Chapter Six

 

“Remember, I’m supposed to meet Kate this afternoon,” Jake said over the breakfast smoothies.

The smoothies were Jake’s idea. I’m not and have never been a breakfast person. Yet I was supposed to believe that he was worried about his cholesterol level—come to think of it, that was not unreasonable because once upon a time I’d have been willing to swear egg yolk ran through his veins—anyway, he’d always been a fanatic on the topic of breakfast, and my breakfast in particular.

So every morning it wasn’t the weekend or we weren’t on vacation, we had a crunchy grain cereal or some kind of smoothie. In fairness, I didn’t mind the frozen banana and coffee smoothies and the mixed berry and almond milk ones. Not so crazy about any variations on avocado and basil. But love means never having to say I won’t eat that.

Which brings me back to Kate.

“I remember,” I said. “Will you be home for dinner?”

He gave me a thoughtful look, and I said, “I mean, I know you’ll be home and we’ll have dinner. I’m figuring the timetable.”

As it was a point of honor for Jake never to discuss his ex-wife, it was a point of honor for me never to ask anything about their interactions. I knew they weren’t hanging out these days, let alone getting up to anything that would break my heart, but even the whole civilized, grown-up divorce thing took a toll.

“I don’t think it’s going to take long. We’ve got to decide on this counteroffer. I’d prefer to hold out, but she needs the cash.”

It went through my mind that this sounded like something that could be handled over the phone, but how would I know? I did know Kate was never going to ask for a favor that he didn’t immediately jump to. Including selling the house he’d owned before he met her, at less than market value. And that was okay. Small price to pay for having Jake blend my morning smoothies.

“All right,” I said. “If you can pick up the groceries on your way home?”

“I’ll pick up the groceries.”

“A loaf of bread, a jug of milk, and thou. Also dog food.”

“Got it.”

“I can grab something for dinner. Thai?”

“Thai’s always good.”

I swallowed another mouthful of coffee smoothie. “I’ve been thinking about this job of Ivor’s.”

Jake rinsed his glass and set it in the sink. “What about it?”

“Is it possible he could have uncovered something on a dig? Something valuable? Something to do with the land itself? Does it make sense to talk to his supervisor at the Archeological Research Institute—and doesn’t that sound like a made-up name to you?”

“There speaks a mystery writer,” Jake said. “It’s not impossible that Ivor’s disappearance is linked to his job, but it’s not the most likely explanation. And frankly, most company names sound made up. Because they are.”

“I’ll give you the last one,” I said magnanimously. “Also the first one, since you’re the PI in the family. It wouldn’t hurt to contact the institute, would it?”

He considered me for a moment. “You like the idea because it dovetails with your original meeting with Kevin. It’s got synchronicity.”

“No. I like the idea because I think it’s got possibilities.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to contact the institute, no. Which is why I’ve contacted them,” he said.

“You already called them?”

Jake deadpanned, “Thanks to the years of training I received simply by watching you solve so many of your most famous cases—”

“Okay. All right. Point taken.”

His lip curled sardonically, but his words were grave enough. “The two most likely scenarios in this particular case are accident or suicide.”

That was a mood killer. “Kevin checked the hospitals and morgues.”

“He may think he did. And maybe he was even relatively thorough about it. But I’ll tell you right now that he didn’t search widely enough or deeply enough.”

“He’s not going to have your contacts, that’s a given.”

He didn’t deny it. “He’s also going to be too quick and too happy to take no for an answer. The other thing is, the body may not have been discovered yet. We’re between holidays. A lot of companies, including city and state agencies, are still closed or running on a skeleton crew.”

“And he hasn’t been missing that long,” I said.

“He hasn’t been missing that long,” Jake agreed.

“You think he’s dead.”

He seemed to be looking inward as he said, “I think this can be a tough time of year for people.”

I remembered the Christmas he’d told me he was going to marry Kate. The Christmas all hell had broken loose. Literally. Yeah, I’d had some dark moments. No question.

As had Jake.

Neither of us spoke for a moment, and the sunlit kitchen was silent but for the sound of the puppy gobbling down his kibble.

* * * * *

Judging by his Facebook page, Ivor Arbuckle was an ordinary guy living an ordinary life.

He did not look like the kind of person who winds up as a crime statistic on the front page of a newspaper—but that could be said of most of the people who wind up as crime statistics on the front page of newspapers. Me included.

As a matter of fact, he kind of looked like me. Slim, average height, dark hair. His eyes were brown, and he wore scholarly, but face-flattering, glasses. He had a nice grin, and he shared it often, judging by the photos of work parties and couple-pics of him and Kevin. He also shared his political opinions, archeology jokes, pictures of his dog, and pictures of various meals.

Kevin’s Facebook page complemented Ivor’s. More scenes from what looked like a happy domestic setup. Photos of himself and Ivor, photos of himself and Ivor and their dog, photos of himself and Ivor and their friends, photos of himself and Ivor and Kevin’s family. His page offered more calls for petition sign-ups, scenic shots, and less snaps of meals.

Knowing the people—or at least one of the people—I was “investigating” gave the peeking at social media pages a whole new stalker vibe I’d never experienced when checking out strangers. In fact, this felt a lot more like spying than sleuthing.

And it especially felt like spying when, on a whim, I clicked over to Terrill Arbuckle’s page. Terrill’s page had last been updated six months earlier. But even an out-of-date page contained a surprising amount of information. Terrill was a VP for Arbuckle Industries, was divorced, had two kids in private middle-school, and enjoyed tennis, golf, and sharing retroactive socio-political opinions with like-minded cronies. There but for the grace of Gay.

I didn’t have a Facebook page, so I was not going to judge. Cloak and Dagger had a Facebook page—created and maintained by Natalie—and now and then I appeared in the corner of a photo, looking startled or harassed.

And on the topic of Natalie, she was still not speaking to me.

On matters related to commerce and business, she was communicating through Angus, who looked increasingly nervous and anxious as the day wore on.

I probably looked the same. Fortunately, being out of town for a week had given me plenty of work to catch up on, and it was easy to hide out in the back without having it look like I was, in fact, hiding out.

When Jake was working in his office, we usually had lunch together, but today he was out doing what real detectives did, and I was lunching on ramen soup and a can of Tab at my desk when Lisa phoned.

I knew she had to be seriously worried because for once the first words out of her mouth did not have to do with me or the state of my health. “Adrien, is your sister there?”

“Natalie?”

I must have sounded blank—dealing with the Franchise Tax Board for most of the morning will do that to you, but also it’s an excellent stall tactic I’ve perfected over three decades.

“Darling, the other two are here. Yes. Natalie. Her father’s very concerned. He’s tried phoning her at the house for the past three nights, and she hasn’t answered.”

“Hasn’t she?” I was afraid she’d hear the guilt in my tone. “Yep, she’s here. She’s fine. Has Bill tried her cell phone?”

“No. You know how he is about cell phones.” Lisa sighed. “Is she upset about something? It was her choice not to come on this holiday.”

“I don’t think it’s anything like that.”

“What is it, then? Bill’s very hurt. She still hasn’t wished him a Merry Christmas.”

“I think she’s just…” Even I can recognize a life preserver when it hits me in the face. “Busy. We are really busy right now.”

“Too busy to wish her father Merry Christmas?”

“So busy. Yes. Don’t worry. I’ll remind her to call Bill.”

“Well, darling, couldn’t you simply hand her the phone, and I’ll get Bill—”

“No,” I said quickly. “No, we’ve got lines out the door. I’ll tell her to call. That would be best.”

She made a small sound of exasperation and turned her sights on easier prey.

“And what about you, darling? How was the flight?”

“Fine. Long. I slept through a lot of it.”

“That’s good. I’m sure you needed it.”

“Thanks again for inviting us. It was great. A once in a lifetime experience.”

“I knew you’d have a lovely time. And it doesn’t have to be once in a lifetime. What about Jake?”

“Jake? He had a great time too.”

“I’m glad. It’s not easy to tell with him. Are you sure you should be back at work so soon?”

“Lisa.”

She gave another of those put-out-sounding exhalations. “I know. At least Jake is there to keep an eye on you.”

“At least— You make me sound like a recalcitrant toddler.”

She laughed her silvery laugh. “Oh, darling. By the way, Bill likes your Jake very much.”

“He must, if you’ve started calling him ‘my Jake.’”

More tinkling laughter, like razor blades falling onto piano keys. She filled me in on the wonderful time they were having in the land of my ancestors without us, took me gently to task for bailing on the long-anticipated family vacation, remonstrated with me about not “overdoing”—by now these warnings were so much a part of our interaction I don’t think she could have stopped herself if I’d been named Mr. Universe—and finally rang off, after reminding me to get Natalie on the blower to her pop tout de suite.

“Bloody hell,” I muttered, reaching for the can of Tab.

“Adrien, what do you think you’re doing?” shrieked Natalie from the doorway.

Speak of the devil.

Or the de Vil.

I sprang to my feet, dropping the can, and the fizzy brown contents spilled across my desk, soaking the phone messages and tax papers.

“What the fuh—lip?” I yanked the drawer open, grabbing for tissues, and mopped frantically at the soggy mess, throwing her alarmed looks. “What is the matter with you?”

She was looking more like a Disney villainess by the moment. Or maybe I was thinking of one of the vampire chorus girls in a Hammer Dracula film. Because there was a lot of action on the sibilants as she hissed, “You know you aren’t sssupposed to eat that. Or drink that. Why don’t you jussst empty the sssalt ssshaker down your throat?”

“It’s not as filling!” Which, admittedly, was not the most helpful comment, but honest to God.

Oh, but she had not yet begun to fight. “What’s the point of having heart surgery if you’re just going to waste it all and kill yourself anyway?”

“If you’re so worried about my heart, don’t creep up behind me and scream in my ear.”

“That stuff is poison. Poison.”

“Jesus. Do I come unglued when you have a donut? Even after you tell me not to let you have a donut? What the hell.” I did more pulling tissues and mopping. After a minute or two, the ill-boding silence behind me registered. I threw an uneasy look over my shoulder.

She was in tears. Like…dissolving into tears. Had she in fact been made of the brown sugar her recent behavior might suggest, she’d have melted at my feet.

“Natalie, what’s happened to you? What’s going on?”

I don’t know if in that moment she reminded me of Emma or I was just finally getting the hang of the big brother thing, but I opened my arms, and she promptly transferred the weather system to my shoulder.

She sobbed out something I couldn’t understand. Her whole body was shaking with the force of her crying.

“I don’t even drink a full can anymore,” I told her. “It was only a couple of sips. See how much there was left to spill on my important papers?”

She shook her head and wept out another unintelligible update.

“Look,” I said desperately. “You’re a grown woman. I’m not going to tell you how to run your life. If you and Angus want to…you know, I can’t stop you. Let’s consider the matter closed.”

She finally seemed to pull herself together. She drew back and wiped her face—I hastily handed over more tissues.

She blew her nose—a hearty, good blow— tossed the tissue in the trash bin next to my desk, and said calmly, if damply, “What did Lisa want?”

“Uh…” I studied her doubtfully. “Are we not going to talk about this?”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay.”

“I’m sorry about that. I’m hormonal.”

“Oh.”

Presumably she had been hormonal plenty of times over the past two years, and I’d never noticed a resemblance to Crazy Jane.

“What did you tell Lisa?”

“Nothing. But you’ve got to call Bill.”

Her eyes widened in alarm. “Why? What’s happened?”

“That’s the point. He thinks something has happened. He thinks you don’t love him anymore.”

Her face twisted, but she did not break down again.

Two and half years ago my mother had married Councilman Bill Dauten, thereby supplying me with three ready-made sisters. Bill was a big, bald bear of a guy, and although we didn’t have a lot in common, I’d grown surprisingly fond of him over the birthday cakes and family barbecues. I couldn’t think of a good reason for Natalie to hurt his feelings over something so dumb as a holiday phone call.

“I’ll call him.” She sounded like I was sending her to her doom.

“They’re worried, that’s all.”

“Yes.”

“And I’m getting worried too. You’re not yourself, Nat.”

Her face worked, but she stayed in control. “I’m sorry. I know. I’m just going through a lot.”

“Like what?” I was astonished to hear myself ask, “Can’t I help?”

“No one can help,” she pronounced in the kind of tone you expect to use when saying the final farewell to your loved ones in the sepulcher.

I had to give her credit for knowing how to deliver a good exit line. She turned without another word and left my office.