Ellen Hart - Jane Lawless 18 - The Cruel Ever After p.01

1
Even before Chester Garrity opened his eyes, he knew this wasn’t going to be one of his better days. Birds trilled, a lawn mower hummed in the distance
—signs pointing to a beautiful spring morning, and yet the pounding inside his head was so intense that every bird chirp sounded like a horn blast.
Rolling onto his back, he stretched his aching limbs. When he worked up the courage to pry his eyes apart, he saw that he was lying outside under a
pergola, his right leg hard up against the side of a hot tub. He couldn’t imagine why he hadn’t tried for something more comfortable, but then he couldn’t
remember much of anything about last night, except an excess of liquid celebration.
The next thought to pierce his throbbing consciousness was that he was back in Minneapolis. Once upon a time, he’d promised himself that he would
never return to the Midwest unless it was in a body bag or at the point of a gun. Cows and milk-fed morons weren’t his idea of culture. He’d lived all over
the world, most recently in Istanbul, but money, as it always did, had grown tight. The need to replenish his dwindling bank account was the only force on
earth that could have pulled him back to the middle of nowhere.
Propping his back against the plastic faux wood, Chess counted to three and then heaved his girth to a standing position. He wobbled a little, steadied
himself, and finally dragged himself into the back entry of Melvin Dial’s house, glad to see that Dial hadn’t locked him out. He made a mental note to cut
back on the booze. At fifty-one, he wasn’t old exactly, but his out-of-shape body couldn’t tolerate the level of abuse he’d once considered the price of a
good time.
He entered the kitchen, rubbing his eyes, not really watching where he was going. He nearly stumbled when his foot hit something hard. Struggling to
focus, he saw that all the drawers and cupboards had been opened, the contents dumped out. It looked like a high-priced kitchen equipment store had
belched all over the travertine tile.
Shuffling through the mess into the living room, he pressed a palm to his eye. “Oh, right,” he whispered. The card game. He wondered how much money
he’d lost. Dial had deep pockets. More to the point, he wasn’t the least bit frightened of illegalities. He was just the man they’d been looking for.
The living room was every bit as torn apart as the kitchen. Sitting down on the edge of a chair to get his bearings, he saw that the card table was still
upright, covered with not only cards but empty glasses and filled ashtrays. A champagne bottle rested on its side—and, Jesus, a bottle of absinthe. Not a
drop was left in any of them. No wonder he had a hangover the size of the Great Pyramid of Giza. But where was Dial?
A crumpled potato chip bag lay on the floor next to one of the wing-back chairs; chips were scattered across the tabletop and onto the bijar rug, as if
someone had tossed it in a fit of temper. With a hand resting on the back of a chair to steady himself, he bent down to pick up one of the larger chips. He
wasn’t the least bit hungry, but the taste in his mouth was so foul that anything to make it go away seemed welcome. As he scooped the chip up and into
his mouth, he spied a dark red stain near the footstool. The sight of it kick-started the part of his brain that was still asleep.
His gaze zipped from the stain to a pair of brown Cole Haan tassel loafers. The rest of the body was hidden behind the couch.
As Chess edged forward, his breath caught in his throat. “I am so screwed,” he whispered, fighting back a burst of panic.
Dial lay on his back, the front of his white dress shirt soaked in blood, the beautiful Kurdish rug beneath him stained a dark red. The old man’s eyes
were open and staring blankly at eternity, leaving no doubt in Chess’s mind that he was dead. He bent down to examine the deep gash in Dial’s chest.
Someone had knifed him and left him to die.
What, exactly, had happened last night? Chess recalled the bar where they’d cemented the deal. Irina, knowing the area much better than he did, had
picked the place for its old-world charm, its pricey wine list, and the absence of blaring music. With adrenaline flowing as freely as the wine, none of them
had wanted the evening to end, but end it had when Irina announced that she needed to get home to her baby and her husband. Chess and Melvin Dial
had been left to their own devices for the shank of the evening.
Shivering as he lowered his aching body down onto one of the wing-back chairs, Chess closed his eyes and tried to picture what had happened after
they arrived back at the house. He thought he remembered Dial popping a champagne cork and pouring them each a glass of bubbly. He made the same
ironic toast he’d made at the restaurant: “To Don Rumsfeld’s magnificent myopia.” They took chairs on either side of the antique card table. Chess had
shuffled the deck, recalling that they felt sticky. He thought he’d won the first few hands, although he couldn’t be certain. With all he’d had to drink he
couldn’t even remember leaving the table and going outside. He’d been dead to the world, with no memory of anyone coming to the house, the sound of a
doorbell or a fight. The fact that he’d slept right through a murder propelled him out of the chair.
Think, he ordered himself. It seemed more than probable that Chess himself would be sprawled next to Dial if he hadn’t wandered outside and passed
out. Whoever had come to the house had been looking for something. He couldn’t be sure exactly why Dial had been murdered, but there was always the
possibility that it had to do with the deal they’d just struck. That’s why he couldn’t call the police. He needed time to think everything through, to work out the
best way to handle it, and for that he needed a cigarette. It could be hours, even days, before the old guy’s body was discovered. He was retired,
reclusive, lived alone. Chess had time. It might be the only thing he had going for him.
Before he left, Chess bent over the body and dug into Dial’s pockets for his keys—just in case he wanted to come back. He hesitated, wondering if he
should take the old guy’s wallet. Hell, why not?
Stepping over to the front door, he stuck his head outside and looked around. Dial’s house was located on a tree-lined street in Linden Hills, a quiet
part of the city where leaves flickered in the late morning sunlight, dogs barked in the distance, and nobody, much to Chess’s silent relief, seemed to be
out and about. He removed a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, tapped one out, and slipped it between his lips, cupping his hand around the tip
and lighting it with a silver lighter. Then, closing his eyes, relishing the moment, he took a sweet, deep drag and held it, feeling a sense of calm spread
slowly into his muscles.
Shutting the door behind him, he proceeded swiftly down the cobbled front walk. The plan forming in his mind was to simply walk away and, when he felt
safe, call for a cab to take him back to his hotel. He could phone Irina from there, explain what had happened. Dial’s death was a setback, for sure. They
would need to look elsewhere to make the sale. Still, it was doable. This wasn’t the end of the road.
“Afternoon,” called a cheerful voice.
Chess coughed smoke out of his lungs.
A bald guy in a bathrobe and slippers had just come out on the front steps of the house next door. He leaned down and picked up a folded newspaper.
Cursing his wretched luck, Chess forced a smile. “Afternoon.”
“Looks like we’ve got ourselves another gorgeous day.”
Gorgeous, right. The scent of lilacs was so strong it was almost gagged him. “Sure does.” Before the man could continue with his Midwestern
pleasantries, Chess gave a friendly wave, then turned and headed up the street as fast as he could go without looking like he was about to break into a
dead run.
“Shit, shit, shit,” he exploded as he rounded the end of the block. The neighbor could put him at the scene of the crime, which would limit his ability to
frame a plausible lie. He stuck the cigarette back between his lips and dug his cell out of the pocket of his jacket. As he did so, a white pickup whizzed
past, driving way too fast for a residential street.
Asshole.
He forgot about waiting until he returned to the hotel. He punched in Irina’s number at the gallery. When nothing connected, he checked to see what was
wrong.
“Unbelievable.”
The goddamn cell was out of juice.
He turned and began walking toward the lake. He had to find a phone, which wasn’t as easy as it used to be, when Ma Bell had been on every other
corner.
Walking south, he felt the tension in his stomach continue to build. It surprised him that he remembered the lay of the land as well as he did. As a young
man, South Minneapolis had been his playground. He’d lived in an apartment on Bryant Avenue, gone to the U of M, fallen in and out of love at least half a
dozen times. Callow youth, he thought to himself, a time when everything seemed possible. Life, he’d learned, was often far more like drawing dead in a
poker game. Even if you got everything you wanted, you still couldn’t win.
The more distance he put between himself and Dial’s house, the better he felt. His head was finally starting to clear. He flipped the cigarette away,
supposing that he felt bad about the old guy’s death, although he hardly knew him. Irina would take it harder, as would her mother. A guy like Dial had to
have his share of enemies. Chess hoped like hell that his murder had nothing to do with the statue.
As he reached the south end of the lake, he noticed a building rising above the trees that hadn’t been there twenty-some years ago. It looked like a
giant log temple. Could it be? Was that the restaurant? He made a quick left into the parking lot, crossed a grassy patch that led to the front sidewalk, and
climbed the log steps up to the front door. Before he went inside, he shrugged into his safari jacket and finger-combed his unruly hair back into place. He
was older, for sure, but still looked pretty much the same. His body—that was a different story. Would she recognize him? Would he recognize her? He
stepped up to a petite young woman behind the reception desk. “Can you tell me who owns the restaurant?”
“Sure,” said the woman, pulling a menu out from underneath the reception stand. “Jane Lawless.”
He digested the information, giving nothing away. Holding up his cell, he said, “Do you have a house phone? This thing’s out of juice.”
“Is it a local call?”
“St. Paul.”
She handed him a cordless. “Dial nine to get an outside line.”
Walking over to a quiet corner, he tapped in the gallery number. It rang five times before a woman’s voice answered, “Morgana Beck Gallery.”
“Morgana? It’s Chester Garrity.”
Morgana Beck was Irina’s mother, the owner of the gallery and a visiting professor of the science and ethics of antiquities at Basir University in Ankara,
Turkey. Irina had been working for her mother for nearly ten years.
“I need to speak to Irina,” said Chess.
“Not here.”
He shoved a hand into his pocket. “Do you know when she’ll be—”
“I’m with a client right now. Call back later.”
“Could you at least give me some idea of when she’ll be in?”
Morgana and Chess had met on several occasions over the years, but for some reason, the great Morgana Beck didn’t seem to like him.
“She and Steve drove down to Rochester this morning.”
Steve was Irina’s husband. “So, later in the day? Three? Four?”
“Is something wrong? You sound upset.”
“Will she be in at all today?”
“I don’t know. I’m hanging up now.”
Chess turned his back to the receptionist as he cut the line. Morgana understood just how to yank his chain, and seemed to take great pleasure in it.
Morgana Beck, a fifty-eight-year-old St. Paul matron, believed down to the soles of her Jimmy Choos that she was better than everyone else. People
were always disappointing her, or trying her patience, or boring her into a state of stupefaction. People like Chess. This from a woman who’d undergone
more cosmetic surgery than Michael Jackson and who had all the personal charisma of a boiled egg.
Pulling his shirt cuffs out from under his jacket sleeves, Chess gave himself a brief pep talk and then turned around and walked back to the receptionist,
handing her the phone.
“Is Jane here?”
“She is,” said the receptionist. “But she’s tied up at the moment. If you’d like to make—”
“She’ll see me.”
“If you could give me your name—”
“Garrity.” He allowed himself a small smirk. “Just tell her that her husband is here and wants to talk to her.”
2
“Where are we on the birthday invitations?” asked Jane, easing back in her chair as a waiter poured more coffee into her cup. Coffee was the last thing
she needed. She’d been thoroughly buzzed since seven.
“I sent them all out at the beginning of last week,” said Cordelia, gazing through her rhinestone-studded horn-rimmed glasses at her notes. She never
went anywhere these days without her Moleskine notebook. In its pages were her overwrought thoughts on life, her to-do lists, and famous quotes—often
her own—she wanted marked down for posterity. “What else needs to be done?” She whipped off the glasses, all business today.
“Have you heard from my brother and his wife? They’re coming, right?”
“Haven’t you talked to them?”
Cordelia knew there was a rift between Jane and her brother, she just didn’t know why. “I haven’t talked to him in months.”
“You two are behaving like children. Just bury the hatchet—not in each other’s backs—and get on with it.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“You know, Janey, if you told me what was going on, I might be able to help. I’ve had vast experience when it comes to empiric family warfare. Besides,
Peter adores me.”
“Everyone adores you.”
“It’s my cross.”
Jane gazed past Cordelia to a table at the rear of the deck. A waiter appeared to be having an extended conversation with a customer who didn’t look
happy.
“Excuse me,” she said, getting up. She wove her way through the tables. “Is there a problem?” she asked, moving up next to the waiter.
“You seem to be out of everything,” said a sandy-haired man in a business suit.
“He wanted the lamb stew,” said the waiter, looking apologetic, “but we ran out.”
“So I ordered the Galway corned beef and cabbage. Your waiter just informed me that you’re out of that, too.”
Jane recalled that they’d been shorted on their corned beef order on Monday. “I’m the owner. Let me suggest a couple of specialties you might like.
Have you tried our savory beef and mushroom cottage pie? It comes with a cup of potato leek soup and a small salad. Our Cumberland sausage and
mash is another favorite. Or you might like today’s fish entrée—pan-fried striped bass in a citrus butter. Comes with sweet potato chips. I sampled it this
morning, and it’s wonderful.”
“I suppose the fish,” said the man, glancing at the woman across from him. “If you can make it fast.”
“We can,” said Jane, “and it’s on the house.”
He looked up at her, no longer quite so disgruntled.
“I’m truly sorry for the inconvenience. I want you to be happy with your food. If there are any more problems, just let me know.” She nodded to the waiter,
and he took off. On her way back to her table, she spotted a pair of longtime customers—an older couple, with a grandson in Afghanistan.
“Nice to see you,” she said, smiling down at them. “Everything okay with your order?”
“Wonderful as always,” said the woman.
“How’s your grandson doing?”
“He should be home next month,” said the man. “We’re keeping our fingers crossed.”
“When he’s back, bring him by for a piece of our turtle cake—on me.” The grandson loved sweets.
“We’ll do that,” said the man with a grin.
Sitting down again, Jane picked up her coffee cup and took a sip. She should probably have been working the lunch crowd, seating customers,
expediting orders in the kitchen, but because Cordelia had arrived ready to discuss Jane’s father’s birthday “extravaganza,” she had decided to take a
break.
Cordelia Thorn was Jane’s oldest and best friend. They’d known each other for so many years that the word “friend” hardly seemed adequate. They
were more like family, or perhaps somewhere in between. Jane’s life would be far less colorful without Cordelia’s angst and opinions.
Jane was a restaurateur, Cordelia the creative director of the most prestigious regional theater in the Midwest. They shared a love of food and a
personal history that took them all the way back to high school.
On a day like today, with sunlight glinting off the choppy waves of Lake Harriet, a breeze ruffling the leaves, and sailboats, their white sails billowing in
the wind, skimming across the water, it was hard to believe problems existed in the world. Yet Jane and her brother were a case in point. She was holding
her breath, praying that Peter would come to the party and not turn it into another battlefield. She was also hoping that if he and Sigrid and their daughter,
Mia, did show, they could act the role of a happy family for their father’s sake.
“Did you send an invitation to Julia?” asked Jane.
Cordelia glowered. “Yes, with deep reservations.”
“I’m a little worried about her.”
“You should be. She’s a lunatic.”
“I’ve phoned her a couple of times in the past month. She never returned the calls. That’s not like her.”
“Count your blessings.”
“Don’t be such a sourpuss. She’s Dad’s primary care physician now. He considers her a friend of the family. I think he’d be upset if we didn’t include
her.”
“Your paterfamilias is a kind man with a bad case of myopia when it comes to Dr. Julia. I consider her a nutcase with an obsessive need to wiggle her
way back into your personal life. You may have dumped her, but she’s not done with you. Mark my words, Janey, that woman is trouble.”
“What’s going on down there?” asked Jane, pushing out of her chair. This time she stepped over to the wood railing that surrounded the second-floor
deck. Several other customers were already up and watching a man, dressed in a medieval monk’s cowl, standing on top of a wooden crate, speaking to
a growing crowd of onlookers—or gawkers. Jane strained to hear him, but all she could pick up was the words “spirit” and “deceit.”
Cordelia sidled up next to her. “How lovely. An itinerant preacher. One with a highly evolved sense of style. I wonder where he bought that cowl.”
“You like the Friar Tuck look?”
“Sexy is as sexy does. Now come on back to the table. We’ve still got work to do.”
Jane wasn’t exactly thrilled to have all this commotion going on right underneath her restaurant’s deck, but because the man was on public property,
she couldn’t do much about it.
“Hattie’s really looking forward to the party,” said Cordelia, pen poised once again over her notebook.
Hattie Thorn-Lester was Cordelia’s five-year-old niece. She was back living with Cordelia again, this time as her legal ward.
“She’s got her outfit all planned. Black and pink, of course, with her handmade Ziegfeld Follies–ish hat. She wants to make a real visual statement. I
can’t blame her. She is, after all, a Thorn.” She stopped, jerked her reading glasses down to the tip of her nose, and gazed over them. “Lord love a duck, I
don’t believe my eyes.” She stood, drew her arms wide, and cried, “Chester, dear boy! Is that really you?”
“Chester?” repeated Jane, twisting around. She realized it was pure cliché, but her jaw actually dropped when she saw who was striding toward them.
She hadn’t seen Chess Garrity since … since—
Cordelia treated him to her famous bear hug, inching him up off his feet and spinning him around. Chess had put on weight but still wasn’t as big as
Cordelia. Cordelia’s girth was legendary, but her strength, when excited, was the stuff of myth.
“What are you doing here?” demanded Cordelia, setting Chess down, holding on to his hands. “You look marvelous.”
“I look older,” he said, flashing Jane a help-me-out-here-before-she-breaks-every-bone-in-my-body look.
Jane pulled out a chair. “I’m stunned.”
He gave her a peck on the cheek, rubbing his arm as he sat down. “I never thought I’d be back. I guess life has a way of changing our plans.”
Cordelia caught the waiter’s eye. “A bottle of your finest champagne. Chop chop.”
Chess looked around, taking in the broad deck packed with customers. “This truly is amazing. Seeing you two again. This restaurant was your dream,
right, Jane? The one you talked about all the time. You actually did it. You didn’t squander the money I gave you.”
“She’s got a second dream made manifest, too,” said Cordelia, flapping her napkin before tucking it into her cleavage. “It’s more a of nightclub. In
Uptown. It’s an old restored art deco theater. Very classy. You’ll have to come see it. How long will you be in town?”
“A few days.”
Chess was older than Jane, but he had a young face. Even now, he didn’t look his age, although his hair, an implausible though real shade of red, had
thinned. He looked prosperous, his once pale, freckled skin now ruddy and tanned, his teeth so white they could blind. And he was a good fifty pounds
heavier. Jane recalled that some of his college buddies used to call him Antinous because he looked like the marble sculpture of the famous Greek, the
one found in the temple of Apollo at Delphi. A Greek god like face atop a body that packed on the pounds so easily that Chess often starved himself to
stay trim. DNA gave, and DNA took away.
“So,” said Chess, pushing his chair back and crossing his legs. “How’s Christine?” He seemed uncomfortable, shifting this way and that. Jane had the
sense that he was looking past her, that his mind was someplace else.
“She died,” said Cordelia, lowering her eyes, then glancing uneasily at Jane.
Making no effort to hide his shock, Chess said, “I’m sorry. I thought you two made a great couple.”
“I did, too,” said Jane. “We were together for nearly ten years.”
The champagne arrived. The timing couldn’t have been worse.
Attempting to save the moment, Cordelia said, “So, tell us what you’ve been up to all these years.”
“A little of this, a little of that.”
“Still filthy rich?”
He took a sip of the champagne, then set the glass down next to his napkin. “I’ve made and lost several fortunes since the last time I saw you two. At the
moment, I guess you could say I’m between fortunes.”
Jane’s connection to Chess Garrity was an unusual one, but it wasn’t complex. Chess had been a closeted gay man who came from a highly religious
—and extremely wealthy—family in Chicago. When the children turned thirty, provided they were married in the Catholic Church and living good lives, they
would each inherit nine million dollars. Chess’s father was dead, but his mother made sure her children, all four of them, toed the line. The problem was
obvious.
Chess had met Cordelia when he tried out for a show she was directing at the Blackburn Playhouse in Shoreview. This was long before her reign
began at the Allen Grimby Repertory Theater in St. Paul. They hit it off immediately. Chess got the part, and over the course of the next few months, he
and Cordelia began to talk about his predicament.
That was where Jane came in. The scheme that Chess and Cordelia cooked up all depended on her. Chess and Jane would get married in a church in
Lake Forest, Illinois, where his mother lived. Jane would act the blushing bride for as long as it took for Chess to pocket his inheritance. For her time and
effort, Chess agreed to pay her three hundred thousand dollars. The money would allow her to convince a bank to give her an even bigger loan to build the
Lyme House. People always assumed that her father had financed the restaurant, but back then, Jane and her dad hadn’t been on the best of terms.
The final part of the plan was, as soon as Chess’s nine million was safely tucked away, that he would fly to the Dominican Republic, get a quickie
divorce, send Jane the papers, and take off for greener—foreign—pastures. He wanted to travel. See the world. That was his dream.
Jane got cold feet right before the wedding ceremony and had to be dragged by Cordelia and Christine—in her wedding gown and veil—into the limo
that took them to the church. Ultimately, though, her marriage to and divorce from Chess Garrity was what had allowed her to make the dream of owning
her own restaurant come true. She’d never told another living soul what she’d done to get the financial ball rolling. The only people who knew—and were
still alive—were sitting at this table.
Jane and Chess had lived together for three months after the wedding in a small apartment near the university. Chess was a sweet, generous guy, easy
to talk to and full of enthusiasm for the recipes she was developing. Many of those recipes would become the Lyme House’s first signature dishes. Chess
loved to eat, and Jane loved to feed him. She wasn’t sorry when he moved out and Christine moved back in, but she missed him—missed his humor, his
belief in her abilities, and his encouragement. When he left Minnesota, he said he’d keep in touch, but he never had.
Folding his arms over his chest, Chess turned his attention to Cordelia. “And you. Still working in the theater?”
“You don’t know?” She was aghast, quickly filling him in on her illustrious career, underlining her current theatrical glitterati status in the Twin Cities.
“The Allen Grimby,” he repeated. “Isn’t that the one with the Byzantine interior? The one that looks like it came straight out of a 1920s Hollywood movie
set?”
“We call it the AGRT.”
“To differentiate yourself from the Tyrone Guthrie Theater?”
“The what? Those are not words I recognize.”
Chess laughed. “Same old Cordelia.”
The waiter placed Jane’s and Cordelia’s sandwiches down in front of them.
“Order something,” said Cordelia, gazing hungrily at her croque-monsieur. “The food’s terrific.”
He seemed unsure.
“It’s on your ex,” said Cordelia. She flashed them both an impish smile. “When you’re done eating, I’ll drive you over to the theater, show you around.
How’s that sound?”
He looked up at the waiter, then at his watch. “I’m not sure.”
“Of what?” asked Cordelia.
“I might have to be somewhere this afternoon.”
“Like where?”
When he didn’t answer, Jane said, “Give the guy a break. He doesn’t need to tell us his itinerary.”
Cordelia grumbled. “Fabulous. Chester Garrity. Man of mystery.”
“It’s not like that.”
“No?”
Glancing at Jane, he added, “Well, maybe a little.”
3
That night, Irina waited for her husband to fall asleep. He drank a third beer while he watched the end of a movie, then dithered for a while in the kitchen,
standing in front of the open refrigerator. After downing half a roasted chicken and three slices of buttered toast while reading a gun magazine, he drifted
off to bed. When he began to snore, Irina took it as her signal to tiptoe down the hall and slip out the back door.
It was going on one in the morning when she pulled up to the curb next to a large elm, where Chess was standing, smoking a cigarette.
“I thought you’d never get here,” he said, flipping the cigarette into the street. He pulled her toward him and kissed her fiercely.
“Are you okay?” she asked, breathing in his familiar aftershave.
“Better now that you’re here.”
Irina had met Chess on a working trip she’d taken to Istanbul last August. She’d flown to Turkey in order to meet with dealers in international antiquities.
A mutual friend had introduced them at a cocktail party. Maybe it was being away from home, or drinking one too many martinis, or maybe she just
needed the assurance that she was still an attractive, desirable woman. It had been far too long since she’d felt the way Chess made her feel that night.
Over the next week, she came to understand how badly her emotions had atrophied while being married to Steve.
“Are you ready?” whispered Chess.
“If you are.”
She opened her trunk and removed a sack of cleaning supplies.
“Did you get everything on the list?” he asked.
“Everything.”
“I’ll pull your car into the back driveway when it’s time to carry out the body. I’ve thought about this and nothing else all day. The only way out of this mess
is to make Dial disappear. The blood should be dried by now. We’ll wrap garbage sacks around him just in case. Then we’ll drive to the river.”
The idea of putting Melvin Dial’s body into a garbage sack was almost more than she could handle. She felt Chess’s strong arms encircle her.
“I’m sorry I had to ask for your help, but the old guy’s too heavy for me to handle alone.”
“No, I understand.”
“Do you?” When he kissed her this time, it made her shiver.
They walked down the street toward the house, hand in hand, Irina steeling herself for what she would need to do. The night had turned chilly, which
made her wish she’d worn something more substantial than twill slacks and a light cotton sweater. Chess seemed to sense when she needed his
reassurance. Without being asked, he slipped his arm around her waist.
“Look,” said Irina, pointing. “There are lights on.”
“I’m sure they’ve been on since last night. Nobody’s been around to turn them off.”
Irina had been in Dial’s home several times, so she knew the layout. The first-floor light came from the living room.
“This way,” whispered Chess. He led her through a neighbor’s yard, where they paused at the edge of Dial’s privacy fence for a quick reconnoiter.
Everything appeared to be quiet. The only illumination came from a security light high up on a pole about thirty feet down the alley.
Just as they were about to move through the the gate, a rabbit scurried into the driveway and stopped, raising its head and sniffing the air. At the same
moment, the sound of tires grinding on pavement warned them to stay put. An old Chevy van tore down the alley not five feet away from where they hid.
Chess squeezed her hand after it was gone. “Let’s go.”
He opened the gate, and they crept inside.
“God, but I hate the smell of lilacs,” he whispered, digging a key out of his jacket pocket and fitting it into the lock.
Irina wasn’t sure how anyone could hate lilacs, although she had to admit that the scent was pretty strong.
Once inside the kitchen, Chess took a flashlight out of his back pocket and switched it on.
“Where’s the mess?” asked Irina.
He stood still for a few seconds, looking confused. “Someone must have cleaned it up.” He set the sack of cleaning supplies on the kitchen counter and
rushed through the pantry into the living room.
Irina followed at a slower pace. She found him standing by the couch with his hand messaging his forehead. “The body’s gone. And the bijar rug, the
one he bled all over, it’s gone, too.” His gaze swept the room. “Everything’s been put back in its place. What the hell is going on?”
“What’s that?” asked Irina, pointing at a small white sack on top of the card table.
He lunged for it, held it upside down. A cell phone, a piece of folded yellow legal paper, and a bunch of snapshots fell out. Backing toward the lamp, he
held the piece of legal paper under the light and read the contents out loud.
I took care of the body for you and
all the cleanup. For my effort I expect
to be paid. Keep the prepaid cell
with you. I’ll call and give you
instructions. The photos are part of
what will go to the police if you try
to stiff me. I’ve got more pictures
to show them—and the knife. I want
$50,000. Small bills.
Your Pal, Ed
“Jesus,” said Chess. “This guy must have thought that whoever killed Dial would come back to clean up the mess. But how did he get in here?” He
walked over and checked the door. “Nobody’s forced it. The back door wasn’t jimmied either. I suppose he could have broken a window.”
They spent the next few minutes looking around, trying to figure out how Ed had entered, but in the end, they came up empty.
“He must have had a key,” said Chess.
“Who would have a key to Dial’s house?”
“How the hell would I know?”
Irina stepped over to take a look at the snapshots. The first one showed Dial’s body behind the couch. The next was a picture of Chess’s passport
propped up next to one of Dial’s tassel loafers.
“Is this really your passport?”
Chess pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m afraid so. I usually keep it in the inner pocket of my jacket. When I looked for it this afternoon, it was gone. I
didn’t worry because I figured I’d left it back at the hotel.”
“How did it get here?”
He walked a few paces away. “I always keep a couple of extra hundred-dollar bills in it. Maybe, when Dial and I were playing poker last night, I took the
money out. I must have dropped the passport or set it somewhere. God knows, I was pretty smashed. I have no memory of any of it, but I’ll bet I’m right.
This Ed person, he must’ve found it, jumped to a conclusion, and here we are. I’m on the hook, at least in his mind, for Dial’s death.”
Irina reread the note as Chess stuffed the contents of the sack into his jacket pockets.
“I don’t get it,” she said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “The fact that this guy has your passport and that he placed it next to the body doesn’t
prove anything.”
“Let’s get out of the light.” He motioned for her to follow him back to the kitchen.
Standing in the semidarkness, he whispered, “You’re right. It doesn’t prove I did it. But if this guy sent the photos to the police, at the very least they’d
want to question me. That’s the last thing we need. We’ve got to keep everything under wraps until we can find another buyer. I mean, we can’t exactly sell
the Winged Bull of Nimrud on eBay.”
“You’d be surprised at what you can buy on eBay. Lots of the Baghdad Museum’s ancient cylinder seals are there. Coins. Cuneiform tablets.”
“Not the Nimrud gold. Nobody’s that stupid. We’ve got to find some way to pay this guy off, make him go away.”
Her resolve was beginning to crumble. “This is so much more than I bargained for.”
“We talked about the dangers.”
“I never expected someone to be murdered.”
Hearing a noise, they both ducked down.
“What was that?” whispered Irina.
He put a finger to his lips, waited a few seconds, and then said, “Let’s get out of here.”
They left the cleaning supplies on the counter, cracked open the door, and ran back through the moonlit streets to her car. Irina unlocked the doors, and
they both climbed in. “What do you know about Dial?” asked Chess, breathing hard.
“He’s been buying from the gallery for years. I knew he wasn’t averse to crossing the legal line if he could get his hands on something really special.
That’s why I approached him.”
“Does he resell what he buys?”
“Sometimes. He keeps a pretty low profile.”
“Does he always pay in cash?”
“Always.”
“But your mom would never deal in anything illegal.”
“Are you kidding? If she knew what we were doing, she’d turn us in.”
“The old guy probably had enemies. We can’t say for sure why he was murdered.”
She sat looking at the deserted street, wondering how everything had gone so wrong. One more day and they would have been home free. “What if his
death was connected,” she said. “You and I both know there are people out there tracking down the looters from the Baghdad Museum.”
“Don’t go there.”
“But you’ve heard the stories, right? Dealers and buyers murdered in their sleep, drowned in swimming pools, knifed in back alleys. You don’t sell
antiquities and not hear what’s going on.”
“I didn’t do the looting.”
“That’s a technicality.”
Chess rolled down the window to get some air. “So what do we do? Hide under a rock? We need the money from that sale.”
“Are you going to pay this guy off?”
“First I have to find the fifty thousand.” He looked over at her with a question in his eyes.
“I don’t have it.”
“Maybe I should start making arrangements to move the bull back to Istanbul.”
“You can’t leave.” She said it too fast, sounded too desperate. She feared that she cared more about him than he did about her. “I’ve still got a bunch of
connections I never approached. I’ll start working them tomorrow.”
“If you think you can sell it—”
“I know I can.”
“But this time, we’ve got to be even more careful.”
She had a sudden thought. “Don’t go back to your hotel.”
“Where am I supposed to sleep?”
“Don’t use your credit cards, either. I’ll get you some cash.”
He kissed her again, this time more tenderly. “We’ll figure out a way to make this work for us.”
She couldn’t help herself. She twisted the words around inside her mind, made them mean what she wanted them to mean. What they were doing,
dangerous as it was, would make their future together possible. That’s what he’d said.
For us.
4
Jane sat on the wicker couch on her screened back porch, nursing her third brandy and feeling like an insect working its way out of a web. At times, she
puzzled so long and hard about life in general, and hers in particular, that her brain hurt. Her dog, a chocolate Lab named Mouse, stretched out next to her,
his head in her lap. It was going on two in the morning. If she was smart, which apparently she wasn’t, she would already be in bed. She had a full day
tomorrow and needed to get some sleep, but she was too restless, too caught in the sticky filaments of thought.
It had been a rough year. She’d broken up with her girlfriend last fall. She’d been estranged from her brother even longer than that. Her emotions had
been on overdrive for so long that all she wanted was to kick back and relax. A quiet life was the new goal. A few drinks made the world stop, or at least
made it seem manageable, although she’d gone down that road before and knew it led nowhere. She might just take a few weeks off, spend it up at her
parents’ lodge on Blackberry Lake. She’d barely taken a full day off since March, buried as she was under the daily grind of running two restaurants in an
economic recession.
Summer at the lodge was Jane’s first memory of Minnesota. She could still call up the image of her mother sitting at the end of the dock, feet dangling
in the water, a heavy August sun dipping behind the distant trees. The scene had been repeated often that first summer, the year they all moved back to
Minnesota from the southwestern coast of England. Jane’s father would walk out to check on her, bending over, touching her back, never staying long
because he must have sensed that she needed time to adjust, to grieve the loss of her old home and get used to her new one. Her mother found solace in
those sunsets, and perhaps a few answers to the riddle of life. Jane felt the need for a few of those sunsets now, too.
As she stretched her arms over her head, Chess’s face bloomed inside her mind. When she thought about him these days, which she rarely did, she
still felt, for multiple reasons, that she’d made the right decision in marrying him. Yet a core part of her remained ashamed.
“I was in too much of a hurry back then,” she said to Mouse, absently stroking his velvety ears.
She couldn’t recall ever being ashamed of being gay. It was just another human variation. She’d been outraged by the inequity in Chess’s parents’
edict. Still, all the sneaking around, and the fact that she got paid to lie, made her complicity feel sordid.
“We should head up to bed.”
Without lifting his head, Mouse raised his eyes.
“But between you and me, sitting in the dark with you, drinking a brandy, it’s got to be my favorite part of the day. It’s quiet, you know? There’s nobody
knocking on my door, or phoning me, or asking me to do something, or expecting me to dig my way out of a crisis.” In years past, that had been exactly
what she loved about her work. It was fast and furious. Something always needed her attention. She would lose herself in the energy of it all, and time
would disappear. Where had that gone?
“Maybe I need to learn to meditate. What do you think?”
Mouse’s tail thumped.
“Or take up knitting.” She swallowed the last of her brandy. “Nah.”
As if on cue, the doorbell rang.
Mouse sat up, sniffing the air.
Nobody came to her house at this hour of the morning except for Cordelia. Occasionally, she even brought a pizza, a welcome thought.
“You feel like some pepperoni?” she asked as she headed through the dining room into the front hall, Mouse trotting along next to her. Before she
opened the door, she looked through the peephole. “No pepperoni, babe. Sorry.”
“I’ve been mugged,” groaned Chess, leaning a hand heavily against the door frame. His jacket was ripped and soiled, and he had some nasty
abrasions on his face.
“Come in,” she said, holding his arm and helping him inside.
“Cordelia told me where you lived,” he said a little breathlessly. “I’m sorry to wake you, but—”
“I wasn’t asleep.” She helped him to the couch in the living room. Although his legs appeared rock solid—as thick as tree stumps—he was so out of
shape that she was afraid he might fall. When his jacket spread open, she could see his belly pushing against his belt. He reminded her of a middle-aged
Marlon Brando, before he fell off the weight cliff altogether and ballooned. Chess was still attractive, but he was fast going to seed. “Where are you hurt?”
“I’m just shaken up.”
“I’ll get my first aid kit.”
Mouse, always the gentleman, sat down in front of him and held up his paw.
“Nice dog,” said Chess, patting his head with little enthusiasm.
Jane returned with the kit and began to clean the scrapes on his face. Chess winced and pulled away a couple of times but eventually let her finish her
ministrations.
“What happened?” she asked, before telling him to close his eyes as she covered the abrasions with antibiotic spray.
“I was coming out of a bar. Two guys jumped me.”
“A gay bar?”
“What?” He looked away. “Yeah.”
“You’re lucky all you have are a few bruises.”
He ran a hand through his hair, dislodging several tiny sticks and pieces of gravel. “They took my wallet. All my money, traveler’s checks, and credit
cards. And my ID. Everything.”
“We need to call the police.” She started for the kitchen to get the phone, but he gripped her arm.
“No police.”
“But you need to file a report.”
“What I need is a friend, a place to spend the night.”
“Chess—”
“I know what’s best.”
She stood looking down at him. “Where did you stay last night?”
“With … a guy. But I can’t go back there.”
She wasn’t sure she was getting the full story. She sat down across from him, on the rocking chair next to the fireplace.
“Can I stay? Maybe I could sleep on the couch. I promise, I’ll leave in the morning. You can trust me. You know that.”
“It’s hardly a matter of trust. Anyway, you don’t have to sleep on the couch. I’ve got a guest bedroom upstairs.”
“No, that’s too much trouble. Just let me bed down here. I thought about sleeping outside somewhere, but I’m too rattled.”
“I still think you should report what happened to the police.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because if it got out that I was at a gay bar—”
“You’re still in the closet?”
He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “More or less.”
“But who even knows you around here anymore?”
“More people than you might expect.”
She shook her head. “That’s a hard way to live. You still have your suitcases? Your clothes?”
“They’re all at Robert’s house.”
She wanted to ask who Robert was but decided to let it go. As they sat staring at each other, the conversation stalled and then died.
To fill the silence, Jane said, “Want to wash up?”
“Maybe later.”
“Want a brandy?”
“Desperately.”
She left the room and returned a few seconds later with two glasses and the bottle.
As she poured them each a drink, he said, “Thanks for letting me stay.”
“Of course you can stay.”
“Still, thanks.”
She sat down and studied him for a few seconds. “You never mentioned what you do for a living these days.”
Looking relieved that the conversational ball had been picked up, he said, “I deal in antiquities. Mostly jewelry. I work for a broker in Holland.”
“And you live in Istanbul?”
“That’s where my primary residence is. I live in what’s called Cukurcuma. It’s the SoHo of Istanbul, although that doesn’t do it justice. It’s a very Westleaning
section, very grand, trendy but ancient. Lots of shops on narrow, winding streets. Lots of new restaurants and nightclubs. It’s like nowhere else on
earth.” He gazed straight ahead into the cold fireplace.
“What about when you’re in Amsterdam?”
“I have a small flat. Both of my residences are small, bare-bones affairs. You might not believe it, but money has never been important to me. It’s simply
a means to an end.”
“Traveling? Seeing the world?”
“The experience of life in all its varied incarnations. When I was younger, I wanted to visit every corner of the world.”
“Have you?”
“I’m still working on it.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m on a buying trip. Not that I’ll be doing much buying without my credit cards. You know—” He glanced down at Mouse, who was lying on the braided
rug next to Jane. “I wonder sometimes. Do you ever let your mind wander, think about what our lives might have been like if we’d stayed married? If we’d
really been in love.”
She found the question strange. “But we weren’t.”
“No. But what if we had been? You were so beautiful. You’re still beautiful. I’d forgotten those amazing icy blue-violet eyes of yours.”
Jane wasn’t sure what to say.
“You’ve done well for yourself. Two restaurants. This big old house. I mean, look at you. You’re fit and prosperous.”
“The recession has hit the restaurant industry pretty hard.”
“Didn’t seem that way this afternoon.” He crossed his legs, leaned back against the cushions. “And Cordelia. She’s still as exotic, as curvaceous as
ever, although she’s put on weight. Then again, so have I.”
“She never does anything halfway. If she likes something, she wants to wallow in it. If she doesn’t like it, she’d just as soon take a flamethrower to it.”
“That sounds about right. Is she seeing anyone?”
“Her partner’s name is Melanie Gunderson. She’s a journalist. They live across the street from each other—both in downtown lofts.”
“Not together?”
“To quote Cordelia, they each need ‘a loft of their own.’ It’s an updated, more or less consumer-driven spin on Virginia Woolf’s famous essay.”
That made him laugh. “I think I’ve missed you two.”
“You’d better call your credit card companies—report the thefts.”
“Yeah.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, I don’t have the numbers with me. I’ll have to get hold of my assistant back in Istanbul, have him make the calls.” He
slipped a cell phone out of his jacket.
Jane was surprised at how cheap it looked. Maybe he really did live a bare-bones life. “Better get you a pillow and a blanket.”
“I owe you, Jane. I owe you so much.”
“We settled all our scores long ago.”
“I know. Even so, thanks.”
5
Julia leaned toward the bathroom mirror, applying the finishing touches to her makeup, feeling a kind of grim resignation at the image staring back at her.
Severe headaches had dogged her ever since her return to the United States. They’d gone away for a time but in the last few months had returned with a
vengeance. Along with the headaches came a kind of continuous nausea. She’d lost weight, which she could hardly afford. She’d already lost too much
as a result of the drug-resistant strain of TB she’d contracted while working in southern Africa. The AIDS crisis in that country had consumed her life for
the last few years. She would probably still be there if she hadn’t become ill. Her lungs were clean and healthy again, but she wondered if some of the
vestiges of the disease—and the cure—weren’t the cause of her current problems.
A doctor she’d begun to see had put her on a migraine medication that seemed to be helping, although the tests she’d undergone were inconclusive.
Except for one. She didn’t have a brain tumor. She’d been so busy starting up a free outreach clinic in downtown Minneapolis that she hadn’t had the time
to study the headache issue herself. She did know that migraines didn’t come in clusters, the way hers did. Sometimes she would experience five or six
headaches a day, lasting from a few minutes to a few hours. It was debilitating and frustrating when she had so much work to do.
Julia’s medicine chest was full of medications, most of which didn’t work. She was seeing the medical profession from a different point of view these
days, and it wasn’t pretty. Nevertheless, she had made progress on the free clinic, which was her primary goal at the moment, and that gave her a sense
of accomplishment even in the midst of personal chaos.
Last February, Julia had rented a fully furnished Uptown penthouse loft. She’d been looking around for a place to buy but ended up subletting from a
man who planned to spend the next couple of years working on a business venture in China. With spectacular, virtually unimpeded views of Lake Calhoun
to the west and Uptown to the north, not to mention green building practices, it was everything she’d been looking for and more. She’d asked her lawyer to
negotiate a clause in the rental agreement that allowed her first crack at buying the place, just in case the owner ended up staying in China.
Working in southern Africa for several years had changed her perspective on life and the world—and her values vis-à-vis that world. If she hadn’t had
some persuasive reasons for sticking around the Twin Cities, she would have returned. She’d never taken a salary while she was there. She couldn’t.
There were so many problems, so much pain and heartache, political corruption, and poverty, and yet the people themselves were generous, dignified,
and deeply brave. They were also under the sway of religious traditions that gave them license to live dangerously when it came to HIV and prevented
them from getting the help they so desperately needed. One day she would go back. She was sure of very few things these days, but that was a given.
After filling the electric teakettle in the kitchen, switching it on, and making sure the mugs and biscotti were set out on a tray, ready to take into the living
room, she drifted over to the piano, pulled out the bench, and sat down. This was turning into one of her good days. Maybe it was the new medication, or
maybe the headaches were calming down. Either way, her mood was positive, even buoyant.
The baby grand, stored for many years while she was out of the country, had once belonged to her father, a man she’d never known. Her mother and
father had divorced when she was two. She’d inherited the piano after her mother’s death. Just before the funeral, Julia had met a woman who would
change her life forever. Everything, invariably, led back to Jane.
Julia’s mother, a psychologist and therapist, maintained—in her endlessly self-analytical way—that she and Julia’s father had never been compatible
because they wanted different things. He’d been a free spirit, a musician, who didn’t appreciate what it would take to settle down and raise a family. Her
mother cautioned her, over and over, to be careful about relationships. She advised her only daughter to live her life deliberately, find out who she was. If
she didn’t know what was truly important to her, it would be impossible to fit into the puzzle of another person’s life.
Julia listened. She always listened. However, unlike her mother, who had been deeply practical, not the least bit romantic, Julia believed in fate. It might
not make psychological sense, or stand up to the rigors of reason, but she’d always known that when she found the right person, nothing on earth, with the
exception of death, could separate them.
Julia had spent much of her young life searching for that special someone. By her late twenties, she’d come to the unhappy conclusion that, to have any
relationship at all, she might need to settle for less. She’d been in exactly two relationships before meeting Jane, both with men, and neither successful.
She’d been attracted to women ever since medical school but had never acted on it. When Jane came into her life, she couldn’t deny her feelings,
although it did take some time for her to see that this was the hand of fate beckoning her into her future. Roses, though, had thorns. She never would have
guessed that wanting a life with Jane would ultimately mean that she would be forced to turn her back on the work she loved so much. At times, she found
that she both loved and hated Jane, almost in equal measure—but the love always won out.
Swinging her legs under the keyboard, Julia adjusted the piano seat and then opened a book of classical solos. Music was a cherished solace. She
was glad now that her mother had insisted she take lessons. The acoustics in the loft were so good that she felt as if she were on stage at Carnegie Hall.
Placing her hands lightly over the keys, she closed her eyes and floated to Pachelbel’s Canon in D. She might not be able to see fate’s entire plan for her
life, but it would eventually guide her back to Jane.
The phone rang just as Julia finished the final measure. She sat for a moment, breathing in as the bright high notes reverberated through the loft, then
faded. She stood and walked purposefully over to the kitchen counter, where she picked up the phone.
“Julia? It’s Peter. I’m downstairs.”
“Hey. Glad you could make it.”
“Your phone message made it sound important, whatever ‘it’ is.”
“When you come into the building you’ll see an elevator right in front of you. Take that to five. I’m the middle door. Five-B.”
“I’ll be right up.”
* * *
Irina had been married to Steve for nine years. For a great part of that time, he’d been out of the country, fighting in Iraq. In many ways, he was a stranger
to her, someone who appeared to prefer the dust, heat, and danger of a foreign battlefield to his life at home. She’d been pregnant three times in the
years they’d been together. The first pregnancy had ended in a miscarriage, the second in a stillborn child. She had been forced by Steve’s absence to
deal with the second loss—and an almost overwhelming sorrow—by herself. She couldn’t really blame Steve for being away, and yet, down deep, she
did. After the birth of her son, Dustin James, in mid-April, her depression had finally lifted. Little Dusty made life worth living again. Chess was merely the
icing on the cake.
Steve was an aviation engineer. He was a decent man. Not kind, but fair. He believed in what he was doing in Iraq, even if Irina didn’t. She’d kept quiet
about her opposition to the war, knowing that he needed her support and love. Gradually, though, that love had been eroded by time and distance, by
forgotten birthdays, too few letters, phone calls and e-mails that always seemed rushed. When he’d been hit by shrapnel after a roadside bomb exploded
outside Mosul last summer, he’d been forced home to nurse his wounds. Irina felt sure that this would be the end of his days in combat. Then yesterday,
he’d dropped a bomb. He’d been approached by a private military contractor called the Brigade, who wanted to hire him to work for them in Afghanistan.
In an unconvincing effort to include her in his plans, he’d asked her to drive down to Rochester with him, bragging that he would earn more working for the
Brigade in a year than he’d make as an engineer in ten. There was a time when she would have argued with him, tried to get him to stay, but now, since
Chess had come into her life, her feelings had changed.
“You going in to the gallery today?” asked Steve. He buttered a piece of toast and took a bite so big that half the slice disappeared into his mouth.
“Eleven to six,” she said, pouring a second round of boiling water over the baby bottles in the sink.
“Smells like bleach,” said Steve.
“I rinsed the bottles with it.”
“Jesus, Irina, are you kidding me?”
She was used to his opinions, although they still hurt. “I rinse them thoroughly. There’s no problem. By the way, my sister’s coming over in a little while to
babysit.”
He dropped another slice of bread into the toaster. “Where’d you go last night?”
She looked up.
“You were gone for a couple hours.”
She’d been absolutely positive that he’d been asleep when she left, that he never knew she’d gone. Now she had to think fast. “I just kept tossing and
turning, so I went for a drive.” They hadn’t slept in the same bed since his return from Iraq. He wanted to resume their sex life, but because it had been a
difficult pregnancy, she couldn’t deal with it. It was partly an excuse, and they both knew it. To say that their marriage was on the rocks was an
understatement, and yet, for some reason, she couldn’t bring herself to completely let go. “You go for late-night drives all the time. I wasn’t worried about
Dusty because you were here.”
He moved up next to her and stuffed the last tip of buttered toast into his mouth. “Honey, I know you don’t want to hear this—”
“I don’t. So just drop it, okay?” She hated it when he tried to be nice. It was just an act.
He began again. “If everything goes the way I think it will with the Brigade, I could be deployed to Afghanistan by the end of the month.”
Her back stiffened. The man he’d talked to yesterday had promised him money, adventure, and another chance to serve his country. It was like throwing
a steak to a salivating dog. “I don’t understand you. We might be having problems, but doesn’t Dustin mean anything to you?”
When he touched her shoulder, she pulled away. She was keenly aware of the disdain he felt for the way she’d been handling their little boy’s health
issues. Dusty had been born prematurely. His immune system hadn’t developed properly. Because of that, Irina kept him away from people and worked
hard to shield him from germs that might harm him. She couldn’t risk the loss of another child. Steve thought she was overreacting, that she was too
protective, had even gone a little crazy. Maybe she had, but in her mind, everything she did was a necessary precaution. As long as he was home, he was
simply going to have to live with it.
Glancing over at him, Irina saw that he hadn’t dressed yet. He was still in his pajama bottoms and V-neck T-shirt. He’d always been fastidious about his
clothing and his personal hygiene, which she appreciated even more now that they had a child. He put on a clean white T-shirt every night before he went
to bed and replaced it with a new one after his morning shower. He looked so different these days, now that his hair had grown out. Normally, he kept it
shaved on the sides with the top a little longer. A military cut, he called it. Irina thought it made him look mean, very different from the shaggy-haired man
she’d met twelve years ago. His time in the military had changed him in more ways than she could count. Most significant was the effect his service had
had on his self-confidence. All the shyness and reticence had been burned out of him. Some might say the change was for the good. Irina thought the jury
was still out.
“Honey,” he said, trying again. “Just listen to me for a second. Have you thought any more about finding a therapist for us before I go?”
“What’s the point of seeing someone now?”
“I was hoping that after I left you’d stick with it a while.”
“Seeing a marriage counselor without you doesn’t make any sense.”
He stepped closer. “A lot of this is my fault.”
Tears welled in her eyes.
“I don’t want to leave like this.”
“You mean leave me all alone with a child to raise? At least my sister is here for me.”
Irina worked two days a week at the gallery. Steve would occasionally stay with the baby, but most of the time he was either with his buddies or at work.
He’d taken a part-time job with an aviation contractor. Misty, her younger sister, was just out of drug rehab and currently unemployed. Irina had been
touched by how eager she was to take over as the primary babysitter. Without her help, Irina would have been chained to the house. “If you hadn’t told my
mother that she was no longer welcome in our home—”
“You know why I said that. Irina, look at me.” He tried to turn her around, but she wouldn’t budge from her place at the sink. “We need to talk about this.”
“She doesn’t support the war.”
He moved around her, leaned on the counter, and looked up at her. “Please.”
“Admit it. You hate her guts. She’s a liberal. All liberals are un-American.”
“I never said that.”
“Maybe it’s for the best that she doesn’t come over. I was so sick of you two arguing.”
“It’s not like you don’t see her, I’ve never prevented you from going to her condo.”
“Prevented me? What’s that supposed to mean? This isn’t the 1950s. You don’t tell me what I can and can’t do.”
“Fine. Invite her over all you want—after I’m gone. I was just trying to protect you.”
“Protect me from my own mother?” She didn’t want to get into it with him, but more and more these days, it was becoming impossible not to. They were
like two caged animals circling each other, searching for an advantage.
“This is hopeless,” said Steve. “I don’t know why I even try.”
“You’re too sensitive about your military service. U.S. foreign policy wasn’t handed down from God, you know. You’re not right about everything.”
Steve had always had a temper, but after serving in the military, anything and everything set him off. She could see by the sudden redness flooding his
face that she’d just stumbled over a trip wire.
“Your mom actually blamed me—me—for the looting that went on at the Baghdad Museum. That comment crossed the line, and you know it.”
Steve had been in Baghdad in April of 2003. His unit had been fighting in another part of the city when the museum was looted.
“Since you mentioned it, I was in your office this morning.” His fists rose to his hips. “You’re doing research for your mom, right? On the looting in
Baghdad? The Nimrud gold?”
“Mom’s giving a speech in New York next month.” Her mother had been asked to give a talk before the UN, but Irina’s interest in the Nimrud gold had
nothing to do with it.
“God damn it, why can’t that woman just drop the subject. She doesn’t have all the facts. She just wants to blame. To blame the U.S. To blame me.”
“Steve—”
“No, you need to hear this. Our government did put the museum on a no-strike list. We knew it was important.”
“Then why wasn’t it protected?”
“Do you have any idea what it was like in that city? The compound had been filled with Republican Guard by the time we entered. There was a serious
firefight in that area, one we didn’t start. It was illegal, under international law, for Saddam to put his men inside those walls. It made the place a military
target. The U.S. commanders showed great restraint.”
“No units were assigned to the museum, Steve. Planners simply didn’t believe the museum would be looted. That’s unconscionable.”
“Oh, so you’re taking her side now. Okay, let’s think about it. A unit gets assigned to the compound. The guys get there and find looters—and
Republican Guard. So the unit commander does what he’s required to do when someone starts shooting. He requests backup, tanks and mortars. But
because the museum was put on a no-strike list, the commander’s request would have been denied. What we’ve got now is a killing field.”
Irina’s head was beginning to throb. “Quiet a minute.” She leaned toward the baby monitor she’d set on the kitchen counter. “Is that Dusty?”
“You’re not listening.” He grabbed the toast out of the toaster without buttering it and stormed out of the room.
“Don’t wake the baby!” she called after him.
Just then, Misty sailed through the screen door. “Whoa,” she said, coming to a halt next to the center island. “What did I walk in on?”
“Just more of the same.”
“Something about Mom? If it is, I’m with Steve.”
Misty, the classic bad girl who seemed to attract nothing but bad karma, had been at odds with their mother since she was a teenager. If the two of
them weren’t fighting about her drug use, her poor grades, or her spotty work history, or her generally snotty attitude, they were battling over her current
boyfriend. Move forward fifteen years and nothing had changed.
“Put Dusty in his swing chair when I leave,” said Irina, finishing her coffee in two quick gulps.
“Yeah, yeah.” Misty set her purse on the counter and ran a hand through her bleached blond hair.
Irina was sad to see that her sister was starting to look hard, older than her years. Physically, Irina and Misty were opposites. Where Irina was thin and
petite, taking after their mother, Misty was fleshy and tall, like their dad. Mom had married twice, once for love—her first marriage—and once for lust. Irina
and Misty were the product of number two. Dear old dad was long gone. He’d been a workaholic, a ghost in their lives, so they hardly missed him when he
ran off with his secretary and settled in Argentina. Irina had been too embarrassed to tell any of her friends because it was such a pathetic cliché. After the
second divorce was final, their mother quit trying. The gallery was her passion now. Men, as she often said, were too much trouble.
“You should be nicer to Steve,” said Misty, pouring herself a mug of coffee. “He’s sweet.”
Irina glanced at her sister’s tight hip-hugger jeans. The look might have worked for her once upon a time, when she’d been young and thin, but now she
just looked cheap.
“And you should be nicer to Mom,” said Irina on her way out of the room.
“Sure. Like that’s going to happen. Did you hear the latest?”
Irina paused in the doorway and turned around.
“Mom wants me to come work at the gallery—part-time. I haven’t had any luck finding a job. She thinks this is the answer.”
“Maybe it’s a good idea.”
“Me and Mom? In the same room? Are you kidding me? It will be thermonuclear war.”
“But you need to support yourself somehow.”
“It’s not fair. She’s loaded. Why can’t she just help me out?”
“She is. She’s letting you stay at our old family house free of charge.”
“Yeah, but I have to toe this stupid line or I’m out. I figure, hell, most of her money came from our dad anyway. I think some of it should rightfully be ours.”
“That’s not the way it works. We’ll inherit after she dies.”
“Can’t happen soon enough for me.”
“You don’t mean that.”
Misty’s gaze dropped to the mug in her hand.
“Look, you’re doing me a big favor by babysitting Dusty. I’ll write you a check, something to help out. It’s just … you’re not—”
“What?” she snapped. “Using?”
“Are you?”
“No.”
Irina worried constantly about her sister. She’d been in and out of rehab so many times that it seemed impossible to think she’d stay clean for more
than a few months. Drugs were everywhere these days. Misty told her once that she could walk out of Irina’s home and find just about anything she wanted
in a matter of blocks—and this wasn’t the inner city, it was Apple Valley.
“It’s a dangerous world out there,” said Misty.
“Tell me about it,” said Irina, remembering the snapshot of Melvin Dial’s bloody body lying behind his couch.
6
“How long?” asked Chess, his right leg bouncing nervously. He was sitting on a wicker rocker on Jane’s back porch, talking on his cell to a man in New
Jersey who created and sold fake passports.
“A week to ten days,” came the raspy voice.
“You can’t do it any sooner?”
“I’m good and I’m cheap. You want fast, you go someplace else.”
This was the only connection Chess had. You couldn’t just call up a man like this out of the blue and expect him to talk to you. You had to do it through
intermediaries. “What about the new driver’s license?”
“I might be able to get that to you sooner, but I can’t promise. I’m pretty backed up.”
Chess was in the wrong line of work. “Okay. It’s a deal.”
“Money first. Then I start.”
“I’ll wire transfer it to your bank today.” It was going to take virtually every dime he had left in his Swiss account, but it was money well spent. He needed
a new passport, just in case things got too hot and he had to run.
“You’ve got all the info?” asked the man. “The routing number?”
“Yeah,” said Chess. “And you’ve got Irina Nelson’s address?”
“We’re all set.”
After hanging up, he sat for a few minutes looking at the backyard. Jane was still asleep upstairs. It was just after eight, too early to be awake after so
little rest. With everything on his mind, he’d barely slept at all. He bitterly regretted his decision to return to the Twin Cities. When Irina called to tell him
she’d found a buyer, he should have lied, told her the bull had already been sold. Instead, as usual, he let his curiosity, his need for money, and his lust for
a woman lead him into a dangerous back alley.
It had taken weeks to get the bull into the country through Central America. He recalled one particularly horrible time, riding for three days through the
Guatemalan jungle, the humidity beyond belief, spiderwebs sticking to his clothes, his hair, his face. He’d come up through Mexico, over the Texas
border, and then, traveling back roads, finally reached Minnesota. If he couldn’t sell it, it would take that long—or longer—to get it back out. It would also
take money, which he no longer had.
Lifting Ed the Blackmailer’s cell phone out of one of the pockets of his safari jacket, he willed it to ring. He wanted to talk to him, whoever he was, and
see if he could renegotiate the price of his silence. Until the bull was out of his life, Irina was right. It was best to stay out of sight. Jane’s house seemed as
good a place as any to hide, although he wasn’t sure how long she’d let him stay.
Thinking back on the first time they’d met, he remembered how bad he felt about lying to her—back when he still felt bad about lying. He wasn’t gay.
Cordelia had merely assumed he was, referring to him constantly as a “beautiful boy.” He went along with it because he wanted the part in the play, and if
thinking he was gay made her happy, and made it easier for them to be friends, that was fine with him. Only later had he seen it as a path to his
inheritance. The irony and utter outrageousness of playing gay in order to fool his parents by marrying a lesbian at a wedding presided over by a Catholic
priest appealed to him. Chess had always shaded the truth, when necessary, a tad more than he should. He often did it to make people happy, but he
also lied to get what he wanted. The only real problem about making things up was that he would sometimes forget what he’d said. To be a successful liar
you needed an ironclad memory.
Chess’s mom had refused to speak to him after she learned the marriage was bogus. He’d been hoping that she would forgive him, but it wasn’t in the
cards. He’d left the country without saying good-bye because she refused to see him. He thought that, given enough time and distance, she would change
her mind.
In fact, she had. Two years ago, when she was dying in a nursing home in Lake Forest, his older sister had e-mailed him and said that their mom had
something she wanted to say to him—and that she wanted to do it face-to-face. Before he made the plane reservations, he received another e-mail
saying she was dead.
Over the years, Chess had concluded that his original sin was failing to find a woman and live happily ever after. To Chess’s way of thinking, there was
no such thing as “happily ever after.” It was a fairy tale, like Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny. Most people settled for something less than they wanted, or
accommodated a partner’s desires in ways that diminished them. Or they divorced. Chess had escaped all that heartache by simply admitting what most
refused to see.
His parents had been a prime example. They projected the fantasy image of a happily married couple, but behind the doors of their home in Lake
Forest the truth was far different. The fact that his mother and father had the audacity to tie his inheritance to what they knew was a lie infuriated him then,
and did so still. Justify our existence by climbing into the same unhappy bed as we did and we’ll reward you. It was absurd. Even so, his heart broke when
he thought of his mother sitting alone in that nursing home, watching the last of her life fade to black. To come to the end of the road without a
reconciliation with her youngest son must have seemed a cruel fate. During those final hours, she had reached out to him, but it was too late.
“Are you okay?”
Chess turned to find Jane standing in the doorway.
“You’re crying.”
“Am I?” He touched his cheek, felt the tears.
She opened the screen door wide and let her dog out into the yard.
“I was thinking about my mother. Do you remember her?”
“I actually liked her a lot.”
He gazed out at the flower garden along the back fence. The sun hit the tops of a thick patch of iris, not as grand as Le Jardin de Monet, les iris, but
close. “I never got a chance to say good-bye. She died a few years ago. We became estranged after … you know. It still bothers me.”
She didn’t say anything, just looked at him with those intense blue-violet eyes.
Although Chess had spent a lot of time with her, he’d never really understood what made Jane tick. She didn’t talk about herself much, or pontificate on
pet subjects. Instead, she asked questions and seemed genuinely interested in the answers. In Chess’s experience, that was rare. He assumed that
made her the beneficiary of more than one unsought confidence over the years.
She was dressed casually this morning in jeans and a red cotton shirt. Her lush brown hair spread loosely across her shoulders. She’d aged, for sure,
most notably in the wrinkles starting to form at the edges of her eyes. He figured she dyed her hair, although if she did, she’d never admit it. She was as
vain as the next woman. It would no doubt surprise her to learn that a certain amount of womanly vanity made her more attractive, not less. She could be
generous, sometimes even kind, but at heart Chess saw her as a Gordian knot. Convoluted. Moody. Private. That’s what had fascinated him years ago,
and apparently still did. Someday, perhaps, someone with the skill of an Alexander would forgo trying to untie her and instead take a sword to the
workings of her heart. He wished he could be around to see it.
“I suppose I should get out of here, let you have your house back. I want to thank you again for letting me stay last night.”
“Were you able to get your stolen credit cards canceled?”
For a moment, he was thrown. “Oh, yeah,” he said. He’d almost forgotten last night’s lie. He touched the abrasions on his cheek. On the way over to her
house, he’d found a brick in an alley and scraped his face, then rubbed some gravel in his hair. It added a note of authenticity to his tale of woe.
“Everything’s been handled.”
“Are you hungry?” she asked. “I could fix you some breakfast.”
“Are you still a great cook?”
“That’s the prevailing opinion.”
He sniffed the air. “Coffee?”
“It’s set on a timer. Can’t start the day without a caffeine fix.”
“Sure,” he said, smiling broadly. “Breakfast would be great.”
“And if you need to stay another night, that’s fine with me.”
“Can I get back to you about it later in the day?” As he followed her into the kitchen, the phone in his hand—the blackmailer’s cell—began to vibrate.
“You go on,” he said. “I’ve got to take this.”
He flipped it open and said hello, pushing out the screen door and walking a few yards out into the grass.
“Morning.” The words were spoken in a deep baritone, but it sounded fake, as if the guy were intentionally lowering his voice.
“Ed?”
“That’s me.”
“Who are you?”
“Just consider me a friend.”
“Funny.” He stepped over to a tree and stood with his back to the porch door. “I didn’t kill that guy.”
“Right.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Whatever you say. But I cleaned up your mess and I still want the money.”
“We need to meet, talk this over.”
“Nothing to talk about. You pay me or I send the photos to the police.”
“I don’t have fifty thousand dollars.”
“Come on. You’ve traveled all over the world. You’ve got to be a man of means.”
A conclusion he’d drawn, no doubt, from looking at the stamps on his passport. “No money unless we talk first,” said Chess.
Silence.
“Did you hear me?”
“I heard.”
“So?”
“How much money do you have?”
Chess relaxed a little. This guy wasn’t a pro. “My financial situation is complicated. Look, whoever you are, I promise I’ll pay you something. It’s worth it
to me. I didn’t kill Dial, but you made a potential mess go away, and for that you deserve something.”
“How much?”
“That’s what I want to talk to you about. Meet with me and we can firm up a price.”
“Is this a trap?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Because if you try anything, those photos go straight to the police. You can’t just walk away from a murder scene, you know.”
Chess pressed a fist to his mouth to stop himself from laughing. The guy was such a pathetic amateur. “What did you do with the body?”
“It’s safe.”
“I don’t care if it’s safe. I want to know that it’s gone. Buried in the woods where nobody will ever find it. Or weighted and dumped in a lake.”
“I took care of it. I’m not stupid.”
That remained to be seen.
“Listen, buddy, you don’t tell me what to do. I tell you.”
“I’m just trying to be helpful,” said Chess. “Where should we meet?”
He hesitated. “If I agree, it has to be someplace public.”
“The Witch’s Hat.” It popped out of his mouth before he’d even thought about it, probably because he knew the university better than any other part of
town. The tower was in a park, high on a hill. Nobody could sneak up on him there. “You know where it is”
“You mean the water tower in Prospect Park? Over by the U?”
“That’s the one.”
More hesitation. “I suppose I could meet you.”
“At eleven. Today. Eleven on the dot.”
“Don’t push me. I’m the one in charge here, not you.”
“I’m aware of that,” said Chess, working a little meekness into his voice. “So? Do we have a deal?”
The guy didn’t respond right away. “Okay,” he said finally, sounding less than sure of himself. “Eleven. I’ll be there. But no funny business. Remember, I
got those pictures.”
7
Irina was running late. She’d managed to pull herself together after the fight with Steve, although it had left her stomach churning. At least her sister had
arrived on time to take care of Dusty—one worry off her plate.
The Morgana Beck Gallery of Antiquities was located on a tree-lined street in the heart of St. Paul. Grand Avenue was thirty blocks long and ran from
the Mississippi River all the way downtown. Irina described the area to customers as a mixture of the trendy and the historic, with neighborhood ethnic
and big-city urbane tossed in for good measure. In fact, Grand Avenue boasted some of the best shopping and the best restaurants in town. Unlike the
malls, most of the businesses were independent, one of a kind. Irina hated the burbs. Apple Valley had been Steve’s idea. She much preferred the inner
city, having grown up in a house not far from here—the place that Misty currently called home, thanks to the generosity of their mother.
The gallery was a restored redbrick Queen Anne duplex. Her mother’s office was on the second floor in an octagonal turret. A duplex, as it turned out,
was the perfect arrangement for them. The first floor held the galleries. The second floor had a fully stocked kitchen so they could grab meals on the run.
Two of the three upstairs bedrooms were used for storage, and the third had been made into a shipping office. Much of their business these days came
from online sales.
Irina parked her Saab in the small lot behind the gallery. As she slid out, she noticed that a planter on the back deck had been knocked over, spilling
dirt across the wood planks and dislodging a huge hibiscus. Because of the wrought-iron bars on all the windows, they’d never had a break-in. She
approached the rear door cautiously, righting the planter and kicking the excess dirt onto a small patch of grass that grew between the house and the
blacktop. The door was locked, which Irina took as a good sign. Grand Avenue ran through a mostly residential area, so it could have been kids running
around after dark.
Before Dustin was born, Irina worked four days a week. Now, because her mother thought she needed the time to take care of her child, she was down
to two. Tuesdays and Thursdays were her days to open the gallery. Majid Farrow, a man she disliked intensely, mainly because her mother thought the
sun rose and set on his abilities as an appraiser and a salesman, opened the other days.
Majid was from Texas—specifically, River Oaks, a suburb of Houston. His mother was Iranian born, a professor of Egyptian archaeology and philology,
his father an American heart surgeon with a practice in downtown Houston. Irina’s mother had hired Majid the day after he graduated from Macalester
with an interdepartmental master’s in Middle Eastern studies, Islamic civilization, and art history. That was seven years ago. He was a good fit for a
gallery that specialized in Middle Eastern art and antiquities, but Irina felt that he enjoyed displaying his knowledge at her expense. Her degree was in art
history, but nowhere near as specialized. She’d worked as hard as he had, if not harder, to become an expert in the field. Still, her mother seemed to
prefer his opinions. He’d come late to his studies, which meant that he was six years older than she was. She thought of him as a peer. His avuncular
treatment of her suggested that he thought otherwise. The less she worked with him, the better she liked it.
Mornings at the gallery were for light dusting, setting up the cash register, sorting the mail, checking e-mail, and finally opening the double front doors to
the public at eleven. It was already after that. Instead of charging in, Irina thought it best to walk along the west side of the building to the front, scanning the
windows for anything amiss. After checking the east side, she paused for a few seconds at the base of the wide front steps and looked in through the bay
window. All the track lights were on. Something wasn’t adding up. Her mother always turned off the track lighting when she closed the gallery for the night.
Turning to the street, Irina shielded her eyes from the sun and scanned the parked cars. She spotted her mother’s pearl gray Audi Roadster halfway
down the block. Feeling relieved that her mom had already arrived, she headed back to the rear of the house and let herself in. Her mother was probably
fuming. Arriving late was a cardinal sin in her lexicon of business blunders.
Steeling herself for an argument, Irina walked into the main showroom but stopped under the arched doorway, her hand flying to her mouth to cover a
gasp.
The glass counters had all been opened, the contents scattered around on the floor. Nothing, not a single relic, was where it should be. Masks had
been torn down from the walls. Standing shelves had been knocked over, some of the ancient glass artifacts broken into a million little pieces on the
polished wood floors. The doors to three smaller climate-controlled galleries were open, allowing Irina a full view of the destruction.
Rushing up the back stairs, she entered the second-floor hallway, her gaze traveling swiftly to the open doorway into the living room.
“Mom?” she called. “Are you here? Are you okay?”
The second floor had been ransacked, just like the first. The backs and seats of all the antique couches and chairs had been ripped open, with big puffs
of stuffing scattered virtually everywhere. All the cupboards in the kitchen were open, their contents dumped.
Rushing through the chaos into her mother’s office, Irina let out a scream.
Her mother was slumped face-first onto her desk. Under the chair was a thick pool of sticky dark red blood. Irina pressed the back of her fingers to her
mom’s cheek and was so startled by how cold the skin felt that she withdrew her hand as if she’d been burned. She moved around behind the chair,
grabbed her mom by her shoulders, and eased her back. The front of her white angora sweater was stained the same dark red as the floor. Irina stood
very still, feeling another scream well up inside her.
Do something, she ordered, backing up, horrified at the revulsion she felt at being in the same room with a dead body. It was her mother’s body. She
shouldn’t feel that way.
She wanted to run, to breathe fresh air, to wipe the sickening image from her mind. Instead, she dove for the corner of the room and vomited. Shivering
violently, she edged over to the phone, picked it up, and started to tap in 911.
“No,” she whispered, letting the phone drop back on the desk. She had to think this through.
* * *
Across the river in Minneapolis, Chess paced under the tower. He couldn’t get one of the comments the blackmailer had made out of his mind. You can’t
just walk away from a murder. Did that mean the blackmailer had seen him walk away from Dial’s house? Could Ed be the neighbor, the chatty bald guy
who’d called to him as he was leaving? Had he seen Chess and Dial arrive the evening before? Maybe he heard something—a noise, an argument, a cry
in the night—and decided to take a look in one of the windows to see what was going on. A neighbor might have a key.
Chess checked his watch. It was eleven fifteen. Whoever this asshole was, he was late. Feeling frustrated, he kicked a stone down the hill, scanning the
park for anyone who might be walking toward the tower. With the exception of a mother and her two kids sitting in the grass on a blanket, and a man
seated on a bench eating a fast-food burger, the park was deserted.
“So how long am I supposed to wait?” he muttered. As he slid the cheap cell phone out of his pocket, it began to vibrate.
“Hello?” he said, stepping into the shade.
“I can’t come,” said the blackmailer’s voice. “We’ll have to reschedule.” Without waiting for a response, he hung up.
“Wait. Hello? Hello?” Chess flipped the phone closed. What the hell? Before he could come to a decision on what to do next, his own cell rang.
“Yeah?” he said, unable, or more likely unwilling, to keep the aggravation out of his voice.
“Chess? Is that you?”
It was Irina. She sounded upset. “What’s going on?”
“It’s Mom. She’s dead. You’ve got to help me. You have to come over here.”
“Where are you?”
“The gallery. Mom’s office. Someone murdered her.”
His mind began to spin. “God, that’s … God.” He swallowed back his shock. “You need to stay calm. Can you do that for me?”
“I think so.”
“Have you checked the entire gallery? Are you alone?”
“I never thought of that,” she said, her voice rising. “What if the killer is still in the building?”
“Can you lock your mom’s office door?” He heard it slam shut, then the sound of a bolt being thrown.
“It’s locked.”
“This is a more difficult question. Have you touched the—I mean, your mother? Is her skin cold?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice sounding strangled.
“That probably means whoever did this to her is long gone. Have you called the police?”
“Not yet.”
“Perfect. Just stay put. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Hurry.”
* * *
Chess bounded up the steps to the double front doors, relieved to find them open. As soon as he was inside, he turned and locked the doors behind him.
He’d only been upstairs once. Slicing his way through the shambles of the once elegant gallery, he bolted to the back stairway and took the steps two at
a time.
“Chess, is that you?” came Irina’s frantic voice through the closed office door.
“I’m here.”
A second later, Irina emerged looking deathly white. She fell into his arms. “I thought you were never going to get here.”
He held her, feeling her body shiver through her light cotton dress. “I need to see your mom.”
She seemed grateful as she took his hand and led him into the office. Morgana’s body, her eyes closed, the front of her fuzzy sweater gummy with
blood, sat hunched against the back of her chair, her head lolling to one side. “Is this the way you found her?”
“No. She was slumped across the desk.”
Chess took hold of Morgana’s shoulders and eased her back down. “It looks like a gunshot. You saw the entrance wound, right?”
She gave a stiff nod.
“The front doors were open.”
“They were?”
He looked around for a bullet casing but couldn’t find one. The shooter could have used a revolver, or maybe he was just careful. Chess gave himself a
minute to think it through. “The guy must have been standing in front of the desk. What’s this?” He nodded to a file folder open on the desk. “Looks like a
trust agreement. You know anything about that?”
“She did it years ago. She and her lawyer go over it every spring. If there are any changes in the documents, she talks to me about them, but there
hardly ever are any. It’s just a formality.”
He crossed back to the door, staring into the living room. “What are these people looking for?”
“You think it’s the bull?”
He didn’t reply. Walking back out into the front room, he picked up a cushion and righted a chair. Irina stood in the doorway and watched.
“We’re not safe,” she said.
“Let’s not jump to conclusions. Your mother was shot. Dial was stabbed.”
“So what? They’re both dead.”
“It might mean the murders weren’t related.”
“But we don’t know that.”
“No, we don’t. Whatever is going on here, we need to stay focused on getting rid of that statue. Listen.” He moved back to the doorway and looked her
square in the eyes. “There are a lot of artifacts from the Baghdad Museum floating around the black market—I’ve bought and sold my share—but nothing
as big or as high profile as the winged bull. If someone is on our trail, that’s the reason. We have to work quietly and quickly. Are you with me?”
Her eyes looked glazed, off center. She gave a weak nod.
“You’ve got to be sure. We don’t have time to waste, Irina. We act decisively or we call it off.”
“I’m in, Chess. All the way.”
“You’ve got it hidden away?”
“It’s safe.”
He kissed her with a passion he didn’t feel. She was far more skittish than she’d been when they’d first discussed the sale of the bull in Istanbul last
August. She’d turned into a woman who had to be coaxed along, handled with care. If she’d shown that sort of temperament earlier, he never would have
cut her in. He’d been in a bind, though. He needed her, needed her connections. Greed motivated her, but it wasn’t her bottom line. She tried to hide it,
but after the buy was made, Chess was the prize she wanted. That meant he had to keep her happy until the bull was safely disposed of and the money
was in the bank.
“You’re going to be fine,” he said, his arms encircling her, his fingers kneading the muscles in her neck.
She burst into tears. “I feel so guilty,” she said, choking on her sobs. “My mom is dead and it’s all because of me.”
“We don’t know that.” He held her tighter. “You have to be strong, have to think of the future.” He stroked her wispy blond hair, kissed her forehead. “You
can be strong, can’t you?”
She backed up and brushed the tears off her cheeks.
“It’s time to call 911. Can I get you anything first? A glass of water?” He eased her down onto a chair, then leaned over her.
“Do you love me, Chess?”
He crouched down, took her hand in his, and pressed it to his chest. “With all my heart.”
8
“He’s back,” said Jane as she stood at the head of the wooden stairs leading down to the lake in front of her restaurant, holding her cell phone to her ear.
The lunch rush was over, so she was taking a break.
“Who’s back?” asked Cordelia. She sounded impatient.
In the background, Jane could hear trombones. “Is the Allen Grimby doing an adaptation of The Music Man?”
“I can’t hear you.”
“ ‘Seventy-six Trombones’?”
“Nah, I think there are only two. And a tuba, a flute, and an oboe.”
“Kind of an unusual band.”
“What?”
“Can you go into another room or something?”
A door slammed.
“There, that’s better,” said Cordelia. “Now, who’s back?”
“That itinerant preacher. The one dressed in the monk’s cowl.”
“Well, yippy freakin’ skippy. It’s really nice of you to keep me updated on the comings and goings of Friar Tuck, but trust me, it’s not necessary.”
“Chess stayed at my house last night.”
“He did? Why?”
“He was mugged.”
“Heavens.”
“I’ll tell you about it when we have more time.”
“Did you manage to get all the deliciously licentious details of his love life?”
“A little more than we got at lunch.”
“Excellent, Janey. Just excellent. Everything ready for the party tomorrow night?”
The catering wing of Jane’s two restaurants was taking care of the food. Her house had undergone a thorough cleaning. The champagne was already
chilling. Because of her father’s heart scare last year, this birthday felt like a gift. She wanted to do it up right. “How many RSVPs have come back?”
“Forty-nine. Most are couples, so plan on around a hundred. If moi had been in charge, we would have needed to rent the Metrodome.”
Thirty yards away, the preacher was reading from what looked like a personal journal. The crowd wasn’t large, maybe a dozen people, but they seemed
attentive. His voice was deep, and it carried well.
“What are you wearing?” asked Cordelia.
A question like that usually came with heavy breathing. “Right now?”
“Earth to Jane. No, dingbat, at the party.”
“Oh. A tux and a tiara.”
“Entirely brilliant. I believe I said something in the invitation about dress being optional, though essential. Oh, drat. The tuba player is throwing a hissy fit.
I’ve gotta go. Later.”
Jane trotted down the steps to the footpath, curious what the preacher could be saying. Keeping her distance from the crowd, she sat down crosslegged
in the grass, her back against a sturdy elm.
The preacher lifted his head and made eye contact with each member of his audience. “ ‘Blessed is the man who has suffered and found life. Jesus
said, What you look forward to has already come, but you do not recognize it. Blessed are the solitary and elect, for you will find the kingdom. For you are
from it, and to it you will return.’ ”
He turned a page. “ ‘Jesus said to them, When you make the two one, and when you make the inside like the outside and the outside like the inside,
and the above like the below, and when you make the male and the female one and the same, so that the male will not be male and the female not be
female; and when you fashion eyes in place of an eye, and a hand in place of a hand, and a foot in place of a foot, and a likeness in place of a likeness;
then you will enter the kingdom.’ ”
“That’s not in the Bible,” shouted a gray-haired man sitting astride a dirt bike.
“No?” said the preacher.
“Not in any Bible I’ve ever seen.”
He closed the book and held it down at his side. “Let me ask everyone a question. How many of you have read The Da Vinci Code?”
Almost everyone raised a hand.
“Why doesn’t that surprise me. Now, how many of you have read the Bible? Not just passages but cover to cover.”
One woman raised a hand.
“I find that fascinating, don’t you?”
“The Da Vinci Code had a better plot,” called a teenaged girl.
A few people laughed.
The gray-haired man shot the girl an angry look.
“How many of you believe in God?” asked the preacher.
This time, everyone raised a hand.
“And how many believe the Bible is the inerrant word of God?”
“What’s ‘inerrant’ mean?” asked a woman standing at the front.
“Incapable of error,” said the preacher. “Perfect in every way.”
Only one young man in the back didn’t raise his hand.
“Then tell me this,” said the preacher. “If you really believe the Bible was written by our creator, why wouldn’t you want to read it? I honestly don’t get it
and would like someone to explain it to me. I would think people would be falling over each other to find out what the Lord of the Universe had to say.”
“But that stuff you read,” said the gray-haired man. “It wasn’t from the Bible, right?”
“It’s from the Gospel of Thomas.”
“There is no Gospel of Thomas.”
“Sure there is. There’s also a Gospel of Mary, a Gospel of Peter, a Gospel of the Savior, the Gospel According to the Hebrews, the Infancy Gospel of
Thomas, and the Gospel of Philip. All these books were understood by many early Christians to be sacred texts.”
“That’s garbage,” said the gray-haired man. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing here, but if you people want my opinion, that guy is the devil in
disguise.” In a huff, he pedaled off.
The preacher’s gaze traveled to Jane, stayed with her for a few seconds, then returned to the crowd. “Do you people think that early Christianity was
any different from Christianity today? In the first, second, and third century, the variety of beliefs was every bit as great. The Bible developed out of that
broad mix of ideas. It was assembled by the group who won the battle over what was and what was not correct belief.”
“What’s your point?” called a man in a business suit.
“Just that we have an oversimplified view of the Christian faith.”
“God inspired the Bible,” called a young woman standing to the side. “I don’t need to know how it happened. That’s just a waste of time.”
Several people nodded.
The crowd began to disperse.
Jane found it an interesting exchange. Not the fire and brimstone she’d been expecting.
The preacher waited until his audience had all gone, then got down off his wooden box, picked it up, and trudged through the grass to the path around
the lake. He nodded to Jane as he walked past. She nodded back. She had no personal animus toward him, but just the same, she hoped he wouldn’t
come back.
* * *
Around four, as Jane was working in her office, she got a call from Julia. “Hey, stranger,” she said, clicking on her cell and leaning back in her chair.
“I’m calling to RSVP about your dad’s birthday party.”
“Can you come?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
“I thought maybe you were out of town. I left you a couple of messages.”
“Apologies about that,” said Julia. “I’ve been incredibly busy.”
“Still working at that clinic in Uptown?”
“No, I’ve got something new in the works. Very exciting.”
“You going to tell me about it?”
“Didn’t Peter tell you?” She sounded disappointed that Jane didn’t already know.
“What’s my brother got to do with it?”
“I’ll tell you all about it when I see you tomorrow night.”
As they said their good-byes, Jane concluded that the phone call was even more proof that Julia wasn’t trying to push her way back into Jane’s life.
Cordelia was simply wrong when it came to Julia and her intentions.
* * *
Jane left the Lyme House early that night. She needed to make sure everything at home was as ready as possible for tomorrow evening. She said a quick
good-bye to her manager just after ten and made her way up the hill. After the noisy interior of the pub, the sweet scent of late spring flowers was a
welcome relief.
As she approached her front sidewalk, hands in her pockets, head down, making a mental list of the projects she would need to finish before she could
take a week or two off to drive up to Blackberry Lake, she didn’t see Chess sitting on her steps until she was almost on top of him.
“Evening,” he said, standing up.
“Wasn’t sure I’d see you again.”
He sat back down and patted the space next to him. “The cement’s nice and comfy. Why don’t you join me?” He held up a white sack. “Unlike me,
you’ve lost weight. Way too thin. I’ve decided that it’s my calling in life to feed you.”
That made her laugh. “How long have you been here?”
“Half an hour. Maybe a little more.”
“You could’ve come to the restaurant.”
“I know. Come on, eat something.” He looked into the sack. “I’ve got a chocolate éclair, a coffee éclair, two English toffee brownies, a cream horn, and
two slices of chocolate pound cake. Pick your poison.”
“You pick.”
He handed her the coffee éclair. “It’s from a terrific bakery downtown.”
She took a bite. “Very good.”
“I always sniff out the best bakeries.”
“So where are you staying tonight?”
“That’s why I came back.” He removed a brownie and bit off the corner, closing his eyes and groaning. “I’m addicted to chocolate.” Chewing slowly, he
continued, “This morning, before you got up, I noticed that you have an outside stairway that leads to a third-floor apartment. It looked vacant, so I walked
up to check it out. I could only see it through the windows, but it seemed nice. If nobody lives up there, could I rent it from you? Just for a few days.”
“I haven’t used that space in years.” She didn’t need the money anymore, but mostly she didn’t rent it because she’d had some bad experiences with
renters.
“I can’t pay you much,” he said.
“I don’t want your money. Why don’t you just stay in the guest bedroom?”
“Is there any furniture up there? A bed? A couch?”
“Sure, it’s completely furnished.”
“But I’ll bet the dust is an inch thick.”
“I have my cleaning woman give it a once-over every couple of months.”
“Clean sheets on the bed?”
“It’s a single bed. Not as comfortable as the double in the guest bedroom.”
“You know me. I like my privacy. I won’t be around long. I have a business deal pending that requires me to be in the Twin Cities for another few days,
and then I’ll be out of your hair.”
She eased down next to him. He smelled nice, like he’d just showered, shaved, and splashed himself with cologne. He didn’t have any of his bags last
night, but tonight a rolling leather suitcase sat in the grass. He must have gone back to “Robert’s” house to get it. He’d also changed into a pair of tan
canvas drawstring slacks, leather sandals, and a black linen shirt.
“Of course you can stay.”
He leaned over and lightly kissed her cheek. “You’re the best.”
“I don’t know about that.”
“I have something for you. I wanted to give it to you right away, but I didn’t want you to think of it as a bribe.”
“You don’t need to give me anything.”
“It’s not about need, it’s about want.” He dug into the pocket of his slacks, took out a small, square box, and handed it to her.
Inside she found a ring. “Chess, no. This looks expensive.”
“It’s a Roman snake ring from the second century.”
“It’s too much.”
“I wore it for a while. Now I’m passing it on to you. It’s just stuff, Jane. Old stuff, for sure, but stuff nonetheless. Nobody really owns something like this. It
just gets passed around. Besides, I like giving people beautiful things.”
She tried it on each of her fingers until she found the one that the ring fit perfectly—the index finger of her right hand. “What’s it made of?”
“Gold.”
She pulled it off. “I can’t take this.”
“Of course you can. You may not know this, but in Turkey, people celebrate special occasions by giving gold as a gift. Turks love gold. Not because
they like to show off but because it’s something tangible; it keeps its value in a world where currency fluctuates. This particular ring is worth around two
thousand, give or take. In a good year, I sell hundreds of rings like this, and much more besides. I’m hoping to make a big profit from the sale of a piece of
Mesopotamian art, but I always travel with jewelry to sell. It’s what I do. Giving you a ring isn’t much different from you treating me to lunch at your
restaurant.”
“There’s a huge difference.”
“Do you like it?”
She was touched that he wanted her to have it. “I love it.”
“Good. I want you to wear it. Something you’ll always have to remember me by.”
9
The next morning, just after sunup, Chess crept down the long outside stairway and slipped quietly into a waiting cab. He was carrying an orthopedic cane
and wearing a snap-brim cap over a gray wig. He also wore the four heavy crew-neck sweaters he’d bought yesterday and an oversized sport coat. The
clothing made him look a good thirty pounds heavier. The gray mustache and dark glasses put the finishing touches on an image he hoped would fool
anyone watching the Hyatt Regency in downtown Minneapolis.
Having lived in the Middle East for most of his adult life, Chess experienced a jolt of culture shock as the cabby whisked him through the early morning
streets. It seemed odd that there were no mosques, no minarets with crying male voices, calling people to prayer. There was no old city, no street
bazaars, no riotous color. Just endlessly boring modernity.
Glancing out the back window, Chess searched the street to make sure nobody was following the cab. So far, so good.
Old, in the Middle East, meant ancient. In Minnesota, old barely stretched a century and a half. As a kid, Chess had dreamed of time travel. Going
backward had always appealed to him far more than going forward. All his curiosity was centered on the ancient, which was science fiction enough.
He remembered begging his parents for books on archaeology. Later, in high school, he had read everything he could find on the ancient world,
pouring over photos of archaeological digs, reading books on ancient art. He wanted to be an archaeologist when he grew up but discovered, much to his
embarrassment, that he was too lazy to make the effort required.
When Chess turned forty, he finally found his way into the kingdoms of his dreams. Antiquities. People were insane to think they could own ancient
artifacts. These treasures belonged to everyone and no one. If a few came into Chess’s possession, legal or otherwise, who was he to give them away for
free? He wasn’t above using other people’s obsessions to make a living. If anything, ancient cultures had taught him that time was the lord of all. Every life
was a tiny speck on an endless continuum. The shortness of a human life argued for enjoying what you had while you had it.
Chess was particularly drawn to Babylon before the Persian conquest and to ancient Egypt, when the pharaohs ruled—not the newer Ptolemaic
dynasty that took root after the death of Alexander the Great. It wasn’t smart to admit to oddball beliefs, but Chess had undergone several hypnotic
regressions. He already believed in reincarnation, and this merely cemented it. His first birth had come during the reign of Abieshu, the grandson of
Hammurabi. He could still taste the saltiness and dust on his tongue, smell the sweet scent of burning herbs in an alabaster bowl.
“Ever think about time travel” Chess asked the cabby.
The guy turned briefly to stare at him. “You mean like Star Wars?”
“Forward in time or backward. Either one.”
“I’d like to go back to eleventh grade, when I decided I didn’t need to graduate from high school.”
Chess studied each car as it passed, each driver, then swiveled again to see who might be far enough behind to look innocent but have the cab in his
sights. When he returned his attention to the front, the Hyatt was just ahead of them.
Five tense minutes later, he was safely inside his hotel room. He was as positive as he could be—without the gift of divination—that he hadn’t been
followed and that nobody had noticed him arrive at the hotel. He rode up to the sixth floor alone, and nobody, not even a housekeeper with a cleaning cart,
met him in the hallway.
Fumbling nervously in his pocket for his pack of Camel Turkish Royals, he lit one, inhaled deeply, and then, with the cigarette dangling from his lips,
ripped off the sport coat and sweaters. Sweat soaked his undershirt, so he took that off, too. He didn’t like this cloak-and-dagger shit but agreed with Irina
that continuing to stay at the Hyatt was like walking around with a bull’s-eye on his back. He could easily be tracked through his credit cards, so he
couldn’t use those either.
Flopping down on the bed, he stuffed a couple of pillows behind his head. He snatched a glass ashtray off the nightstand and set it on his stomach.
Then he took another deep drag. He didn’t plan to stay in the room for more than a few minutes, but he needed those few minutes to calm down.
As he blew a stream of smoke into the air, his thoughts turned grimly to his current problems. There was no arguing with probability. Based on the fact
that Dial’s house was tossed, as was the gallery, Dial’s and Morgana Beck’s murders had likely been the work of the same person, for the same reason.
He and Irina had been lucky so far, but counting on luck was a fool’s errand.
All the way along, Chess had been so careful, taking things slowly, being as sure as humanly possible about each link in the chain that had brought the
bull into the United States. Caution had been the reason it had taken him so long to complete the job. Somewhere along the line, his defenses must have
been breached. As he saw it, he had several major hurdles to leap, any one of which could make his decision to return to Minnesota end in disaster.
First, he had to stay alive in order to sell the statue. Was that two problems? Staying alive seemed axiomatic, so he set that aside. He had to sell the
bull because he needed money. Through the gallery, Irina had access to some of the best connections in the country. The bull was in the United States,
and so was Chess; thus selling it here would provide the quickest return. Not necessarily the safest, but safety was a questionable commodity just about
anywhere these days. Irina, a woman who was eminently knowledgeable as well as romantically tractable, was his best hope to sell the bull fast.
If someone out there was after the bull, and Dial’s and Morgana Beck’s deaths were indeed connected, it appeared that nothing, not even murder, was
too high a price to pay to get the ancient statue back. Poor Morgana had probably spent the last few moments of her life insisting that she knew nothing
about it. Perhaps the murders had been committed by the much-talked-about foreign triumvirate hunting down looters from the Baghdad Museum. If
Chess had to place a bet, he’d bet on them. Which led to another hurdle.
Irina was every bit as much of a target as her mother, or Dial, or Chess himself—but while Chess had found a place to hide, Irina was living in the open.
How did he keep her safe? Should he urge her to go move out of her house? Find a hole to crawl in? If what she’d told him was true, her marriage was
over, but hiding out with a baby in tow would be problematic. This, clearly, required more thought.
Another hurdle was the idiot blackmailer who seemed to think Chess had killed Dial. He had some ideas on how to handle that. He would follow through
on them just as soon as he bought himself a set of wheels. That led to problem four. Money. Normally, it was problem one through ten.
Until he received the new fake passport, credit cards, and driver’s license from the forger in New Jersey, all he had to live on was the cash and
traveler’s checks he’d brought with him. Subtracting what he’d spent last night on clothing, a shaving kit, a new suitcase, dinner, and cab fare, it came to
about seventeen hundred dollars. Fortunately, he had an ace in the hole. He’d taken Dial’s wallet, which had netted him just under two thousand dollars.
Also, he still had a key to Dial’s house. If he was able to screw up the courage to go back, he might be able to locate the PIN numbers for one or more of
the old man’s credit cards. That would give him unlimited access to Dial’s credit for at least a couple of days.
The first order of business was to find a used car lot that sold wrecks for cash. On the way to the hotel, he’d spotted one on Lake Street south of
Lyndale.
For the next few minutes, Chess repacked his suitcase. He lit another smoke as he worked to fold everything neatly inside. His laptop, as well as some
ancient coins, a few rings, and two Babylonian cylinder seals, also stolen from the museum in Iraq, were what had driven him to take the risk of coming
back to the hotel. But now that he was here, he was glad to retrieve all his belongings.
One other item on Chess’s to-do list was to find a gift for Jane’s father. Last night, as Jane was helping him make up the bed in the third-floor
apartment, she had invited him to tonight’s party. She’d been so helpful, so concerned that Chess had everything he needed. She brought up fresh ground
coffee, making sure the coffeepot worked. She also stocked the cupboard with sugar, jam, bread, and a fifth of good bourbon. Into the refrigerator went
cream for his morning coffee, orange juice, eggs, butter, and a six-pack of beer. She tried out the air conditioner to make sure it would cool him should he
need it. He couldn’t remember when his heart had been so warmed. Rarely did anyone ever give him anything without expecting something in return. Jane
and Cordelia were both like that. They gave because they liked to give, and they liked him, for no other reason than friendship.
Chess was looking forward to the party. He needed a break from all the stress he’d been under, and he was curious to meet Jane’s friends and family.
The invitation, however, came with one proviso. Jane would introduce him as an old friend. The details of their true connection must remain hidden.
Chess had, of course, agreed. Still, the idea of making every jaw in the room drop was a tantalizing tableau.
“What should I get my father-in-law for his birthday?” whispered Chess.
He had so many trinkets. Then again, a quarter-million-dollar cylinder seal did seem a bit much.
10
Irina found a parking spot on Grand Avenue in front of the gallery but couldn’t bring herself to go in. She sat in her car and talked on her cell.
“Where are you?” she asked, resting her elbow on the open window and leaning her head against her hand.
“Eating breakfast in a café just down the street from the Hyatt,” said Chess.
In the background, she could hear voices, laughter. “I thought you weren’t going back there.”
“I had to. But don’t worry. Nobody recognized me. I used to do a lot of theater, so I’m good at disguise. Now, tell me everything that happened yesterday
after I took off. Don’t leave anything out.”
The yellow and black crime scene tape crisscrossing the front and back doors of the gallery was an image that would stay with Irina for the rest of her
life. Because the police search of the main floor was complete, Irina had been given permission to start the cleanup, but the second floor was off-limits.
The gallery was to remain closed to the public until the detective in charge of the case was satisfied the scene had yielded up all its secrets.
“You talked to the police, right?” said Chess. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there with you.”
Irina had watched stoically as her mother’s body had been zipped into a body bag and removed from the building to a waiting van. After the medical
examiner left, she’d been interrogated by a middle-aged homicide cop, Kevin Lathrup. She tried to get through it, but the longer they talked, the more
frantic she became.
“The whole thing was brutal,” she said, covering her eyes. “I couldn’t tell them the truth, that Mom was killed because of me.”
“Stop saying that. We don’t know what happened.”
A cavernous pit of guilt had cracked open beneath her. “I can’t seem to catch my breath.”
“Just take it easy.”
“I need you.”
“I know, baby, but you’ve got to be strong. We can’t be seen together.”
Forcing herself to sit up straight, she looked across the street, mesmerized by the sight of a woman pushing a toddler in a stroller.
“Irina?”
“What?”
“Tell me more about what happened yesterday.”
She closed her eyes. “The cop called my husband to come pick me up. Guess he thought I was too upset to drive.”
“Did you tell your sister about—”
“She was babysitting at the house. God, I wanted a glass of wine so badly, but I couldn’t, not in front of her.”
“How did she take it?”
“With amazing stoicism.”
“Is she always pretty stoic?”
“Mom and Misty weren’t close.” Irina gazed up at the second-floor turret, her mother’s office. “I invited her to spend the night. I didn’t think she should be
alone. Steve didn’t have the guts to act annoyed, not after what had just happened, but he was. He called a friend and then left. He said he wanted to go
bring my car back home.”
“At least that showed some concern.”
“Concern, yeah. That’s Steve.” The anger she felt toward her husband centered her, made her feel more in control. It was only momentary. “I’m a mess.”
“No you’re not,” said Chess. “You’re just grieving. It’s natural. Don’t be so hard on yourself. What are your plans for the day?”
“I’m sitting outside the gallery. I had to come. I don’t know what I’m going to do once I get inside, I just had to get out of the house. Can’t we find
someplace safe, where we can see each other?”
“Let me think about it. I’ll call you later in the day. Everything’s going to be all right, Irina. Just keep repeating that. I know this may seem crass, but you
could use some of your free time to start calling your business contacts. The sooner we sell the bull, the sooner we can be together.”
“I’ve started making a list.”
“If there’s any way I can help, let me know.”
She remained in her car for a few more minutes, summoning up her courage, wondering how this would all turn out. Before leaving the house, she’d
done something rash. She’d taken Steve’s key ring and had gone into his locked gun cabinet, removing one of the pistols. A few years back, he’d shown
her how to remove the clip, how to hold it with both hands when she fired, how to position her feet. He wanted to take her to a firing range, teach her to
shoot, but she refused. Guns were ugly and heavy and dangerous. Guns and violence were his life, not hers. Now she wished she’d learned.
She’d looked the gun over, practiced dropping the clip into her palm, pressing it back into the handle. Steve always kept his guns loaded, but she had
to make sure. When she left the house, the pistol was hidden in her purse, where it would remain. Walking up the steps to the front door of the gallery, she
wondered if she’d ever feel safe again.
The sign in the window said CLOSED.
It struck her for the first time that she was now the owner. According to her mother’s living trust, Misty would get a cash settlement, but the gallery was
hers. Perhaps she and Chess could run it together. Why not? They could continue to travel. Chess would never be happy living in one place. They could
spend part of the year in Istanbul and the rest of the time in Minnesota. She would fire Majid and hire someone new to manage the place. She was getting
ahead of herself and knew it. Chess said he loved her, but that didn’t mean he wanted to get married, or spend the rest of his life with her. Still, she
needed a way out of her present nightmare, even if it was only in her mind.
Pressing the key into the front lock, Irina felt tears well again. She stood up straight, squared her shoulders, and went inside.
Across the room, Majid sat perched on a stool behind the main counter, staring into space. “Hi,” he said, so softly she almost missed it. The only part of
him that moved as she walked toward him was his eyes. They followed her, his face expressionless.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, setting her purse next to the cash register. “You got my phone message?”
He didn’t respond.
“Majid?”
“I got it,” he said, lifting a mug of tea to his lips.
“That’s all you’ve got to say?” For just an instant, his eyes seemed to challenge her. She’d never seen him behave like that before. Then again, she
supposed everybody dealt with death differently.
She hadn’t been able to reach him last night. She felt bad not being able to tell him what had happened to her mother in person, but didn’t want him to
hear about it on the nightly news. She finally decided to leave a message on his answering machine. He hadn’t called back, as she’d expected he would.
Twisting the mug around in his hands, he said, “I’m sorry, Irina. She was a special woman.”
The offer of sympathy threatened her hard-won composure. “Thanks,” she said, opening her purse and removing a tissue.
With his coffee-colored skin, long dark lashes, and thick black hair, Majid looked more Iranian than American, although his accent was pure Texan.
“I own the gallery now,” she said.
Contempt rose in his eyes. He’d never allowed himself to show it so clearly before. Aiming his hard gaze out the front windows, he said, “Do the police
have any idea who did it?”
“Not yet.”
“I have a theory.”
A shiver ran down her back. “You do?”
“Somebody was obviously looking for something. A cop came to my apartment this morning, wanted to ask me some questions. I told him I thought it
was a robbery gone bad. The killer had to be looking for one of two things: either an artifact worth a whole hell of a lot, or something with deep historical
significance.”
“That’s all we sell,” she said irritably.
“No, you’re missing my point. I think we might have bought something illegal. Those artifacts stolen from the Baghdad Museum are all antiquities
dealers are talking about these days.”
“Don’t you think you’re overstating it just a bit?”
“No.”
She moved to the end of the counter, her body vibrating like an idling car. Was it just a wild guess, or did he know more than he was letting on?
“You’ve heard about that cabal, right? The ones going around shooting people up like cowboys in white hats, searching for what rightfully belongs to the
Iraqi people.”
“I don’t think that’s for real. It just makes a good story.”
“No, it’s real. Those folks are on a mission. My uncle in Espahan wrote to me about them.”
Majid had spent a month in Espahan, the town in central Iran where his uncle lived, two summers ago. When he returned, Irina had detected a subtle
difference in him. He seemed more sensitive about political issues, and he was even more dismissive than usual of her opinions and suggestions
regarding the gallery. Never, of course, around her mom. He was too clever for that. She’d mentioned the change to her mom once, but Morgana had
simply brushed it off, saying it was just Irina’s imagination.
“The cop wanted to know where I was on Wednesday night. Me. As if I had anything to do with Morgana’s death.”
“Where were you?”
He turned to look at her. “At home. Studying. You knew I’m learning to speak Farsi, right?”
“Were you alone?”
“Of course I was alone.”
Irina spied a pair of mirrored aviator shades resting on the far side of the cash register. She nodded to them and said, “Are those yours?”
He picked them up, looked them over. “Never seen them before.”
They looked exactly like the ones Steve wore, but since he refused to set foot in the gallery, they had to belong to a customer, or one of the police
officers. The style wasn’t all that unusual.
“How long before the cops will allow us to open up?”
She found the remark insensitive. “I have no idea.” She had the urge to tell him right then and there that he was fired, but reason prevailed. She needed
his help to reorganize the displays and to get an idea of how much they’d lost.
“Do you want me to stick around?” he asked, his voice quiet, his tone flat.
“No need.”
“Then I’ll take off. Call me when you want to start the cleanup.”
He stopped when he got to the front door and turned to face her. “You may not believe this when all is said and done, but I’m not your enemy, Irina. I
never meant you any harm.”
She found the comment unsettling. Standing rigidly behind the counter, she held her breath until the front door clicked softly behind him and he was
gone.
11
Hattie slumped at the kitchen table, scowling at her tuna sandwich.
“Eat up,” said Jane. “Yum yum.”
“It doesn’t taste right,” grumbled Hattie. She picked at the crust, eyeing Jane with a lugubrious stare.
“What’s wrong with it?” hollered Cordelia from the other room.
Just after eleven, Cordelia had phoned Jane and pleaded with her to come to her downtown loft, saying she’d been called unexpectedly to the theater
and didn’t have a babysitter for Hattie. Hattie’s nannie, Cecily Finch, had announced just a month after Hattie’s return that she and her latest boyfriend,
Clyde, were leaving for Europe. After all this time, Cordelia still hadn’t hired a new nanny. She was understandably picky. By relying on Mel, Jane, a
couple of theater friends, and preschool three days a week, she’d been able to make it work.
“It tastes bad.” Hattie’s lower lip cranked out a good inch.
“What tastes bad, Peaches?” asked Cordelia, sailing into the room as she applied her lipstick.
“The stuff in the center.”
Out of the side of her mouth, Cordelia whispered to Jane, “What did you put in it?”
“The usual. Tuna. Mayo. Celery.”
“Ah, I see the problem.”
“And that would be?”
“Capers and cornichons. They are a tuna salad essential in this loft.” Running her hand through the little girl’s golden tresses, she asked, “What kind of
capers should we put in today?”
“What kind?” repeated Jane. “A five-year-old can tell the difference between one caper and another?”
“Hattie is a connoisseur.”
“I am,” agreed Hattie.
Jane forced a wan smile.
“So remix it,” said Cordelia. She disappeared up a short stairway into her loft-within-a-loft bedroom.
“I want the capers with the salt. The me-ter–rian kind.”
“Mediterranean.”
“Yah.”
Jane remixed the batch while eating the first sandwich. She prepared the second and then set the plate down in front of the unsmiling little girl.
“I’m not hungry,” announced Hattie.
“Eat.” There was a reason why Jane didn’t have kids.
“No, thank you.” Hattie had impeccable manners. Cordelia insisted on it. Climbing down from her chair, she bounced out of the room.
Jane followed her into the living room, plate in hand.
Right after Hattie’s return, Cordelia had divested herself of all the Swedish modern furniture she’d bought at IKEA in favor of Oriental decor. The fortyby-
eighty-foot loft was currently awash in early Ming—or whatever. Painted Chinese cabinets and accent chests, Chinese ceramic pots, blue and white
china lamps, “Imperial Court” living room furniture, black lacquer chairs with dragon motifs, silk pillows, oodles of meditating buddhas and hand-painted
wall hangings. The walls, those that weren’t brick or glass, had been repainted fire-engine red, gold, or black. It was definitely not feng shui. In Cordelia’s
opinion, feng shui was so over.
Cordelia appeared a few moments later in gray dress slacks and a blue silk mandarin jacket with a stand-up collar, frog buttons, and a big black
happiness icon embroidered on the back.
“Chess reappeared at my door last night,” said Jane, fingering the ring he’d given her. “He asked to stay in the third-floor rental—just for a few days.
He’s in town on business.”
“Maybe we can do dinner before he leaves.”
“Something weird happened, though,” said Jane, wondering if she should eat Hattie’s second sandwich. It was a shame to let it go to waste. Was this
how parents of small children put on weight? “While I was getting dressed this morning, I saw him walk out to the curb and get in a cab. I would never have
recognized him if I hadn’t heard him come down the outside stairs. He had on so many clothes that he looked fifty pounds heavier, and he was wearing a
gray wig and a cap and carrying a cane.”
Cordelia stopped her forward progress into the room, turned around, and cocked her head. “If it’s some new kind of drag, I’d know about it. So there’s
got to be another reason.”
“He’s still in the closet.”
“No way.”
“It’s true. Did I make a mistake letting him stay?” She picked up one of the sandwich halves, nibbled at the tip.
“Nah,” said Cordelia. “There’s no harm in a little dress-up. Did Hattie eat anything?”
“Nothing,” said Jane, dropping the sandwich back on the plate. Waste or no waste, she didn’t need two tuna sandwiches in her stomach.
“No dessert,” cried Cordelia as she boogied over to a solid wall of small factory windows.
Hattie glanced up at Jane with an impish we’ll-see-about-that look in her eyes.
Cordelia cranked open one of the small panes and called, “Mel, my dove. Talk to me.”
Mel’s head popped through a window in the loft across the street. “Yes, my sweet?”
“I’m leaving now. Jane is taking Hattie for the afternoon. We’ll all rendezvous at Jane’s house tonight at six. Party to start at seven. Guys ties, girls
pearls.”
“I’ll be there,” called Mel. “Love you.”
“Ditto.”
Jane couldn’t believe they were still communicating by shouting out the window. It must appeal to some weird desire to explore the various possibilities
of urban connection.
Twirling around, Cordelia said, “Now. Hattie, I have your backpack all ready to go. You have every stuffed animal you might possibly miss while you’re
away. Every piece of pink or black clothing you might require should you soil something you’re already wearing. Several books. Your harmonica. Janey
will take you to the Lyme House. Should you become hungry for anything remotely resembling food, a vegetable, a protein, or—”
“A fruit,” said Hattie, finishing the oft-quoted sentence as she lay on the floor paging absently through a picture book.
“That’s right. Only then can you avail yourself of the mouthwatering delights a five-star restaurant has to offer.”
“It’s not quite five-star,” said Jane, flicking a tiny piece of cornichon off the front of her jeans jacket.
“Close enough.” She adjusted the chopsticks holding up her mound of auburn curls as she proceeded to the door. “I will swing by the mother ship later
today on my way to your place, Janey, and pick up our duds for the evening.”
“The mother ship” was Cordelia’s current name for her loft.
“Look,” cried Hattie. She whipped her head around, pointed a finger in the air, then pointed it down at the floor. “A bug!”
Jane found it hilarious that Cordelia, a woman who loathed every form, every incarnation of creepy crawly critter, had a child inordinately fascinated by
them. Cordelia had worked hard to make sure Hattie was grounded in all the arts—film, theater, music, dance, children’s literature, fine arts, even some
crafts; Hattie particularly liked Shrinky Dinks—but nothing compared to her interest in bugs, much to Cordelia’s utter and continuing bewilderment.
“It’s just a phase,” said Cordelia.
“You hope,” said Jane.
“Trust me. She’s a Thorn. Thorns and bugs don’t mix.”
Jane held out her hand to the little girl. “Are we ready?”
Hattie scrambled to her feet and ran to her, hugging her legs. Jane smoothed the hair away from her face. She adored the kid, even if she did frustrate
the hell out of her sometimes.
“Onward and upward,” said Cordelia, thrusting the backpack at Jane. Like the good drum majorette she’d never been, she led the marching band of
three out the door.
* * *
When it became clear that Jane would be expected to take part in babysitting Hattie, she sent away for something she hoped would engage the little girl,
captivating her attention so that Jane could get on with some of her work. In her wildest dreams, she never imagined that Hattie would become spellbound
almost to the point of inertia.
As soon as they arrived at the Lyme House, Hattie skipped down the basement hall to Jane’s office. She waited impatiently, twisting her blond curls
around her fingers, doing her special excited dance, sighing loudly, until Jane pushed back the door and turned on the light. Then, scooting as fast as her
little legs would carry her, Hattie dragged a chair over to a small table Jane had set up in the corner.
The object of Hattie’s adoration was an ant farm. Not just any ant farm. This one was a giant gel habitat. The translucent blue gel contained, according
to the box the farm came in, all the nutrition and water the ants needed. Developed from a NASA experiment to study animal life in space, the gel ant farm
had received a Teachers’ Choice Award in 2006. It received the Hattie Thorn-Lester Award two months ago—a much more prestigious prize, in Hattie’s
humble opinion.
Jane had sent away for the ants. Her first inclination was to simply go outside and find a few, but the guidebook warned against it. Apparently, if the
ants didn’t come from the same colony, and especially if the ants differed in size, fighting would ensue. An all-out ant war, while it might be interesting to
watch, wasn’t what Jane had in mind. When the ants arrived in the mail—large, black, mean-looking critters—she and Hattie poked little holes into the gel.
In rapt silence, they watched the ants burrow shafts. It was impossible to shelter the little girl from existential matters in the ant colony, so Jane didn’t try.
Amazingly, worker ants carried their deceased brethren to the top for easy cleanup. Hattie insisted that she be allowed to bury each ant in the flowerpot
Jane had set next to the table for just such a purpose. It was always a very solemn moment when Hattie discovered a lifeless body. She insisted on a
graveside service. Jane said a few words; Hattie patted the dead ant and then gently brushed some dirt over it.
The ant farm was better than a video game, better than a picture book or a playground, or even a hot fudge sundae. Hattie would sit for hours,
transfixed, talking to them, encouraging them, singing to them, but mostly bossing them. Sometimes she would lose patience when they didn’t listen to
her. Jane tried to help Hattie understand that the ants didn’t speak or understand language, but Hattie insisted Jane was wrong. They were talking. They
just had very tiny voices. As Cordelia would undoubtedly say, for good or ill, Even ants should obey a true Thorn.
Jane worked until just after three, making progress on a project that had been on her desk for several weeks. In the current economy, the restaurant was
doing a much bigger business in appetizers. Instead of ordering a full meal, people would choose an appetizer, a glass of wine, and, if they were feeling
flush, maybe a dessert. Thus, the appetizer menu was in the process of being revised and expanded. Jane had worked up a special trial menu. For a
fixed price, a couple would get three appetizers to share, a bottle of wine, a basket of fresh bread, and one dessert. They’d tested it out last weekend,
and it was a hit. Now that she’d made a decision about driving up to the lodge, she had to sign off on the new menu before she left. The new offerings had
to be costed out, keeping a specific price point in mind. It was tedious work. Leaning back, she stretched her arms over her head and looked over at
Hattie, “Hey, sweetie. I think it’s time to head back to my house.”
Hattie was no longer sitting but standing on the chair. “This ant is dopey. He thinks he can get out. I pushed him back in the goo.”
“That’s good.”
“Yah. I took care of it.”
“Want to go feed the ducks?” This was Jane’s only hope for prying Hattie away from the farm.
Her eyes lit up. “Yes!”
On their way out, they stopped in the kitchen for a sack of stale bread. Hattie hugged it to her chest as they made their way down the steps to the lake
walk. The best feeding spot was a sandy patch a few hundred yards from the restaurant. As usual, Hattie dawdled, watching the ground for potential bug
activity.
When they finally reached the log where Jane liked to sit, Hattie cried, “Look, baby duckies!”
Jane opened the sack and handed her a croissant. “Remember, small pieces.”
“I know.”
Hattie always approached the ducks with infinite care, talking softly to them, telling them she loved them. She would holler at kids who rushed at them,
forcing them to fly away. Thankfully, they were alone on the beach today.
As Jane made herself comfortable, she assembled a mental list of everything she needed to do before the party tonight. Cordelia still hadn’t received
an RSVP from Peter. Maybe he thought, because he was family, that he didn’t need to call.
Hattie rushed up to her. “More bread.”
“Are you having fun?”
“I love duckies.”
“I know you do, sweetheart, but we can’t stay much longer.”
“Five more minutes?”
Hattie had no idea how long five minutes was. “Yes, five more minutes.”
She crept back to the shoreline, holding out a piece of baguette to a goose.
“Be careful,” called Jane. Geese, in her opinion, were nasty critters. “Just toss the bread on the ground.” Hattie didn’t have much natural fear of animals.
Oddly enough, the animals, birds, whatever, seemed to sense her benevolence and responded in kind. The goose stretched out her neck and nibbled the
piece of bread away from Hattie’s fingers.
“That kid’s got a way with animals,” came a man’s voice. When Jane turned to see who had spoken, she immediately recognized the face but couldn’t
place it. Then it hit her.
“You’re the preacher.”
She hadn’t recognized him at first because he wasn’t wearing his cowl. He had on normal clothes—a light blue polo shirt untucked over a pair of white
painter pants. While he had seemed stocky, even a bit fat, in his monk’s attire, she could see now that it was all muscle.
He opened a sack of Wonder Bread and took out a slice. “She’s a beautiful kid.”
“Thanks,” said Jane, adjusting her sunglasses.
“Different hair color, but she looks just like you.”
Hattie didn’t look a thing like her, not that Jane was about to discuss Hattie with a stranger.
The man stepped up to the edge of the water. He tore his bread into quarters and tossed them, making a clicking sound with his tongue. He kept a
good distance from Hattie but glanced at her a couple of times and smiled.
“There’s that asshole minister,” called a boy’s voice.
Two teenagers, one in a red tank top and baggy jeans, the other in a baggy black T-shirt and even baggier jeans, had stopped on the walking path.
“My dad thinks you’re a freak,” called the boy in the tank top.
“The devil,” said the one wearing the T-shirt.
Jane watched in horror as the kid in the T-shirt picked up a rock and heaved it at the preacher. “Stop it,” she yelled, rushing for Hattie and whisking her
into her arms.
“What the hell?” called the preacher. He turned and lunged at the boys.
As they took off running, the kid in the tank top scooped up another rock and threw it, this time connecting. The preacher went down, holding his head
and groaning.
Hattie pointed at the preacher and began to cry.
“It’s okay, baby,” said Jane, kissing her, holding her tight. “I won’t let anybody hurt you.”
Jane waited, shielding Hattie, until the kids were out of sight. Then, hurrying over to the man, she crouched down, still holding Hattie in her arms. “Are
you okay?” she asked.
He lifted the hand from his face, revealing a gash less than an inch away from his right eye.
“That kid could have blinded you,” said Jane.
Spitting sand out of his mouth, the preacher said, “If I ever see those two little turds again, they’re toast.” He took out a handkerchief and pressed it to
the wound.
The words didn’t sound very preacherlike. “You need to get to a hospital, have that looked at.”
“Nah, I’m okay.”
“If you need a ride—”
“I’ve got a car.”
“I wish I had a car,” said Hattie coyly, playing with a button on Jane’s shirt.
“You do?” The preacher rolled over, pulling himself to a sitting position. “Where would you drive it?”
“China. To see the panda bears.”
Jane and the man exchanged amused glances.
“I have a first aid kit,” announced Hattie, poking Jane in the chest. “It’s in my backpack.”
“Really?” said the preacher, eyeing her with growing amusement.
“You can use it for your owie.”
“That might not be a bad idea,” said Jane.
They all moved back to the log, Hattie talking in a long stream about an owie she got on her elbow once.
“That must have hurt,” said the preacher.
“I cried and cried. I almost died.”
“Did you?”
“Uh-huh.” Hattie scrambled out of Jane’s arms.
Jane found the first aid kit in a side pocket. She grabbed a few antiseptic towelettes and an antibiotic cream and handed them over.
“You’ve both been a big help,” said the preacher, wincing as he applied the towelettes. “What’s your name, little one?”
“Hattie.”
“My name is Lee. I’m very pleased to meet you.”
Hattie lowered her eyes, glancing up at him shyly. “Yah.”
Jane didn’t know if it was a first name or a last name. Whatever the case, Lee had a broad face, a gap between his front teeth, a strong, sturdy body,
and hands the size of center cut pork loins.
After he finished applying the antibiotic cream, Jane handed him an adhesive bandage.
“All better,” said Jane, grinning at Hattie.
“Can I feed the duckies more bread?”
“Just for another minute.”
Jane dug around inside the sack and came up with a couple of dinner rolls.
“I could fucking kill those little dirtballs,” seethed Lee under his breath as soon as Hattie had scampered off.
“Are you a minister?”
“Me? Hell, no.”
“But I thought—”
“Nah. I used to be a cop down in Chicago—until I had a little disagreement with my sergeant. I’d always been interested in religion, so I spent a year in
seminary, thought maybe I should become a minister. Found out it wasn’t for me. That’s when I took a job working as a security consultant in Atlanta,
worked there for ten years. Finally quit last March.”
“So now you go around wearing a monk’s cowl and preaching from books that never made it into the Bible?”
“The cowl’s just for show. It helps me get people’s attention. And no, I’m not really preaching. Just reading. I’ve been traveling around for the past few
months. I guess you could say I’m looking for a place to call home—and while I’m looking, I’m having a little fun. You religious?”
Jane took off her sunglasses and began to clean them with her shirttail. “Not really.”
“Believe in God?”
“Yeah, some kind of god. What about you?” It was a crazy question. Of course he believed in God.
He glanced up as two ducks soared over the trees and skidded into the water right in front of them. “John Lennon once said that God was a concept by
which we measure our pain. I think he was dead-on. Our pain, our guilt, and our fear.”
“So why go around talking about the Bible?”
He shrugged. “People are too complacent. They don’t really give their beliefs much critical thought. They need some shaking up. And hell, I love to
argue religion.”
Jane slipped her sunglasses back on. “Then you’re in the right country.” It was a one-liner worthy of David Caruso on CSI: Miami. “Listen, would you
consider doing me a favor? If you’re planning on any more biblical street theater, could you take it someplace other than right under the deck of my
restaurant?”
He looked back at the log building rising above the trees. “You own that place?”
“I do.”
“The food is incredible. I had the pan-roasted pheasant the other night, the one with pine nuts and caramelized orange. It came with this great polenta.
Oh, and the pub burgers are terrific.”
“If you like the place, then take pity on me. Your sermons—and your audience—aren’t exactly good for business.”
He touched the bandage on his face. “Point taken. I’ll move over by the grandstand. Or maybe I’ll go back to Lake Phalen. I liked it over there.”
“Hattie,” called Jane. “It’s time to go.”
“One more minute?” Hattie called back, holding up a finger.
“Okay,” said Jane. “One.”
“Since we’ve got one more minute,” said Lee, smiling at the little girl, “there’s something you should know. You’ve got a couple guys watching your
restaurant. I’ve seen them around for the past three days. I don’t know if they’re casing the place, hoping to find a way to break in, or if they’re staking it out
for another reason. Anyway, you should be aware of them.”
Jane was thrown. She hadn’t noticed anyone.
“Like I said, I have a lot of experience in private security. It’s second nature for me to notice stuff like that. Just a word to the wise.”
“Could you describe the men to me?”
He sat forward, picked up a pebble, and tossed it from one hand to the other. “Let’s see. One is big, maybe six-three, always wears a baseball cap—I
assume to hide his red hair. Midthirties. The other one is shorter and thin, long dirty blond hair. He sometimes wears it pulled back into a ponytail.
Midtwenties. Most of the time he’s out in the parking lot sitting in a Jeep, keeping an eye on both entrances. I’ve seen the other guy in the bar a couple of
times, chatting up the bartender.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Maybe you have an enemy. Or, like I said, they could be casing the place, looking for a way in. Have you had any drug problems?”
She raked her hair away from her face and held it, turning his words over in her mind. “Only once that I know of, but that was a while ago. I suppose I’d
better call the police.”
“Won’t do you any good. These guys haven’t done anything wrong. The cops would just brush it off.”
“Then—”
“It was me, I’d buy myself my own security. Do you have a guard?”
“Never thought I needed one.”
“I’d offer to do it myself, but they’ve seen me a couple of times. Of course, they’ve probably pegged me as a preacher, just the way you did, which could
be an advantage—or not. Hard call. If you like, I can recommend the names of some private security firms in the area. They won’t come cheap.”
“I’ll have to think about it.”
“Don’t wait too long. You and your little girl, you’ve been nice to me. I don’t forget things like that. Watch out for those two. They’re up to no good, you
can count on it.”
12
Chess drove past Dial’s house that afternoon in the new used ratty and rusted ’93 Cadillac Eldorado Sport Coupe he’d just bought. The tacky gold paint
on the exterior was bad enough, but the interior, though in reasonably good shape, was a deeply humiliating fire-engine red. He’d dickered over a betterlooking
’91 Ford Bronco, but because it had two hundred and twenty thousand miles on it and was five hundred dollars more, he’d opted to deal with his
humiliation and buy the pimp-mobile.
Sailing past Dial’s place, he discovered another problem he hadn’t anticipated, although he should have. The mail was piling up in the box to the right
of the front door, spilling onto the steps, where a couple of packages had been stacked up behind two tightly rolled newspapers. It wouldn’t be long before
the neighbors became suspicious and called the cops—if they hadn’t already.
Chess sped down the block, turned the corner, and parked in the shade of an oak. The door creaked and grated as he pushed it open with his foot.
When he slammed it shut, he held his breath, waiting for one of the bumpers to fall off.
“Piece of crap,” he muttered, heading for the alley. He would approach Dial’s house from the rear, enter the yard through the back gate. Once again, the
privacy fence would save his ass. All would be fine if he could just make it inside without being seen.
Guitar riffs from Bachman-Turner Overdrive’s “Takin’ Care of Business” kept repeating inside his head like a skip in an old vinyl record. It was pure,
unadulterated rock and roll, perfect for the occasion.
As he hurried up to the garage directly behind Dial’s, a voice called, “Thanks, Jer. I’ll bring it back in the morning.” A bald man carrying a post-hole
digger emerged into the alley. For just an instant, Chess wondered if he could duck behind something—a garbage can, a hedge—but the man turned and
smiled.
“Hi.”
“Ah, hi,” said Chess. It was the neighbor, the one who’d caught Chess leaving Dial’s house. In fact, this was just the man Chess had come to see,
although this wasn’t the way he’d pictured the encounter.
“Hey, you’re that guy I saw coming out of Melvin’s door the other morning.”
Should he deny it? Didn’t seem likely to work. “Yeah, that was me.”
“I’ve been wondering,” said the man, setting the post-hole digger down. “Has Melvin gone somewhere?”
“London.” He studied the guy’s reaction, evaluating every shift, every fluctuation or variation in his body language, hoping he would give something
away. Was he Ed the fucking Blackmailer or wasn’t he? “He’ll be gone about a month.”
Adjusting his shades, the guy stepped a few paces closer. “Really? He usually tells me when he’s planning a trip. I water the plants, pick up the mail.”
So the guy did have a key to the house. Bingo. “You’re Ed, right?”
“Ed? No, the name’s Glenn. Glenn Smith.”
“Then who’s Ed?” asked Chess.
The man thought about it, shook his head. “I don’t know any Ed.”
“No?” He let the question hang in the air. Sometimes silence worked better than an outright demand to push an opponent off balance.
“Look, I’m just concerned. The mail is piling up outside on the front steps. That’s a dead giveaway that the house is empty. Somebody might see it and
try to break in.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“Because I’d be happy to do it. You know. Like I said. Pick up the mail, water the plants.”
“Melvin asked me to handle it this time.”
Glenn gave him an appraising look. “You one of his antique dealer friends?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“I don’t know. Just guessing. He buys a lot of strange stuff. But then, if you’re his friend, you’d know that.”
“You think I’m lying to you?”
“No, no. Just making conversation.”
“Come on, let’s not quibble about names. We both know you wrote the note.”
“What note?”
Confusion was a simple attitude to fake. “Don’t make this difficult.”
Glenn pulled the post-hole digger in front of him.
Another gesture that was easy to read. He was attempting to put something solid between them, something threatening.
“I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” insisted Glenn.
“You’re sure?”
“Look—” The neighbor glanced over his shoulder. “I think there’s been some kind of a mix-up here. You’ve got me confused with someone else. I’m not
Ed, I’m Glenn. I lost my job fourteen months ago, so I’ve got nothing but time on my hands right now, and I like to think of myself as a good neighbor.
That’s why I offered to help Melvin out with the mail and his plants. I’ve done it four or five times. It was his idea to pay me, not mine. He knows how tight
things have been for me and my wife. If he asked you to take care of the house this time, then fine. Whatever.”
The guy needed money—interesting—and if he was the blackmailer, he was just the kind of novice Chess had pictured. Still, it wouldn’t be smart to
push him, and if he wasn’t Ed, Chess would be giving away information best kept private. “I think we understand each other.” The comment was vague
enough to obscure the real meaning.
“Yeah. I think so. But just to be sure—you’ll be taking care of Melvin’s place while he’s gone, right? You’ll take in the mail?”
“Absolutely.” While he was at it, he would look around for those credit card PIN numbers. Once he was done, he’d drive to the nearest post office and
get the mail stopped.
“Do you have a name?” asked the neighbor. “A phone number where I could reach you if something comes up?”
“Like what?” asked Chess.
“I don’t know. If smoke starts coming out one of the windows.”
“If that happens, call the fire department.”
“But you know what I mean. Something unforeseen.”
“My number’s unlisted. Sorry.”
“Right,” said Glenn. “Right.”
“You betcha,” said Chess.
It seemed obligatory to say that phrase at least once while in Minnesota.
13
The oak tree in Jane’s backyard caught the last orange rays of the evening sun. As she sat on a teak bench, sipping from a glass of pinotage, she
reminisced with one of the first guests to arrive at the birthday party, a woman who had worked on her dad’s gubernatorial campaign last fall, and in the
process become a friend. Above their heads, paper-thin yellow and black Chinese lanterns glowed in the deepening twilight. If Jane had been allowed to
put in an order with the universe, she couldn’t have asked for a more perfect night.
“Hey, Janey,” called Mel from the porch door, waving the cordless phone. “It’s Nolan.”
She excused herself, cut across the grass, and went inside. Mel, looking festive in the jade green mandarin jacket Cordelia had bought her for the
occasion, handed over the phone, then hoisted Hattie into her arms and carried her off into the dining room. The kitchen was humming with activity, so
Jane retreated down the rear hall to her study and closed the door.
“Hi,” said Jane. “You got my message.”
After returning to the house with Hattie, Jane had given Nolan, her PI buddy, a call. She wanted to run the information Lee, the preacher, had given her
by him to see what he thought.
Nolan was a former homicide cop, a friend, who had invited her to apprentice with him. Over and over again, he insisted that she had great instincts
when it came to solving crimes, that she was a natural. He had a PI business that he wanted to pass on to her as a legacy, but before that could happen,
she would need to put in enough time to get her own investigative license. A year ago, she’d almost agreed to step away from the restaurants for a while
to work with him. That was back when she thought she could have her cake and eat it, too. She couldn’t, though. She had to make a choice. In an
economy like this, the restaurants had to come first. In fact, as far as she was concerned, she was done with “sleuthing,” as Cordelia called it, altogether.
“I’m on my way over to the Lyme House as we speak,” said Nolan. “I thought I’d see for myself what’s going on.”
“I owe you. Honestly, I’m not sure how upset to be about these two guys.”
“Depends on what they’re after. Anything unusual going on that I should know about?”
“Can’t think of a thing.”
“I’ll call you later, let you know what I find.”
“But you’re coming to the party, right? We can talk when you get here.”
“Fine, but I expect your help on this one.”
“Nolan, I can’t.”
“What do you mean you can’t?”
“Let me hire you. I’ll pay you your going rate.”
“That’s crazy. This is another chance for me to teach you.”
“I’m too busy right now.” It was true, and it was a lie. She had to bite the bullet, tell him she’d made a decision, but that conversation would require a
better venue than a birthday party. “We’ll talk.”
“Right.” He gave a disgusted grunt and rang off.
Jane heard a burst of laughter and clapping. Confident that it heralded the arrival of her father, she left the room and headed for the front hall. Sure
enough, her dad, accompanied by his girlfriend, Elizabeth Piper, were receiving a warm greeting from the crowd. For the first time in over a year, her dad
looked rested. He and Elizabeth had just returned from a monthlong vacation to Cape Cod.
After hugging them, Jane ushered them into the dining room, where her catering staff had set out the food on the long mahogany table. She’d made
sure all her dad’s favorites were on order: chicken and beef satay with a spicy peanut sauce; tiny French tomato tarts with gruyère, Dijon mustard, and
fresh basil; several whole charred beef tenderloin filets, sliced thin and served with horseradish sauce; crab cakes with roasted corn and bacon; and a
particular favorite, traditional Southern-style buttermilk biscuits, hot from the oven, resting next to a chafing dish full of sausage gravy. In the backyard,
several charcoal grills had been fired up and were churning out miniature pizzas, another front-runner for her dad’s favorite appetizer.
“There’s a bar in the back porch,” said Jane, this time just to Elizabeth. Within the space of a few seconds, her dad had been drawn into a heated
conversation with a couple of his golf buddies. “We’ve got a special petit verdot, a wonderful pinotage, soft drinks, sparkling water, but mostly we’re
pushing the champagne.”
“My mouth is watering.” She picked up an empty plate and got in line. “The house looks wonderful, and so do you. That tux fits you like a glove.”
“I have them specially made.”
“Because you wear them at your nightclub. Yes, I know.” She selected a couple of the tomato tarts and then stepped away from the table. “That huge
Happy Birthday sign out front really touched your father. He was tickled to death that you and Peter wanted to throw him this party.”
Jane wasn’t sure where they got the idea that Peter had anything to do with tonight’s celebration. Not that she intended to clarify. “I’m glad. I want this to
be a special night for him.”
“He’s got terrific kids, that’s for sure. I know he feels blessed.”
An hour later, as Jane was standing with Chess and Melanie in the backyard, finishing the last bite of a slice of grilled pizza, Cordelia opened the
screen door and waved to get her attention. In her orange sequined evening gown, she looked like a giant traffic cone.
“Peter,” she mouthed.
Jane excused herself and joined Cordelia in the kitchen, where she found the conversation much louder and mixed with blats of live music.
Cordelia had surprised everyone by hiring a small orchestra for the occasion, the same group Jane had heard practicing in the background a few days
before when they were talking on the phone. A tuba player, an oboist, a flutist, a saxophonist, a trumpet player, two trombonists, and an upright string bass
player had set up in the living room and were working their way through everything from classical gavottes to ragtime to klezmer dance tunes to an oddball
sort of New Orleans jazz. The group would never have been Jane’s first choice—or any choice at all—and yet they added a definite note of gaiety, if not
downright hilarity, to the gathering.
Following Cordelia into the front hall, Jane found Peter hanging Sigrid’s coat up in the front closet. Mia, their eleven-year-old daughter, stood with her
arms held stiffly at her sides, her eyes locked on the floor. Sigrid bent down. Talking slowly and deliberately, punctuating her words with hand signs
because Mia was deaf, she gave her some last-minute instructions. Mia didn’t smile or look around, just stood still, her expression solemn, too solemn for
a child her age. She’d lived in a mixed bag of foster homes for most of her young life. With Peter and Sigrid’s marriage on the rocks because of Peter’s
decision to find Mia, the child Sigrid had given up for adoption, it couldn’t be all that much easier for her even now.
Jane hadn’t seen or talked to her brother—or Sigrid, or Mia—since the first week in November, the night of the election, when they’d gathered together
with a crowd of staff and supporters in two hotel suites at the Maxfield Plaza in downtown St. Paul to wait for the results.
Mia had shot up at least an inch or two since then. The freckles that spread across her nose and cheeks, once so prominent, had faded. The fact that
Jane had missed all these changes stunned her. For the first time it truly penetrated how completely her brother had cut her out of his life. But as soon as
the thought engaged her, she realized there was something wrong with it.
Peter wasn’t the only one who had backed away. Jane was as guilty as he was. He’d never prevented her from contacting Mia, from developing a
relationship with her. Jane had allowed that to happen all by herself. The problems she had with Peter didn’t need to leak over onto Mia—but they had.
Jane had stopped calling or dropping by because she didn’t want to run into her brother. He’d changed—and not for the good. Jane wanted him to see
that his actions had consequences, not just for himself, but for others. Every time they got into it, though, he would turn the tables, try to convince her that
she was in the wrong, that she was a sorry excuse for a sister, someone who only wanted to blame. Jane figured the truth was probably somewhere in the
middle.
Crouching down and holding out her hand, Jane said, “Hi, Mia. Remember me?”
The edges of Mia’s mouth turned up. She inched forward a few paces but continued to keep her distance. “Ha,” she responded. With her platinum hair,
blue-gray eyes, and strong, athletic frame, Mia was a mini Sigrid—but a Sigrid without the feisty self-assurance.
“I’m glad you could come.”
She gave a stiff nod.
Sigrid looked pretty much the same as she always did, although her sardonic smile, usually in evidence, was noticeably absent. Peter was the one who
had changed the most. His thick brown hair, worn in a defiant buzz cut for over a year, had finally grown out. He wore it pulled back into a short ponytail
tied at the nape of his neck with a piece of twine. The scruff was gone as well, and the beard was back. He looked so handsome, more like the brother
she remembered. When he turned around and found her a few feet away, he flashed her a brittle smile.
“I didn’t know if you were coming tonight,” said Jane.
“You didn’t?” said Sigrid, placing her hands over Mia’s shoulders. “Peter told me he RSVP’d last week.”
“Never received it,” said Cordelia, the subject of another one of Peter’s strained smiles.
“Hey, don’t gang up on me,” he said. “I thought I’d done it.”
Everyone glanced up as Hattie thumped down the stairs wearing a pair of black satin ballerina slippers several sizes too big for her feet.
On arriving at the house, Cordelia explained to Jane, sotto voce, that Hattie had begged for the shoes, insisting that her feet would get really big really
soon. Tomorrow or the next day, for sure. That since they were invited to a special party, she needed something fancy to match her Ziegfeld Follies hat.
Ultimately, Cordelia had relented, partly because she was so amused, but also because she remembered a similar pair of shoes she’d wanted as a little
kid, a pair her mom had refused to buy.
Hattie clumped up to Mia. “Hi,” she said. “Wanna play?” Mia was the only other child there. Her sudden appearance must have seemed like manna
from heaven.
Peter lifted Hattie into his arms and gave her a kiss. “You remember me, don’t you?”
“Uncle Peter!”
This time his smile was real. “I heard you were back. Welcome home, sweetie.”
“Thank you,” said Hattie, using her best manners. She lifted the hat off of her head and dropped it on top of his.
“Say, Hattie,” said Peter. “You haven’t met my little girl. Her name is Mia. She’s deaf. Do you know what that means?”
Hattie pressed a finger to her chin and shook her head.
“It means she can’t hear. If you talk to her, she can sometimes understand if she’s looking at your mouth. So speak very slowly and clearly to her, okay?
Make sure she’s looking at you when you talk.”
Hattie patted his beard. “Okay.”
As soon as he set her down, Hattie tugged on Mia’s hand. “We can draw with chalk on the sidewalk. It’s fun.”
“It’s getting kind of dark,” said Sigrid.
“I’ll turn on the light over the front steps,” offered Cordelia. “Come on, you two, let’s go get the chalk.” Cordelia knew sign language, so she signed to
Mia as they walked back through the dining room.
Peter touched the satin lapels on Jane’s tux. “Nice threads.”
“Thanks. Nice headdress.”
He pulled Hattie’s hat off and was about to hand it to her when he thought better of it and put it back on. “Goes perfect with my clothes, right?”
He’d come to the party wearing a purple and gold Vikings football jersey tucked into a pair of worn jeans. He looked like he’d lost weight.
“Very stylish,” said Jane.
“Where’s Dad?”
“Last I saw, he was in the backyard.”
“I gotta go wish him a happy birthday.”
As he waded into the crowd, shaking hands, slapping people on the back, Jane turned to Sigrid, who had moved over to the living room archway to
listen to the mini orchestra.
“How are you and Peter doing?” she asked during a lull in the music.
Sigrid folded her arms over her chest and leaned against the arch. “We should probably talk.”
“When?”
“I’ll call you.”
“Is everything okay?”
Sigrid eyed her for a moment. Returning her attention to the band, she said, “Yes. And no.”
“At least tell me something.”
“Oh, all right. How’s this for a headline? Peter and Sigrid are back together.”
Jane’s face must have registered surprise, relief, eagerness, disbelief, or all of the above. Whatever Sigrid saw, it was enough to make her sardonic
smile return.
“That’s wonderful,” said Jane.
“That’s amore,” Sigrid responded dryly.
* * *
“Where are you?” demanded Irina, worry tightening her stomach as she stood in the bathroom of her home, rifling through the medicine cabinet, searching
for the bottle of Excedrin.
“At a party,” came Chess’s voice.
She heard music in the background, people talking, having a good time. “How can you be at a party at a time like this?”
“I’m at a friend’s house. She’s letting me stay for a few days.”
“She?”
“She’s gay, Irina. It’s her father’s birthday. I had to come.”
She found the Excedrin bottle, tapped a couple into her palm, swallowed them down without water. “You were supposed to call me. I thought we were
going to try to get together. I can’t handle this all by myself.”
“But if someone’s watching you—or me—it’s not safe.”
“I don’t care. When I got home tonight, Steve was packing. The people he’s hoping to work for called him, asked him to drive back down to Rochester.
He’ll be gone overnight. That means I’m home alone. What if something—” She stopped. She couldn’t go there. “You’ve got to come stay with me. It’s
starting to get dark. The house, it’s so big, and I hear noises.”
“What sort of noises?”
“I don’t know,” she snapped. “Creaks. Scary sounds.”
“Turn on some music.”
Was he nuts? “It has to be quiet so I can hear if someone’s trying to break in.”
“No one will break in, Irina. You’ll be fine.”
She sank down on the edge of the bathtub. “You don’t know that. Why are you treating this so lightly?”
“I hardly view our problems as light.”
“Two people have been murdered because of us. I’m not sure I can live with that.”
He sighed. “Yeah, I hear you. I’m getting cold feet, too. Maybe we should call it off. Money doesn’t mean much if we’re dead. As it is now, we’re sitting
ducks. The safest thing to do would be for me to just take the bull and go.”
“No, you can’t go.”
“Irina—”
“Because I may have found another buyer.”
“You did? Why didn’t you say that right away?”
“We had a brief phone conversation this afternoon.”
“And he’s definitely interested?”
It annoyed her that he assumed it was a man. “It’s a woman. And it’s not a done deal, but I think we can bring her along. It may take some time. I can’t
do it without you.”
“What’s her name?”
She made it up on the spot. “Diane Middleton. She’s unlisted.”
“When can we meet with her?”
“Early next week.”
“Why wait?”
“She’s going out of town with her boyfriend this weekend, but Monday, we’ll get together at her house.”
“Fantastic. We have to hang on, just a little while longer. Call your sister. Maybe she can come stay with you.”
Irina already had. Her sister didn’t answer, and Irina saw no point in leaving a message. “Just a minute,” she said, pulling the phone away from her ear.
She thought she heard Dusty crying. She’d been playing with him for hours, hoping to get her mind off the growing dark. He was back in his crib now, but it
was time for his bottle. “Misty’s not home.”
“Okay, so go around and check all the windows, all the doors. Make sure they’re locked. Call me when you’re done.”
“But you’re so far away.”
“Keep your cell with you. Call 911 if you have to. The police can get to your place in a matter of minutes.”
At least she had the gun. It was in Dusty’s bedroom, under the pillow on the double bed. She planned to sleep there tonight.
“I love you,” said Chess.
“Do you?”
“Oh, honey, just hang on. We’ll make this work. You believe me, don’t you?”
Her lips parted in a grimace. “Yes.”