Sex, Murder and a Double Latte (2 page)

I couldn’t help but laugh at that.

Mary Ann went to the kitchen and pulled a bag of microwave popcorn out of the cupboard. “Well, if all he wanted was to keep his name in the papers a little longer, wouldn’t it have been easier to just make another movie?” she asked. Her eyes widened and she dropped the popcorn bag on the counter that divided the kitchen from the living room. “Oh my God, maybe it was an accident. Maybe he was shaving and he cut himself by mistake!”

If anyone else had said it I would have immediately assumed they were joking, but I knew Mary Ann well enough to be sure that the poor thing was totally serious. I bit down hard on my lip and tried to think about starving people in Africa, or the destruction of the rain forest, or anything to keep me from laughing.

Dena was not so kind. “I cannot believe we share the same gene pool. If anyone asks, please point out that you’re my
second
cousin, and if you can fit in the ‘once removed’ part, I’d appreciate it.”

“It could have happened.” Mary Ann crossed her arms and glared at Dena. “He was drunk, right?”

“So he got into the bathtub and tried to shave his arms?”

“Well, maybe he had hairy arms.”

“And he accidentally slit both his wrists? At which point, what…he thought to himself, ‘Well shit, this sucks. I guess I’ll wait for all my blood to slowly leave my body and if it still hurts after that point, I’ll call 911.’”

“I don’t know,” Mary Ann said. “Maybe he passed out. Maybe he was embarrassed….”

“Right, that must be where they got the expression ‘embarrassed to death.’”

“Okay, whatever. I still say it could have happened. If you’ll excuse me, I have to use the little girls’ room.”

“Be careful you don’t accidentally slit your wrists while wiping yourself.”

“You are so crude,” Mary Ann said as she made her way down the narrow hallway.

I finally allowed myself to give up the battle for self-control and broke into a fit of giggles. When I caught my breath, I unsuccessfully tried to give Dena my most stern look. “You were kind of harsh, weren’t you?”

“I’m sorry, but there are times when her immense ignorance tries my patience. And what does she mean ‘the little girls’ room’? She’s so fucking delicate she can’t even call it a bathroom for Christ’s sake.”

I shook my head. I knew Dena loved Mary Ann in a big-sister kind of way. My mind wandered back to the time when a boyfriend of Mary Ann’s had slapped her across the face. Dena had repaid him by breaking his nose.

Mary Ann emerged from the bathroom, an experience she seemed to have managed to get through without incident, and began to search my refrigerator for a more fattening alternative to the popcorn. She settled on a jar of peanut butter and a spoon. I eyed her size-four form enviously before refocusing on Dena, who was now examining the Blockbuster rental we had originally planned to watch. “I have a big shipment of vibrators coming to the shop first thing tomorrow morning, so if we’re going to watch this we should do it soon.”

Mary Ann made a face. “And you’re embarrassed to be related to
me.
”

“Don’t knock it before you try it. If those Neiman women you wait on started using vibrators, they wouldn’t have to spend so much money on face cream to look rejuvenated.”

I rolled my eyes. “Maybe Lancôme should make it their next gift-with-purchase.”

Mary Ann started giggling and even Dena broke into a smile. She waved the movie in the air. “So should I put this in?”

I tried to muster up some enthusiasm for a movie night, but after reviewing the details of Tolsky’s bloody death I no longer felt in the mood for Hannibal Lecter. Maybe I could use the rather vivid images floating around my head to add some realism to my crime scenes. At least that way I could feel like I was accomplishing something instead of sitting around idly after some razor-loving depressive screwed up my career.

I repositioned my chair so that I could easily address both of my guests. “Would you hate me if I ended things early this evening?”

Dena did a quick double take. “You want us to leave now? Thirty-five minutes for parking, Sophie!”

“I know. It’s just that the whole Tolsky thing has kind of knocked the wind out of me. I promise to make it up to you next week. We’ll do a double feature or something.”

“Don’t even worry about it, Sophie.” Mary Ann put the popcorn and peanut butter back in their respective places. “It totally makes sense that you would need some alone time.”

Dena let out an exacerbated sigh and reached for her sixties-style handbag. “Fine. I didn’t even get to fill you in on the intimate details of my date last night.”

“Anyone I know?” I grabbed the mailbox key before accompanying them to the lobby.

“No, new to the city. But I tell you, if last night was any indication, I’ll be adding another notch to my bedpost by the end of the week.”

Mary Ann’s color rose, and I let out a short laugh.

“What, I’m not entitled to a little fun?”

“You’re entitled.” I paused by the glass door. “But if you keep this up you’re going to have to break in a new post.”

Dena grinned. “Hell, I’m already on the fourth one. Soon I’m going to need a whole new bed.” She smoothed the lapels of her jacket and gave me an exaggerated wink. “If you really want to make tonight up to me, promise me that after you’ve finished with this manuscript we’ll celebrate with a bottle of wine at the Bitches’ Circle.”

“Oh, oh, I want to come this time!” Mary Ann flung her hand up in the air like a schoolgirl trying to get her teacher’s attention.

Dena looked at her through lowered lids. “You can’t, you’re not a bitch.”

“I can be a…I can be mean.”

Dena’s shoulders sagged at the evidence of her cousin’s impenetrable sweetness. Dena and I had been visiting our affectionately named Bitches’ Circle periodically for the last fourteen years. It was a little spot in the Redwood section of Golden Gate Park Botanical Gardens that consisted of a cluster of benches surrounded by high brush. There was a small podium made out of a redwood trunk, from which we surmised that the area was either designed for poetry readings or séances, but Dena and I used it as a place to drink and get catty.

“You’ve taken Sophie’s hairstylist.” Mary Ann stuck out the lower portion of her heart-shaped mouth. “It’s only fair that if he went, I should get to go.”

“Marcus? Oh, please, that guy could put Joan Rivers to shame. You, on the other hand, could barely hold your own with Marie Osmond.”

I stepped between the two of them. “I promise we’ll invite you. Just practice your swearing.” I took Mary Ann by both hands. “The word is ‘bitch.’”

I heard the unpleasant sound of Dena’s teeth grinding together, and I knew when the time came she would find a way to take me to our spot without the presence of any unwanted guests. But for now Mary Ann was pacified. She waited as Dena fished out her keys.

“Do we have to listen to Eminem again in the car? I just got a great new CD and I brought it with me….”

“We’re not fucking listening to Britney Spears.”

I held the door open for them and watched their backs retreat into the darkness. Why was I bothering with screenplays when two of my best friends were a sitcom ready to happen?

Before heading up to my flat, I inserted my key into my box and pulled out the mail I had neglected to pick up the day before. Fairly standard stuff—two credit card applications, one postcard from Macy’s announcing yet another “biggest sale of the year” and…and what? I studied the last envelope as I absently closed the apartment door behind me. No return address, just my mailing info typed neatly on the front. Weird. I opened it and read the one-sentence letter. “You reap what you sow.”

That was it. No greeting, just one typed turn of phrase. Okay, so we had moved from weird to downright freaky. Of course, I was used to getting a certain amount of fan mail from people who were a little whacked. Most of them were sent to me care of my publisher, but an occasional letter found its way to my home address, so this wasn’t anything all that novel. Still, “You reap what you sow”? What the hell was that about? I looked over my shoulder and then laughed at myself. Who did I expect to find there, Freddy? It was just a stupid note—and it’s not like it had been hand delivered. I rubbed my thumbs against the black letters. No reason to let a juvenile prank make me more rattled than I already was.

I went to the fireplace and tossed the letter in, along with a Duraflame log. Mr. Katz rubbed himself against my ankles as I struck a match and carefully lit the fire. The paper curled and twisted until there was nothing left but a pile of ash. I sat on the floor, pulled my knees to my chest and focused on the warm glow of the blaze. It should have been comforting, but I just wasn’t able to push aside the feeling that a new element had entered my life. And for reasons unknown to me, that element was something to fear.

CHAPTER 2

“No one could say Alicia was all work and no play. She loved a good party almost as much as she loved a good fight.”

—
Sex, Drugs and Murder

I
t’s funny how horrific events can spur a person to accomplish truly incredible feats, and that is exactly what Tolsky’s death did for me. I, Sophie Katz, the woman who is known for perfecting the art of procrastination, had finished a book one week before deadline.

I pressed my foot up against the computer desk and propelled my wheeled chair across the room, my arms held high in a V for victory. My pet raised his head in mild curiosity. “I am sooo cool,” I told him. “Hell, I’m better than cool, I’m responsible.” Mr. Katz didn’t seem that impressed, but then again…well, he was a cat.

Tolsky’s apparent suicide hadn’t sat well with me. Maybe I had written too many murder mysteries, but somehow the whole thing seemed too pat. I kept coming back to the fact that the screen death that had been recreated was actually a murder scene. It just seemed like that detail bore more significance than the police were crediting it with. But whether I was correct or simply imagining something out of nothing, it had inspired me to finish what could be my best book to date.

Although the letter I received the night I learned of Tolsky’s death had undoubtedly been nothing more than a misguided hoax, it had disturbed me enough to result in quite a few restless nights. But as it turns out, that worked to my advantage too, because I had used all those hours I normally would have wasted on sleep to finish my book. So thank you, anonymous freak.

This required a celebration. This required a reward that was decadent and fitting the mood of the occasion.

This required Starbucks.

And this wasn’t just a latte morning either. Oh no, this was a “Grande Caramel Brownie Frappuccino with extra whipped cream” kind of morning.

I threw on a pair of torn hipster jeans, a Gap T-shirt and a corduroy blazer, and was pulling on a boot when the phone rang. Oh goody, I got to tell someone else how awesome I was! Maybe I’d even get to share the joy with a telemarketer.

“
Hola,
Sophie the great, at your service.”

Silence.

“Hello?”

Just a click, followed by a dial tone.

I put the phone down and started working on the other boot. “I hate it when people do that. How hard is it to say ‘sorry, wrong number’?” Mr. Katz swished his tail in agitation. I guess for him that really would be a challenge.

The phone rang again.

“Oh, for God’s sake.” I snapped it up and cradled it against my shoulder. “It’s still me. You have the wrong number.”

Nothing. Not even a click.

“Hello? Is somebody there?” I sat up a little straighter and waited for a response.

They disconnected.

I pressed the hang-up button without putting the phone down.

It rang again. Three times, and then it stopped.

Who would want to prank-call me? The characters in my books got prank calls all the time, but my real world had always been blissfully prank-call free. I tapped my fingernail against the mouthpiece and waited to see if they would try again. After a few minutes, I gave up. Probably some bored teenager who had seen the movie
Scream
one too many times. I pulled my purse over my shoulder and stepped out of my apartment. As I was double-locking the door I could hear the ring. I didn’t bother to go back in to pick it up. The SOB could call all day long if he wanted. I had a Frappuccino to order.

I headed on foot to one of the fifteen or twenty Starbucks located in my vicinity and when I arrived I decided that the experience wouldn’t be complete without a
New York Times.
There was one last paper for sale on the rack by the counter and I could practically hear it calling to me, enticing me to spend the hours necessary to read it cover to cover, knowing the whole time that I had absolutely nothing else I needed to do. My fingers had literally grazed the first page when it was snatched out of my grasp.

I whirled around to see a six-foot-something brunette already scanning the paper with dark brown eyes. “Hey, I was going to buy that.”

“Guess you’ll have to buy another one.” He spoke with the slightest foreign accent.

“In case you haven’t noticed, there isn’t another one. I had my hand on that paper, and you took it.”

“So buy a
Chronicle.
I just came from New York this morning and I’m going to buy a
New York Times.
”

“Well, if the
Times
is so damn important to you, you should have bought one in New York.” He shrugged and started reading the paper again. “Hello. We’re having a confrontation here. Look, I don’t really care if you’re from New York. I don’t care if you’re Rudolph Giuliani himself. That’s my paper.”

“Next in line, please,” a voice called from behind the cash register.

“Are you going to order, or shall I go in front of you?” he asked, not even looking up from his reading.

“Oh. My. God!” This was not happening. No one was this big of an ass. I stormed up to the perky little blonde in the green apron.

“Hi. Can I take your order?”