Killer Market

dogs. (It reminded me of trying to get past the skin shows in Times Square without accepting a flyer.)

Chan’s death had moved to the inside pages of Market Press and Furniture/Today both, but when I got off the elevator at Dixie’s floor and passed the swing where I’d found him, I saw two exhibitors staring at the cushion.

“Wonder if it’s the same cushion?” asked one man.

“If it is, whatever they’re using for fabric protection is really effective,” the other replied in utter seriousness. “Want me to ask? It could solve some of the problems we’ve been having with our current system. If it’s not too expensive per unit, of course.”

Dixie was too busy to take a break, but she recommended a coffee bar a couple of floors up, across from the Fitch and Patterson showroom. “Pell and Lynnette were there with Drew a little while ago, but they were going on to Mulholland. He had to pick up a fax and Lynnette loves to play with the toys.”

I found the coffee bar with no trouble. It was the most popular spot around at the moment and I didn’t see an empty chair at first, nor Pell and Lynnette; but Heather McKenzie was there alone, looking like a small dark cloud. She brightened marginally when she saw me and gestured for me to bring my espresso over and join her.

The little round metal tables and airy wire chairs were finished in a shiny white enamel. They mimicked those of an old-fashioned ice cream parlor and, according to a bold sign, were sold by the same company that sponsored this coffee bar. Some people got up from one of the tables and I confiscated a chair, which I carried over to Heather’s table where she was finishing off a latte.

“Having any luck?” I asked.

“Do I look like it? I’m thinking of staking the Princess Patterson out in a field somewhere like a goat and see if that’ll bring Savannah out into the open.”

I was startled by the bitterness in her clipped New England accent.

“What’ve you got against Drew Patterson?”

“Not a goddamn thing.”

“No?”

“No! And could we change the fricking subject?”

“Okay. We could discuss your real reason for stalking Savannah. And please don’t hand me that ‘profile’ tale. You’re not a real reporter. You run a newsletter-publishing firm in Boston.”

She stared at me blankly. “How the hell do you know that?”

“I’m a judge,” I said. “Judges hear things. And I’m still waiting to hear your answer.”

“She’s my mother.”

“Your mother? I was told that your mother’s in Boston.”

“My adoptive mother,” she said glumly. “Savannah’s my birth mother.”

Now it was my turn to stare. The heavy black hair, the dark eyes, the short stature? Yes, this could be Savannah’s daughter. And I suddenly knew where that broad nose came from, too. Pell said Savannah had disappeared for four months when Jay Patterson dumped her after Elizabeth announced her pregnancy with Drew. She hadn’t just gone off to lick her wounds, she’d gone to Georgia to have a baby and then immediately give it up for adoption. No wonder she’d fixated on Drew when her mental illness grew worse. Drew was Jay’s legitimate daughter, unlike her own child, the child she could never acknowledge.

“Can you say ironic, boys and girls?” Her Mr. Rogers imitation was dispirited. “I’m trying to get her to sit still long enough for the big discovery and reconciliation scene and all she wants is ten minutes of Drew flicking Patterson’s time.”

Ironic was the word for it. Clearly Heather had no idea that Drew was her half sister.

“What’s so goddamn bloody awful is that she’s probably got her medications totally screwed—if she’s even taking them. If she’s not taking anything, her doctor said she should be okay physically, but if she’s taking them without getting her blood levels monitored, she could wind up killing her fricking self. And why the hell should I care?”

She put her head down and the long thick hair swung down on either side of her face to hide the sudden tears.

“And here I thought Bostonians were always so proper in their speech,” I said, trying to lighten the moment.

It didn’t work. And to make things worse, wouldn’t you know that Drew Patterson would pick that moment to stick her pretty head out of the Fitch and Patterson showroom, spot me and come strolling over through the crowds to say hello?

She immediately noticed how upset Heather was. “Is something wrong?”

“Not a damn thing.” Heather fumbled in her purse for a tissue.

I handed her a paper napkin for her nose and started to introduce them, but Drew said, “It’s Heather McKenzie, isn’t it? You interviewed my dad about Savannah.”

Tactfully, she pretended not to see Heather’s tears.

Unfortunately, Heather was past pretending. “I should have interviewed you!” she snarled. “That’s as close as I’m ever likely to get to her as long as you’re around.”

Drew recoiled as if she’d been slapped and looked at me in bewilderment. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Oh, hell,” Heather said wearily. “Sorry. It’s not your fault.”

“You know,” Drew said brightly, “there are lots of celebrities here at Market. I could introduce you to a dozen even more interesting than Savannah. And they’re not crazy either.”