i 9fb2c9db4068b52a (3 page)

“Kelly and Greg... he was groom number one... got married in Las Vegas. About a dozen of us went with them and afterwards everyone got pretty hammered. We finally all went up to our rooms. Next morning, Kelly woke up and found herself in bed, nude, with
Lindsey.”

Another couple wandered out onto the deck and Claudia lowered her voice. “Greg was in the other bed with some
guy
friend of Lindsey’s. Neither he nor Kelly had a
clue
as to what happened.”

Zebediah’s jaw dropped. “Good god, woman, she slipped them a mickey?”

Claudia nodded. “Some kind of date-rape drug. She thought it was brilliant; couldn’t understand why nobody else was amused.”

She refrained from describing how Lindsey had laughed herself silly at Kelly’s reaction; how she had tormented poor Kelly into a state of hysteria because the young bride couldn’t remember anything that had happened the night before.

“The wedding night from hell,” Zebediah muttered. “Jesus Christ!”

“Kelly would’ve killed her if Greg hadn’t...” Claudia broke off as Kelly’s bitter words at the funeral came back.

Unaware, Zebediah laughed. “You know, maybe you’re right. Maybe this whole suicide thing
is
just one of her bad jokes. She’s probably in the Witness Protection Program, living the high life in Brazil.”

Knowing Lindsey, it didn’t seem such a far-fetched conclusion. “Maybe that’s why they had a closed casket,”Claudia said thoughtfully.

“No, love, it was the twelve hours in a hot tub. That wouldn’t leave the human dermis in any condition for viewing. We have the coroner’s word on that.”

The thought made Claudia shudder. She nodded, reluctantly relinquishing the Witness Protection theory.

According to the media, Ivan Novak had guessed that something was wrong when Lindsey failed to show up at a press conference for one of her high profile clients. She hadn’t risen to the top of her profession by missing important events. When Ivan went to the penthouse looking for her, he’d found her dead in her bathroom Jacuzzi.

It was the coroner’s opinion that she had been in the water overnight; enough drugs and booze in her system to seriously impair someone twice her weight. A note had been found near the body—a note whose contents were not reported in the press, but which led the investigating detective to conclude that Lindsey Alexander’s death had been by her own hand.

Maybe the world is better off without someone who made a career of hurting others.

The news that arrogant, self-important Lindsey had killed herself had shaken Claudia. She hated to admit it, but she had also experienced a twinge of relief, along with all the other mixed feelings that had been part of her relationship with Lindsey.

Claudia moved to perch on the chaise next to Zebediah and turned her face toward a welcome breeze. He had known Lindsey almost as long as she had, and certainly more recently. “Do you believe she really killed herself?” she asked.

He made a show of shrugging out of the thumb-your-nose-at-convention blue and white jacket Kelly had commented on and folded it over his arm. “That’s an odd question. What makes you ask?”

She related what she’d overheard at the cemetery.

“You’re saying those women think someone killed her.”

“Well, there
are
plenty of people who hated her.”

“You said yourself you didn’t overhear the whole conversation,” he countered, looking away. “You probably took it out of context.”

“Come on, Zeb, I know what I heard. So, what do
you
think?”

Zebediah stuck his hand in the pocket of his jacket and took out a coral carved pipe. He’d given up smoking long ago, but he liked to hold the stem in his mouth while he contemplated the universe. It satisfied his oral needs he said, half-joking. He caressed the empty bowl before returning it to his pocket. “I don’t have any reason to doubt it.”

He hadn’t answered her question, but she decided to let it go with a slight change of topic. “I was surprised they got a bishop to officiate at the funeral. I doubt Lindsey had seen the inside of a church since she was baptized.”

“Isn’t it amazing how a hefty donation can change minds?”

“Change minds?”

“The powers-that-be were
dead
set against burying a suicide in consecrated ground, if you’ll excuse the pun.”

“
Bad
pun. And you know this? How?”

“The ubiquitous grapevine, of course. Flannery was in the news a while back, defending a priest. The priest had been arrested for keeping the altar boys on their knees too long.”

“I knew I’d seen him before! What a pompous, holier-than-thou asshole. Ivan really scraped the bottom of the barrel if he had to resort to someone like that.”

Zebediah grinned. “Don’t hold back, darling. Tell me, how do you really feel?”

Claudia stood up and stretched. “So, I have an opinion, sue me. What will happen to the agency? Lindsey had no heirs, she never married.”

Zebediah pushed himself up from the chaise and dusted off his trousers. “My guess is, Ivan will run it until the estate is settled. After that...” He shrugged.

“I hope she made a will. Suicide is such a selfish way out.” Claudia glanced past Zebediah to the mob of guests, animated but silent behind the barrier of dual pane doors. Still no sign of Ivan.

“... some high-priced talent in that stable,” Zebediah was saying as she returned her attention to him. “I’m sure the lawyers will get fat trying to figure out what to do with all those contracts.” He shook his head, like a dog drying off after a swim. “Come on. This conversation is getting maudlin. Let’s go back inside and get shit-faced.”

Back in the great room, a musical combo played dangerously close to an up-tempo beat, the mood conspicuously lighter. The funeral reception had turned into a shindig of major proportions—graveyard tears were recycled into cocktail-party chatter:
Let’s do lunch; have your people call my people; kiss-kiss, yada yada, byeee.
Lindsey would have approved. Zebediah claimed space at one end of the long sofa and Claudia settled next to him on the arm. They chatted about the child custody case she was consulting on until Kelly sauntered over, munching on a cracker smeared with pink paste.

“What took you so long?” asked Claudia. “A little afternoon delight with a pallbearer?”

Kelly grinned, unrepentantly lascivious. “Uh huh. One of those gorgeous Chippies stopped me for speeding on the way out of the cemetery. M’mm. Motorcycles are sooo phallic. Take me for a ride!”

Claudia rolled her eyes. “Did you get a ticket?”

“Of course not. I promised to fuck his brains out if he’d let me off. Works every time.”

Kelly directed her posterior onto Zebediah’s lap and put her arms around his neck. “My turn. You’ve monopolized this stud long enough.”

Zebediah leered back at her and pretended to nuzzle her neck.

“Okay, that’s it.” Claudia rose to her feet. “I’m going to find Ivan and see what he wants.”

The air in the penthouse was heavy with a potpourri of big-ticket perfumes and the slight hint of perspiration from dozens of bodies packed as closely as the Roxy on a Saturday night. Bel Air stick-figure women. Men who spent as much time at the beauty spa as their wives. Claudia made her way through the Beautiful People, looking for Ivan. She wasn’t prepared for the shock of a size twelve brogue landing on her foot.

Her vision blurred with pain and the floor seemed to tilt beneath her. Recovering her balance, she whirled and found herself face-to-face with a man roughly the size of an industrial refrigerator.

She took in the wide face, sensual lips, a graying hairline that receded well past low tide. He wore a conservative charcoal-grey suit and white shirt with a black silk tie, but looked as though he might be more comfortable in Tommy Bahamas.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry!” Refrigerator grabbed her elbow to steady her. As if that would put out the fire in her toes.

Claudia yanked out of his grasp and extended both hands to hold him off. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

Before she could stop him, he was on his knees, making a clumsy attempt to remove her strappy sandal. “Do you think any bones are broken?”

“No!
Stop
it!” Battling the impulse to spit a few choice words at him, Claudia put her hands on his shoulders and pushed at him. She might as well have tried to push a car.

“Martin,
what
are you doing?”

The voice had a slight southern twang. It belonged to a woman with a forty-something face and parchment-thin skin stretched tight over a carefully sculpted chin. Her Vera Wang dress whispered
money.

The man hauled himself to his feet. “I just mashed this poor lady’s toes,” he confessed, looking abashed. “Tell her I’m harmless, honey.” He grabbed Claudia’s hand, enveloping it in his beefy one and pumping it. “Name’s Martin Grainger and this is my wife, Lillian. In case you hadn’t figured it out, I’m the neighborhood klutz.”

I
had
figured it out.

Even in her snakeskin pumps, Lillian Grainger’s coiffed platinum head barely reached her husband’s lapel. She extended a manicured hand weighed down by a twelve-carat headlight, looking at Claudia as though she were an experiment in a petri dish. “And you are?”

“Leaving,” said Claudia. “Goodbye.”

“One moment, if you please.” Lillian Grainger’s drawl sharpened. Her body language said ‘Obey me, everyone does.’ “I’d like to have your name in case you need medical attention, thanks to my husband’s clumsiness.”

Claudia gave her a cool smile. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to sue.”

“No, wait.” Lillian’s tone had warmed by several degrees. She actually reached out and touched Claudia’s arm. “Didn’t I see you on the news last week? I never forget a face. Don’t tell me... Poppy. No... Camellia?”

Channel 2 News had done a series highlighting women with unusual careers. A three-minute profile of Claudia titled
Handwriting on the Wall
had run several times.

Resigning herself to the encounter with a silent sigh, she said, “Claudia Rose.”

Lillian snapped her fingers. “
Rose!
I knew it was a flower. This is incredible.” She grabbed Claudia’s hand with both of hers and squeezed as if they were old friends. “When we saw that piece, I told Marty we should call you, didn’t I, Marty? This is serendipity.”

Martin Grainger gave an affirmative nod and snagged a server who was passing by with a tray of glasses. “Wine, Ms. Rose? No? You sure?” He handed one to his wife and downed half his glass. “It’s true. Ever since Lil saw that news show, she’s been talking about getting you to do some handwriting analysis for us. Tell us who we oughta hire.”

“Were you a friend of Lindsey’s?” Lillian broke in.

Claudia hesitated. “I knew her a long time ago. We were friends in school. How about you?”

“Business acquaintances.” Lillian snapped open her Gucci handbag, took out a gold card case and offered an embossed business card.
Grainger & Grainger, World Class Events.
A prestigious Century City address in the same building as Lindsey’s office.

“We’ve been catering parties for Lindsey’s clients for years,” Martin said expansively. “In fact, we’re handling
this
...” He broke off as his wife interrupted him with a glare, her cheeks splotched a dull red with embarrassment.

“It’s so lucky, meeting you like this, Claudia. As it happens, I do have an applicant I’d like you to take a look at. I want to know what his handwriting says about him. What do you need?”

Doing business at her dead client’s funeral reception—tacky.

Claudia managed a faint smile. “Why don’t we get together and talk about it next week? Right now, I need to find Ivan.”

“Yes, lets. Call my office and set it up with my assistant, Yolande Palomino.” Lillian paused, suddenly thoughtful. “We’re giving a Halloween party on our yacht. Why don’t you come? I’d love to introduce you around.”

Claudia read between the lines and didn’t like the subtext: come to our party and entertain the guests by analyzing their handwriting. She’d been there too many times to mistake the message. “That’s kind of you, but I’m not much one for parties.”

“Don’t be silly, we know some very influential people. Senator Heidt will be there for one. Have you met him yet?”

“No, but I saw him at the cemetery.”

“Well, dear, he’s somebody you should know. I’ll make sure we send you an invitation.”

Claudia found Ivan Novak standing alone in a corner of the formal dining room, his face a blank. She took his hands and gave them a brief squeeze, wondering if he’d been smoking something potent. “So, tell me, Ivan, what did you want to talk to me about?”

He stared at her as if he wasn’t quite sure who she was, then his eyes focused and he sniffed loudly. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a silk handkerchief and dabbed at his nose. “It’s a confidential matter, Claudia,” he said. “Let me take you upstairs to Lindsey’s office so we can have some privacy.”

He led her to the spiral staircase that led to the second floor. They’d only made it up the first dozen stairs before a commanding voice called Ivan’s name. Senator Bryce Heidt, waving up at them.

Hand-tailored black silk and the slight dusting of silver at the temples that labeled men as distinguished, women as old. Tanned, and looking as fit as if he’d just stepped off the slopes, he reached up to smooth back the thick dark wave of hair on his forehead.

Claudia remembered seeing Heidt’s signature on the sign-in log. Attention-grabbing capital letters, an elaborate swirl under his name. More style than substance, she’d thought at the time, and was glad she hadn’t voted for him.

Swearing under his breath, Ivan trotted back downstairs and accepted the Senator’s hug.

Heidt clapped him on the back before releasing him. “I meant to mention earlier, Mariel and I want you to come to church with us tomorrow. The minister told me he’s written a special addendum to his sermon, a eulogy to Lindsey. We’ve reserved a place for you in our family pew.”