was a French café twenty or so blocks south, so Lake decided it would be easiest to walk. The whole way there she fretted about what the “gossip” was. Had Molly heard something about the police investigation?
Molly was sitting just inside the café, beside the open floor-to-ceiling windows. She was dressed in a sleeveless celadon-colored dress that flattered both her coloring and her well-toned body, and her thick red hair was half up, half down. She looked stunning but also happy, as if life today was especially delicious.
“Great dress,” Lake said as she slid into her chair.
“Thanks. You, of course, can wear anything. There are three colors that go with my hair and I have to work them to death.”
All Lake wanted was to pump Molly for the news about Keaton, but she held back. Molly had a nose for trouble, and Lake knew that if she appeared overeager, it would only arouse suspicion.
“Was it nice to be in the Catskills again?” Molly asked, fiddling with a slice of baguette but not eating it.
Lake didn’t dare say a word about Smokey. Molly would begin probing, asking all sorts of questions.
“No, not so great,” Lake said. “It’s going to take some getting used to—being in a house I once shared with someone else.”
“Speaking of Jack, he hasn’t dropped by again, has he?”
“No—thank God.” She was getting tired of always having to provide Molly with a Jack Warren status report.
A few minutes later, after their salads had been ordered, Molly twitched in her chair, signaling she was ready to dish.
“Sooo? Don’t you want to hear my news?” she asked.
“News?”
“About Mark Keaton. Don’t be coy. That’s how I got you here.”
“Do tell, then,” Lake said. She could hear how stilted her voice sounded.
Molly wetted her full lips and then pursed them together. Damn, don’t make me beg for it, Lake thought.
“Do you remember me mentioning a woman named Gretchen Spencer? She’s a stylist I’ve known for years. We both worked at Harper’s Bazaar and went freelance around the same time.”
“I think I do,” Lake said. Just tell me, she felt like screaming.
“Well, she apparently spent the entire weekend with the good doctor two weeks before he was murdered.”
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.”