A Body to Die For (16 page)

“Don’t know,” I said. “The cops aren’t saying, and there was no sign of it at the scene because she was all wrapped up. Is
there any chance that it was a stranger? Or is it someone she knew?”

“Well, strangers do strangle, of course,” she said. “But it’s also the method of choice for men who have a lot of rage against
a particular woman. My guess—and of course it can only be a guess with so little info—is that he knew her and was very angry
at her.”

“It’s definitely a man, then?”

“That’s just an intuitive response. It could be a woman. But strangulation generally is a guy thing.”

“What about the Mylar paper? What do you think that was all about?”

“Was it available right there, on the premises?”

“Yeah, but the killer had to go to a closet to get it.”

I lost her for a second as she turned her attention elsewhere. “Sorry, but I’ve gotta board my plane now. Mylar paper—that’s
the name right? That sounds awfully complicated. I’d say it
meant
something to him—but I’m not sure what.”

I leaned back in my living room chair and massaged my head. I could feel a headache starting to gain momentum, one of those
vise grip–like ones that make you want to squeal. What could the Mylar mean? It had to be symbolic in some way. Perhaps, as
Eve had suggested, it was all tied in somehow to Anna’s past. I would have loved to be at the spa when it reopened so I could
check out the closet where the Mylar was stored and examine a roll of it. Right now I felt so far away from everything. It
was as if I had imagined the whole experience.

The rest of the afternoon was a bust. I unpacked, realized I didn’t have time for the gym, did a load of laundry, and confirmed
an appointment I had at
Gloss
the next day to pitch story ideas to Cat Jones. I never managed to get any traction on the day.

When it came time to dress for dinner, I went to little effort. The restaurant was casual, Provence-style, plus I didn’t want
to do anything to stoke the flames Don apparently had flickering in his loins. I chose a knee-length black skirt, short-sleeved
black sweater, and last year’s short black boots, probably now a no-no according to
Gloss.
For makeup I did only blush and lip gloss. At 5:47, I threw my denim jacket over my shoulders and flew out my apartment door.

The Indian summer quality of the day had vanished by the time I hurried down 9th Street toward University Place. With the
sun almost down, it was cool out now, fall-like. The flower beds along my block were bursting with purple and yellow mums,
which made me think instantly of the garden at Cedar Inn, and Anna, and my frantic run through the woods, and Detective Beck,
whom I might never see again.

I reached Don’s building in less than five minutes. I gave my name to the doorman, and while he was ringing the apartment
on the intercom, he looked at me with what I could have sworn was pity—as if I had come for a tax audit. Don, on the other
hand, swung open the door of his apartment with a grin on his face that suggested
he
thought I had just become the luckiest girl alive.

He was wearing black denim pants and a mustard-colored flannel shirt, and his frizzy hair appeared to have grown like a Chia
Pet in the several days since I’d seen him.

His apartment turned out to be typical generic guy space, with wall-to-wall carpeting, vertical blinds, a brown leather couch,
and a smaller, puffy brown leather thing across from it that was either a matching chair or the world’s largest baseball mitt.
There were movie posters on the wall for
Chinatown, Giant,
and
The Apartment,
and I vaguely remembered Don telling me the other night that he used to review movies. The living room was L-shaped, and
at the short end of the L there was a pass-through to the kitchen and a counter with a couple of bar chairs. He immediately
headed off in that direction, with an air that suggested I should be following.

“Let me get you a drink,” he said. “I make a mean sour apple martini.”

“Oh, no, really, no,” I said, trailing behind him.

“That’s right—you’re a beer drinker. I’ve got Corona or Amstel Light.”

“Thanks, but I don’t need anything,” I said. “Like I mentioned, I’ve got this dinner to go to.”

“You’re not going to make me drink alone, are you?” he said, stepping into the kitchenette and popping back out with two Coronas.
“Freelancers have to be there for each other.”

Yeah, but let’s not, I thought.

He set the beers onto the counter, flipped off the tops with a bottle opener, and dragged over a bar stool for me to sit on.
I had no choice but to plop myself down. He’d set out some food for us to eat on the counter: a paper plate stacked with slimy
orange buffalo chicken wings, a plastic container of blue cheese dressing, and a half dozen celery stalks with leafy tops
that he’d laid on a beige washcloth, obviously due to a shortage of plates. It looked like celery people having a day at the
beach. At the far end of the counter was a manila envelope that I suspected contained the clips I’d come for. Make nice, I
told myself, and in just a few minutes you can walk out of here alive—with the prize.

“I guess a few sips won’t hurt,” I said, smiling.

“So what did you think of that party the other night?” he asked. “I’d heard they were supposed to be getting divorced, and
then they throw a shindig like that. So maybe not.”

“I don’t know them all that well,” I said. “I worked at the same newspaper with him once, but I haven’t seen them in years.
We just bumped into each other recently in New York.”

He paused, his bottle midway to his mouth. “I thought you’d always been in magazines. What paper?”

“The
Albany Times Union.
I worked there for a while after college.”

“You know, I regret not doing that. I have this fantasy of one day taking a job on some paper and becoming the oldest rookie
reporter they’ve ever had.”

“And then you create the TV series.”

“I’m not following.”

“The series about the old rookie who helps the young reporters with their stories.”

“Oh, clever lady,” he said slyly. He set down his beer and picked out a chicken wing from the plate. “You gotta try one of
these,” he suggested as he tore a piece of skin from the bone like a bobcat. “They’re the best in town.”

“I’d love to, Don, really, but I’ve got to get moving. I’ve got this dinner at seven.”

“I thought you said
eight.
”

“No, seven. That’s why I’m in such a rush.”

He sighed with annoyance, as if I’d just turned his night into a train wreck. But without further delay he reached across
me and grabbed the manila envelope. He turned it upside down and slid the contents out onto the counter. I spotted one article
that I already had in my possession, but there were others I didn’t have. I also noticed an interview transcript.

“Okay, here’s the reason I wanted to go over the package with you,” he said, picking up the transcript. “This is an interview
I did with a psychologist who was considered one of the top experts on the subject. He’s dead now, though. But there’s a lot
of great stuff in here.”

Holding a wing in his left hand, he flipped through the thick transcript with his right, reading several quotes out loud.
I could have figured it all out on my own, of course, but that wouldn’t have allowed Don the opportunity to strut his stuff.

“This is terrific,” I managed to interject.

“Yeah, I thought so,” he said.

“When do you need it back?”

“You can keep the clips for a while, but I want the transcript back ASAP.”

He dropped the wing bone, wiped off his hands with a napkin, and scooted all the material back into the manila envelope. I
had to fight off the urge to grab it and flee.

“I’ll get it back to you tomorrow,” I said, beginning the slide from my chair. “Sorry I have to rush. I wish I could have
changed my dinner plans, but they were made weeks ago.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a pretty full plate,” he said, handing the envelope to me and sliding off his bar chair.

“Yeah, right now I do. I’ve got a few assignments I’m real backed up on.” Even as I spoke, I knew my comments about being
in a crunch wouldn’t discourage him from asking me out. Guys like him rarely took a hint because they always assumed they
were the exception to any rule.

“I realize you’re busy, but I’ve got a little proposition for you,” he said as we both came to a stop by the front door. I
bet he was going to suggest a jazz club, as early as Thursday night. “You got thirty more seconds?”

“Um, sure,” I said, mentally scrolling down a list of possible excuses he might buy: gotta boyfriend; leaving town; scheduled
to have gum surgery; recovering from trauma of finding a mummy in a spa…

“I like the sound of this gig you have,” he said. “You know—the contributing editor thing at
Gloss.
I used to have a contract with
Parade,
but I let that die two years ago when I was trying to do a screenplay. I’m ready for another regular deal now—you know, a
guarantee for a certain number of pieces a year. I was hoping you could help me out.”

I could barely open my mouth, I was so stunned. So what he
really
wanted was a contract with
Gloss.

“So what are you asking?” I said. “Do you want to know if they’re offering the same arrangement to other writers?”

“Yeah—and who do I talk to? I know it’s only a woman’s magazine, but I could do some seriously good stuff for them. I’d like
to speak to that chick in charge—Cat Jones.”

“Sure,” I said, forcing a smile. “Let me find out if she’s open to it. Look, I’ve really got to run, but I’ll call you.”

I had ten minutes to get to the restaurant, and I decided the fastest way would be on foot rather than by taxi. I took off
south, past Washington Square Park and then down MacDougal, half walking, half trotting, and cursing Don the whole way. How
dumb could I be? Maybe I’d also been wrong when I’d sensed attraction on Beck’s part.

As I approached the restaurant, I could see Landon through the window, or rather the top of his head, with its cropped silver
hair, as he sat reading at the table. He was seventy, about thirty to forty years older than most of my friends, but we had
great chemistry, and after my divorce it had been so much easier to hang with him than some of my friends. Since he lived
next door, I only had to drag myself five feet to get to his place. And since he hadn’t known me during my marriage—at least
no more than to say hello to—I didn’t feel any embarrassment around him. As supportive as my friends were, I couldn’t help
but imagine what they said behind my back: “Didn’t she
know
he gambled?” or, “God, I spent two hundred dollars on Simon Pearce barware and the marriage only lasted eighteen months!”

As soon as Landon spotted me, he dropped what he’d been reading, pulled off his glasses, and rose to greet me. He looked dapper
in a navy jacket, blue-and-white-striped shirt, and yellow tie. I hugged him, complimented the tie. Throwing myself into the
chair across from him, I noticed that he’d been reading a catalog of lighting fixtures. Work related, obviously—he designed
lobbies for a living.

“How’s the Sixty-eighth Street project going?” I asked.

“Better now that I’ve diagnosed the client,” he said.

“Is she ill?”

“No, she’s
insane,
” he said. “I think she has borderline personality disorder. I looked it up, and it’s characterized by alternating extremes
of idealization and devaluation. I guess if someone says you’re brilliant one minute and the next accuses you of creating
a lobby that looks like the Paramus, New Jersey, bus terminal, that would fit the description.”

I asked him for an update on his love life. As a seventy-year-old gay man, it was more off than on, a source of constant consternation
for him. Right now there wasn’t even a flicker of hope.

“What about you, dear?” he asked. “You looked frazzled when you first came in.”

I offered a quick rundown of cocktails with Don and how I’d been lured to his apartment not because he’d seen me as a babe,
but because he wanted me to be a conduit to my boss, Cat Jones.

“Here I was,” I said, “racking my brain for the perfect way to blow him off, and he’s got nada interest in me. Do you think
I really could be doing something these days to
repel
men?”

He took way too long to consider my question.

“You’re actually pondering it, for God’s sake,” I exclaimed. “So you think I could be?”

“No, no, I was just recalling a comment my sister used to make about our cousin Ruth. She said she gave off skunk around men.”

“And you think I do that? Give off skunk?”

Before he could answer, the waiter appeared for my drink order. I asked for a glass of Cabernet.

“Of course you don’t give off skunk,” Landon said once the waiter disappeared. “At least, not
usually.
But your heart’s preoccupied these days, I’d say. I think you’re sending off some kind of vibe that says, Don’t bother me.
How was the spa, by the way? I thought you were going to use that as a way to clear your head.”

“Well, fasten your seat belt. If you think I seem frazzled tonight, you should have seen me this weekend. I’ve got a story—a
big, huge, god-awful story. But maybe we should order first.”

After we lassoed the waiter again, I launched in. Landon was one of those people who loved every detail of a tale, so I took
him through what had happened blow by blow. The only thing I left out was my soft-porn fantasies about Detective Beck. By
the time I wrapped up, Landon and I were done with our salads and well into our main course.

“How shocking and absolutely horrible,” Landon said. “And she was entirely wrapped up in this silver paper? You mean like
a loaf of garlic bread?”

“Well, I hadn’t thought of it quite that way, but yes, that’s right.”

“Well, I’m just glad you’re back in New York. I know how you like to stick that sweet nose of yours into this sort of stuff.”