'Til Death Do Us Part (15 page)

“Why do you think he was so obvious in your case? There was certainly nothing accidental looking about what happened to you tonight.”

“That’s a good question. Maybe . . . maybe the murderer has killed the people who matter—the ones with incriminating information, for instance—and just wants to scare me off. Or maybe he’s unraveling and isn’t going to bother making anything else look like an accident.”

As I was talking, I heard my voice grow more and more frantic. I took a deep breath and let the air out slowly.

“Here,” Jack said, pulling me out of my chair and onto his lap. “Let me take care of you tonight. You need some TLC.”

“Would you mind if that’s all I let you provide?” I asked as I shifted slightly on his lap. “My butt’s sore from falling on it, and I feel so stressed out I could scream.”

“Not a problem. In fact, why don’t I pour you another glass of wine and give you a back rub?”

“Sounds wonderful,” I said, feeling a rush of tenderness. We cleared the table, poured fresh glasses of wine, and retreated to my bedroom, where I lit a few candles and peeled off my sweatpants.

Though we’d been dating steadily for several months and Jack had rubbed my shoulders and neck on occasion, he’d never given me an actual back rub, and he turned out to be quite fantastic at it. I shouldn’t have been surprised, because as an athlete he had strong hands, and as a shrink, he was excellent at tuning in to someone else’s needs. Using some lotion by my bed, he straddled me and worked from the tops of my shoulders down to my waist. Unlike most guys, whose idea of a massage is to run their hands up and down your back like a snowplow a couple of times and then expect you to be grateful, Jack took his time, using slow, deep strokes. I felt my muscles relax and my tension start to ease a little.

“Now where’s that sore spot on your butt?” he asked quietly. Outside my window the wind had begun to howl, but I felt as if I were in a wonderful cocoon.

“Right side,” I muttered, my face in the pillow.

“I promise to be gentle,” he said.

His hands moved lower and began to knead. It felt amazingly soothing but also erotic, and suddenly, unexpectedly, I felt something in me begin to stir. I moaned without meaning to.

“No, no. I promised I’d behave,” he said.

“Jack,” I said, turning my face to him, “I want you, I really do. Besides, it will probably be the best cure of all.”

“Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll agree if you let me do all the work.”

I started to protest, but hey, I’m only human, and the invitation just seemed so unbelievably delicious. As I lay on the bed practically quivering, he took off everything but his boxers. Then he slowly stripped off my underpants. Pinning my arms back along my head, he kissed me tenderly at first and then harder, more intensely, his tongue thrusting in my mouth. With my hands still pinned, he worked his way down my body, taking my breasts in his mouth and letting me feel just the edge of his teeth.

I squirmed, almost unable to bear it. I suddenly felt rabid with desire, so different from how I’d felt only moments before. When I didn’t think I could bear it anymore, he kept moving, working his way down my body, using both his mouth and his fingers. The wind rattled the windows of my bedroom as I felt Jack’s tongue exploring, finding, driving me crazy. I climaxed so intensely, I felt as if I might go airborne. A second later Jack entered me and climaxed himself within seconds.

Unfortunately, the state of bliss I found myself in didn’t last long. Though I wasn’t plagued by insomnia that night, I woke on and off, troubled by dark, undefined dreams, and by the time I showered the next morning I was feeling wired again.

Jack and I had bagels and coffee and decided that after he had taken his stuff over to his sublet, we’d spend part of the day browsing galleries in Chelsea. It didn’t seem as if I’d be in much danger in daylight or with Jack along with me. As soon as he left, I called Peyton, and this time, finally, I reached her.

“So what’s going on there?” I asked. “Are there any new developments?”

“I take it you saw the item in the
Post
?”

“Yes. Has it caused any damage?”

“Damage? That fucking piece was like the iceberg that rammed the
Titanic
. I’m being besieged by the press. Two people who booked us for parties have called to check on what the cancellation policy is. And the candidate I had for Robin’s job pulled out—without any explanation.”

“What does your PR agency suggest?”

“They want me out and about, acting totally bulletproof. David had a dinner with clients last night, so I went to an event in town on my own. People were
gawking
at me—I felt like I’d been indicted for something.”

I told her about my experience the night before.

“What?”
she asked. I could tell I had frightened her. “I don’t understand this. Why would someone do that to you?”

“I’d say it’s because I’m next on the list. And Peyton, you’ve got to be careful. You may be on that list, too.”

“But why?” she nearly wailed. “Why is someone doing this?”

“I don’t know yet. There’s a good chance that it’s connected to
you
. Your wedding, for instance—like we talked about. Or your business. Someone may be trying to sabotage you.”

In the shower that morning I’d decided that since I’d produced nothing to indicate that the deaths weren’t accidental, I was going to come at the situation from a different direction. My next step was to search for
motives
. I wanted to return to Greenwich on Monday and begin snooping around. I asked Peyton if I could bunk down at her place again.

“You’re always welcome, of course. But what’s the reason, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I’d like to do a little research, including talking to a few people at Ivy Hill.”

“Of course,” she said. “I know the circumstances aren’t so great, but I’ve enjoyed seeing more of you lately.”

The Peyton curveball once again.

I signed off, telling her I’d see her at the farm around midday. I made myself another cup of coffee and took it into the living room along with my composition book. After reading over everything I’d written so far, I jotted down the details I could remember about my conversation with Alicia, my inspection of Jamie’s apartment, and the attack by the person in the long wool coat.

Jack returned shortly afterward. We visited several galleries, ate lunch at a café in Chelsea, and then caught a movie. At one point I snuck out of the theater to use the restroom. While I was in the stall I heard someone quietly enter the bathroom. Fear shot through me, until I peeked out and saw that the person was just a fellow moviegoer, a woman in her sixties dressed in a North Face parka. That night I suggested to Jack that we have dinner at my place. I made chicken with two vinegars and forced Jack to watch
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
because I knew I could count on it to distract me.

The next morning, after a late breakfast, Jack headed off on an errand. His Village sublet was coming to an end, but the landlord had told him he had an even better place in the building that he could switch over to—and he was going to check it out today. We agreed to meet up at my place around two.

My appointment with Carol Blender was at noon, which would allow me plenty of time to go up and back before Jack returned. I hadn’t told him I was going, fearful that he’d be worried about me being out alone. I was still anxious myself, but I didn’t think anyone would harm me in the light of day. I glanced around as I stepped out of my building, but no one seemed to be skulking about. I hailed a cab on Broadway, going the wrong way, and gave the driver directions. As he made the turn on 8th Street to head over to Third Avenue, I looked behind me. No one appeared to be tailing us. By the time we were on the northbound FDR Drive, we practically had the road to ourselves.

The place Carol Blender suggested was way up on the Upper East Side, on the corner of East 86th and York. I might as well have gone to Scarsdale. It was more of a coffee shop than a restaurant, and it was already packed with people. A woman with a red coat was standing right inside the entrance, waiting.

“Carol?” I asked.

“Yes, that’s me,” she said without smiling. She was younger than she’d sounded on the phone, about thirty-eight or forty, with shaggy black hair and dark eyes. She looked like the kind of person who didn’t bother with perfunctory politeness, who made you work hard to get even a smile. She hardly seemed like a therapist, and I wondered suddenly if she might simply have been a friend of Robin’s, someone Ashley hadn’t been familiar with.

I let her take charge, since it appeared that we were in her neck of the woods. She told the hostess we preferred a booth, and I followed the two of them to one of the last empty two-seaters at the back of the restaurant. All around us people were wolfing down bacon and eggs, sharing their booths with bunched-up parkas and scarves.

“So how do you know Robin?” she asked as soon as we’d taken our seats.

“We were bridesmaids in a wedding together. Were the two of you friends?”

“No, she was a client of mine.”

“You were her therapist?” I asked. So my original hunch had been right after all.

“No,” she said. “Her nutritionist.”

“Nutritionist?”
I said.

“I’m sure she could have found someone good in Greenwich, but I worked with a friend of her mother’s in the city, and I think she preferred to go with someone she felt she could trust.”

The waiter interrupted us for our order. Based on her revelation, I expected Carol would go for something disgustingly healthful, and she didn’t disappoint: an egg-white omelet, whole-wheat toast, and hot water. I ordered an egg-salad sandwich and coffee, without apologies.

“Did her working with you have something to do with the antidepressants she was taking?” I asked after the waiter had left. The restaurant was filled with the sounds of clattering plates and conversation, and I practically had to shout to be heard above the din.

“So you know about that. Yes, she was on this restricted diet, and she felt she needed some guidance. Needless to say, I’m horrified about her death. We talked just before New Year’s and she seemed to be doing fine.”

“The going theory is that she cheated on her diet. That she loved to eat and one day just couldn’t say no to something on the off-limits list.” I let the remark hang there in the air.

Carol shook her head. “No way,” she said. “There is no way in the world Robin intentionally ate a food with tyramine. I know for sure that someone did this to her.”

CHAPTER 8

O
MIGOD, DID SHE
have some kind of proof? I wondered. Was I about to be handed the smoking gun I so desperately needed?

“How do you know? Tell me,” I urged.

“Robin was a total zealot about the diet,” Carol declared. “There’s no way she would have eaten something that was supposed to be off-limits for her.”

“But you said you knew for sure. What did you mean by that?”

“I just
know
,” she said emphatically. “Yes, Robin did love food, but she also loved what the drug was doing for her. It was the first time since high school that she felt really good about life, that she wasn’t battling depression. I work with a lot of people on restricted diets—mainly because of heart problems—and most of them resent the hell out of it. But Robin didn’t feel that way. She felt
saved
. That said, she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life feeling deprived. That’s why she came to me. She wanted me to create an eating plan that she could enjoy.”

There was no smoking gun after all. The only thing Carol Blender had was her conviction.

“Was that really possible to do?” I asked. I felt deflated, annoyed that she had gotten my hopes up for nothing. But I was still curious to know more about the subject. “It seems as if so many foods were a no-no.”

“Yes, the diet’s restrictive,” she said. “But there
is
some room to play. For instance, people think you can’t have any cheese, but as long as it’s not aged, you’re fine. I told Robin to treat herself to tomatoes and mozzarella. If she felt the urge for cheese and crackers, she could have Boursin or flavored cream cheeses.

“And I’m a hundred percent sure Robin never cut any corners,” she continued. “In fact, the reason she called me before New Year’s was that she’d been at a benefit of some kind and had taken several sips of a cup of coffee that she realized after the fact had been flavored with chocolate. Chocolate’s not a total no-no, but they suggest you really try to limit your consumption. Robin paged me, nearly out of her mind. I told her everything was fine, that the chocolate in the flavoring amounted to practically nothing. Someone who gets hysterical about that isn’t going to turn around and fix herself a salami sandwich.”