Too Rich and Too Dead Page 4

  As she stepped farther inside the room, a poodle suddenly stuck its head up in the air. Mallory realized that even though the dog was in plain sight, draped comfortably across the couch, its fluffy white fur had caused it to blend in with its surroundings so well that she hadn't even noticed it. But the dog noticed her, leaping off the couch and bounding toward her enthusiastically.

  “Get away, Bijou!” Juanita insisted crossly. “Bad dog!” But aside from glaring at the animal, she made no move to rescue Mallory.

  “It's all right,” Mallory assured her. “I love dogs.” She bent down to let the poodle lick one of her hands while scratching her behind the ears with the other.

  Mallory was still admiring the house that Rejuva-Juice built, along with the pet she suspected had been chosen because her fur matched the décor, when she heard a familiar voice cry, “Mallory? Is that really you?”

  Mallory turned and saw Carly loping toward her. Her long strides, unencumbered by ridiculously high heels, sent the silky fabric of her brightly colored print dress swirling around her knees as if she were a dancer.

  Mallory's first impression was that the Carly Cassidy of today was a considerably more sophisticated version of her earlier self, her youthful exuberance replaced by cool elegance. In fact, Mallory decided that the photograph in The New York Times hadn't done her justice. While the flattering shot had made it seem Carly hadn't put on any weight en route to her forties, in person she actually looked slimmer than she'd been in high school, if that was humanly possible. Somehow she'd managed to fend off the effects of both the years and the carbs, both of which had taken their toll on the waists, hips, and thighs of most of the other middle-aged women Mallory knew.

  Her hazel eyes were bright, and she simply exuded energy. Just as the Times had claimed, Carly Cassidy Berman was the best possible advertisement for Rejuva-Juice's effectiveness.

  “It's so good to see you again!” she cried, sweeping toward Mallory with her arms spread wide. Bijou jumped out of the way, as if the savvy poodle had just realized that a tidal wave was approaching.

  Mallory braced herself for a big bear hug—which left her totally unprepared for the kiss on each cheek she got instead.

  “How long has it been?” Carly squealed once she'd stepped back. “I've always been much too busy to make it to any of the reunions, so we probably haven't seen each other since—wow, could it really be graduation?”

  No doubt, Mallory thought, still amused by Carly's warm reception. After all, it's not as if either of us went out of our way to keep in touch afterward.

  “I think you're right,” she replied. “I don't remember us running into each other since then.”

  “No matter how long it's been, it's great that you're here now.” Carly suddenly froze. “You're not going to tell anyone how old we really are, are you?”

  Mallory chuckled, then stopped herself when she saw she was serious.

  “But you look fabulous, Carly!” she insisted. “Maybe you should tell people you're actually ninety—but that Rejuva-Juice keeps you looking so young!”

  Carly let out a merry, high-pitched laugh. “Mallory, you're so funny! I should hire you as my marketing director.” Her smiled faded. “Seriously, let's not mention our age to anyone, okay?”

  Mallory blinked. “Of course not.”

  Carly's smile returned. “Now let me take a look at you.” She ran her eyes up and down Mallory as if she were appraising a used car. Which was exactly what Mallory felt like as she stood there, enduring her scrutiny. In fact, once again she traveled through a time machine, back to gym class—and a very vivid memory of Carly and some of the other girls clustered in the locker room, eyeing her and tittering. When she'd glanced down self-consciously, she'd discovered she was wearing two different colored socks. Somehow, in tenth-graders’ eyes, that was the equivalent of forgetting to put on any clothes at all.

  Still, there was such a thing as good manners, and Mallory expected Carly to come up with a line about how terrific Mallory looked, too. Something about how she hadn't changed a bit since their days together at JFK High—or at least that she hadn't changed much.

  Instead, Carly drew her perfectly lipsticked mouth into a straight line, then actually allowed a second line to appear on her face—this one smack in the middle of her forehead.

  “I'll be sure to send you home with plenty of Rejuva-Juice,” she said earnestly. “Fortunately, there's finally something to help all of us face the ravages of time.”

  Mallory opened her mouth in astonishment. But before any words of protest managed to make their way out, Carly shrieked, “Juanita? Pack up a case of Rejuva-Juice—no, make that two cases—for my old friend. And make sure you get her address so it'll be waiting for her when she gets home.”

  Old? Mallory thought crossly, not at all confident that Carly was referring to the length of their acquaintance.

  “Now come sit down,” Carly insisted, perching on the couch and patting the seat cushion next to her. “Tell me all about what you've been doing for the last, oh, however many years it's been. I want to hear about everything: husbands, children, careers, whatever.”

  Mallory sat down on the couch and folded her hands in her lap. When she realized that that particular posture might make her look prim—and, heaven forbid, possibly even old—she instead draped one arm across the back of the sofa.

  “Let's see,” she said thoughtfully. “I suppose I should start with the reason I'm here. I recently embarked on a brand new career as a travel writer.”

  “How exciting!” Carly cooed. “Do you travel to exotic spots like Paris and Cairo and Dubai?”

  “Actually,” Mallory replied, clearing her throat, “so far I've stuck to U.S. destinations. My first trip, back in January, was to Orlando. My mission was to find out whether the ‘old Florida’ still exists, and I went to places like alligator farms and the Ripley's Believe It or Not museum—”

  “I'm sure that whoever you work for will eventually come up with some interesting places for you to visit,” Carly cooed, reaching over and patting her knee. “Things are already looking up, aren't they? After all, you were lucky enough to get sent to Aspen!”

  Mallory forced a smile. Good old Carly, she thought. Even after all these years, she hasn't lost her talent for putting someone down while making it sound as if she's trying to be nice.

  “I actually enjoyed Florida,” Mallory told her. “The other places I've covered, too. And it turns out that I'm actually a pretty decent writer. At least that's what my editor seems to think. He likes the fact that I—”

  “What about your personal life?” Carly interrupted. “Are you as happily married as I am?”

  “I was.”

  “Divorced?”

  “My husband, David, passed away almost two years ago.”

  “Poor Mallory!” Carly exclaimed. “I am so sorry. So you're all alone now?”

  “Not exactly. I'm lucky enough to have two of the greatest kids in the world. Amanda is twenty. She's a junior at Sarah Lawrence. And my son, Jordan, is a freshman at Colgate. They've both had kind of a rough time since their dad died, but they're strong and independent and I know they'll do just fine. I'm really proud of—”

  “They say children are a blessing,” Carly said vaguely. “Personally, I never had an urge to be a mother. Somehow, it just doesn't fit with how I see myself. Instead, I've made my marriage my focus.

  “In fact,” she went on with a deep sigh, “I can't even bear to think about the possibility of something happening to Brett. I can't imagine how I'd ever manage without my adorable husband.”

  “It's been tough,” Mallory admitted. She wasn't sure if Carly was being sympathetic or once again playing a game of one-upsmanship.

  “Well, I'm glad that you'll at least have a little male companionship at dinner,” Carly said brightly. Winking, she added, “It just so happens we have a special guest joining us tonight. And who knows? Maybe you two will hit it off.”

  Once again,
Mallory was uncertain of Carly's motivation. She was still trying to decide if her attempts at playing matchmaker were well-meaning or simply insensitive when she added, “Speaking of dinner, I'm afraid we have to eat dreadfully early.” Her eyes sparkling, she added, “I'm giving a talk at the Wheeler Opera House tonight, and I can't keep my public waiting! By the way, Mallory, you must come!”

  Mallory forced a smile. While she remembered Carly having had a big personality back in high school, it seemed to have ballooned into one of rock-star proportions.

  But she hadn't forgotten for a moment that she was here on a mission. And while she had yet to broach the subject of an in-depth interview, she hoped that seeing Carly in action would add one more dimension to her article.

  “Ah, here come the menfolk,” Carly announced abruptly.

  Two men had just ambled into the room, each clutching a martini glass. It was hard not to focus on the taller one. He was lean and unusually well-built, as if he treasured his gym membership card as much as his platinum American Express card. His navy blue cashmere sweater flattered his frame, as did the dark jeans that looked as if poor Juanita had actually ironed them.

  Yet even more riveting than his fit torso was his face. The man was dazzlingly handsome, with well-proportioned features, bright blue eyes, and what looked like a year-round tan. When he smiled—something he appeared to do easily and often—he revealed two rows of perfect, dazzlingly white teeth. From his thick, gleaming silver hair, carefully styled into place, Mallory suspected that he was in his mid-fifties, implying that he had enlisted the aid of a cosmetic dentist somewhere along the line to obtain the million-dollar-smile effect. And given the Bermans’ taste in cars, he might even have spent that much.

  “Brett, my love, I'm dying for you to meet my good friend from high school,” Carly gushed, sweeping toward him. She linked her arm in his and gazed into his eyes adoringly. “This is Mallory MacGregor—oops, sorry, I mean Mallory Marlowe. Do you believe that Mallory and I have known each other for—well, I'm not even going to tell you how many years!”

  Mallory smiled wanly. All this talk about the passage of time was making her feel ancient. “Nice to meet you, Brett.”

  “Pleased to meet you, too,” he boomed, his eyes sweeping over her as he reached out to shake her hand. Not surprisingly, his handshake was as hearty as his voice. “It's always a treat to meet one of Carly's friends.”

  “And this is Gordon Swig,” Carly said, gesturing toward the man standing next to her husband.

  Gordon wasn't nearly as tall, as lean, as young, or as handsome as Carly's husband. In fact, the short, slightly balding man in a dark brown jacket and khaki pants seemed about as far away from Brett Berman on the Impressive scale as anyone could get.

  But there was an even more striking difference between the two men. While Mallory got the feeling Brett was assessing her, looking her over in the same way his wife had, Gordon was smiling at her in a warm, friendly way that she decided made him much more appealing than the taller, better-looking man beside him.

  “Gordon is only in town for a few days,” Carly noted.

  Not a very revealing introduction, Mallory noted. But she just smiled and said hello.

  “Can I get you a drink, Mallory?” Brett offered congenially. “Gordon and I are having martinis.”

  “Nothing for me,” Carly chirped. “I never drink before one of my public appearances.”

  “But I do.” Brett grinned wickedly. “And hopefully you do, too, Mallory. So what'll it be?”

  “A glass of wine might be nice,” she said. Remembering Astrid's warning about the devastating effects of alcohol at high altitudes, she added, “But please, just a little. I only arrived a few hours ago.”

  “I've got a Colorado wine that'll knock your socks off.” Brett swooped an open bottle off an end table with a top made of slate. “It's from Desert Moon Vineyards in Palisade. Their clever marketing people came up with the name Altitude Bordeaux Blend. Now tell me: how could a wine with a charming name like that hurt anybody?”

  Carly glanced at her watch. “Oh, my! It's getting late. I've got a show to do! I told Juanita it was crucial that tonight of all nights she serve dinner on time—” She took off across the room, screeching, “Juanita?”

  Whatever she said apparently did the trick. Less than five minutes later, Mallory found herself sitting in the dining room with the Bermans and their other out-of-town guest. Just like the living room, the dining room was lined with nearly wall-sized windows. They offered spectacular views even though by now the colors of the glorious sunset had faded, leaving in their wake a cobalt blue sky strewn with twinkling stars.

  The long dining room table and the fourteen chairs surrounding it were made of the same rough-textured wood as the Papa Bear chairs in the living room. Overhead, centered on the ceiling, was a chandelier large enough to illuminate the entire room. It looked as if it was made of real tree branches that had been cleverly intertwined, the narrow twigs at the end of each studded with tiny, twinkling white lights. And there was one more element of what Mallory was starting to think of as in-your-face rustic: an imposing pile of rocks in one corner, with water cascading over them to create an impromptu waterfall.

  “Now isn't this nice,” Carly remarked pleasantly. Her voice instantly becoming gruff, she barked, “Juanita? Do you think you could bring in the first course before hell freezes over? And could you get Bijou out of here? She's underfoot, as usual.”

  Whatever happened to please and thank you? Mallory wondered.

  But she was less worried about her hostess's abrasiveness than she was about what that aforementioned first course might be. Surely a couple who'd built their fortune on a health tonic that they claimed was second only in effectiveness to bottled water from the Fountain of Youth carried their obsession into every other aspect of their lives as well. Especially food.

  So as Juanita appeared from the kitchen, scowling as usual but this time bearing a large platter, Mallory nearly pulled a neck muscle in her efforts to see what she was going to be forced to eat in the name of politeness. Brown rice and veggies? Some tofu concoction that she would have to choke down with more of that dangerous headache-inducing wine than she cared to drink?

  “I hope you like lobster,” Carly said before she'd had a chance to identify the whitish blobs on sticks that were piled high on the plate Juanita slammed down on the table.

  Lobster? Mallory thought with relief. And then: In Aspen?

  After all, this wasn't exactly a seaside town. In fact, if geography had anything to do with menu planning, she figured that tonight's dinner was much more likely to revolve around mountain goat and snow cones.

  “These are actually lobster lollipops,” Carly went on to explain. “One of the chefs in town, Matthew Zubrod at DishAspen, came up with them. He calls them lobster corn dogs, but I think of them as lollipops. At any rate, I practically had to get down on my hands and knees to get him to give me the recipe.”

  “Interesting image,” Brett observed. “In fact, if I didn't trust you completely, I might be thinking that—”

  Fortunately, at that moment Juanita came sashaying out of the kitchen once again, swinging her abundant hips. From the way she carried herself, it appeared that she and not Carly was the true queen of the manor.

  “What is it, Juanita?” Carly asked crossly.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Mees Berm,” the housekeeper began.

  Mallory observed that she didn't look the least bit sorry.

  “There ees a phone call for you. That woman again—Sylvie Snow-something or whatever her name ees. She keeps calling and calling—”

  “This is not a good time,” Carly said archly. “Take that Snowdon woman's number and tell her I'll get back to her.”

  “She ees not so good at taking no for an answer,” Juanita grumbled.

  The frosty look on her employer's face must have made an impression even on her, because she quickly added, “But I tell her again.”


  “What's all that about?” Gordon asked once Juanita had strutted off, muttering under her breath.

  Carly sighed. “Let's just say that when you're a ‘have,’ the ‘ have-nots’ never give up.”

  Mallory was curious enough that she wished Gordon would pursue the issue a bit further. But being a good guest, and probably one who hoped to be invited back again, he just nodded and returned to his meal.

  “Anyway, where were we?” Carly asked congenially. She'd gone back to playing the perfect hostess without missing a beat.

  “You were painting a mental picture for all of us,” Brett replied, his expression changing to a distinct leer. “You on your hands and knees, doing whatever it took to get some chef to give you his recipe—”

  “That's right,” Carly said, clearly determined to ignore her husband's innuendoes. “The story behind the lobster lollipops. I finally got Matthew to share his recipe with me, but not until I'd convinced him that I'd never tell it to a soul. I promised I'd take it to my grave—along with the recipe for Rejuva-Juice.”

  The exact same line she'd used with the New York Times reporter, Mallory noted. She got the feeling it was something she said all the time.

  “We have the lobster flown in directly from the Caribbean,” Brett noted as he bit into one of the lollipops. “A tiny island called Barbuda, a few miles off Antigua. It's the only place in the world where this particular variety is found. Unfortunately, the locals ship most of them to France. Damn frogs manage to get the best of everything. But I managed to talk them into overnighting us a few of the buggers once a week.”

  Dr. Atkins's dream, Mallory thought as she reached for a delicacy that was solid protein—and one that in the past twenty-four hours had logged even more frequent-flyer miles than she had. Of course, this poor unfortunate creature would never have a chance to redeem them.