If Looks Could Kill (11 page)

“Cat, tell me,” I said, sitting at the end of the couch by her bare, pedicured feet and trying to keep my voice calm, “is
there
anyone
you can think of who might want to harm you?”

“Are you wondering why I didn’t offer up Dolores’s name on a silver platter?” she asked plaintively from under the picture
of the Jolly Green Giant. “Because, after all, we both know how much she despises me.”

“Well, she certainly jumps to
my
mind. Why didn’t you mention her to Farley?”

She lifted the bag from her head. Her eye makeup had begun to smear and she looked both worried and wiped out. “Because the
timing seems all wrong,” she said. “When I got the
Gloss
job, maybe, but why now, so many years later? Besides, it’s hard to picture her in an apron with a candy thermometer. The
only reason Dolores ever goes into a kitchen is to find the martini olives.”

“Well, I think you need to discuss the situation with Farley. Let him be the judge. Can you think of anything else? Is there
anyone really pissed at you?”

“People are always pissed at me, but there’s a difference between pissed and murderous rage. I don’t know anyone who feels
that
way toward me…You know what this means, Bailey? I’m the reason Heidi is dead.” Her eyes watered as she spoke, something you
didn’t see every day.

“That’s not your fault, Cat. There’s no possible way you could have prevented this. Look,” I said, switching gears, “we’ve
got to be proactive about the situation.”

“Please don’t say ‘proactive.’ You know I hate that word.”

“Who was the caterer you used for the party?”

“It’s a small company I use all the time. Why? You don’t think
they
had something to do with this?”

“No, but you need to double-check and make sure that they didn’t take the box of truffles from the hallway and stick it away
somewhere. We need to be sure there’s only
one
box in this picture.”

“Okay, okay,” she said, bag on head again.

“And I think you need some security.”

“You mean like a bodyguard?”

“Maybe.”

“What I need is a food taster. But they went out about five hundred years ago.”

“Why don’t I call that guy who heads corporate security—Eddie something or other.”

“Oh, he’d be a help. The most exciting thing he’s ever done is catch someone smoking in their office.”

“He might have some ideas, though. I’ll call him, and I’ll call Audrey for the party list. When are people supposed to be
here for the planning meeting? We should try to cancel that.”

Tossing the bag of peas on the coffee table, she glanced at her gold Cartier panther watch.

“In two minutes,” she said.

“Can you handle it? Can you act normal? Because for now it’s probably best if they not know a thing. Maybe I should just intercept
them when they get here and say you have a migraine.”

“No,” she said. “I need to do this meeting. We should have started planning October a week ago—and I’ve got to stay busy.
If I don’t, I’ll go out of my mind.”

“Okay, but not a word to anybody,” I told her. “Now, what about Jeff ? We have to get hold of him. Is he at the studio?”

There was a pause, that funny beat like earlier.

“Yes, I think so,” she said. “I need to call him.”

“Are things okay with you two?” I asked.

“Yes, of course,” she said. She held my eyes as she spoke, something liars rarely do, but Cat was a good liar and I couldn’t
tell if what she said was true or false. Maybe everything was just dandy with the two of them. Or maybe it wasn’t and she
just felt uncomfortable telling me. When she and Jeff had been dating, she’d shared their ups and downs with me, the roller-coaster
ride of their romance, but once they’d married and their life had settled down, she’d been more private, protective. I had
been the same way about my husband. At some moment I might need to press her to be more forthcoming, but this didn’t seem
like the time.

I asked if I could use her office since I wanted Audrey to fax me the party guest list, and she said yes, retreating under
the peas again. “One more thing,” I said. “Why would you let me search Heidi’s room when it was clearly still off limits?”

“I didn’t know it was, I
swear
. I called the precinct last night to ask if it was okay to arrange to have it cleaned, and the guy on the desk said okay.”

It sounded like one of Cat’s convenient misunderstandings. I left her lying there and, my adrenaline pumping, took the stairs
to the third floor two at a time.

Audrey was at her desk and I explained quickly that I was with Cat, who was nursing an orca-size migraine, and that we had
just learned there might have been some “irregularities” at the party Thursday night. We needed the guest list right away.
It turned out that not only could she provide a list of the RSVPs but because she had been at the party supervising—as she
did when-ever Cat threw an event—she knew who had actually showed and who hadn’t. I asked her to fax one copy to the number
that Detective Farley had given me and another to Cat’s house.

While I waited anxiously for the fax to come through, I gave the corporate security guy, Eddie, a buzz. He was out of the
office, his secretary told me, but she volunteered his cell phone number, and he answered on the third ring. Describing myself
as Cat’s right-hand person, hyperbole that seemed warranted if I was going to capture his attention, I explained the situation
in broad strokes and said Cat needed to be provided with as much security as possible.

“Are you saying someone tried to poison her?” he asked, sounding stupefied.

“Yes, possibly,” I confirmed. “The police are on the case, but we need your help, too.”

“We’re not the Secret Service over here,” he said.

“I know, I know, but the guys in the lobby have to be told to be extra cautious, and someone should walk the floor from time
to time. Can you think about what’s in your department’s capabilities and give Miss Jones a call at home?”

I sensed he was clearly torn between wanting to horn in on the excitement and not wanting to move his butt one inch more than
he had to, but he said he would get back to Cat soon.

I heard the doorbell ring below, and as I scurried down the stairs with the two fax sheets, I saw the senior
Gloss
staffers being greeted tepidly in the hallway by Cat, who had found a moment to freshen her makeup. The group included Leslie,
of course, in a navy pin-striped sleeveless dress (obviously selected for its slimming effects) and a quilted leather Chanel
bag the size of Yankee Stadium; Polly, looking overheated and beleaguered in the blazer she’d thrown over her jumper; and
Kip, who was wearing the same scowl he’d sported earlier. There was Rachel Kaplan, too, the entertainment editor whom Cat
had been bullying on the phone earlier. People liked to comment on how she worked at being a Cat clone, and today it was especially
true: her blond hair was cascading down her shoulders, and she had on a straight knee-length skirt, a strapless lavender top
with a matching sweater around her shoulders—and lots of toe cleavage.

The group had obviously traveled by cab together, and they looked ornery, like people on a group tour who had just learned
that the bus’s air-conditioning was not going to be repaired in their lifetime. They also appeared surprised as hell to see
me dashing down Cat’s stairs, but she offered them no explanation. As they filed into the dining room, I pulled Cat aside.
I told her in a near whisper that since she had the meeting to attend to, I was leaving, but that the police had the invitation
list and Eddie would be calling her. I suggested that she get Jeff to come home as soon as possible and that she inform her
boss, Harry, the owner of the company, about everything that was going on. Listening distractedly, she slid closed the two
pocket doors to the dining room.

“Bailey, I’m terrified,” she said, turning back to me. “You’ve got to help me. You’re the only person I can really trust.”

“You know I’ll help,” I told her. “Call me immediately if you feel anxious or scared or if you get any sudden revelations
about who might have done this.”

“I need more than that. You’ve got to help find out who’s trying to hurt me.”

“But now that we’re almost sure it’s foul play, it’s something for the police to handle, Cat.”

“I want you to look around, too,” she said. “This is your specialty, Bailey. You’re a crime writer.”

“I
write
about crimes, Cat. I don’t
solve
them.”

“But you always manage to see things from a different angle from everyone else. You notice what no one else does. . . . Please.”

“Okay, let’s get together tomorrow—early—and we’ll make a plan,” I told her. “It’s probably best if it’s out of the office—call
me and let me know what’s good for you.” I told her I had a copy of the guest list, which I’d look over tonight, and suggested
she have Audrey dig out the résumés of everyone on staff who had come to the party, and we’d review them together. “Until
then, please be careful—get Jeff to come home, and both of you just stay put.”

I gave her arms a squeeze and said good-bye. Outside, the street was bustling with private-school kids—but no press. As I
hurried toward Park Avenue to hail a cab, my heart pounding and my stomach churned up, I thought about how everything had
shifted in a matter of moments. I’d spent half the day focusing on Heidi, trying to unravel the secrets in her life and what
might have led to her death. But it turned out that her life and her secrets didn’t matter a damn in the new scheme of things.
It was Cat who was the center of the story and
her
life that needed to be scrutinized. Someone had come to the party armed to kill her. Why? A grudge, a vendetta, jealousy?
And would that person, having failed, try again? I had the guest list, and I’d pore over it as soon as I had the chance, seeing
if anything jumped out at me.

As I climbed in a cab, a very scary thought occurred to me. I had just left Cat alone with four staffers—all of whom had been
at the party Thursday night. I grabbed my cell phone from my purse and hit Cat’s number.

“Carlotta’s still there, right?” I asked when she answered.

“Yes, why?” she asked impatiently.

“Just checking,” I said. “That’s all. And look, be careful. Promise me you’ll be careful.”

I
GOT THE
first hang-up call at six-thirty P.M. that night—though I didn’t think anything of it at the time. The phone was ringing
as I flung open the door, and—you’ll find this pathetic—I nearly broke my neck racing for it, thinking it might be K.C. Yeah,
right. I answered, could sense someone on the other end listening, ignoring my two hellos—and then click. My caller ID said
“Number blocked.”

I hadn’t gone directly home from Cat’s. That’s because as soon as I was settled in a cab, I’d phoned the office from my cell
and found that the page proofs for a story I had in the July issue was almost ready, and since the piece was due to ship this
week, I needed to read it ASAP. I returned to
Gloss
and hung out in my office for about half an hour. What I was dying to do was review the guest list, but this wasn’t the time
or the place—I’d save that for later, at home. I used the time to return the call to my friend and next-door neighbor, Landon.
I explained I had lots to share and asked if he was free for dinner. He not only said yes, he offered to cook.

At around four I dragged my butt over to the pit, hoping that if I loitered, it would encourage the production people to make
my piece a priority. The atmosphere was totally nutty out there, kind of like
Lord of the Flies
—maybe because the senior players were off premises. There were a dozen buff male models milling around, all with barbed-wire
tattoos on their biceps; the art director was squabbling with his number two; and the photo editor was screaming at someone
over the phone. He’d apparently rented a herd of buffalo for a September fashion shoot out west and now they were missing
in action. Maybe what was making it so strange for me was that in the midst of such silliness I was holding on to a terrifying
secret: Someone had tried to kill Cat.

When the copier finally rolled out the proof of my piece, I took it back to my office to read and cut the thirty-line overrun.
The article was about a twenty-eight-year-old Georgia woman who had been arrested for stalking and harassing a female co-worker—everything
from mailing her photos of double-D girls from the pages of
Jugs
to setting fire to her garage.

After two days in Atlanta, I found I loved the stalker—she was funny and smart, though horrified by the idea of facing a trial—whereas
the victim gave me the creeps. Within two days I had a theory and two small, tentative pieces of evidence to back it up: The
alleged stalker hadn’t done any stalking at all; the victim had set everything up to make it
look
as though she had. I went to the police with what I’d found, which had fueled growing doubts of their own, and the charges
had eventually been dropped. Turning over a few extra stones had been enough to make me see the truth. I wondered if I’d be
so lucky in Cat’s situation. As soon as I had signed off on the proof, I sprinted for the door.

By the time I had navigated the subway, unlocked the door of my apartment, and dashed for the hang-up call, I felt fried.
After stripping down to my underpants and washing off, I slipped on a sleeveless cotton dress and lit a few eucalyptus candles.
Now I was ready for the party list. This was a job that called for expansive thinking, so I set myself up on the pine dining
room table at the far end of my living room.

From a glance at the check marks on the sheet of paper Audrey had faxed, it appeared as if fifty to sixty people had actually
attended the party. Not exactly a crushing crowd, but because of the layout of Cat’s house—the living room and dining room
on one floor, the library on another—there had been lots of movement, and it had seemed bustling that night. The point of
the party had been to generate buzz for Dolores’s book. Titled
Love at Any Cost
, it was a collection of love stories, by a variety of writers, that had run in
Gloss
during what Dolores called the glory days—
her
reign. Cat, by the way, would never have given the party if her boss, Harry, hadn’t pleaded with her to do it.