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He was right.
“Oh, well,” I offered lamely. “Better luck next time.”
He hunched forward and stared at me intently. “Tell me, Jackie. Did you see anyone lurking around the building that morning?”
“What building?”
“When you ran out of the lobby . . . did you see anyone you knew?”
What an odd question for Victor to ask. “No. I was too intent on getting a cab. Was there someone around who I should have noticed?”
“I’m . . . well, um . . . of course not.”
I finished the last drop of my soup and let the spoon clatter into the bowl. “That reminds me—I saw you at Annabelle’s funeral. What were you doing there?”
“We met once years ago at an industry function,” he replied smoothly. “I was just getting started as a sales rep in publishing. She was nice enough to answer all my stupid questions. I figured the least I could do was show up and pay my respects.?
?
“The whole thing is just so sad.”
He leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Yeah. Are the police close to making an arrest?”
I shrugged. “Maybe Keith knows, but no one has told me a thing.”
He took a sip of vodka. “This murder has got everyone in the city all cranked up.”
We moved on to other topics and soon I was wondering more about how to get invited into his Park Slope bedroom than anything else.
19
MISS NIXON
Victor made no move to seduce me the night before. Like a perfect gentleman, he thanked me for a pleasant evening and put my horny behind in a cab. I spent my night dreaming of the two of us locked in a series of feverish, fantasy sexual positions. When the phone rang, I groaned and willed it to go away. I wasn’t ready to let Victor go just yet. It stopped and started ringing again insistently.
“Hello.”
“Jackie, it’s Paul. Wake up, girl, all hell is about to break loose.”
“What time is it?”
“It’s eight. Get up, throw something on, go out and buy the Comet. Then call me back.”
I swung my feet onto the floor. “Is it about Annabelle’s murder?”
“Stop talking and get the paper, Jackie.”
Paul hung up.
I threw my coat on over my nightgown, slipped my feet into a pair of loafers, and hit the street with my sleep-encrusted eyes and unwashed body, looking like a madwoman.
The chilly, winter-morning air had pierced through my coat, danced under my flannel pajamas, and wrapped itself around my naked skin by the time I turned onto 111th Street where the little Spanish man stood hawking his newspapers. I dug two quarters out of my coat pocket, pressed them into his hand, and raced back home, hugging the New York Comet to my chest.
I sat down on the sofa without removing my coat and started to read. The headline blared FORMER DEBUTANTE’S MURDER STILL UNSOLVED. The front page was divided lengthwise by a thick, black line. On the left side was a photo of Annabelle, looking young and fresh in a floor-length white gown. A white corsage was pinned to her wrist. The caption underneath it said: Eighteen-year-old Annabelle Welburn, on the eve of her society debut. The right photo showed Annabelle on the beach, throwing a ball at a tiny, dark-haired tot who was clapping her hands in glee. The caption underneath that one said: Annabelle Welburn Murray and her two-year-old daughter, Dora. The pictures were touching but no reason for Paul to wake me up at eight in the morning.
There were more pictures of Annabelle with various family members inside and two lengthy stories about Annabelle’s life as a prep school student and her years at Vassar. I was about to close the paper and call Paul when the name “Gilchrist” in Tiffany Nixon’s column caught my eye. It read:
WRAPPED IN A PC CLOAK
