The Jinx (12 page)

J
ust as I was saying goodbye, Barbara Barnett breezed into Sara's hospital room. Her presence was like a splash of ice water—I felt the flush still in my cheeks subside immediately.

“Hello, hello!” she announced herself, with no small measure of theatricality. She was wearing what looked to be a mink coat and carrying a huge bouquet of hothouse flowers. The clutch of tulips I'd brought seemed to wilt in comparison.

Barbara leaned over and gave Sara a kiss on the cheek. “Sara, honey. I can't tell you how horrified I was to hear that you'd been hurt. How are you feeling?” The words came out at a rapid clip, but they were smoothed together by her Texas drawl.

“Much better,” answered Sara, thanking her for the flowers. Barbara rushed about the room, moving a smaller vase aside to make space for her own bouquet on Sara's bedside table.

“Hello, Mrs. Barnett,” I said, standing and holding out my hand. “I'm Rachel Benjamin, from Winslow, Brown. I think we've met before, at Grenthaler board meetings, and Tom brought me to dinner a couple of times afterward.”

She flashed me her pageant-trained smile. “Of course. It's nice to see you again.” She listened politely as I extended my condolences about Tom. “Why, thank you, honey. That's awfully sweet of you. But right now I'm just worried about Sara.”

“There's nothing to worry about,” Sara assured her. “I'm fine. Just a couple of stitches and a bit of a headache. It's not a big deal.”

Barbara unbuttoned her coat, revealing a magenta suit that looked like it had been stolen from the wardrobe racks on the
Dynasty
set, and sat herself down in the guest chair that Edie had vacated. “Now where is that son of mine?” she asked. “He was finishing up a phone call, but he said he'd be right in.”

“It's so nice of you to come by,” Sara said. “I know this can't be an easy time for you.”

“Don't be silly,” replied Barbara. She turned to me. “This girl's like a daughter to me, Ms. Benjamin. Her daddy and my late husband were like this—” She held up two adjoining fingers to demonstrate just how close Tom and Samuel Grenthaler had been. “When her parents died, Tom and I felt an obligation to take care of their little girl. We were supposed to go with them that weekend to Vermont, you know. To the ski house. But my son came down with a touch of the flu and we had to cancel.” It seemed like overkill that Tom and Barbara Barnett would cancel their weekend plans because Adam, who must have been well into his twenties at the time, had a tummy ache, but I guessed it was fortunate for their sakes that they had. She turned her attention back to Sara. “Now, have they found the person who did this to you? I really can't even begin to tell you how upset I am.”

“No,” said Sara. “But they're looking into it.”

“I spoke to your grandparents, and they told me about those nasty letters you've been getting. The authorities do know about them, don't they?” Barbara adjusted her skirt and reached up to smooth her already smooth, if big, blond coif.

“They do,” Sara confirmed.

“Well, I sure can tell you, I've seen enough of those movies on Lifetime Television about stalkers gone mad. I hope they're taking these letters seriously.” I was somewhat disheartened to learn that the only other person I'd encountered who'd been watching Lifetime Television for Women was Barbara Barnett.

“I'm sure they are.”

“And what about this homeless man who says he saw everything? Are they sure he's telling the truth?”

“I know the guy,” said Sara. “George wouldn't hurt a fly. He might talk it to death, but he wouldn't hurt it.”

There was a muted commotion in the hallway outside the open door, and a moment later Adam Barnett came in. He was well over six feet, but I doubted he weighed much more than I did. With his beaky nose and mousy features, he looked like central casting's idea of Ichabod Crane. He was holding a cell phone in his hand, and we could hear a nurse's chastising words trailing after him. “No cell phones in the hospital. It's clearly posted. I don't want to have to tell you again.”

Adam looked vaguely sheepish, or maybe that was just how he usually looked. He said a stiff hello to Sara and inquired after her health. I reintroduced myself to him and was rewarded with a blank look and a shake of his distastefully clammy palm. I wished again that I'd gotten more than a fleeting glimpse of the Caped Avenger's companions that morning, but from where I'd stood they could have been anyone. Besides, how would Adam and the Caped Avenger even know each other? He perched awkwardly on the windowsill next to his mother's chair, his hands shoved into his coat pockets.

“We were just talking about who could be responsible for this terrible attack,” Barbara told him. “I think Sara's being stalked.”

“Stalked?” asked Adam.

“Yes. Stalked. Some creep has been sending her anonymous letters. Honey, we need to do something about the security, here. Why, practically anyone can walk right in.”

“As long as they're not using a cell phone,” said Sara, catching my eye and clearly trying not to smile.

“Adam and his cell phone. It's work, work, work all the time for my boy,” Barbara told me proudly. Now Sara rolled her eyes.

“We'll look into the security situation,” Barbara continued. “Maybe we can arrange for a guard of some sort. I'll talk to your grandparents about it.”

“Really, that's not necessary,” protested Sara.

“You're right, honey. There's no need to worry your grandparents—they're already worried enough. Adam and I will take care of everything.”

Barbara then launched into a long story about a TV movie she'd seen about a stalker. I quickly realized I'd seen the same movie and felt my eyes begin to glaze over. I wanted to excuse myself, but it occurred to me that if I waited her out, I might be able to get her alone and ask about her shares. I stole a glance at Adam as his mother rambled on, and he was staring fixedly at Sara. Probably still harboring a torch, or whatever guys like him did when they were suffering from unrequited passion.

Barbara finally wrapped up her spiel just as a nurse came in, insisting that it was time for Sara's medicine. Sara looked relieved. The color had receded somewhat from her face, and I had a feeling she could use a painkiller and a nap.

Barbara checked her watch. “Oh, my! I hadn't realized the hour. We really must get going.” She said her goodbyes, but not before extracting Sara's promise that she would call if there was anything she needed. “And we'll see about the security. You have nothing to worry about, honey.”

I said goodbye, too, telling Sara I'd check in later, and rode down to the ground floor with Barbara and Adam. “Adam, honey, will you get the car from the garage? It's so nasty out.” Given that an extended family of fur-covered creatures had given their lives to ensure Barbara's warmth, her request seemed unnecessary, but Adam agreed dutifully, which was fine with me, as I now had my hoped-for moment alone with the chattering widow.

As gracefully as I could under the circumstances, I changed the topic from stalkers to stock by mentioning that I'd be at the Grenthaler board meeting the next day and asking if Barbara would be there, as well.

“Why, of course, honey. I do own ten percent of the company, now. I could hardly miss a board meeting. Now where did I put my gloves? I hope I didn't leave them upstairs. I'll have to go back and fetch them.” She opened her handbag and began rummaging through its contents.

“I'm glad that you want to stay involved,” I said.

“I sure do.” She paused in her search for her gloves, meeting my gaze. “Grenthaler meant a lot to my husband, and my husband meant the world to me. The stock I inherited will keep his memory alive. For me and for my son.”

“So, you intend to hold on to your shares?”

“More than hold on to them, honey. Those shares represent a family legacy, one that must live on.”

I interpreted that as an indication that she wasn't interested in selling anytime soon, mitigating the threat of a full-fledged takeover. However, reading between the lines, it seemed like Brian Mulcahey's concerns about Barbara trying to secure her son the CEO slot were right on the money.

 

I called Sara's room on the walk to the business school campus and reported what I'd learned. She sounded drowsy, and I had the feeling I'd awakened her, but I knew she would be reassured by my news.

After we hung up, I checked my Blackberry for messages. Again, there was nothing. Not a single voice or e-mail, and definitely nothing from Peter. I debated for a moment before dialing his number, but it went straight into voice mail anyway. I left a halfhearted reminder about dinner that night. Bitterly, I wondered what excuse he would make for canceling this time.

Then I called Jane's house. I needed to talk to someone about last night's quasikiss, the tenuous state of my union with Peter and my current emotional turmoil. Luisa answered the phone.

“Where is everyone?” I asked.

“Hilary's out doing more research, and Jane and Emma are grocery shopping.”

“You didn't want to go with them?”

She laughed. “I'm probably the only person who'd be less helpful than you on that sort of outing.”

“Thanks. I guess. So, Jonathan Beasley kissed me last night.”

“
Love Story
guy?” she asked incredulously.

“Yes. We had dinner. And he kissed me. Well, he quasikissed me. He was aiming for my lips but I turned my head.”

“Did you kiss him back?”

“No, of course not. I mean, I have a boyfriend, at least in theory. I totally spazzed.”

“I'm confused. Where was Peter? Weren't you supposed to have dinner with Peter?”

“Yes. But he canceled. He didn't even call. He just sent an e-mail. And he was out half the night. With Abigail, I'm sure. I think he's dumping me,” I confided. This was the first time I'd said the words aloud, and they left an acrid taste on my tongue.

“What time are you getting here?” she asked. “We need to talk about this.”

“By seven, I hope.”

“Good.” I was nearly at the door to Morgan Hall. “I've got to go, but I'll see you in a few hours. Oh—I nearly forgot to ask. How was your trip to Newbury Street yesterday? Any good purchases?”

Luisa hesitated on the other end of the phone. “It was all right. I'll tell you about it later.”

 

I made my way up to Jonathan's office. His door was open, and he was seated behind his desk. I knocked on the doorframe, and he looked up and gave me a big smile. My heart did a traitorous flip-flop and the now-familiar tingling began afresh. He really was just absurdly cute.

“Hi,” I said. “I'm here for my police interrogation.”

“Great,” he said. He stood up and helped me off with my coat. “They're finishing up with somebody else right now. I've got them parked in a conference room down the hall. It should only be a couple of minutes.”

“Any news?”

“Well, I've found out why they think that there might be a link with the prostitute killer.”

“What's that?”

“You're not going to believe this. Apparently they think that the guy who's been doing the murders has been using a scarf to strangle his victims.”

“A scarf?”

“Not just any scarf.” He closed his office door to hang my coat up next to his and gestured to the scarf that hung on one of the pegs. “This scarf.”

“I don't get it. They think the killer's been using your scarf?”

He laughed. “Well, maybe not this one. But a Harvard scarf.” I looked at the crimson-and-white-striped object in question. “And the witness to the attack on Sara said the guy was wearing one, too.”

“But those are everywhere.” Just in the past twenty-four hours I must have seen more than a dozen people wearing them. Jonathan himself, Gabrielle LeFavre, the annoying guy who tried to psyche me out in the elevator the previous day, Scott Epson, Grant Crocker—why even Adam Barnett had been wearing one, and he'd gone to M.I.T. Personally, I'd never understood the appeal of decking oneself out in Harvard paraphernalia, but I seemed to be in the minority on that topic.

Jonathan shrugged. “I don't disagree. But they seem to think that it might be too much of a coincidence that they have a strangler using one to strangle people while somebody's attacking a student wearing another.”

“That sounds like a flimsy link to me,” I said.

“I know. But they're also desperate to catch this sociopath who's been on a killing spree, and they're following up on any lead, no matter how tenuous. I'm just worried that it will take them off on the wrong tangent, and they won't catch the guy who attacked Sara. I mean, I want them to catch them both, but it seems like they're jumping to conclusions to think it's the same person.”

“It seems that way,” I agreed.

But I was getting distracted. We were still by the closed door, looking at the scarf hanging from its hook. And Jonathan was standing pretty close. He took a deep breath, and the way he paused reminded me of the way he'd paused the previous night. As if he were making up his mind about something. The last time he'd made a similar decision, it had been to try to kiss me. And I wasn't all that confident that I didn't want him to try again.

So I did what any normal person would do, and started talking about the weather. “Is there really supposed to be a blizzard this week—”

But it was hard to keep talking when his lips were descending toward mine.

F
ortunately, or unfortunately, depending on one's perspective, there was a knock at the door. We sprang apart in an unconscious parody of guilty lovers caught in the act, even though there had been no act, and Jonathan opened the door. It was his assistant, letting him know that the police were ready to speak to Ms. Benjamin. I followed her down the corridor on slightly unsteady legs. I could feel Jonathan's eyes on my back, and I willed myself—successfully, for once—not to trip.

I was ushered into a small conference room with windows looking out on Baker Library. Two plain-clothed detectives stood to greet me. One introduced himself as Officer Stanley, a rather nondescript man in his twenties who seemed to be the more junior of the pair. The other was Detective O'Connell.

I did a double take when I saw him. It wasn't just the name, which was nearly identical to that of a certain Detective O'Donnell I'd met the last time I'd had a police interview, when I'd had the good luck to find the murdered body of Emma's former fiancé. It was more that Detective O'Connell could have been Detective O'Donnell's twin. Six foot plus, thick dark hair with a smattering of gray-blue eyes that pierced, and chiseled features. He looked more like a
GQ
model than a police officer, despite the suit that was definitely not Zegna. Hilary had done her admirable best to make a play for O'Donnell, but he'd been immune to her considerable charms. I immediately started trying to figure out how I could arrange for her to meet O'Connell, happily noting the absence of a wedding ring on his finger. It would be a welcome distraction from trying to sort out my own love life.

They offered me a chair at the conference table, and when we were all seated they went through the formalities with which I'd familiarized myself during my last police interview. Actually, O'Connell went through the formalities. Officer Stanley didn't say a word after introducing himself but silently took notes as I told them my name, address and sundry other background details. Then I explained to them how I knew Sara.

“As you know,” began O'Connell, “we're investigating the attack on Ms. Grenthaler yesterday morning, and Professor Beasley mentioned that you had dinner with her the night before.”

“Yes. Sara and I are friends, but there was also some company business that she wanted to discuss.” I briefly set out her concern about the movements in Grenthaler's stock price, and I also filled them in on what I'd learned yesterday. “If anything did happen to Sara, her grandparents would inherit her shares, and a takeover would require that either they or the Barnetts were willing to sell. Or, more accurately, Barbara Barnett. Tom Barnett passed away last week. To—” I hesitated, unsure how to word what I was going to say. “To incapacitate Sara wouldn't really accomplish much. So, I really doubt that there's a connection. Still, Jonath—Professor Beasley thought you should know.”

“We appreciate that,” said O'Connell, but he seemed vaguely disappointed. It occurred to me that Jonathan may have set his expectations for the importance of what I had to say a little high. “Can I ask you to keep us in the loop should there be any changes in the situation?” He passed me his card. I had the sense that he did so more out of habit than because he was interested.

“Sure,” I agreed, tucking it into my shoulder bag. They seemed ready to conclude the interview, but I was too curious not to use this opportunity to find out what little I could. “Professor Beasley said that you thought there might be a tie between the attack on Sara and the person who's been murdering prostitutes.”

“We're looking into it,” acknowledged O'Connell. “We have reason to believe that the killer might be part of the Harvard community in some way. And the witness to the attack on Ms. Grenthaler said that her attacker had been wearing a Harvard scarf.”

“But a million people must have those scarves,” I pointed out, just as I had pointed out to Jonathan a half hour ago.

“True, but we don't have a lot to go on, either in the killings or in the attack on Ms. Grenthaler.” He maintained the same courteous tone but his face betrayed a hint of either impatience or frustration.

“Have you found out anything about the person who's been writing the letters to Sara?”

He shook his head. “We're having the letters analyzed by a profiler. Taken at face value, they don't seem to be threatening, but given what's happened, they can't be ignored, either. Anyhow, thank you for your time. We appreciate your coming by today, and please call us if anything else comes to mind.”

Now he definitely looked impatient. I'd been dismissed, professionally and politely, but dismissed nonetheless. I wasn't thinking quickly enough on my feet; the interview had concluded without me finding a way to introduce O'Connell to Hilary. If anything, I might have even annoyed him. And the only reason I had to call him was if something untoward happened with Grenthaler Media, which was the last thing I wanted.

I sighed as I left the conference room. I was the first person to recognize that the only reason I was thinking about Hilary's love life right now was to try to distract myself from the unpleasant fact that I'd come dangerously close to crossing the thin line between harmless flirtation and cheating. Although, did it count as cheating when you suspected you were being broken up with but just hadn't yet endured the actual break-up discussion? Regardless, I had to say something to Jonathan before things went any further.

 

Part of me was hoping to depart without seeing Jonathan again, to avoid having to come clean, at least for a while. But the eighteen-year-old part of me was rearing for another encounter. And that part won out, because I'd left my coat in his office. Either way, Jonathan seemed to have been waiting for me to emerge from my meeting with the police, because he rose to his feet as soon as I entered the room.

“Hey. How did it go?”

“Fine,” I said. “But it's still hard to believe that there might be any relationship between what's going on at Grenthaler Media and this whole thing. They didn't seem to think so, either.”

“Where are you off to now?” he asked.

“Back to the Charles. My firm's hosting a cocktail party for the candidates we're asking down to New York.”

“I'll walk you over there,” he volunteered. “I have a couple of errands to do in the Square. And I was going to stop by UHS to see Sara.”

Inside my head, eighteen-year-old Rachel jumped up and down, while the more mature Rachel tried to figure out how she was going to set the record straight with Jonathan before she descended yet further into a quasiadulterous quagmire.

“Great,” I said. It was unclear which Rachel was currently speaking for me.

He helped me into my coat and donned his own. I noticed that his shirt cuff was monogrammed—JEB. If we got married, I thought, and I changed my name, I wouldn't have to change any of my own monograms. Not that I'd ever been much of a monogrammer, per se. And Rachel Beasley sounded silly. Perhaps I could hyphenate? But Rachel Benjamin-Beasley sounded even sillier. I kept my mind focused on such thoughts, in order not to think about how nice and broad Jonathan's shoulders were under his coat, and how his lips might have felt if they'd actually connected with mine, and how I was going to use the ten-minute walk to the hotel to let him know about my phantom boyfriend.

The phone rang just as we were leaving Jonathan's office, and he apologized but excused himself to pick it up. I used the time to extract my Blackberry from my bag and check again for messages. With a mixture of relief and foreboding, I saw that there was an e-mail from Peter, which I took as an omen. He was making his presence felt, and there was no moral way I couldn't tell Jonathan about his presence.

But when I opened his message my resolve disappeared.

 

You're going to kill me, but we're still trying to get this client signed up. Abigail thinks we're going to need to do some serious wining and dining if we're going to ward off Smitty Hamilton, and I have to agree. It looks like I'm going to miss the big dinner at Jane's. I'll try to get there after we're done if it's not too late. I'll make it up to you—I promise!! PF

 

Humph.
Not even a “love” or an “XO” at the end. And once again, he'd chickened out, choosing e-mail rather than a phone call. And could he really need to be spending so much time signing up this client? That's what he said he'd been doing the previous night, and if the snoring were any indication, he'd put in a pretty serious effort.

Maybe, said the mean little voice (which I was beginning to think might be in cahoots with my eighteen-year-old voice), he just wants to spend more time with Abigail. Maybe this client stuff is all about trying to let you down easy. Maybe he's doing the wussy-boy thing, by being so unavailable and busy that you're left with no choice but to break up with him simply out of pride. Leaving him free to do what he really wants. Leaving him free to be with Abigail.

I tried to silence the mean little voice, but it was hard, especially when Jonathan hung up the phone and gave me the sort of smile that was guaranteed to quiet all of the various insecurities the mean little voice seemed to represent. As if I were the most beautiful, fascinating creature he'd ever met. And as if he would never toss me over to spend time with the gazellelike Abigail.

“Sorry about that. Ready to go?”

“Sure.”

Jonathan chatted on about the police investigation as the elevator descended to the ground floor. Outside of Morgan Hall, the late-afternoon air felt like it came directly from the North Pole. A scattering of lazy snowflakes drifted down, but the sky above was dark with the threat of more. A gust of wind hit us as we reached the river, nearly knocking me off my feet. Jonathan put his hand on my shoulder to steady me, and he kept it there as we crossed over the bridge.

Now, I thought, as we crossed the intersection at Memorial Drive. Now's the time to tell him. But Jonathan was telling a story about something that had happened in class that day, and it seemed rude to interrupt.

Now, I thought again, as we turned off JFK Street onto Eliot Street, and I could see the outline of the hotel ahead of us. But I was in the middle of a story about something similar that had happened to me when I was a student.

The next thing I knew, we had arrived at the small plaza in front of the side entrance to the hotel and I was feeling a level of awkwardness that eclipsed any sense of awkwardness I'd experienced previously. Which was a pretty high bar.

“So, here we are,” I announced, still trying to figure out how I could casually mention Peter.

“Yes. Here we are,” Jonathan agreed, shifting from one foot to the other.

“Listen, Jonathan—” I began, but he started speaking at the same time.

“So, I know it's another last-minute invitation, but any chance of dinner after your cocktail thing?”

“I can't,” I explained, and what was left of my character was glad to be able to demur. I'd told him about my roommate reunion at dinner the previous night. “We have the kickoff to our reunion tonight.”

“That sounds like fun,” he said.

“It will be,” I answered. I was looking forward to my friends' help in sorting out what had happened to my relationship with Peter and hearing what they thought I should do about Jonathan. Although, I wasn't sure I was going to be happy with what they told me.

I could have invited him to join us. Significant others were included in the reunion. But technically, I already had one S.O. And having Jonathan at dinner would make a discussion of my current S.O. issues impossible.

I knew I had to tell Jonathan about Peter. And I knew I should do it before things got any more tangled. I took a deep breath and was about to open my mouth to spill it.

But this time it wasn't Jonathan's lips that interrupted. It was an all too familiar nasal voice.

“Hi, Rach!” Scott Epson seemed to have materialized out of nowhere. “Ready for the big Winslow, Brown shindig?”

I'd never thought I'd be so happy to see Scott. I introduced him to Jonathan, and we engaged in some meaningless conversation as a threesome. Not only would I not be able to have a discussion with Jonathan about Peter, there was no chance that Jonathan would try to kiss me again, here, in front of my colleague, thus adding to my list of transgressions.

From somewhere the bells of a clock rang out, indicating that it was half past five. I told Jonathan I'd talk to him soon, gave him a quick peck on the cheek and followed Scott through the revolving doors into the hotel.