Chapter Seventeen
CHAPTER
Seventeen
I met 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 like I was 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.
But it was as if she’d read my mind. “You’re wondering why I stayed married to him, aren’t you?
” Her eyes went a little misty. “He was dashing back when we first started dating. Still a little nasty, but that’s appealing when you’re young, in a way.
And then, later on, I was in too deep. He knew too much about me.
If I left him, he’d have gone full scorched earth.
Tell all the wrong people about who I’d slept with during our marriage, what family members I’d betrayed for Met Gala tickets, who I’d bribed for the right board seats. Oh no. That wouldn’t do.”
She sounded so casual about it that it was almost like she didn’t realize she was admitting to having a motive. Then again, what did she care? She’d already been questioned by the police. She knew they didn’t have anything concrete on her.
“He had a habit of that,” she continued. “He liked collecting people’s secrets.” Like with Vienna. I wondered how many other secrets he’d collected. “He liked knowing things he wasn’t supposed to know and holding them over people’s heads.”
“So,” I said, just as casually. “Why did you put Vienna’s earring in your dead husband’s hand?”
She stared at me for a moment, shocked, then burst into that braying laugh. Phew. My instinct that she’d be more impressed by ballsiness than appalled had been correct. “What are you talking about?”
Okay. Either she was lying to me or I’d misjudged.
How else could Vienna’s earring have made it to Conrad, though, if Bibi hadn’t brought it to him after bumping into Vienna?
Timeline-wise, I wasn’t sure how it would have worked, considering that, if Bibi was the killer, nobody else would’ve had time to bring it to him.
Unless Bibi wasn’t the killer. I tabled that thought for a bit.
“So, about the building,” I said, changing the subject.
“I’m sure you heard it all from the police, but it really wasn’t a big deal what happened.
” Carefully avoiding the eyes of my new bodyguard, who was seated at a table nearby enjoying his own basket of corn bread, I spilled the CliffsNotes of what had gone down, emphasizing how okay both we and the house were.
“And the building itself is in great shape now after all the work we’ve been doing.
We’ve stripped a lot of wallpaper, fixed a lot of the plumbing… ”
A smile was playing on her lips. “That’s nice to hear,” she said. “You know, I lived in that building when I was young. My family bought it from the Melroses, who went on to something even bigger and better uptown.”
William Melrose, the kid who’d doodled a bunch of superheroes. I nodded.
“It was why Conrad bought it,” she said.
“It was back when he was still trying to woo me. I told him how beautiful it had been and how sad I’d felt when we had to move and it had gotten broken up into multiple apartments.
He had this plan to recombine the units back into one town home again, and then we’d live there.
But there were always excuses about why he couldn’t start the work.
” Her smile was now wry. “I think that knowing he wasn’t going to sell it and profit from it dampened his enthusiasm for doing the work.
It was a relief for him to unload it on you. ”
“So you want to live in it?” I asked. This was tough—it wasn’t like I could try to talk her into another building I owned where she’d also lived as a child.
“You know, I’ve been thinking about it,” she said.
“I’m old now.” If this were my mom, she’d pause so whoever she was speaking to could assure her that sixty was the new thirty, but Bibi just went on.
“And it’s only me right now, and I’m always going between New York and Palm Beach and sometimes Nantucket.
I don’t need a ton of space, and I do admire your mission.
What if I take one of the apartments, the one on the top floor, for myself, and you can continue to use the other two for your organization? ”
“That’s very generous of you!” I said, and meant it, fully.
The relief nearly swamped me. To keep myself from blurting out something embarrassing and emotional, I stuffed another piece of corn bread in my mouth.
I did occasionally have corn bread at the bakery, but there was something almost malty in this one.
Would the chef share the secret ingredient with me?
“I try,” she said. “I’m happy to do it. As long as it won’t be awkward with you and your parents, now that you’ll be working directly with me on this.”
I wrinkled my brow and let the words roll around in my head as the waiter came with our food (a Caribbean fusion take on a pastrami sandwich for her, a piri piri salad with squash and chicken for me).
By the time he left, I was no closer to understanding what they’d meant. “Why would it be awkward?”
She laughed, then stopped laughing when I didn’t join her. “Sorry. I thought you were joking. Dear, have they never told you why Conrad and I were never at their galas?”
She’d already said it, so I figured it was safe to say it too. “Because nobody liked Conrad?”
“Well, yes,” Bibi said. “But not only that. I go by Bibi, but my full first name is Roberta.” She paused to wipe a smear of Creole mayo delicately from the corner of her mouth. “Did you really not know I used to be married to your father?”