Bombshell
Page 62
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“What did you have for breakfast, Ms. Ivy?” Sherlock asked her.
“Breakfast?”
“Yes, before you found out about Tommy, when you were still smiling.”
“I-I scrambled some eggs—Peter loves scrambled eggs. He had three of them, but he told me only one yolk, and wheat toast with two pats of butter on the side.”
Sherlock said. “So no pancakes?”
“Oh, no,” Melissa said. “I’ve got to watch my figure.”
“You said Peter spent the night?”
Her mouth opened, then snapped closed.
Savich said, “Peter told us how he tore up the sheets Friday night with you.”
They watched Melissa dart a look at Savich’s cell recording every word and thought she would scream. But she held herself perfectly still instead and drew several deep breaths. She said finally, “I know you probably won’t believe me, but I’m not lying. I really don’t remember.”
Sherlock said, “The way Peter tells it, he might never forget Friday. But you say you don’t remember?”
“I had too much to drink. I don’t usually drink more than a glass or two of wine, I really don’t, I swear.”
“Was that when you came back to your apartment Friday night?” Savich asked her.
She gave him that marvelous blink again, very effective, the way her lashes swept over her eyes. “Well, we had some wine at dinner, too. Peter brought a lovely chardonnay with him from Frog’s Leap Vineyards in Napa Valley. He made a big deal out of it, told me it was the best he’d found, that he’d been saving it for me, for us together.”
“Did the wine taste good to you?” Sherlock asked her.
“I thought it tasted only so-so, but Peter was so excited, I lied and told him I really liked it, and he poured more into my glass. I guess the second and third glasses were too much for me.
“It was weird, though. Even if I ever happened to drink more than I should, I’ve never had a hangover. But when I woke up Saturday morning, I did. My head really hurt. Peter brought me a cup of coffee and some aspirin, told me how sorry he was that his wine had made me feel bad. Please don’t tell my parents.”
“But you felt well enough to fix Peter breakfast? One yolk?”
Melissa smiled. “The aspirin helped.”
And Sherlock wondered: Had Peter drugged her wine? She considered asking Melissa’s permission for a blood test, but decided not to risk it as long as Melissa was answering their questions. Instead, Sherlock asked, “Did Peter call you this afternoon after we spoke with him at the Hoover Building, Ms. Ivy?”
Melissa nodded, and Sherlock was pleased she didn’t lie. “He was very angry, said he was glad we were together that night. I can’t believe you really suspect Peter of killing poor Tommy.”
“We haven’t charged him with any crime at all, Ms. Ivy,” Sherlock said. “We’re simply establishing where Tommy and all his friends were on Friday night.”
“Tell us about your visit with Tommy to his grandparents’ on Thanksgiving,” Savich said.
“Oh goodness, was that ever something. Do you know they had a chef prepare the dinner? It was amazing.”
Savich, who knew she’d been raised in Kentucky by two barely middle-class parents, also knew she’d probably been blown away that day. There was something else, too—it was envy, and it was clear in her young voice.
“But he didn’t take you back to their home on Christmas Eve?”
“By that time we weren’t nearly as good friends anymore.”
Now, why was that? Sherlock said, “Tommy’s grandparents spoke of you, Ms. Ivy.”
Sherlock paused, stared closely to see Melissa’s thoughts were written clearly on her beautiful face. Of course they’d talk about me, I’m beautiful and not a stuck-up debutante like they expected.
“They were very nice to me,” Melissa said, “and Thanksgiving was very nice, too, but it was only one afternoon. Why would they talk about me to you?”
Savich cut in. “They told us you were using Tommy, Ms. Ivy, to gain entrance into their world, that you’d searched him out because you knew who he was. They even saw you writing in your notebook. They thought you were a social climber who was seeing Tommy because you knew Mr. Cronin was famous and had money and a lot of very important friends.”
“Not anymore he doesn’t, not for a long time now,” came out of Melissa’s mouth before she could stop herself, but it was too late, her words hung stark and mean in the silent air. She said, “Oh, I really didn’t mean that. Really, Tommy and I were only dating, we were friends, and they were nice to me. I wonder if they misunderstood, saw more to it than that because they’re older. I mean, how could they have seen the notebook when I didn’t have one?” And her lashes swept down again to excellent effect. When she raised her head again, she looked trusting, honest, guileless.
“Breakfast?”
“Yes, before you found out about Tommy, when you were still smiling.”
“I-I scrambled some eggs—Peter loves scrambled eggs. He had three of them, but he told me only one yolk, and wheat toast with two pats of butter on the side.”
Sherlock said. “So no pancakes?”
“Oh, no,” Melissa said. “I’ve got to watch my figure.”
“You said Peter spent the night?”
Her mouth opened, then snapped closed.
Savich said, “Peter told us how he tore up the sheets Friday night with you.”
They watched Melissa dart a look at Savich’s cell recording every word and thought she would scream. But she held herself perfectly still instead and drew several deep breaths. She said finally, “I know you probably won’t believe me, but I’m not lying. I really don’t remember.”
Sherlock said, “The way Peter tells it, he might never forget Friday. But you say you don’t remember?”
“I had too much to drink. I don’t usually drink more than a glass or two of wine, I really don’t, I swear.”
“Was that when you came back to your apartment Friday night?” Savich asked her.
She gave him that marvelous blink again, very effective, the way her lashes swept over her eyes. “Well, we had some wine at dinner, too. Peter brought a lovely chardonnay with him from Frog’s Leap Vineyards in Napa Valley. He made a big deal out of it, told me it was the best he’d found, that he’d been saving it for me, for us together.”
“Did the wine taste good to you?” Sherlock asked her.
“I thought it tasted only so-so, but Peter was so excited, I lied and told him I really liked it, and he poured more into my glass. I guess the second and third glasses were too much for me.
“It was weird, though. Even if I ever happened to drink more than I should, I’ve never had a hangover. But when I woke up Saturday morning, I did. My head really hurt. Peter brought me a cup of coffee and some aspirin, told me how sorry he was that his wine had made me feel bad. Please don’t tell my parents.”
“But you felt well enough to fix Peter breakfast? One yolk?”
Melissa smiled. “The aspirin helped.”
And Sherlock wondered: Had Peter drugged her wine? She considered asking Melissa’s permission for a blood test, but decided not to risk it as long as Melissa was answering their questions. Instead, Sherlock asked, “Did Peter call you this afternoon after we spoke with him at the Hoover Building, Ms. Ivy?”
Melissa nodded, and Sherlock was pleased she didn’t lie. “He was very angry, said he was glad we were together that night. I can’t believe you really suspect Peter of killing poor Tommy.”
“We haven’t charged him with any crime at all, Ms. Ivy,” Sherlock said. “We’re simply establishing where Tommy and all his friends were on Friday night.”
“Tell us about your visit with Tommy to his grandparents’ on Thanksgiving,” Savich said.
“Oh goodness, was that ever something. Do you know they had a chef prepare the dinner? It was amazing.”
Savich, who knew she’d been raised in Kentucky by two barely middle-class parents, also knew she’d probably been blown away that day. There was something else, too—it was envy, and it was clear in her young voice.
“But he didn’t take you back to their home on Christmas Eve?”
“By that time we weren’t nearly as good friends anymore.”
Now, why was that? Sherlock said, “Tommy’s grandparents spoke of you, Ms. Ivy.”
Sherlock paused, stared closely to see Melissa’s thoughts were written clearly on her beautiful face. Of course they’d talk about me, I’m beautiful and not a stuck-up debutante like they expected.
“They were very nice to me,” Melissa said, “and Thanksgiving was very nice, too, but it was only one afternoon. Why would they talk about me to you?”
Savich cut in. “They told us you were using Tommy, Ms. Ivy, to gain entrance into their world, that you’d searched him out because you knew who he was. They even saw you writing in your notebook. They thought you were a social climber who was seeing Tommy because you knew Mr. Cronin was famous and had money and a lot of very important friends.”
“Not anymore he doesn’t, not for a long time now,” came out of Melissa’s mouth before she could stop herself, but it was too late, her words hung stark and mean in the silent air. She said, “Oh, I really didn’t mean that. Really, Tommy and I were only dating, we were friends, and they were nice to me. I wonder if they misunderstood, saw more to it than that because they’re older. I mean, how could they have seen the notebook when I didn’t have one?” And her lashes swept down again to excellent effect. When she raised her head again, she looked trusting, honest, guileless.
