Swimsuit Body (19 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

It appears to be a suicide note. I read on, curious to know what had driven Delilah to such despair.

I can't live with the guilt any longer. It was my fault that Eric died. He went flying that day because I goaded him into it. I said I hoped his plane would crash, that it would save me the trouble of divorcing him. I didn't mean it. We'd been fighting and I was angry. But I also knew what he was like. I knew he would do it just to prove he could. And now he's dead. I hope you'll find it in your heart to forgive me, even if I can't forgive myself.

Ever Yours,

Delilah

 

I don't know quite what to make of her words, though I can imagine the circumstances in which they were written. I picture Delilah alone in a hotel room with a minibar, grieving and racked with guilt. When you drink alone, small problems can seem big, and big problems can seem insurmountable. The unthinkable becomes the inevitable. Obviously, she'd had a change of heart—after sleeping on it, if she was like most drunks—or it would have been a hotel employee, and not me, who'd found her dead body. What's a mystery is why someone else had wanted her dead.

“It was good she did not do this terrible thing,” says Esmeralda, after she reads the note. She makes the sign of the cross before fingering the gold crucifix that's nestled in the hollow of her throat.

“Except for the fact that she's dead.”

“
Sí
, but she is in heaven.”

Esmeralda is a devout Catholic, and taking one's own life, as every devout Catholic knows, is a mortal sin. Better a bullet in the head than an eternity in purgatory. I don't agree with that thinking—one of the reasons that I left the church—but there are times when I envy Esmeralda the simple conviction of her faith.

I fold the note and tuck it in the back pocket of my jeans, wondering what Greta will make of it.

“Poor Delilah. I wish she'd come to me.” Greta sits on the sofa in the great room, holding the note that's addressed to her, her face as pale as the fog that's rolling in outside. She clearly had no idea the note existed until I showed it to her just now. “As if I could ever hate her!”

“Seems like she hated herself enough for the two of you.”

Greta's eyes well with tears. “The truth is, Eric had only himself to blame. He knew better—there was a weather advisory. But he thought he was invincible. He was always taking risks, even as a child. When he was five, he broke his arm jumping from a tree, pretending to be Superman.”

“So even if he and Delilah hadn't been fighting …”

“He still would've gone up.”

“Do you know what their fight was about?”

“No, but I can guess. The only thing they ever fought about was money. Eric would rack up these enormous credit-card bills, and Delilah would throw a fit. She was poor growing up, and part of her never stopped feeling poor. Eric was the opposite—to him every dollar was two dollars.”

“He sounds like my brother. You'd think Arthur was stocking up for the End of Days when he goes grocery shopping.”

Greta smiles thinly. “With Eric it was big-ticket items and thousand-dollar bottles of champagne. He would have appreciated the irony of a charity in his memory.” She lapses into thought for a moment before remembering to ask, “And your brother? Is he all right? Did you find him?”

“Yes, and he was cleared as a suspect.”

“Thank God. You must be so relieved.”

“You don't know the half of it.” I gesture toward the note. “I think Detective Breedlove will want to see that. I don't know if it's relevant to the case, but why don't we let him be the judge.”

“Of course.” Greta hands me back the note, locking eyes with me as she adds, “I don't have to tell you what the press would do with this. It would be twisted into something lurid and ugly. I'd hate for that to happen, for them to be robbed of their dignity even in death. It would be too cruel.”

“I'm the soul of discretion,” I assure her.

“You're a good person.” She squeezes my hand, wearing a look of gratitude that's disproportionate to what I consider a normal reaction on my part. It tells me Delilah had been burned in the past by people she had trusted. The vacuum cleaner stops droning and then there's only the distant sound of breaking waves. Greta rises to her feet, her movements heavy as though she had aged twenty years since she'd sat down. “I should go. If you'll show me where her things are …”

We carry the Louis Vuitton luggage packed with Delilah's belongings to Greta's rental car. By the time the last suitcase has been loaded in the trunk, fog has crept in to cover the landscape except where the outlines of trees and buildings are sketched. Greta hugs me as she's leaving. “Tish, I'm sorry you were dragged into this, but I have to say I'm glad it was you and not someone else.”

I smile. “I don't know that I can say the same, but I'll take it as a compliment.”

“Perhaps it was all meant to be.”

“What makes you think that?”

“You clearly have a nose for this sort of thing.” Greta taps her own nose in the universal gesture of sleuths picking up a scent. “You found the note. Who knows what else you'll find.”

Brianna returns at 10:15, precisely one hour from the time she'd dropped me off. If I didn't know better, I'd think she was ex-­military—she operates on oh-one-hundred time. “I got everything on the list.” She gestures toward the supplies that are stowed in back: jumbo packs of paper towels and toilet paper, cleaning products and lightbulbs. “Oh, and I also bought a step stool.”

“I didn't know I needed one.”

“For when you're knocking cobwebs from ceilings, so you won't hurt yourself falling off a chair.”

“That was thoughtful of you.” At her concern for my safety, I feel guilty I ever suspected her of murdering her previous employer. She's an odd duck, but her heart seems to be in the right place.

“I also have some ideas on how we can improve efficiency.”

We?
When did she and I become a team? “And I'd love to hear them,” I reply, buckling my seat belt as she backs out of the driveway. “But if you don't slow down, you'll run out of jobs to do.”

“I hope you're not suggesting I slack off?” Brianna replies coolly.

“I wouldn't dream of it.” Outside, the Spanish-style villas of the gated community glide past, ghostly amid the fog, as we drive to our next stop. Life here seems to have returned to normal since the excitement over the murder, but maybe that's only because here, where privacy is evident in the deep setbacks and the tall fences that separate the homes, life seems to happen mostly behind closed doors. “But it wouldn't hurt to occasionally show you're human like the rest of us.”

“Fine. Then I'm not going to pretend it isn't totally weird that you're going on a date with my uncle.”

“It's not a date!” I cry before I almost lose a tooth as we go flying over a speed bump. “I told you. He asked for my help. You know, with the menu for his dinner party. I could hardly refuse.”

“Few do.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” I demand.

“You met him—he's very charming. That and he has no scruples when it comes to getting what—or who—he wants.” She brakes at a stop sign, and a hardbodied mom in Spandex pushing a jogging stroller zips past us along the crosswalk. “Also, it's been six months since he broke up with his last blonde—that starlet who's in the new Adam Sandler movie—so the hunt for a replacement is heating up.”

“I'm hardly one of the glamour girls he's used to.”

“No, but you're his type.”

“Right hair color, wrong girl. I'm not an actress looking to make a name for herself and I don't have daddy issues.” Never mind my father was an absentee parent except for the fact that he lived with us—after my mother went missing, when I was in grade school, he was never the same. “I think it's safe to say I won't be walking down the red carpet with your uncle at the next Oscars.”

Brianna slows as we exit through the gates. She makes the right turn onto Seashell Drive, swinging wide to avoid hitting the UPS truck that's double-parked in front of the condo building on the corner. “Okay, but fair warning: He doesn't give up easily.”

“I'm pretty sure I'm immune to his charms.”

“That won't stop him.”

“Are you saying I should cancel my d— um, meeting with him?”

“Actually, I have a better idea.” She cuts me a sly glance. “You know that Rajeev is taking Ivy out to dinner tonight?”

“She mentioned it, yes.”

“Well, I suggested they book a table at the Shady Brook Inn. That way, if you need backup …”

“You,” I say, breaking into a grin, “are evil.”

“I learned from the best,” Brianna replies with a modest shrug.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

That evening, Karol Bartosz arrives to pick me up at seven forty sharp. As I walk toward the black Escalade that's idling in my driveway—the same one I noticed at Casa Linda Estates on the day of the murder—my sense of unease returns. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. Because blondes don't always have more fun. Some, like Delilah Ward, wind up dead.

“You're a vision, my dear,” Bartosz says as I slide in next to him in the backseat. The driver is the bull-necked security guard, who's become a familiar figure, though we've never exchanged more than a few words.

“You wouldn't have said that if you'd seen me when I got off work. I was covered in termite droppings.” The infestation at the Oliveiras' house had their wooden ceiling raining tiny brown pellets that stuck to my sweaty skin—I looked like a poppy seed bagel by the time I left to go home. But if I hoped to dispel his “vision” of me, my efforts were in vain. He continues to eye me in my basic black dress as if I were encased in Spandex. Bartosz himself is the picture of old-world elegance, wearing a charcoal bespoke suit that disguises his girth, a striped shirt with French cuffs, and an Hermès necktie in a subtle lavender-and-plum pattern. The white silk handkerchief that protrudes from his breast pocket compliments his cockatoo's crest.

“Women are at their most beautiful when they're not trying to look beautiful,” he replies, smiling.

Brianna was right. There's no discouraging this guy.

Fifteen minutes later, we're pulling up at the Shady Brook Inn. Located in the hills northeast of town, the restaurant overlooks a wooded ravine with a creek running through it. Its romantic setting and two Michelin stars make it a popular wedding as well as dining destination. I think of Delilah's “fairy-tale” marriage that wasn't so perfect—I've thought of little else since I discovered the note she wrote—as I walk past the photos of bridal couples that cover the walls of the entryway.

The main dining room has walls paneled in fir, an open-beamed ceiling hung with copper-and-oak Craftsman chandeliers, and etched-glass panels depicting woodland scenes that divide what would otherwise seem a cavernous space, giving it a more intimate feel. Arrangements of curly willow and evergreen boughs studded with flowers and dried persimmons and pomegranates in pottery bowls made by local artisans add the perfect grace notes. “You chose well,” Bartosz remarks as he looks around in appreciation. “It's exactly what I had in mind.”

“Come, I'll introduce you.” I wave to the owner, Steve Hanson, who's having a word with the hostess, a beautiful redhead named Jill, who also happens to be his wife and the mother of their three children. Steve looks like your typical surfer dude with his deep tan and sun-bleached, longish blond hair, but he has an MBA from Stanford and has been in the family business since he was thirteen. He was my supervisor when Ivy and I both had summer jobs at the Shady Brook during our junior and senior years, when his parents owned the restaurant.

“It's an honor, Mr. Bartosz,” Steve says after I've made the introductions. “I've seen all your movies. In fact I took my wife to see
The Night Watchman
on our first date.”

“And she married you anyway?” Bartosz seems amused.

“It wasn't what I would call a date-night movie,” Steve admits. “But it was brilliant.”

I remember that the movie was so bloody that I had nightmares after I watched it. I'd forgotten about that, or maybe I'd blocked it from my memory. But it's coming back to me now, and I cast a nervous glance at Bartosz, wondering if it was autobiographical like some of his other films.

“One more and we could call it a class reunion,” Ivy remarks when we stop to greet her and Rajeev, who are seated at a two-top by the sliders to the deck, as Steve is showing us to our table. She glows in a silk wrap dress the same aquamarine color as her eyes. Rajeev, in a coat and tie, looks Bollywood-worthy as ever.

“Then we'd have to wear name tags,” Steve says with a laugh.

“And pretend we like people we used to hate,” I say.

Ivy tips me a wink as Bartosz and Rajeev exchange pleasantries. We have a secret pact. Through the years, it has led to numerous dates from hell being mercifully cut short when one or the other was summoned to some fictitious family emergency following an SOS text. Between the two of us, Ivy and I had lost six sets of grandparents and countless pets to sudden, tragic deaths.

Tonight, she's my wingwoman.

Finally, we sit down at our table. Our server, a salt-and-pepper-­haired man named Frank who's been waiting tables at the Shady Brook Inn since I worked here, brings us menus. Bartosz asks if I would prefer red or white wine. I order a Perrier with lime, explaining that I don't drink, and suggest that he might enjoy the Bonny Doon pinot grigio from one of our local wineries. “For someone who doesn't drink, you certainly know your wine,” he comments when he's sampled it.

I take a sip of my Perrier. “A little too well, I'm afraid.”

He nods in understanding. “Here's to new beginnings.” He raises his wineglass, holding my gaze a beat too long.

I grab my menu, and say, in an effort to set a businesslike tone, “Why don't we go over this before we get distracted? You know, for your dinner party. I highly recommend the smoked trout appetizer. Also, the goat cheese tart with braised leeks, and the carrot soup with fennel. As for the entrees …”

“You don't really think I asked you here to discuss menu items?”

I look up at the sound of his voice to find him regarding me with wry amusement. I feel my cheeks warm. “I normally take someone at their word, yes. If you had some ulterior motive—”

“Only this.” He places his hand over mine. “The pleasure of your company.”

“You should have said so in the first place,” I reply testily.

“And what would you have told me?”

I withdraw my hand. “That I have a boyfriend.”

Bartosz responds with a philosophical shrug. “I have a wife. And yet here we are, enjoying a lovely evening together. Where's the harm in that? If I find you attractive, Tish, I can hardly be blamed. I only want what every man in this room is envying me at this moment.”

Oh, he's good. I'll give him that. The line is a new one on me, and I thought I'd heard them all from when I used to get hit on by men in bars. But I'm not easily swayed by flattery. “I don't appreciate being lured into having dinner with you under a false pretext.”

He puts on an expression of mock contrition. “Then allow me to redeem myself by humbly begging your pardon and formally requesting that you do me the honor of dining with me.”

“Fine,” I relent. “As long it's just dinner.”

Over our appetizers of warm duck salad and Arctic char with sea beans, we finally get around to discussing his dinner party, which is in honor of Delilah, I learn. He explains that, with the date for her memorial still months away—it had been set for the middle of September—he felt the need to mark her passing in some way. “In Hollywood, this is what passes for sitting shiva,” he says.

“Does that mean everyone will be wearing black?” I know little of the Jewish custom, only that it's an open house for people to pay their respects to the families of deceased loved ones.

He smiles. “Not unless it's black tie. And no covering of mirrors.”

“I'll be the only person who didn't know Delilah.”

“But you met her?”

“Once, briefly.”

“And what was your impression?” Bartosz's brown eyes study me below his thick, black brows that are in stark contrast to his snowy mane.

“She was more down-to-earth than I expected,” I reply as I bring a forkful of char laced with
uni
foam to my mouth. “I think we could have become friends if we'd met under different circumstances.”

“Yes, she was good at that.”

“What?”

“Being whoever you wanted her to be,” he answers, leaving me to wonder what he means.

The evening is more pleasant than I expected. Bartosz entertains me with his stories. If Brianna's are of a “Hollyweird” peopled with poseurs with skewed values and ruthless ambitions, his are of a glamorous world filled with glamorous people doing exciting things. He tells me about the party he attended at “Bob” Redford's ranch when he was at last year's Sundance Film Festival, and about cruising the Mediterranean with “George and Amal” aboard his leased yacht during a recent trip to Italy. I quiz him about the goings-on behind the scenes of the movie he's currently filming, but he doesn't divulge much more than what I already know. Brent Harding has “an eye for the ladies.” Liam Brady is a “prankster.” Taylor Ramsey is a “little vixen.”

We're tucking into our desserts of
tarte tatin
and blackberry shortcake when I become aware of movement over at Ivy and Rajeev's table. I look over to see Rajeev getting down on one knee before Ivy. My heart sinks when I realize what's happening.
Oh, no. No. Please don't.
I watch in dismay as he pulls a jeweler's box from his pocket, smiling up at Ivy as she stares at him in shock. In the hush that's fallen, I hear him speak the words that my best friend dreads most.

“Ivy, will you marry me?”

Ivy bolts like a fox at the braying of a hound, leaving Rajeev to stare after her in disbelief, the cries of delight and applause from other diners dying in her wake. After a stunned moment, he goes after her. I follow, catching up with him in the hallway outside the restrooms.

“What just happened? Why did she run off?” he asks, looking hurt and confused.

Dude, what were you thinking?
Any man who's been with Ivy as long as he has ought to have known better than to propose in a crowded restaurant. I chalk it up to the fact that beneath his Bollywood exterior lies the soul of a computer nerd who's inexperienced in the ways of women. I could have told him she'd run as if from a live grenade. But the damage is done, so I temper my response. “Maybe if you'd waited until you were alone before you proposed?” I suggest gently.

“I want to make a life with her. How is that a bad thing?” he whispers plaintively, still clutching the jeweler's box in his hand. “I thought she knew that I would propose. She met my parents. Does she think I would not have asked her to marry me had they not approved?”

“No. It's not that. It's just … Look, you should be discussing this with her, not me.”

Rajeev stares at the closed door to the ladies' room. “How can I when she refuses to show her face?”

He has a point. Which places me in an awkward position. “You never talked to her about it before? The subject of marriage and kids never came up?” I lower my voice as a heavily perfumed woman with a helmet of blond hair sidles past us before she disappears into the ladies' room.

“Yes, of course.” He runs his fingers through his thick, glossy hair before he slumps against the wall between two sconces. “When we were first dating. She told me she didn't see herself as a wife or mother. And I said I wasn't ready to be a husband. But that was before our feelings for each other had grown. Before my parents came to meet her.” He eyes me dejectedly. “We don't have to decide about children right away. If she doesn't want children, I could live with that.”

If this were a Bollywood musical, Ivy would have popped out of the ladies' room at that moment, tears of joy running down her cheeks at having come to the realization that her love for Rajeev was strong enough to overcome any doubts or fears. Everyone would be singing and dancing while music played. Instead, Rajeev sighs to the soundtrack of a toilet flushing.

“Sounds like you two have more talking to do. In the meantime, hold that thought.” I tap the jeweler's box. He looks down as if he forgot he was holding it, then straightens and slips it in his pocket.

“Yes, we need to talk, but not tonight.” Rajeev's expression hardens into one of grim resolve. “Now I should go home before I say something I'll regret. Will you let her know?”

“Of course. She can ride home with me.”

Rajeev quirks an eyebrow at me. “Your friend, Mr. Bartosz, won't mind?”

“Are you kidding? Knowing him, he'll try to rope us into a threesome,” I reply just as the blond lady emerges in a cloud of perfume. She gives me a scandalized look.

“I don't want to discuss it.” Ivy's voice floats toward me, disembodied.

“Fine. But I'm not leaving until you come out.” I cross my arms over my chest and lean back against the row of sinks set in granite that stands opposite the stall where my best friend is holed up.

Thirty seconds pass before the door to the stall swings open and Ivy steps out. She looks as if she's been crying. She walks over to one of the sinks and cranks on the tap. “I didn't handle that very well.”

“You think?”

She turns to glare at me as she washes her hands. “No need to rub it in.”

“Looks like you're doing a good job of it yourself.”

She grabs a paper towel, embossed with the Shady Brook Inn logo of ferns in a laurel wreath pattern, from the stack on the counter and uses it to wipe mascara from under her eyes after she's dried her hands. “How bad, on a scale of one to ten?” The question we've been asking each other through the years, with every breakup or dating disaster, every foolish move in the name of love.

“I can't say until you give him an answer.”

“Oh, God.” Ivy buries her face in the paper towel.

“You better hurry, because he's leaving.”

“Without me?” Her head jerks up. She looks stricken.

“I'm sure he took care of the bill.” Even though she broke his heart and humiliated him in front of everyone, Rajeev is, above all else, a gentleman. “I told him you could ride home with us.”

“I don't care about that!” Ivy whisper-shrieks. “How did he seem?”