Shudder.
“So we need to figure out a way to get to Bibi,” I continued. “I’ve already emailed her about the house and she hasn’t gotten back to me. I don’t want to come on too strong—can I rock up at a grieving widow’s home to chat? Do people still bring, like, casseroles to grieving widows?” I stopped and considered. “Also, what exactly is a casserole?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve never had a casserole.”
“It sounds… French?”
Gabe sighed. “Okay. I’m not even going to start.”
Before we could solve that mystery, my phone buzzed. An unfamiliar 212 number. I always picked up 212 numbers, whether I knew them or not. Yes, some of them were spam. Yes, other ones were reporters trying to get some kind of comment about how I felt now that Opal was in prison for twenty-five years to life. But others were calling to offer me roles on reality TV shows. I’d love to go onCelebrity Survivoragain. The other contestants had underestimated me all the way to the finals, because while I was terrible at the actual tasks of surviving, like making fires or catching food, I was excellent at turning people against each other and making my teammates hate someone else on our team more than me. (Thank you, brief modeling career.)
Anyway. Nobody was calling to ask me to judge anotherTop Chefbaking episode, which was disappointing. “Pomona Afton?” The voice was quiet, throaty, an older woman still figuring out her lower postmenopausal register, definitely not Kristen Kish’s or Gail Simmons’s.
“Yes?” I said.
“This is Bibi Phlume.” She paused for a moment, as if she wanted to give me time to marinate in how ridiculous the name sounded. “The police have informed me of an incident that took place atmybuilding.”
I didn’t think I was imagining how she emphasized that “my.” My shoulders tensed. All thoughts of the murder fled from my mind. Well, not all thoughts, considering that the murder was the entire reason we were having this conversation at all. “Yes,” I said back to Bibi. “Not a big deal. I meant to contact you about it, but I’d already emailed you about the building and hadn’t heard back and didn’t want to bother you, and frankly, it’s such a small thing anyway.”
That was a blatant lie, as directly contradicted by the urgency with which I’d hired my new armed guard (I’d requested someone who wouldn’t be wearing all black leather and looking like an obvious commando. Hopefully they’d give me someone who knew how to match prints and solids so that I wouldn’t feel embarrassed to be seen with him).
She called me out. “It didn’t sound like such a small thing. My insurance rates are going to go up. I’m having a security system installed right this second so that nobody can get back in. Honestly, Pomona, you might want to hold off on the work anyway until after I’ve had more of a chance to assess my husband’s estate. I apologize for the delay in emailing you back—I’m still thinking everything through. I’m not sure if we have the same goals for his portfolio.”
A delicate way of saying,Don’t waste any more of your time with the place, because I’m going to sell it to the highest bidder. Panic flared inside me. “Can I take you out to lunch?” I said. “I’d love to tell you more about the… incident. And we can discuss our goals as well.”
She was silent for so long that the panic flared again. She was totally going to blow me off because she didn’t want to give me bad news to my face. I understood. I’d done the same thing whenI didn’t want to tell Jessica the reason my mom hadn’t invited her to her fifty-eighth birthday party (Jessica had asked if she could bring anything to the party, which somehow my mom had interpreted as Jessica asking to bring macaroni salad, so my mom was insulted by the idea that she could be perceived as the kind of person who would throw a party that merited a bowl of macaroni salad).
But maybe Bibi’s curiosity won out, or she wanted to see if I was really on the natural blue diet rumored by the tabloids (there were so few natural blue foods that the blue diet was actually a cover for an eating disorder). “All right,” she said. “Meet me at Avianna tomorrow at noon.”
Avianna—a buzzy new restaurant that had come out of nowhere to hit all the city’s best-of lists. And all the way across town. At least it was in a location I couldn’t easily take the subway to. It wasn’t like Iwouldtake the subway, but it would mean I’d have Gabe telling me I should take the subway and giving me a judgy look when I of course would not. “It’s a date.”
The fly buzzing right into the spider’s web. Avianna was the web, obviously. But which one of us was the fly, and which the spider?
CHAPTER
Seventeen
Imet Bibi the following day in a black dress, as was appropriate, I thought, for a lunch with a freshly minted widow (though paired with hot pink heels and a matching headband—it wasn’t likeIwas a widow myself, and who knew who I’d run into at a hopping place like Avianna). She met me in a bright blue sheath dress, which caught me off guard. A very deliberate choice.
She also wasn’t weeping as she spoke. She was smiling warmly, actually. “Pom, thanks so much for coming all the way here.” Her arms closed gingerly around me in a hug that didn’t actually result in any skin-to-skin contact. “So lovely to see you.”
The host was kind enough to seat us at a table in the back, away from the big street-facing windows, so the only people who would be able to gawk at me would be fellow diners. I appreciated that. “So,” I said sympathetically, once our waiter had come by to pour our waters and brief us on the specials. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Conrad was a good man.”
Soft reggae music played from somewhere above us, barely audible over the sound of people talking quietly around us. Neither sound drowned out Bibi’s snort. “He wasn’t, but thank you.”
I wasn’t sure exactly what to say to that, which was a rarity. I smiled politely and wished the breadbasket had arrived so that I’d have something to do with my mouth other than respond.
Me being uncomfortable seemed to strike her as funny. She had a braying sort of laugh, one entirely unsuitable, I thought, for a brand-new widow. I hadn’t put much thought into widowhood, but I guess I’d always pictured lots of black clothes (chic, of course; just because your husband was dead didn’t mean fashion had died along with him), soft voices, not much indulgence. Though I guess if I died first, I wouldn’t want Gabe to stop enjoying life. I mean, he definitely wouldn’t enjoy it as much, but that was understandable, because I was a delight.
Bibi said, “I’m sorry. But the look on your face…”
I waited to hear what exactly the look on my face was, but just then the breadbasket arrived. The two of us busied ourselves with a caramelized onion corn bread and ramp butter (both still warm). It was so delicious that I made a mental note to look into a seasonal ramp special at the bakery (maybe in a hand pie format with some not-too-pungent cheese and some chicken). Bibi clearly agreed with me about how good it was—I couldn’t help but notice that she ate the entire square. Older women in my circle, at least pre-Ozempic, tended to follow one of two paths: skinny, eats nothing; or actually eats food, carries some weight. I hoped at that age I would be secure enough with my body to confidently follow the latter. “It’s very good,” she said, as if reading my thoughts. “Conrad never would have come here with me—too ‘ethnic’ for him. One of the reasons I wanted to come now.”
“Well,” I said delicately. “Maybe you could have come with a friend.”
She snorted again. “I don’t have many friends left. One of the consequences of spending decades married to the social pariah.” She picked up another chunk of corn bread. “He didn’t like seeing me eat either. I’m so hungry.”
Again, I wasn’t sure what to say.I’m glad you’re happy he’s dead? That seemed inappropriate.Why did you stay married to him?So did that.
