“Well, Lenny, you tell Darcy—hell, don’t tell her anything,” Erin said. “Let’s blow her mind. Where’s your camera?”
Five seconds later, Lenny Ringel, the man with no important-people skills, was taking selfies with the most important person at the whole damn wedding. Suck on that, McMaster.
“Remember, Lenny,” Erin said after he’d clicked off a burst of shots with his cell phone, “don’t let anyone in, especially that pain in the ass Brockway, the guy with the camera crew. A girl needs her privacy.”
She slipped into the dressing room, snapped the lock, and left Ringel to dream what it would be like to be on the other side of the door watching Erin Easton change out of her wedding gown.
Forty minutes later Ringel was still reveling in the fact that one of the biggest stars in the world had called him by name. How cool was that?
And then the pain in the ass with the camera crew showed up.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Ringel said, every inch the professional. “Miss Easton said no visitors.”
“I’m not a visitor,” Brockway said. “I’m the guy whose network put up a million dollars to shoot this fiasco, which means I’m paying your salary and hers. She’s got a show to put on, and she’s late.”
Brockway rapped hard on the dressing-room door. “Come on, Erin. Your public is waiting. Time for you to knock ’em dead.”
No answer.
He turned to Ringel. “You sure she’s in there?”
“Positive, sir, but she said she needed her privacy.”
“I’m not paying her to stay private,” Brockway said, grabbing the doorknob and rattling it.
“It’s locked, sir,” Ringel said.
“Not for long,” he said, storming off.
Thirty seconds later he was back, this time with McMaster and two of the other guards.
“Ringel, what’s going on?” McMaster said. Only it didn’t sound like he was asking. It was more like he was blaming Lenny for the fact that Erin apparently didn’t want to come out. McMaster banged on the door. “Erin, it’s Declan. Are you okay?”
No answer. Within seconds he produced a key, unlocked the door, and swung it open.
“Sweet Jesus,” Ringel said. “What the hell happened?”
McMaster didn’t know, but after thirty-five years with the NYPD, he knew enough to block the doorway to keep Ringel from charging in and contaminating what was clearly a crime scene.
The chair in front of Erin’s dressing table was overturned. A wineglass lay unbroken on the carpet, its contents spilled. On the floor next to it was Erin’s wedding gown, the beaded bodice stained a dark red. The wine was white.
McMaster’s eyes went to the far end of the dressing room. The clothing racks that had been flush to the rear wall had been pushed aside, revealing a back door. It was closed, but he’d be willing to bet a year’s salary that it was no longer locked.
“Stay where you are,” he ordered Ringel. Taking the silk square from his breast pocket, he crossed the room; he put the fabric on the doorknob, opened the door, and peered down the hallway that led to the loading dock. “She’s gone,” he said, storming back. “Lock this place down. I don’t care how important these people are. Nobody gets out.”
“What about the cops?” Ringel said. “Should we call them?”
“Right behind you,” a voice said.
McMaster looked up. The speaker was blond with sparkling green eyes, decked out in a blue cocktail dress and flashing a gold shield. He recognized her even before she identified herself.
“Detective Kylie MacDonald,” she said. “NYPD Red.”
Part One
* * *
CRAZY ABOUT ERIN
CHAPTER 1
I REACHED ACROSS the table and handed Cheryl the envelope.
“What’s this?” She smiled. Perfect white teeth against flawless caramel skin. “Are you putting me on notice?”
“Hardly,” I said. “It’s been a year since you seduced me with Chinese food, Italian opera, and your hot Latina body. Happy anniversary.”
“Today is June ninth,” she said. “Our first date was the twenty-third. Aren’t you jumping the gun here, Detective?”
“Open the gift before you judge the giver,” I said.
She opened the envelope and took out the reservation confirmation from Bentley’s by the Sea, a bed-and-breakfast in Montauk.
“June twenty-first to the twenty-third,” she said. “Nicely done, Zach.”
“And it’s paper, which, according to Wikipedia, is the traditional first-anniversary gift,” I said.
“I don’t have anything for you,” she said.
“We’ll be alone for two days and two nights,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
She leaned across the table and kissed me. “Behave yourself, here comes our host.”
Cheryl’s cousin Shane Talbot made his way from the kitchen to the far end of the restaurant where we were sitting. At six foot two, with a thick crop of red hair, he was easy to track as he zigzagged from table to table, shaking hands, bussing cheeks, and smiling graciously at the bloggers, reviewers, and foodies-with-a-following he’d invited to the opening-night party of his new restaurant.
“They love you,” Cheryl said when he finally made it to our booth.
“Of course they love me tonight. I just bought them all a free dinner,” Shane said, sliding in next to her. “The question is, will they still love Farm to Fork in the morning when they sit down to blog, Yelp, and tweet about it?”
“This is a tough New York crowd,” Cheryl said. “They didn’t send those plates back to the kitchen scraped clean because they’re polite. You’re going to get raves.”
“Thank you for your totally unbiased opinion, but let me ask someone who’s not a blood relative. How about you, Zach? What’d you think?”
“Fantastic,” I said. “Best damn brussels sprouts I ever ate in my life.”
He laughed. “Cops are not notorious for their love of leafy green vegetables, so I’m guessing they were also the first damn brussels sprouts you ever ate in your life.”
“They were the second, but they shot straight to the top. A month from now, this place will be booked solid, and I’ll be calling you begging for a table just so I can get more sprouts.”
Shane turned to Cheryl. “This guy’s a keeper. My mom will love him. She’s coming into town next month once we’ve got the kinks out of this place. The two of you have to have dinner with us.”
“I chatted with your mom last night,” Cheryl said. “She already invited us.”
“Of course she did. Mom leaves nothing to chance.” Shane stood up, gave Cheryl a peck on the cheek, shook my hand, and began working his way back through the crowd.
“He’s right,” Cheryl said as soon as he was out of earshot. “His mom leaves nothing to chance.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning I didn’t just chat with Aunt Janet last night. I had to listen to her whine about Shane for half an hour.”