Aphrodisiac (17 page)

“Yeah, I was…” She paused, glanced at me and released a long exhale. “Look at me standing here in my fancy-ass dress and
tacones
, ready to lose it. I feel like such a fool.”

I rested my hand on her back. “It’s been a long one.”

“My bad,” Benita said, and gave her gym mate a quick hug.

Can’t say I wasn’t dying to do the same. Then something dawned on me. “That’s why I saw you hanging out in the park across the street from my place, isn’t it, Eldridge? And why you asked me where I was going tonight. This isn’t the first time you’ve followed me, is it?”

He shrugged. “Let’s just say I wish I could’ve been there to save your friend. She was so good to my nephew before he died. Least I can do is make sure you don’t end up the same way.”

Why did he have to be so damn heroic? This was not going to be easy, but I had no choice. “I do not want your protection. I am touched by your sentiments, but I do not want you hovering around me.”

“I can think of some women who’d like me to do that.”

No fooling. “Well, not this woman. I can’t bear having a man crawling all over me.”

His luscious mouth widened in a slow smile. I blushed. Before I could amend my clumsy phrase, Benita said, “So, that means you followed us to Jay Street?”

He nodded.

“Then you saw what happened to the man in the limousine?”

“No.” Eldridge leaned back against his SUV. “You guys were still inside the party, so I was waiting across the street. I heard the shots but didn’t see anything. Caught a glimpse of it when I followed you down John Street. Pretty ugly.”

Still angry with myself for once again botching this ridiculous hunt for Gwen’s killer, I said, “That man is dead because of us.”

“He is not,” Benita said, waving off my words with an annoyed gesture. “They already had it in for Drummond. You heard what Curt—”

“Shush!” I cut her off and whispered, “Ms. Motormouth.”

Eldridge hopped on it. “If tonight’s hit had something to do with you two, then you
do
need protection.”

“No,” I said in a growl. “You’ve got to stay out of this.”

His brows knit. “Says who?”

Truth is, I would’ve loved having him as my bodyguard…and a few other things. But after Kyle Drummond’s murder I didn’t want anyone else’s blood spilled on account of me. “Please, Eldridge. Stop this. Get too close to us, and you could be next.” I gave him a look of genuine warmth. He met my gaze with something a little hotter.

We remained there staring at each other when Benita broke the silence. “You two can work this out. I’m heading inside.” She turned and strode across the empty street and into our building. I hesitated, then started after her, but Eldridge reached out and took hold of my wrist. He pulled me up against him and slid his arms around my waist.

“Mind my doing this?” he asked, his voice a soft murmur.

“Not at all,” I said, on the verge of fainting. Having the length of his hard body pressed along mine was enough to send me reeling, but in my skimpy one-shouldered dress I also felt his breath on my naked skin. He dipped his head and gently licked my lips, parting them as his mouth settled on mine. Yikes. If he was this good with his tongue, think of the possibilities.

He brushed his lips across my bare shoulder and said, “That limo hit has to do with Gwen’s murder, doesn’t it?”

I pushed my hands against his chest and backed away. “You’re timing is really peculiar. And not very flattering.”

“Why won’t you take my help?”

“I respect the feelings you have about Gwen and your nephew, but enough, already. It’s ridiculous for you to go out on a limb for me. A woman you hardly know.”

“Too bad. It’s my nature.”

I waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. Jaleel was right. This guy was strange. And the last thing I needed was to once again end up as just another conquest for a confident cocksman. “Stop trying to play Superman, Eldridge. Go home and get some sleep. I wouldn’t want you falling off some building and landing on your squeegee.”

***

With the Mace-man’s long kiss still burning on my mouth, I crossed the street and retreated into my building. I offered a greeting to the night concierge and headed to the elevators. Behind me I heard the familiar sound of a dog’s nails on the marble floor, moving in tandem with shuffling feet.

A scratchy voice called out, “Dr. Oz, hold the elevator.”

Just what I needed. To be alone on the elevator once again with old Mr. Fellows and his poodle. Then again, female elephants have a distinct preference for older males. Maybe they know something we don’t. I held the door open.

“That’s quite a dress you’re wearing.” Shuffle, shuffle. “Press number seven for me.”

I checked my watch. “It’s eleven o’clock, Mr. Fellows. Isn’t it late for you to be out walking Renoir?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said. “Feeling restless.”

The elevator doors slid shut. “I recommend warm milk and Chopin. Works for me.”

“I saw you with that man outside. You were kissing him.” Before I could think of a response, he tossed the dog’s leash to the floor in front of us. “Oh, I dropped Renoir’s leash.”

Very clever. Either I bend on one knee and give him a view up my short, tight dress or I bend forward and give him my butt. I stood my ground silently. I was not going to become an enabler to this dirty old man with sexual harassment issues.

“Dr. Oz, would you mind picking it up for me?” he said in his croaking voice. “I just don’t have the flexibility I used to. My back always aches from that old war wound I got on the beaches of Normandy.”

I clenched my teeth together. What’s a trained member of the helping professions to do? I waited until the elevator stopped at my floor. As soon as the door opened I felt safe enough to quickly bend over and grab the leash. I handed the leather strap to Mr. Fellows.

He beamed. “I have two little words for you.”

“No need for a thank you. ”

“Butt plug,” he said as the doors slid shut.

The loft’s warm lighting and comfy furniture offered me a sorely needed welcome. I sank onto the sofa and pried off my shoes. Good thing Petey was asleep in his cage. Any rude comments out of him, and I’d get myself a cat. “Why didn’t you tell me Eldridge had been in prison?”

“I forgot. And I don’t know the details, anyway.” Benita sat in the club chair, her legs stretched out, hands on her thighs. “Hope we can trust Raffy’s directions to this yoni place in the Northwest Woods. I’ll call around in the morning for a bed-and-breakfast in that area.”

“We’re not supposed to be at Darryl’s until three,” I said, “so who knows when we’ll get to the retreat.”

“And don’t ask me how we’re going to go about finding the tablet in the garden that Gwen made for them. We should have a plan for when we see Lady Viv.”

“Please, Bin. I just can’t deal with any more tonight. Let’s wait till morning.”

A faint pressure behind my eyes signaled a migraine on the way. It wasn’t every day you saw a man get gunned down in his car. Especially a car that you were about to ride in. And, I hated to admit it, but I was finally sick of that special odor bestowed upon me by Inez. It was quite faint now, but with all due respect to the
orishas
, I needed a long, hot shower.

SIXTEEN

Wednesday morning we buzzed around the loft making arrangements and packing up whatever might be needed for our little excursion. First to Guilford, Connecticut, where Darryl Applebee lived. Then across Long Island Sound to a bed-and-breakfast in East Hampton’s Northwest Woods in striking distance of the Circle of the Sacred Yoni retreat.

I’d dressed in jeans, heels and lavender crocheted tank. Benita wore sneakers, beige capris and her usual Yankees tee. At one point she rushed out of her room with a wild-eyed look.

“Are you ready for this?” She stuck a newspaper in front of my nose. “Jackpot, baby.”

I took one look. “Oh please. You know I hate that movie tabloid crap.” I pushed the paper away.

“Fine,” Benita said. “I’ll read it to you.

“
Capricia—Out Of Control. Capricia, former star of the female detective series
K. T. HELLER,
had to be restrained during a Bounty for the Homeless fundraiser at MOMA after viciously attacking rising young actress Courtney Ditinfass with a champagne bottle. Apparently Courtney was flirting with Capricia’s latest beau, restauranteur, Bobby Borlock.

Ditinfass had this to say about her assailant: ‘Capricia can’t bear the idea that she’ll never be the number one sex goddess in movies. And those magic pheromone injections she’s desperately searching for aren’t gonna do it for her.’ That final remark may be more fact than fiction. Rumors have been circulating that Capricia has found the man she’s been looking for. No, not a husband. She’s discovered her Merlin in Conrad Schumacher, Professor of ancient languages at Columbia University and leading authority on ancient spells, medicinals and aphrodisiacs. She has offered him an undisclosed sum to devise an elixir that would endow her with legendary allure.
”

Benita punctuated her little reading with a final comment. “That bone-digging fruitcake Schumacher set Gwen up!”

I rested my weight against the kitchen island, blown away by this news but still skeptical. “I can’t believe the Conrad Schumacher we met at Gwen’s funeral played a part in her murder.”

You’ve just got a thing for those offbeat professor types. I remember how hot you were for that Chemistry professor at NYU.”

“At least I wasn’t the one who had a wet dream over Fat Bastard.”

Benita hovered closer. “Doesn’t Capricia spend her summers in East Hampton and see your Aunt Lana for therapy during those months?”

“Yes. She’s being doing that for years.”

“And don’t Lana and Capricia also hang together once in a while?”

“Yes.” The conversation Lana and I had after her Love Your Body, Love Your Self workshop came to mind. “In fact Lana told me Capricia was upset about turning forty. And that she hired someone to make her a wonder formula. So that part is true.”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“I just never put it together. Plenty of women would pay for a formula that makes them sexually attractive. That doesn’t mean they’re killers. Besides, Lana asked me not to break professional confidentiality.”

“Confidentiality, my foot. We’re talking about people’s lives here.”

“But Lana never mentioned the professor’s name. And we can’t be sure it’s the same Conrad Schumacher.”

“Come on, Saylor. Columbia U. Ancient languages. And wasn’t he the one Gwen consulted when she was translating stuff? Not to mention dating the freak.” Benita started pacing the large open room, tapping the newspaper against her palm. “It’s plain as day. Gwen and Schumacher often worked side by side. Right? He had to know about her discovery of the special perfume tablet. Along comes Madame Capricia, whose fame, glamour and bucks easily enthrall a boring
pendejo
like Schumacher. He opens his big mouth about it. She works on his head. He falls right in and lets her take control. It fits together perfectly.”

“But why wouldn’t Capricia just hire Gwen instead of Schumacher?”

“Tim said Gwen wouldn’t sell out to Drummond, so why would she sell to Capricia? And if Capricia knew Gwen not only had the very thing she was desperate for but intended to make it a power tool for all women, that ravenous, competitive shrew must’ve gone ballistic. As for Schumacher, his greed probably got the best of him.”

“Well, Capricia does have the money, plus a rep for being a heartless bitch. A dangerous combination. Or do you think Schumacher acted on his own?”

She waved off that idea. “He’d have to spend every penny that Capricia’s paying him to keep a retainer of bully boys. But it wouldn’t hurt to check out his digs if we don’t get enough info for our case in the Hamptons.”

“So, you’re saying the two of them are in on it together?”

“Most likely. Didn’t Schumacher’s assistant tell you the professor was deep in the mountains of Peru? Unreachable? How convenient. And not surprising. The wimp hides out in the Andes while Capricia hires some leg-breakers to do the dirty work and get him the tablet.”

An upsetting thought shot through me. Were all those sweet things Alan said to me part of his act? As a rule, I was good at sizing people up, but lately I’d been off by miles.

Benita read the tension on my face. “What’s up?”

“Maybe I’m stretching things, but Lana told me Alan has been a regular at the rehab clinics. Has this terrible weakness for drugs, particularly those that increase sexual pleasure. And considering that he and Capricia are buddies, is it possible he’s in on it with her? A woman driven by her vanity and a man by his addiction to sexual pleasure? Would Alan take it that far?”

“Frankly, I thought it a bit strange that he approached you at the launch just before we left with Drummond.”

Sigh. I definitely got the bonus special, thanks to Gwen. Not only was I a target for a deranged hit man, I’d also drawn in two Romeos with ulterior motives. Wasn’t there one uncomplicated, sexy man on this planet who could just plain fall in love with me?

My cell phone sat on the kitchen counter. I flipped it open, scrolled through the call history and selected the number for Schumacher’s office. After three rings a young woman picked up. I didn’t know if it was the same grad assistant I’d spoken to before, but when I asked for Professor Schumacher, she told me he was no longer on the faculty.

“That’s funny,” I said. “Only a few days ago someone told me he’d gone to South America on a dig for the university.”

“Well, they were wrong. One of his former assistants was probably covering for him.”

“Covering for him? Why?”

She cleared her throat. “He was involved in a scandal concerning the theft of some artifacts. I’m sorry, but I really can’t go into it. I shouldn’t even be telling you this. Our department has to protect its reputation.”

“Please, can you just tell me if the police are involved? Was the professor indicted?”

“No. The university doesn’t want any publicity on this. They’ve settled for ruining his career. Prof Schumacher will never work in academia again.”

The young woman hung up, and I gave Benita the goods.

“So, Schumacher’s probably desperate enough to do anything Capricia wants.”

“Well, the man’s clearly into some dirty work himself. He sure had me fooled.” I tried his home phone a few times. No voice mail. Nothing. Just endless ringing.

Benita faced me with an all-business expression. “Looks like we better skip the bed-and- breakfast and stay at your Aunt Lana’s.”

“And get her involved?”

“She’s already involved. That big enforcer guy, Curtis, told you he knew the whereabouts of your family. Am I right?”

I nodded. Hearing those words made me positively seasick.

Benita slid onto a kitchen stool. “But he didn’t say you couldn’t see your family or talk to them. That threat was only if you screwed up or went running to the cops. So, Lana won’t be any safer if we steer clear, but she’d be a lot safer if we caught the person who murdered Gwen. And she can help by showing us where Capricia lives.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Bad news is so draining.

“Another thing. And I hate to say it. For all we know Capricia may have been picking your aunt’s brain to get background on you, me and the rest of our families.”

“Okay, I’ll cancel the B&B and give Lana a call.” I took the seat next to Binnie, feeling spun around for what seemed like the umpteenth time. “But what if it’s not Capricia? What if it’s Lady Vivian?”

“That’s just it. We don’t know. And we can’t risk overlooking any lead. So, once we’re out in the Hamptons, why not take care of two birds with one shot? We go to the Yoni retreat and interview Lady Viv. And we find Capricia’s house and investigate.”

“But what are we going to do? Hide out in the bushes and peek through her windows?”

“No. We’re gonna plant my Teddy Cam in her house.”

“Not the Teddy Cam.”

“Worked with Fippy.”

“That’s debatable,” I said. “You could only see the top of her head.”

“Yeah, but it was going up and down.”

“Doesn’t a Teddy Cam have to be hooked up to a TV monitor?”

“You, Saylor, do not have an electronic mind.”

“Thank you, Ms. RadioShack.”

“My Teddy Cam is wireless and works up to fifteen hundred feet away. Lana tells us where Capricia’s house is, and I, as an adoring fan, take the big star a gift, which just happens to have a spy cam. I program my handheld TV to the receiver, then we check out what’s happening from across the street inside our car.”

“Excuse me, but just what are we expecting to find?” I asked.

“If Capricia’s our perp, you can bet all this is front burner material for her. We just want to catch her thinking out loud.”

“Are you sure what we’re doing is legal?”

Benita shrugged. “Probably not.”

The ground phone rang. Uncle Pete joined in with a medley of shrill whistles, punctuated with “Where are the stinking tampons!” —thanks to my roommate’s early morning menstrual tantrum.

Benita scolded him. “Now, Petey, don’t you go saying that to the pet sitter.”

I picked up. “It’s a floral delivery. For you, Binnie.” Guessing the sender, I busied myself in the living room, hiding a smile.

Eyebrows knit, she answered the door.

“Ooh, red roses,” I said when she stepped toward me, bouquet in hand.

Being in a rather foul mood this morning, she glanced quickly at the card, and with a look of exasperation tossed it along with the flowers onto the sofa.

I retrieved the card and read it. “Fippy wants you to watch his weather forecast at eleven tonight.”

“Like I don’t already know it’s ninety degrees and humid.”

“Come on, be a sport.” I handed her the card. “He must have something special in mind.”

“Yeah, like maybe he’s gonna drop his pants on TV.”

I pulled a vase out of the cupboard. “Well, if he does it in a sweet way…”

“Oh, the charming Mr. Weintraub knows how to act real sweet when he’s getting anybody’s pants off.” She set the vase back into the cupboard. “Why put the roses in water if we’re not going to be here? I’ll give them to Marci on the third floor. She’s always home on weekends.” Benita grabbed the paper-wrapped bundle. “You still want to go out for breakfast?”

“I’m up for it.”

“General Store?”

“Sounds perfect. Love that place.”

“Meet you in the lobby in ten minutes.”

***

We were headed down Front Street. Through the noise of the overhead trains and the constant building construction I heard a man’s voice yelling out, “Ladies need a ride?”

Lo and behold, it was Jaleel Thomas behind the wheel of his cobalt blue BMW, his shoulder-length dreads swaying as he bobbed his head to The Notorious B.I.G. Riding shotgun was his cousin, Sub Z, an up-and-coming rap artist. We stopped to say hi and invited them to join us.

Jaleel was clad in a red Chicago Bulls basketball jersey. Sub Z wore shades, a lemon yellow bandana and a tailored white shirt with delicate green pinstripes. Jaleel never went in for much bling, but Sub Z wore heavy gold on his neck and wrists along with diamond stud earrings. Sub Z knew Benita from the days when she trained professionally under Jaleel. They topped each other’s fists in greeting.

Once inside the General Store I sat next to Benita and across from Jaleel and his cousin. While my friends ordered omelettes, panini and espressos, I stuck with my usual. Scrambled eggs, toast, and about a gallon of the house-brewed American coffee.

A note on caffeine: while it is widely known not to be the prescribed substance for those stricken with high levels of anxiety, it also offers the amazing benefits of stimulating one’s brain functioning capabilities for problem solving. And considering this was day five in our seven-day race to do the impossible—and I’d just as soon crawl back in bed and pretend none of this was happening—the latter rationale easily won out. Besides, I’m addicted to the stuff, anyway.

Jaleel had just finished training his early morning clients at Gleason’s. He leaned back, folding his arms behind his head. “Sub is thinking of getting himself a condo along the river. Came here to meet some realtors.”

We chatted briefly about the ever-developing DUMBO neighborhood before Benita and Jaleel wound up talking about the future of boxing. Could it survive amid the growing popularity of mixed martial arts competitions, namely the UFC or Ultimate Fight Championship? Not my favorite subject.

I glanced at the rap artist sitting across from me and thought it might be a good idea to get an interpretation or some intuitive feedback on a dilemma somewhat closer to home. I kept my tone conversational. “Excuse me, Sub Z. Ever hear of someone named Chub Dubs?”

He traced his fingers calmly along the edge of his chin. “Once knew a Graffiti dude from Philly named Chub Head. Of course there’s my man the rapper Chubb Rock. Everybody know him. S’about it. Why you askin’?”

“Well, you’re an expert in the use of words,” I said, avoiding his question. “How about if you were to analyze the name Chub Dubs. Do you get any clues that might tell you something about that person?”

He set down his cup of espresso. “First is obvious. Name like Chub usually mean he or she is overweight or fat. Now as far as the second word. A dub can mean a twenty-dollar bag of smoke. Or else we talkin’ bout twenty-plus-inch rims.”