“Where’s that coffee?” said Rook. “I could use the caffeine.”
“Relax, hon, I’m getting there, it’s important to set the stage, you know? So we’re on our third glass of a very nice Domaine Mardon Quincy, talking all about the murder and the stolen body, as everyone must be, and Elizabeth, who does not hold her liquor well, reveals, in a moment of wine-soaked melancholy, a rather shocking piece of news I feel duty-bound to share.”
Nikki asked, “And what would that be?”
“That she tried to kill Cassidy Towne.” As the waiter delivered the drinks, Margaret relished the looks on their faces and lifted her fresh rocks glass in a toast. “And, curtain.”
Elizabeth Essex couldn’t stop staring at Nikki Heat’s badge. “You’d like to talk to me? About what?”
“I’d rather not discuss it out here in the hallway, Mrs. Essex, and I think neither would you.”
The woman said, “All right, then,” and opened the door wide, and when the detective and Rook were standing on the imported Venetian terrazzo in her foyer, Nikki began.
“I have some questions to ask you about Cassidy Towne.”
Suspects and interviewees in murder cases have a panorama of reactions to the police. They become defensive, or belligerent, or emotional, or stone-faced, or hysterical. Elizabeth Essex fainted. Nikki was eyeballing her for a tell and the woman became a marionette with severed strings.
She came to as Heat was in the middle of her call for an ambulance, and the woman pleaded with her to hang up, that she would be fine. She hadn’t hit her head, and her color was coming back, so Nikki obliged. She and Rook steadied her on the way to the living room, and they settled into an L-shaped sofa set angled to take advantage of the penthouse view of the East River and Queens.
Elizabeth Essex, late fifties, wore the Upper East Side uniform, a sweater set and pearls, complete with the tortoiseshell headband. She was attractive without trying, exuded wealth without trappings. She insisted she was all right and pressed Detective Heat to continue. Her husband would be home soon and they had evening plans.
“Well, then,” said Detective Heat, “one of us should start talking.”
“I’ve been waiting for this,” said the woman with quiet resignation. Nikki was back to observing responses more familiar to her experience. Elizabeth Essex was vibing a mix of guilt and relief.
“You are aware, I assume, that Cassidy Towne was found murdered this morning?” said Heat.
She nodded. “It’s been on the news all day. And they say now her body was stolen. How does that happen?”
“I have information that you attempted to kill Cassidy Towne.”
Elizabeth Essex was full of surprises. She didn’t hesitate; she simply said, “Yes, yes I did.”
Heat looked over to Rook, who knew enough to stay out of Nikki’s way on this one. He was busy tracking a jet that was banking around Citi Field on short approach to La Guardia. “When was this, Mrs. Essex?”
“June. I don’t know the exact date, but it was about a week before the big heat wave. Do you remember that?”
Nikki held her gaze but sensed Rook shifting his weight on the cushions beside her. “And why is it that you wanted to kill her?”
Again, the woman’s answer came without pause. “She was screwing my husband, Detective.” But the demure politeness had also quickly fallen away, and Elizabeth Essex spoke from a primal place. “Cassidy and I were on the board of the Knickerbocker Garden Club. I used to have to drag my husband to our events, but suddenly, that spring, he seemed more enthused than I to attend. Everybody knew Cassidy spent her life with her legs in the air, but how would I ever suspect it would be with my husband?” She paused and swallowed dryly and, as if anticipating Heat’s question, said, “I’m fine, let me get this out.”