twenty-eight

Dan’s funeral was at St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Nigel and I were running late due to an unfortunate incident involving Skippy, a novice hotel employee, and an unattended room service cart. It was later agreed to by all parties that bacon would no longer be delivered to our floor.

When we finally arrived, we rushed through the famed bronze doors and straight into Dan’s mother, Cindy. A thin, petite woman with ramrod posture and a skull-like face, she always reminded me of an older, meaner version of Mrs. Danvers. Her dark hair was hidden under a black pillbox hat, her perpetual scowl under the matching black-netted veil.

“Hello, Mrs. Trados,” I said, putting out my hand. “I’m not sure if you remember me. I’m Nicole Martini. I went to school with Harper. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Cindy stared at me a beat and then extended her hand. “Oh, yes. Aren’t you the one who’s a security guard or something?” she asked with a sniff.

I forced a smile. “Sort of. I used to be a detective with the New York Police Department,” I said. “I’m now retired.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” she said with a nod. “That’s not a proper job for a woman, no matter what her particular background.”

I nodded. “Yes. I remember you telling me that.”

Cindy sniffed again. “Well, I’m glad you finally took my advice.” Her gimlet gaze slid to Nigel, and her icy features thawed a tad. “And who is this?” she asked.

“This is my husband,” I said. “Nigel Martini.”

Nigel smiled and took Cindy’s hand in his. “I’m so sorry to have to meet you under these circumstances, Mrs. Trados,” he said. “You have my deepest sympathy.”

Cindy nodded her thanks. “Martini?” she repeated, her eyes lighting up a little. “Are you perhaps related to Audrey Martini?”

Nigel nodded. “She’s my cousin.”

Cindy’s demeanor thawed even further. Nigel’s family is quite well known and quite wealthy—two of Cindy’s favorite characteristics. So much so that over the years she began to sprinkle famous celebrities into her conversation, as in “I read where Julie Andrews drinks the same tea that I do.” After a time, Cindy made the stories more personal. She now indiscriminately tossed about celebrity names with a breathtaking inattentiveness to reality.

“Well, how kind of you to come, Nigel,” she said her mouth stretching into a horrible facsimile of a smile. “And please call me Cindy.” She let out a little sigh. “It’s all so terrible. I don’t quite know what I am going to do.” She shook her head. “To find out that someone killed my Dan! It’s just been a nightmare!” She pressed two perfectly manicured fingers against her bright red mouth a moment before continuing. “Of course, as my dear friend Barbara Streisand told me yesterday, I must keep up my usual positive outlook. But it’s so hard! The police, of course, have been most unhelpful.” She paused here to glare at me. “I would have thought they would have arrested someone by now.”

“I’m sure they are doing their best, Mrs. Trados,” I said. I debated calling her Cindy, as she had invited Nigel to do, but suspected that his was a unique offer.

“Well, their ‘best’ is clearly not good enough,” she snapped. “And I am not alone in thinking that. When I was lunching with Liz Taylor the other day, she told me she was just horrified at how the police are handling this case.”

Next to me, Nigel began to cough. “I am sorry,” I said, forcing myself to keep a straight face. “Would you happen to know where Harper is?”

Cindy gestured a bony arm to an area behind her. “I believe that she’s off brooding in the Baptistery,” she said. “Really, with her upbringing you’d think she’d know better than to skulk off and leave her guests to fend for themselves.”

“I’m sure everyone will understand,” I said. “I can’t imagine anyone expects Harper to entertain them today.”

Cindy crinkled her nose as if I’d just waved a dead fish under it. “Yes, well, perhaps they do things differently where you come from,” she said with a scowl. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to see about the music.” She briefly laid her hand on Nigel’s arm before she turned away and murmured, “Bless you for coming.”

“She seems sweet,” Nigel said as we watched her stomp down the aisle.

“So is cyanide, I hear.”

“Do you think someone should mention to her that Elizabeth Taylor died?” Nigel asked.

I stared at him in disbelief. “Are you kidding? That’s the only thing that makes it bearable for Harper to deal with Cindy. Last time Harper saw her, Cindy told her that she’d just had dinner with Jackie Collins.”

“Must have been some dinner,” Nigel said.