Pink Balloons and Other Deadly Things (Mystery Series - Book One) (19 page)

“You hear what the fight was about?”

“Man, I could write a book about the things go on in this place.”

“What was she mad about?”

She hesitated, shot me a suspicious look. “What’s it to you?”

“That yutz is my husband.”

Instant compassion.

“Oh, jeez! God, I'm sorry. How long you married?”

“Eighteen years.”

“Sonofabitch! You know how many of those creeps come in here hittin’ on us? You could just puke!”

“Did you hear what the fight was about?” I asked again.

Fatima gave me a conspiratorial grin. “You don’t have to worry about that one anymore. I distinctly heard him tell her it was over.”

I tried to sound pathetic. “What’d she look like?”

“Young but you're much prettier, honey. The guy’s a jerk.” She shrugged. “Aren’t they all.” And patting me sympathetically on the shoulder, she gathered up the coffee mess and glided toward the kitchen.

I closed my eyes, trying to shut out the noise around me, trying to assess what I’d heard. Was Rich picking women up in bars now? How long had it been going on? How could he take such chances?

With a jolt I realized Rich hadn’t been exposing just himself to danger.
I
was one of those people Ted meant who thought it could only happen to someone else. Damn Rich! How long was the incubation period for HIV? I would have to be tested, and even then I couldn’t be sure. By the time Ted came back to the table, it was a miracle smoke wasn't pouring out of my ears.

“I understand how you feel,” he said when I’d repeated Fatima’s words, “but there’s a silver lining to this cloud I don’t think you've considered.”

‘Oh, right. Tell me how lucky I am he walked out before I definitely got something fatal.” I was feeling hostile toward the entire male sex. I drained the remainder of my wine and picked up his glass.

Ted took it out of my hand. “Don't you see what this means? Given your husband’s M.O., there’re probably half a dozen women wouldn't have minded putting the competition in her grave.” He grinned. “Bound to keep us cops busy chasing them down and off your case for a while.”

It didn’t make me feel a lot better but I tried not to sound antagonistic—-and not to slur my words. “You find out anything?”

He’d gotten pretty much the same story I had. Neither the bartender nor the maître d’ had recognized the girl. She wasn’t a regular. Rich was well known at Haji’s. He came in from time to time, had a few drinks at the bar, and often left with some female in tow. No one remembered ever having seen this one before.

Fatima had said she was young and that I was prettier so it wasn’t Meg. Meg is definitely prettier than I am. Somehow despite Meg’s betrayal, I felt relieved. If Rich had been breaking off his relationship with this girl, obviously he knew her name. For some reason he was concealing it from the police. Why?

“Maybe she’s from a well-known family,” I conjectured, “and he’s trying to avoid dragging her name through the papers.”

“Chivalrous of him,” Ted muttered disgustedly.

“Or it could be one of his models and he doesn’t want gossip around the office.”

“I’ll have it out of him tomorrow,” Ted said grimly. “Count on it.”

I felt miserable. My head ached. I wished I hadn’t started up with Fatima. Some detective I am, I thought. First time something throws me, I hit the bottle. Like Rich.

“I don’t suppose he uses an address book?”

I struggled to get my tongue around the words. “One of those Blackberries. And a Rolodex.” Rolodex came out “rodex”. I tried again. “Ro-lo-dex. In his office. I think he still keeps his old one on his desk.”

“Does he have a safe?”

“Not in the house. At least he didn’t.”

“In the office?”

“I don’t think so.”

“If he wanted to hide something where he’d have easy access, where do you think he’d put it?”

My mind wouldn't compute.
Keep this up,
I told myself,
you’ll get to be one of those closet drinkers with a hidden stash.

“Hidden bar!” I said.

“What?”

“Rich has a hidden bar in the office. It’s in the wall. You push a button, and it swings open.” I indicated the swinging motion and almost nailed the guy behind me. “I’ve never seen it,” I told Ted excitedly, “but the kids know about it. If I wanted to hide something, that’s where I'd put it!”

“Good girl.”

I grabbed his hand. “Let’s go look.”

He laughed. “Can’t. Need a warrant.”

“I don’t. I’m still his wife.”

“You’re legally separated.” He grew serious. “Don’t do anything stupid, Carrie. We don’t know where the danger’s coming from.”

“I’d be safe if you came with me.”

“It’d be an illegal search. We’ll wait for the warrant.”

“But that could take---”

“I’ll take care of it tomorrow. Promise you won’t try it on your own. You forget what happened the last time?”

Dot's body floated in front of my eyes. “Okay.”

He looked at the couples glued together on the dance floor. And took my hand. “Let’s dance.”

I pulled away, not wanting to deal with the signals my body was sending me. “I’ll fall down.”

“No, you won’t.” He drew me to my feet and led me onto the dance floor. “I’ll hold you up.”

And he did. We danced till two in the morning, only taking a break for the floor show. As she’d promised, Fatima was very good.

Ted was better.

I TRIED TO KEEP my promise, I honestly did. I decided to clean the house. I vacuumed, mopped the kitchen floor, took out the garbage. I conjured up a mental image of a whisk broom and swept away the thought of that hidden bar each time it popped into my mind. I was doing great until I sprayed Windex on my beveled mirror in the front hall. The children’s description surfaced. Beveled mirrors, Matt had said. Crystal stemware hanging from a wrought iron rack attached to the ceiling. Dark oak drawers and cabinets containing assorted bottles of booze. Allie had described two huge wine cabinets filled with French wines and champagne. But the piéce de résistance, according to both of them, was a vibrantly colorful tapestry set in the center of the paneled wall unit, depicting frolicking peasants crushing grapes with their feet.

I wondered if the tapestry was there to conceal a safe. I wondered what stock and bond certificates Rich might have secreted there, assuming it existed, concealed until some impersonal judge severed our bonds of matrimony as though they were no more binding than the ribbon on a birthday package. And I wondered if one of those dark oak drawers contained files or personal records that Rich might have preferred to keep from Erica’s prying eyes. And from Dot’s. And mine.

You’re being obsessive again, I told myself sternly. Remember the trouble you got into last week obsessing over Rich and Erica's wedding!

No use. Twenty minutes later I pulled into a parking space down the street from Rich’s office building. The lot was empty, but I walked around the block before I got up the nerve to approach the front door. Nervously I pressed in the alarm code hoping it hadn’t been changed in the last year. It hadn’t and I was in.

Buildings that are meant to be bustling with activity have an eerie aura when they’re empty. Footsteps echo off uncarpeted floors, every creak and groan seems magnified, signs of an unauthorized presence. I took the stairs two at a time, used the office key Rich had neglected to request back, bolted past Dot’s desk, uttering a silent prayer her computer wouldn’t suddenly jump to life and type me a ghostly message. I threw open and slammed shut behind me the door to Rich's office.

The office was almost dark, the only light spilling from behind the blinds, making zebra stripes across the white couch. It reminded me of the sofa in Dot’s apartment. I stood panting for breath, afraid to draw attention to the room by opening the blinds or switching on the overhead. It took several minutes for my eyes to adjust. When they did, I moved around the room quickly, searching for anything that resembled a button or switch. I crawled under Rich’s desk, figuring there might be a foot pedal, located one, pressed it in excited anticipation, and heard the door lock click.

My husband, the Boy Scout, always prepared.

I crawled back out, sat in Rich’s twelve-hundred dollar black leather, pneumatic-life, Chippendale-style executive swivel chair and ran the tips of my fingers under the rim of the desk. Nothing. I began moving objects on his desk, shifted the Lucite desk pad, switched on the lamp, flipped through the Rolodex, lifted the carved wooden pen from its ebony stand--and watched in awe, pen frozen between my fingers, as the wall opposite me split in two and swung slowly inward.

There it was in all its shimmering glory, crystal glassware reflected in the mirrors, wine bottles peeking out coyly from their cages, the tapestry just as Matt had described it with one major exception. He had refrained from mentioning that some of the frolicking peasants, on break from grape-crushing, were stretched out on the soft green grass. Copulating.

Then I was out of the chair and inside the mini-room. No safe lay concealed behind the explicit tapestry; a quick search of the drawers revealed no files. Frustrated, I peered inside the nearly empty refrigerator, tore apart the liquor cabinet, pulled out and replaced every bottle of wine in their temperature controlled little house. I threw open the dish cabinet and looked under every plate, noticed a book lying on its side on the top shelf. What kind of book would Rich keep in a bar? A recipe book for drinks, maybe? Doubtful. He took his liquor straight. Nervous, pressed for time, I almost ignored the nagging voice in my head but, on a hunch, reached up and pulled the book off the shelf. It was a small book, burgundy with a navy blue binding. The title,
New American Poets,
surprised me. A gift, obviously. Rich wasn’t fond of poetry. I started to shake it to see if anything would fall out, noticed a bookmark. I flipped to the page.

It’s over,
I read,

Bottle of gin balances precariously

on my kitchen table.

Unmade bed like some whale’s rumpled

lost soul in my bedroom.

Ceiling fan whirring relentlessly above me,

lonely as an about-to-be-extinct bird.

He was in such a hurry he left

his running shoes standing pigeon-toed

in the closet, and his autumn-leaves-and-cologne

smell on the furniture, the bed

How much washing, airing out, before that’s gone?

David Beckman’s poem. It was familiar. Maybe I’d read it in one of the anthologies I keep in my office to clear my mind between patients. It works for my head the way sorbet between courses works for the palate. My eyes wandered to the last stanza.

No more brushing of his bulky body against

me as we pass in the hallway, two animals

sharing a warren, a lair, a cave.

No more knowing laughs as we

repeat old mantra-jokes,

No more arguing like kids over

which movie to see

No more making up.

It’s over.

And, not part of the poem, scrawled in black Sharpie in capital letters:

“
IT’S NOT OVER! YOU’RE MINE!!”

I broke out in a cold sweat. Had Rich ever seen this? Had he even bothered to open the book? Which of his playthings had given it to him? “You’re mine!” the woman had written. Like a woman—-the thought burst into my brain like a rocket, billowing light--like an insanely jealous woman out to eliminate the competition! Like a woman contemplating
murder
!

I could be holding in my two hands a very significant piece of evidence. I dropped the book as though it were made of molten lead, because if my deductions had any merit, a killer’s fingerprints could be on it. If they hadn’t been smudged by Rich's if he had opened it. Or by mine. Which I now realized, in growing panic, I had succeeded in plastering all over it.

I berated myself all the way home. Anyone with even a modicum of TV savvy knows no self-respecting burglar would dream of breaking and entering without wearing gloves. I knew the police had searched Rich’s office after Erica's murder, but if Ted had the least reason to suspect anything, it would now be dusted for prints, and my fingerprints were all over the place. On the other hand, I reassured myself, my fingerprints on things in my husband’s office wouldn’t be unusual. Plus if the police had reason to believe the killer might break into the office, surely they would not have left the building unguarded. Which brought to mind the possibility that I may have been spotted. Had there been an unobtrusive car or van parked nearby? Had I overlooked a road crew or a telephone repairman in the vicinity?

I knew Ted liked me-—or at least that he found me attractive. I didn’t think he’d revert to suspecting me of the murders just because I’d searched Rich’s office. He knew what I’d been looking for. Still, he had to answer to his superiors. Who weren’t attracted to me. And there was the matter of my broken promise. Somehow I didn’t think that would sit well.

Now that I’d stolen the poetry book, what did I plan to do with it? If I couldn’t tell Ted I’d found it, who could I tell? Meg would have been my first choice, but that was out of the question now. Why had I taken the damned thing anyway? I’d backed myself into a corner. I was in possession of illegally obtained evidence that might lead the police to the killer and I’d tied my own hands.

A solution came to me, so simple I didn't know why I hadn’t thought of it immediately. I’d call Rich and ask him who had given him the book. I’d have to tell him I’d been in his office, of course. And of course, he’d be furious, but this was about solving the murder of his intended. Once he realized that, he would give the book to the police himself.

I stopped at a light and reached in my bag for my cell.

I never saw it coming, only heard and felt the crash. The car shuddered under me. Somehow I had the presence of mind to shove the gearshift into park, unsnap my seat belt, and throw myself onto the passenger seat. Instinctively I covered my head with my hands. In the distance I heard a screech of tires. When I looked up, the windshield had disintegrated into a crazy spider-web pattern.