It came out of the blue, this proposition that I was turning down before he even finished speaking. Dick Whitfield at one of my mother’s parties was about as ludicrous as my being at one of my mother’s parties. He always wore green, green trousers or a green blazer, like he had some sort of Emerald City fetish. His ties were a mishmash of angles and circles, something that would freak out someone on acid. His hair was cropped short and spiked, and every once in a while he’d attempt to grow a mustache that managed to be only a couple of splotches on his upper lip. I noted that he was clean-shaven at the moment, but still not presentable.
“Not a good idea,” I said simply, instead of what I really wanted to say, which was “What the fuck are you thinking?” Maybe I was making progress after all.
“Oh, I’m not saying it would be a date.”
I held my hand up. “No, Dick. I don’t think so.”
“We need a Deep Throat.”
I had to agree, happy he even knew who Deep Throat was. Most of the kids coming into the business now thought Watergate was some sort of water treatment plant.
“We have to get to the memorial service.” I didn’t like it that he was coming with me, but Marty had made it clear we were to go together.
Battell Chapel was crammed with people: students, faculty, staff, the curious. The TV vans were parked along the street. I looked around for the winking guy, but I didn’t see him. Maybe he finally gave up.
I hate memorial services and funerals. Dick pounced right up to the front and squeezed in somewhere between the family and my mother’s law partners. My mother hadn’t mentioned she’d be here when I talked to her, but then, she wouldn’t. It was part of The Game.
Melissa Peabody was a Yale legacy. Her father and his father had gone before her into the Ivy League, paving the way for Peabodys forever. She was a brilliant student, everyone loved her. But in the back of everyone’s mind, the escort thing must have been swirling around, tarnishing their memories of her. I wondered if it didn’t make her a little more human.
I stayed in the back, surveying the crowd. I saw Sarah Lewis dabbing her eyes a few rows up. Crocodile tears.
A guy around my age crept past me and out the door. Tired of hearing the same stuff over and over, I followed him.
He was lighting up just as I came down the steps. Another smoker. Great.
“Hey,” I said. “Pretty awful, isn’t it?”
He shook his head. “A shame. I’ve known her since she was a baby.”
“Relative?”
“Uncle.”
“I’m sorry.”
He took a long drag on his cigarette. “These idiot cops don’t know shit.”
“Is that why your family’s suing them?” It was a shot in the dark.
He was startled, the cigarette bobbed in his mouth. “They’re not suing the cops. It’s the school.” He paused. “Hey, no one knows about that.”
My brain started moving faster. “You’d be surprised what people know,” I said mysteriously, or at least I hoped it was mysteriously. “They’re pissed the school let this happen. That it didn’t know about her, well, life.”
His silence confirmed it. “Who are you?” he finally asked.
Truth-or-dare time. I held out my hand. “Anne Seymour. I’m with the
Herald.
”
“Oh, shit, you can’t leave us alone, can you? You’re all a bunch of unfeeling leeches.” He stamped out his butt on the sidewalk and disappeared back inside the chapel.
I stood on the step, having gotten what I wanted. I didn’t need any more from him. His words didn’t sting me like they would’ve when I first started out. I didn’t know Melissa Peabody, I’d only seen her body like I’d seen other bodies. I couldn’t let my head get wrapped up with who she was, I just needed to report the facts. The first dead body I’d seen, well, it scared the shit out of me, and I found myself imagining who he’d been and the lives he’d touched. I couldn’t report it the way it needed to be reported. I got too close. It was the first and last time I let that happen.
I dialed Marty on my cell phone and told him what I’d learned.
The sigh bounced off my ear. “Did you get his name?”
I sighed in response. “He stopped talking before I could get it.”
“Then you need someone’s name on the record before we can run it.”
“Don’t give me that, Marty. We’ve run stuff with less than this. Jesus, he said he was her uncle.”
“Annie, you know where we’re at on this one.”
“I know.” Everyone made my job hard. “Maybe I can get my mother to say something tonight. I’ll give it a shot.” I had my doubts, but it was my only hope.
The doors opened then and throngs of mourners poured out of the chapel. The uncle pushed past me with a glare. So much for trying to get his name. I spotted Dick talking to some students, taking notes. I jogged back to the car to wait for him so I wouldn’t run into my mother. I’d deal with her later.
It took way too long to put the story together. Dick’s notes were all over the place. I was more of an editor than a reporter. I didn’t tell him about my discovery that the family was suing the school. He’d just have to find out when I was allowed to write it. It was mean, but I was in a mean mood.
I
ADMIT
that while I put my makeup on for my mother’s party, I thought about Dick’s proposal that I impersonate one of those escort service girls to get inside. I wasn’t sure that Hickey Watson would turn me down. I tried to ignore the lines around my eyes as I brushed on some mascara.
No, it was a stupid idea. I just needed Hickey or Allison to hook me up legitimately with Mark Torrey.
I pulled the little black dress out of the laundry basket, but even if it had been clean, I’d had too much pizza and Mexican food in the last couple of days to make it work for me, plus I was getting my period, which really made me bloated. I pulled dresses and skirts out of my closet, exasperated that nothing I owned was flattering. I finally settled on a longish charcoal knit skirt, A-line of course, and a simple brick-red shell and cardigan. It was understated, and I added my favorite strand of faux pearls and tiny pearl earrings. My hair would do nothing I wanted it to, so I finally just combed my fingers through the curls and let them drop down my back. Shoes were another issue altogether, and I finally found my black mules shoved under the couch in the living room. I glanced in the full-length mirror (it was there when I moved in, no woman in her right mind would ever own one) and I was a fucking Talbot’s ad without the short, straight blond bob. My mother would love it.
“What a gorgeous outfit!” she exclaimed when I walked into the den, and she handed me a snifter with some amber liquid that I quickly swallowed, savoring the burning sensation that followed.
She was wearing a little black dress I could never fit into. My mother is so tiny, she could wear my rings on her wrist as bracelets. It’s disgusting.
She was pulling on my arm. “Dear, dear, come over here. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
I braced myself for another one of her geeks, and instead found myself staring into the eyes of the
New Haven Herald
publisher.
“Of course, you know William Bennett. William, this is my daughter, Anne, who works for your publication.”
Bill Bennett is the guy who told Marty he couldn’t put “Yale” in the headline when Melissa Peabody was found dead. I had about as much respect for him as I do the scum in my shower. The last person I wanted to hang with tonight was the guy who could make or break me, and my mother was, well, he had his arm around my mother’s shoulders in a way that no one had had his arm around her in a long time. It took me a moment, but since I pride myself on being quick, it finally came to me.
My mother was fucking my boss.
At first I wouldn’t let myself believe it, but it was the way they looked at each other. I couldn’t ignore that, try as I might. I wanted to get the hell out of there before I said something really asinine, but all I could do was take another bourbon and down it more quickly than the first one. Great, now I’d get drunk in front of my mother
and
my boss. I was really glad Dick hadn’t come with me. This would’ve been even worse if anyone caught wind of it.
“I’ve seen the stories you’re doing,” Bill Bennett was saying, trying to be a real human being. “You’re doing good work.”
He wouldn’t know good journalism if it were a tractor-trailer coming right at him.
“Thank you,” I managed to sputter. Not even here ten minutes and I was already a basket case. I couldn’t deal with this.
And then I saw him. The winking guy. Out in the hall, over by the staircase. He had his back to me, but I could tell it was him. He wasn’t going to get away from me now. “Excuse me,” I muttered, “but there’s someone over there I need to talk to.” I left my mother with Bill Bennett, who was probably just as relieved I left as I was.
I touched the guy’s arm lightly, and he turned around, his dark eyes smiling, his mouth twitching.
“Hello,” I said. “You have me at a disadvantage. You know who I am, obviously, but I don’t know who you are.”
He smiled then, his whole face lighting up, and he took my hand. His was big, warm, calloused, and it sent tingles down my spine. Yeah, it’s a cliché, but it really did. I was afraid my knees would give out; there was something incredibly sexy about this guy, in a different way than with Tom. Tom was Prince Charming, the blond German Protestant, the boy next door. This guy had something I couldn’t put my finger on, but I wanted to put my fingers all over him.
“Vincent DeLucia.”
Oh, Christ. Vinny? But this couldn’t be Vinny. Vinny DeLucia was a tall, gangly kid, kind of like Dick, actually, who had buck teeth and never looked any girl in the eye. I’d heard he’d gone off to be some sort of scientist. This couldn’t be him.
“You remember me, then?” he asked, and I nodded mutely. “I’m glad.”
I wanted to scream: Who the hell wouldn’t remember you? You were the biggest geek in the whole school.
“You didn’t go to the reunion,” he said, his voice caressing every word.
“Give me a break,” I said, trying to pretend this wasn’t a shock. “Why should I go see a bunch of people I haven’t seen in twenty years?”
“Curiosity, maybe.”
I had to ask. “How was it?”
“So you are curious.” He was teasing me. Vinny DeLucia was teasing me, and, maybe, flirting with me. Which made me remember the wink.
I frowned. “What are you doing, following me around?”
“I’d like to say it’s because I want to, but it’s more business than pleasure.”
Business? What sort of business? “I thought you were some sort of scientist,” I said instead. What the hell was wrong with me?
“I did start out as a marine biologist.”
I imagined a boat, wind whipping through my hair, and then I remembered my mother’s helicopter comment and frowned. “But?”
“It didn’t work out like I planned.” I could see he was disappointed, truly disappointed about that.
“You miss it?”
“I was studying whales. They’re the most magnificent creatures. Have you ever seen one up close?”
“I’ve been to Mystic.”
He rolled his eyes. “I can take you sometime. You have to see them out there, where they really live.”
A date? A date with Vinny DeLucia? Oh, I forgot, the business he was in now was what again?
“Funding got cut,” he was saying, “and I lost my job. I ended up back here, living with my folks.”
Who happened to own a pizza place on Wooster Street, I remembered now. That could explain why he was peering in Sally’s window at me the other night. But it didn’t explain the other times.
“So what is it you do exactly?” I pushed.
“Private investigation.”
I stared at him. “You’re a private detective?”
He nodded. “A few years with a friend of my father’s, and I decided to go out on my own. It’s fairly lucrative.” He paused. “What about you? I heard you got married.”
I didn’t want to get into that. I’d gotten married right out of college, it was a huge mistake, we were way too young, and fortunately I got out of it before there was a house or, God forbid, kids. The only thing it did for me was give me a new last name that didn’t link me to my mother or my father. In my job, that was a big plus.
I had to change the subject. “So you’ve been following me? Why?” I tried to keep my voice low, but I didn’t like the idea of this guy hired to follow me by who knew who.
“I haven’t actually been following you.”
“You’d better explain that.”
“You just happen to be in the places I’ve been lately.” He moved closer to me, and I could feel his breath on my cheek. “I’m working on something for your mother’s firm.”
Which explained why he was at the party. My mother loved to invite her underlings to parties, to make them feel as if they were equals, even though they obviously weren’t. But then it struck me. The lawsuit. It had to be why he was in all the same places I was, he was investigating the same thing.
“So you think you’ve figured it out,” he was saying.
I blinked a couple of times. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve figured out what I’m working on.”
“How am I supposed to know?”
“You’re a reporter, you know a lot about your mother’s client list. And I could see what you were thinking.”
He was clairvoyant to boot. Go figure. But I was intrigued with this little game; it was far more interesting and diverting than having to make conversation with Bill Bennett.
“Do you think David Best killed her?” His question was simple, but loaded.
“The police think he did.”
“I didn’t ask you what the police think, although you obviously would know more than anyone else what they’re thinking.”
“I am sick and tired of people thinking I know more about this than I do just because of Tom.” It came out more harshly than I intended, and I could see he was startled.
“Never mind about him,” he said. “Do you think David Best did it?”
I wasn’t sure why he was pushing me, but I thought for a minute.
“No, I didn’t mean you should intellectually think about it,” he said. “What does your gut tell you, without taking any time to think?”
“No, he didn’t do it.” I couldn’t believe my ears. What the hell was I doing? I avoided telling Richard Wells what I thought, and he and I were on the same side, allegedly.