I had a split second to decide what to do. They’d figure out it was Vienna’s eventually, right? She was wearing it in all the pictures from tonight. And then they’d be suspicious of me for lyingabout it. I loved Vienna, but I also loved myself. And it didn’t matter anyway—it wasn’t like Vienna had killed Conrad Phlume. There was no way.
So I told him. And, as I scurried back to Gabe and burrowed into his chest to avoid the dark stares from the rest of my guests, I hoped I’d done the right thing.
CHAPTER
Six
They say that all publicity is good publicity. Who “they” are, I don’t know. I was decidedly not part of “them,” after I woke in the morning and grabbed my phone off the nightstand to see news reports about the murder at the gala all over social media set to the soundtrack of the poorly received title track from the only album of my short-lived singing career. (How was young Pom to know that the lyric “Pink is dead and I’m the killer” would age so poorly?)
“Shouldn’t they all know that I didn’t write my own music?” I said aloud. Gabe stirred awake. I waited for him to ask what was wrong, but he only settled onto his pillow like he was going back to sleep, so I let out an enormous gust of a sigh.
Thatgot him up. He propped himself on an elbow, wincing at the sunlight filtering around the edges of our blackout curtains and rubbing his eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“Everything,” I said, as dramatically as possible. “I’m ruined.”
He sat up all the way, running a hand through his hair that made it, if possible, even more mussed. Sometimes I just wanted to lean in and take a bite of him. Was that weird? It was probably weird. “You’re not ruined. It’s going to be okay.”
“It’s not going to be okay. A man is dead.”
“Yes, a man you didn’t like even a little bit,” Gabe said. “Imean, yes, it’s sad, but it’s not going to ruin your life. And even if his widow won’t sign the building over to you, you’ll find another building. It’s going to be okay.”
At least he didn’t try to tell me that all publicity is good publicity. Just in case he was thinking it, I held out my phone so that he could scroll through some of the top results from this morning’s Google Alert. His eyes widened as he flicked his finger. “Oh, wow. Okay. Um.”
“Yeah.” I knew what he was seeing: headlines claiming that I was delighted about the murder because solving the last one (excuse me, “stumbling upon the answer,” according to one particularly infuriating subheading) had given me so much good publicity; influencers who’d met me once claiming that they knew me and I’d probably killed Conrad myself to stay relevant; one self-proclaimed witch claiming that I was cursed (which, might there be something to that? Mental note to give her a call). “My reputation was finally improving. Libby and Kitty and them actually showed at my gala. And now…”
“At least it’s not just you,” Gabe said grimly, handing my phone back. Because, of course, Vienna was in the public’s eye too. She might have faded from view over her past few years of doing good and keeping her underwear on in public, but everybody knew her from being my best friend. We’d done a short-lived reality show together right after we graduated from college where we traveled around the globe together trying the weirdest foods producers could find. (A GIF of her vomiting into the Nile after trying a sheep’s eyeball still showed up in my comments sections all the time.) “I guess the thing about her earring leaked. Everybody thinks the two of you did it together.”
“Of course they do,” I said. Because the two drunken college grads who couldn’t even stomach haggis could definitely go in on a murder together.
As absurd as the idea was, though, it was gaining steam. Itexted her,Hey, how are you doing?Hesitated before sending. Added an emoji heart. Sent. I wassucha good friend.
The three typing bubbles popped up immediately. I sat there staring at them, waiting for the response. She was typing, typing, typing for ages…
And then they disappeared. Leaving me staring at my question, which was sitting there all alone and awkward, like me when the Oscar winners left the bathroom at the Met Gala before they could help me get my birdcage back on. Which, of course, led to the second viral photo featuring strategically placed feathers from that night.
But enough about that. I tossed my phone aside, smarting a little. “Can we call your brother?”
Gabe, who in the meantime had gone out to the kitchen, called back, “We just saw him last week.”
I followed the sound of Gabe’s voice, Squeaky winding his way around my ankles the whole way, either in such delight to see me that he couldn’t sit still or because he thought it would be funny to trip me and watch me face-plant in his water bowl. You could never really tell with cats. They were kind of like my old model frenemies that way.
Gabe stopped short in front of his coffeemaker as he saw me holding out his phone. I leaned down to scratch Squeaky’s ears without breaking eye contact with my boyfriend, who said, “Oh no. No way.”
“There’s no harm in it,” I wheedled. Squeaky purred louder than a coffee grinder, his black fur shining almost reddish in the light that poured through our floor-to-ceiling windows. Central Park sprawled green outside the windows of the living room behind us in addition to our bedroom, and I usually made time to admire it every morning, but not today. Too much to do. “If there’s something he can’t tell us, he just won’t. I’m not trying to get him in trouble.”
Gabe’s older brother, Caleb, was a detective with the NYPD. He probably wouldn’t be on this case, just like he wasn’t on the case of my grandmother, but it was useful having someone on the inside to catch all the gossip. Plus, he loved the fill-your-own donuts we served at the bakery with an enthusiasm that did nothing for the related stereotype.
Gabe sighed. “Fine.” He dialed his brother and placed the phone flat on our kitchen table before putting it on speaker. I grabbed the Brita pitcher to fill Squeaky’s Murano confetti glass bowl I’d brought back from Italy, then plopped some of his chicken, quinoa, and carrot mixture that the cat chef had left for him into his bowl (because Millicent had asked me this question in all seriousness: a chef for cats, not a cat who was a chef).
I sat down just as Caleb answered. “What do you want, farthead?”
I’ve had plenty of issues with Nicholas, but sometimes I was glad my own older brother was all about suits and poetry and propriety. Most of his insults for me had been Shakespearean, which had been great, because it was hard to be insulted by a nickname when you had no idea what it meant.
Before Gabe could respond with something equally juvenile, I butted in (hee). “Hey, Caleb. It’s Pom.”
“Oh, hey, Pom,” he said. “You got strawberry filling in yet?”
“Soon,” I promised. “I’ll text you as soon as I do. I’m actually thinking about adding a touch of jalapeño, what do you think?”
