Killer Heels (22 page)

And now that they all wear headsets, they come off like some super-secret branch of Homeland Security, ready to call in the National Guard if I take the wrong pair of slacks off the rack: “You can’t wear those! Your butt will look huge! Put the hanger down and back away. Strike Team, I have a Taste Violation in Sector Four.”

It’s enough to make you want to shop in the suburbs and deal with the bored teenagers. Of course, I used to be one of those bored teenagers, hence my bias.

A chirpy little headset-wearer was upon us moments after we walked into the store. The store was spacious and airy with clothes hanging in isolated yet strategic locations. It was the mating of a walk-in closet with an airplane hangar. “Good afternoon, I’m Deirdre, can I help you find something special today?”

Gretchen blinked at her and I went for the preemptive strike. “She needs a dress for a funeral.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Deirdre said, her chirpy inflection not changing one iota. “You’ll find what you’re looking for over here.” Deirdre led us to a delicate rack draped with black fabric in various configurations.

“Thanks. We’ll take a look and let you know,” I said with a really nice smile, but Deirdre still took offense, frowning at me as she huffed off, her DKNY slides making little
tsks
of disapproval on the hardwood floor.

I moved hangers around like a picky eater pushing food around on her plate. “Gretchen, you don’t need to worry so much about protecting Teddy’s reputation. We all know he was a good guy.”

Gretchen didn’t even look up from the dress she was examining. “I’m not so sure Yvonne thinks so.”

“Well, the whole thing with Yvonne is so complicated. And I’m not talking about his personal life, I’m talking about the ad and all. You’ll get that straightened out. Teddy wouldn’t have screwed the magazine.”

“No,” she echoed in emphatic agreement.

“I mean, everybody pushes the envelope here and there—the occasional lunch on an expense account that shouldn’t be, that sort of thing. No one’s going to cause an uproar over those.” She nodded, watching me now, trying to guess where I was going. “Unless it was something big, like a house account somewhere.” Like the St. Regis, for instance, but I wanted to see if she’d say it first.

She shook her head. “Teddy was a good man who did the right thing. He had such a big heart. You know that ad Brady’s all freaked about? A brand-new company that probably has its whole future riding on that ad and Teddy saw that and was impressed by it and wanted to give them great placement. Because Teddy believed that people deserve a chance, that there are talented people out there in the world besides Tommy Hilfiger and Kate Spade and those people might have something to contribute. And he knew how awful it could be trying to get your foot in the door, so he opened the door for them. Isn’t that wonderful?”

I hadn’t expected Gretchen to clamber up onto a soapbox, but I was fascinated, so I just nodded and she kept going.

“But of course, there are always spoilers like Yvonne who get all their joy out of stomping on people’s dreams and playing with the affections of good men like Teddy just because it makes them feel special. Even if she wasn’t the one who stabbed him, she killed him, Molly. She broke his heart and a man like Teddy couldn’t live with a broken heart.”

Her passion knocked the air out of me. As I groped for a response, Ms. Headset returned, wearing her plastic smile. “Have you found anything?”

“Yes,” Gretchen barked at her. “I found your clothes trite and derivative, overpriced and badly produced, and I wouldn’t wear them if you paid me.”

Gretchen charged for the door and I hurried to catch up with her, waving to Ms. Headset over my shoulder. “I think we’re leaving.”

I grabbed Gretchen’s arm once we were outside and made her slow down. “Where are you going?”

“I don’t know.”

“Slow down a minute.”

She stopped and burst into tears. “I didn’t see a thing I liked in there.”

We both knew that had nothing to do with her tears, so I stood quietly by while she wailed. I smiled uneasily at the random passersby who looked askance at Gretchen’s wailing, but most people just kept walking. When the tears began to slow, I put one hand on her shoulder and hailed a cab with the other. “Maybe you should go home for a while. Everyone will understand.”

“No,” she sniffed, “I need to get the ad straightened out. That’ll make me feel better.”

She’d pulled herself together for the most part by the time I got a cab to stop and I bundled her into it. “Hang in there. Everything will get sorted out and we’ll make it as right as we can.”

As the cab pulled away, I started to hail another one for myself, then decided against it. The hotel was only a half dozen blocks down Fifth Avenue and I could use the walk. I needed to clear my head and my heart.

One of the things I love most about walking in Manhattan is that it’s a way to be by yourself without being alone. The sidewalks are always full and you can enjoy the circus parade of people as they rush by, intent on the dramas of their own lives. You can smell anxiety in the air, but there’s hope and promise, too. You make your own way, unbothered or maybe unnoticed by your neighbors, but they’re right there, right next to you. Contact is a breath away. It’s a patchwork quilt that might not match anything in your home, but having it on hand is comforting. The thought alone keeps you warm.

That had to be the hardest part of getting involved in a crime like this—fighting against that instinct for connection and keeping yourself from drowning in other people’s sorrow. Do this sort of thing too long and it had to harden your heart a bit, as a protective mechanism if nothing else.

But how to reconcile that with Detective Edwards and his amazing kiss, which I had been trying very hard not to think about all day? Had the kiss been the mechanical, instinctive move of a hardened heart looking for action? Certainly hadn’t felt that way. Or had it been the kiss of a heart so aware of the frailty of life that it sought connection that much more forcefully? There was only one way to answer that question before I got too caught up in my own poetry. I had to kiss him again.

12

Tricia was waiting for me in the lobby of the St. Regis, a delicate splash of coral amidst all the gold and white opulence. “I don’t know what Helen was thinking,” she said before I’d even made contact with the brocade chair next to her. “You can’t have a funeral reception in a place that looks like a twelve-year-old’s wedding fantasy.”

The St. Regis is one of those stunning places with high ceilings and glistening floors that make me feel like my face is dirty and my hair isn’t combed, no matter how swanked up I am. “I dunno. Heaven could look like this. The streets are paved with gold, aren’t they?”

“I’m not going to engage you in theological debate.”

“Not without a cocktail, anyway.”

“And it’s only three o’clock, so that’s not an option.”

“It’s always five o’clock somewhere in the world.”

“Aren’t we both here because we have work to do?”

“You’re done. You’ve already scratched this off your location list. But I’ll tell you the real reason we can’t have Teddy’s reception here. This is where he brought his mistresses and where Helen busted him on it.”

Tricia’s face spun into a spiral of disgust, then righted itself. “So she has some revenge scenario in mind that she wants to enact at the reception?”

“Thing is, she doesn’t actually seem the type. It might be more of a case of quiet satisfaction that she’s honoring him at the scene of his crimes and only she and the mistresses know.”

“That’s cold.”

“So’s cheating on your wife. Wanna have a little fun?”

“Are those related thoughts?” Tricia looked a little alarmed.

“Maybe you do need a cocktail.” I stood and she followed, but I didn’t take her to the bar, I took her to the concierge desk. “Yvonne is very anxious to talk to you about the plans for Saturday,” I warned her on the way.

“I told Helen I’d have something to go over with her at the end of the day, I’ll call Yvonne as soon as Helen signs off. What are we doing?”

“You’re being sweet, innocent, and insightful and I’m digging around in the mud. Only it won’t seem so dirty because you’ll be so sweet, innocent, and insightful as a diversion.”

Tricia rolled her eyes. “It won’t be the first time I’ve been a beard. Not even the first time at this hotel.” I made a mental note to revisit that statement, but we’d reached the concierge and it was time to focus.

“Good afternoon, ladies. How are you today?” The concierge spoke in the mashed and clipped tones of someone who would rather die than admit he’d grown up in Brooklyn. The nametag on his custom suit read “Paul,” but it was a safe bet he’d been called Paulie until he was at least fifteen. But that was far behind him now that he was attending to the needs and wants of people with obscene amounts of money. I thought he pulled it off nicely, but I’m a big fan of sleek Mediterranean types, on an aesthetic level anyway. Tricia, whose tastes run WASP-y by definition, was less impressed.

“Paul, I need your assistance with a difficult, delicate matter.”

“Of course.”

“Our brother was often a guest in your hotel. He just …” I paused for effect and Tricia sniffed, right on cue. I tilted my head slightly so she wasn’t in my field of vision before continuing, “ … passed away.”

“I’m so sorry,” Paul said evenly.

“We’re trying to tidy up his affairs, and I use that word deliberately, Paul. We want to spare my sister-in-law any hurt possible.”

“I understand,” Paul said. This didn’t seem at all unusual to him. I guess there were plenty of people in the city with enough loose change to spend hundreds of dollars for a tryst. My thought was, if you’re going to shell out half a grand for an afternoon of pleasure, go shoe shopping. At least you take something tangible home with you.

“I’m not sure if he had an account with you or how he was handling the billing, but it’s a bill our sister-in-law doesn’t need to see.”

“A delicate situation, to be sure.” Paul’s polite smile never wavered, but nothing else moved either. He wasn’t exactly leaping at the opportunity to be of service.

Tricia opened her purse, slid her hand in, back out, and onto the counter of Paul’s station in one fluid movement. It took me a moment to realize that she had her hand over a bill, but Paul knew what she was doing right away. He put his hand next to hers and they executed the transfer like Houdini and his wife passing a key. Before I knew it, Paul had pocketed the money, Tricia had closed her purse, and we were in business.

Paul placed his hands on the keyboard of the computer that nestled discreetly in the corner of his station. “Let me see what I can do. His name?”

“I believe he used the name Marquand when he was here.”

Paul thought a moment. “I don’t recognize that name.” He typed, waited, then shook his head. “We haven’t had a guest by that name since the first of the year, anyway. A more extensive search would require my speaking with my associates in Accounting.”

Tricia stepped in delicately, probably tallying how many associates in Accounting would need bribes, too. “Perhaps we got the name wrong,” she said more to me than to Paul.

“If he came here often and was a gentleman of distinctive demeanor, or had a particularly memorable lady friend …” Paul offered.

Given the choice, I bet on the fact that Paul would remember Camille over Teddy. “His most recent lady friend is very tall, very lovely, very Scandinavian.”

“She looks like a model,” Tricia said with as close to a wink and a nudge as Tricia is capable of giving.

Paul worked to keep a straight face, no doubt dictated by the employee handbook. “Could you mean Mr. and Mrs. Maarten?”

“Yes,” I said quickly, thinking of Camille’s mangled pronunciation and of the MAARTEN printed on the back of the picture of Teddy and Yvonne. The picture. I’d forgotten about the picture. I started rooting around in my purse. “Absolutely. I must have misunderstood.”

“Camille—that is, Mrs. Maarten—has a bit of difficulty pronouncing it.” We both looked at him in surprise, but he kept that impassive expression in place. “I find it charming.”

“You know who she is,” I confirmed.

“And we are the soul of discretion. Though the staff here at the St. Regis uniformly salutes your late brother on his … success.”

I found the picture in my purse and laid it on the counter for Paul’s inspection. I wanted to be sure Camille wasn’t in here with multiple partners and confusing things. “This is my brother—”

“With your sister-in-law. Yes. I’ve met her as well.”

I felt like I was holding a compass that had suddenly swung south. I tapped the picture. “You’ve met her?” It wasn’t Helen that Camille had encountered, it was Yvonne?

“The real Mrs. Maarten, as she referred to herself, yes. It was an unfortunate incident and I would rather not divulge—”

“You were here the day she caught Camille and Teddy together.”

“Yes. Your sister-in-law is a memorable woman. I also remember because she mentioned to him, quite forcefully, that he had never brought her here and she was very upset about that. Which I took as a compliment to our hotel.”

Tricia smiled at him. “And I’m sure that’s exactly what she had in mind.”

“Did you see my brother Monday night?”

“No, ma’am. And I would have, had he come in. He always checked in with me.”

Always looking for that something extra, I’ll bet. “Is there an account we need to attend to?” I asked.

Paul stepped out from behind his station. “If you’ll just give me a moment.”

We nodded and he hurried over to the front desk. There was bound to be a lot of whispering and snickering, but it didn’t look like it was going to cost us extra. “How much do I owe you?” I muttered to Tricia.

“Nothing.”

“Tricia—”

“I’ll put it on Yvonne’s bill.”

“There’s a certain poetic justice in that.”

“So let me get this straight. Teddy brings Camille here, Yvonne finds out and busts him, but as far as we know, Helen stays out of the loop.”