Hush

18

LAKE FELT A rush of shame. Yes, she’d suspected Keaton was a total player, but she’d also allowed herself to believe that he’d seduced her because she was special and intriguing, not just another warm body to explore on a boring weeknight. How stupid and naïve of her, she thought.

“Interesting,” Lake said. She widened her eyes, playing the voyeur.

“Of course, needless to say, Gretchen is in a total tizzy about the whole thing,” Molly said. “She was even grilled by the police.”

“Really? How did that go?” Lake asked.

“Not very pretty. At first she figured they were just talking to everyone who knew him. But they actually asked her if she’d been with him that night.”

It was no surprise that the cops had concluded Keaton had been with a woman right before he died. She’d known evidence would have pointed them in that direction. But Molly’s words were verification.

“So is this Gretchen woman a suspect?” Lake asked, trying to keep her voice gossipy.

“No. She has the proverbial airtight alibi. Besides, Keaton had more or less dumped her by then-which completely chapped her ass. They’d had a few dates and a hot weekend in Saratoga, and then nada. He didn’t even return calls from her. The next thing you know, she sees his picture splashed across the Post.”

“Saratoga?” Lake asked.

“Yup. They stayed at one of those fabulous turn-of-the-century hotels. I hate to tell you this, Lake, but Gretchen claimed he fucked like someone who should have taught a master class, so it’s a shame you missed out on that. Though considering the way things turned out, it’s probably best you did.”

Lake couldn’t bear any more of this, so she pretended to lose interest and awkwardly changed the subject. For the rest of the meal, as they discussed Molly’s work and her upcoming trip, she had to force herself to smile, to talk, to eat. When she reached for her purse, Molly insisted on picking up the check since she’d been the one who’d suggested lunch.

Out on the sidewalk they hugged goodbye.

“You’re not in love, are you?” Lake asked, gazing at Molly’s face.

“No-why do you say that?”

“You’re glowing. And I’ve been wondering about your mystery dinner party.”

“What dinner party?”

“The one you were picking up food for when we talked last weekend.”

“Oh, that was just for an old friend.” She glanced at her watch. “I better dash-I’m prepping for a shoot tomorrow. Take care, okay?”

“You too.”

“And, Lake, try to make some time just for yourself, will you? I know things are crazy right now, especially with the custody case-but you look exhausted. I’ve never seen you like this.”

It felt like a slap in the face

“Thanks for the concern,” Lake said, with a hint of sarcasm.

“I’m just worried, that’s all. You’re clearly under a lot of strain.”

“Okay, thanks,” she said, softening. “I’ll talk to you later.”

In the cab home Lake wondered if she was being overly sensitive about Molly, who was just being her typically blunt self. And yet Lake was sure she detected a snide tone in some of Molly’s comments today, suggesting some subterranean resentment. Perhaps Molly was annoyed because Lake had been so unavailable lately. As she replayed the conversation in her mind, her phone rang. To her chagrin, she saw it was Jack.

“Didn’t you get my message?” he asked brusquely.

“No,” she lied.

“Since I couldn’t make parents’ day, the camp director said I could stop by one afternoon this week. Will wants me to bring a few books-that sci-fi series he’s reading.”

“I take it something came up,” Lake said.

“If you must know, I had a work emergency.”

Or, she thought, he raced back to the city after shaving the fur off Smokey, loath to come face-to-face with her.

“Are you still there?” he demanded when she gave no reply.

“Yes. But I’m not understanding what you need from me.”

“I need to get the books-they’re on Will’s bookshelf. He hasn’t read the last two in the series.”

“All right,” she said, cringing at the thought of seeing Jack. “I have to be somewhere at six. Why don’t you meet me in the lobby at five-thirty.”

“That’s not the best time for me.”

“I’m sorry, but that’s the only time I have today.”

He accepted with an irritated sigh.

As soon as she was back in her apartment, she opened her laptop and pulled up what she had so far in her PowerPoint presentation. To her relief, her recommendations seemed stronger now that they were in a kick-butt font against a color background. Over the past day she’d toyed with the idea of suggesting that Levin become the public face of the clinic and be used more on television, so she added a slide spelling out the concept. That, she figured, should at least earn her points with his ego.

It took all of her effort to focus on adding the finishing touches. Her thoughts were constantly jolted back to her conversation with Molly and to the news about the investigation. Lake kept picturing McCarty and that pit bull Hull staring at the report from the forensic lab and wondering who’d been in bed with Keaton. If they discovered it was her, how could she ever prove she hadn’t murdered him?

But something else from the conversation gnawed at her-the part about Keaton having sex with that woman, Gretchen. Was it the idea of having been just another lay to Keaton? Yes. But it was more than that: the trip to Saratoga Molly had alluded to. People went to Saratoga in August to see the thoroughbred racing. And to bet on the horses. Perhaps Keaton really did have a gambling problem. As suspicious as Lake now was about the clinic, Keaton’s gambling issues might still be the reason he was dead. And that could mean some nasty mob type coming after her.

At four-thirty, her brain fried, she gave up on the presentation and faxed the kids. She wrote long notes this time, to make up for forgetting yesterday, and added little poems and cartoons. When she finished, it was almost time to leave for the meeting with Sydney Kastner-and then for drinks at Steve’s. Of course, first there would be the encounter with Jack, which she dreaded. Before heading to the lobby, she went to Will’s bookshelf and grabbed the last two books in the sci-fi series.

Jack was ten minutes late, which was typical. When he finally arrived, without apology, she rose from the cushioned bench in the lobby and handed him a small shopping bag with the books inside. He rifled through the bag, inspecting the contents.

“Wait,” he said. “One of these is wrong.” He rattled off the name of a different book.

“You told me the last two books in the series.”

“If I did, I was wrong.”

As she met his hazel eyes staring back at her, she felt nothing but disgust. I don’t love him anymore, she thought. Not even the tiniest bit.

“Okay, please watch my things,” she said, plucking her keys from her purse. When she returned minutes later, she thrust the book in his hand, grabbed her purse, and left Jack without saying goodbye.

Sydney Kastner’s shop was on York Avenue, on the other side of Manhattan, and in rush-hour traffic the taxi only managed to crawl in that direction. On East Eighty-sixth Street the cab came to a complete halt, caught in an obnoxious knot of cars. When the driver laid on his horn for the tenth time, Lake felt like bounding from the backseat and running the rest of the way. If she missed Sydney, it would be days before she could learn what she had to share. Finally they began to move and she arrived at the shop ten minutes after six.

It was the tiniest of florist shops but totally charming, the window filled not only with plants and flowers, but quirky garden knickknacks. As she stepped in closer, Lake saw to her dismay that it was dark inside. Damn, she thought, I’ve missed her. Anxiously she pressed the bell. To her relief a few seconds later she heard footsteps make their way to the front.

She almost didn’t recognize Sydney Kastner. In place of the drawn and rattled woman she’d seen Rory console the other day was a calm, ethereal-looking creature. She was wearing a pale-blue sundress and her reddish-blond hair was worn loose now, with just the front part pulled from her face with a dainty barrette.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Lake said as Sydney ushered her into the store and locked the door behind her.

“I just don’t have much time, unfortunately,” Sydney said. She studied Lake’s face for a moment. “You were there the other day, weren’t you? When I was having my meltdown.”

“Yes. And I totally understand.”

“Would you like to sit for a second?” Sydney gestured toward two wrought-iron garden chairs close to the cash register.

“Thank you,” Lake said. “What an enchanting store.”

“It’s pretty much a labor of love. I barely cover my overhead, but I adore it. Ironic, isn’t it? I’m all about making one’s garden grow, but I can’t produce a baby.”

“You’ve had quite a few rounds of IVF. That must be very draining.”

“Yes. The drugs have been nearly unbearable. The funny thing is that unlike some women, I usually have no trouble producing viable eggs and embryos. They just don’t implant.”

“But since you have extra embryos, you won’t have to be subjected to the drugs for the next round.”

Sydney tilted her pretty face and eyed Lake quizzically.

“I don’t know who told you that. I don’t have any extra embryos. They implanted all three that were produced this time.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Lake said awkwardly. That was odd, she thought. She was sure the chart had indicated ten embryos had been harvested.

“Besides,” Sydney said. “There isn’t going to be a next time. That’s the thing I wanted to tell you.”

Lake paused, considering the news. “Why? Have you decided to try another clinic?” she asked.

“Actually, my husband and I have decided to adopt,” Sydney said, smiling. “I haven’t even told Dr. Levin yet.”

“That’s wonderful,” Lake said. “Congratulations.”

“Deep down I think I’ve always wanted to adopt. My younger brother is adopted and I completely adore him.”

Lake felt a rush of joy for the woman followed by a surge of disappointment. So this was the revelation Sydney had hinted at on the phone? Lake had hoped for so much more to help her case.

“In hindsight, how do you feel about the clinic? Were you satisfied?”

“Yes… Yes, I was.”

Lake sensed reluctance in the answer, like an undertow. Maybe there is something else, she told herself.

“Did-did you ever feel pressured to keep going?”

Sydney lifted her pale, freckled shoulders as if she had something to say but didn’t know how. Here it comes, Lake thought.

“No, never,” she said, shaking her head. “Initially I wanted to do whatever it took to get pregnant. If I seem hesitant it’s only because the experience turned out to be worse than I imagined-not the clinic per se. Like I said, I hated the drugs. And I despised feeling so desperate and going to those awful support groups. When someone in the group would get pregnant, the rest of us would want to howl like wounded animals.”

“So there was nothing about the clinic that troubled you?” Lake asked. She had to force herself not to look crushed. “Something you wish they’d done differently?”

“Why do you keep asking that? I thought you work for them.”

“I do,” Lake said brightly. “But part of growing and improving is hearing honest criticism.”

“That’s smart, I guess.” Sydney glanced at her watch. “Look, I really do have to dash. I can’t say I’m sorry never to be going back to the clinic, but I wish everyone there the best. They do good work.”

Sydney stood up and grabbed a purse from near the cash register and began guiding Lake back to the door.

“What finally made you decide to pursue adoption?” Lake asked. She was grasping at straws, she knew.

“It sounds crazy,” Sydney said. “But it was that doctor’s murder. Dr. Keaton.”

It was chilling to hear his name spoken here in this quiet little shop.

“But what…I don’t understand. How could that influence you?” Lake asked.

“I was Levin’s patient but Keaton came in on the day I was having my last procedure. I told him that if it didn’t work, I was thinking about bagging the whole thing. He surprised me by saying that would be okay, that sometimes we just know in our guts what the right thing to do is. Right after I found out I wasn’t pregnant, I heard he was murdered. I just took it as some kind of weird sign.”

Lake fumbled for a response but none came. Instead she thanked Sydney for her time and wished her luck with the adoption pursuit. As she hurried down the sidewalk, she could hear the shop’s steel security gate lowering with a rackety clang.

She hailed a cab going west. Now what? she wondered despondently. There had been no big revelation from Sydney. And yet there’d been that odd discrepancy. Her chart had said ten viable embryos had been produced, whereas Sydney Kastner thought there were only three. Levin may have lied to her so that she’d agree to another round of ovulation-stimulating drugs, ratcheting up her bill. It was certainly a possibility, but Lake wondered how she’d ever prove it.

The last thing she wanted to do right now was to have a drink with Hilary and Steve. And yet she knew that it would be good to see Steve away from work. He had the inside track there and maybe she could get him to talk about the clinic and see if he inadvertently revealed something worth knowing.

She’d been to their apartment just once before, when Sonia, Steve’s sister, had been in town several years ago. It was all the way back on the West Side, in one of the luxury high-rises just north of Lincoln Center. Tonight when Hilary greeted her at the apartment door and Lake stepped inside she saw that “fixed it up” had been a gross understatement. The rooms had been reconfigured and redecorated within an inch of their lives. The furniture was sleek and modern-lots of white leather-and the walls displayed huge abstract paintings with designs that seemed to actually throb.

“Wow, you’ve done an amazing job,” Lake said.

“We had help, of course,” Hilary said. “I have a wonderful decorator. I’d be glad to give you her number if you’re interested.”

“How do you prevent all these white surfaces from getting smudged with little fingerprints?” Lake asked, thinking of Matthew, who had to be close to two now.

“Oh, this room is off limits to little boys,” Hilary said.

“When do I get to see Matthew, anyway?”

“In a few minutes. The nanny is giving him his dinner right now. Would you like some white wine?”

They’d wandered to the far end of the massively large living room with sweeping views of the Hudson River and New Jersey beyond. On the coffee table was a bottle of white Burgundy chilling in a bucket, a huge wedge of soft cheese, and tiny cloth cocktail napkins. Hilary gestured for Lake to sit on the couch and poured them each some wine. Her white capris, Lake noticed, were as perfectly pressed as the napkins. On top she wore a sleeveless white tunic embellished with stones that matched the bronzy color of her sandals. Vanished was the beleaguered look she’d had Monday.

“Where’s Steve?” Lake asked.

“Oh, he’s running late-there was a problem at the clinic.”

Lake tried to keep her face straight. “Oh?”

“A patient had a reaction to one of the drugs,” Hilary said, to Lake’s relief. “I’m just glad I never had to deal with any of that.”

“Me, too. I feel so bad for those women, especially the ones who go through round after round of IVF.”

“I guess,” Hilary said, shrugging a tanned shoulder.

“What do you mean?” Lake asked, puzzled by her reaction.

“It’s really their own choosing. No one is forcing them to do it. And it’s such a drain on insurance companies. I don’t understand why these people can’t be more accepting of their situation-or why they don’t adopt, like Angelina did. There are millions of needy children out there.”

Lake felt at a loss for words. Hilary had always struck her as shallow, but Lake couldn’t believe her insensitivity. She wondered if she’d have the same disdain for someone who used insurance dollars to have a birthmark removed.

“The desire to carry a child can be pretty intense in women,” Lake said.

“Well, then, why don’t they start earlier? It’s not as if there aren’t plenty of articles saying that, duh, your fertility drops after thirty-five. In a way I think fertility clinics encourage women to wait longer to conceive because they know they can fall back on procedures like IVF.”

“Steve doesn’t have any regrets about his career, does he?”

“No. But I think he’d be better off if he’d stuck to his original plan: plastic surgery. It’s not so morose, if you know what I mean.”

Lake could hardly stand listening to her. “But is he happy at the clinic?” she asked. If Steve was involved in anything unethical, it might translate at home as nerves or discontent.

“Well, he’s certainly not thrilled with what’s going on now.”

“What do you mean?”

“The murder, of course,” Hilary said. “How creepy, right?

“You know what I think?” she continued. “A woman did it.”

“Oh?” Lake asked, wondering what was behind this speculation. “Why is that?”

“He was a horrible flirt,” Hilary replied, looking straight at Lake. Her gray eyes were as cold as two river stones. “I bet he finally made one woman jealous enough to kill him.”

Was the comment loaded? Lake wondered. She remembered Hilary catching the look she’d exchanged with Keaton at the dinner that night. She had to fight the urge to look away. To her relief, a Latino woman dressed in a white uniform suddenly appeared in the doorway.

“Matthew’s ready to say goodnight, Mrs. Salman,” she announced.

“All right,” Hilary said. She turned to Lake, all smiles again. “I can’t wait for you to see him. Bring your wine if you want.”

Lake followed Hilary through the dining room into a sleek white-and-stainless-steel kitchen. Matthew was sitting in a high chair, banging on the tray with a spoon. He’d grown from a gorgeous chubby baby with huge brown eyes to an exquisite toddler. Lake felt a visceral rush of pure delight at the sight of him.

“Matthew, what a big boy you are,” Lake gushed. He offered a gummy smile back. Lake turned to Hilary. “He’s just so precious.”

“He is now,” Hilary said, folding her arms across her chest. “He just started throwing temper tantrums, and you should see him then. She turned to her son. “You’re Mommy’s little terror, aren’t you?”

“Steve must be on cloud nine,” Lake said.

“Oh, he is. I just wish he were around a little more to help. Jenny, you can wash him up now-and then you can put him to bed.”

“Can you show us how tall you are?” the nanny asked him sweetly. Matthew’s arms shot up. The nanny grinned back and pulled him out of the high chair and left the kitchen.

“Oh, let me show you his playroom,” Hilary declared. “The decorator did an amazing job on it.”

“All right,” Lake said. Her head was beginning to pound. She wasn’t sure if it was the wine.

Hilary led her down a long hallway, past both the master bedroom and Matthew’s. At the end was a small, carpeted room lined with bookshelves and painted with murals. As they stepped inside, a phone rang in another room.

“Excuse me a sec,” Hilary said. “The murals were all painted by a children’s book illustrator,” she called as she hurried away.

Lake ran her eyes around the room. So this was where Matthew was parked so he couldn’t mess up the living room. How ironic, Lake thought. The woman who’d had no trouble conceiving could barely be bothered with her child. Suddenly Lake felt overwhelmed with the urge to just get the hell out of there.

“That was Steve,” Hilary said, reentering the room. “He’s really sorry but he won’t be home for at least an hour.” She rolled her eyes.

“No problem,” Lake said, relieved for the excuse. “We’ll do it another time.”

“You certainly don’t have to rush off,” Hilary said.

“Why don’t we just reschedule. I’m sure you have stuff to do.”

“Is something the matter?” Hilary asked almost petulantly.

“No, no. I-I’ve just been fighting off a cold lately.”

The two women walked back to the living room and Lake grabbed her purse and said goodbye. Her apartment was within walking distance but she didn’t have the psychic energy to get there on foot. She found a cab and climbed gratefully into the back. She wondered if Steve’s excuse had been legit. Or maybe he was trying to avoid her. Her snooping may have been reported to Levin, and in turn to Steve. For the past few days she’d felt she was up to her neck in water but still able to breathe; now she felt close to drowning. Her only hope had been to find evidence she could take to Archer, but she’d come up with nothing.

As Lake massaged her temples, she realized that her face was wet with sweat. She dug in her purse, searching for a tissue. Just beneath her patent-leather wallet she felt something unfamiliar-round and made of rough cloth. She pulled it from her purse. For a second she just stared, confounded. It was a small burlap pouch, about the size of a plum. The neck was closed with twine and the insides were filled with something twiglike that poked through the fabric in places. My God, she thought-is it marijuana? Had someone stuck it in her purse?

She noticed a tag attached to the twine, blank on the side looking up at her. Slowly she turned it over. On the back was a single word: Catnip.