The Jinx (19 page)

I
used the downtime in the cab to make a phone call. I knew it was probably futile, but I owed it to Sara to explore every option, and that included Barbara Barnett. Just because I suspected she was a frustrated murderer didn't preclude my making an attempt, however vain, to try to talk her out of launching a takeover and into respecting the wishes of her late husband instead. And it wasn't like she had any reason to try to kill me.

Barbara answered the phone herself, which surprised me. She didn't seem like the type to give the maid weekends off. She greeted me warmly, as if there were no sides in this struggle but we were instead one big happy family. I'd barely identified myself before I was treated to a breathless spiel about how exciting it all was and wasn't Adam impressive this morning? I made noncommittal noises until her words finally slowed to a trickle, at which point I asked if it would be possible to get together and talk.

“Why, I'd love to, honey, but I'm just booked today,” she drawled. “I've got a hair appointment and then the yoga instructor comes by and then I'm due at a drinks party.” One would never have guessed that her husband had died only eight days ago. She seemed to be taking the term “Merry Widow” to heart. As if reading my thoughts, she continued on. “You know, Tom's death has been so hard on me. I miss him every minute of the day, but I've been trying to keep myself busy. And all of this excitement with the company has really given me a new lease on life. It's so wonderful to have something to look forward to, honey.”

“I bet,” I said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. Tom would be rolling over in his grave if he knew what was happening. Although, if he'd been cremated then I guessed he didn't have a grave. And, so soon after lunch, I didn't want to imagine how his ashes might be reacting. “How about tomorrow morning?” I suggested. After all, it wasn't like I'd be spending the time snuggling in bed with Peter, assuming he was even there. And I'd make sure that plenty of people knew where I was going, just in case Barbara did decide that there was a reason she wanted me dead.

She agreed that tomorrow morning would be fine before launching into a reprisal of her favorite song, titled “My Son the Tycoon.” Its various verses and repeated chorus kept me on the phone until the cab reached Harvard Square.

 

The elevator ride to the fifth-floor infirmary was beginning to give me a feeling of déjà vu, and the nurse at reception gave me a familiar wave, as if we were old friends. This really wasn't turning into the weekend I'd planned.

O'Connell was as good as his word, and there was a uniformed police officer posted outside Sara's door. He had a clipboard with a list of names. Fortunately, mine was on it, but he insisted on seeing a photo ID. I showed him my New York State driver's license, and he carefully checked my face against the thumbnail-size picture, ultimately deciding that there was enough of a resemblance to risk sending me into the room. “Thank you, ma'am,” he said, handing back my license.

This “ma'am” really hurt, given that it took into account both my looks and my date of birth, which was plainly marked on my license. On any other day, I might have taken him aside and let him know that recklessly ma'am-ing people was not a recipe for success. In fact, if anything it was likely to slow one's pace of advancement through life. But today I had too much else on my agenda to show the guy the error of his ways. Instead, I gave the door a gentle knock and let myself in.

“Hi, Rachel.” Sara was sitting up in bed, and, all things considered, she looked well. Still, there were more tubes and wires attached to her than there had been the day before. I guessed that the hospital was monitoring her condition carefully after the events of the previous evening.

Edie was there, too, as promised. It was fortunate that she wasn't going through recruiting, because she'd definitely been putting in the hours here by Sara's side. “You just missed Professor Beasley,” she told me.

Sara gave me a look that was almost conspiratorial. “If I'd known you'd be here so soon, we would have tried to make him stay longer.”

I felt myself blanch at the suggestion.

“Did he say where he was going?” I asked. If he did, I could call O'Connell so he could track him down.

“No,” said Edie. “He just said he had an appointment. He left right after we showed him the letter. He didn't seem too worried about it.”

Probably because he was too busy thinking about where he was going to find his next prostitute or other Boston-area “lowlife” to strangle and dump. Or perhaps he was still figuring out where to dispose of the body he had stashed in the trunk of his car. I didn't want to be the one to tell Sara and Edie that their revered professor was a serial killer, and if Beasley had come and gone without incident, there was probably no compelling need to do so. Besides, it would be breaking from pattern for him to try and kill a student. According to Hilary, who, sad to say, was the closest thing to an expert I had, serial killers tended to stick to a pattern, choosing the same type of victim for each repeated crime.

“He brought me a book and those flowers,” Sara said, pointing out a colorful arrangement. “I don't know when he thinks I'm going to be reading poetry, though. I'm already days behind on my class work.”

“Speaking of which, any word from Gabrielle?” I asked.

Edie shook her head. “Nope. She's still MIA. We were actually just talking to Professor Beasley about it.”

“It's very weird,” commented Sara.

“Has she ever disappeared like this before?”

“No,” said Edie. “Never. And she's not one to step aside when anything of significance is going on. Usually she likes to be in the middle of any action.”

“Odd,” I said. But now that I thought I knew who was behind the attacks on Sara, I couldn't work up much interest in her Psycho Roommate. Nor was I terribly interested in the Creepy Stalker, but I asked anyhow. “So, tell me about the most recent letter.”

“It's not a big deal,” said Sara.

“It is too a big deal,” protested her friend. “See that copy of
US?
” She pointed to the popular weekly on the bedside table. I nodded. “I bought it at Out of Town News yesterday afternoon before stopping by. Sara and I were actually looking at it together while I was here. If there'd been a letter in it then we would have seen it. But the letter would have had to have been in it when I bought it, which would be hard to pull off, or I would have had to put it in myself.”

“I knew it,” joked Sara. “You're the one. Why didn't you just tell me how you felt?” she asked with mock seriousness. She handed me the letter.

It was a good thing that I'd had the cab ride to digest my cheeseburger. This newest installment definitely scored high on the upchuck meter.

“Yuck,” I said.

“I know. It's pretty awful,” Sara agreed. “But at least it's short.”

“Nice way to find the silver lining,” I said.

She gave a modest shrug. “I try.”

“So,” I summarized, “somebody slipped the letter into the magazine between when you two were reading it yesterday afternoon and this morning. Who's been here between then and now?”

Sara grimaced. “I've been over that already with the police. Although, they're more worried about whatever was put in my IV last night than the letter. But the list is pretty short, assuming somebody didn't sneak in while I was asleep, which is entirely possible. Just Edie, you, Professor Beasley, my grandparents, Barbara and Adam Barnett, and Grant Crocker.”

She reeled the names off casually. I didn't have the heart to tell her that by my count there were as many as two evildoers and one Creepy Stalker on that list alone. The good news, I guessed, was that they'd all been flagged as such to the police.

 

The nurse came in to give Sara some painkillers while we were talking, and Edie headed out shortly thereafter, leaving me alone with Sara. I couldn't procrastinate any longer, but the nurse's timing had been superb. I'd been worried about Sara's reaction to the news about the takeover, but having her sedated in advance was helpful.

“I've got something to tell you,” I said, “and before I do I want you to promise that you won't worry.” I should have known that was a bad way to start. Her shoulders seemed to rise up a couple of inches, assuming a stressed-out position around her ears. I hoped that the medicine wouldn't take long to begin working its magic.

“What is it?” she asked, her voice grave with foreboding.

In as few words as possible, I laid out what had transpired at that morning's board meeting.

She was quiet for a moment, thinking over what I'd told her. “I didn't know Barbara had it in her,” she said eventually. “I mean, I always knew she wanted Adam in on the company, and it was pretty clear that neither Tom nor I were going to let it happen. But she's found another way. And I'm sure she's ecstatic, isn't she?”

“Pretty much,” I agreed. Ecstatic was a fairly accurate way to describe Barbara's reaction.

“More importantly, what do we do now?” She'd swung her legs out from under the covers and seemed to be getting ready to leave. She began examining the ways in which the various tubes and wires were attached to her, figuring out how to detach them.

“Oh, no, you don't,” I told her. “You're not going anywhere. You're not going to help anyone by leaving here before you're ready.” And with the guard posted by her door and Barbara Barnett still at liberty, this seemed to be the safest possible place for Sara right now.

“I'm ready,” she said. “Besides, I can't just sit here while this is going on.” But she had to stifle a yawn while she said it.

“Yes, you can. First of all, you're on medication and will probably be asleep in a few minutes. And second, I'm doing everything there is to be done.” I sketched out for her my assessment of our options, and then I related my discussion with the Caped Avenger, as well as my planned meeting with Barbara the next day.

“This guy, Whitaker Jamieson—do you really think he'll change his mind?” she asked me.

“It's a strong possibility,” I said. I hadn't included the part about the Caped Avenger downing a quart of vodka and passing out on the banquette at the Ritz in my narrative. It didn't seem like it would instill much confidence. Still, I held out a faint desperate hope that if I nagged him enough he would withdraw his support from the Barnetts. Or, even more faintly and more desperately, that Barbara would be arrested for attacking Sara and the entire takeover attempt would fall apart. It would be hard to implement a takeover from jail.

“Even if he does, do I want him as such a significant stakeholder in the company?”

“Let's cross that bridge when we get there,” I advised. “I've known him for a while, and he fundamentally means well. I think he can be controlled. And he's currently our best bet on the white-knight front.”

“That's not very reassuring,” she said, her eyelids drooping with fatigue.

I couldn't disagree. “Look, even if he doesn't withdraw his support, we can file lawsuit after lawsuit to hold this thing up. I just don't want it to have to come to that. Businesses get run into the ground while people are fighting over them. There may also be the option to work out something amicable with Barbara.”

Sara was unable to keep her eyes open anymore, but she gave a soft laugh. “Good luck with that. She's a freak. And she'd do anything for Adam.”

“Listen,” I said. “Try not to worry. I'm doing everything possible. It will all work out. I promise.” I hoped my words didn't sound as hollow as they felt.

She dragged her eyes open; I could sense the effort it took.

“Do you think…do you think she had something to do with this?” she asked.

“I don't know,” I admitted as her eyes closed again.

I don't know if she heard me or if she'd already drifted off into unconsciousness. But I gave the security guard a lecture on the way out, urging him to take extra care, particularly where anyone named Barnett was concerned.

A
few minutes later I was standing in front of the Au Bon Pain at Holyoke Center with absolutely no idea as to where I was going to go next. The snow was still coming down steadily, and across Harvard Yard I could hear the bells of Memorial Church ringing the hour. Four o'clock, and there were no new messages on my Blackberry. I wasn't due back at Jane's until eight for cocktails and dinner, and it was probably too late to catch even the tail end of my friends' shopping expedition.

A steady stream of students and tourists passed me by as I stood in the snow and consulted my mental to-do list.

First on the list was to thwart the takeover of Grenthaler Media. I'd pleaded my case with the Caped Avenger, and I had plans to see Barbara Barnett the next day. Grenthaler's director of communications was putting out the appropriate press release. There was nothing much else I could do about it on a Saturday afternoon except fret. And I was definitely fretting. I was elevating fretting to an art form.

Second on the list, and, I hoped part of thwarting the takeover, was to prove that Barbara Barnett was guilty of attacking Grenthaler Media's primary shareholder and prevent any further attacks. Here, too, I wasn't sure what else I could be doing. Barbara seemed unlikely to suddenly confess. The police knew all about my suspicions, and O'Connell seemed to be on the case. Whether my earlier hissy fit had helped or hindered the effort was unclear, although at least it had served to extract an interview for Hilary. And the security guard seemed sufficiently competent, except for his tendency to ma'am people without cause. Again, all that was left to do was fret, but I was confident that I could fret about Sara and the takeover simultaneously. If fretting were a marketable skill, I would have been a billionaire by now. With my own reality TV show.

The third item on the list was my love life. I didn't know why I even kept it on there. It had reverted to its usual state of bleak and ugly disorder. Perhaps I should just accept my fate and acknowledge once and for all that the Jinxing Gods saw me as nothing more than a plaything, a human target in their never-ending game of Whack-a-Mole. I might as well just give it up and take myself out of the game for good. Then I'd have more time to fret over things that actually had the potential to turn around.

I'd been rejected before; in fact, I'd been rejected in more ways than I could count. The episode of
Sex and the City
in which Carrie's boyfriend broke up with her by Post-it had left me unmoved. I could top that Post-it blindfolded and with both hands tied behind my back. Watching Peter and Abigail practically make out in the middle of Copley Place left that Post-it in the dust. Especially when you took into account just having discovered that Peter's backup was a serial killer. That Post-it crumbled into insignificance when compared to my actual life.

Or lack thereof.

That's it, I decided. Right there, at that moment, standing in the middle of Harvard Square as the snowflakes danced around me, my choice came with startling swiftness and complete clarity.

I was giving it up.

I would resign myself to being perpetually single, buying my own jewelry, zipping the backs of my own dresses and never having a date to a wedding ever again, much less ever being a principal in a wedding. I knew that there were advantages to being single: the much clichéd but definitely valuable perk of full control of the remote, for example, not to mention no more apologizing for having nothing but Diet Coke and condiments in one's refrigerator. But now I was going to embrace my singledom. Just think, I told myself with growing excitement, of the money and time to be saved on grooming alone. And all of the eccentricities I could cultivate, strange eating habits and odd wardrobe choices, now that I had abandoned any concern for attracting members of the opposite sex. I'd be free of the Jinxing Gods at last.

Of course, there were children to consider. I wasn't sure if I wanted them, but this course did tend to rule them out, at least without the involvement of a sperm bank or adoption agency. And I probably lacked the appetite for single motherhood. Still, I had a couple of nieces I could spoil rotten. They would look up to me in an Auntie Mame sort of way, and potentially write fond memoirs one day, especially if I gave them particularly lavish gifts. I could afford it, since I wouldn't need to save up for orthodontia, piano lessons or college tuition for my own offspring. And I could spoil the children of my friends, as well.

 

I'd come to a crossroads and I'd chosen my course. I now felt invigorated—refreshed even. I decided to begin with the spoiling immediately. Baby Hallard wasn't due for nearly six months, but surely it wasn't too early to start showering him or her with presents? The Harvard Coop was across the way, and it seemed to me that Baby Hallard was desperately in need of a cotton onesie with Harvard Class of 202X emblazoned across the front. It was the sort of obnoxious garment that I'd never dress my own child in, but now that I'd decided I'd never have my own child, that was no longer a problem.

Harvard Square had changed dramatically since I'd first encountered it as an undergrad. It was hard not to walk through it without saying silent eulogies to landmarks long gone. Favorite boutiques, the infamous Tasty diner where many a night had culminated in early morning indulgences in greasy, fried food, even shops I'd never entered—I felt nostalgia for them all now that the vast majority of them had been transformed into Starbucks or painted over with a similar brush. I couldn't believe how many Starbucks there were, all congregated into an area a few blocks square. It wasn't that I hadn't been heavily caffeinated throughout my college years, but my caffeine had come from more individualized venues, with the sort of character—or, conversely, the simple lack of charm and pretension—that couldn't be easily franchised in malls across America.

The Coop itself hadn't missed out on the Starbucksination of the Square, but I eventually found my way to the annex where they sold novelty apparel. Nor had I been hoping in vain that I would find baby clothing with Harvard stamped all over it. There were a number of onesies to choose from in crimson on white, white on crimson, crimson-and-white striped, and even pink and blue, which seemed like it should be against the rules.

I made relatively quick work of selecting a couple of items for which Baby Hallard would doubtless be eternally grateful and waited patiently while the clerk wrapped my purchases in crimson-and-white tissue paper. I had a feeling I was going to enjoy the role of mad, frivolous auntie.

 

It turned out that neither my life-changing decision nor my shopping expedition had taken very long, so I decided to spend some time browsing through the books section before returning to the hotel to change for the evening's activities. What had once been a maze of haphazardly shelved texts had also been transformed by a decorator who must have trained at Barnes & Noble. In fact, I realized belatedly, it now officially was a Barnes & Noble. I happily passed up the self-improvement section since I'd decided to let myself go to complete and utter seed. I probably needed some new and eccentric interests to go with my embrace of a Miss Havisham lifestyle. Perhaps I could take up rug hooking. Or spelunking.

However, none of the books in the Hobbies section seemed to call out to me, although I did toy briefly with a coffee table tome on papier-mâché. But it weighed as much as a few lead ingots, and the mere thought of hauling it back to New York left me exhausted. It was time for a fresh infusion of Diet Coke. I abandoned the book and went off in search of caffeine.

True to the Barnes & Noble décor, there was a café on the second-floor balcony, and since I no longer cared about things like cellulite I purchased both the brownie and the Rice Krispies Treat instead of wasting precious time choosing between them. I found an empty table and sat down to enjoy my version of afternoon tea. I quickly settled in to a nice rhythm: a bite of brownie, then a sip of soda, followed by a bite of Rice Krispies Treat, and then another sip of soda. Heaven. I hadn't felt this good in days.

My table offered an excellent view of the first floor below me, and I gazed down at the shoppers in a state of chocolate/sugar/caffeine-drenched euphoria, amusing myself by counting Harvard scarves. I was up to sixteen when I noticed that one of the scarves was draped around a familiar pair of broad shoulders browsing the shelves. Its owner's blond head was bent down to examine an open text, and there was something familiar about the blond head, as well.

It was Jonathan Beasley, studly professor by day, crazed killer by night.

My reaction was a bit slow. On the one hand, his sinister presence should have jolted me into a state of high alert. On the other hand, I was having such a nice time with my soda and empty calories that I didn't want to interrupt it by panicking. It would be such a waste of truly delicious junk food.

Then he looked up in my direction. Our eyes nearly met, but I quickly pulled the bag with Baby Hallard's onesies onto the table and ducked my head behind it. When I peeked back around the edge of the bag a moment later, Jonathan was flipping through another book.

I still didn't panic. Rationally, I didn't really think Jonathan would try to kill me or anyone else in the middle of the Coop. But a crazed serial killer was, by definition, crazed, and it didn't seem to make sense to take any unnecessary risks. With a sense of calm resignation, I gave a last, wistful look at my brownie and my Rice Krispies Treat. Well over half was left of each. But I had to find a safe spot to call O'Connell and tell him where he could apprehend his suspect. Giving up on love didn't mean neglecting my civic responsibility to help fight crime.

With a sigh, I collected my things and followed signs to the stairwell, staying as far away from the balcony railing as possible in order to keep myself out of Jonathan's line of sight. The safest thing to do was find a ladies' room and call from there, and I was pretty sure there was one on the third floor, which had the added benefit of being where they kept books about science, which didn't seem to be one of Jonathan's areas of primary interest. I headed up the flight of stairs, my legs powered by the amounts of caffeine and sugar I'd managed to ingest before being so inconveniently interrupted. The ladies' room was deserted, and I locked myself in a stall and reached for my cell phone. I was getting so used to being perpetually freaked out that my hands were perfectly steady. I was in great shape to perform surgery or operate heavy machinery if the opportunity should arise.

Of course, all I wanted to do was make a simple phone call, but I should have known better than to think anything that I tried to accomplish that day would be easy. I stared at the screen of my cell phone in frustration as it searched fruitlessly for a signal. Nothing. I turned it off and then on again, but instead of the little bars indicating signal strength the space showed a lonely
X.
And the phone persisted in making the same whiny noise it had been making earlier in the day.

So much for the relative safety of the ladies' room. I obviously needed to find a quiet spot closer to a window, but I'd stay up here with the science books. Holding the Blackberry in front of me like a dowsing rod, I kept my eye on the screen as I wandered through the rows of bookshelves, all stuffed with texts on various 'ologies, waiting for some little bars to appear.

I probably shouldn't have been so confident that everyone's favorite psycho killer wasn't scientifically inclined. I had to skirt more than a few nerdy-looking types who'd plopped themselves down on the floor to better examine books about spiders and quasars, but I wasn't expecting to turn a corner and nearly collide into Jonathan Beasley. He was leaning against the shelves with his back to me, a book propped open in his hands.

Whatever he was reading must have been gripping, because my gasp of horror didn't register. I hightailed it back around the corner from which I came and made a beeline for the stairs. Except that I'd been so focused on my cell phone screen I'd completely lost track of where the stairs were. And I'd never been gifted on the navigational front. This deficiency, combined with being somewhat challenged in the height department, left me at a bit of a loss. I was essentially trapped in a maze of bookshelves I couldn't see over, without a clue as to the direction in which my escape route lay. Which would have been all right if there weren't a serial killer a few feet away who was likely only temporarily distracted by whatever he was reading.

I scampered up one row of shelves and down another, turning to the left and then the right, hoping eventually to locate a perimeter of some sort that I could follow. Instead I just found science nerds, using their breaks from the research lab or computer center to hang out in the bookstore and create a human obstacle course. When I judged that I was at least a few rows away from Jonathan, I stopped to ask one if he knew where the stairs were only to find that he didn't speak English. The second guy I asked favored me with a look so blank that it left me wondering if I spoke English.

The calm resignation I'd felt a few minutes earlier was gone, morphing into a far less calm sense of panic. I quickened my pace as I threaded my way through the seemingly endless rows of shelves. Relief flooded through me when I finally spied a red exit sign on a distant wall.

I leaped over the sprawling limbs of a couple more science nerds, my eyes focused on the exit sign and salvation. I cleared the last row of books and headed for the door.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a flash of crimson-and-white wool. Then an arm encircled my neck, nearly throwing me off my feet as it drew me into its grip.