Читать книгу Obsession, Deceit And Really Dark Chocolate - Kyra Davis - Страница 12

A little competition never hurt anyone…with the notable exception of the losers.

—C’est La Mort

“These napkins smell funny.”

I gave Leah a weird look before taking a sniff of my own cloth napkin. Four days had passed since I had told Marcus I was going to continue to investigate Eugene’s violent death, and now I had just made the same declaration to my sister as we prepared to have brunch in a new restaurant located in downtown Pleasanton.

We had chosen this place for two reasons. One, she was contemplating whether the restaurant was suitable for a bridal shower she was coordinating, and two, in a few hours I would be meeting with Anne Brooke in her nearby Livermore campaign headquarters. I had finagled the appointment by posing as a freelance journalist for Tikkun magazine, a famously liberal Jewish publication. I didn’t actually read Tikkun (I was turned off by the magazine’s lack of fashion tips and celebrity gossip), but I knew enough about the causes they championed to convince Brooke and her people that I was writing for them. The best thing about the appointment was that Anatoly knew nothing about it. I had asked him to meet at Boudin in Fisherman’s Wharf this afternoon so we could come up with a new game plan. By the time he figured out that I wasn’t going to be showing up it would be too late for him to do anything about it.

“Stop thinking about Anatoly and tell me what you think of that smell,” Leah said.

“They smell like fabric softener, and how did you know I was thinking about Anatoly?”

“You had that wicked look in your eye,” she said with a disapproving sigh.

“I wasn’t having wicked thoughts, at least they weren’t wicked in the way you’re implying.”

“Whatever. I’m not going to recommend this place to my client unless the management is willing to switch to a lavender wash. And I have very mixed feelings about this china. Why are they serving continental cuisine on plates with fleur-de-lis accents?”

“To remind the customers that they serve French toast?” I suggested. I actually liked the restaurant. It was light and airy and the hostess had mistaken me for the instructor on her workout video. “Melanie doesn’t think that Eugene’s time in the FBI has anything to do with Eugene’s murder,” I continued, hoping to circumvent a conversation about the restaurant’s flatware. “She said that Eugene did most of his work behind a desk and the little fieldwork he did was undercover. So with maybe one or two exceptions, the bad guys Eugene helped put away don’t even know that he was the reason for their misfortune. Plus, as she pointed out, if a man wants to return to a life of crime after being released from prison he’s not going to hunt down the officer who arrested him. Instead he’ll steer clear of the cops and the feds and hang out with those who are more supportive of his nefarious activities.”

“Mmm-hmm, fascinating. You do realize that French toast is about as French as McDonald’s fries, don’t you?” Leah took another look at the fleur-de-lis china and clucked her tongue in disapproval.

I should have known better than to have tried to change the subject on Leah. It had always been an unspoken rule in my family that Leah and Mama were the ones who got to control the conversations, and my father (when he had been alive) and I were the ones responsible for placating them. “Leah, no one is going to notice that the pattern on their plate doesn’t reflect the cultural origins of the omelet on top of it,” I responded reasonably.

“They won’t consciously notice it, but they may very well walk away thinking the event wasn’t quite perfect,” Leah said. “People don’t have to be consciously aware of something in order to react to it. Isn’t that what subliminal advertising is all about?”

Couldn’t argue with that logic. I studied my bread plate with new interest. Were these fleur-de-lis sending me subliminal messages? Would I leave here with the urge to hand out cake to the proletariat while wearing Yves Saint Laurent’s newest fragrance?

“Speaking of being motivated by your unconscious,” Leah said, “you’ve told me that you’re going to continue to help Melanie figure out why Eugene was killed, but have you come to terms with why it’s so important to you that you help her?”

“Yes, I’ve figured it all out.” I launched into the whole spiel I had given Marcus, emphasizing my need to show up Anatoly. “He was so condescending when he told me that I was to have nothing to do with this case. Now I’m going to show him that his low opinion of my investigative abilities is totally off,” I explained. “I can get to the bottom of this whole thing faster than he can. After I’ve beaten him at his own game I’m going to waltz off into the sunset without him, and eventually, when it’s too late, he’ll realize what he lost when he gave me up.”

Leah stared at me for a full minute before speaking. “You’re like a psychological case study,” she finally said.

“Okay, enough.” I rested my elbows on the table, ignoring her look of disapproval. “You obviously have a theory as to what’s motivating me to do all this, so why not just tell me what it is?”

Leah looked away and I watched as she fought some kind of silent internal struggle. “You need to figure this out yourself.”

“What? You are going to keep your opinions to yourself? Have you been possessed by a nonjudgmental alien?”

“I wasn’t going to tell you this,” she said slowly, “but I’m going to therapy now.”

“Really? But you’ve always said that the only therapy you would ever engage in was the kind that involved an Amex and a Nordstrom shoe sale.”

“Jo-Jo changed my mind,” Leah explained. “You remember Jo-Jo, don’t you? She’s one of the women from the Junior League. She’s thirty-nine years old and up until recently she’s never been in a relationship that has lasted more than two weeks. A while back she started seeing this therapist who helped her realize what she was doing wrong, and now, after less than two years of weekly sessions, she’s managed to get a plastic surgeon to propose to her. Now Jo-Jo’s looking forward to a lifetime filled with love, security and free liposuction. As soon as I found out I made an appointment with the same therapist and he said that I need to let the people in my life figure out their own problems.”

“So you think I have a problem?”

“Too many to count. But my therapist also thinks that I push people away by being too critical of them, so I’m not going to criticize you until you’re out of hearing distance.”

“I’m fairly sure that telling me I’m ‘like a psychological case study’ is a criticism.”

“I slipped, sue me.” She gave an approving smile to the waiter as he served her a warm plate of ricotta cheese pancakes and me a seafood breakfast casserole.

“So what’s the goal here?” I asked. “To see this therapist until you get an M.D. to marry you?” I took a large bite of my casserole. Not good. Maybe this would be an ideal time to start my next diet.

“I don’t need to marry a doctor,” Leah said. “A lawyer would be okay, or even a dentist. Dental insurance is so pricey these days and it never covers the cosmetic stuff.”

“And you think I have issues,” I muttered. “Need I remind you that you were a married woman not too long ago and you hated it?”

Leah blinked in surprise. “I couldn’t stand my husband but I loved being married. I loved being part of a family unit, I loved showing off my ring, and I took comfort in the knowledge that I had crossed ‘get married’ off my to-do list. If I could just be married without having to actually have a husband, my life would be perfect.”

“I guess you could become a lesbian and do the whole civil-union thing.” I forced myself to take another bite of my food. Leah’s pancakes looked so much better.

“I’ve considered it,” she said, “but I have a feeling that being married to another woman would be even harder than being married to a man. What if I married a woman who was like me?”

“My God,” I gasped, truly horrified by the idea, “that would be unbearable.”

“Yes, it would be,” she agreed with an amused smile. “Too much of a good thing.”

We both laughed, but our moment of harmonious sisterly love was cut short by the ringing of my cell phone.

Leah glared at my purse. “Really, Sophie. The only people who keep their cell phones on in expensive restaurants are clueless teens and the nouveau riche.”

“It could be important,” I protested, not bothering to point out that she wasn’t exactly old money. “It’s Melanie,” I said once I had fished out my phone. “Would you prefer if I took this outside?”

“Or at least in the ladies’ lounge,” Leah said, pointing toward the restrooms.

I got up and made my way to the ladies’ room, wondering what Emily Post would say about cell phone/bathroom etiquette. “Hi, Melanie,” I said as soon as I was standing outside one of the stalls. “Everything okay?”

“I think so,” she said carefully. “I just received the strangest call from Flynn Fitzgerald.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, at first I thought he was just calling to see how I was holding up, but as the conversation progressed it became clear that he was really calling to find out about you.”

“Me? What did he want to know?”

“How long we’ve been friends, if you had published any other articles dealing with politics or had dealings with any other publications. That sort of thing. He seems to be under the impression that you work with the National Review.”

I braced myself against the sink. “Please tell me that you didn’t tell him otherwise.”

“I surmised fairly quickly that you had made up that story as a way to get an appointment with Fitzgerald, but I may not have covered for you very convincingly.”

“What do you mean?”

“When he first suggested that you were writing for that publication, I laughed. I laughed a lot, Sophie.”

Shit! “If Fitzgerald calls again, tell him that we met for tea or whatever and that now you realize that I’ve moved politically to the right. Tell him that I couldn’t stop gushing about the opportunity the Review has given me.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“Fantastic, thank you, Melanie. I’m sure no harm was done. In the meantime, do you think you could help me get in to see Maggie Gallagher? I’ve been trying to reach her, but she never returns my calls.”

“I’ll try, but I don’t know if I’ll be much help. Maggie and I have never been close. I’m not even sure if she likes me very much. She was more Eugene’s friend.”

“Really? But how can anyone not like you?”

“I’m sure there are a slew of reasons,” Melanie said modestly, “but I have no idea what specifically caused Maggie to be so distant with me.”

“Huh.” I briefly considered the possibility that Maggie’s dislike of Melanie had something to do with an inappropriate fondness Maggie might have had for Melanie’s husband. It certainly was something worth checking out. “Listen, Melanie, I’m having brunch with Leah right now so I should get going, but thank you for telling me about Fitzgerald.”

“Of course, Sophie. Enjoy your meal.”

I clicked off and studied my reflection in the mirror. So what if Fitzgerald knew that I had lied to him? It wasn’t like he was a suspect. Still, the idea made me more than a little uneasy.

When I got back to the table Leah had almost finished her pancakes and was looking more than a little irritated.

“Sorry about that,” I said as I took my seat. “But I had to take that call.”

“Of course you did. It was Melanie after all,” Leah snapped. Then she paused and some of the irritation slipped from her countenance as she met my eyes. “Sophie, I’m not going to tell you what your problems are, but I am going to make three suggestions.”

“I can’t wait to hear this.” I looked down at my plate. I wasn’t going to eat my casserole. It wasn’t even good enough to feed to my cat.

“Start thinking about why Melanie became important to you in the first place,” Leah suggested, “and then think about why you don’t have any photos of Dad hanging up in your apartment.”

“I don’t hang photos,” I said a bit too quickly. “I keep them in albums.”

“Albums that can be easily stored out of sight,” Leah pointed out.

The waiter walked by and I got his attention long enough to ask for our check. “I have to get to Livermore,” I said, smiling apologetically at Leah.

“Right,” Leah said dryly. “I’m sure your sudden need to leave has nothing to do with avoidance. But you can’t go without hearing my third suggestion.”

“Uh-huh.” I sent a beseeching look at our waiter, who was now across the room totaling up our tab. I was pretty much done with this conversation. “If your client wants the bridal shower here, tell her not to order the seafood casserole.”

“Don’t change the subject. You need to drop your vendetta against Anatoly,” Leah said. “If he’s not willing to commit, you should definitely walk off into the sunset without him, but it’s better to do it now instead of later. You don’t need to show him up.”

I turned back to her with surprise. “Since when have you had a problem with revenge?”

“I don’t have a problem with it. I just don’t think you should use it as an excuse to stay close to someone. Especially if you happen to be in love with that someone.”

“I’m not in love with Anatoly!”

“I see. Just because you think about him all the time, get agitated every time you hear his name and can’t get past the fact that he won’t commit to you, that doesn’t mean you’re in love with him, right?” The waiter came back with our check and Leah tossed an Amex card at him without even looking at it. “Like I said, Sophie, you’re a walking case study.”

“Leah, you know how you’re going to start criticizing me behind my back, rather than to my face?”

“Yes?”

“Well, I’m about to make that task easy for you.” I stood up, turned my back to her and walked out.

By the time I was on the elevator going up to Anne Brooke’s top-floor campaign headquarters I was in a better mood. I had spent my life not listening to Leah and I saw no reason to change that pattern now. I was not in love with Anatoly. Furthermore, I knew why I was on this case, and it didn’t matter if my reasons were logical or not. They were still my reasons, and if I wanted to show Anatoly up that was my prerogative. And I wasn’t insisting on staying on this case just so I could be close to him. If that were true I would have told him about this interview rather than trick him into going to Boudin.

The elevator opened, and I put on my most winning smile and was all ready to charm the Brooke campaign workers when I spotted him.

Anatoly’s hands were jammed into the pockets of his leather jacket, a large camera case dangled over his shoulder, and he was engaged in a seemingly casual conversation with Anne Brooke.

That son of a bitch. How had he known? I took a steadying breath and tried to walk (rather than march or stomp) over to where they were talking.

Anatoly’s eyes met mine and the right corner of his mouth turned up. “So,” he said, his Russian accent making the word sound sexier than it had any right to be, “the reporter has arrived.”