WHEN I GOT TO WORK, BEVERLY GARDENER WAS WAITING OUTside the art room, a vision in cherry red. To what, I wondered, did I owe this celebrity visit?
“Zoe, sugarplum,” she cooed. Her eyes beamed green lasers. “How are you coping? Are you managing all right?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” Why wouldn’t I be? “How are you?”
I unlocked the door, and she followed me inside, her presence filling the studio.
“Oh, I’m peachy. Got a second to chat?”
I assumed it was about her profile report. “Sure. In fact, I wanted to ask you about a note you wrote on the report.”
“The report?” She seemed baffled.
“The profile.”
“Oh—not now, creampuff. I have television interviews in a minute—all morning long about the Nannynapper. The media love my name for him. I bet he loves it, too. All the attention it’s getting him.”
“You think he watches Tv news?”
“His coverage? Of course. He’s glued to his set. Probably jerks off to it, or would if he could get it up. He loves the fame, basks in the feeling of being a star.”
Well, you’d know all about that, I thought.
“Believe me, I know all about that.” She smiled, as if reading my mind. “There’s nothing like being a complete nobody and suddenly being discovered and seeing yourself all over the media. It’s an incredible ego trip. It happened to me ten years ago with my radio show, and it’s happening to the Nannynapper now.”
She sidled up next to me, her voice husky and confidential. “But, see, fame can be tricky. It’s an illusion. It can make you forget who you really are and set you up for a fall.”
I met her eyes, and for the briefest moment Beverly Gardener looked vulnerable. Then she looked away. Suddenly, for the second time in as many meetings, I found myself flattered, basking in her attention and apparent candor. There was a reason the woman captivated audiences. When she focused on you, somehow you felt important. As if you, not she, were the star. Still, I didn’t quite trust her or her confidential tone. The woman who for years had never bothered to greet me in the hallway now spoke to me in confidence, as if we were dear friends, united by time-tested sisterly bonds. What was she up to? What did Beverly Gardener want?
“So, do you think fame will bring the Nannynapper down?” I asked, following her lead.
“We can only hope so. It might embolden him so he gets careless.” She toyed with her collar, fingers skittering across her lapel, then glanced at her watch. “Look, pumpkin, he’s not the reason I wanted to talk to you. Actually, I came by for personal reasons.” She paused, as if not sure how to proceed. “It’s about Nick. I want to make sure we understand each other.”
Understand each other? “Sorry?”
“See, Nick told me—I mean, you do understand about Nick and me—our . . . deal?”
Nick and her? I stammered, unsure how to respond. “Your deal?” What was she telling me? And why?
“We’ve been spending a lot of time together, and he’s told me how much he thinks of you. So I wanted to be sure you got it straight. For Nick’s sake. And yours. Under the circumstances, I wanted us to be clear.”
Clear? “I see.” I didn’t, but I wasn’t going to admit it.
“Good. I didn’t want anyone to be hurt. Look, Nick’s a peach. Funny. He’s not my type, not at all. At first, I didn’t think we’d get along—he seemed so coarse and macho. But actually, he’s quite cultured, and sensitive when you get below the surface.” Exactly how far below the surface had she gotten? I swallowed, picturing her long fingers slipping beneath Nick’s shirt.
“So.” I cleared my throat, squared my shoulders. “What’s your point?”
She leaned back, eyeing me. “Just—I want us to be open with each other. It’s not like I intended to get between you. But, the way things are going, Nick and I are going to be pretty much inseparable. You need to know that.”
My head was spinning. Was Beverly Gardener, famed best-selling author, profiler, problem solver, and internationally renowned star of radio, television, and the courtroom, threatened by me, innocuous unknown Zoe Hayes? Was she warning me to stay away from her man? Was Nick her man? Had he been all along?
Possibly. Why not? If he could hide the truth about a bag of body parts and a lost finger, why would he reveal the relatively minor detail that he had a girlfriend? Was there anything Nick hadn’t misled me about?
Suddenly, I was tired of Dr. Beverly Gardener. Undaunted by her poise or confidence or even her hypnotic green eyes. “Fact is,” I said, “where Detective Stiles is concerned, there’s not much for me to talk about. I’m done with my report.” I smiled as carelessly as I was able. Nick wasn’t the only one who could lie.
She frowned. “Really? Then I must have gotten the wrong impression. From what he said, I thought you were personally involved.” Her eyes probed mine. Warmly, as if she cared. “But, either way, at least we’re cool with each other, you and I. And that’s important. Truth is, I don’t have many female friends. Most women feel threatened by me and keep their distance. But you aren’t intimidated. I can see why Nick likes you.”
What was going on? Was she asking me to be her girlfriend? Or warning me to keep away from Nick? Or both? Was she being deliberately obtuse, or was I simply slow?
Turning to go, she touched my arm and smiled, tiger eyes glowing. “Well, time to go. The Tv crew’s waiting.”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “Go get ‘em. Fame calls.”
A shadow darted through her eyes, but she didn’t reply. With a fluttery wave, she hurried away, leaving me rattled and confused.