If Looks Could Kill (6 page)

Since I couldn’t dredge up anyone to join me for dinner, I had to find another way to stop those vomit-crusted sea foam towels
from snaking around my brain. I’d once asked a Dallas homicide detective how she managed to cope with the horrors she saw,
and she’d told me she surrounded herself with “things of beauty.” I was dubious that that approach would do much to help me,
but I gave it a stab anyway. I put on some Mozart and ate a salad with a glass of Cabernet. Then I took a lavenderscented
bath, soaking for an hour, with the light on low and my head back against a folded towel.

The longer I soaked, though, the worse I felt. First of all my emotions, which had gone into some kind of insta-freeze that
morning, had finally thawed and I was overwhelmed by sadness over Heidi’s death. She had died so young, all alone in that
apartment, with no one around to help her. My thoughts also kept coming back to Cat and Jeff. Was everything
okay
with them? I wondered. Sure, her job made plenty of demands, but for her to skip a weekend trip to their country home in
Litchfield, Connecticut, in order to review plans for a film festival was a little like telling a guy you couldn’t go out
on Saturday night because you had to defuzz your sweaters. Jeff had been comforting to her when he’d arrived, but as time
wore on he’d seemed to grow more and more detached. Cat was certainly going to need Jeff now. If Heidi had died from a drug
overdose, they would face some ugly press scrutiny.

After my bath, I phoned Cat. I doubted the police would have shared much with her at this point, but I was anxious for any
scrap of info I could get. Her machine picked up—she and Jeff were obviously screening calls. I tried reading for a while
in my living room. As I’d told K.C., I’d ended up with the apartment two years ago, after the demise of my eighteen-month-old
marriage. It was just a one-bedroom with a large walk-in closet that I had converted into an office, but it had the terrace
and the great view of Village rooftops, and it was my sanctuary. People were always surprised that, considering New York real
estate prices, my ex had let me keep it, but he’d had other things on his mind, namely getting out of town in the wake of
his gambling debts.

I tried Cat again at nine and one last time at ten-fifteen, but I continued to get the machine. I felt annoyed that she wasn’t
returning my calls. I’d hauled myself out of bed at an ungodly hour for her, and now I was getting boxed out. But it wasn’t
totally unexpected. This whole Heidi thing was most likely turning into a PR crisis, a work situation, and I was never called
in to deal with those matters. That’s why God created butt kickers like Leslie. Or maybe Cat was just totally spent.

At around midnight, I’d climbed into bed with my book and tried to will myself into drowsiness. Ever since my divorce I’d
suffered from a torturous case of insomnia, often in the form of what’s called “early final awakening.” I’d fall asleep okay
but then I’d wake at two or three A.M. and never be able to drift back. I ended up putting on the TV and watching a documentary
on mudslides that wasn’t as mind-numbing as I hoped. The last time I glanced at the clock on my nightstand, it said 2:22.

Done reading the media spin on Heidi’s death, I was anxious to talk to Cat this morning, but I felt I’d left enough messages.
Besides, she’d have to make contact at some point, at the very least to tell me how to deal if I got any calls from the press.
In the meantime I decided to make an attempt to get some work done. I pulled out several files from my tote bag, along with
a composition book. Though I’ve focused mainly on crime dramas the last few years, I still take on a straight human-interest
story if it has enough mystery and intrigue to it. My latest story, the one due in four weeks, fell into that category. It
involved a lower-middle-class family of five near Olean, New York, who suspected that their home was being haunted by a poltergeist.
They would leave a room for a few minutes and discover upon their return that furniture had been scooted across the floor,
or pillows tossed from a bed, or, in one instance, wallpaper peeled from the walls. On several occasions, so they claimed,
objects had been hurled through the air by some, quote, invisible hand.

I’d gotten wind of the story from a small newspaper clip that a friend in the western part of the state had sent me (I have
a whole network of friends and relatives around the country who regularly pass along intriguing stuff to me). No one lay dead
with purple ligature marks around the neck or had vanished without a trace, yet my curiosity was piqued, and when I pitched
the idea at
Gloss
, Cat said yes immediately.

I had driven my Jeep out there several weeks ago and spent two days with the Case family. I certainly didn’t come away believing
the house was haunted, but on the other hand, I couldn’t tell who was creating the commotion—the parents themselves or one
of the kids. On my second day there, a stuffed animal had gone flying by my head. Several people, including the twelve-year-old
daughter, Marky, were in the room, but I couldn’t determine who was responsible.

Early last week I’d done a phone interview with a “parapsychologist” who had been consulted by the family. His conclusion:
not a poltergeist at all. Rather, everything was being caused by “telekinetic energy” emitted from the somber, sometimes sullen,
little Marky.

“In ninety-nine percent of these cases there’s a child, usually a girl, going through puberty or under tremendous stress,”
he’d explained, feigning patience with me. “Endocrine changes create electricomatic energy. And then, you see, the girl throws
her energy in a spiral trajectory without realizing what is happening. And
that
is what makes things move and spill and fly.”

I spent about forty-five minutes going through the transcript of the interview, which I’d gotten on Friday. I still had more
people to interview, including a professor of child psychology from Georgetown who was here in New York this month, preparing
to teach at NYU for the summer. He considered parapsychologists to be buffoons and had a different theory on what made things
go bump in the night.

After an hour of work, my brain stalled. I couldn’t stop thinking about Heidi. I picked up my phone and punched Cat’s extension.
Her assistant, Audrey, answered. Cat, she explained, was not in and wasn’t expected.

Next, I flipped through my Rolodex and found the work number for Dr. Paul Petrocelli, head of the ER at a small hospital outside
of Boston. I’d interviewed him once because he’d treated a rape victim I was writing about. Since then he’d allowed me to
badger him for info for other stories. I tried the number, and when they said he was too busy to talk, I left a message.

Grabbing a clean coffee mug from my shelf, I decided to head down the hall toward the
Gloss
coffee station. The fashion department was almost directly across the hall from my office, and as I stepped out of my office
I found the raven-haired fashion editor, Sasha, standing by her door, wearing low-riding brown pants, a pink tank top, and
a tiara, and holding an orange stiletto. She was overseeing several prepubescent-looking assistants and interns packing trunks
full of fall clothes.

“Traveling this week?” I asked, stopping in front of the door. I barely knew anyone in the department—they all had names like
Tara and Tanya and Tamara—but since our offices were so close, Sasha and I occasionally engaged in borderline moronic chitchat.

“We’re shooting near Palm Springs,” Sasha said, all happy. Her lips seemed fuller than the last time I’d seen her, as if she’d
either had collagen shots or been stung on the mouth by a hornet.

“In the desert?”

“Yes. The light is
so, so
beautiful there,” she said, tossing the shoe into one of the open trunks.

I strolled down the hall toward the coffee machine, passing offices where at this hour editors usually could be found talking
on the phone, staring at their computer screens, or licking the froth off their lattes. But today their offices were mostly
empty. As I filled my coffee mug, someone called my name and I turned to see the executive editor, Polly Davenport, hurrying
in my direction. Though Polly was the person I reported to at
Gloss
, that had not gotten in the way of us becoming pals, grabbing sandwiches or sushi together, and commiserating about being
thirtysomething divorcées in New York City.

“Morning,” I said. “Where
is
everyone?”

“They’re all in the pit, yakking about what happened. You know, right?”

“Yeah. Why don’t we talk in my humble abode.”

We walked back to my office and I shut the door most of the way. Polly had her long, reddish blond hair in a braid today and
was wearing a knee-length black jumper-style dress over a white T-shirt, calculated to minimize her hips, the bane of her
existence. Polly had tried almost every diet imaginable, even “the stewardess diet” she’d found in a twenty-five-year-old
copy of
Gloss
, and she was still thirty pounds overweight.

“How much do you know about what’s going on?” she asked, taking a seat in the extra chair.

“Well, I’m incommunicado today, but I was up there yesterday. I was the one who found the body.”

“God, you’re kidding me. What exactly happened?”

“I’m not sure. Cat called and asked me to come up because Heidi wasn’t answering her door. She was worried, and I got to be
the one who went in there. Her body was on the floor, in that little apartment they have for her. She’d thrown up all over
the place—so something made her sick. The obvious thing is drugs, but—”

“That’s what the paper implied. You think she was using heroin?”

“I have no idea. I didn’t see any sign of drugs, but then the police didn’t allow me to do a search of the room, either.”

“Was it awful, to find her like that?”

“Yeah, it
was
. I didn’t really know her, of course, but it’s sickening when someone so young dies regardless of whether you know her or
not.”

“Where
is
Cat, by the way?” she asked irritably.

“Home, I guess. According to Audrey she may not be in today.”

“Well, I’ve tried to reach her all morning. We’re shipping the ovarian cancer story. It’s totally late and it’s got to go
today.

I know she’s got a lot on her mind, but she insisted she wanted to read the final.”

“How’d you hear the news?” I asked.

“On the eleven o’clock news last night. But, of course, I’m used to hearing my news about
Gloss
secondhand.”

It never ceased to annoy Polly that though she shared the second line on the masthead with Leslie, it was Leslie who was Cat’s
confidante. Yet in my opinion Polly was the more valuable asset. A lot of people could do what Leslie did, but Polly was enormously
talented, a terrific line editor, and a brilliant title and cover-line writer. Cat might be the visionary of the magazine,
the one with great instincts and a Rolodex jammed with writers and contacts, but Polly did the top edit on most of what ran
in the magazine and wrote the titillating cover lines that helped sell so many copies—lines like “Why I Date Your Husband,”
“Perfectly Normal Women Obsessed with Having Pelvic Exams,” and “Seven Sex Tricks So Hot His Thighs Will Go Up in Flames.”

“If it’s any consolation, I’d be lost without you,” I said, smiling.

“Thanks…Leslie is a no-show today. Do you think she’s in the thick of things?”

“Yeah, she got called in to deal with the press. She’s probably up there shooing away reporters.”

“Well, I’m pleased for her. Leslie is happiest when she’s kissing Cat’s ass.” With that Polly pushed herself out of the chair
and stepped toward the door. “I’ve got to go rewrite some really bad captions. I’ll stop by again later. How’s your poltergeist
piece, by the way?”

“It’s getting there.”

“You know it’s in September now, right?”

“Yeah, no problem,” I said.

As she went out the door, the phone rang, and she paused midstep, obviously thinking it might be Cat. I answered and gave
Polly a shake of the head, indicating that it wasn’t Cat. But it was.

“Hi,” I said as Polly hurried down the hall. I figured Cat might be trying to keep a low profile and wouldn’t want anyone
to know she was calling in. “You okay?”

“No, I feel like shit,” she said.

“What did I miss yesterday afternoon?”

“Just more misery. Look, I know you tried to call me last night, but things just got nuttier and nuttier. The police were
here for what seemed like hours. They interviewed Jeff—all by himself like they did you and me. And then the press descended
like wild dogs. Jeff went out and got Tyler at around seven, and I took some Excedrin PM and crashed.”

“The police didn’t share any theories with you about what they think happened?”

“No, nothing. Totally tight-lipped.”

“Did you reach Heidi’s family?”

“Jeff talked to them. They didn’t sound all that bothered by the news, though Jeff thought they’d get more excited if there
was a chance they could sue someone. We’re sending the body back, but not till the police release it.”

“There’ll be an autopsy, right?”

“Yes, today, I think. I’m hoping to hear something in the next few hours. That’s why I’m not coming in. Plus, there may still
be some stalkarazzi lurking around and I’d prefer not to let them take my picture.”

“Can I help in any way?”

“Actually, yes,” she said. “I have this bad, bad feeling this whole thing is going to explode somehow. And I need to know
more about what was going on in Heidi’s life. I need you to snoop around for me.”

“Snoop?” I said. “You mean go through her things?”

“Maybe. But first I want you to talk to people she knew. She had this one good friend, another nanny. And there’s Jody, her
ex-boyfriend.”

“But, Cat,” I said, “wouldn’t it make sense to wait till you find out how she died?”

“I don’t want any surprises.” A pause. “Bailey, I need you. I really do.”

“Of course I’ll help,” I said. Heidi’s death was eating at me, and I preferred to be in on the action rather than off on the
sidelines. “There are a couple of things I want to ask you about anyway.”