smashing, even more so than in the pictures I’d seen. Instead of dripping with the cutesy country charm that you so often find at a restored inn, the decor was elegant, pared down—lots of beige and cream tones and brown-and-white-check fabric. And there wasn’t a whirligig, weathervane, or wooden swan in sight.

Since I was late, I figured I’d blown any chance of getting a treatment that night, but my guide explained that Danny had arranged for me to be squeezed in for a massage at eight—before a late dinner. The inn’s spa, which also operated as a day spa for the area, stayed open until ten.

I had about fifteen minutes to catch my breath before the massage. My room was maximum charming, a suite actually with a small living area. It also sported checks but in red and white and paired with several quirky print fabrics. I unpacked the clothes most likely to wrinkle and hung them in the closet. (I’m a contributing writer for
Gloss
magazine, and I read in a recent issue that you should roll your clothes in tissue paper before packing them in order to prevent wrinkles, but I’d no sooner take the time to do that than I would to iron my underpants.) Next I took a quick shower, letting the spray of hot water do a number on muscles achy from a long car ride.

I dried myself off with a thick Egyptian cotton towel. Thanks to a towel warmer, it was as toasty as a baked potato. As I buffed my body with it, I noticed a small earthenware jar on the bathroom countertop. It was filled to the brim with amber-colored bath salts, and a little tag announced that they were available for sale in the spa. They were a blend of sandalwood and sweet orange aromatics with a hint of frankincense, prepared, the tag said, so I could “surrender to a state of total enchantment and emerge with a primitive power.” God, just what I needed. Was it actually suggesting I could get
both
in the same weekend? I glanced up, into the mirror above the sink. I’m five-six, with short brownish blond hair, and blue eyes, and I’m considered pretty in a slightly sporty way, but there was no denying that at that moment in time, I looked weary, even burned-out. It was going to take a helluva lot of bath salts to leave me feeling enchanted and empowered.