“He’s probably divorced. But he could also be lazy and have female friends,” Bess offered. “And he’s definitely attracted to women,” she insisted. “He was blushing when he walked out of your office. The man couldn’t look at any of the women on the floor, he was so mortified. It was like seeing a teenage boy in a women’s locker room. He just looked so…shocked.” All three women cackled with delight. It was refreshing to think of a heterosexual man who didn’t automatically view a crop of young professional women as a desperate geisha buffet there for the taking.
Cat sighed. “I mean, whatever, I’ll probably never see him again. What’s tomorrow, Tuesday? Is it weird to ask him out? Should I wait until Thursday?”
Sigrid’s face clouded over as she slid the chicken into the oven. “I keep thinking on Thursdays that I have to meet Hillary for a drink on Twenty-First Street.” On Thursday nights in Chelsea, rivers of free wine flowed gently from most major galleries, and Hillary had loved to trip from bottle to bottle, canvas to canvas, cheek to cheek.
“I know what you mean,” said Bess. “We keep having weird moments at work where we realize before we make a decision that we’re waiting for her input instead of just moving forward. I feel bad for Lou. We don’t really need anything from her, you know? She’s just kind of doing her ‘small bones, hearty breeding, expensive upholstery’ thing on two or three pages per issue.”
“Are people still talking about it?” Sigrid asked.
“Kind of,” Cat replied. “The workroom where she died was totally redone, new carpet, new paint, new furniture. No one really talks about it to us, although I’ve definitely heard some ‘don’t stress or you’ll die’ kinds of jokes. In theory we have to hire someone new once Lou’s contract is up in December. But I’m pretty sure they’ll promote me.” She smiled at Bess, an expression both sad and proud. “Then I can promote you.”
Bess gave her the same sad, proud smile back.
Sigrid yelped and hopped up. “I almost forgot. I found a handbag of Hillary’s! She left it here after that dinner party we had in April. Anyway, when I emailed her about it she said there were ‘just cigarettes in it’ since ‘we’d done all the cocaine.’ And she’d get it next time.”
All three women looked briefly heartsick.
“But…I didn’t check inside,” Sigrid continued. “So make more drinks and I’ll get it!” she yelled, walking backward through the hall before bounding up the staircase.
Cat and Bess doubled the vodka. Sigrid returned with a diminutive black Perspex cube dangling from a solid-gold handcuff strap. “I cannot believe she left this here. It is so b-a-doubled.”
“Me-ow,” said Cat. Bess purred. They both reached for the bag. Cat snatched it first and popped it open.
“Well, Hillary was definitely wrong about the cigarettes and cocaine,” she said. “There’s cocaine and something else, but no cigarettes.” Cat pulled out a small brown glass bottle, half-full of cocaine, and a clear plastic bottle with a handwritten label reading only “Bedford Organics.”
Sigrid pounced on the cocaine. “I’m hiding this from the ducklings,” she announced, referring to her tenants, as she popped open a plastic bottle labeled “Glucosamine” and buried it inside. “I have never seen anyone open this. I think they’re dog vitamins. Don’t forget where I hid it.”
Cat, meanwhile, was examining the bottle and smelling its eyedropper. “I wonder what this is…maybe it’s MDMA?”
Bess laughed. “Don’t test that. We have to go to work tomorrow.”
Sigrid was already typing Bedford Organics into her phone. “This is an actual company. They make some kind of organic skin-care bullshit in Williamsburg. But I don’t see anything in this shape and size…maybe it’s custom?”
“Probably, but…does it make sense to bring cocaine, cigarettes, and face oil to a party?” asked Cat.
“Yes!” Sigrid said. All three girls laughed.
Cat grabbed a saucer and squeezed out some drops to examine them. “It doesn’t smell like anything. It doesn’t look like oil, either. Should I lick it?”
“It’ll probably taste disgusting, but yeah, I dare you,” challenged Bess. Cat pinched her nose, pulled out the dropper, and dramatically lowered a drop onto her tongue. She suddenly tasted a sharp, clean numbness, followed by an intensely bitter aftertaste.
“Guys, this is definitely drugs.” But by the time Cat was done with her sentence, the slight numbness had already vanished. “It doesn’t seem to be very strong. I estimate…one cocaine per drop.”
“Catlock Holmes, on the case,” Sigrid cracked. “By ‘one cocaine’ do you mean one dust speck of cocaine?”
“Yeah. A particle. There’s something else in it, too, something bitter. It’s gross. I don’t think it’s for eating. Maybe it really is a skin oil. I bet there’s some process whereby the cocaine acts—”
“Like capsaicin?” asked Bess.
“Exactly!” responded Cat.
Sigrid looked at them quizzically.
“Capsaicin comes from chili peppers. It’s included in skin creams and ointments meant to relieve muscle pain, arthritis, stuff like that. The burning sensation overwhelms the nerves and temporarily blocks them from feeling pain,” Bess explained. “Maybe you can use cocaine in the same way.”
Sigrid was nodding. “Okay, but…what was wrong with Hillary?”
“Neck pain?” Cat proffered. “Eye twitch?”
“Teeth grinding?” posed Bess.
“It has to be something small, because this bottle is small. I like teeth grinding and eye twitch; maybe…ear infection?” Sigrid’s face rose with excitement. “Who wants to take it on the gums? Either of you have a toothache?”
“I don’t taste anything,” said Bess after placing a drop in her mouth. “It’s just bitter. Also I veto ear infection. She’d get Cipro.”
“You don’t taste anything because you only smoke pot, Bess. You don’t have the vocabulary for it. Let me try.” Sigrid motioned for the bottle and dropped some on her own tongue. “Oh…that’s really subtle. It’s kind of sharp, then bitter, then nothing. Weird.”
“Why don’t we just Photogram them and ask what it is?” asked Cat. “I don’t really want to put this inside my ears or my eyes. At least now that I know I can’t really get high from it, anyway. Use Bess’s account, though.”
Sigrid moved the bottle into a clean spot on the counter so Bess could snap a photo; in no less than thirty seconds, they’d sent it from @loch_ness_bess and @ragebeauty with the caption:
@bedford_organics: found in our beauty ed’s pile of magic ointments. label long gone—what’s inside? #RAGEdetectives
“I love it when you can’t google something,” said Sigrid with glee. She drained her mason jar and raised the vodka bottle. Cat and Bess nodded and slid their glasses toward her.
Before she had a chance to pour another round, they heard a key turning clumsily in the lock. After a brief struggle, three of Sigrid’s tenants reeled through the doorway singing “Hakuna Matata.”
Birdie, Helen, and Lottie were hammered. Birdie’s poppy-tinted lipstick was smeared all over Lottie’s face; Helen’s unlit cigarette hung from her mouth and white paper flowers dangled haphazardly from her afro.
“Please tell us there’s chicken,” roared Lottie, her arms wrapped around Birdie’s waist. “I’ll die if I missed it.”