If Looks Could Kill (4 page)

“What’s next?” I asked. “The police have been notified, right?”

“Yeah. I’ll open up the front for them. It shouldn’t be very long—not much going on today.”

“There’s a hallway to the left that will get you to the front door and that opens to the area with the gate,” I said, handing
him the key ring. “Can you tell how long she’s been dead?”

“Well, there’s not much decomposition yet—the smell’s mostly from the vomit—so I’d say she probably died late last night.”

“Any ideas on what killed her?”

“That’s for the ME’s office to figure out.”

Obviously feeling no urge to discuss things with me, he turned to reenter the apartment and I went back up the stairs and
through the house. I glanced in both the kitchen and dining room for Cat, calling her name twice, but she had disappeared
somewhere. Through one of the front windows I could see that not only had a handful of pedestrians congregated outside to
investigate the scene, but there were also two uniformed cops, their car double-parked in front of the house, talking to the
other ambulance crew. I opened the front door again and headed down the stoop. Before I’d even reached the sidewalk, a dark
navy car pulled up in front of the house, and out stepped two guys who were obviously cops as well, but in regular clothes—probably
detectives. With a DOA the patrol cops generally come first to scope out the situation, but if it’s a slow day or a hot case,
the desk sergeant will have precinct detectives hightail it over simultaneously.

The four cops had a short confab with the EMS guy, who was just emerging from below, and then the two plainclothes guys headed
in my direction. The older of the two, a guy in his late forties, stepped forward to greet me. He was about five ten and very
compact, like something freeze-dried, with sandy hair and skin that had crinkled around the eyes. In his too tight khaki suit,
blue button-down shirt, and red club tie, he looked ready to sell me a mattress at Macy’s. When Cat met him she’d have to
fight the urge to tell him that khaki suits are a no-no before Memorial Day.

“I’m Detective Pete Farley from the Nineteenth Precinct,” he said.

“Bailey Weggins. I’m a friend of Cat Jones, the woman who owns the house. I came by to help her. It’s her nanny who’s dead.”

“Is she in there now?”

“The nanny?”

“I realize the nanny’s in there. Is the owner here?”

“Yes, she’s inside,” I said, feeling like a moron. I half turned toward the steps, expecting him to follow me.

“We’re gonna look at the body first,” he said. “Please tell Miss Jones that we’ll want to talk to her in a few minutes.”

I hurried back into the house, where I encountered Cat gliding down the stairs again.

“Cat, look,” I said, not concealing my annoyance. “You’ve got to stay put now. The police are here and they’re going to want
to talk to you in a few minutes—after they’ve looked at the body.”

“I called Jeff. He’s leaving right now. He should be here in just over two hours since there won’t be any traffic.”

“Good. What about the aunt? Were you able to reach her?”

“There’s no answer. Not even an answering machine.”

“Well, you can try again a little later. I made some coffee. Why don’t I fix you a cup while we wait.”

We went into the kitchen and Cat, looking stunned, sat on a stool at the black granite–covered island counter as I filled
two coffee mugs. No matter how stressful things became at
Gloss
, no matter who was threatening to sue her or never allow another celebrity client to appear on the cover, Cat stayed in control
of the situation, letting loose with charm when that served her best or turning steely when that was the only strategy that
would work. I had never seen her so befuddled.

After she had taken a few sips of coffee, she seemed slightly more focused. She rooted through a Fendi purse for her makeup
bag, and as she applied pressed foundation, blush, and lipstick the color of brick from a gold Chanel tube, I filled her in
on what the procedure for the day was likely to be. The cops would be there possibly for hours and would call in both a medical
detective from the ME’s office and their own crime scene investigators. She needed to be prepared for a long day.

“This may seem coldhearted,” I added as I set down my coffee mug, “but there are some PR concerns to consider here as well.
You need to get ahold of the PR agency. The press is going to eat this up.”

“I’ve called them already,” she announced.

“You’re kidding,” I said. “When?”

“Well, I called Leslie when I was upstairs. She’s in town this weekend and going to get in touch with them. She’s coming over,
too, to help out.”

Oh, great. Leslie Stone was the butt-kicking managing editor of
Gloss
. While the executive editor, Polly Davenport, oversaw the creative side of the magazine, Leslie was the person in charge
of all the administrative stuff, including managing the budget and expenses, creating schedules, tongue-lashing underperformers,
and making sure the magazine got out each month. On work matters she was also Cat’s biggest confidante. So Cat had put her
battle plan in place. She wasn’t as out of it as I had thought.

Suddenly there were footsteps, and each of us gave a nervous start as the two detectives walked in through the back door of
the kitchen. It was Detective Farley and the other detective, a younger guy with a blond buzz cut who just might have been
the thinnest person I’d ever laid eyes on.

Cat introduced herself, and Farley’s eyes widened ever so slightly. He hadn’t appeared to recognize her name when I gave it
in the street, but it appeared he did now, maybe because he had the face to go with it. After declining her offer for coffee,
he told her pretty much what I had: Someone from the ME’s office would be coming to examine Heidi before she was moved. He
said it was standard procedure in home deaths, but especially considering the age of this victim.

With Buzz Cut perched on one of the counter stools taking notes, they started with their questions about Heidi: name, age,
where was she from, how long had she worked for Cat, what were her responsibilities. Cat’s answers were complete, but she
never elaborated.

“Where’s the child?” Farley asked abruptly.

“Oh, at our weekend home in Connecticut, with my husband,” Cat said almost defensively, and went through her spiel about why
she was in Manhattan this weekend while her family was elsewhere.

They appeared to take her explanation in stride, and Farley went on to ask how the body had been discovered. When she explained
that I had been the one who had actually entered the room and found Heidi, both detectives snapped their heads in unison toward
me. I wondered if they could tell by the expression on my face that when Cat had telephoned me, I’d been butt naked and seconds
away from being shagged.

“Can I call you Bailey?” Farley inquired.

“Of course,” I said.

“Do me a favor, would you, Bailey? Would you show me exactly how everything unfolded this morning? Detective Hyde can stay
with Ms. Jones and get some more details about her nanny.” He’d emphasized the word
nanny
as if it were a word he didn’t use much, like flambé or foie gras.

Guiding me by the elbow in a thoroughly annoying way, he led me toward the back of the house, aiming for the stairs. I knew
that he had intentionally separated me and Cat, and I started to feel this wave of totally irrational guilt and anxiety.

Downstairs in the library, the door to Heidi’s apartment was now partially closed, and though I could detect movement in the
apartment, I couldn’t see how many people were in there or what they were doing. But I knew it was either the crime scene
investigators or the medical detectives, or both. As we stood by the door, I took Farley verbally through my movements that
morning, up to the point of entering Heidi’s apartment.

“Do you want me to retrace my steps in the room for you?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t going to have to go back in there.

“Not necessary. Why don’t we talk out here,” he said, cocking his thumb toward the garden. Without waiting for an endorsement
from me, he flipped the lock on one of the French doors, swung it open, and gestured toward the wrought-iron garden table,
where we both took a seat. From the inside pocket of his suit jacket he pulled his own steno pad and pencil and jotted down
a few notes before even asking me a question. His fingers were short and stubby, like a row of cocktail wieners.

“So as you were saying,” Farley said, “you unlocked the door, and walked in the room.”

“Uh-huh—and I could tell from the smell something wasn’t right,” I explained. “I walked around the couch and then I saw her.”
The day had not managed to get much warmer since I’d left my apartment, and I folded my arms around my chest for warmth.

“Did you move or touch the body when you were in the room?”

“No, I did not,” I said. Why was I sounding so defensive?

“You sure about that, Bailey?”

“No—I mean, yes I am sure. No, I didn’t touch her.”

“You didn’t look for vital signs, take a pulse, to see if she might still be alive?”

“No. It was very obvious she was dead. Besides, I didn’t know how she died and I knew it was important
not
to touch the body.”

“It sounds like you kept a pretty cool head through all of this,” he said, the skin around his eyes crinkling as he flashed
a tight smile. His tone didn’t make it sound like the world’s greatest compliment.

“Well, I’m a reporter,” I said. It was going to come out sooner or later, so it seemed best to get it on the table now.

“Oh, really. What kind of stories?”

“Human interest, crime stuff. In fact, I write a lot for
Gloss
, Cat Jones’s magazine.”

“Maybe that explains why I don’t recognize your name. I generally stick with the men’s magazines, if you know what I mean.
So tell me what you thought when you saw the body. If you’re a reporter, you’re obviously observant. Did you suspect foul
play of some kind?”

Foul play? Was
that
what he was thinking? “You mean, did I think someone had done something to her? No, I assumed she’d become violently ill
for some reason.”

“And why was that?”

“Well, there was vomit all over, and she was on the floor.”

“Did Ms. Jones come in the room with you at any point?”

“No, she stayed in the library.”

“Had you met the young woman before?”

“A few times, yes. Though I work with Cat, we’re friends, too, and I’ve seen Heidi around the house.”

He didn’t remove his pale blue eyes from me while I answered, but when I was done he took a second to jot down what I said.
As he wrote, the right shoulder of his too tight khaki suit strained at the seam.

“She a nice kid?” he asked.

“She was pleasant to me—and I think Cat’s son liked her a lot. But I really didn’t know her at all.”

“Was she doing a good job as a nanny? Was Ms. Jones happy with her?”

“As far as I know.”

“Was anyone in the house with the nanny this weekend?”

I paused for a moment. “I believe she was alone.”

“You hesitated there for a second, Bailey,” he said, cocking his head.

“Well, there’s a housekeeper, Carlotta. She works mainly during the week, but I believe she sometimes comes in on weekends.”
From down the block I could hear church bells begin to peal and then, closer by, the whistle of a teakettle from an open window.

“And as far as you know, Mr. Jones wasn’t around at all?”

“From what Cat said, no. His name is Henderson, by the way. Jeff Henderson.”

“What about a boyfriend?” he asked.

“I beg your pardon?”
I said, startled. It was a split second before I realized he was talking about Heidi, not Cat.

“Did she have a boyfriend as far as you know?”

“I believe she had one at some point, but Cat said they were cooling it. You need to ask her about that.”

“Did the nanny have any health problems? Was her health—”

“You know, I’m sorry, but I barely knew her. Cat would know all of this.”

He just stared at me, the pale eyes watering slightly. His look suggested that I’d be smart not to cut him off like that again.

“You live in the city?” he asked after an uncomfortable moment.

“Yes, in the Village.”

“Why do you think Ms. Jones called you to come up here today?”

“She was nervous, I think—worried. Heidi’s apparently always been very reliable, and so Cat became alarmed when she didn’t
open her door.”

“No, what I mean is, why you in particular?”

“We’ve known each other a long time. I’m the kind of friend she can call at eight A.M. on a Sunday morning.”

“What was her demeanor like when you arrived?”

“Like I said, she was worried—very worried.”

“She didn’t want to go in the room herself?”

“I think she was just too scared to.”

“Can I ask you something, Bailey, between the two of us? Did that seem funny to you? Her not wanting to go in alone?”

“No, not at all. We talked about the possibility of drugs or alcohol or even suicide, and Cat didn’t want to face it all by
herself.”

“Suicide? Had Heidi been depressed?”

“No. I mean, not that I know of. My point was simply that something seemed off, and as far as Cat knew it could have been
one of any number of things. Or nothing. She just didn’t know.”

He didn’t say anything else, just held my gaze momentarily before rising from the table. For now the interrogation appeared
to be over. He asked for my phone number and address, jotting them down in the notebook and telling me he might need to get
in touch in the next couple of days. He flipped the cover of the steno pad back over with one hand and led me back upstairs,
where he collected Buzz Cut and announced they were going back downstairs. As soon as they were out of earshot, Cat grabbed
hold of my sleeve.

“Am I being paranoid?” she asked. “Or did they deliberately separate us?”

“You’re not being paranoid,” I said as I poured myself more coffee. “That’s exactly what they did.”