A Body to Die For (14 page)

A part of me longed to be home again, away from this mess. The weekend ranked up there with my all-time worst, even more horrible
than the time at Brown when I’d gone to a bed-and-breakfast in Newport with a guy I was smitten with. When we fell into bed
for the first time, I found to my horror that he liked to refer to his penis as if it were a person: “He likes it.” “He wants
more.” I faked a urinary tract infection for the next forty-eight hours.

But the other part of me hated having to bail on Danny. I was extremely worried for her—and not only because of the possible
fallout to the inn. If something ulterior was happening at the spa, she could actually be in danger. I had spent two days
trying to help her and failed to come up with a single thing. If only I didn’t have the mass hysteria article hanging over
my head, I could stay longer.

The phone rang, startling me. It was almost ten. I picked up the one on the end table next to the couch, expecting it to be
Danny. But when I said hello, there was only silence.

I tried hello again. This time I got a reply.

“Bailey Weggins?” It was Beck’s voice.

“Speaking,” I said, feeling all nervous, as if Brad Pitt had just announced he was on the line.

“This is Detective Inspector Beck. I’m sorry if I woke you.”

“You didn’t. Despite the fact you had to rouse me from a nap the other night, I’m not much of a sleeper.”

“No?”

“No. I don’t do very well in bed.” Oh God, what kind of bozo was I? “What I mean is, I’m sort of a hopeless insomniac. Are
you still working? It sounds awfully quiet there.”

“No, actually, I’m calling from home…. I live alone.”

There was complete silence as his remark hung between us like a piece of paper that’s been lifted by the wind but hovers motionless
before the current shifts. He lived alone. He had no wife or live-in girlfriend and he wanted me to know it.

“Anyway,” he continued, “I realized that I had your New York number, but you never said whether you were going directly back
there tomorrow.”

“I am. I mean, yes, that’s where I’m headed,” I sputtered.

“So if we need to get hold of you about the case in the next few days, that’s where we should call?”

“Has there been some new development?”

“I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Of course not,” I said. “But why would you need to talk to me again, anyway? I mean, like I said before, I’ve racked my brain
and I don’t remember anything more than I’ve already told you.”

“I understand that. But we might need to clarify or review your statement with you at some point.”

“Well, I’ll be in New York all week if you need me.”

“Do you still have my number—in case you have to reach me?”

“Yes, don’t worry. I’ve been guarding it with my life.”

He actually laughed a little on the other end.

“Good. If something occurs to you—”

“But—”

“I said
if,
okay?”

“All right, all right.”

“Good night. Sorry to disturb you.”

“No problem.”

I hung up the phone and stretched out my body with my head against the arm of the sofa. What had that been about? On the surface
it was straightforward enough. Because of my movements Friday night, I’d enabled the police to pretty much pinpoint the time
of the murder. I was important to the case, and he
did
need to know where to reach me. But there was a possibility that he had used the case as an excuse to call me. Had the “Where
should we call?” and “Do you still have my number?” remarks been code for “I want to stay in touch with you”? Was he hoping
I’d give him a sign that it was fine to get more personal? Was that even ethical—since I was a witness in the case? I tried
to picture what he looked like right now. Was he sitting on a stool in his kitchen, one hand on a beer? Lying on his sofa
in a pair of boxer briefs? Or in bed naked? I imagined him naked. I imagined what it would be like to kiss him, to touch him.
I couldn’t believe I was so infatuated with him. At least it meant I wasn’t pining for Jack Herlihy anymore.

That turned out to be the high point of the evening. Shaking off my X-rated fantasy, I reached for the TV remote and discovered
to my chagrin that there was something woefully wrong with the reception. I cursed and picked up the decorating book, but
my eyes began to glaze over from looking at pages of rooms with barely any furniture. I rang my next-door neighbor and friend,
Landon, in New York but ended up with his voice mail. I left a message saying I was looking forward to the dinner we had planned
for Monday night.

Finally, I decided to take my chances in bed. I flailed around for an hour, and when I finally did fall asleep, I found myself
in one of those dreams that’s as monotonous as painting a wall, in which you repeat the same movements over and over again.
I was staying at an inn or hotel of some kind, but not the Cedar Inn. Dressed in an evening gown, I walked down a corridor,
tapping quietly on one door after another. No one ever answered, and after waiting for an inordinate amount of time by each
door, I would finally move to the next. After a while I could feel the part of me that observed the dream growing frustrated,
wanting to encourage the Bailey
in
the dream to tap louder. My knocking was too soft; no one could hear it. I woke suddenly and bolted up in bed. The tapping,
I realized, was coming from someplace other than my dream. Someone was at my door.

I switched on the bedside lamp and let my eyes race around the room. I couldn’t tell whether I’d actually heard a sound—or
the dream had played a trick on my mind. I slid out of bed and made my way to the door.

“Who is it?” I called out softly when I was two feet away.

Utter silence.

I undid the dead bolt and eased the door open, the chain still on. There was nothing in the hallway, just the shadows cast
from the sconces along the wall.

It took me over an hour to fall back asleep again. I woke at eight, ragged, almost hung over. I wiggled into my jeans and
a long-sleeved T-shirt, threw on some lip gloss and concealer for my undereye circles (which appeared to have a landmass rivaling
Central Park), and zipped up my bag. Rather than wait for a bellboy, I lugged the bag downstairs myself.

“You okay?” I asked with a wan smile when I found Danny sitting at breakfast.

“Yes, I’m better today,” she said. “Though I’m sad to see you go, Bailey. You’ve been a rock for me.”

“I just wish that I could have
discovered
something,” I said.

“I’ve got some news, by the way. It turns out Anna really
was
strangled.”

“Strangled? Did Beck tell you?”

“No, it was in the paper today.”

I pressed Danny for more details, but that was all the paper had revealed. I fessed up then about my visit to the Bridge Street
Tavern and my snarky encounter with Matt. There was a chance there might be some repercussions, and Danny needed to be in
the loop.

“He wasn’t interested in sharing anything with me, that’s for sure,” I said. “I’m just hoping I might learn something from
Eve.”

Danny explained that Eve was going to be home all day and was expecting me. All she’d asked was that I call from the road
a few minutes before my arrival so she would have some warning. From the pocket of her pale green sweater, Danny pulled a
piece of paper with the phone number and directions to Eve’s house.

I ordered eggs for breakfast, fortification for my journey. But when they arrived I realized I had little appetite and pushed
them listlessly around my plate.

When it was finally time to go, Danny walked me to the parking lot and we hugged each other tightly. I felt awful leaving
her like this. I once again heard my mother’s words in my mind: “Keep an eye on Danny. I’m worried about her.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow night,” I said, “and if I can get my assignment in on time and things are still crazy here, I’ll come
back next week, okay?”

The tears that welled in her gray eyes indicated she wasn’t going to resist my offer.

Fifteen minutes later I was on the Massachusetts Turnpike, headed west to pick up the New York State Thruway. I felt a little
like Sigourney Weaver in
Alien,
after she’s ejected the ugliest creature in the history of the universe from her spacecraft while wearing only panties and
an undershirt and finally climbs into her capsule. In other words, I felt safe. There would be no more chases in the woods,
no more middle of the night awakenings wondering if someone was tapping at my door. Yet another part of me wished I could
turn the Jeep around and go back.

I’d already programmed Eve’s number onto my cell, so a mile from the exit on the thruway I hit the send button. She spoke
in a monotone, like someone who’d recently popped a Xanax. I explained that I should be at her place in a matter of minutes,
and she said dully to come ahead, she was expecting me. I’d talked to hotel room service operators who were more excited to
hear from me.

Ten minutes later I was in downtown Rhinebeck, a quaint town not far from the Hudson River. When Eve opened the door to greet
me, she appeared as somber as she’d sounded on the phone. She wore no makeup, and though she was fairly attractive, her skin
was heavily wrinkled from the sun. Her brown hair, cut into a midlength shag, looked as if it had been finger-combed four
or five days ago and not since. She was wearing an oversize chambray shirt and jeans.

“Eve?” I said, half question, half statement.

“Yes, come in,” she replied without smiling.

The house was a surprise. At some point there must have been a series of rooms on the ground floor, but walls had been knocked
down and now there was only a small kitchen, which I glimpsed in the back, and one big space up front, almost like a studio.
At the far end was a loom, and there were bundles and bags of yarn everywhere.

“So you’re a weaver now?” I asked moronically.

“That’s right,” she said, leading me to a dark green sofa. “Do you want tea? I was just about to fix some for myself, so it’s
not a problem.”

“Sure, that would be great. If it’s possible, I’d love the kind with caffeine.” Based on the back-to-nature feel of her home,
I was fearful of getting something like the lemony stuff that Danny had forced on me—or, worse, something made with raspberries.

“I think I can manage that,” she said, disappearing into the kitchen.

As I listened to the sound of the kettle scraping against the stove and the clank of cups, my eyes surveyed the room. Despite
the studiolike setup, there was an oppressive, closed-in feeling to the space, maybe because of all that yarn. It appeared
she worked mainly with jewel tones, and though the finished pieces she had strewn about were accomplished, they were also
dark and brooding.

She emerged from the kitchen a few minutes later, carrying a wooden tray with two steaming mugs. I could tell by the first
whiff that the tea was Lapsang Souchong, a strong, smoky blend that always made me gag. I lifted a mug from the tray, took
a teeny teeny sip, and smiled with all the graciousness I could summon. I wondered if she had made such a weird choice as
a passive-aggressive gesture.

“Your weaving is really wonderful,” I said as she took a seat across from me. “Obviously it’s not something you took up a
couple of months ago.”

“I started doing it in college,” she said after drawing a long sip from her mug. “I never had the space for a loom or, frankly,
the kind of money I needed to start it up as a business. But my mother died last year and left me this place.”

“I’m sorry to hear about your loss. And I’m sorry about Anna, by the way,” I said. “It must be very hard losing both a friend
and your mother in such a short time.”

She pursed her lips, not saying anything for a few seconds. She set her tea on a side table, kicked off her clogs, and tucked
her legs under her.

“Actually,” she said, “Anna and I hadn’t been friends in some time. Yes, her death is very upsetting, but she’s been out of
my life for a while now.”

“Did you lose touch after you moved?”

“No—our friendship was over before I ever left Massachusetts.”

“Was there some kind of falling-out?” I asked, trying not to do that pouncy thing of mine.

“Tell you what,” she said. “Since you’ve come all this way, I’m going to be perfectly honest with you. I wanted a different
kind
of relationship with Anna—a romantic one. She blew my mind, she really did. Initially I thought I saw something receptive
in her. There was one very nice kiss that I thought was leading someplace else, but I was wrong. After that, she rebuffed
me. It was quite clear I gave her the creeps and she wanted nothing more to do with me.”

What did that kiss suggest about Anna? I wondered. That she’d tried something new just to see if she liked it?

“I appreciate your being honest,” I said. “So I’ll be straightforward with you, too. The reason I’m here doesn’t have as much
to do with Anna as it does with the spa in general. Danny has a sense that something funny might be going on at the spa. People
have been acting very secretively when she goes over there. She doesn’t know if it’s related to Anna’s death, but she wants
to get to the bottom of it. Did you ever pick up any weird vibe when you were there?”

She laughed, the kind of forced, barklike laugh that people use to make a point.

“I picked up some weird vibes all right,” she said bitterly. “But they were generally being directed by Josh toward
me.
That man just seemed to despise me.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because I wouldn’t twitch my fanny when he gave an order. Because I didn’t look at him as if he were the most brilliant
thing alive. Because he could tell I knew he was gay, but he didn’t want anyone at the spa to know.”

So how do you
really
feel about him? I was tempted to ask.

“But what about anything
dishonest?
” I asked instead. “Do you think a small group over there could have been skimming money?”

She took a long sip of her tea, obviously not minding that it tasted like fried bologna. Setting down the mug, she shook her
head with her lips pursed.