I finish the espresso and dig out my wallet. The place has started to fill up with new customers, mostly younger people in yoga pants or cargo shorts, looking like they’ve recently rolled out of bed. As I flag down the waitress, the woman who checked me out when I arrived catches the movement of my arm and glances over again, studying me intently. I realize finally what’s going on. She’s recognized me from my book-jacket photo or a TV appearance.
For the first time, I consider how much damage I’d sustain to my career as an author if Guy were exposed. I’ve never pretended to be an expert on making choices, only someone fascinated by the decisions people make and how those decisions shape their lives, and yet I have been presented at times as an expert, an interpreter. What an idiot I’d look like now. An expert on choices who’d made the stupidest one imaginable.
I can’t let that distract me, though. There are steps to take right now, and they include finding a lawyer who can convince the cops to allow me to return to New York—and also help me decide whether I should alert the cops to Guy’s past. When the waitress presents the bill, I hand her cash and tug my anorak back on, ready to bolt.
And then a surprise. Conrad, the older of the two waiters who worked the dinner party has emerged from a back room and is tying a short white apron around his waist as he moves.
“Take tables five and two,” I overhear my waitress tell him. “They both just got here.”
I’m pretty sure he hasn’t spotted me. I rise from the table, snake quickly through the tables, and exit the café.
Outside I survey the street again, checking not only for Guy on foot but also for Guy in a car, possibly parked along the curb so he can keep tabs on me. Luckily there’s no sign of the BMW. Maybe he’s driven to the house to confirm that I’ve really moved out.
I start off, walking as fast as I can. I’ve gone less than a block when I hear footsteps coming up fast behind me. I spin around with fists clenched in my pockets.
It’s not Guy, as I suspected. It’s Conrad.
“Hey,” he calls out. “I need to talk to you.”
“What do you want?” As he advances, I see the tattoo on his neck dart out from under his shirt collar. I step back.
“Don’t worry, I’m not gettin’ into some big, heavy discussion with you,” he says, clearly reading the discomfort on my face. “But you need to get your facts straight, lady.”
I study him—his face and his manner. He looks agitated, distressed, but there’s nothing hostile or threatening about him.
“Fine, go ahead.”
“I didn’t take your money. I know you told Eve you thought I lifted it from your office, but I never went near there.”
“Well, someone took it that night. What about the other waiter?”
“Scooter? No way. We were working in tandem, and I would have noticed if he went in there.”
“What about Eve? You think Eve could have taken it?”
He reels his head back, as if astonished by the suggestion.
“Why would she screw with a customer? If I were you, I’d be focusing on one of those guests of yours. Maybe one’s a klepto.” He looks back over his shoulder toward the coffee shop. “I need to get back. I don’t want you spreadin’ it all over town that I’m a thief.”
“Which guest? Do you have one in mind?”
“I dunno. I saw one of the women go into the head. It could have been her.”
“The one with the short blond hair?”
“No, the real talky one. Who was flapping her lips all night.”
He means Barb. I already know she used the powder room. And Nick, too. What I need to find out is whether Kim had access to my office.
“Was she the only one who went in there? Besides the male guest?”
“I wasn’t exactly on potty patrol that night. As for the guy, I’m not sure if he went to the head. He was in the back hallway—talking to Eve.”
“He spoke to Eve?” The revelation flabbergasts me. “What about?”
“Scooter was closer, so he may have overheard, but I didn’t. What I do know is that it seemed kind of private.”
So not only was Nick aware that Eve had been in our home that night, he might actually have known her personally.
“Did either of you tell the cops?”
“All the cops were interested in was where we were the night Eve got whacked, and what we could tell them about her social life.”
“Did she ever discuss her social life with you?” I know there’s desperation in my voice, but if Guy was involved with Eve, Conrad may have had a clue to it.
“She kept that stuff under wraps.” He flips the lock of hair out of his eyes. “Look, I gotta go. I can’t afford to lose this gig, too.”
“Please, just one more question. Is there a woman who worked for Eve with a baby-doll voice?”
“The cops asked me that, too. No, nobody like that.”
He takes off, sprinting, and seconds later disappears back into the café.
I start off again, hurrying. The encounter has thrown me, especially the part about Nick. Not only does it mean that he probably knew Eve, but there’s the curious fact that, after the murder, he never commented on her having catered the dinner. Guy was so determined that his blessed donors never learn they’d been served chicken tagine by a woman who was later axed to death, and yet it turns out that Nick knew all along.