“Right,” she said, as if only seeing would be believing.
When I phoned Claire Trent a minute later, a housekeeper answered, her British accent so thick I could barely make out what she was saying. It sounded as if Mrs. Trent was out but would be returning within the hour. I told her I’d prefer not to leave a message because it was a surprise.
After I hung up, I made coffee and paced around my living room. I was tempted to call Richard right then and confront him, but I knew if I did it without all the facts in hand, I might not be able to elicit anything valuable.
As obsessed as I was about the case, Beau kept intruding on my thoughts. I’d thought I might hear from him this morning, and yet so far nothing. Up until last night, he’d been the one on the offensive, badgering me for contact. Now things were flipped. Once Beau had spotted me with Chris, he’d cast me in the role of bad girl. Did this mean that if I didn’t reach out, I’d never, ever hear from him again?
To distract myself, I checked my email. And lo and behold, the lovely Skyler had finally sent me links to several of Whitney’s stories. I watched each of them, which was about as much fun as cleaning out my wallet. Whitney, it turned out, had been no Diane Sawyer. She was gushy on camera and hyper concerned looking, as if she were reporting live each time from Darfur and she couldn’t help but let her emotions get in the way. I soon found the story on anorexia. According to Whitney’s intro, an “explosion” of cases in Fort Worth had many local parents “worried sick.” The piece was light on science, heavy on emo.
One thing became clear as I watched the rest of the stories, Whitney had definitely been trying to branch out of food stories and into the health arena. In addition to the anorexia piece, there were stories on excessive sweating, skin cancer, women conceiving with donor eggs, and the brilliant Emmy Award–winning series the publicist had mentioned,
Though an hour wasn’t quite up, I phoned London again. I was still struggling to translate what the housekeeper had just told me when a new voice came on, announcing, “This is Claire.” She was eating as she spoke—perhaps the proverbial bonbons that Cat had mentioned.
I relayed how I’d secured her number and explained the purpose of my call.
“It’s been an absolute eternity since I’ve heard Fiona’s name mentioned,” Claire said. “I would have assumed she was long forgotten.”
“Did you know her personally?”
“I met her just once, at a party with Richard. She was at least a good ten years younger than he was, but he adored her and was very protective of her. She was quite pretty, though hardly what you’d call dazzling. The London fashion shows had started to take off, and I believe she worked regularly in them, but I don’t think she had much luck with photographic work. I suppose that’s where the problems began.”
“What problems?” I asked, feeling my muscles tense.
“She was anorexic. She apparently convinced herself that being even thinner would help secure more jobs.”
“Omigod,” I said.
“I know,” she replied, not knowing, of course, the real reason for my shock. “She died a horrible death. The family had put her in hospital by that point, and she was all hooked up to feeding tubes and the like—but it was too late.”
“I assume Richard was very upset by her death.”
“Oh, yes. He was devastated. We were no longer dating at that point, but we were still friends, and I did my best to comfort him.”
“There’s just one more thing I need to know. Was Fiona friends with Devon Barr? Or do you know of any connection between the two?”
“Ah, Devon Barr. Everyone here is buzzing about her death. And how ironic that she ended up dying the same way Fiona did. Though not so ironic, I guess, when you think of that world. But I digress. Yes, they
“Do you have a clue what the falling-out was over?”
“I didn’t at the time—Richard never said anything—but in hindsight I suspect it was a competitive thing. Devon’s career was already on fire. Everyone wanted her for their campaigns. Fiona, like I said, was probably never destined to be a star.”
“I appreciate your help,” I said.
“Tell Cat I send my best. I’d love to see her—though not when I have my husband with me. Cat has that funny habit of yearning for what other women have and then trying to steal it for herself.”
I signed off with my heart thumping. Did Richard blame Devon for his sister’s death? Perhaps, feeling less successful than Devon, Fiona had begun starving herself. I shook my head at how stupid I’d been. Over the past few days, I’d dredged up what I could on everyone except Richard, dismissing him as someone with no real connection to Devon. But he’d known her and possibly resented the hell out of her. Had he also wished her dead?
I wanted some face-to-face time with Richard, and I needed a decent excuse. I thought for a few moments and dialed his number.
“Well, if it isn’t the plucky Bailey Weggins,” he said, sounding relatively sober when he picked up. “To what do I owe this honor?”
“Oh, just checking in. It’s been a couple of days since we spoke.”
“Oh, please, Bailey. You’ve never just
I laughed, pretending to be amused.
“Okay, you’ve caught me. I
“Do tell.”
“Could we meet? I’d like to talk in person.”
I sensed him glancing at his watch.
“I don’t want to pass up a chance for a chat with the infamous Bailey Weggins, but I’m a bit jammed at the moment. Tell you what. I’m meeting a few pals at Hanratty’s for dinner tonight at seven, but right before then I’m going to try to squeeze in a walk in the park. You’re welcome to join me on my walk if you wish.”
“Sure,” I said. “Where and when?”
“I like to stroll about in the Central Park Conservatory. The entrance is on 105th and Fifth. Why don’t I see you there at six thirty?”
“Got it,” I said. That part of the city was like a million miles away from the Village, but if I took the 4 or 5 on the Lex to Eighty-sixth and then the local to Ninety-sixth, it wouldn’t take forever to get there.
“I’ll be meandering around in there. You should see me when you come down the stairs.”
After I signed off, I finally called the precinct in Brooklyn and reported the incident with the gypsy cab driver. Just talking about the experience made my stomach tighten so hard it hurt. Later, I fixed a late lunch, puttered, and thought miserably of Beau.
Finally it was time to meet up with Richard. I made it to Ninety-sixth Street in thirty minutes, bundled up in a down jacket, scarf, and old cloche hat. After ascending the subway station steps, I hurried west on 96th, my hands stuffed in my pockets as I fought a mean, dry wind that blew west from Central Park toward the East River. The street was crowded with grocery shoppers and people hurrying home from work. I passed three different places on the street selling Christmas trees, makeshift wood structures hung with colored Christmas lights. At one a woman about my age stood waiting as her tree was bound with mesh. Her little boy looked on in pure delight.
After crossing Fifth Avenue, I turned north, walking along the cracked sidewalk that bordered Central Park. The wind was less brutal there because the trees formed a barricade. It was less crowded there, too, though periodically someone entered or exited the park, mostly dog walkers with their pets in stupid little coats. Though I’d heard about the Central Park Conservatory, I’d never been up there and didn’t know what to expect. After passing the statue of some New Yorker long forgotten, I saw a large black gate on my left. A sign indicated that I was standing in front of the conservatory.
It appeared to be a park within a park, though instead of grassy spaces it was all gardens, or what would be gardens come spring again. There were several dog walkers and an elderly couple out for a frigid stroll. I spotted
