Nicole was propped up on Stefan’s bony lap, a sight that would have irritated her more had she not recognized that look of hopeful sadism in Stefan’s eyes when he knew she saw them like that. The famous Laraine, for whom the place was named, had parked her feline self at the table as well. She was one of those inscrutable, voluminous women whom men like and women do not (or who likes men and doesn’t like women—it’s always the same). A woman who wore Chanel No. 5 so well that no one knew what in heaven’s name she had on. She was lapping up whatever Jupiter Dodd had to say. There were a bunch of others Claire didn’t know, everyone successful and cityish, and one artist Claire had read about in the Sunday magazine section, someone named Verona.
Stefan shook Nicole from his person, stood up, and found the two of them some chairs. He wedged them neatly into place and Claire sat down. Nicole seemed to think she was holding court and she just carried on, informing the party of the physical beauty of Saint-Tropez. There was no one in the group who hadn’t spent many a moonlit night there themselves, but what the heck, they let her talk. It was always somehow wonderful to remember the south of France through anyone’s eyes. And after bumping into the breathtaking starlet, Claire could hardly be angry with Nicole. It wouldn’t be too long before she, too, would be over the hill. That was one thing that happened to all of them. It certainly beat the alternative, not making it over the hill. Claire congratulated herself for her mature, generous attitude and looked around. They were all very busy downing their margaritas. She ordered a Sea Breeze. Sensible vodka with cranberry juice and grapefruit.
Dodd wanted to know all about her past. She could hardly resist giving him a short but glowing verbal résumé. Lord knew there was no one in Queens who’d ever heard of anyone she’d ever worked with. She was beginning to feel like her old self and told him so.
“But not really?” Dodd was saying. “You honestly live in Queens? In Queens?”
“Yes. Actually. With my parents.”
“No! How refreshing. And how do you manage getting back and fo—”
“Queens isn’t so bad,” Stefan interrupted, thumping the table impatiently. Now that Jupiter Dodd wanted her attention, he wanted it, too. “It’s quite exciting. Especially now. Isn’t it, Claire? With all the murders going on.”
“Murders?” Dodd perked up.
“We’ve had a couple of child murders,” Claire explained.
“Not those ones on TV!” Nicole clapped her hands.
“Two that we know about,” Stefan said. “There could be more that haven’t been discovered.”
That was true, Claire realized, imagining the woods full of children’s graves.
“I read about them,” Laraine joined in. “Horrible!”
“Faggot murders,” Stefan said. “Right up in the park. Right where I live.”
“How could they be gay murders?” Claire stared at him. “One of the two was a little girl.”
Stefan raised one eyebrow. “A ploy, my dear. To cast suspicion on somebody else.”
Or bisexual, she thought, remembering Freddy with a lurch.
“Gay?” Nicole went back to her shrimp cocktail. Gay people didn’t interest her.
“You should see them,” Stefan spat. “They cruise around Park Lane South exactly across from my house. Right in the woods there. It’s disgusting! They leave their rubbers anywhere on the ground where little children can pick them up. They … they …” He was all worked up, but he stopped when he saw how Jupiter Dodd was looking at him. “Those children,” he leaned in and whispered, “had slices of flesh cut right off them.”
Claire felt a chill go right through her. Whoever would do such a thing wouldn’t think twice about killing a cop. What if Johnny did figure out who it was? What if the murderer—
“Claire! What’s the matter?”
Claire looked down at Stefan. She hadn’t even known she’d stood up.
“Oh, they questioned everybody,” Stefan continued. “Even me! And probably Claire, too. Did they put you in a lineup, Claire?” he laughed.
“They talked to me, too, yes.” She sat back down.
“And you should have seen the cops! One of them had on, I kid you not, a blue and white seersucker leisure suit!”
Why, that’s Johnny’s partner, thought Claire, remembering the horrendous suit. That’s Ryan.
“No!” guffawed Jupiter Dodd.
“And the other one! He was a piece of work. Right out of a television series. Brooklyn accent … the entire syndrome. ‘Duh,’ he said to me, ‘Where’d ya get dem pick-chas?’ Pick-chas? He was looking at the Erté. Pick-chas!”
Everyone laughed out loud.
“Then,” Stefan continued, his eyes gleaming, “—then he started to ask me about my private life. That’s when I put a stop to it. I said, ‘Detective, if you have any problems with my sex life you can take it up with my lawyer.…’ And do you know what he said to me? He said, ‘Why? Your lawyer got a handle on where you stick it?’ Fresh. Now I’d say that’s fresh. Flippant. Not to mention crass. Sorry, ladies. He was such a classically ignorant type, though. Priceless!”
Claire wiped her burning face with a napkin. “Stefan, I hate to be boring, but I’m not feeling too well. Would you walk me to a cab? I’d like to go home.”
Stefan didn’t hesitate for a moment. He was by her side and shelling cash out onto the table in one movement. “Come,” he crooned, “I’ll have you home in twelve minutes.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. Please stay. I don’t think I could take another roller coaster ride tonight.”