Killer Heels (4 page)

“What are you drinking?” Tricia asked me, more like a nurse taking a medical history than a friend trying to decide what to have herself.

“A lemon drop.”

“I ordered champagne. You know that’ll make her sleep,” Cassady said.

Tricia snapped her head in a tight little move that made her chestnut hair skate on her shoulders. “Where’s the waitress ?”

“Why?” Cassady asked, sensing dissent.

“She needs a brandy alexander.”

“Why?” Cassady repeated, this time sounding a little offended.

“Because they don’t serve Häagen-Dazs here.”

“You think she should have ice cream? She found a body, she didn’t have her tonsils out, Tricia.”

Usually, at this point in a conversation about me, I would try to speak up for myself, but I found, at the moment, that I had neither the energy nor the desire to do so. I was grateful that I had such good friends who were willing to debate the best way to get me back on my feet. Or get me falling-down drunk, whichever would be more beneficial in the long run. I just needed to be sure that I had gotten Tricia’s shoes on and successfully navigated all the little straps before I got too buzzed.

“She needs fats and carbs,” Tricia replied crisply.

“When did those become good things?” Cassady didn’t look too impressed with Tricia’s edict, but I had to admit, it sounded great.

“It’s a basic, chemical stress reaction. Adrenaline makes the body crave fats and carbs. Lest she dive face-first into a pizza or inhale raw cookie dough, we’ll allow her this drink.” Tricia glanced over at me. “Okay?”

I shrugged in acceptance. Besides, pizza-stuffed cheeks would defeat the effect of my Sigourney cheekbones. Tricia flashed Cassady a small smile of triumph. She loves taking control of a situation—any situation but her own life, that is. It’s kind of in her blood: Her dad runs political campaigns and her mom’s a compulsive volunteer. The whole family’s a little tightly wrapped, but they’re New England Republicans for a hundred generations, so what else can you expect? I mean, Tricia was named after Tricia Nixon, for crying out loud. She doesn’t like anybody to know that, but she won’t let anybody call her Trish either. She’s a very precise person, but she’ll do anything for someone she cares about.

The waitress came back with the champagne and Tricia ordered the brandy alexander. “Does that mean I don’t get any champagne?” I asked as the waitress withdrew and Cassady started pouring. Cassady made a point of sliding the first glass over to me.

Tricia didn’t take offense. “Drink whatever makes you feel better, sweetie. How do you feel?”

I groped for a moment, then settled on, “Surreal.”

Cassady raised her glass and we followed her lead. “To Molly the Surreal.”

“To Teddy,” I responded. They hesitated, but I went ahead and took a sip. I meant it. May he rest in peace. But I only took one sip, because the idea of the brandy alexander was sounding better and better and I didn’t want to press my luck by mixing my cocktails too freely.

“She thinks she’s doing well,” Cassady told Tricia, “but she’s still in shock. She says she’s going to play Nancy Drew.”

“That’s not what I said,” I protested.

“You said you want to solve this crime.”

Tricia looked horrified. “Molly, what are you thinking?” she asked, sounding a little too maternal for comfort.

“I want to help,” I said and it came out a little weaker than I had intended. Maybe the nasty little creature in my chest was pressing against my voice box now, too. Small price to pay for good cheekbones. “Teddy was a friend of mine and I want to make sure he gets the attention he deserves.”

“So plan his memorial service,” Tricia suggested. “Don’t turn vigilante.” She turned to Cassady so I couldn’t protest. “What did the police say?”

Cassady picked up her cue. “Robbery gone wrong.”

“They know what they’re talking about, Molly,” Tricia cautioned.

“Yeah, but they don’t know Teddy. He would’ve given a robber anything he asked for, plus a little something extra to go away quickly.”

“That’s not always enough,” Cassady said quietly. “Sometimes people get killed because the robber’s crazy, not because they put up a fight.”

“I understand that. There’s just something about this …” I wasn’t in any shape to debate this with them. It was a feeling I had that I couldn’t fully articulate yet. “I could have an insight on this that the police don’t.”

“Because of your close, personal relationship with Teddy,” Cassady muttered.

“Okay, we weren’t best friends, but I did know him. They don’t.”

“But they get paid to figure him out. And to figure the crime out,” she continued with a hint of impatience. “But you—” She stopped as a new thought pinched her on the bottom. “I get it,” she said slowly, then turned to Tricia as though she were about to recite the alphabet for a preschooler who would struggle to keep up with her. “Molly wants to solve the crime. Molly wants to be a real journalist when she grows up.”

“Thanks for the support, Madame Supreme Court Justice,” I sniped back. Cassady being right was beside the point. She didn’t have to be so bitchy about it.

“Wait a minute.” Tricia was working to catch the train. “Molly, you’re going to use your friend’s death as a stepping stone in your career?”

“That’s not why,” I protested.

“You’re such a Good Samaritan that you’re going to thrust yourself, completely inexperienced and unwelcome, into the middle of a murder investigation,” Cassady said. “And get a feature article out of it along the way.”

To hear Cassady say it, out loud and with that special tartness of hers, didn’t help. I could feel my resolve slipping. It probably was silly of me to think that I could help New York’s Finest solve a murder. And if Detective Lipscomb thought it was a robbery gone wrong, he was speaking from experience and, chances are, he was right. Just because I have this little flair for the dramatic and I’m always looking for a big story-behind-the-story doesn’t mean that there was really more to Teddy’s murder than met the eye.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, a holdover from a dalliance with yoga last year. It didn’t help. I could feel my new cheekbones dissolving. Tricia reached across the table and put her hand gently on mine. Tricia has these delicate little hands that are always cool and dry. They’d be perfect, except she picks at her cuticles and can’t wear nail polish for more than about three hours before she starts chipping it off with whatever’s handy. We used to go get our nails done every Saturday morning, but Yooni, the salon manager, told Tricia she couldn’t come back until she started respecting their artistry and stopped chipping the polish. “You need to do what you think is right, Molly.” She left her hand on mine and smiled reassuringly. Leave it to Tricia to make it about doing the right thing.

Cassady leaned in, making a big deal about giving me an appraising look. I should have known trouble was coming. “This isn’t about helping or about a big break. This is about an incredibly handsome homicide detective.”

That wasn’t it, but I still couldn’t articulate my reasons. Besides, when I saw how Tricia brightened, I decided to let it go. “How incredibly handsome?” Tricia asked, and I could see from the set of her mouth she was willing me to follow this new, lighter path of conversation.

I actually found myself starting to smile. “Moderately incredible.”

“What’s his name?” Tricia looked like she was about to start taking notes.

“Detective Edwards.”

“Does he have a first name?”

Cassady and I looked at each other, each expecting the other to come up with it. “Don’t think he said,” Cassady admitted.

“Cassady was too busy trying to bed the babyface in uniform, so she wasn’t paying much attention.” I patted my pockets and found Detective Edwards’ business card. “Kyle,” I read.

“Great name,” Tricia nodded approvingly. “Single?”

“No ring,” I answered.

“You looked,” Cassady said triumphantly. “I knew you liked him.”

“Looking isn’t a sign of liking, it’s a sign of being alive,” I countered.

“Still, you liked him.”

“Swear to God, I haven’t thought about it.” Back in the office, with Teddy on the floor, it had seemed wrong to think about it. I had appreciated Detective Edwards—all the cops—on an instinctive aesthetic level. Anything beyond that, though, would have been inappropriate, like hitting on someone at a funeral. It seems wrong to look for action in a setting where the guest of honor can’t possibly get lucky. Of course, Cassady once did pick up a guy at her uncle’s funeral and had sex with him in the back of the florist’s truck, but that’s Cassady. And even she will tell you she threw her neck out, the relationship went nowhere, and she can no longer stand the smell of lilies.

But now that I did stop and think about it, “He might have potential, if I’m remembering correctly.” I glanced at Cassady for confirmation.

Cassady nodded enthusiastically. “A lot there to work with, no doubt about it.” She smiled lasciviously and Tricia laughed approvingly.

“So are you going to wait and see if he calls to ask if you’ve remembered anything helpful, or are you going to call him and offer new information?” Tricia asked. She’s a natural planner. No matter what the situation, she’s always the first one mapping out angles, options, plans of attack.

I shrugged. “I don’t have new information.”

“You’re a clever girl,” Tricia prodded. “Come up with something.”

“But see, that’s my whole point. I really think I could come up with something they aren’t going to see. I want to do something.”

“So do the detective and leave the rest to the rest,” Cassady said. “This isn’t something you want to play around with, especially if it turns out to be more than a robbery gone wrong. God knows, we don’t want to be here a week from now, toasting you in absentia because you’re in jail or the hospital or worse.”

“Which would be worse, jail or hospital?” Tricia asked, trying to keep the conversation from running up onto the rocks.

“The morgue trumps them all,” Cassady persisted.

“Point made,” Tricia assured her.

“Then smack her on the head or something, you’re sitting closer.” Cassady set her drink down in frustration. “You’ve got such a good heart, Molly, and always have great reasons for the things you do, but that doesn’t mean you should push your luck. Promise us.”

I knew she was right, they were right, but I couldn’t let go of the notion of helping, especially now that it was coupled with the notion of getting to know Detective Edwards better. That was even more attractive than the feature article, which I knew was a long shot. The waitress arrived with the brandy alexander, allowing me to take a moment without being accused of stalling. I took a sip and decided to let Tricia prescribe the drinks for all my traumas from now on. This was the perfect concoction for my situation and I was going to enjoy it.

The drink, that is, because the situation was about to become, believe it or not, even more uncomfortable than it already was. I was letting the second sip slide down my throat in a frosty trickle when a square, firm hand came to rest—a little too heavily—on my shoulder. Startled, I gagged slightly and had to cough before I could turn around and look. By then, my girlfriends had already looked and I could tell from their expressions that I didn’t want to hurry in turning around.

I thought about the weight of the hand as I turned and was reasonably sure whom I was about to see. And because the evening hadn’t been complicated enough, I was right. Nothing like a current boyfriend showing up just as you’re contemplating the possibilities of a new man.

“Hey, Peter.” I tried to strike the proper tone of surprise. Of course, my bigger surprise was feeling somehow guilty about thinking of Detective Edwards in less than professional terms only moments before.

“Moll,” he said as he leaned in for a kiss. I pressed my lips against his with moderate firmness, not perfunctory, just not sloppy or suggestive. He gave the other two a mock salute. “Good evening, ladies.”

Peter Mulcahey is one of those golden boys that Robert Redford talks about in
The Way We Were
, an All-American in looks, breeding, and attitude to whom things come easily. Not that he didn’t have to work to get me, but I did get a little caught up in the whole Ivy League mythos. That’s just not my normal playground. So when he made it clear it was his desire to sweep me off my feet, I allowed myself to be swept. It was great at first, very heady stuff. He knows how to play the romance, I’ll give him that. But the last couple of weeks, I’d been unable to shake the feeling that that’s all he was doing. Playing. The random moments of insincerity were accumulating and the complex interior I had been convinced lay beneath the golden exterior didn’t seem to exist after all.

Cassady said he had intimacy issues and I needed to go to the mountains for the weekend with him and see what happened. Tricia said he wasn’t Mr. Right, but asked me not to dump him until he bought a table at the Jazz at Lincoln Center Anniversary Dinner. I didn’t know what to do. I knew I wasn’t in love, but we had a pretty good time. And the Lincoln Center party was bound to be a blast. So I’d been dragging my feet about making a move and he’d very considerately gone out of town for some family function, but I hadn’t used the time wisely and still didn’t know what to do about our relationship. He knew something was off, but it either didn’t bother him or he was trying to reach a decision of his own. All in all, not an emotional tar pit I needed on top of everything else that had already happened.

“When did you get back?” I asked, realizing that he still had his hand on my shoulder. Was it possessiveness or laziness? I couldn’t tell. Like I couldn’t tell how much of our daily contact before he left had been passion and how much had been habit. Another distressing thought. I wasn’t sure I could handle many more.

“Just got in. Ran out of cousins to get drunk with. I left a message on your machine, but I guess you haven’t been home in a while.”

“No, it’s been kind of a wild night,” I said carefully, not sure I wanted to share what had happened with him right now.