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“Oh, dear Lord, you didn’t witness—”
“Afraid so.”
“Oh my. Oh my.” Another question was poised on her lips.
Remmi answered before being asked, “It wasn’t Mom. That’s why I’m late. I went to the police station. I insisted upon viewing the body.”
Greta was shaking her head. “I can’t believe it.”
“It was hard. That poor woman . . . Why? I just can’t get over why anyone would . . . do what she did.”
Greta waved Remmi into a chair. “Are you all right?”
Remmi dropped into one of two floral wingbacks positioned near a massive, mostly unused fireplace, its broad mantel covered with framed photos of Greta and her family. “No, probably not,” she admitted, trying to push the disturbing image of the dead woman from her mind, “But I will be.”
“Maybe you need some hot tea.”
“At the very least.”
Greta’s eyebrows shot up, and her pale eyes sparkled. “I’ve got whiskey.”
“No, really. I’m fine.”
Disbelieving her, Greta whipped over to the portable bar, found a dusty bottle of bourbon, and poured them each a drink.
“Now,” she said, balancing the glasses as the liquor sloshed while she rolled back across the carpet to Remmi’s chair. “Tell me. And don’t leave out a thing.” She handed a short glass to Remmi, clicked the rim of her drink to Remmi’s, then took a long swallow. “Aaaah. There we go. That’s more like it,” she said with a happy sigh.
Remmi sipped more slowly, the aged bourbon burning a trail down her throat as she explained about seeing the woman on the ledge, about hearing the speculation that it might be her mother, how she’d been horrified as the woman had jumped, then decided to visit the police station, telling her story to Detective Danielle Settler and insisting on ending up in the morgue. “And the weird thing,” Remmi said, swirling the amber liquor in her glass, “is that the victim was dressed in Didi’s things. I know because Didi marked them all, and sure enough, the wig had Mom’s signature inside. And this woman—whoever she is—wanted people to think she was Didi, not Marilyn or someone else because she did everything my mom did, down to the fingernail polish; the ring finger on her left hand was colored differently from the others. That was Didi’s signature.”
“But . . . why?” Greta’s features were drawn together as she thought, her glass empty.
“Don’t know.”
“Does it have something to do with that book? I’m Not Me? Good Lord, what a stupid title.”
Remmi almost laughed. “I think it must have something to do with the publication. Why else now?”
Her lips pursed, and she wheeled over to the drinks cabinet again. “Another?” she asked, eyeing the open backgammon board on a nearby table, but for once not suggesting a match.
Remmi shook her head, the alcohol warm in her empty stomach. As Greta poured herself another couple of shots and asked questions, Remmi filled her in as best she could.
“Any chance this woman didn’t jump? That she was, you know, helped along?” Greta asked.
“You mean pushed?”
“Yes. Either physically or psychologically?”
“I guess we won’t know until she’s identified. The police should be able to figure that out if it was physical. It didn’t look that way to me, but it was foggy, and there were curtains behind her and . . .” In her mind’s eye, she saw that terrible leap once more, and she shuddered inside as she remembered the dull thud of the body hitting the wet cement. Catching Greta watching her, she said, “There were dozens of cell phones taking pictures of the woman. And the hotel has to have cameras everywhere. It’s just too early to know.” Remmi shivered at the thought and decided another drink might be in order. She pushed herself to her feet and, at the drinks cabinet, poured another shot and took a long swallow.
“It’s all so very, very bizarre,” Greta said.
What about my life hasn’t been?
Greta added, “We just have to find out about this woman, to whom she was linked, how anyone might profit from either her death or from the publicity about it, you know, for the book.”
“I know, but I never made it to the agent’s office.” She finished the rest of her drink, and for the first time noticed two gold eyes peering at her from behind a pillow on the sofa. Ghost. Greta’s shy, gray, long-tailed cat that Greta claimed was a Russian Blue and was forever hiding. “Tomorrow I’ll go there,” she vowed, studying the remaining drop of liquid in the bottom of the glass.
“Yes, tomorrow.” Greta finished her last drink as well. “I’m going to do some research.” As Remmi turned toward the foyer and the stairs, Greta said, “Wait. Just a minute. Come with me.” She buzzed through the dining room and butler’s pantry. Remmi grabbed her coat and followed through a large kitchen and past an ancient butcher block island, then turned down a hallway that passed under the stairway and led to Greta’s private quarters, a small sitting room, study, bedroom, and bath. Greta was already through the French doors to her den, where she grabbed a book from the corner of a massive desk. The room was large, nearly a library, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a large window overlooking an overgrown backyard.
