Aphrodisiac (13 page)

“How do you know one of the test subjects isn’t behind Gwen’s murder?” I asked.

“They were told nothing,” Tim said. “Not even my coworkers at FWI had a clue about the secrets behind this juice. Gwen functioned as my nameless assistant. She wouldn’t allow any samples to be taken away by the test group. Insisted on spraying each person herself. And the participants never met each other or had any way of learning what responses the others had. I know. I recorded all the data.”

Bang, there it was. Another piece of Gwen’s poem: “You will meet the scribe, magician of a million creations.” A person who records data—a scribe. And a perfumer is certainly a magician in his own right.

Our scribe was still talking. “I not only conducted the tests, I also took part as guinea pig. I’d read about those studies showing how gay men and women respond the same way to sexual scents, so I wondered if the perfume would work on my skin. Zero results. Boo-hoo. After all the arrogant, self-centered dickheads I’ve dated, I only wish it had. However, when Gwen doused herself and invited me to her place for dinner…Well, we ended up screwing on her table. And I’ve been gay for the last twenty-four years.” A bad-boy smirk. “She must have been attracted to me.”

Gwen always did have a tendency to choose men who resembled rodents.

“Of course every woman’s got to worry if the competition’s bought the stuff,” Benita said.

Tim waved her off. “All great discoveries come with risks. Our findings were positively astounding. Exactly what Gwen believed right from the start. Exactly what the ancient prayer on her tablet predicted. Male subjects involved all described the same experience. A state of being extremely aroused sexually, combined with a sort of dreamlike euphoria over the woman. Almost worshipping her.”

“Wow. How long does this intoxication last in a man?” I asked.

“Can’t say. Findings only gave us so much,” Tim replied. “But I do know the female subjects reported no violence. Their men acted subservient, adoring and eager to please them. Imagine what women would pay for that. This fragrance could revolutionize the entire perfume industry.”

“Not to mention revolutionizing the balance of power for women,” I said.

He nodded. “That’s the part Gwen was ecstatic over. I just saw it as a fun way to get rich.”

All this blew me away. To think Gwen actually recreated an ancient formula possessing the power to turn men into drooling sex slaves. “No wonder she was so paranoid about it.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” Tim said. “Gwen wanted total control. Even wanted to set up her own factory to make the perfume. But to try and become a supplier for a large-scale fashion house like Lauder or Dior was absurd. When I told her it would be standard procedure for FWI to take over production of the fragrance once it sold, well, she got all upset. She was fanatical about being the only one privy to the ingredients of her formula.”

“Except, why would someone have eliminated Gwen if she was the one and only walking talking source?” Benita asked.

He shrugged. “Simple. Either they didn’t know or else they figured they could hire another cuneiform expert to do what Gwen did.”

“But with all your secrecy, how did this person you suspect find out about it?”

Clenching his fists, he bowed his head. “I told him. While we were in bed. You know how it is. People tend to get loose-lipped after good sex. I was feeling giddy, and I teased him, saying we were going to put him out of business.”

“He’s in the perfume business?” I asked.

“No.”

“What business is he in?”

Silence.

My nerves could take no more. “Tim, it’s very possible one person has died thanks to your big mouth. Let’s not make it three.”

Blinking back tears, he said, “FWI also makes fragrances for drug and household products. That’s how I met Kyle Drummond. He’s the CEO of Milotech Pharmaceuticals. The manufacturers of Erosynol, their bestselling product. It works better than Viagra. Kyle offered me five hundred thousand dollars to slide him Gwen’s formula. He wanted to make it into a pharmaceutical product for Milotech. The cheap bastard could’ve offered me five times that. He’s worth close to a billion. Of course, I didn’t have the formula. So, he talked me into making Gwen an offer. And when Gwen refused to sell it to him, Kyle tried to find another copy of the tablet. Went to several archaeologists and learned these tablets were often duplicated. But not this one. No one could find him a copy. They searched everywhere, even the black market. Believe me, if one exists, he’d have found it.”

“Wouldn’t it make more sense to look for Gwen’s translation of it?”

“He probably
was
hunting for that. I told you, I think that’s why somebody hacked into our computers.” Tim laughed. “The joke is, Gwen had the whole thing memorized. Can you believe it? She refused to write it down. I used to beg her to at least put a copy in a safe-deposit box or something. But she’d just say, ‘Don’t worry, I can always check the tablet if I forget.’ And we’re talking two hundred nineteen ingredients.”

I smiled. A mere nursery rhyme for someone like Gwen. “I assume you didn’t reveal that info to Kyle.”

“No. Why would I?” Tim said. “And who knows whether or not another archaeobotanist would ever hit it on the head the way Gwen did. If they interpret just one or two of the ingredients differently, the formula won’t do what hers does. But I’m sure once Kyle got the tablet he’d hire an entire team of specialists to come up with Gwen’s formula. The man’s a vicious competitor. Hates to lose. Even cheats at tennis.”

Benita had on her game face. “We have to nail this pig.”

Tim dug back into his Altoids. “You can’t just throw the cuffs on him. You’re going to have to make him talk. Implicate himself.”

“Getting people to open up and talk about themselves is my business,” I said.

“I’d even try the old seduction number. If only he weren’t gay.”

Tim cocked his head. “Ever hear of bisexual? When it comes to his dick, Kyle Drummond is equal opportunity. He buys the priciest whores in Manhattan and LA. He told me I was his first male experience. Total bullshit. I can always tell.” He raised an eyebrow. “Although I’ll have you know, Mr. Drummond attends church each Sunday with his wife and three children. He also sits on the boards of numerous charities.”

“How can his wife put up with that?” Benita said.

“Power and bucks, sweetie. He makes the mils, she looks the other way.”

This pharmaceutical bigwig sounded like he had a motive to kill Gwen and the money to pay for the dirty work.

“Hold on a sec.” Tim shuffled through some papers on his desk. “Yes. Here it is. There’s a launch Tuesday night. That’s tomorrow, right? I’m certain Kyle will be there.”

“A launch?”

“A premiere party for our latest, a perfume for designer Bas Lugen called Beguine.” He held up a blue-green triangular bottle. “Not one of
my
babies.”

“Will you be there?” I asked.

“Of course. I have to show my face at these events. I’ll point Kyle out to you, and then split. Remember, you don’t know me.” Tim handed me an invitation.

“It’s in DUMBO.”

“Yup. They rented a giant space where some old night club used to be.” He looked at my business card. “I’ll put Dr. Saylor Oz and friend on the guest list.”

We exchanged cell numbers and made plans to meet. Tim walked us to the door, his arm resting across my shoulders as if we were bosom buddies. “Listen, when you find the tablet— and once you-know-who is behind bars—maybe we could pick up where Gwen and I left off with the perfume. Find another virtuoso scholar to work with us. I think she’d want that.”

Funny how warm and friendly people get when the potential for big bucks enters the picture. Since the gold mine Tim had been sitting on fizzled after Gwen was murdered, he no doubt hoped our finding the tablet would mean he’d be back in business.

I offered a blank nod, but the truth was, I still had no idea what Gwen wanted us to do with the tablet. The answer had to be somewhere within her mysterious poem.

TWELVE

Benita and I left FWI and walked to the corner of Fifty-seventh and Tenth hoping to find an available cab amid the rush hour traffic. I went rigid when I saw a black Hummer parked across the street. The tinted glass window in the rear seat rolled down slowly revealing a stone-faced Curtis in sunglasses. Not a word was spoken. Not the slightest gesture. No glint of recognition.

Benita caught on right away. “That’s him, isn’t it?”

I nodded.

The window crept up, sealing my ghastly chaperone behind it. When the car drove off, I checked the license plate. “Vermont plates today. You were right, Bin.”

“Yeah. Switching around from one fake plate to another is a standard trick when you don’t want to be traced.”

I had a lot to process during the ride from midtown to SoHo. After Raffy’s words last night I was already convinced that the tablet I needed to find had something to do with Gwen’s latest fragrance. But Tim’s description of that perfume was just plain mind-blowing.

I thought about the seminar on Fragrance and Sexuality that Gwen and I used to give. I knew that the subliminal odor of pheromones played a far larger part in human sexuality than most people imagined. Our olfactory sense bypassed our thoughts and connected directly with the limbic system, where sexual and emotional responses were triggered before our conscious mind had any idea why.

But even though I could spout off scientific data on mating habits and trivia about Cleopatra’s scented crotch or men who rubbed civet oil on their members to increase their potency, I had no idea something like this was ever possible. And to think my late friend, the dear, daffy, ingenious Gwendolyn, was the re-creator of such a phenomenon.

Assuming Gwen’s ancient aphrodisiac was real, I was itching to try it. When we were leaving FWI, I’d asked Tim for a sample. He said when Gwen died he was left with only half a vial and intended to use every single drop trying to replicate it. No doubt Gwen’s killers took whatever stock she had remaining in her laboratory. But I couldn’t help wondering if she’d kept a sample or two hidden somewhere.

The cab let us off on Broome Street in front of Dr. Irving Monsky’s Center for Being. He and my Aunt Lana had only recently hooked up as lovers, but she’d been holding her Love Your Body, Love Your Self workshops here for years. This was my first Do-Me-Good demo party at his Center.

Irv answered the door with an elated look on his face. He wore only a Japanese loincloth. His long gray hair was tied back in a ponytail. “I got all the groceries you wanted. And plenty of wine and a chocolate cake.”

We walked to the kitchen through the main room , which smelled of sandalwood incense. The Center for Being encompassed the entire fifth floor of a building on Broome Street. The meeting room and Irv’s office took up about three-quarters of it. The rest was his living space.

Benita agreed to help me put together a buffet for the approximately thirty people I expected at my Do-Me-Good demo party. She raced about preparing
arroz con pollo
.

I didn’t care that most of my buffet had meat in it. I could barely eat lately. My stomach was such a mess that the size five dress I’d bought at Macy’s summer sale might finally get worn somewhere soon. If I was still alive to wear it. Strange how even the expiration dates on the packages of chicken breasts in the grocery store took on new meaning. Five days from now both the chicken and I could end up in a Dumpster.

But it looked like I might actually have a future now that I had a real target in my hunt for Gwen’s murderer: Kyle Drummond. If what Tim said was true, keeping her perfume off the market may have been an even bigger reason to kill Gwen than her refusal to give up her tablet.

Irv busied himself playing with the food. “This is the called, ‘the cascade,’ ” he said, juggling three oranges.

Seventy going on seven, and still wanting attention from Mom. “Very good, Irv.”

“Now, watch me up it to four.” Irv reached into the fruit basket and picked up a mango. The oranges behaved accordingly, but not the mango. It broke from its orbit and crash-landed into the chocolate cake leaving a crater the size of a softball.

“Irv, isn’t it time for your evening meditation?” I asked. He took the hint and exited the kitchen.

Benita and I had only a brief respite before the party and studiously avoided discussing Tim’s overwhelming info and the task facing us with Drummond. “Won’t be long before your Academy Award-winning director comes walking through the door,” she said. “You must be excited.”

“I am. But don’t you ever wonder why being rich and famous automatically makes someone sexy?”

She just looked at me like I was an idiot.

The buzzer rang. “Time to meet and greet.”

“It’s probably Fippy,” Benita said, a nervous tremor in her voice. “He’s always early.”

Irv opened the door. Mercifully he’d gone from Japanese loincloth to his usual tai chi pants. He welcomed in our first guest. Alan Grossman.

Tan and fit, he bounced in with a full dimple smile. I picked up the ginger and nutmeg scent of Gucci’s Envy. He held both my hands and said, “You look fabulous.”

“Thanks.” Super ego rush. Soak it up. “So do you.” In fact, he looked positively scrumptious. His curly black hair tickled the collar of a loose-fitting paisley shirt that was unbuttoned to his chest. The sleeves were turned up, revealing his Rolex and a silver and gold wrist cuff. Bet he liked to do it on silk sheets. Or in the Jacuzzi.

I poured Alan a glass of wine, wondering why he was bothering with me. Not that I was a bad catch. But men like him usually preferred twenty-year-old actresses. Maybe he liked variety.

Fippy arrived next. Benita’s ex, now in his late thirties, was a small man with an elfin face, turned-up nose and straight brown hair.

Alan put out his hand. “New York’s favorite weatherman.”

Fip grinned. “America’s favorite director.”

That was easy. I introduced my roommate to Alan, while Fip’s eyes fixed on her, exuding a combo of worship and regret. He gave her a kiss on the cheek.

Within minutes guests were arriving in bunches. I greeted everyone, trying to catch the names of all newcomers. Walsh Plunkett, who’d called me four times in the last week without yet making an appointment for therapy, actually showed up. Maybe there was hope.

He was a slightly built man, probably early fifties, with neatly clipped graying hair. He smelled of Listerine and wore an out-of-style banker’s suit. His black-framed glasses offered more expression than any feature on his very white, nondescript face.

In fact, Walsh Plunkett was probably about the blandest man I’d ever met with the exception of one characteristic—his feet, in brown oxfords, were positively enormous and way out of proportion to the rest of his body. Poor man. I wondered if kids had poked fun at him, too, as he was growing up.

Among the last to arrive were Jaleel, Rochelle and…no Eldridge. That rat. I knew it. Hope he had himself a good laugh. What did I care? I’d gotten myself a hot date with a man who would indeed make Tara—and just about any woman—crawl on her knees.

By seven thirty it was curtain call. Guests were seated on wicker chairs, two long couches and throw cushions. I stood before a full house. “According to a recent survey, most women in their thirties would rather have an extra hour of sleep than have sex. Think about it. Instead of reaching for her man’s package, she’s going for the Ambien.”

There was a brief tremor of murmurs and nodding heads. “Another interesting fact: Fifty-five percent of men, regardless of sexual orientation, have performance problems when under stress. And sixty-five percent of women answer the phone during sex. Now what’s that tell you?”

I continued with an introductory talk about the need for a little creative help in the bedroom and finding common ground with your partner, respecting their needs and learning to explore without fear or guilt. After that I flipped on the Do-Me-Good DVD, which presented a delightful overview of their products. Attractive men and women demonstrated the Happy Rabbit and Porta-pocket vibrators and the Tunnel of Lube.

During the question-and-answer period the bottle-shouldered thirty-six-year-old soccer mom, Candice Stoutz, wanted to know what toys, aside from the usual bondage fare, were helpful in putting a man under a woman’s control. (Boy, did I want to say, “I know a good perfume.”)

Before I had a chance to begin discussing the subject, Walsh Plunkett cleared his throat and said, “I think you’ve got it backward. A woman’s place is to serve the needs of a man.”

Uh-oh. Heads turned. Eyes widened and female egos bristled. Half guessing, half praying the odd newcomer was just a little clumsy in the sense of humor department, I said, “I’m sure we all agree that men and women are meant to share the controls when having sex.”

“No, I don’t think that’s true,” Walsh said.

“I should introduce you to my husband,” Candice snapped, leaning forward for a better view of Plunkett. “No doubt you only want blowjobs, too. That’s all men seem to care about.”

“All right,” I said. “Let’s not go judging on either side. All couples make their own private decisions about what works for them.”

Jennifer Martel jumped in. “I love giving blowjobs.” Jennifer was a twenty-nine-year-old academic who’d been sent to me because she’d gotten a citation for indecency. She liked having sex in public places, libraries being her specialty. She was an avid reader.

Overcome with inspiration, my friend Zino, the internationally acclaimed performance artist, took center stage. “The best loving is self-loving,” he said, dropping his pants to reveal his famous uncircumcised member.

“Please don’t, Zino.” I knew what was coming next. Or rather,
who
would be coming next. Despite the rave reviews of his groundbreaking work,
One Hundred and One Ways to Masturbate
, I didn’t want a performance at my party. The Do-Me-Good Company expected its representatives to uphold a discreet and professional atmosphere. I glanced at Alan and was relieved to see that he appeared to be having a great time.

“Yo, Z.” Benita approached Zino from behind, reached down and pulled up his Bill Blass double-pleated trousers. “Show’s over, babe.” The artist retreated. But before the party ended, he made two more unsuccessful attempts to express himself.

Following my talk everyone milled about the buffet and the display table. I chatted with my guests, pouring wine and taking Do-Me-Good orders. So far, my biggest sellers were tickler condoms and edible lubricants.

Fippy made good on his promise and bought one of everything with the exception of the strap-on penises. He hovered around Benita all evening. I watched the thaw gradually occur as she succumbed to her sentimental and vulnerable side. By nine thirty she and Fip were giggling and teasing each other with my display models.

Jaleel came over and put an arm around me. Along with his standard do-rag, he wore striped overalls that matched Rochelle’s. (Something only an adored wife could get him to do.) “Sorry about the Mace-man. Said he’d be here, but he’s not the most sociable guy.”

Rochelle joined us. “Trust me, Saylor, some men are just not worth it.”

I fought off my sinking feeling of disappointment, refusing to let Eldridge ruin my night. It was against all common sense for a woman to waste her time being miserable over a man she hardly knew. And besides, Alan did show up. “Thanks, Rochelle. But don’t worry. My date’s right over there by the erection rings. You’ve heard of Alan Grossman, the film director?”

Her jaw dropped. I beamed, knowing this news would go back to Eldridge.

By the way, did I mention I’m considered an expert on mature behavior?

Not that Alan was a safe harbor. He had three ex-wives and no doubt a string of babes. I gazed at him, now surrounded by four women. His mischievous brown eyes locked onto mine for a moment. A very sexy moment. He came toward me.

After introducing him to Jaleel and Rochelle, we all talked awhile before Alan drew me aside and said, “Think your little group will pull out of here in time for us to make our ten o’clock reservation at Jean Georges?”

“It’s already winding down.” I plucked a grape from the table and pressed it into his mouth. His finger traced the low-cut neckline of my dress, moving down toward my Miracle Bra-assisted cleavage. I gently pushed his hand away.

“I like your dress,” Alan said. “Blue must be your favorite color.”

“How’d you guess?”

He shrugged, but his face had “let’s play” written all over it.

Wait a sec. Lana’s workshop. Duh. “You’re the one who stole my blue lace panties.”

“That’s right.”

Just as I gave Alan a swat on the butt, I heard someone behind me say, “You ought to curb that violent nature of yours, Dr. Oz.”

I spun around to see Eldridge Mace standing there, looking like a magnificent wild creature. Washed-out jeans and a tight black tee enhanced the contours of his gracefully muscled frame. Pale eyes stared out of a chiseled copper face, unnerving me. For a moment I lost my voice.

According to Jaleel, the Mace-man had been in some trouble a while back and was still dangerous both in and out of the ring. I wasn’t sure I understood what that meant. Any more than I understood how I could be so helplessly drawn to a man who scared the living piss out of me. “I, um, didn’t hear the intercom buzz.”

He looked from me to Alan, giving him a quick once-over scan. Did I detect a hint of jealousy?

I introduced the two and made some silly remarks about Alan’s movies and Eldridge’s boxing. Meanwhile, my fantasies were going wild. I pictured myself having both of them in my bed tonight, protecting me from Curtis and comforting me in all sorts of ways.

Alan carried the conversation with his masterful win-you-over charm that no doubt served him well in the entertainment business. A little superficial maybe, but not nearly as fake as Tara Buckley. And, frankly, I wanted to kiss him when he brought up our dinner date, making it sound as if we were an item.

Eldridge remained ornery and sullen. One glance at him told me we both knew that neither of us would be standing here playing this stupid game unless we were hell-bent on proving something to each other.