Then Chris shakes his head. His hair is drying like a golden helmet on top of his head. “But they aren’t seriously going to believe that Rachel Walcott is killing the girls I’ve slept with. I mean, c’mon. Rachel just won a fucking Pansy Award for Good Samaritanism, or whatever.”
Cooper just stares at him. “Are there any girls you’ve slept with this year who aren’t dead?”
Chris looks uneasy. “Well, no, but—”
I look over my shoulder, at the archways that lead out to the pool. “What about Hope?”
“What about her?”
“Do you want her to end up dead, too?”
“No!” Chris looks appalled. “But…I mean, she’s the au pair from next door. How’s Rachel even going to—”
“Chris,” Cooper says. “Have you ever thought about taking a sabbatical from dating?”
Chris swallows.
“To tell you the truth,” he says. “I’m starting to think that might not be such a bad idea.”
28
I don’t want flowers
Red yellow or blue
And I don’t want diamonds
I know other girls do
And I don’t want money
I’ve seen what money can do
All I want is you
All I want is you
All I want is you
“All I Want”
Performed by Heather Wells
Composed by Dietz/Ryder
From the album Magic
Cartwright Records
“Think about it,” I say to Patty. “Rachel meets this guy, this really handsome guy, who acts like he genuinely likes her, and maybe there’s a part of him that really does…”
“Yeah,” Patty agrees sarcastically. “The part he keeps in his briefs.”
“Whatever. This guy, he’s the first guy she’s ever come across who is interested in her, let alone meets all of her qualifications for a boyfriend. You know, he’s hot, he’s rich, he’s hetero. Okay, maybe he’s a bit of a ne’er-do-well”—I lift up the glass of orange juice that’s sitting by my bed and sip it—“living off his trust fund or whatever. But aside from that—”
“Hold on a minute.” Patty turns to say, “Put that down,” to her son. A second later, she’s back.
“Right,” she says. “Where were we?”
“Rachel,” I say.
“Oh, right. So this Christopher guy. Is he really that hot?”
“He’s hot. Plus he’s a student,” I tell her. “You aren’t supposed to sleep with students, so that makes him forbidden fruit, on top of everything else. She starts having all these fantasies—I mean, why not? She’s hit her thirties. And she’s a modern twenty-first-century gal, she wants it all: career, marriage, kids—”
“License to kill.”
“What have you. Then just as she’s getting set to circle the wagons, li’l ol’ Cowboy Chris rides off into the sunset by himself.”
“Hold on, Heather,” Patty says. To her son, she goes, “Indy! I said no! Indy—”
I hold the receiver to my ear as Patty yells at her kid. It’s nice, in a way, to be snug in my bed, not even thinking about murderers for a change, while everyone else is out running around, actually doing something about them. I’d wanted to go with Cooper and Chris to see Detective Canavan. Really. I’d told him last night, as I’d stumbled up to bed in my apartment, to wake me up before he left in the morning.
But I guess the shock from all the excitement of the day before—the explosion, the trip to the hospital, the drive to Long Island and back—had finally taken its toll, because when Cooper had tapped on my bedroom door to see if I was up, I’d yelled at him to go away.
Not that I remember doing this. I mean, I would never have been so rude if I’d actually been conscious. Cooper left a note explaining the situation, and ending with the words, Do not go to work today. Stay home and rest. I’ll call you.
And okay, he didn’t sign it Love, Cooper. Just Cooper.
But still. He has to at least, you know, respect me more now. Now that it turns out I wasn’t making it all up. About how someone had been trying to kill me, and all. I mean, he has to be thinking what a fantastic partner I’d make, to detect things with.
And who knows where that might lead? I mean, wouldn’t the next rational step be for him to fall madly in love with me?
So yeah. I’m in a good mood. It’s pouring rain outside, but I don’t care. I’m snug in my bed, watching morning cartoons with Lucy by my side. Maybe it’s only because I’d come so close to losing it, but life is seeming really, really good.
Or so I’m excitedly telling Patty. She seems very impressed by my theory—the one I’m hoping will send Detective Canavan, when he hears what Chris has to say, directly to Fischer Hall with an arrest warrant.
“I’m back,” Patty says. “Where were we?”
“Rachel. Suddenly she’s left holding the reins to the chuck wagon all by her lonesome,” I say. “So what does a modern twenty-first-century gal like Rachel do?”
“Oh, wait, wait, let me try,” Patty says, excitedly. “Rounds up a—what do they call it? Oh yes. A posse?”
“Gets rid of the competition,” I correct her. “Because in Rachel’s twisted mind, she thinks if she kills all Chris’s girlfriends, she’ll get him back through default. You know, if there aren’t any other girls left, he’ll have no choice but to return to her.”
“Wow.” Patty sounds impressed. “So how’s she doing it?”
“What do you mean, how’s she doing it? She’s pushing them down the elevator shaft.”
“Yeah, but how, Heather? How is a skinny bitch like Rachel pushing full-grown women—who surely don’t want to die—down the elevator shaft? I mean, I can’t even get my sister’s damn chihuahua into his carrier, and he’s just a tiny dog. Do you have any idea how hard it must be to push someone who doesn’t want to die down an elevator shaft? You have to open the doors first. What are these girls doing while she’s doing that? Why aren’t they fighting back? Why doesn’t Rachel have scratches on her face or on her arms? My sister’s damned dog scratches me hard when I try to put him in his Sherpa.”