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Authors: Sheila Lowe
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mistake.” She thought of the photo of Heather Lloyd playacting the coquette—Marilyn Monroe on Ellis Island. It was hard to believe. “What happened to her?”
“Skiing accident,” Susan said. “She went up to Vermont over the holidays and skied herself right into a tree.”
Claudia’s mouth dropped. “Oh, man! Are they sure it was an accident?”
“Yeah, it was just one of those things. The article said she was an experienced skier, but for some reason—I guess no one will ever know why—she left the trail and hit a fallen branch or a tree trunk or some bizarre thing like that.”
“Was she with someone?” Recalling Heather Lloyd’s handwriting, Claudia knew that it was highly improbable that she would have taken off for what she presumed was a classy Vermont ski house without an audience in tow.
But Susan shook her head. “The article didn’t mention anyone. It’s a crying shame, with her being so young and all. But you know, these things do happen. Remember Sonny Bono? He died the same way.”
“Of course.” Who could forget the former husband and mentor of the legendary singer, Cher, and later, mayor of Palm Springs? He had skied to his death in the late 1990s.
But something wasn’t adding up. “In Heather Lloyd’s file there was an analysis by Andy Nicholson. Why would Grusha have both Andy and me analyze Heather Lloyd’s handwriting when she’s dead?”
Susan gave an eloquent shrug. “That, my friend, is a mystery. The baroness has her own way of operating.”IT
“I intend to ask her about it.”
“Good luck with that; she can be a cagey devil. And don’t tell her I told you.”
“I won’t mention you. But what about the other one? You said two deaths?”
Susan leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Yeah, get this—it’s even creepier. The other one was another client whose handwriting I’d analyzed. He was a medical student named Ryan Turner. Drowned in the Bahamas, scuba diving.”
The name meant nothing to Claudia. Cheered by the knowledge that Ryan Turner’s was not among the client files Grusha had given her, she was still puzzled. “Let’s back up the bus a minute. You did say you had analyzed Heather Lloyd’s handwriting, too?”
“Yeah, I remember it. She had persona writing. You know, that superstylized script.”
“Right. But there was only one analysis in her file—Andy Nicholson’s.”
“Well, I certainly wrote a report,” Susan said, her penciled brows forming an arch. “So where the hell is it?”
Claudia returned to her hotel wondering what other important information Grusha Olinetsky might have held back. She could understand why the matchmaker wouldn’t wish to publicize the premature deaths of these two clients. But what was the point of asking a third person to analyze Heather Lloyd’s handwriting? Unless, as Claudia suspected, she hadn’t liked what she had seen in the first two reports and was hoping for something more favorable in the third.
The red message light was blinking on the twentieth century phone as Claudia entered her room. She kicked off her shoes and tossed her coat on the chair, dialed the message center. The recorded voice of Grusha’s assistant, Sonya Marsi, held a hint of reproof.
“You didn’t answer your mobile, so I hope you get this before you come to the office, Ms. Rose. The baroness wants you to meet with our club psychologist, Dr. Pollard, and our physician, Dr. McAllister, this morning. I’ve already made appointments with both of them for you, so call me back ASAP.”
Claudia fished her mobile out of her purse and checked the screen. Sure enough, there was one missed call. She hadn’t heard it ring over the din in the bagel shop.
When she returned the phone call, Sonya informed her that she had made the first appointment for eleven. Grusha’s driver would fetch Claudia from the hotel at ten forty-five and transport her to the offices of the medical doctor and the consulting psychologist who vetted
“Skiing accident,” Susan said. “She went up to Vermont over the holidays and skied herself right into a tree.”
Claudia’s mouth dropped. “Oh, man! Are they sure it was an accident?”
“Yeah, it was just one of those things. The article said she was an experienced skier, but for some reason—I guess no one will ever know why—she left the trail and hit a fallen branch or a tree trunk or some bizarre thing like that.”
“Was she with someone?” Recalling Heather Lloyd’s handwriting, Claudia knew that it was highly improbable that she would have taken off for what she presumed was a classy Vermont ski house without an audience in tow.
But Susan shook her head. “The article didn’t mention anyone. It’s a crying shame, with her being so young and all. But you know, these things do happen. Remember Sonny Bono? He died the same way.”
“Of course.” Who could forget the former husband and mentor of the legendary singer, Cher, and later, mayor of Palm Springs? He had skied to his death in the late 1990s.
But something wasn’t adding up. “In Heather Lloyd’s file there was an analysis by Andy Nicholson. Why would Grusha have both Andy and me analyze Heather Lloyd’s handwriting when she’s dead?”
Susan gave an eloquent shrug. “That, my friend, is a mystery. The baroness has her own way of operating.”IT
“I intend to ask her about it.”
“Good luck with that; she can be a cagey devil. And don’t tell her I told you.”
“I won’t mention you. But what about the other one? You said two deaths?”
Susan leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Yeah, get this—it’s even creepier. The other one was another client whose handwriting I’d analyzed. He was a medical student named Ryan Turner. Drowned in the Bahamas, scuba diving.”
The name meant nothing to Claudia. Cheered by the knowledge that Ryan Turner’s was not among the client files Grusha had given her, she was still puzzled. “Let’s back up the bus a minute. You did say you had analyzed Heather Lloyd’s handwriting, too?”
“Yeah, I remember it. She had persona writing. You know, that superstylized script.”
“Right. But there was only one analysis in her file—Andy Nicholson’s.”
“Well, I certainly wrote a report,” Susan said, her penciled brows forming an arch. “So where the hell is it?”
Claudia returned to her hotel wondering what other important information Grusha Olinetsky might have held back. She could understand why the matchmaker wouldn’t wish to publicize the premature deaths of these two clients. But what was the point of asking a third person to analyze Heather Lloyd’s handwriting? Unless, as Claudia suspected, she hadn’t liked what she had seen in the first two reports and was hoping for something more favorable in the third.
The red message light was blinking on the twentieth century phone as Claudia entered her room. She kicked off her shoes and tossed her coat on the chair, dialed the message center. The recorded voice of Grusha’s assistant, Sonya Marsi, held a hint of reproof.
“You didn’t answer your mobile, so I hope you get this before you come to the office, Ms. Rose. The baroness wants you to meet with our club psychologist, Dr. Pollard, and our physician, Dr. McAllister, this morning. I’ve already made appointments with both of them for you, so call me back ASAP.”
Claudia fished her mobile out of her purse and checked the screen. Sure enough, there was one missed call. She hadn’t heard it ring over the din in the bagel shop.
When she returned the phone call, Sonya informed her that she had made the first appointment for eleven. Grusha’s driver would fetch Claudia from the hotel at ten forty-five and transport her to the offices of the medical doctor and the consulting psychologist who vetted
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