CHAPTER FORTY

 

 

Ida looked alive, invigorated by the music and cheered by the adulation of her audience, rejuvenated by Carlee’s camaraderie, renewed by the decorations, and fortified by Rachel’s apple cider. Shimmying across the floor in her loud outfit, with her rosy cheeks and bright eyes, Ida could have played an elf.

Dad was sapped. Then Ida let slip that she’d heard Quintz was slowly recovering, under police protection, on the second floor. Dad jumped at the chance to visit. “The room should be easy to spot.”

“But Dad, you look tired.”

“Not too bushed to hear what the crook has to say.” Dad winked and picked up his pace.

“Crook?” said Ida.

Officer Rodgers tipped an invisible hat when he caught us marching down his hallway. “Evening Ida. Thanks for letting us know you were performing here again. It makes it easier to keep track of you.”

Her happy face slipped for a second, but she said, “Of course, Daniel. We’d like to see how Jordan is doing, if that’s okay.”

He gave me a questioning look and I shrugged. “She doesn’t know about Lloyd Wicheck.”

“Who?” Dad pulled her a few feet away, but before he could give her the rundown, angry voices rose from within the room. Officer Rodgers turned the knob and pushed on the door.

“Someone has to have them. He promised me. I need them. Where could they be?” Daniella Jericho leaned over the bed and Wicheck scrambled as far away as he could without falling onto the floor. “You’ve got to know.”

“I don’t know anything. I don’t belong here. I don’t gain anything by staying and as soon as they release me, I’m gone for good.” The head of the bed nestled into a shallow recess. He crouched in the corner and lifted his hands above his head.

Officer Rodgers lightly touched Daniella’s elbow and she jerked it out of reach. “We’ll see about that, Mr. Lloyd. Jordan. Quintz. Wicheck.” She stalked out.

Ida watched her go, then turned to the man on the bed. “My, what big bruises you have.”

Wicheck narrowed his eyes and glowered. “You.”

“That’s getting old, Lloyd.”

He sputtered in response.

“We know the whole story. Did you kill Miss Grace?”

“Katie.” Ida objected, but that question had scrubbed the bluster from his swagger.

“No. I liked the old broad.”

“You also hoped to finagle a nice settlement from her, didn’t you?”

Ida’s mouth dropped open. She closed it and it fell open again. Dad led her out of the room.

I stared at Wicheck, and then I connected the dots between a few things. “Did you travel to India with Jordan?”

He squinted before nodding.

“You had access to nux-vomica.” His eyebrows knitted together. “Strychnine.”

Wicheck shriveled in front of me. “No. It wasn’t me. I didn’t kill her. I liked her. Sure, I had hopes of getting a little something. After all, she was Jordan’s great aunt, and I, I mean Jordan, inherited that blamed piano.” He shook his head. “But I didn’t kill her.”

“I’ll let the chief know,” Officer Rodgers said.

“Go ahead. I just want my life back.”

He wasn’t a very good man, and he had access to the poison, but I didn’t think he had it in him to kill Miss Grace.

“What did Daniella want?” I asked with as much charity as I could muster.

He picked at the lint on his bedding. “Numbers,” he said.

Numbers? I tried to wipe the disgust from my voice. “For what?”

“Don’t know. Don’t care. You know what? I’m tired. You need to leave now. Rodgers?”

I followed Dad and Ida, punching buttons. The call went to Jane’s voicemail. I called Pete. Susie answered. She gasped and said, “Call me in ten minutes.” She hung up.

Thanks?

Dad whispered the story to Ida in the atrium in front of the elevators. She stood erect, her hands crossed in front of her. With every new pronouncement, she seemed to pull herself even taller. By the end, she might have even stood five feet high.

“Is it true? He’s not Jordan? Did he kill Grace?” Her rapid-fire questions pierced my heart.

“Yes, it’s true. He’s not Jordan. His name is Lloyd Wicheck. I don’t think he killed Miss Grace, but he used very poor judgment. Miss Grace knew he wasn’t Jordan.”

“Do you think he killed Phillip?”

Dad and I exchanged looks and shrugged.

“I know I didn’t kill anyone. But the deaths of Phillip and Grace are genuine losses for all of us. We’ll miss their philanthropic and artistic contributions, and their influence on the community. Their deaths must be related.” She sniffed and wiped the tip of her nose. “I miss my friend.”

Dad offered his elbow and Ida took it. I snaked my arm in on the other side. We walked to the front door and then out into the cold, still night to the car. We rode a few blocks in silence until Ida said, in an unexpectedly cheerful voice, “When the going gets tough, the tough get cooking. I need groceries.”

I hung out in the parking lot while Dad and Ida grabbed the ingredients required for dinner. The three bags were chock full of enough to feed a classroom.

Dad lit the decorations in the yard. Ida set to work in her kitchen, sizzling butter, simmering milk, and boiling chicken stock. Dad chopped herbs, carrots, celery, and squash. Ida directed us to flip, sprinkle, stir, and pour. Frying bacon and onions brought tears to my eyes. She plated cheese, crackers, and stuffed olives and ushered me out.

“One hour,” she said. “Find something useful to do.”

After I checked my lesson plans for the upcoming week, I put on my coat and leashed Maverick. We stepped carefully around the block, avoiding anything that looked like ice when Wicheck’s word shoved itself to the front of my brain. Numbers.

Back inside, I ripped off my stocking cap, shrugged out of my coat, and searched my desk for the note possibly containing the obscure numeric notation I found on Jane’s memory box. I dusted off the cryptography desk in my head and the lines, dots, and squiggles no longer looked random. I translated a Roman numeral, a Mayan, a Chinese, and a Babylonian cuneiform into a seven, twelve, nine, and three.

I committed the numbers to memory, but the paper crackled in my frustrated hand. Numbers could belong to an address, a zip code, a phone number, an account, a code, latitude and longitude, measurements, a title; the list was endless.

The encaustic I had seen among Anita’s canvases and easels bore similar symbols. I checked the clock. I had thirty-seven minutes, plenty of time for a round trip. Remembering Ida’s words to never visit emptyhanded, I plated a few of Ida’s shortbread cookies. Maverick whined so I took him with me.

Bright light glowed from every window and overshadowed the gloomy ghost of Anita’s studio. A white wreath, like the one I made in grade school by tying slices of plastic grocery bags to a wire hanger, hung on the front door. I leashed Maverick. We approached the door and I knocked. White glitter sprinkled free from the wreath. Giggles and scratching noises preceded a tiny woof. The door opened only as far as the chain would allow.

“Hi, Ricky.” I was flabbergasted. “You’re home already.”

“Mom and Rachel smuggled me out.” In a conspiratorial voice, he added, “Don’t tell anyone.” Tucker licked Ricky’s bare toes and he giggled.

“Is your mom home?”

“Nah. She went to get a Christmas tree and some burgers.” Maverick shoved his nose in the door. “You brought your dog. Cool.” The door closed. I heard the chain slide and the door opened again. “Come on in. Mom said, ‘no strangers’ but you’re my friend. Besides, I wanted to surprise her, but I can’t do it myself.” He reattached the chain. “This is Maverick?”

“Good memory.”

The pups sniffed appropriately. Tucker nipped at Maverick’s ear and Maverick chased Tucker out of the room and back. Ricky let out a roaring laugh. Then Maverick slumped to the ground and Tucker did the same.

Ricky wheeled his chair to a closet. Two brooms stood against the open door below a teetering box caught on the hood of a winter coat.

This kid amazed me. “Did you do that?”

“Yeah, but the box got stuck. Can you get it down?”

I set the box between us, and he yanked the flaps. He claimed a ratty Teddy bear, gave it a hug, and tossed it to Tucker who dutifully pulled it under one paw and closed his eyes. Ricky extracted one ornament at a time and, like a little dictator, ordered its placement around the room—higher, lower, to the right, or to the left.

“You play piano very well.”

He lifted a crystal tree and inspected it. “I like to play, but I don’t have much time to practice right now. Miss Grace is a fun teacher. Was, I mean.” His eyes lost their luster. “I got to open the treasure chest and take a prize every time I did my lesson right.” He handed me a glass figurine. “Second to the right, and straight on till morning.” He pointed to the windowsill and smiled. We created a miniature winter scene, placing it in front of a window thick with frost.

We had so much fun, I didn’t notice the time until my phone buzzed.

“Your hour is up. Where are you?” Dad asked.

“I drove over to see Anita and found Ricky home,” I said as Anita stepped into the room carrying two take out bags, scowling. “I’ll be home shortly.” I pocketed my phone.

She plastered on a sweet smile, baring teeth like a mother wolf. “Katie, what are you doing here?” I heard the warning in her voice.

“Hey, Mom. Look what I found.” He proudly held the old bear by one paw, playing tug-of-war with Tucker.

Anita’s eyes circled the room. “Ricky, you did this?” Her voice cracked in wonder and appreciation.

“’Course I had help.”

She brushed Ricky’s hair out of his eyes. “You do remember what I told you?”

“I didn’t let any strangers in.” He smiled, and then he bolted upright, a little startled. “Is Maverick a stranger?”

Anita took a moment. “Nope. Maverick is Tucker’s friend. You did a great job decorating, honey. Can I talk to Katie for a second?”

Ricky tossed the bear and Tucker fetched it. Tucker nuzzled next to Maverick and, getting no response, scampered across the room and returned the bear to Ricky for another go around.

“Why are you here, Katie?”

“I was hoping to see your encaustics. You said they weren’t lost in the fire.”

“Why do you want to see them?”

“When you showed them to Ida and me, one of them had some marks.” Embarrassment registered on her face. “They were barely visible through the wax. It looked like a pattern or blueprint. Did they have a purpose? Can I see it again?”

She lowered her head. “That piece was horrible.”

“What do you mean?”

She took a deep breath. “Phillip promised to back me in a showing if I’d collaborate on an encaustic for the gala. He didn’t like waxwork. He said he’d put his signature on one of mine and it would get the attention it deserved. But he ruined it with all those black squiggles, so I replaced it with a blank canvas, hoping I could talk him into choosing a different one from among the others I’d created. They are so much better. When the auctioneer unveiled what I’d done, Phillip was so angry, I thought he’d burst. Then he died, and I thought I’d killed him.”

I gasped.

“That’s not what I meant. He was apoplectic and I thought I’d contributed to his having a heart attack or stroke, but I didn’t poison him. I need this job. I have Ricky to think of.”

“Won’t Paula keep you on?’

“I don’t know. She says she doesn’t have the funds to pay me what Phillip owed and she’s not sure what will be left, even after receiving Grace’s generous bequest.” Suddenly chilled, Anita grabbed her elbows, then kneaded her upper arms. She gazed at Ricky and Tucker. “I can’t even afford a Christmas tree this year.”

She shook herself and planted a giant smile on her lips. “But we’ll be fine. I’ll find another job. Everything will work out. We just have to be careful with our finances.” She affected a smile.

“May I see them?”

“See what?”

“The encaustics.”

“They’re not here.”