A Body to Die For (19 page)

“This is Bailey Weggins calling for Danny,” I said. “Is she there?”

“Oh yes. She said to put your call through right away.”

It sounded as if there might be a new development. Five seconds later, Danny picked up.

“I’m so glad you got my message, Bailey,” she said, her voice quivering. “I wasn’t sure where you’d be today.”

“I didn’t get a message. I’m at work. What happened?”

“It’s George. The police think—I can’t even get the words out. The police are questioning him about Anna’s death.”

I let out a small gasp. True, I hadn’t liked George, and the fact that he’d been missing in action on Friday night had concerned
me, but I’d never seriously considered him as Anna’s murderer.

“Has he been arrested?” I asked.

“No, but he was brought down there first thing this morning for questioning.”

“Why? What have they got?”

“I wasn’t allowed in the room with him, but he told me they’d questioned him about phone calls he’d made to Anna—to her phone
in the barn and her cell phone. Our lawyer told me later that they seemed highly suspicious about the calls, but they don’t
appear to have anything else. Of course, George has no alibi. He says he got back from Boston at around eleven that night
and went to bed.”

“So what is George’s explanation for the phone calls—and how many were there?”

She let out a ragged sigh. “He said they were work related. And that there weren’t that many.”

“Does that make sense to you?” I asked.

“Yes. No. I’m so frightened, I don’t know what to think. George says he’d been talking to Anna a little bit about these business
retreats he wants to do here. I vaguely remember him telling me he was going to do that. Do you know what I think? I think
the police are going to zero in now on George because it’s
easy.
They’re not having any luck solving the crime, and they’re under lots of pressure.”

“Are you talking about Beck specifically?” I asked. As I spoke his name, I saw him in my mind—the gray hair, the deep blue
eyes.

“Well, he’s the one leading the investigation.”

“Oh, Danny, I wish I were there with you. And I’m sure this is all going to be sorted out. As far as you know, is there anyone
else the police seem to be looking at? Have you been able to get a hint of any other theories they may have?”

“No. But I did learn one thing important. There was no break-in. Anna either let the person in or he had a key.”

“The police told you that?” I said.

“Yes, after I’d pestered them to death. We’re due to reopen the spa on Thursday, and I needed to know if I had to repair the
back door. It turns out it was perfectly fine. Though I’m having all the locks changed.”

“Look, Danny, I’m coming back up there. You need me.”

“But don’t you have work to do in New York?”

“I think I’ve figured out a way to finish up my article pretty quickly. I probably can leave around midday tomorrow.”

“Oh, Bailey, I’d be so grateful if you could. You’ve got to help prove that George didn’t do it. By the way, Anna’s sister
is flying in tomorrow, so that will give you the chance to meet her.”

“Great. One question before I let you go. You didn’t mail a package to me in New York, did you?” I certainly didn’t think
Danny had sent me the mouse, but I wondered if someone had substituted the mouse for something that she’d mailed me.

“No. Why?”

“I’ll explain when I get there.” She had enough on her mind at the moment.

I told her to expect me between four and five and to call me if anything new developed between now and then.

Carefully I wedged the mouse package into my tote bag and flew out of the
Gloss
offices, grabbing a cab on Seventh Avenue to my apartment. I placed the package in a small cooler I kept for picnics, along
with some cold packs. I would give it to Beck when I returned to Warren. I felt a small flash of guilt. Last night I’d been
busy lighting the mattress on fire with Jack, and now I was conjuring up thoughts of Beck.

If I was going to leave for Warren tomorrow, I would have to have my hysteria piece out of the way. The thought of writing
an 1,800-word piece in a day might have made
me
hysterical, but on the subway ride to
Gloss
that morning, I’d glanced through Don’s files and a rescue plan had come to me. Rather than attempt to make the miserable
little incident I was supposed to write about any more interesting than it actually was, I’d use it as a backdrop to discuss
the whole phenomenon of mass hysteria.

First I ordered a BLT from the coffee shop in my building. When I’m under the gun, something about mayo and bacon kicks my
brain into high gear without turning me into a madwoman. I read through the transcript of Don’s interview with the dead dude,
made a bunch of calls, talked to new people, and found some fascinating cases on the Internet. By four o’clock I’d put together
a new outline and written a lead. During the next two hours, I raced through a pretty clean first draft. It was at times like
this that I was grateful for my years grinding out newspaper copy.

At around six I shut down my computer and took my composition book and a cup of coffee out to the terrace. It was cool enough
out to need a fleece jacket, but the setting sun felt good on my face. I peeked through the stockade fence between my terrace
and Landon’s to see if he might be puttering out there, but there was no sign of him.

I found a clean page in my notebook, and the first thing I wrote was George’s name with a big question mark. If he had killed
Anna, it would most certainly be because of some romantic-sexual factor. Maybe he’d had an affair with Anna and was then rejected
by her, or else she’d threatened to reveal all to Danny. I had a hard time, however, imagining Anna falling for a geezer like
George. A more likely scenario was that he’d become obsessed with her and then been snubbed. I considered what Parker had
said about the Mylar paper. It
meant
something to the killer. George certainly knew where it was stored, and wrapping her up in it could easily reflect his anger
at having been spurned.

As much as George made my skin crawl, I prayed he hadn’t done it. But if he hadn’t, who had? There was Eric, the eerily calm
ex, and possibly Rich, if he’d ever hooked up with Anna—or had desperately wanted to. The tavern owner was another suspect.
He apparently blamed the spa for his father’s death, and Anna had done the massage. And Josh, of course, should be on the
list as well. If he was possibly up to something shady at the spa and in cahoots with some of his employees, things may have
soured, leading to a conflict. Anna may have wanted out and threatened to tell.

The last thing that I added to my list was an X. The killer could easily be someone I’d never met or
had
met but wouldn’t know to suspect. Someone, as Parker had said, who knew Anna and was filled with rage. It might be an obsessed
client. Or a totally new lover of Anna’s, a man whose attraction to her had morphed into a deadly hatred or jealousy.

There was one last possibility I couldn’t ignore. Eve had told me that Anna was haunted by something in her past. Could that
have somehow led to her death? Maybe a former boyfriend had been stalking her, threatening her, and had finally killed her.
Perhaps that was the reason she had left New York City. I remembered suddenly that I’d made a note of the manager at the Manhattan
spa who had given Anna her reference. It was a long shot, but I decided to call her.

First, though, I needed a game plan. What I was hoping to discover was anything pertinent about Anna’s background, anything
that might suggest that one day she’d become a target for a murder. For instance,
was
there a disgruntled ex in the picture? But how much the manager revealed or let slip would depend on my tack. If I called
her and announced that Anna had been murdered, she might clam up. A better approach might be for me to play dumb about the
situation and offer another reason for the call. Of course, she might know about the murder already, but there was a bigger
chance she wouldn’t, especially if she was only a former colleague of Anna’s and not a friend. A strategy formed in my mind,
though it wasn’t a very nice one.

I thumbed through my composition book to the page where I’d made the notation. Nina Hayes, the Paradise Spa, and a phone number.
I was struck again by the fact that the name of the spa didn’t seem familiar. Hopefully the place wasn’t out of business now.

After locking the door to my terrace, I placed the call. A woman answered on the third ring, her voice so still and quiet
that I thought for a second an answering machine had picked up.

“Ms. Hayes?” I asked.

There was a few seconds’ hesitation before she spoke.

“Yes?”

“My name’s Bailey Weggins. Anna Cole gave me your name. I’ve just moved to the city, and Anna thought you might be able to
help me get a job—doing massage. I was hoping I could get together with you and talk.”

She hesitated again, this time for so many seconds that I thought she might no longer be on the line.

“Are you—”

“How do you know Anna?” she asked finally. She spoke slowly and deliberately, as if she were weighing her words first. It
was clear from her tone that she hadn’t heard the news of Anna’s death.

“I met her in Massachusetts,” I said. “We have a very good mutual friend.”

“How’s she doing?”

“Good, I guess. It’s been a few months since I’ve bumped into her. But like I said, she gave me your number, and I held on
to it because I knew I’d be coming to New York.”

“Anna’s still working up there?”

“As far as I know. She was working at an inn—somewhere in the Berkshires.”

“And she told you to give me a call?”

I was tempted to scream, “
Duh,
that’s what I’ve said about forty times,” but I kept up the little dance with her. She was clearly doing an assessment of
me as we spoke.

“Yeah,” I said. “She told me you might be able to help me find something. The two of you worked together, right?”

She did that maddening pause again.

“Actually, there might be something available in another week or two,” she said. “You’ve got experience, right?”

“Yes, I’ve been working for several years—in the Boston area.”

“You have a massage license?”

“Yes,” I answered, hoping she wasn’t going to quiz me on my knowledge of anatomy or the difference between Swedish and shiatsu.

“And I trust Anna told you we’re not full service.”

“She did,” I said, though for the life of me I couldn’t tell what that meant. Maybe they didn’t get into all the kooky stuff,
the way the Cedar Inn and Spa did.

“Why don’t we meet for coffee?” she said. “We can discuss it all in person.”

“Great. Did you want to meet tomorrow?”

“Friday’s better for me.”

“I have to go back up to Boston this weekend, to pick up a few things. Is there any chance you could squeeze it in tomorrow?”

She didn’t answer right away, natch, but I could hear the shuffle of paper, as if she were checking a calendar.

“The only time I could do it is ten,” she said.

“That’s fine with me.”

“Okay, there’s a coffee shop on the northeast corner of Third Avenue and Thirty-sixth Street. We’ll meet there at ten. What
do you look like, by the way?”

“I’m five six, with short, brownish blond hair,” I said. “How will I know
you?
”

“What I meant is, you’re attractive, right?”

Such an odd question. Did that mean if you were butt ugly, you couldn’t get a job at her spa?

“Uh, yes,” I said. “That’s been the consensus of a few people, I guess.”

“Good, then I’ll see you at ten. You’ve got the address, right?”

“Yes. Is the spa nearby?”

Pause. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

Sheez, how absolutely weird, I thought as I set the phone down. She’d answered with just a hello, so I’d obviously gotten
her home phone or a private line in her office. I tried directory assistance and asked for the Paradise Spa. No listing. Maybe
it had folded and Nina had moved on to someplace else. I wondered briefly if she wasn’t a spa manager after all, but rather
someone who had agreed to fake a reference for Anna. But then why agree to meet me? Then there was that strange question about
me being attractive. Perhaps it would all fall together when I met her tomorrow.

That night I had long-standing plans to meet a friend for drinks. I was tempted to bag it but decided in the end it would
be good to go out and clear my head. I needed, as Danny had said, clarity on the situation. I also needed to drop off the
transcript with Don’s doorman. And last but not least, I needed to get that disgusto mouse out of my thoughts.

But drinks proved to be a dud. The friend was someone I got together with twice a year, and it was becoming increasingly clear
that just because we’d shared a cubby at
Get
magazine five years ago, we weren’t destined to be lifelong pals. She was a professional event planner now, and after spending
thirty minutes talking about gobo lights and giftie bags, she announced that she was involved with her married boss—and completely
obsessed with him.

“I’ve Googled his wife,” she confessed. “I even made photocopies of his kids’ pictures. I’m terrified I’m going to turn into
a bunny killer.”

After two beers I feigned exhaustion and fled. There was a call on my answering machine from Jack, wishing me good night.
I was happy he had phoned, but no less confused about what I wanted.

I could tell as soon as I crawled in bed that sleep was going to pull yet another elusive act. I tried another technique the
hypnotist had suggested—counting backward and imagining the numbers written on black velvet. But I kept seeing black paintings
instead—the kind with portraits of clowns and tigers and Elvis. The only decent night’s rest I’d had lately was last night
with Jack. Between all the sex, I’d fallen asleep easily—and slept deeply.

The next day I was up by six. I worked for two straight hours editing the draft of my article. It wasn’t going to win any
prizes, but it was finally done.