Over Her Dead Body (21 page)

Two writers from the staff, pals of Jessie, ambled onto the patio from the side of the house and asked us to come explore with them.

“Go ahead,” I told Jessie. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”

This, I decided, would be my chance to check out Dicker’s house. I certainly didn’t expect to find a sampler pillow that announced, “I bludgeoned Mona Hodges to death,” but I was hoping to gain more of a feel for the man. A minute after Jessie took off, I slipped inside.

It wasn’t a huge house, and it wasn’t particularly special architecturally—just a very big rectangle, really—but it was stunningly decorated. The ocean side of the house consisted mostly of a double-heightened glass-fronted living room. What walls existed were white, and the floor was made of old stone tiles that looked as though they might have been looted from Bethlehem or Baghdad. There were two huge, ornate armoires, Indonesian in flavor, and lots of Balinese fabrics—in orange, blue, and yellow. A painting of a tiger hung above the massive stone fireplace, not one of those tigers on black velvet but a gorgeous, slightly abstract oil. Clearly, everything had been done by a decorator, so it was hard to arrive at any real sense of Dicker himself.

At each end of the living room was a smaller room: On the north side was a glassed-in dining room that looked as if it might have once been a porch and on the other side a small but charming study with bamboo shades drawn against the sun. Making sure no one saw me, I ducked into the study. The walls were lined with photographs of Dicker with celebrities and dignitaries as well as a few shots of him on board a sailboat the size of Nova Scotia. He clearly had made a fortune with his empire. I wondered how much it would have damaged his worth if Mona had bolted on him. Though the study seemed more personalized, it didn’t offer up any worthwhile info. Fearful of being caught, I glanced around quickly and left.

At the back of the house, away from the ocean, I found the kitchen—a sleek modern one currently bustling with cooks and waiters. A tall, slim guy with a shaved head, dressed in white shirt, black pants, and bow tie, stood near the entrance loading glasses onto a tray.

“Excuse me, what time is lunch?” I asked. He glanced at me quizzically and then looked down again, ignoring me. He either couldn’t be bothered or didn’t speak English.

I headed back into the living room. The room was still empty, but I heard a voice and realized it came from a mezzanine above the living room. Curious, I mounted the enclosed steps. The mezzanine had been turned into a small seating area with a television. Mary Kay was lolling on one of the two sofas, talking into her cell phone. She gave me a fake smile and one of those little flapping waves, as if she were working a sock puppet. As Jessie had reported, she
did
look like a pirate—Captain Jack Pucci.

Since it was clear she didn’t want me eavesdropping on her conversation, I descended back to the living room. Standing at the bottom of the stairs was none other than Beau Regan. I caught my breath when I saw him. It was pretty obvious he’d seen me go up the stairs and had been waiting for me to descend.

“Having a tour?” he asked.

“More or less,” I said, wondering why his date had let him off the leash. “It really is quite amazing. There’s no Mrs. Dicker at the moment, right?”

“I believe Mr. Dicker is what my mother would call an unattached gentleman.”

“Are you from the South?”

“What makes you ask that?”

“The words your mother used. And Beau. It’s a southern name.”

“My mother’s from Georgia, but we never lived there. She met my father when they were both working in Washington, and a few years later they moved to Manhattan. What about you?”

“Look, I’d love to talk,” I said, “but won’t your date come looking for you again? I’d hate to see you subjected to a tongue lashing in front of all these people.”

He flashed the irresistible grin. “How nice of you to look out for me. Why don’t you give me your number, then? Maybe you’d let me take you out for a drink this week.”

“Wouldn’t your girlfriend mind?”

“That’s actually
not
my girlfriend. Just a date for the weekend. And what about you?”

“What
about
me?” I asked.

“Is there a boyfriend in the picture?”

“At the moment, no. This summer I’m enjoying being free as a bird.”

God, how lame, I thought. In my attempt to be intriguing, I’d ended up sounding like a member of Greenpeace. Hoping he wouldn’t hold it against me, I reached in my carryall, dug out a scrap of paper and a pen, and scrawled down my numbers.

“I put my cell on there, too, since I’m out so much,” I said, handing him the paper. “I’m going to be pretty busy this week, but I could probably get away for a drink.” I sounded casual, but my heart was thudding.

“Great,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.”

I turned on my heels and headed toward the back of the house again. In the corridor off the kitchen, I came face-to-face with Hilary—in a lime green Izod shirt, short white skirt, and Jackie O-style sunglasses pushed up on her head.

“Having a nice time?” she drawled. She didn’t sound as if she gave a damn one way of the other.

“Yes,” I said. “How about you?”

“Just fine, thanks. I bet this is kind of tough for you—a company picnic when you’re new. Do you have anyone to hang with?”

“Actually, I’m doing okay. But I appreciate your concern.”

“Oh, that’s right. You’ve got Jessie to pal around with. You two are really buddy-bud.”

God, having a normal conversation with her was like trying to fit a cobra into a shoebox.

“Well, if you’ll excuse me,” I told her, “I think I’m going to head down to the pool.”

“Who was that guy I saw you talking to in the living room?” she asked before I could get away. “Is he one of the lawyers on the eighteenth floor?”

There wasn’t a chance in hell I was going to encourage the Cock Nazi to make a run at Beau.

“Actually, he said he was Mr. Dicker’s valet,” I told her. “See you.”

I found the back door and headed down the stairs. The sounds of the Gipsy Kings blasted across the lawn, and the air was filled with the smell of grilled meats.

I scanned the crowd. Forty or fifty people from
Buzz
had gathered on the lawn by the pool—standing in clusters, stretched out on the grass, or inching along in the queue that snaked toward the buffet table. Most people were in very casual summer wear, and a few even in bathing suits, but everyone from the art department was dressed the same as they would be for work: cropped pants, weird T-shirts, sneakers or black sandals. Though the mood was somewhat subdued for a barbecue, people were at least smiling and gabbing. In such a good setting and with so much booze and food, it was hard not to enjoy yourself.

I didn’t see Jessie, but I spotted Ryan off by the fir trees. This, I thought, was my chance to chat casually with him and try to smooth matters over. But as I sauntered in his direction, he made eye contact with me, then purposely turned and walked through the trees. I couldn’t have asked for a more obvious snub.

I pulled up a lawn chair and waited for Jessie to appear on the scene. After about ten minutes of watching people pile plates with food, I decided to join the line for lunch. There was barbecued chicken and ribs, Caesar salad, potato salad, the previously ballyhooed bruschetta, and corn on the cob, and I requested a little of everything from the waiters sweating through their white shirts. As I was surveying the lawn for a patch of grass to sit on, Jessie came bounding over.

“Hey, where’ve you been?” I asked.

“Just checking out the property. Why don’t you sit over there by the trees? I’ll just grab a plate and join you.”

“So what’s it like?” I asked when she plopped down beside me a few minutes later.

“Surprisingly tasteful for Dicker. And it’s bigger than it looks. The roof you see over there is a guesthouse with two bedrooms. Some people are eating lunch there because it’s air-conditioned. Behind that there’s a tennis court. And way back there’s this kind of super clubhouse with a bar and billiards table and a Ping-Pong table. There’s a sauna in there, too, and even a room with a massage table.”

“That’s one of life’s little pleasures that’s high on my wish list—a sauna.”

“Well, it’s on right now, so clearly Dicker expects people to use it if they want. Speak of the devil, he’s decided to join the masses.”

I followed her gaze to where Dicker had pulled up a chair at one of the tables, along with Nash, two of the corporate dudes, and—make me gag—Beau Regan and his date. Their backs were turned to us, and at one point she draped her arm possessively across the back of his chair.

Jessie wrinkled her nose. “Want me to shove her in the pool? Her shoes must weigh ten pounds each, so she’s not likely to surface.”

“Let me think about it,” I said.

The two writer pals of Jessie soon joined us on the grass. As we talked desultorily about rest-of-the-summer plans, I kept an eye on the crowd, observing. Ryan had returned and was sitting sullenly on the grass next to a few designers from art but not really interacting with them. Gradually, the mood of the party picked up, probably from all the booze being sucked down. A couple of people jumped in the pool, splashing around like lunatics under the waterfall. Someone here could very well be a murderer, I thought. It might even be Dicker. But from the outside, nothing seemed amiss.

Just as Jessie announced that she was going in search of brownies, Nash sauntered over in our direction.

“Okay, Bailey,” he announced, “a little bird told me that you play a mean game of volleyball. Is that true?”

“You’ve got me confused with another Bailey Weggins,” I said, lying.

“Don’t bullshit me. We’re getting two teams together and you’re on mine.”

“Oh, Nash, no,” I protested. “I haven’t played in years.”

“It’ll come back to you. Anybody else?”

Jessie fibbed and said she had a heel injury, but one of the writers jumped up eagerly and the two of us followed Nash to a big expanse of lawn back near the tennis court where a volleyball net had been staked in the ground. About a dozen people were already milling around. Nash and one of the deputy editors began sorting out the teams.

Nash was right. I’d played volleyball in both high school and college, and though I wasn’t a brilliant athlete, I did seem to have a knack for it. I could serve hard, set nicely, and deliver a dangerous spike. Of course, that didn’t mean I was eager to play in front of my co-workers.

The teams were finally worked out, and we took our positions. Hilary had been picked for the opposite team, and she eyed me gleefully. I wondered if she’d been volleyball champ in some country club in Texas. By this time, a big chunk of the staff had drifted over, some in bathing suits with beach towels slung around their shoulders. Mary Kay had dragged over a lawn chair and was sitting in it with a big bowl of strawberries, as if she were about to take in a match at Wimbledon. To my dismay, Beau was there, too, sitting on the grass with his date practically curled up in his frickin’ lap.

It was clear from the get-go that ours was the stronger team—and Nash was a fabulous captain. Despite how rusty I was, I managed to play well—getting in all of my serves, setting and bumping nicely, and spiking the ball wickedly on two occasions. Before long our entire team was high-fiving one another obnoxiously after every point. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Beau watching me intently.

Contrary to my initial suspicion, Hilary turned out to be a disaster. She rarely managed to return the ball, and once, when I spiked it in her direction, she covered her face with her hands. Our team won all three games, and when the last was over, she had a look on her face that suggested she planned to boil my firstborn child in a vat of oil.

“Great playing, Bailey,” Nash said afterward as his assistant, Lee, along with Jessie and a few others, came up to congratulate us. He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek, and I had that sense, as I had last night, that he lingered a hair too long.

“Right back at you,” I replied perkily. As I pulled back, I caught Beau checking me out. Good, let
him
feel a little jealous, I thought.

The sky was finally clouding up and the air was cooling. The sauna suddenly sprang to mind. I suggested Jessie join me, but she said she’d like to take one more walk on the beach while the weather was still decent.

I started off in the direction of the clubhouse, which was off by another cluster of fir trees. The crowd drifted off in the opposite direction, back to the pool and the booze.

The clubhouse was amazing, just as Jessie had described, but it had that vaguely musty smell of rooms that were rarely used. I found the sauna along a little corridor that shot off the main space. The heat was still on, and thankfully I had the place all to myself.

I dropped my carryall on the floor outside and, after glancing over my shoulder, stripped off my clothes. I pulled a towel from my bag and wrapped it around me. There was a timer on the wall, and I adjusted it to fifteen minutes on the off chance I dozed off.

The moment I sat on the hot dry boards, I could feel my tense muscles start to release. Fifteen minutes of this was going to work wonders, I predicted. Yet after a few minutes, I felt restless, almost claustrophobic. I had wanted to relax, yet my mind kept wrestling with the same old disturbing questions: Who had tried to grab me Thursday night? Had Dicker lied about his meeting with Mona? What was bugging Ryan so much? Was Nash trying to make a play for me?

I checked my watch. I’d been in the sauna only five minutes, but I was too antsy to stay. As I stood to go, I heard a sound in the corridor, or at least I thought I did—a bump, sort of. I twisted the towel tighter across my chest; the last thing I wanted to do today was accidentally flash my boobs at a co-worker.

As I stepped down from the upper shelf, I peered through the narrow window in the door. No one was there. I reached toward the wooden handle and pushed.

The door wouldn’t open.

CHAPTER 12

I
tried the door again. It refused to budge. I wondered if it might be swollen and thus sticking. Next I used my hip to ram it—once, twice, three times, delivering solid blows—but still there was no give. Sauna doors never locked, for obvious reasons, but clearly something was preventing this one from opening. I felt a tiny swell of panic.

Glancing around the room, I looked for a device that I could use as a ramrod, but there was absolutely nothing. I stood up and shoved at the door again, hoping that its reluctance to open earlier had been due to my approaching it from some odd angle. But nothing happened. With the last blow, though, I became aware for the first time that the door seemed to give just the tiniest bit and then catch against something. It felt as if there was an object on the other side blocking the door.

I froze as a sickening feeling overtook me. I’d heard that bumping noise moments before I’d tried to leave. Had someone pushed an object against the door so I couldn’t get out?

I sat back down on the lowest shelf and gathered my thoughts. Nothing bad was going to happen. Not only had I put the timer on, but Jessie knew where I was and would certainly come looking for me at some point. I glanced at my watch again, not even recalling what time it had been when I’d looked moments before. It was four. The buses were due to leave at around five, which meant that if she became preoccupied, she might not seek me out for at least a half hour, maybe longer. The thought of staying in that dry, hot space with the overwhelming cedar smell filled me with dread.

I peered out the window again, trying to see, but there was nothing visible below the window. Stepping back, I hollered for help as loud as I could. I also yelled Jessie’s name four or five times, hoping she might be in the vicinity.

The only reply was the clanging of the sauna heater.

I was sweating up a storm by now, and I sat back down again to rest. It seemed my only choice was to stay calm and wait. The heat would shut off in just a few more minutes, and eventually Jessie would find me.

Who could have done this? I wondered. And why? The chance of it being an accident—someone putting something against the door without realizing I was there—seemed next to nil. It could very well be an ugly practical joke. Both Hilary and Ryan struck me as capable of giving me a little scare to teach me a lesson.

But then the incident in Brighton Beach suddenly flashed into view. I had allowed for the possibility that the incident that night might have been a random mugging attempt, but two threatening occurrences within forty-eight hours seemed more than coincidental. I felt my panic balloon as I realized that this could be the murderer at work.

The heat had started to make me light-headed. My skin felt scorched and prickly, as if I’d been adrift on a raft on the ocean in full sun, and my nostrils stuck together from the dryness, making it hard to breathe. I glanced at my watch again. I had been in here over ten minutes and it still felt hot as blazes. The timer guaranteed that the heater would shut down before too long. But if someone had blocked the door, whoever it was might have also changed the timer. If no one found me, I could die from heat prostration. I stood up and screamed for help again. I hated myself for feeling so scared, but something about the heat and the closed space had caught up with me. When I finally stopped, my voice was nearly hoarse.

The sweat was now pouring from my face, and I felt truly faint. From far off in the distance I heard what I thought was the sound of thunder. The threatened storm was finally coming. What if everyone retreated to the main house, and Jessie, thinking I was safe and dry down here, didn’t bother looking for me for close to an hour?

In an act of desperation, I threw my entire weight against the door again. It flew open, spilling me onto the stone pavement of the corridor.

For a few minutes I just sat there stunned, the towel half off me. I glanced up and down the corridor. There was no sign of anything that could have blocked the door. I listened. It had begun to pour, and rain pelted a small window in the corridor. The clubhouse was silent.

Carefully, I eased myself onto my feet. I’d come down hard on my left elbow, and it throbbed. Securing the towel back up around my boobs, I walked up and down the length of the corridor, glancing into the massage room and a linen closet stacked with white sheets, towels, and robes. There was no object or piece of furniture that could have been dragged over to block the door. Had the door simply stuck and needed the right push from the right angle?

I quickly dressed and shoved my feet into my sandals. After stuffing my towel into my carryall, I walked cautiously out to the big room.

It was dark in there now because of the storm, and I fumbled at the switch of a table lamp before I turned it on. I searched the room with my eyes. After a moment, my gaze fell on a pile of wood in a low basket by the stone fireplace. The logs were all neatly stacked—except for one that lay haphazardly in front of the basket.

I crossed the room and picked up the piece of wood. It was about three feet long. Leaving my bag on the floor, I carried the wood back into the corridor and stood it by the sauna door. The log was the perfect height to prop under the handle. Kneeling, I examined the area under the handle. There were scratch marks there. It seemed possible that the log or a similar object had been positioned under the door. I propped the log under there, at around a fifteen-degree angle, and then tried to open the door. It wouldn’t budge.

Then I heard a noise, something muffled from another part of the clubhouse. My stomach did a flip-flop as I hurried out into the main room. It was empty, just as I’d left it. I heard the noise again and realized it emanated from a small room off the other side of the entranceway. It was the sound of someone moving quietly around.

“Who’s there?” I called out.

To my surprise, Jessie emerged from the other room into the entranceway.

“God, there you are,” she said. “I thought I’d better come round you up. The bus left early because of the rain—there was a mad, hilarious scramble. We can split now, too.”

“What were you doing in there?” I asked.

She turned back and glanced at the doorway she’d just emerged from. “Oh, it’s just some small sitting room,” she said. “I hadn’t noticed it before, so I was checking it out.”

“You didn’t see anyone leaving here, did you—or in the general vicinity?”

“No, why? Are you okay?”

“I think someone tried to lock me in the goddamn sauna,” I told her.

“
What?”

I described what had happened to me, and after grabbing a bottle of spring water from the refrigerator, I took her back to the corridor, where I showed her the piece of wood that I’d wedged under the door pull.

“Are you sure the door wasn’t just stuck?”

“I considered that for half a second, but just look at how easily it opens and closes. And look at these scratch marks.”

“This is insane,” she said. “Why would someone do that to you?”

“I’m not sure. Either I’m their least favorite co-worker or . . .”

“Or what? Do you think it could have been the murderer?”

“Maybe.”

“So you think it’s someone on staff, then?”

“Look, let’s talk in the car. I’d like to get the hell out of here.”

“But shouldn’t we tell someone?”

“I need to think this over. There’s a chance it was just a nasty practical joke.” What I didn’t want to tell her was that Dicker was on my suspect list, too, and I didn’t want to raise any alarms just yet. Plus, what proof did I have?

“It’s your call,” she said, shrugging.

The rain had stopped as quickly as it had started, as if someone had simply upended a huge bucket. It was a mess outside. The grass was soggy, and many of the boldly colored garden flowers had been completely flattened. By the time we’d made our way across the lawn, my sandals were squishy. As we approached the gate, we could see four waiters balling up wet tableclothes and breaking down tables. Their shirts were plastered to their backs.

We pushed open the tall wooden gate and saw that the bus was indeed gone, but half a dozen cars were still parked there. We tossed our bags into the backseat of my Jeep and then climbed into the front.

“Were there people still up at the house when you left?” I asked Jessie as I maneuvered out of East Hampton.

“Just Dicker, Nash, and some of those creepy corporate dudes. A couple of other people from the staff apparently drove out, but they left when the bus did. How are you feeling, by the way?”

“A little better,” I said. “At least I don’t feel like my skin’s on fire anymore. But I’m still pretty rattled about the whole business.”

“I’ve got a question for you. Why do you think the person blocked the door and
then
took the wood away?”

“Well, like I said earlier, it might have all been a nasty prank. Even if it
was
the murderer who did it, the goal may simply have been to scare me silly. Maybe he—or
she
—senses that I’m getting close to the truth, but he doesn’t want another body on his hands. So he gives me a warning to back off.”

“
Do
you know something?”

“Not anything that points directly to who the murderer is. Unless it’s something that I know but don’t
know
that I know.” I hesitated. Jessie had been incredibly helpful to me. Maybe it wasn’t smart to completely trust her as a confidante, but I knew I could use a sounding board at the moment. “This is actually the second time since the murder something has happened to me.”

“You’re kidding!” she exclaimed.

“I went to interview the cleaning woman, Katya—you know, the one who was injured with Mona?—at her apartment in Brooklyn Thursday night, and afterwards some guy chased me down a street and tried to grab me. I rolled under a car just in time.”

“Wow, does Nash know about this?” she asked.

“No, not yet.”

“Don’t you think you should tell him, or the police, maybe?”

“What exactly would I say? That I got scared by a man who might have been the murderer or in league with the murderer or might have been just a plain old garden-variety mugger? And then someone supposedly shut me up in Dicker’s sauna, which may or may not be connected to Mona’s murder? Nash couldn’t do anything about it, and the police would just tell me to stay away from the case. Until I can be sure about what happened, there’s no point in sounding the alarm. And you’ve got to promise to keep all this in confidence, Jessie, okay? First, I don’t want to put
you
in any danger. And I don’t want anyone to know that I’m digging into this so deeply. That might really stir up more trouble.”

She went quiet for a moment. “Okay, I guess I understand. I won’t talk to anyone about what happened with the sauna. But you’re a ballsier woman than I am, Bailey, that’s for sure.”

“I think you may mean ‘foolhardy,’ not ballsy,” I told her, smiling ruefully.

Later, as we rolled into Manhattan, I asked Jessie if she’d like to grab a late dinner, but she begged off saying she was going to crash at her place. I hoped I hadn’t freaked her out too much; I was frightened enough for both of us. Once home, I ordered take-out barbecue chicken and slaw, which was okay but not nearly on par with the spread at Dicker’s. I left a message for my mother, trying to sound chipper. Then I dug out my DVD of the original
Thomas Crown Affair
and for the next two hours attempted to divert my attention.

Lying in bed later, though, I couldn’t get those moments in the sauna out of my mind—the panic I’d felt when I knew the door wouldn’t open, the horrible discomfort of not being able to breathe in the heat. If it had been Mona’s killer who trapped me in there, why remove the wood and let me out? Was it because, as I’d suggested to Jessie, he was just trying to scare me off? Was it because it would have been too risky to kill out at Dicker’s house? Or maybe the person who murdered Mona wasn’t a killer by nature, just someone who’d given in to momentary passion that night.

Dicker popped into my mind. He’d been watching the volleyball game and could have observed me heading toward the clubhouse afterward. Then there was Ryan, who’d scurried away like a spider when I’d tried to talk to him. Perhaps
he
was the guilty party, warning me off from my investigations either because he was worried I’d expose him as Mona’s murderer or simply because he wanted my story to appear lame in comparison with his. I also couldn’t rule out the nasty practical joke angle. Hilary had looked ready to skewer me after the volleyball game. And there was also Beau’s platinum blond date. If she had spotted how he’d looked at me during the game, she may have decided to give me a hint of what it was like to be dry-roasted alive.

Which led me to thoughts of Beau. I wished that he would call
right this minute.
I wanted him to tell me that he was home, in bed, watching the Yankees game he’d TiVoed and thinking of me. But I knew that more than likely he was in bed with his date, banging the hell out of her. He’d said she wasn’t his girlfriend, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t in lust. What was I thinking, anyway, developing an industrial-strength crush on a guy named Beau? With a name like that, a guy just seemed to announce: “Hey, I’m good-looking—so what are you going to do about it?”

I holed at home for a good part of Sunday. I reread my article, tweaking little parts here and there, and also Googled Mona’s husband in preparation for my interview with him. In addition to
King Lear Jet,
he was responsible for several other absurdly titled plays, including
The Taming of the Shrewd.
I was anxious to talk to Carl, eager to try to discover how damn sad he was over Mona’s death, but at the same time wasn’t looking forward to it. My least favorite part of being a crime writer has always been interviewing the friends and relatives of the deceased. It’s so hard to find an entry point when you’re face-to-face with raw grief, so tough to summon anything to say other than trite and tired phrases of condolence. I used to think that talking about the situation at least led the grief-stricken to experience a brief catharsis, but I don’t believe that anymore. All the talking just seems to flog their wounds.