Killer Heels (31 page)

“Why? What don’t you want me to know?”

A laugh, which I belatedly recognized as my own, bounced around the room. “You’re trying to trick me into telling you secrets.”

“You have secrets?”

“What woman worth her salt doesn’t?”

“True.”

“Now, don’t agree with me because you think it’s going to get you somewhere.”

“Maybe I just think you’re right.”

“Right as in ‘correct’ or as in ‘the right one’?”

“Let’s start with being correct.”

“About what?”

“A lot of things.”

It was like an out-of-body experience. I knew I should clam up, but I couldn’t stop myself. “You think I’m right about Yvonne killing Teddy? The problem there is that now somebody killed Yvonne and tried to kill me and I think it has something to do with this ad that was supposed to be in the magazine for these really cool jewel thingies that you put on your shoes and I think Teddy promised this guy he’d help but the money disappeared because maybe—ooh, ooh, that’s why Teddy and Yvonne were stealing money from the magazine or taking kickbacks or whatever and you can check their financial records and all that kind of stuff, can’t you?” I looked at him expectantly, waiting for an answer but not completely sure what I had just asked him.

“We’ve looked at their financials but we haven’t found anything.”

“They’re crafty. Were crafty. There’s a missing connection, you know, a person that brings it all together and I keep thinking I almost have it figured out and then somebody goes and shoots at me and that makes it really hard to concentrate.”

“I can imagine.”

“But I’m going to figure out who it is and you’re going to believe me when I do.”

“I see.”

“Promise.”

“Why?”

“If you promise, I’ll tell you my secret.”

He walked over and sat down on the coffee table, his knees bracketing mine as he faced me. “I promise.”

“You have the most amazing blue eyes I’ve ever seen.”

The amazing blue eyes crinkled, but I couldn’t tell if they were amused or frustrated. “That’s your big secret?”

“Yes. And I shouldn’t be telling you because now I’m in your power.”

“I couldn’t control you if I wanted to.”

“Want to?”

Taking my hands in his, he said, “I went nuts when Ortiz called me. I’ve been so worried that something like this was going to happen.”

“But I thought you suspected me.”

“I can’t figure you out at all. At least, I tell myself that’s the reason I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Somewhere deep inside where the Vicodin hadn’t gone yet, I found the strength to shut up a moment. I even held my breath, wanting to preserve the moment as long as possible. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” I finally said.

“I know. Now we have to keep you safe while we figure out who did.”

“And that’s why you’re here tonight. To keep me safe.”

His smile was lopsided and unexpected and devastating. “Guard you as closely as possible.”

“My tax dollars at work?”

“Not yet.” He leaned forward and kissed me, warmer and fuller and longer than the first time. I still couldn’t quite feel the tip of my nose, but I could feel this. Everywhere. And for the first time since I’d found Teddy’s body, the endless questions in my head went silent and all I could think about was Edwards’ mouth and his hands and his arms and I didn’t say a word when he picked me up and carried me into my bedroom. It seemed perfectly right.

18

You can’t blame Cassady for screaming. The terror of a homicide detective pointing his gun at you can only be diminished slightly by the fact that he’s wearing nothing but boxers. And you can’t blame a homicide detective for reacting instinctively when he’s jolted awake by an intruder.

I didn’t think to tell Kyle—the detective formerly known as Edwards—that Cassady had a key to my apartment and an understanding with the doormen which meant she was capable of appearing unannounced. And there was no way for me to tell Cassady that Kyle was going to be there in the morning because I was still marveling over the fact that he was there at all when I fell asleep and didn’t wake up again until Cassady started screaming.

When I heard her scream, I instinctively rolled out of bed, which was not the nicest thing to do to my wretched shoulder, and wrapped myself in a sheet. For a moment, I thought I was having another Vicodin dream, given the sight of semi-nude Kyle drawing down on Cassady who looked about ready to throw up on her exquisite Gianfranco Ferre black brocade jacket and flouncy skirt.

Kyle lowered the gun and that seemed to make Cassady feel a little better. I sank down on the foot of the bed and that made me feel better. Kyle and Cassady both turned to me for an explanation.

“She has a key. He has a gun,” was all I could come up with.

“We figured that much out ourselves,” Cassady replied.

“Bet I can count on you to fill in the rest, too,” I warned.

Kyle didn’t say anything, he just started collecting his clothes from various points on my bedroom floor. Cassady took advantage of his turned back to waggle her eyebrows at me as lasciviously as possible. I tried not to smile, but I couldn’t hold it back completely. She rolled her eyes and leaned against the doorjamb.

“Would you like some privacy, Detective Edwards?”

“I’m fine, thank you, Ms. Lynch.”

“Cassady, this is Kyle. Kyle, Cassady.”

“So we’re
all
on a first-name basis now. How nice.” Cassady rolled her eyes again and stuck out her hand, but Kyle was in the middle of pulling on his trousers and not in a position to walk across the room. He nodded to her and she settled for nodding back. “Well. This is such a nice and cozy way to start the day, I hate to spoil it. But we do have a funeral to attend.”

I actually found the thought of the funeral easier to handle than the thought of getting up and getting dressed for it. My shoulder was really starting to ache, especially when I glanced at the clock radio on my bedside table. “It’s only seven thirty, Cassady.”

“I had no idea how slowly you’d be moving this morning, and we promised to meet Tricia early in case she needed last-minute help.”

“We did?”

Cassady’s eyes slid back over to Kyle. “I’m sure some things from last night are a little hazier than others.”

Kyle refrained from commenting or looking at Cassady and pulled his shirt on. “I’ll meet you at the church.”

“You’re coming to the funeral?”

“On business.”

“Ooh, are we going to flush out the killer in the middle of the service?” Cassady said, only half-jesting.

“No ‘we,’” Kyle replied in complete seriousness, which was somewhat undercut by his search for his shoes and socks. “Your job, Ms … . Cassady, is to sit on Molly and make sure she doesn’t run up to the pulpit and exhort the killer to give himself up or do anything else that even smells like investigative work. My partner and I will take care of all that.”

“Including the exhortation?”

“Especially the exhortation.”

Cassady started to make another smart comment, but there’s something about the sight of a detective slipping on his shoulder holster that subdues your drive to make jokes. “I’ll take care of her,” Cassady promised instead.

“Thank you.” He clipped his badge on his belt and reloaded his pockets with his wallet and change and all that junk men jingle around. He grabbed his jacket, kissed me quickly but persuasively, and said, “Be careful.”

“You, too,” I murmured back.

Cassady stepped out of the doorway to let him pass and he gave her a half-smile of appreciation. She smiled back and watched him leave the apartment so she could spin on me the moment the door closed behind him.

“Dish. Now.”

“I need help getting ready for the funeral,” I dodged, not quite ready to share yet.

“You didn’t have any trouble getting naked, why do you need help getting dressed?” Cassady scoffed.

“I had help getting naked,” I assured her.

“You cannot tease me and then not dish. It’s not proper etiquette.”

“But watching Kyle get dressed is,” I countered.

She smirked. “I was captivated and couldn’t turn away. He’s very nice.”

“Yes, he is.”

“So dish.”

“No.”

Cassady looked at me hard, her eyes widening in surprise, which is not an expression you see on her face very often. “Oh, no. He’s got potential.”

“I have to take a shower.” I headed for the bathroom, still wrapped in my sheet. Cassady stomped on the edge of the sheet to stop me.

“You can’t get your shoulder wet.”

“Then I’ll take a bath. And then you can help me get dressed.”

“I get to pick what you’re wearing? That’ll be fun.” Accepting the momentary brush-off, Cassady turned to my closet. I went into the bathroom and took one of the most awkward baths of my life. I broke my wrist in PE when I was in seventh grade—a moment in which gravity tried to take control of the sport of pole vaulting and, for the moment, won—and I had to shower with a trash bag taped around my forearm for four weeks. My shoulder was a little more difficult to isolate, but I managed. Listening through the door to Cassady’s scathing color commentary on my wardrobe helped.

I did have to break down and ask for Cassady’s help in washing my hair. I wrapped myself in a towel and stuck my head in the sink. My main concern was squeezing the two of us into my tiny bathroom which really is nothing more than a water closet, emphasis on the closet part. It wasn’t until Cassady’s hands were on the back of my head, pushing my head under the water, that I realized I had bigger problems.

“Tell me!” she laughed.

“Amazing!” I sputtered.

“How much potential?”

“Substantial. Real.”

“This is too delicious for words. Tricia will have a cow.”

Tricia couldn’t have a cow if you paid her. It’s not part of her genetic makeup. Tricia is someone who has kittens. And right there on the church steps, she had kittens as Cassady described with great vigor walking in on Kyle and me.

“Oh. Oh. Oh,” Tricia squeaked.

“What’s more,” Cassady said, “she says he has
real potential
.”

“I knew it!” Tricia exclaimed triumphantly. “Oh, how wonderful. This is so exciting!” She hugged me, swerving away from the injured shoulder at the last second, a gesture I appreciated since I had chosen to forgo my morning Vicodin in the interest of staying sharp at the funeral and reception. “Not to minimize the shock and horror of your being shot, Molly, but I’m very happy for you.”

“Thanks.”

“I take it there’s been no progress on that front?”

“The wheels of justice turn more slowly than the wheels of romance,” Cassady suggested.

“Don’t we have a funeral to go to?” I asked.

In our darkest moments, don’t we all wonder about the crowd our funerals will draw? In my episodes of bleakness, I lean toward about fourteen people in metal folding chairs with flaking paint in a church basement with bad fluorescent lighting and exposed pipes.

It would never occur to me to imagine the epic scene that was unfolding for Teddy’s service. For starters, St. Aidan’s is a great old stone church, a classic Gothic church, with vaulted ceilings, elegant lighting, and solid wood pews. It probably even has a nice, warm, beautifully appointed basement.

Then there were the people. Tricia had gone up to the choir loft to check on the musicians, but Cassady and I tucked ourselves into a niche in the narthex, close to the open front doors, to watch everyone arrive.

We were just this side of a theater premiere, with town cars and limos disgorging movers and shakers dressed in elegant black outfits, ranging from business suits to cocktail dresses. I don’t think many people in this crowd had dressed with church in mind; everyone was thinking about the reception.

People paused to hug or air-kiss on the church steps, then made their way through the narthex for more relatively quiet greetings, then into the sanctuary. There were presidents of ad agencies, reps from our biggest advertisers, editors and advertising directors from other magazines, newspaper people, fixtures on the charity circuit, and a couple of overwhelmed and unfamiliar folks who were probably members of Helen’s or Teddy’s families. It was a fascinating parade of predominantly powerful people, but I kept watching all of them thinking, which ones did he sleep with and which one killed him?

Which brought me back to Yvonne. It seemed odd to be doing this without Yvonne. It seemed odd to consider doing this again in a week for Yvonne. I bowed my head and dashed off a quick prayer of thanks that no one had to do it for me. This week.

Cassady nudged me. “You all right?” she hissed.

I lifted my head. “I’m praying,” I hissed back.

Cassady blinked slowly. “Tell Him you’ll call back. It’s time to sit down.”

We walked down the side aisle and found seats not far from a little knot of
Zeitgeist
people. I caught Kendall’s eye and waved discreetly. Kendall tapped Gretchen and Fred, on each side of her, to get them to turn and acknowledge me. Fred looked doped up and Gretchen looked ill. I couldn’t blame either one.

Helen was the essence of dignity when she rose to address the congregation. She didn’t weep, but you could tell she was working hard not to. I glanced around to see if Kyle and Lipscomb had arrived yet. This was sincere, not a performance, and I wanted to be sure they saw it, but I couldn’t spot them in the crowd.

I turned my attention back to the service. I tried to appreciate the music, to absorb all the lovely things that were being said about Teddy, to ignore The Publisher’s hideous tie while he made his remarks, but I couldn’t concentrate. My mind kept going back to Kyle and the night before, but I couldn’t think about that in church. That was asking for lightning to strike me. Or maybe I just didn’t want to analyze it at all when the thrill of it was still so fresh that I could feel it.

I forced my mind in a different direction and it started spinning, turning the puzzle pieces over and over, looking for the one that would make it all fit together. Teddy. Teddy and Yvonne. Teddy and Yvonne and me. And money. And Camille. And Alicia. And Will. Will didn’t seem capable of killing, but I would have said the same about Yvonne two weeks ago. If Yvonne killed Teddy, had Will killed Yvonne because some deal had ruptured? Had all his eggs been in the Teddy basket and when the bottom had fallen out, he’d blamed Yvonne? But then how had he come to take a shot at me? Maybe I hadn’t been as subtle about my investigation as I thought I’d been, but I hadn’t exactly strewn bread crumbs from MePa to my front door. Was Will the key to all this? Had I been wrong about Yvonne? Had I been out of my mind to think I could figure this out at all? No. This was going to make sense.