Aphrodisiac (5 page)

You’d think nearly coming face-to-face with a team of deadly slimebags an hour ago would have dampened my sex drive. What did I expect? I hadn’t been laid in over two months, and here I was rubbing shoulders with the best cure to come my way in years.

I heard a giggle and saw a tan, razor-thin twenty-something brunette in a periwinkle tank and denim shorts standing behind Eldridge. Sometimes I believe there is a higher power that enjoys lobbing a hair into my soup whenever the going gets good.

“Hi, Lauren,” he said, twisting around to greet her. She gave him an embarrassingly long kiss. Embarrassing for the woman who sat watching, which just happened to be me. Lauren whispered something in Eldridge’s ear, and he gave me an apologetic can-I-help-it-if-women-adore-me shrug.

Feigning indifference, I leaned toward Benita and joined in her conversation with the poet from Weehawken. I wasn’t about to let myself come off as another desperate, ego-battered, past-thirty, unmarried female with a grudge. Not that I didn’t feel like asking Eldridge what he saw in that ignorant-looking slut in the trailer park fuck-me outfit.

I felt a tap on my shoulder. Eldridge introduced me to Lauren, who took the hint and politely retreated back to her table of friends. Did he mean to get rid of her? Could it be I actually won that round? Or more importantly, did I want to get mixed up with some South Brooklyn stud who had women crawling all over him?

He edged closer to me and rested his elbows on the bar. “Jaleel told me you see therapy clients in your home,” he said. “Isn’t that risky? There are some pretty nutty guys around.”

Jaleel told him? Had Eldridge asked about me? “I carefully screen all new clients. If someone sounds like they’ve got a heavy-duty issue, I refer them to a colleague at NYSPI or treat them in the outpatient program at the Institute for Sexual Counseling, where I work once a week. My private practice is limited to your everyday dysfunctionals. The worried well, as we call them in the business.”

I noticed several nicks and scars on his face that I’m sure didn’t come from shaving. “You’re obviously a person who likes danger, going toe-to-toe in the ring. And anyone who can enjoy working thirty stories up, wow. That gives me absolute nightmares. How’d you ever get into doing high-rise windows?”

“Runs in the family, working in high places.” A subtle light went on in his face. “My dad painted all the bridges from the Verrazano to the Triborough. Just like his dad.” Hell, I had a great-uncle who was a riveter on the one hundred second floor of the Empire State back in 1931. There’s a famous picture of him sitting on a girder overlooking the skyline with seven other Kanienkehaka Mohawks.”

“Then you grew up in the city?”

“The Red Hook projects,” he said. “My dad died young, but my uncle took me up to our tribal lands pretty often. Lacrosse and high steel are traditions for my father’s tribe upstate. I never got into lacrosse. Boxing’s always been my game.”

“I never really got into sports.”

“No? What about the women’s gymnastic team and the semi-pro soccer?”

Oops. “Oh, that.” My face flushed.

He gave me a slow, triumphant smile. “I think you need another drink. Who knows what you’ll confess to next?”

We laughed, and he pressed his shoulder into mine. Damn. It’s Eddie Rivera redux. I was orbiting the moon and the view was ecstatic, no doubt heightened by the haunting sounds of his friend’s steel guitar. And two martinis. “That’s a beautiful song.”

He nodded. “It’s called ‘Sleepwalk.’ ”

I heard myself saying, “Dance with me.”

Eldridge didn’t answer. He just stood there casually draining the last of his beer. I wanted to crawl under the bar. Why did I open my mouth like that? I was about to say, “Only kidding” when his arm slid around my waist, and he guided me off the stool.

He pulled me close, and I reached up, draping my hands around his neck. His solid, muscular body felt as good as it looked. And the Mace-man could dance. His movements were rhythmic and confident. A strong leader, as my mother would say. She and my father loved ballroom and used to head off to the Borscht Belt a few times a year, leaving my brother and me with Aunt Lana.

By the time the song ended, Benita was encircled by four men trying to pick her up. Best friends like her aren’t exactly confidence builders. How many women do you know who can look gorgeous wearing baggy running pants, a ratty Yankees tee and sneakers?

We found two seats farther along the bar, and Eldridge ordered that third martini he said I needed. He stroked the small of my back as we talked. In fact, I was sure he was giving me “that” look. Definitely an intense pheromone exchange going on here.

Then I saw it. The face of a ghost peering back at me. My breath was stolen from my chest. I stared at the photograph hanging on the wall behind the bar. The frame was embellished with a wreath of dried flowers. A small plaque beneath it said, “Our hearts are with you, Gwendolyn.”

I realized I’d let the conversation lapse. I glanced up. Eldridge seemed to be waiting, almost listening to my thoughts. Most guys would get antsy and tease me or excuse themselves.

Maybe that’s what prompted me to say, “How far would you go to help a friend? Especially if they’re already dead?”

“A friend?”

I nodded toward the little altar that had me fixated. “Gwendolyn Applebee. We were very close.”

“Sad what happened. She was a very special person.”

“You knew her?” Don’t tell me Gwen was another one of his conquests. He wasn’t her type at all.

He nodded. “I live a couple blocks from here. I used to take my ten-year-old nephew for walks along the docks. One day we ran into this woman writing poetry by the canal. Kevin wasn’t well, and she was real gentle with him. Became good friends. He loved to hear her stories about warrior gods. And they both collected rocks. Gwen gave him some of hers. She’d take us to her place and show him all kinds of ancient relics. He really liked her.”

I had a vague memory of Gwen once talking about a sickly little boy who used to visit her with his uncle. “He must be upset that she’s gone.”

“He would’ve been, but Kevin died a few months before Gwen. Leukemia.”

“I’m so sorry.”

He bit down on his lip. “Beats me why such a kind, generous woman like Gwen would take her own life.”

I fiddled with my martini glass. “Maybe she didn’t.”

Eldridge pulled back his chin. “What do you mean?”

“It wasn’t suicide. She was murdered.”

“The police have new information?”

“No, but I do.”

He studied me, puzzled. Something was obviously going through his mind. “You weren’t kidding earlier when you said you were out looking for murderers.”

I avoided his eyes and sipped my drink.

Eldridge waited for an explanation, but when he didn’t get one, he said, “I hope that silence doesn’t mean what I think, or you could be getting in over your head. There are some mean dudes out there. Believe me, you don’t want any part of them.”

“I can take care of myself.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You don’t seriously believe that.”

“Why is it men assume women are helpless when the going gets rough?” My lips pulled back tight against my teeth. “I’ve worked in clinics in some pretty bad neighborhoods. Believe me, I’m no pushover. Maybe those mean dudes out there better be afraid of
me
.”

He laughed and took a swallow of his beer. “Gimme a break. You must think you’re pretty dangerous. What are you five feet? And a big 130?”

“What? I have
never
weighed that much in my life!” Well, maybe I did come close while completing my doctoral thesis. For months it was just me, my computer and a case of Twinkies. “Easy,” he said. “I’m no expert at judging a woman’s weight. Fact is, I think you’re pretty cute.”

“Cute? That’s what people call their pet ferret.” Next he’d be calling me a munchkin.

“What do you want? Sexy? Yeah, I think you’re sexy.”

“Keep the charity.” I downed the rest of my martini in one gulp. Ugh. Then I half slid, half fell off my stool while trying to get tip money out of my tight jeans pocket. Eldridge stood up looking bewildered and annoyed. Setting my attitude on maximum level haughty, I placed a Lincoln under my glass and stepped away from the bar.

One of the miraculous things about being petite is that it takes only one martini to nudge my delicate body’s chemistry over the line into funhouse land. So, you can imagine what three did to me. In other words, I had no idea how plowed I was until I got off my stool. The room was spinning, and the floor wavered beneath me. Still, I raised my chin and strutted away, showing off my best feature, the Ozyutikoffsky inverted heart fanny. Every woman knows a man will size up her ass the instant she turns her back.

I made it across the room and stepped to the door in a manner I once saw demonstrated by Gwyneth Paltrow in a nineties’ movie. I forget which one. Actually, I’d forgotten a lot of things while caught up in my Tanqueray huff. Including the fact that I came here with Benita. Set to leave, I thrust my shoulder against the front door just as a man on the outside yanked it open. I can still taste the pavement.

Wouldn’t you know Eldridge Mace had to be obnoxious enough to come running out and scoop me up by the seat of my jeans.

So much for my Hollywood exit.

FIVE

On Thursdays I usually worked until four at the Institute for Sexual Counseling, but today my last two appointments called to cancel. At two fifteen I took the F train from midtown Manhattan and managed to reach York Street in DUMBO with only one generous offer for a tongue bath. Making my way down Bridge Street in my denim gauchos, artichoke print shell and ankle-tie wedges, I passed the local Dominican eatery, which had been here long before developers started converting rundown warehouses into luxury lofts. The delicious smells made me realize how hungry I was. I’d eaten only blueberries for breakfast and didn’t allow myself lunch, thanks to Mr. Mace’s rude estimation of my weight.

I rounded the corner of Front Street and shuffled down a block with lovely old brick townhouses. After two more blocks my grouchiness got the best of me. I was hungover from last night’s martini fest, and as any medical professional knows, the best cure would be large doses of sugar.

I made a pit stop into DUMBO General Store, which was not really a store, but a café frequented by neighborhood residents. It also sold art supplies, held drawing classes and hosted music performances. The place was cool, dark and not too crowded at this hour. Two ponytailed guys, who were obviously artists, sat at a long wooden table near the baby grand piano. I heard them talking about the current exhibit on the walls. Photographs of empty closets. The show was entitled “Gone.”

I studied the chalkboard menu over the bar and ordered a cappuccino and three brownies. Taking a seat at the long table, I wolfed down my six-hundred-calorie remedy. One of the artists in a paint-splattered tee started razzing me about how fast I motored through all three brownies.

Was every man on the planet concerned about my weight? “Yeah, well, my next stop is Blazing Donutz. So, there.” Of course, my mouth being stuffed, naturally I sent a barrage of chewed brownie fragments airborne across the table. Very attractive.

My little comment started him on a rant about Blazing Donutz. He educated me quickly and sharply on the neighborhood’s disdain for the donut franchise that had moved in and threatened the homespun businesses that were the heart and soul of DUMBO.

I stood up. “Point taken. Can’t say I don’t agree with you. It’s just that I’m new in the neighborhood. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m battling a triple-martini headache and must prepare myself for a session with a man who gets aroused by vacuum cleaners.”

The endorphins from the chocolate helped carry me the few blocks to my place. In the lobby Caspian handed me a large UPS box that had arrived. I turned into the elevator alcove and, while waiting for one of the gold metallic panels to slide open, glanced at the box’s return label. Darryl Applebee. Must be the package he mentioned to me at Gwen’s funeral. Some mementos he’d put aside for Benita and me.

I heard the
clickety-click
of doggy toenails on the tile floor, followed by the sound of shuffling feet. Oh no. Come on, elevator. Open fast.

A raspy voice asked the doorman-concierge, “Didn’t I see Dr. Oz? I need to talk to her.” Ninety-year-old Mr. Fellows lived here with his son, who seemed to travel a great deal. In my three weeks here I hadn’t seen or met the younger Fellows, but considering what his father was like, I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

“Yes, she’s right here,” Caspian said.

Thanks a mil.

Fellows chugged toward me, his white miniature poodle, Renoir, dancing at his feet. “Wait, Dr. Oz. I have something to tell you.”

“Guess you and Renoir had your daily walk,” I said, trying to sound chatty.

Dressed in yachting pants and polo tee, Mr. Fellows looked like a cross between Yoda and the Pillsbury Doughboy. The elevator arrived, and he wobbled on, the only man I knew who was actually my height.

I pressed floors six and seven. We stood facing the doors. As soon as the car began to rise, so did Mr. Fellows’s hand. I felt it caressing my backside. “Mr. Fellows. Please.” I shifted the box to one arm and pried his hand away. “I’ve asked you twice to stop this.”

“I had another one of those dreams.”

I pretended not to hear him and stared up at the glowing numbers.

“Same as before. The wet kind…about you…and me.”

Delete and cancel,
please
. Last time he’d launched into a description of us doing it doggy style on his Prestomatic adjustable bed. “Keep the details to yourself.”

“My Martha passed on so long ago that my jolly wally is good and ready. And you’re the best-looking woman around here. You really get me going.”

Lucky me. Was this my karma? To be the hot pick for lecherous ninety-somethings with a fondness for rear entry? His palm did an encore on my buttocks. “Stop it!” I swatted his hand. He looked hurt. What was I supposed to do? Beat on a defenseless old man? “Mr. Fellows, I can imagine being alone must be difficult, but you simply cannot—”

“What I’ve lost in stamina, I make up for in technique.” He let out a hoarse chuckle.

Looking down so I wouldn’t have to watch all four of his chins moving in tandem, I instead experienced the thrill of noticing the erection in his pants. Geeeez.

The elevator hit my floor. I leaped out and hurried down the hall to the corner loft. Once inside the apartment I was greeted by Uncle Pete.

“I farted. I farted,” he said, waddling around in his cage.

“I’m not interested, Petey.” I set the box on the floor. “Charming gentlemen everywhere. Some even have wings.”

“You’re in a great mood.” Benita was home this afternoon prepping for a weekend business conference in Atlanta.

“I think I’ve discovered a new listing for the
DSM-IV
. Horny Nonagenarian Disorder.”
The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders
was the bible for people in my field.

“Not Mr. Fellows again. He’s always so polite when I see him. Are you sure you’re not doing anything to lead him on?”

“Very funny.”

She bit back her laugh and knelt on the floor next to the box. “What’s this?”

“Actually, it’s for both of us.” I tore open the lid and read the enclosed note.

Saylor,

After having sold a few of these perfume bottles from my late sister’s collection I decided to be a nice guy and give you a break. I know that you and Gwen had this thing for perfume. And quite frankly I know that if my sister had made a will, she would have left these to you. The rest of the garbage in the box is stuff that I’m sure means more to you and Benita than to me.

Darryl Applebee

P.S. If you want more, come on by. My basement’s full of crap. Thanks to my pack rat sister.

I sighed. “How sweet.”

“The guy’s an actor,” Benita said. “Pretends to be all upset over Gwen, now he’s calling her names.”

“But Gwen
was
a pack rat.”

“I don’t care. Don’t trust him.” She shook her head. “He’s our man.”

“Impossible. Darryl can be a steaming asshole, but he’s no murderer. Maybe his relationship with Gwen wasn’t exactly close; still it wasn’t all that bad. And what would he possibly have to gain by killing her? He’s a successful real estate broker, and Gwen was a starving academic.”

We started digging through the box. No big surprises. Nothing we didn’t already know about our friend. There was her favorite book of women’s poetry. A coral necklace Gwen frequently wore. An ashtray from our night at the Trump Taj Mahal in Atlantic City. One minute our eyes were wet, the next, we were squealing with laughter.

“Ohmigod.” I held up a curled and faded eight-by-ten of Binnie, Gwen and me sporting bikinis and sunhats in Cancun. “Look at this. I gave her strict orders to destroy it. Instead, my Danny DeVito look-alike photo comes back to haunt me.”

“Nah, the light just caught you at the wrong angle. You look more like David Letterman.”

I pulled out a rolled up movie poster and opened it.
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
. I’d given that to Gwen on her seventeenth birthday. Along with…there it was. The poster of
Funny Face
, in which Audrey Hepburn played Jo Stockton, an intellectual beatnik who goes from working in a Greenwich Village bookstore to becoming a high fashion model. Gwen and I had both yearned to straddle those two worlds. In our freshman year of college we explored the big city together. We pretended to be part of a sophisticated world of style that neither of us could afford. And we searched for New York’s bohemian philosophers that were long gone by the time we arrived.

Next I unwrapped a newspaper bundle to find an empty Jean Patou crystal flacon with a golden lotus stopper. “Ooh. I remember when Gwen bought this one.”

Benita uncovered another. Rubbing her thumb across the gold filigree top of a Givenchy miniature, she said, “Are perfume bottles that valuable? Darryl mentioned selling some.”

“Well, it depends on how old and rare they are. Most are worth, say, fifteen to fifty dollars. But a few of Gwen’s would definitely be priced in the hundreds. To her, every single one of them was precious.” I pulled out a square bottle that once held Tigress, a sixties’ cologne, and burst into tears.

My roommate placed her hand on mine. “Why don’t we just leave these alone for now? Later, when things smooth out, we can take time to enjoy them.”

I nodded and started rewrapping the bottles I’d removed, carefully fitting them back into the box. All I could see was Gwen working in her lab trying to create her own fragrances. “Remember the perfumes she used to make?”

“Yeah. Talk about hit-and-miss.”

“Her mixology did get a touch heavy-handed sometimes.”

“How about the one she made for your birthday?” Binnie wrinkled her nose. “The one she named Puppy Love. And you suggested calling it The Pungent Puppy. Man, did she get pissed.”

“I feel bad now for saying that. I’m surprised Gwen wanted my opinion on the name of her latest perfume.” My hand flew to my mouth.

“What’s the matter?”

I jumped to my feet and hurried to my bedroom, where I’d left the poem. Benita chased after me. I grabbed the paper from my bureau. “Read it. The second line. ‘Heaven’s Daughter has brought the storm upon me, I meet my end.’ “

“So?”

“Gwen named her last perfume Heaven’s Daughter.”

“Now there’s a catchy title.”

“It’s about Gwen’s favorite goddess, Inanna. A really ancient love goddess. The first Venus.” Gwen had been an authority on the early female deities. And she’d been devoted to them. They were so closely tied to vegetation that her work in archaeobotany had often dealt with their religious rituals.

Benita shrugged. “Maybe she was just getting spiritual in her last few minutes. Maybe it’s got nothing to do with her perfume.”

My tone was insistent. “I think it does.”

“Explain.”

I sat on the bed. “A few months back Gwen and I were eating lunch in Chinatown. She was giddy with excitement. She said the big fashion houses would be lining up and begging for her newest fragrance. And now it’s in her secret message.”

Benita reclined next to me, leaning back on her elbows. Her look reminded me of the one I got from Detective Roach. “Aren’t you stretching things a bit?”

“Think about it. The name of the perfume, next to the words, ‘has brought the storm upon me.’ Sounds like it had something to do with her murder.”

“That is pretty weird.” She cocked her head. “Except, how come you didn’t recall that conversation with Gwen?”

“You know how manicky she could be. I wrote it off as just another one of her wild fantasies.”

“What else did Gwen say?”

“Nothing. She was afraid she’d jinx it. Wanted to wait until an agreement was signed. So, I forgot about the whole thing.” I sighed. “I should’ve pried it out of her. But with Gwen’s vivid imagination, half the time I didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t.”

“Did she mention the names of any contacts?”

“No. But, since my Thursday private isn’t due until five thirty, I’m going to make a few phone calls to fashion houses.”

Benita helped me find the numbers online. We divided them, eight apiece. I did Vera Wang, Calvin Klein, Estee Lauder, Revlon and Chanel. And the LVMH group that included Givenchy, Dior and Guerlain. Talk about frustrating. None of them ever heard of Heaven’s Daughter or Gwendolyn Applebee. When I asked about them buying a perfume of hers, I was told the companies get their new scents from big fragrance houses, which have their own staff of professional perfumers. My heart sank. Poor Gwen. She really could get delusional.

Benita walked into my room, cell in hand, Petey on her shoulder. She had the same results. “Something told me this idea was too far-fetched.”

I crumpled my list of numbers into a ball and hurled it at the trashcan. My absolutely abominable toss missed by a yard, but at least it was sufficiently violent. “Are we out of our minds? Shouldn’t I hire an expert to do the legwork? We could go around in circles forever.”

“Hey, we’ve barely started. Let me do some net searches on Darryl, Rob and that grad student who was Gwen’s assistant at Columbia.”

“Okay, but if we haven’t made any headway in a week or so, we call in the troops. Not that I think some PI is going to fathom the mind of Gwendolyn Applebee. For all we know she had a double life as a hooker or something.”

“I doubt it. You gotta shave your legs if you want to be a hooker.”

Benita rushed around getting ready to leave. Her limo to the airport was due any minute. Hopefully before my five thirty client arrived.

“
Adios, Tio Pedro
.” Benita coaxed the mynah onto her finger, gave him a quick smacker on the beak and set him back in his cage. She put three shopping bags next to her suitcase. Presents for her nephews. Benita was taking an early flight so she could visit one of her five brothers before checking into the hotel for the conference. Roberto lived in Atlanta with his wife and three children. I helped her cart her bags to the company limo waiting outside.

Across the street I spotted one of those super wide military-type vehicles parked on the corner. This one was all black. “I can’t stand those cars. And they’re so popular these days.”