A Toast Before Dying (19 page)

Clusters of deal makers were forming, and the high welcoming sounds dropped by degrees to confidential lows. The caterer stood by, ready with linen and silver, but it was too early. The ritual patting of shoulders was only in the first round.

At the bar, there was a break in the froth of piña coladas and the bartender looked disappointed when I pointed at the Absolut.

“A cosmopolitan, please.”

“Make that two,” said Rita.

She glanced at the piña coladas and sighed. “You know how many calories are in a quarter cup of coconut milk?”

I had no idea but tried to imagine the willpower one needed to consciously pass on something so wonderful and destructive. Tonight I wanted a variation of martini containing a lot of vodka, a little Cointreau, and dashes of cranberry and lime. The bartender was true to his calling and mixed it without my asking twice.

“Miss Viv did a lovely job on your hair,” I said, looking for an opening.

“You really like it? I don’t know. Somehow, this isn’t really me.”

I wondered what she meant but didn’t pursue it. “How long have you worked for the senator?” I asked, turning her attention away from the calories and the uncomfortable new look. The black dress neutralized
the stocky build and allowed her to move among the crowd smiling and polite, but how did she manage at home, stepping out of the shower late at night when—like every one of us with defects real or imagined—she was susceptible to the mirror’s uncompromising reality?

I knew how I felt about my feet, which had grown so fast when I was a kid I was convinced I’d never have to rent a pair of skis in my life. I glanced down. Rita may not have been centerfold material, but she had small feet.

A real martini is meant to be sipped slowly, during conversation breaks, or between long drags on long cigarettes. The drink is designed to outlast the cigarette, but no one was smoking and Rita had no gauge. Two minutes after it had been placed in her hand, she was staring at the bottom of her empty glass.

“How long have I worked for Edwin?” she finally responded, giving herself time to shape an answer. “Almost two years. He’s a friend of the family. My parents thought it would be a good idea, this work I mean, to get me involved in … things. I never went out much, even in college. Sort of stayed to myself, stuck to the books and things. So this … exposure has been … good.”

She was on edge and talking fast to fill up the space between words. She looked at her glass and was about to reorder when the doorbell rang again. Edwin Michaels strolled in, followed by his wife, who paused in the foyer to kiss Mildred Thomas on the cheek. Dr.
Thomas, who had been speaking to a man and a woman in the library, came forward.

“Well, Edwin, good to see you.”

There was the wave and swell of peripheral activity as the two shook hands. Cameras flashed, and Dad pressed the keys, blowing the notes up to enlarge the occasion.

Voices rose, drinks were swallowed, and smiles got wider as the handshaking extended beyond the host to the check writers.

Edwin Michaels was a shade under six feet and remained standing on the bottom step leading into the parlor. This put him head and shoulders above everyone except Dr. Thomas, who was at least six three, but since no one expected a speech this early, he stepped into the room waving, smiling, reaching for more hands.

He was dressed impeccably in a dark blue suit, striped tie, and white shirt. His smile looked almost spontaneous and his teeth were whiter than I remembered.

I turned to Rita but she had stepped back to the bar and now held tightly to a second martini. Her expression had changed from unfocused blinking to a sad stare. I glanced quickly at Michaels but he had not seen her.

“Are you okay?” I whispered.

She did not answer and the bartender watched, thin-lipped, as she opened her mouth and drank as if she held a glass of water. When the glass was empty, she placed it on the bar.

“Excuse me,” she murmured in my direction,
though I wasn’t sure if she was speaking to me. “I have to … I have to find the bathroom.”

I watched her move away from the crowd and into the hallway and wondered how long she’d been in love with Edwin Michaels.

E
dwin Michaels didn’t have to work at being good-looking. He simply was. He had deep-set eyes, a full mouth, graying hair cut close against dark skin, and a slightly crooked, prominent nose that let you know that everything about him wasn’t perfect. He was, in his own way, as handsome as Tad, but the difference between the two was attitude. Tad had none and Edwin couldn’t show enough.

Dad took a break and a CD of Miles Davis’s
Miles of Miles
filtered through the low hum. The circulating crowd kept the bartender busy. Anne Michaels, relaxed and in her element, leaned against the piano, talking with Dad. I decided to look for Rita. Maybe she’d passed out. Not everyone can handle a martini, at least not that fast.

Down the hall, the bathroom door was ajar. I cautiously pushed it open, expecting to find a body draped over the sink, but the room was empty. I peered into the
library a few feet away, where a Tiffany floor lamp illuminated the bookshelves, lead-paned windows, a tall liquor cabinet near a leather sofa, a writing desk, and two small chairs.

I doubled back to the rear parlor and slipped through the French doors leading to the garden. The moon spilled dim spears of light over the area, but there was no one outside. Probably because the deals and connections were being made inside and no one wanted to miss a play.

The garden was an oasis. I remained very still, thinking of Benin and how we’d once played hide-and-seek in this calm and quiet place. I moved down the three steps and toward the fountain, which had been calibrated so that it didn’t quite splash but sent a small cascade bubbling into a shallow blue-tiled pool.

On the bottom step, voices drifted toward me. Someone, a couple, was standing near the bench under the arbor-like enclosure formed by an overgrowth of rose of Sharon.

I recognized Rita’s whisper, even with the slight slur.

“But I did this … for you. For you. And you promised—”

“I know what I promised, but—”

“But what? Edwin, listen to me. Please. I killed someone for nothing.”

“He was sleaze. He deserved it.”

“I killed him, Edwin. Just to get back that letter you were stupid enough to give to Thea. How could you acknowledge on paper that the baby was yours?
How could you? I saw Laws take it out of her purse that night at the bar. At first I thought it was money, thought he was stealing the money you might’ve given her, but the envelope was too flat—not unless it was a check again, but even with a check I knew you’d write a note. That’s what love will do. But a whole long letter?”

“Rita, listen: You’ve been drinking. And it is not the time or the place for this kind of—”

“Yes I’ve had a drink. So what? You won’t give me five minutes of your time anyplace else. Too busy. Always rushing through the office, brushing me aside. I don’t exist. Except when you need me in bed.”

“This party is supposed to be a fund-raiser, not a confessional, Rita.”

“Don’t patronize me. If I hadn’t gotten that letter back, there’d be no more fund-raisers.”

He looked at his watch, then glanced back toward the doors, which I had just moved away from. Apparently satisfied that everyone inside was preoccupied, he said, “You have five minutes, Rita.”

“When Laws called the office, I was the one to pick up the phone. I was the one, Edwin.”

“I know, Rita, I—”

“Do you? He intended to blackmail you, squeeze you dry and then give the letter to Dora Peterson’s campaign people. You know what that would’ve done to you?”

“Rita, I appreciate—”

“I don’t want your appreciation. I … killed someone for you. I want what you promised me.” She paused before continuing. “You said you were tired of
Anne, tired of her freezing you every night. You liked the way I worked you in bed. You said so; I didn’t imagine it. One time you even said I did more for you than Thea. Remember?”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, and I bent lower and shifted toward the curve behind the wall of ivy. Thank God the childhood hiding place was still there, and had been made even more obscure by the growth of English ivy suspended from the balcony above. I pressed into its shadow and parted the cascade of vines to peep out.

Edwin had her in his arms now, tipping her chin and kissing her. “Rita, you’re a beautiful woman. I made a promise to you. Thea’s gone so don’t think about her any longer. What happened, what I felt for her, was a kind of fever. I was crazy, couldn’t think straight. But she’s gone now and—”

“But you still think of her.”

The soft desperation in Rita’s voice was so profound it washed over me, shaking me like a wave.

Edwin’s voice came again, easy and soothing, barely above a whisper. “Of course I still think about her. It takes time to come down … from a thing like that.”

“But you were screwing me,” Rita interrupted, “every spare minute. Even when she was alive …”

“Listen.” He touched her hair, pushing a strand behind her ear. “I can tell you this: When the campaign’s over, we’re going to sit down and make plans. But we’ve got to do it right. Make the least waves, you hear me? I love you. You’re beautiful and I love you.”

“Oh, Edwin.”

“Now: Where’d you put the letter? I’ve been asking you for a few days now.”

“And I told you: It’s in a safe place.”

“I know, Sweetheart, I know.” He ran his hands down the small of her back and nuzzled her ear. “You’re good at keeping me safe. You’re really good. But I—”

“Please, Edwin—”

“I thought you said you loved me. Love means trust, Beautiful. Do you love me?”

“Do I—? How can you ask me that? When Laws called, do you know what it took for me to go back to that bar? At three in the morning on a rainy night when no one was in the street? I didn’t even take a cab. I walked. Laws was just about to close.”

Rita’s voice trailed off and I watched her step away and stand near the bench. A minute passed before she spoke again.

“We went into his office and … and … you know what he wanted me to do … to him. I had the money but he said he wanted a bonus.”

“Oh, Rita, Baby. I—”

“He counted the five thousand dollars and he smiled. Then he went to the desk and pulled the letter out. ‘You know what this is worth?’ he said. ‘Five thousand and a blow is cheap, too cheap. You talking about a man’s career, serious business!’

“He opened the desk again and pulled out a pack of condoms. A whole pack—as if he expected to make a night of it.

“The letter was on the desk and we both stared at it. Then he heard a sound, like someone was trying the front door, even though most of the lights were out. Laws peeped through the blinds, then turned away from me to put the condom on. That’s when I snatched the letter opener from the desk.

“I got him in the neck and he was choking and coughing and he fell and I guess I could’ve stopped there. But something—someone else was holding that blade tight in my hand. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t stop …”

Her voice trailed away and she sat down, holding her head in her hands. “Edwin, I just couldn’t … stop.

In the moonlight, she looked as if she had retracted into herself like a turtle. A chill came over me and I held my hands to my mouth to keep from calling out.
Don’t tell him. Don’t tell him where that letter is!

I bit the inside of my mouth and held my breath, listening to the faint trickle of the fountain. Edwin stepped from the arbor and looked down at Rita. She was still sitting on the bench, bent over, her hands to her face. He did not touch her. Instead he straightened his tie and glanced again toward the steps. When he spoke, his voice was still low, but almost normal, and I didn’t have to strain to make out his words.

“Listen, Rita: In a week or so, I expect to get my hands on some money, several thousand dollars, in fact. I’ll send you to St. Thomas until this blows over.”

“Campaign money?” she said, looking up. Her
voice wavered. “You’re using money you don’t even have yet.”

“It’s not campaign money. It’s one hundred thousand from someone else. Half of it’s yours if you go to St. Thomas.”

I watched her shake her head. “I will never go to that place again. After what you did the last time, never,”

“Well, we’ll talk about that later. Right now I have to get back inside. People’ll begin to wonder what happened to me. You know how to wait a few minutes before coming in. And don’t drink anything else. You’ve had too much already.”

He turned away and left her sitting there, bent over again, with her face in her hands.

I pressed farther into the ivy until my back was against the wall. I did not breathe. He passed me and I could have reached out and tapped his shoulder. Or hit him in the head if I’d had a baseball bat. His cologne, a subtle expensive fragrance, lingered in the air, and his gaze focused straight ahead, entirely without expression.

He climbed the three steps and disappeared inside. I knew he would not look back and I stepped out of my niche before Rita moved her hands from her face. She was still crying and I wanted to go to her but I couldn’t. She’d know I’d been here the whole time. I thought of sneaking up the steps, waiting one minute, then coming back out as if nothing had happened. But one look at my face and she’d know.

I tiptoed up the steps to the door leading back into the parlor. I had heard someone confess to murder, and
every nerve in me was stretched. I hated to leave Rita sitting there, but I needed to go home. Once I stepped inside, I made up my mind to walk straight through the parlor and out to the street.

Before I reached the top step, I saw from the corner of my eye the slight flutter of the blinds in the library. The open window overlooked the garden, and somehow I knew someone else had been watching.

Dad intercepted me the minute I stepped inside. “Where’ve you been? I wanted you to meet—”

I put my hands to my head. “Dad, not now. I—I don’t feel too well …”

My eyes started to water and I blinked hard. Edwin Michaels’s silky laughter rose from somewhere within a tight knot of men, and I felt a surge of bile rise to burn the back of my throat. I was so angry I was shaking.