The silence on her end of the phone went on so long I wondered if she’d disconnected.
Finally she said in a quiet voice, “Care to explain that?”
Kit knew Rebecca. I’d introduced them when she visited me at school, and she’d disliked her from the moment they met.
When I’d asked why, she’d said, “I just don’t like her, that’s all. I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something about her. Something … fake.”
I didn’t want to say what I really thought: You’re jealous of my friendship with Rebecca. Instead, I tried to get Kit to come around, but she wouldn’t have it. Later, when Rebecca would no longer return my calls or answer my e-mails, Kit said she wasn’t surprised and had seen it coming.
“She’s only out for herself, Lucie. You’re better off without her. Forget her and move on.”
Now I said to Kit, “Rebecca called me a few weeks ago and asked me to meet her in town for the weekend.”
“And you said yes. Jeez, Luce.
“I don’t know. Curiosity, I guess.”
More silence.
“Are you covering the story?” I asked her.
“No.” Her voice was flat. “My boss asked, but I knew I couldn’t be objective about this one. I’m sorry she’s missing, but I still think she treated you like dirt all those years ago.”
“I know,” I said. “Look, it’s complicated.”
“I suppose you went to that shindig last night for Tommy Asher and his wife since that’s probably why Rebecca was in town?”
“Yes.”
“You know Cameron Vaughn is holding a hearing in a couple of days to look into her boss’s questionable business practices. I think he plans to turn over a few rocks and see what crawls out.”
“I heard.”
Ian Philips, as far as I was concerned, would be among those crawling out.
“Look,” she said, “I’ve been at Mom’s all weekend trying to get her taxes in order. I’m not going back to D.C. until tomorrow morning. How about getting together for dinner? Maybe we should talk.”
“I didn’t get much sleep last night, Kit. I’m kind of beat.”
“I’ve got the cubicle next to David Wildman in the newsroom, you know. He’s been digging around Asher Investments for the past few months. If half of what he’s uncovered is true, Rebecca was up to her neck in muck,” she said. “And now she’s missing. Sure you don’t want to have dinner at the Inn?”
She waited.
“I’ll make the reservation,” I said. “How about seven?”
“I’ll be there,” she said, “with bells on.”
Kit’s Jeep pulled into the parking lot of the Goose Creek Inn at seven o’clock sharp just as I was climbing out of the Mini. Though the sun wouldn’t set for another half hour, a path of luminarias along the flagstone walk and fairy lights woven through the branches of a flowering dogwood cast a soft light on the whitewashed half-timbered building so it took on the enchanted aura of a fairy tale.
I walked up the path and waited for Kit by the front door. She bounded up the walk dressed in skin-tight jeans, a hot pink sweater, a Concord grape corduroy jacket, and a lime green silk scarf. Lately she’d developed a taste for wearing violently hued outfits—the brighter, the better—which she said never failed to get her called on when she raised her hand at a press conference. Since she was also forty pounds overweight, dyed her hair Marilyn Monroe blond, and applied makeup like war paint, she was hard to miss even without the bright clothing.
“You look like something they forgot to shoot.” She leaned in, giving me an air kiss. “Try aromatherapy, kiddo. Works wonders for me.”
“Nice to see you, too. New outfit?”
She grinned. “You like?”
“Phosphorescent colors look good on you. Does that sweater glow in the dark?”
She burst out laughing and held the door. We stepped inside to the fragrant aromas of my cousin Dominique Gosselin’s cooking and the comforting sounds of conversation, laughter, and the clink of dishes and glassware. In the forty years since Fitzhugh Pico, my godfather, founded the Goose Creek Inn and Dominique inherited it after he passed away, the place had won every major dining award in the Mid-Atlantic, earning a reputation as the region’s most romantic restaurant. Dominique, who’d seen her share of high-profile clients show up with their “secretaries” asking for a discreet table for a special lunch or dinner, often said she knew more Washington secrets than the CIA and Secret Service put together.
The mâitre d’ waved us to the front desk and led us himself to the main dining room and my favorite window table with its view of Goose Creek. He promised my cousin would stop by as soon as she cleared up a momentary crisis in the kitchen.
“Something only she can handle?” I asked.
He winked as he gave me an elaborate Gallic shrug. “Would she have it any other way? They’re all crises only she can handle.
We sat and, though the window was closed, I could hear the creek below us as it rushed over rock-strewn rapids on its way to the Potomac. Soon it would be too dark for the police to continue their search. I wondered whether Detective Horne had already called it off for the day.
“They still haven’t found her,” Kit said, reading my mind. “I checked with the desk before I left the house.”
Usually he and I bantered in French, but tonight I didn’t feel like chatting or drinking champagne. “
“I’ll take a vodka martini. Straight up, very dry, with a twist,” Kit said. “Nice to see you, as always.”
“I’ll bring those right away.” Gilles switched to English and shot me a concerned glance as he left.
Kit picked up her menu and studied it in silence. I did the same. We ordered dinner and a bottle of Oregon Pinot Noir as soon as our drinks came.
“May she rest in peace,” Kit said finally as we touched glasses.
“She’s not at peace, that’s for sure,” I said. “The detective who questioned me this morning about her clothes, Horne, promised to let me know when they find her. If they find her.”
“Are you talking about Ismail Horne … Izzy Horne?” Kit asked as I nodded. “I know him. He’s a good guy. No nonsense, doesn’t screw around. He’ll find whoever did this, Lucie—if it’s a homicide.”
“It’s not suicide. I’m sure of it.”
Kit watched me as she reached for a piece of baguette from the breadbasket and slabbed herbed butter on it.
“Her underwear was missing,” I said. “It wasn’t with her clothes.”
Kit hesitated. “Either she kept it on when she went in or, if it was a homicide, maybe he took it. Some sicko with a fetish.”
I gulped my wine and considered what she wasn’t saying. That maybe Rebecca had been raped, too.
“Look, until the cops find her, we’re just speculating,” Kit said. “Do you even know what was going on in her life these days? Remember how secretive she was? Evasive? How long did she keep that affair with the chairman of your English department off the radar? A year, wasn’t it?”
“Nearly eighteen months.”
“See?” Kit took a large bite of baguette. She said, through a mouthful of bread, “So what’d you two talk about when you got together yesterday?”
A sommelier opened our wine and poured some for me to taste. I nodded and he filled our glasses.
“She felt bad about the way she treated me after she left school. Said she wanted to apologize.”
“Just like that?” Kit was incredulous.
