When the helicopter landed, I walked away from the heliport for a few minutes to clear my head. I decided I just ought to call Skags, since the texting thing clearly wasn’t helping me out.
“Wow, another phone call!” was how Skags answered the phone. “I must be really special.”
“Look, Skags, I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch that much this summer,” I said all in a rush. “But I have to tell you what happened, and I need you to listen and to promise not to tell anybody, okay?”
“Okay,” Skags said, immediately getting serious. “Go.”
I wandered around the neighborhood, walking past fancy office buildings and fancier residential palaces, spilling my guts to my best friend. She listened for something like ten minutes, and when I paused to take a breath, she said, “Naomi.”
“Yes?”
“You know how serious this is. And you’re involved. If you don’t tell the police what you know, you could be an accessory to the crime somehow.”
“I know,” I said.
“You need to call the police and tell them exactly what you told me,” Skags said firmly. “This isn’t just some dumb drama. A girl died. She had a family. They need to know the truth.”
I was quiet for a little while.
“You’re not actually thinking about keeping this a secret, are you, Naomi?” Skags asked incredulously.
“No, of course not,” I said slowly. “I’m just thinking. Maybe I should give the others a chance to tell before I tell.”
“You really think Delilah is going to confess?” Skags said skeptically. “I mean, if Jacinta or Adriana or whoever was even telling the truth about who was driving.”
“Maybe she will,” I said. “I don’t know what she’s thinking. I haven’t even heard from her since we were at dinner last night.”
“And why do you think that is?” Skags asked pointedly. “She’s going to distance herself from you and Jacinta and anybody who might know the truth about what happened. Because even if she was just a passenger in that car—and I kind of think she wasn’t—it’s going to look bad for her family.”
“What if I gave them a day?” I said. “Another twenty-four hours. And if no one has said anything by then, I promise I’ll go to the cops myself.”
“I think you should do it right now, but I guess another day won’t hurt,” Skags said. “But you know, if this were last summer, you wouldn’t have even gotten in that car with Jeff and Teddy at the restaurant. You would’ve walked home if you had to.”
“I know.” She was right. She’s usually right about everything.
After we said our goodbyes, I took a cab from the Financial District to my mother’s apartment on the Upper East Side. We raced up the FDR and past the Brooklyn, Manhattan, Williamsburg, and 59th Street bridges. It was a really gorgeous day, and Brooklyn looked like a postcard from across the river. Queens looked like, well, Queens.
I rode the elevator up to my mother’s apartment and knocked on her door. Her assistant, Lilly, opened it. Lilly had an identical twin sister named Tilly, who was Paula Deen’s assistant. Their family had cornered the business on making coffee and dental appointments for cooking show stars.
“Is it bad?” I asked Lilly in a low voice. Lilly and I have a kind of understanding. She stays in the city, so I don’t see her often during the summer. But when I visit at Thanksgiving or call the apartment because my father forces me to, Lilly gives me a heads-up on my mother’s mood.
“It’s awful,” she whispered, and led me into the living room. I recognized my mother’s lawyer and one of her business partners, but I hardly recognized my mother, who had been crying for what looked like hours. She wasn’t wearing any makeup, and I could see the fine lines and wrinkles she had yet to Botox away. I had never seen her looking this ragged.
“Hello, Naomi,” said the lawyer, who looked gravely concerned.
“Hi, Naomi,” said the business partner, who looked to be on the verge of exploding.
“Oh, thank God you’re here,” said my mother.
“Hi. . . everybody,” I said. My mother rushed to me, grabbed my hand, and led me into her immaculately appointed bedroom. I handed her the bag, and she quickly unzipped it and took out some lavender oil, rubbing it on her wrists. Then she threw down two Xanax without water.
“What’s going on?” I asked. “What happened?”
She looked at me, tearstained and worn. “They just—the story just broke on CNN—there’s a problem with the manufacturing facility,” she said through gulps of air as she fought back sobs.
“What manufacturing facility?”
“The one”—gulp—“in Ch-Ch-China”—gulp—“with the fr-frosting.”
“The Secret Special Whatever Frosting?”
“Yes,” said my mother, and she began crying again in earnest.
“Anne!” her lawyer called. “You’d better come look at this.”
I put my arm around my mother, something I couldn’t ever remember doing, and walked her back into the living room. CNN was showing the footage I’d seen earlier that morning, but with a different narration.
“. . . Bake Like Anne Rye!, Inc. is under federal investigation for knowingly allowing a banned carcinogenic chemical additive to be used in the production of its frosting at a plant outside Beijing. . . .”
I looked at my mother, then at her lawyer, then at her business partner, then at Lilly, then at my mother again.
Everyone avoided my gaze.
“. . . CNN has obtained copies of phone recordings that clearly indicate Anne Rye knew the chemical would be included in the first shipment, which is already being removed from the shelves at Target stores across the country. Target issued a statement, saying. . .”
“Why are they saying that?” I asked, looking around at everyone once again.
No one said anything.
“What’s going on?” I asked again.
Nothing. Not a word, not a glance.
“Mom?” I looked at her.
“Anne,” her lawyer said in a warning tone, but it didn’t work.
“Well, it’s not illegal in China!” she burst out. “They told me there was one study—one little study—that said it was dangerous. There are studies that say Tylenol is dangerous. Everyone said not to worry, so I didn’t worry!”
I felt this freeze go through me, from my gut down to my toes and then up to the top of my head. Like all the liquid inside me suddenly solidified into one cold block of Naomi.
“It’s not illegal in China,” she repeated, this time in a whisper.
I took my arm off her back and let it hang limply by my side.
“Those bastards sat on this ’til today,” the business partner muttered, slamming his fist into his hand. “They sat on this so they could ruin our big day. Goddammit!”
My mother sank down into an overstuffed chair and buried her head in her hands. “This is going to destroy the magazine launch,” she moaned. “And forget my next cookbook. I’m surprised they haven’t called to cancel it already.” As if on cue, Lilly’s cell rang.
“I’m sure it’s not them,” Lilly said reassuringly before picking up the call. “Hello? You’re with whom? Us Weekly? No, Ms. Rye is not interested in making a statement at this time.” She hung up the phone.
“Oh, just say ‘no comment!’” my mother snapped, stamping her foot like a child.