I checked the Post-it on my dashboard against the number on the building. I’d thought I was going to Logan’s house, but this was a school. I couldn’t find the institution name anywhere, but the sun was already dipping below the buildings even though it was only four in the afternoon. The dark shadows on bricks made it impossible to read any signs or metal letters affixed to the façade. Resigned to figure it out on foot, I picked a visitor space, and parked.
Someone came out before I had to figure out how to get through the front door. Even though wide corridors were empty, it took no energy to imagine it filled with students. It looked like a set from a high school drama. Logan said to come to 307, so I took all the stairs to the third floor. I walked down the hall from one classroom door to another until I landed at the right one.
I took one deep breath, then another. I did not like walking into something unknown. I especially did not like walking into a strange man’s apartment. Even if I was a prosecutor and that man was a cop. Logan hadn’t said why he wanted me to come, but his tone had been so urgent on the phone that I went against my better judgment because he seemed likeminded, especially after the Gregory Quinn murder case. He wanted the bad people in jail as much as I did.
All the way over here to the east side from Lakewood, I’d thought about turning around. I could be in my own apartment doing the obligatory calls to family. Gritting through sobriety. Trying to figure my own way out of Lori Pope’s grip. Justice was important, but maybe self-preservation needed to come first.
I trudged through the school hallway until I found a door that matched the number I’d written down. At least this would be a distraction from all that I wanted to avoid.
“Merry Christmas,” Logan greeted me when he opened the door.
“This is an actual apartment,” I said when I walked in to his living room decorated with a huge gray sectional over a bright blue oriental carpet. There was even a roaring fire at one end. “A fireplace? In a school?”
“It was added, like the kitchen and bathrooms…and the loft I use for an office.” He pointed above our heads. Steps on the side of the living area led to a half floor where I could see a computer and other office stuff. “The nearly hundred-year-old wood floors and windows and doors are all original. The developers also converted a church in Cleveland Heights. There was a gorgeous unit with two-story stained glass. Got outbid on that one.”
“I’ve only seen factories and warehouses repurposed. This is my first school. What’s up with the street name?”
Logan laughed. “When I moved, no one I called with the change of address believed me.”
“When I put Random Road in MapQuest, I thought it was going to throw an error, or Abbott and Costello were going to pop up on my computer and do a routine.” I shrugged. There was a pause and we both laughed at the idea of a Cleveland-themed “Who’s on First” improvisation. “But here I am.”
“Show yourself around,” Logan said. “I’ll make you something to drink.”
“Nonalcoholic, please.” I was proud of my ask.
“Absolutely.”
There was a built-in sideboard laden with food in aluminum pans. My mouth started watering when I lifted one of the foil lids to peek. Looked like Italian, which considering we were a single block from Mayfield Road, was appropriate.
“Damn, there’s a lot of food in here. Who else is coming?”
“Yeah, about that.” Logan looked shifty for a moment. “Just a few people.”
“Is this going to be a party or is it a meeting about…work.” He’d told me it was some mystery he wanted to solve. I’d thought he meant real-life crime. But now I had to wonder if he’d invited me to one of those cheesy parties where everyone plays a character in a locked room mystery. A little part of me was thrilled that someone wanted to be my friend. Especially given my reputation around the courthouse.
“A bit of both, maybe,” Logan hedged.
I took his invitation to show myself around and strode down the hall while he went to the kitchen. There were a couple of bedrooms. I assumed the one with the black bedspread was Logan’s. There was another that looked like a woman had been in there.
Curious.
Nope, none of my business. I heard voices. Showtime. I pulled myself together, becoming the proper southern woman I’d been raised to be, and came back through.
“It’s two converted classrooms,” Logan was saying to a black woman who looked vaguely familiar.
“Blake Hardin Tatum,” she introduced herself. Stretched out her hand.
Without bourbon, my mind was surprisingly sharp. I let her know I clocked her.
“Reporter,” I said. “You were at one of the Quinn crime scenes.”
“Nice to see you again.” Tatum and I shook briefly. “Wish it were better circumstances, maybe.”
Was it too late to turn back? Tatum’s tone gave me a weird sensation. I could walk out the door and pretend I’d never been there. My growling stomach had different ideas. It wanted a real meal and not table water crackers smeared with salmon cream cheese spread.
“I think I’m going to help myself to some of this food,” I said to the room. Took myself to the little bar area next to a dining room table for four.
Logan had pressed some button when a buzzer sounded. Three minutes later, he opened to a knock. This time Justin McPhee and Darlene Webb came in. I had to admire the detective’s ability to keep a secret because I was surprised to see those two. I raised an eyebrow in greeting. Disregarded the idea that we’d be dressing up, doing fake accents, and solving a drawing room murder. So much for new friends. It was the same old people. Same old problems.
“I was in Italy a couple of years ago on Christmas Eve with my daughter,” Logan was saying to McPhee and Webb as he pointed them to the food. “It was a great spread, so I wanted to share something like it tonight. Especially as we’re here together instead of with friends and family.”
“Did you cook?” Tatum asked.
“No way. I’m a stone’s throw from Little Italy.” He made a small flourish toward the food. “So we have for an appetizer, smoked salmon involtini, seafood risotto for a first course, eggplant parmesan for the main, sauteed mushrooms and roasted pumpkin for sides. Panettone for dessert. I have a lime-and-coconut cocktail or mocktail, driving…” Logan’s eyes flicked toward me. “Let’s eat before we get to it.”
I took a little of everything grateful to have homestyle food. Although if I continued to eat my meals instead of drinking them, I’d have to wear something other than my signature pencil skirts to work.
The dining room only had four chairs, so we ended up gathered around the coffee table on the couch and the plush blue side chairs. It was quiet except for forks against plates. As the only southerner in the room, I felt a need to bring some civility to the party. My parents had a lot of flaws, but being bad hosts was not among them.
“Do you have a daughter?” I directed my question to Logan. “That second bedroom definitely had ‘teen girl moved on’ vibes.”
“Clementine.” He nodded. “She’s a sophomore in college.”
“Where?” I asked. The school a child went to either said a lot about the parents or a lot about the child. My sister went to LMU like Mommy and Daddy, that said a lot about them and their legacy. I went to Mount Holyoke which I think said a lot about me being very different from them in more ways than I’d known at the time I’d made the choice.
Logan pulled a phone from his shirt pocket, fiddled with the screen. I put out my hand getting a generic compliment ready.
“Here’s a picture she texted me from a holiday party with friends. She’s at Wilberforce, about three hours from here.”
Tatum’s brows shot up as she put her food on the table. Then she practically snatched the device from Logan’s hands before he could tilt it toward me for viewing. I tried to puzzle out what the source of surprise was.
“Your daughter’s…pretty,” Tatum said, then she handed back the phone. There seemed to be a lot unsaid. I took the phone as it was passed. One look and it became crystal clear what was up. It jogged my memory. Wilberforce was a historically black college. One of the few north of the Mason-Dixon Line, and maybe even the first in the country or the second. That particular fact I couldn't remember. One of the early ones at least. It had come up in some class I took on critical social thought.
I was trying to decide if it was time to say something about myself, but I hadn’t yet mastered how to work it into the conversation without sounding like I was pandering or being disingenuous. I swallowed the last bite of eggplant, and stood ready to somehow reveal myself.
“My mom is black,” I blurted.
Tatum’s head swung around. Logan looked like he wanted to say something. When a knock came, no one seemed to care about my parents. The revelatory moment gone, I made to clean up.
Before I took my plate to the bar area or kitchen, I paused as Logan’s long legs ate up all the area between the chair he’d been sitting on and the door. All of us looked as he twisted the handle. I had to imagine they felt like I did, half scared Lori Pope would be standing there flanked by officers, their guns drawn.
I took my stuff to the sink, rinsed my dishes. From the corner of my eye, it looked like a neighbor was bringing over a small gift. Logan came back in, lifted something from under the tall tree he had next to the fireplace, and gave it to the twenty-something man. They did that male hug where no one got too close, then closed the door.
By then, whether we were full or not, I think we were all done pretending this was some kind of impromptu party of people who liked each other. I helped Logan gather the rest of the plates when no one made to ask me a single thing.
“You need me to load the dishwasher?” I asked.
“I’ll do it later. I think it’s time we all talk.”
I stacked the others’ dishes on top of mine and nodded, but I didn’t walk back to the main area.
“You want coffee?” Logan offered as he turned his back to the sink and crossed muscled arms across his chest.
What I wanted was a real ninety-proof drink, not a sweet mocktail or a hit of caffeine. But with Lori Pope’s completely random weekly testing, I couldn’t take the risk.
“I’m good. Let’s do this.”