KEVIN CHET THOMPSON said he would pick me up in front of the Dakota at eight o’clock. He arrived at the wheel of a new Range Rover. The sight of it gave me a jolt; it’s the civilized version of the old Land Rovers Ian and I drove all over Africa. Why couldn’t this criminal psychologist have come in a cab? Or on the bus?
From the driver’s side, he leaned across and opened the passenger door for me, but I didn’t get in. My hesitation puzzled him. “What’s the matter?”
“You have a Range Rover,” I said. That’s great, Morgan, state the obvious.
“I thought you’d like it. You’re not one of those people who think anything bigger than a Geo Metro is a crime against the environment, are you?”
“No, I’m not.”
I got into the passenger seat. Automatically, I reached down to the side of the seat, to feel for the rough patch on the frayed old leather. I had mended the cut in the leather myself, with duct tape. But of course it wasn’t there.
Kevin Chet Thompson started the motor and pulled out into traffic.
“I’m all in favor of our hostage-like dependence on foreign oil,” I said. He laughed, but I realized how harsh what I had said sounded. Why was I acting like this? Was it possible that riding in a Range Rover was making me feel disloyal to Ian? What was the matter with me? I glanced sideways at Kevin Chet Thompson and discovered he was looking at me quizzically.
“Are we having our first fight?” he asked.
“Not yet,” I said. Then I smiled in an attempt to make up for my acerbic remark. “Where are we going?”
“To Elaine’s, if that’s okay with you.”
“I’ve read about it, but I’ve never been there,” I said.
“Good. I’ll be the first. To take you to Elaine’s.”
ELAINE KAUFMAN, THE “Elaine” who was famously partial to writers at her Second Avenue saloon, greeted Kevin Chet Thompson as though she was especially partial to him. He responded to her enthusiastic greeting by saying he had missed her, too. Then he introduced me. Elaine said she was happy to meet me and hoped I would come back again.
“If she doesn’t come back with me, don’t let her in.”
Elaine led us to one of the ten tables along the wall, opposite the bar. According to an article I’d read in Vanity Fair, these tables were reserved for her favorites. As we sat down, I glanced around. Wherever I looked, I saw faces I had previously seen only on the back of book jackets. I had been married to a man whose face was on book jackets, and now here I was in the company of another man whose face was on the jackets of books. It was like some bizarre dream.
“You don’t need menus,” Elaine said. “Trust me.” She headed for the kitchen to order whatever she’d decided we should have.
“The food’s good,” he said. “Unless you’re a vegan?”
“I eat anything put in front of me. I’ve eaten buffalo tongue—it’s black, and delicious.”
“You ate buffalo when you were in Africa?”
“Just the tongue; it was a matter of honor because I was the only woman on an expedition. We were trying to catch poachers who were slaughtering Cape buffalo for their horns. Actually, it’s powdered rhino horn that’s supposed to be an aphrodisiac, but the poachers figured the buyers couldn’t tell what kind of horn it was when it was ground into powder.” I stopped, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I’m babbling. Normally, it takes an Act of Congress to get me to tell ‘Out of Africa’ stories.”
“I enjoyed it.”
A thought stuck me. “How did you know I’ve been in Africa?”
“Research. I know a lot about you; but don’t worry, none of it is bad.”
“I wouldn’t expect it to be. I mean, other than the fact that I’m suspected of committing a murder. But then nobody’s perfect, right?”
“You looked me up, too. Didn’t you?” He smiled in a way that forced me to smile, too.
“Just the basics,” I admitted. “You’re a criminal psychologist who writes about crime. Your flap copy isn’t very informative. It doesn’t say whether you prefer dogs or cats. And you’re referred to as Kevin Chet Thompson, Ph.D. I don’t know what I should call you. Dr. Thompson? Kevin? Kev? Elaine called you ‘K.C.’—”
“Definitely not Dr. Thompson. K.C. is okay for pals. Or Kev. I’d like you to call me Chet. My résumé, in brief: no arrests, no convictions, no marriages, no children, no allergies. I like both dogs and cats. I’m an Episcopalian, forty years old and I have a younger brother who’s a medical doctor in the Navy. Our mother and father are both alive and well and they live in Surprise, Arizona.”
“You made up that name.”
“No, there really is a Surprise, Arizona, and my parents live there. How are you fixed for folks? I mean, will the man in your life have to deal with crazy in-laws?”
I was saved from answering by the appearance of Sidney Sheldon and his attractive blonde wife, Alexandra. The author was tall, with a full head of silver hair, bright blue eyes and the easy smile of a man who liked to laugh. The couple, who knew my companion, stopped at our table on the way to theirs. Sheldon complimented Chet on his book Murder in Vermont.
“Sidney bought a dozen copies to give away to friends,” Alexandra Sheldon told us. “And he buys them from different bookstores to stimulate your sales.”
Chet thanked him warmly, then he introduced me by saying I was the head writer for Love of My Life, and that I was suspected of murdering Damon Radford.
Sheldon’s eyebrows went up, his smile widened and there was an unmistakable glint of delight in his eyes. “When I was working in television,” he said, “there were one or two network executives I’d like to have killed. Let me know if you need a contribution to your legal defense fund.”
I laughed, and at last I began to relax. “That’s very kind,” I told him.
“Why don’t you join us for dinner at our table?” Sheldon asked.
His wife added a gracious, “Please do.”
Chet looked at me to see if I was agreeable. I was. We got up and joined the Sheldons, and I had a wonderful time. They were charming company, and Sidney, I discovered, was not only a witty conversationalist but also a good listener. When the check came, Chet wrestled Sheldon for it and won, but it was a struggle. I took a discreet peek as Chet was signing the credit card slip and saw that he had given the waiter a twenty percent tip. Chet Thompson had just passed one of my tests: he wasn’t stingy with waiters. I’m looking for a reason to dislike him. Why?
We said good night to the Sheldons and got back into the Range Rover.
A few minutes later, when we neared the Dakota, Chet spotted an open parking place across from the entrance. He eased into it and turned off the engine. We sat in the dark for a moment. I felt my right hand begin to twitch from nervousness. To break the silence, I asked, “Are you driving back to Connecticut now?”
He shook his head. “I have a house there, but I’m staying in a sublet down on Waverly Place. I thought about taking you to dinner at my favorite Italian restaurant, Grotto Azura, but I was afraid you might think it was suspiciously close to where I’m staying.”
If I was going to become a grown-up again, I would have to stop acting like the only virgin at the Sacrificial Sock Hop and get back into the dating pool. “Would you like to come up for a drink?” I asked. “You’ll be reasonably safe.”
“Good.” He opened his door. “I’d like to talk about the Radford murder.”
He got out of the Rover and came around to the passenger side to open the door for me. As we walked through the Dakota’s interior courtyard, I opened my handbag and took out a flashlight. “My apartment is on the third floor. I always take the stairs. Do you mind?”
“It’s pretty dark,” he said. “Are you trying to lure me to my doom?”
“That’s not how I do it.” I turned on the light as we started up.
We reached the third floor and turned right toward my front door. The hallways in the Dakota are well-lighted, so I switched off the flashlight. “I’m not even breathing hard,” he gasped.
“The third floor is only two flights up,” I teased him.
I inserted the key in the lock and opened the door. My front door opens into a small foyer that leads into the living room. I had left the lights on, as I always do when I go out at night.
“Nice,” he said. He followed me into the living room and glanced around. “I like the fresh flowers.”
“I get them every week. When I wasn’t working, I’d buy a bunch of daffodils or daisies or whatever was blooming from vendors in the subways. Now I splurge by going to flower shops.”
He strolled toward the huge windows that face Central Park and looked out.
“You’ve got a great view,” he said. “What is that light?”
I walked over and tried to follow his gaze into the park. “Which light?”
“That one.”
I stared out in the direction he indicated, but I couldn’t see whatever it was that had caught his attention. “There,” he said. Gently, he put his hands on my shoulders. Still puzzled, I turned to face him. At that moment he leaned down and touched his lips to mine.
It caught me by surprise and I gave an involuntary gasp.
Before my mind could form a thought, his arms were around me. He pulled me against him as his lips closed over mine. Firmly, this time. He kissed me with authority, and his kiss sent unexpected waves of heat all through my body. I lost track of the seconds that passed until he drew his head back slightly. Just enough to look in my eyes. Then he kissed me again. His lips parted, his tongue pushed into my mouth and now I was no longer a woman who was being kissed.
I was a wholehearted participant.
We held on to each other tightly. I could feel my breasts swell against his chest as our mouths locked in mutual exploration. I was thrilled, I was frightened, I was—
BANG!
We sprang apart.
“What was that?” I looked around us and saw a small, round hole in my huge living room window, at a height just slightly higher than my head. Oh my God. I was transfixed as the glass began to spider web out from the hole.
“GET DOWN!” Chet yelled and knocked me onto the floor.
As we tumbled to the rug, his foot caught the base of the small end table that held a crystal vase of flowers. The crystal shattered when it hit the floor, spraying us with water and showering us with broken glass.