On What Grounds

“Isn’t that interesting. I mean, in this age of specialty coffees. You, too, Mr. Engstrum?” I asked Junior. “You’re a tea drinker, too? No espresso or cappuccino for you?”

“Ugh, no.” He made an incensed sensitive-boy face. “Euro-trash mud. Wouldn’t touch the stuff.”

Now I really wanted to wring his neck. Not just for the insult to my business but because I hadn’t forgotten that wet wad of tea leaves I’d discovered dropped into the double layers of garbage bags after the inside layer had been twisted closed for the evening. A cup of tea was the very last thing Anabelle had prepared and discarded before her fall. And since Anabelle was not a tea drinker, that meant her attacker was.

Time to play rough, I decided.

“Miss Walden-Sargent,” I said, turning toward her, “were you by any chance in the city this past summer?”

“No,” she said. “As a matter of fact, I was studying in Grenoble then touring with my parents.”

“How interesting. Then you aren’t a dancer?”

“A dancer? What do you mean?”

Junior’s look of indifference was suddenly wiped clean. He sat up in his chair, his eyes wide.

“I mean, miss, that Mr. Engstrum here was seen frequenting the Lower East Side clubs this past summer with a young dancer, so I thought maybe there was some mistake about the date of your engagement—”

“Madam,” barked Mrs. Engstrum, “I don’t know who may have repeated such a tale to you, but you’re seriously mistaken. You know, I have friends in the executive office of Town and Country, and I wasn’t under the impression they employed checkout counter tabloid reporters. This interview is over, and after I’ve made a phone call or two, I’m sure your career will be, as well.”

“Well, I see my time is up,” I said, rising.

Mrs. Engstrum glared at me as if I was about to leak national security secrets to our mortal enemies. “Your time is up all right. And you’ll be facing a lawsuit if you print a word of that lie.”

“Interesting that you’ve called it a lie,” I said, my eyes shifting to Richard, Junior. “But your son has not.”

Before she could issue another threat or force her son into supporting their little cover-up, I turned and departed, heading straight for the exit.

As I’d hoped, Mrs. Engstrum caught my arm just as I was pushing through one of the many sets of double doors along the back wall of the ballroom.

“Oh, no you don’t,” she snapped, pulling hard enough to bruise.

“Ow! Fiona, ease up, there.”

“How dare you threaten us with your lies,” she hissed, yanking me toward a deserted corner of the hallway. “How dare you—”

“How dare I!” I rounded on her. “How dare your son, madam. How dare your son sleep with Anabelle Hart, get her pregnant, and then try to kill her this past Wednesday night and make it look like an accident.”

The woman’s face went completely ashen.

Bingo, Bingo, Bingo.

Junior had done it all right, and she knew it. I’d hit a bull’s-eye.

“Who are you?” Her voice was barely there.

“Clare Cosi. I’m part owner and full-time manager of the Village Blend, the site of your son’s depraved assault on Anabelle.”

“Richard didn’t hurt Anabelle. You’re wrong. He made a mistake sleeping with that girl, a stupid, stupid mistake, but he didn’t do anything to hurt her, I swear—”

The woman looked absolutely stricken, and I faltered. The way the words came out—they felt so earnest and sincere. Was she telling me the truth? Or was her sincerity just a mother’s gullible belief in her own son’s innocence? Had Junior lied to her so well that she believed him? I didn’t know, but I had to keep going now—it was the only way to know for sure.

“Richard did hurt Anabelle, Mrs. Engstrum. I found the evidence after the Crime Scene Unit left. I haven’t brought it to the police yet, but I plan to—”

This was a lie, of course. A handful of tea leaves in a garbage bag did not prove a damned thing, but Mrs. Engstrum wouldn’t know that and neither would Richard.

“I just wanted you to have a chance to help your son,” I said, continuing the bluff. “I’m a mother, too, and one mother to another, I’m pleading with you to tell your son what I told you—talk some sense into him. If you convince him to give himself up by noon tomorrow, then I’ll destroy the evidence. The authorities will go much easier on him if he turns himself in and you know it.”

Fiona Engstrum looked stricken, stunned, pale as a ghost. Her eyes dampened with unshed tears.

“You’re wrong,” she rasped. “You’re wrong. I called Richard Thursday morning. He was in his fraternity at Dartmouth. He was there the whole night, and I’m sure he can find witnesses to that fact…I’m sure he can…”

Something inside me twisted. How could any mother face hearing this about her child? And what if I was wrong? What if Richard didn’t do a damn thing?

I couldn’t even imagine what I’d do if someone accused my own child of such a thing. But then Joy would never in a million years do what Richard Engstrum, Junior, had done. Even if he hadn’t caused Anabelle’s accident, he’d clearly abandoned her. Maybe a night of tossing and turning was something he deserved even if he wasn’t guilty. Anabelle didn’t have that luxury. She was flat on her back in St. Vincent’s ICU.

My resolve hardened.

“Remember. Noon tomorrow,” I said coldly and walked away.

I could feel the woman’s eyes burning a hole in the back of my Valentino. It took all my self-control not to steal a look at her as I strode back toward the ballroom doors, but to my credit I made it to the bar, where Matteo stood, without once turning around.

Twenty-Five

“I need a drink,” I announced to my ex-husband, my knees suddenly weak. “Kahlua, I guess.”

The sweet, smooth, and syrupy Mexican liqueur was not that strong, but it had a flavor that comforted me— coffee.

“Here, try this,” Matt said. “It has Kahlua in it.”

I accepted the tall, frosty glass of nutty-brown, creamy liquid and took a big gulp. The concoction was smooth and delicious. It tasted like toasted almonds, coffee, and cream all at once. Then my eyes began to widen as the alcohol punch hit me.

“Ohmygod,” I gasped. “What is that?”

“It’s called a Screaming Orgasm.”

I frowned at Matt. “I’m not in the mood.”

“No, really,” he insisted. “That’s what it’s called. Kahlua, amaretto, vodka, ice, and cream.”

By the time he’d recited the ingredients, the vodka had kicked in and I didn’t care what the hell the drink was called. I just wanted more of the same.

“We hit another wall,” I announced dismally. I swirled the glass in my hand and leaned against the bar.

“I tried the mother-to-mother thing, then I strong-armed the woman.” I sighed and rubbed my arm where Mrs. Engstrum had grabbed it. That’s gonna leave a mark.

“She came back at me like a cornered panther protecting her cub. And then she got pretty emotional. She claims her cub was at his Dartmouth fraternity with witnesses the night Anabelle was hurt.”

Matteo arched his eyebrow. “Too bad I missed the cat fight.”

“You know what,” I said miserably. “Maybe Anabelle had an accident, after all. Maybe she just tripped over her dainty little feet and plunged down those steps all by her clumsy self—”

I took another gulp of Orgasm and brother did I want to scream.

“Maybe we’re ruined,” I said, “because we have no insurance and Darla Hart is about to sic the best ambulance-chasing lawyer in New York City on us.”