The Jinx

Fourteen

J ust as I was saying goodbye, Barbara Barnett breezed into Sara’s hospital room. Her presence was like a splash of ice water-I felt the flush still in my cheeks subside immediately.

“Hello, hello!” she announced herself, with no small measure of theatricality. She was wearing what looked to be a mink coat and carrying a huge bouquet of hothouse flowers. The clutch of tulips I’d brought seemed to wilt in comparison.

Barbara leaned over and gave Sara a kiss on the cheek. “Sara, honey. I can’t tell you how horrified I was to hear that you’d been hurt. How are you feeling?” The words came out at a rapid clip, but they were smoothed together by her Texas drawl.

“Much better,” answered Sara, thanking her for the flowers. Barbara rushed about the room, moving a smaller vase aside to make space for her own bouquet on Sara’s bedside table.

“Hello, Mrs. Barnett,” I said, standing and holding out my hand. “I’m Rachel Benjamin, from Winslow, Brown. I think we’ve met before, at Grenthaler board meetings, and Tom brought me to dinner a couple of times afterward.”

She flashed me her pageant-trained smile. “Of course. It’s nice to see you again.” She listened politely as I extended my condolences about Tom. “Why, thank you, honey. That’s awfully sweet of you. But right now I’m just worried about Sara.”

“There’s nothing to worry about,” Sara assured her. “I’m fine. Just a couple of stitches and a bit of a headache. It’s not a big deal.”

Barbara unbuttoned her coat, revealing a magenta suit that looked like it had been stolen from the wardrobe racks on the Dynasty set, and sat herself down in the guest chair that Edie had vacated. “Now where is that son of mine?” she asked. “He was finishing up a phone call, but he said he’d be right in.”

“It’s so nice of you to come by,” Sara said. “I know this can’t be an easy time for you.”

“Don’t be silly,” replied Barbara. She turned to me. “This girl’s like a daughter to me, Ms. Benjamin. Her daddy and my late husband were like this-” She held up two adjoining fingers to demonstrate just how close Tom and Samuel Grenthaler had been. “When her parents died, Tom and I felt an obligation to take care of their little girl. We were supposed to go with them that weekend to Vermont, you know. To the ski house. But my son came down with a touch of the flu and we had to cancel.” It seemed like overkill that Tom and Barbara Barnett would cancel their weekend plans because Adam, who must have been well into his twenties at the time, had a tummy ache, but I guessed it was fortunate for their sakes that they had. She turned her attention back to Sara. “Now, have they found the person who did this to you? I really can’t even begin to tell you how upset I am.”

“No,” said Sara. “But they’re looking into it.”

“I spoke to your grandparents, and they told me about those nasty letters you’ve been getting. The authorities do know about them, don’t they?” Barbara adjusted her skirt and reached up to smooth her already smooth, if big, blond coif.

“They do,” Sara confirmed.

“Well, I sure can tell you, I’ve seen enough of those movies on Lifetime Television about stalkers gone mad. I hope they’re taking these letters seriously.” I was somewhat disheartened to learn that the only other person I’d encountered who’d been watching Lifetime Television for Women was Barbara Barnett.

“I’m sure they are.”

“And what about this homeless man who says he saw everything? Are they sure he’s telling the truth?”

“I know the guy,” said Sara. “George wouldn’t hurt a fly. He might talk it to death, but he wouldn’t hurt it.”

There was a muted commotion in the hallway outside the open door, and a moment later Adam Barnett came in. He was well over six feet, but I doubted he weighed much more than I did. With his beaky nose and mousy features, he looked like central casting’s idea of Ichabod Crane. He was holding a cell phone in his hand, and we could hear a nurse’s chastising words trailing after him. “No cell phones in the hospital. It’s clearly posted. I don’t want to have to tell you again.”

Adam looked vaguely sheepish, or maybe that was just how he usually looked. He said a stiff hello to Sara and inquired after her health. I reintroduced myself to him and was rewarded with a blank look and a shake of his distastefully clammy palm. I wished again that I’d gotten more than a fleeting glimpse of the Caped Avenger’s companions that morning, but from where I’d stood they could have been anyone. Besides, how would Adam and the Caped Avenger even know each other? He perched awkwardly on the windowsill next to his mother’s chair, his hands shoved into his coat pockets.

“We were just talking about who could be responsible for this terrible attack,” Barbara told him. “I think Sara’s being stalked.”

“Stalked?” asked Adam.

“Yes. Stalked. Some creep has been sending her anonymous letters. Honey, we need to do something about the security, here. Why, practically anyone can walk right in.”

“As long as they’re not using a cell phone,” said Sara, catching my eye and clearly trying not to smile.

“Adam and his cell phone. It’s work, work, work all the time for my boy,” Barbara told me proudly. Now Sara rolled her eyes.

“We’ll look into the security situation,” Barbara continued. “Maybe we can arrange for a guard of some sort. I’ll talk to your grandparents about it.”

“Really, that’s not necessary,” protested Sara.

“You’re right, honey. There’s no need to worry your grandparents-they’re already worried enough. Adam and I will take care of everything.”

Barbara then launched into a long story about a TV movie she’d seen about a stalker. I quickly realized I’d seen the same movie and felt my eyes begin to glaze over. I wanted to excuse myself, but it occurred to me that if I waited her out, I might be able to get her alone and ask about her shares. I stole a glance at Adam as his mother rambled on, and he was staring fixedly at Sara. Probably still harboring a torch, or whatever guys like him did when they were suffering from unrequited passion.

Barbara finally wrapped up her spiel just as a nurse came in, insisting that it was time for Sara’s medicine. Sara looked relieved. The color had receded somewhat from her face, and I had a feeling she could use a painkiller and a nap.

Barbara checked her watch. “Oh, my! I hadn’t realized the hour. We really must get going.” She said her goodbyes, but not before extracting Sara’s promise that she would call if there was anything she needed. “And we’ll see about the security. You have nothing to worry about, honey.”

I said goodbye, too, telling Sara I’d check in later, and rode down to the ground floor with Barbara and Adam. “Adam, honey, will you get the car from the garage? It’s so nasty out.” Given that an extended family of fur-covered creatures had given their lives to ensure Barbara’s warmth, her request seemed unnecessary, but Adam agreed dutifully, which was fine with me, as I now had my hoped-for moment alone with the chattering widow.

As gracefully as I could under the circumstances, I changed the topic from stalkers to stock by mentioning that I’d be at the Grenthaler board meeting the next day and asking if Barbara would be there, as well.

“Why, of course, honey. I do own ten percent of the company, now. I could hardly miss a board meeting. Now where did I put my gloves? I hope I didn’t leave them upstairs. I’ll have to go back and fetch them.” She opened her handbag and began rummaging through its contents.

“I’m glad that you want to stay involved,” I said.

“I sure do.” She paused in her search for her gloves, meeting my gaze. “Grenthaler meant a lot to my husband, and my husband meant the world to me. The stock I inherited will keep his memory alive. For me and for my son.”

“So, you intend to hold on to your shares?”

“More than hold on to them, honey. Those shares represent a family legacy, one that must live on.”

I interpreted that as an indication that she wasn’t interested in selling anytime soon, mitigating the threat of a full-fledged takeover. However, reading between the lines, it seemed like Brian Mulcahey’s concerns about Barbara trying to secure her son the CEO slot were right on the money.

I called Sara’s room on the walk to the business school campus and reported what I’d learned. She sounded drowsy, and I had the feeling I’d awakened her, but I knew she would be reassured by my news.

After we hung up, I checked my Blackberry for messages. Again, there was nothing. Not a single voice or e-mail, and definitely nothing from Peter. I debated for a moment before dialing his number, but it went straight into voice mail anyway. I left a halfhearted reminder about dinner that night. Bitterly, I wondered what excuse he would make for canceling this time.

Then I called Jane’s house. I needed to talk to someone about last night’s quasikiss, the tenuous state of my union with Peter and my current emotional turmoil. Luisa answered the phone.

“Where is everyone?” I asked.

“Hilary’s out doing more research, and Jane and Emma are grocery shopping.”

“You didn’t want to go with them?”

She laughed. “I’m probably the only person who’d be less helpful than you on that sort of outing.”

“Thanks. I guess. So, Jonathan Beasley kissed me last night.”

“Love Story guy?” she asked incredulously.

“Yes. We had dinner. And he kissed me. Well, he quasikissed me. He was aiming for my lips but I turned my head.”

“Did you kiss him back?”

“No, of course not. I mean, I have a boyfriend, at least in theory. I totally spazzed.”

“I’m confused. Where was Peter? Weren’t you supposed to have dinner with Peter?”

“Yes. But he canceled. He didn’t even call. He just sent an e-mail. And he was out half the night. With Abigail, I’m sure. I think he’s dumping me,” I confided. This was the first time I’d said the words aloud, and they left an acrid taste on my tongue.

“What time are you getting here?” she asked. “We need to talk about this.”

“By seven, I hope.”

“Good.” I was nearly at the door to Morgan Hall. “I’ve got to go, but I’ll see you in a few hours. Oh-I nearly forgot to ask. How was your trip to Newbury Street yesterday? Any good purchases?”

Luisa hesitated on the other end of the phone. “It was all right. I’ll tell you about it later.”

I made my way up to Jonathan’s office. His door was open, and he was seated behind his desk. I knocked on the doorframe, and he looked up and gave me a big smile. My heart did a traitorous flip-flop and the now-familiar tingling began afresh. He really was just absurdly cute.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m here for my police interrogation.”

“Great,” he said. He stood up and helped me off with my coat. “They’re finishing up with somebody else right now. I’ve got them parked in a conference room down the hall. It should only be a couple of minutes.”

“Any news?”

“Well, I’ve found out why they think that there might be a link with the prostitute killer.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re not going to believe this. Apparently they think that the guy who’s been doing the murders has been using a scarf to strangle his victims.”

“A scarf?”

“Not just any scarf.” He closed his office door to hang my coat up next to his and gestured to the scarf that hung on one of the pegs. “This scarf.”

“I don’t get it. They think the killer’s been using your scarf?”

He laughed. “Well, maybe not this one. But a Harvard scarf.” I looked at the crimson-and-white-striped object in question. “And the witness to the attack on Sara said the guy was wearing one, too.”

“But those are everywhere.” Just in the past twenty-four hours I must have seen more than a dozen people wearing them. Jonathan himself, Gabrielle LeFavre, the annoying guy who tried to psyche me out in the elevator the previous day, Scott Epson, Grant Crocker-why even Adam Barnett had been wearing one, and he’d gone to M.I.T. Personally, I’d never understood the appeal of decking oneself out in Harvard paraphernalia, but I seemed to be in the minority on that topic.

Jonathan shrugged. “I don’t disagree. But they seem to think that it might be too much of a coincidence that they have a strangler using one to strangle people while somebody’s attacking a student wearing another.”

“That sounds like a flimsy link to me,” I said.

“I know. But they’re also desperate to catch this sociopath who’s been on a killing spree, and they’re following up on any lead, no matter how tenuous. I’m just worried that it will take them off on the wrong tangent, and they won’t catch the guy who attacked Sara. I mean, I want them to catch them both, but it seems like they’re jumping to conclusions to think it’s the same person.”

“It seems that way,” I agreed.

But I was getting distracted. We were still by the closed door, looking at the scarf hanging from its hook. And Jonathan was standing pretty close. He took a deep breath, and the way he paused reminded me of the way he’d paused the previous night. As if he were making up his mind about something. The last time he’d made a similar decision, it had been to try to kiss me. And I wasn’t all that confident that I didn’t want him to try again.

So I did what any normal person would do, and started talking about the weather. “Is there really supposed to be a blizzard this week-”

But it was hard to keep talking when his lips were descending toward mine.