Tailing someone on foot was new to me and I wasn’t sure how close to get. Not that she was watching over her shoulder; she was walking quickly, head down. As I began to worry that she really was only shopping for shoes and other items for the gala, she stopped. Not in front of a store but in front of a church.
It squeezed the breath out of me for a moment, considering that Lindsay was being driven to the confessional by her concern that I was figuring out her culpability in Garth’s death. Much as I wanted her to confess to me, I understood the impulse to settle accounts in her heart and soul first. But it didn’t look like an easy decision. Even from a block away, I could read her indecisiveness as she paused at the bottom of the broad sweep of the front stairs. After a moment, she steeled herself, ran up the stairs, and disappeared inside.
I drifted closer to the church myself, then kicked myself for my lofty spiritual digression. She wasn’t there to confess, she was there to see her husband. The church was St. Aidan’s, where Daniel’s group, Rising Angels, had its offices. I’d actually been to the church before, but had been so intent on following Lindsay this time I hadn’t recognized the block. She could have a million different reasons to drop in on her husband in the middle of the day. Could her actual reason have any significance to me? How close did I dare go to find out?
Now I was the one who swayed indecisively outside the
church. There was no way I could pass it off as coincidence that I’d shown up at the church moments behind Lindsay and I couldn’t think of any questions to manufacture as a reason for following her that didn’t have big “I think you’re guilty” balloons tied to them. Was there some angle I could present that entailed my needing to talk to Daniel, something about the impact of Garth’s death on the families of his employees, the ripple effect of a homicide? No, if it felt like a reach to me, it was going to read like one to them.
Still, I couldn’t walk away. The concept of Lindsay being the one who snapped and took out her frustration, resentment, or something I hadn’t even considered yet was growing more compelling by the moment and I couldn’t leave without trying to gather more evidence. Hoping I’d think of something clever and enticing to say when I saw Lindsay and Daniel, I crossed the street and tried to keep my heart from thumping out of my chest as I started up the stairs.
I was seven steps up when I heard Lindsay’s voice at the top. A man’s voice, presumably Daniel’s, answered her. The center of my brain that improvises excuses and alibis went numb and the resolve flushed out of me like sweat. Glancing around madly, I backed down the stairs in search of some nook in which to conceal myself. Better yet, I spotted a street-level door to the left of the staircase. A weathered wood-burned sign over the doorway read: THRIFT SHOP.
I flung the door open and stepped in, just as Lindsay’s and Daniel’s voices dropped to my level. I stayed at the door, my hand wrapped around the knob, trying to catch my breath and praying they hadn’t seen me. I wasn’t proud of panicking, but I wanted to make sure I didn’t play my hand too soon for a variety of reasons—setting a killer off again being pretty high on the list.
After a moment, I decided Lindsay and Daniel hadn’t seen me, but just to be sure, I pried my hand off the doorknob and walked into the store. It was a claustrophobic warren of clothing, home furnishings, knickknacks, and books. Three older women with matching permed white hair and complementary cardigans sat stiff-backed behind the small
cashier’s counter, two crocheting and one knitting. They were watching me oddly, but who could blame them since I was acting oddly. I smiled apologetically, attempting to put them at ease. “May I look around?”
The smallest of the three, a pink dumpling of a woman, nodded emphatically. “Help yourself, sweetheart. That’s why we’re here.” She gestured with a knitting needle that could easily impale me if I chose to misbehave. I couldn’t be sure if that was her intended message, but I wasn’t about to challenge her.
I thanked them and, surveying the various groupings and wondering which to poke through first, took a deep breath. Hovering above the musk of dust and wool and flannel, there was a strident layer of something so sharp and bright, it nearly made me dizzy. While I couldn’t pinpoint its source, there was no doubt of its identity. It was, as they say, the sweet smell of Success.
I turned back to them slowly, not wanting to make too much a deal of this or to startle the little one with the big needle. “Do you have perfume here?”
The middle one, a slender, reedy creature, tapped on the counter with her crochet hook. “A few bottles of White Shoulders and there’s half a carton of Britney Spears in the back.”
“But I smell something else,” I said, surprised that they didn’t.
“Oh, that,” the little one said. “Someone spilled something somewhere, but we couldn’t find it.” She pointed with the needle again, this time past me toward the outside wall of the shop. “Probably in those bags that haven’t been unpacked yet.”
Against the wall, a collection of plastic and paper bags were stacked in casual piles. Remembering the bags on Lindsay’s office sofa, I drifted toward the heap. “Any reason they haven’t been unpacked?” I asked lightly.
“Youth group’s supposed to do that,” the middle one said with a disapproving frown. “Haven’t gotten around to it.”
The third one, a solid block of a woman who hadn’t
stopped crocheting since I’d entered, snorted. “Worthless bunch of snot-nosed brats.”
“Mind if I look through them?” I asked, still drifting toward the pile. The scent grew stronger as I drew closer, unless I’d fallen prey to wishful sniffing. I couldn’t decide which was headier: the scent or the possibility it was linked to Lindsay, the only point of intersection between the perfume and this church I could plot on my mental graph paper.
The Fates conferred wordlessly, then turned back and shrugged at me in unison. I took that as permission and knelt beside the heap. The smell evenly saturated the air here, so there was only one thing to do. Grab a bag and start digging.
I paused long enough to call Cassady and get voice mail, then call Tricia and get her. “Interested in a little shopping?” I asked. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see that the ladies had returned to their sewing and whispering to each other.
“Let me check if I’m still breathing. Yes.”
I explained where I was and she said she was on her way. I pocketed the phone and unknotted the top of the first bag.
When Tricia arrived twenty minutes later, looking freshly laundered and coiffed, I was feeling stale and musty. The ladies perked up at her entrance; I don’t know why, since there was absolutely nothing about her Missoni ensemble that proclaimed her as a thrift shop habitué. Then again, Tricia does have that effect on people. Including me.
She took a moment to survey me and the sprawl of bags around me before kicking off her Via Spiga pumps and joining me on the floor. “We could have met in my grandmother’s attic to do this and there would have been a martini shaker involved as well,” she said genially.
“If your grandmother’s attic smells of Success perfume, I want to know who she’s been playing bridge with because they might be tied to Garth Henderson’s death,” I told her.
Tricia looked at me in surprised delight. “Oh, this is work! Even better!” She pulled a faded Fordham sweatshirt out of the open bag and sniffed at it, which provoked several sneezes of impressive volume for such a delicate nose.
As we sat on the floor and went through the bags, trying to find the source of the smell, I couldn’t help but remember the number of times we’d packed dorm rooms and apartments together, winding down one adventure and getting ready for the next, always strengthened by knowing we were moving forward together. I hoped that was going to remain a constant in my life. Of course, I’d always imagined us gathering in hospitals to celebrate births together, too, but so far we were only hanging out in E.R.s because of my misadventures. One step at a time, I suppose.
“What do you think of Aaron?” Tricia asked, recoiling from a bag of old shoes. She hastily tied it back up and put it in the “checked” pile.
Was she remembering the same things I was? “He seems interesting. Calming.”
“It’s been a while since she hibernated with someone like this. Wonder when it will wear off.”
“Maybe it won’t.”
Tricia flashed a smile. “That day’s coming, isn’t it.”
“And we’ll adjust,” I assured us both.
She nodded without looking at me. I was going to pursue that line of thought, but the next bag I opened released a blast of Success in my face like a booby-trap and I was the one who sneezed with sinus-rattling vigor. Tricia reacted to the smell, too, and leaned forward to peer into the bag with me.
It appeared to be predominantly towels and table linens, but nestled among them was a silk blouse. Brilliant red. Jewel tone. With intricate cutwork on the collar. And redolent of Success. I pulled the blouse out of the bag to examine it more closely and as it unfurled, a small gray object dropped from its folds and clattered to the floor between me and Tricia. A pistol looks so much smaller when it isn’t being pointed at you.
DEAR MOLLY, IF I DO
the right thing for the wrong reason, do I still get credit—in the karmic sense? Does it diminish the act that it’s done to please someone I care about and not because it’s what the law or the culture or the company requires? Aren’t I actually accomplishing twice as much this way, which is ultimately a good thing, even if it started out as a sneaky thing? Or if I have to work this hard to justify something, does that mean I shouldn’t have done it in the first place? Signed, Means in Search of an End
Detective Donovan looked at me and the gun with equal suspicion. Tricia was still behind the thrift store counter, trying to get the three little ladies to stop hyperventilating, so I was on my own with her new friend and his previously invisible partner, a raspy, reedy fellow named Novatny who came off as far too burnt for someone in his early thirties. Perhaps the constant joy of working with Detective Donovan took its toll.
Both the blouse and the gun were now in evidence envelopes and the detectives were debating the merits of having crime scene techs come in and examine the thrift shop more thoroughly. To their consternation, the thrift shop’s methods for accepting donations were casual, bordering on the offhanded. Unless the items being dropped off were of
remarkable value, donors were given a receipt with an umbrella statement such as “three bags of clothing” or “two boxes of housewares.” Finer points were left to their tax accountants. The donors filled out names, addresses, and phone numbers, but no proof was required of any of the information. Normally, these receipts were only the concern of the IRS, not the NYPD.
Further complicating matters was the disposition of the donated material; as Tricia and I had already learned, the bags were often stacked against the wall until more flexible backs than the three older ladies’ were available for unpacking, sorting, and shelving. There was no way to match receipts to bags, even if the donor had been truthful.
And it didn’t help matters at all that while I could say I’d seen Lindsay in a blouse just like that one, it certainly wasn’t a one-of-a-kind creation and her name wasn’t exactly monogrammed on the collar. And the blouse had been drenched in a perfume Lindsay couldn’t wear. Or had said she couldn’t wear. But as tenuous as they were, there were too many connections here for me not to believe fervently that the gun was the murder weapon and belonged in official hands as soon as possible.
Still, Detective Donovan squinted at me as though he were in agony. “What exactly are you trying to do here?”
“The right thing,” I said, doing my best to sound sincere and not indignant. It had actually crossed my mind to pay the little ladies whatever was required and leave with the blouse, the gun, and the bag they’d come in, and try to sort out the contents and my thoughts in the privacy of my apartment before I decided who to call. But then I considered the full import of the gun—if it did, in fact, turn out to be the gun that had killed Garth. I’d been a little high-handed with evidence in the past and been well-schooled in the complications that could cause once a case went to trial. I didn’t want to make that mistake here.
But for some reason, Detective Donovan was having trouble accepting that. “So tell me again how you happened to find the murder weapon, here in this thrift shop, when we’ve
been looking for it in all sorts of reasonable places for two months and haven’t been able to put our hands on it.”
“I didn’t come here looking for it,” I told him again, pleasantly and politely. “I ducked in here so Lindsay wouldn’t see me, then I smelled the perfume and thought there might be a connection, so I started digging around.” A very compact, orderly progression of events, it seemed to me, but Detective Donovan was still struggling with it and Detective Novatny had moved over to talk to Tricia and the little ladies again.
“You trying to play me, Molly?” Detective Donovan asked, anger starting to infuse his words and his expression.
Stung, I actually took a moment to formulate a response before I opened my mouth. I couldn’t be sure if he was trying to provoke me or if he was genuinely suspicious and I needed to tread carefully. “Detective Donovan, I know we’ve seemed to be at cross-purposes previously,” I said in my best let’s-all-be-professionals voice, “but it’s never been my intention to be anything other than helpful.”
“Then what’re you wasting my time for? You expect me to believe this is real, and not some sort of setup or decoy that you and Mulcahey have concocted?”
It was a toss-up which was more insulting: that I’d be interested in setting him up or that I’d do it with Peter. But the mud wrestling could wait. “Test the gun, Detective Donovan. If it’s not the murder weapon, I’ll apologize. If it is, you can.”
“I don’t owe you anything but a run to the precinct,” he snapped, taking my arm.
“Excuse me?”
“We’re going to get a formal statement from you to support your ridiculous story so I don’t look like an idiot further down the road,” he said.
“Wouldn’t your time be better spent talking to Lindsay?” I asked, doing my best to stay polite.
“Based on what? Your theory? I need a little more to go on before I start dragging people in for questioning.”
In a rare moment of restraint, I just nodded. “Okay.”
As he released my arm, I couldn’t tell if he was angry or
disappointed with my willingness to cooperate. “Okay then. Let’s go.”
He watched me carefully, as though he thought he was calling my bluff, but I just nodded in Tricia’s direction. “Can I tell Tricia I’m leaving?”
He nodded, but Tricia was already hurrying over. “What’s going on?” she asked. I sketched out the situation in the most diplomatic terms I could come up with and Tricia announced, “I’m going with you.”
“That’s not necessary,” Detective Donovan assured her. “She’s not being accused of anything, I’d just like to get a formal statement because of the unusual circumstances—”
“I’m going with you,” Tricia repeated with added steeliness.
“Then let’s get going because we all have somewhere to be later tonight, remember?” I smiled cheerily at Detective Donovan, but Tricia did not, leading me to wonder if his invitation to the gala was about to be rescinded.
Detective Novatny lingered behind to soothe the ladies and finish his examination of the shop while Detective Donovan escorted us to his precinct. Which was also Kyle’s precinct, a fact I had blocked out as long as possible. But now it was inescapable, as Tricia and I passed a number of people I’d met at various social functions with Kyle. None of them reacted to my appearance in shock, which I hoped meant that Kyle had not put out a memo proclaiming me to be persona non grata, but more than one stopped to watch with interest as Tricia and I followed the frowning detective to an interrogation room, and it wasn’t to admire our outfits.
The visit almost went smoothly. Tricia sat beside me in silent support, studying each and every one of Detective Donovan’s statements and gestures, weighing them for true meaning and intent. I couldn’t tell how the tote board was leaning because she was being remarkably impassive, but I could still sense a thorough evaluation taking place.
The detective and I went through the formalities of my making a statement, dotted the I’s and crossed the T’s, were civil to each other—it was just like it was supposed to be.
Crisp. Professional. I kept my mind focused on the task at hand and didn’t get distracted—for more than a moment here and there—by wondering how all this would play out, whether Detective Donovan would still come to the gala, whether Lindsay would still come, whether she’d picked up her shoes. Even as I laid out how I’d come to find the gun and believe it was Lindsay’s, I knew my theory sounded sketchy and presumptive, but I couldn’t melt that icy lump in my gut that told me Lindsay was at the heart of all this. But I also respected that Detective Donovan had to approach this from a solid investigative angle that would hold up in court; hunches need not apply.
As we stood to leave, me trying to think of the proper way to express my appreciation that an awkward situation had turned out well, things shifted to redefine “awkward.” Detective Donovan opened the door just in time for Kyle to stick his head in and say, “Heard you’ve got an interesting development,” and then stop, surprised by the sight of me across the table. Whoever had mentioned the “interesting development” to Kyle had apparently not mentioned my involvement in it, leaving all of us with that slightly nauseous feeling you get from coming around a corner and seeing an animated discussion screech to a halt, which can only mean they were talking about you and not exactly in complimentary terms.
“Hi, Kyle,” Tricia said with a touch of preemptive protectiveness.
“Tricia,” he responded evenly.
I wanted to ask how he was, where he’d been, when we were going to talk again, but all I could manage was, “Hello.”
With a similarly loaded nod, he returned the greeting, then glanced quickly at Detective Donovan before asking me, “What’s going on?”
“I think I’m the interesting development.”
Kyle started to pinch his bottom lip, then restrained himself and put his hand in his pocket. “Would make sense.”
“I found a gun that I thought might be linked to the Henderson
homicide, so I called Detective Donovan,” I explained, wishing I didn’t feel quite so much like a spelling bee contestant who was relieved that the semifinal word was one she at least recognized.
I had no idea what reaction to anticipate from Kyle, but I was unprepared for the look of surprise on his face, mainly because I could tell the surprise related to my having done the appropriate thing and not to the discovery of a potentially key piece of evidence. “That’s great,” he said quietly.
“Let’s see what ballistics says first,” Detective Donovan said.
I knew that wasn’t what Kyle had meant and met his eye to acknowledge his approval of my following the rules for a change. I hadn’t done it just to please him, I’d also done it because it was the right thing to do, but the fact that it pleased him was a delightful bonus. I so wanted to prove to him we could both do what we loved and make it work.
He allowed himself a small smile before turning back to Detective Donovan. “She’s got a pretty great track record,” Kyle said, then nodded to me. “See you later.”
“Great,” I said, feeling a weight I hadn’t been aware of soar off the back of my head.
He looked at his watch reflexively. “Might have to meet you at the thing tonight.”
He was coming to the gala. He was speaking to me and coming to the gala and coming home with me after the gala and we were back on track. Or he was at least coming to the gala and we could take it from there. “Okay,” I said, suddenly nodding so enthusiastically it threatened to turn into my infamous bobblehead imitation. I cleared my throat as though that would stiffen my neck and get my head to stop bouncing. “See you there.”
“Clearly, my day has gotten much more complicated, but I’ll do my best to meet you there. As long as I’m still invited.” Detective Donovan turned to direct the second half at Tricia and, in doing so, missed the perplexed look that ran across Kyle’s face.
“That might depend on ballistics, too,” Tricia said and
now both detectives looked perplexed. She smiled. “I’d prefer that you not use the event as an opportunity to arrest anyone I know,” Tricia explained.
“Which brings me to a crucial point,” Detective Donovan said sternly. Even Kyle reacted to his change in tone. “Stay away from the principals in this case.”
“Could you give me a list?” I asked.
“Molly,” Kyle said in quiet warning.
“I’m trying to cooperate. But our assessment of who the principals are at this point might be very different,” I said, wanting to be helpful but also mindful of the article I had to write. I could stay away from Gwen and Ronnie for a while, I wanted to stay away from Lindsay, but I did have work to do.
“No employees of GHInc. or Willis Worldwide.”
“What about tonight?” I asked, suddenly feeling like Cinderella facing down the ugly stepsisters at the front door.
“You can go. As long as you don’t talk to any of these people.”
“Who else am I going to talk to?”
“Me. I’ll vouch for her,” Kyle said with a quick look to Detective Donovan. Now at least Cinderella had a Prince Charming.
“You also need to stay away from St. Aidan’s Church. And Peter Mulcahey.”
I could feel the heat of Kyle’s gaze on my cheek. Or maybe I was blushing. “I have no problem staying away from Peter.”
“And the rest of them.”
“Right. But—for how long? I need to tell my editor if this is going to interfere with meeting my deadline.”
“He can’t do that!” Eileen shrieked, an even more unnerving interaction than usual because she was standing on top of her desk and literally looking down on me, rather than squawking from her normal metaphorical perch of disdain. Suzanne dutifully stood by, perhaps to catch her should she fall, while an intensely focused and matronly woman in a black dress so plain it looked like a uniform did her best to hem Eileen’s dress. Bull pen rumor was, the seamstress was
from The Publisher’s tailor shop and had been summoned to put finishing touches on what Eileen was wearing that night. Not in the gala, to the gala. But apparently the pressure of parading with the Beautiful People had destroyed Eileen’s confidence in most of her wardrobe, several piles of which were slowly slipping off the sofa, making entering her office even more treacherous than usual.