15

Late on Monday morning, Jane stopped by the theater to speak with Cordelia. Parking on the street, she entered under the marquee and took one of the elevators up to the second floor. Since her theatrical friend rarely watched or listened to the local news, there was a better than even chance she hadn’t heard about Jordan Deere’s murder. Jane wanted to break the news to her in person.

Nobody, it appeared, was manning the reception desk. Jane walked right through into Cordelia’s office. The half-eaten Danish suggested that her friend was around somewhere. Feeling her cell phone rumble, she saw that she had a text from Avi. She sat down behind the desk, took a bite of the Danish, and read:

More revisions from Elaine Ducasse this AM. Makes me wonder if I can put 2 sentences together without help. Think I should go back to bartending. Or stripping. What if this is another epic fail? What if she cancels my contract?

Like most writers, Avi struggled with self-doubt. But in her case, she also wrestled with what Jane thought was clinical depression. Jane hadn’t realized it at first, but over the past year, she’d watched Avi sleep entire weeks away. At night, she drank. Since sleep and booze weren’t good solutions, Jane had suggested that she see a doctor or find a therapist. Jane did her best to help Avi through her bouts of misery. She’d cook special meals, things she knew Avi loved. Avi’s father had read bedtime stories to her as a child and often, crawling under the covers, listening to Jane read, was the only thing that could calm her down.

Another rumble—another message from Avi.

Are you pissed at me?

Looking up, Jane’s first thought was … maybe. She hadn’t texted Avi in a couple of days, which no doubt meant something. She slipped the phone back into her pocket. On her way out of the office, she found a workman in the hallway and asked if he’d seen Cordelia.

“She’s in the main stairwell.” He pointed to an arched doorway.

“Doing what?”

“Sitting on the steps.”

“Just sitting?”

“Well, she’s drinking from a juice box, if that’s of any interest.”

She thanked him. Halfway to the third floor, she found Cordelia, dressed all in black leather, eyes tightly shut, seated on the stairs. And she did indeed have a juice box in her hand.

“Who comes?” she intoned without opening her eyes.

“’Tis Jane, good madam.”

“Ah, my lady. God’s good greetings upon you.”

“What are you doing?”

“Listening.”

“To what?”

“Come sit thee next to me. Open your ears.”

Jane hunkered down on the cold stone. After listening for nearly a minute and hearing nothing but the sound of hammers coming from inside the auditorium, she said, “Can we drop the Shakespearean English? You can maintain it forever. I’ve about reached my limit.”

“Shhh,” she said, raising a finger to her lips. “Don’t you hear them?”

“Hear who?”

“Gilbert and Hilda. Granted, their voices are faint—kind of echoy and tinny. They’re fighting. Something about a dress Hilda wants to wear to the opening.”

“Seriously? Your opening?”

“It started in my office. One of them opened a window, then slammed it shut. Got my attention right away.”

“That actually happened?”

“What’s the worst one ghost can do to another? Murder is obviously off the table.”

“Cordelia, you have to listen to me. I’ve got some bad news.”

She opened one eye. “Want a sip of juice?”

“No thanks.”

“It’s full of nutrition.”

“Only in the vaguest sense.”

“What’s the news?”

“It’s about Jordan Deere.”

The other eye opened. “What about him?”

Jane explained what she knew, trying to break it as gently as she could.

Through shocked tears, Cordelia demanded to know more. “You should have called me right away. Hattie and I would have driven out to the lake house to hold Kit’s hand.”

“I doubt very much that the police would have let you in.”

“I need details, Janey. Is Kit okay? Booker? Chloe?”

Jane unsnapped her old varsity jacket. “Everyone’s taking it very hard, as you can imagine. As far as I know, the police didn’t find anything useful at the scene. No footprints. No bullet casings. No weapon. They’ve got very little to go on. Except for one thing: they carted out Jordan’s computer. Seemed to think they’d hit the jackpot.”

“You were there?”

“Kit asked Dad to come out to the house.” She took a few minutes to explain why she’d gone along with him.

Cordelia narrowed her eyes. “I hope your father realizes that moi has always been the deciding factor in your sleuthing successes. You’re the brawn, I’m the brains.”

Jane struggled not to roll her eyes, though they did tilt just a bit. “May I point out that I was the one who did all the work to become a licensed investigator?”

“True. But I’m the one who provided the psychic support. Lit the candles and burned the sage incense. And then I did that tarot reading for you and told you you’d pass.”

There was no use arguing. In truth, Cordelia had been indispensable on more than one occasion.

“Tell me the truth: Do the police think someone in the family is responsible?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“But it’s possible.”

Jane nodded.

“So where do we start? You have to let me help. Those people are my friends.”

Actually, Jane had already given that some thought. “Maybe you could spend an evening with Kit—at the summerhouse. Talk to Chloe and Booker, too.”

“You can’t leave Beverly out of the equation. She’s had a huge crush on Kit for years. And Tommy Prior, Jordan’s manager. He’s always been this buttoned-up, controlled, meticulous kind of man, but a couple of summers ago, I started to notice a change in him—and not for the better.”

“Use all your wiles, okay,” said Jane. “But be discreet. Don’t hammer them with questions. Just be a willing ear. Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but it feels like the whole lot of them are playing some sort of game.”

“Explain.”

Jane hesitated. “Since I’m working for my dad’s law firm, I have to sign a confidentiality agreement. This is serious, Cordelia. It’s not just you and me having ourselves an adventure anymore. I could be prosecuted if Kit finds out I’ve shared this information with you. Do you swear to keep it just between us?”

“Absolutely. Scout’s honor.”

“The day before Jordan died, he asked Kit for a divorce.”

“Heavens!” Her hand flew to her chest.

“That’s what she wanted to talk to my father about when she met with him at your house. But yesterday, when the detective in charge of the case—his name is Neil DePetro—asked her about her relationship with her husband, she said it was solid. No problems at all.”

“She lied?”

“With perfect composure. She’s quite an actress.”

“One of the best. What else?”

“When DePetro called everyone together for an initial conversation, nobody in the room mentioned the rather significant fact that Jordan had left the house early Saturday evening—in a speedboat—and had never come back.”

“Where did he go?”

“They claim they don’t know.”

“So let me get this straight,” said Cordelia, leaning forward and folding her hands in a show of patience—or impatience. “Jordan spent Saturday night … somewhere. A place he could get to by boat. He left from that ‘somewhere’ to go running yesterday morning. Assuming he didn’t leave his house on Saturday wearing running clothes or athletic shoes, he must have changed somewhere along the way. And if he left in a boat, how did he get to the park?”

“All good questions,” said Jane.

Cordelia sat up straight. “Sounds like a job for Cordelia M. Thorn.”

“It does, doesn’t it.”

Puffing out her chest, Cordelia continued, sotto voce, “You’re not the only one with news. I got a call from a Minneapolis cold case detective right after I arrived this morning. Seems they caught a break. Major progress has been made on the skeleton we found behind the wall. Red Clemens tells me my staff and all the workmen were buzzing about it.”

“I’ll bet,” said Jane.

“So,” said Cordelia, leaning close. “Here’s what I know.”

*   *   *

Archibald carried a notebook with him as he moved in and out of the rooms in the theater basement. The place was a veritable treasure trove of old theater props and wardrobe memorabilia, some of it dating back to the early part of the last century. Cordelia needed to mine the wares on offer down here, he mused, lifting a ray gun off a pile of rope. Ray guns were popular in the fifties. He’d seen a few before, though none as elaborate as this one. He’d found one for sale on eBay a few years back. He shouldn’t have been surprised. What wasn’t for sale on eBay? “Love, integrity, friendship,” he muttered to himself.

What Archibald needed was to be engaged in some sort of busywork this morning, something to take his mind off the fateful decision he’d made in the middle of the night. Sifting through a box of costume jewelry, he found a gold signet ring. When he moved it closer to the light, the top flipped up, revealing a space for a pill—or for poison. The ring had the look of real gold. “Can’t be real,” he mumbled. Then again. He dropped it into his pocket.

On a whim, he decided to check out the speakeasy. As he approached the door, he found strips of yellow and black crime scene tape stretched across it. The lower section had been ripped away. Ducking down, he came up on the other side and switched on the wrought-iron chandeliers. He was startled to find a man sitting alone at the bar. Because he was dressed in old jeans, a chambray shirt, and rough boots, Archibald pegged him as one of the workmen. “I’m sorry,” he said, coming to a full stop. “I didn’t realize anyone was in here.” Odd that the guy had been sitting in the dark.

The man turned. “Mr. Van Arnam? My God, it’s been years. Red Clemens,” he said, moving off the stool. “Do you remember me?”

Archibald recalled the name, though he couldn’t place the face. And then it dawned on him. “You’re the maintenance man. You’re … still here?”

“I asked Cordelia Thorn to hire me back.”

He didn’t remember much about the guy, except for one thing: Years ago, Archibald had caught him listening outside one of the dressing room doors.

“Got my old office back,” continued Red. “Feels like old times.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Never figured I’d run into you again, but hey, since I have, I should tell you how much I enjoyed your newest book. The one on Fort Snelling.”

“You read that?” Oops, thought Archibald. Was that an elitist comment? Obviously the man could read. Archibald only meant that it didn’t seem like the kind of book a janitor would be interested in.

“Are you working on something new?” asked Red.

“Actually, I am. A history of the micro cultures in Minnesota.”

“Oh, sure. Like that book, American Nations. Loved his perspective. Did you read it? The author divides the U.S. into eleven different cultural groups.”

“You read that, too?” As Archibald stepped up to the bar, his eyes drifted to a hole in the wall behind the bar. “What’s that?”

Red eased back onto his seat. “Cordelia and that friend of hers. Lawless.” He drummed his fingers on the counter. “Now what the heck is her first name?”

“Jane.”

“Yeah, yeah. Jane. They noticed that someone had broken through part of the wall, then bricked it up. They asked me to break it down so they could see what was behind it. Turns out, it was a body. Or, more precisely, a skeleton.”

Archibald pulled out one of the stools, brushed the dust off and sat down. “Tell me more.”

“Well, the skull had a bullet hole smack in the center of the forehead.”

“How grotesque.”

“Yeah. Gave me the willies.”

“Did you call the police?”

“Oh, sure. They came and looked it over, declared it a crime scene. That’s why they put up the tape.”

Eyeing the opening, Archibald gave himself a moment to process the situation. “Was it, I mean, did you know about the gangland murders that happened down here?”

“Yup. I heard.”

“I wonder if it had something to do with that.”

“Didn’t,” said Red. “I was up in Cordelia’s office earlier this morning. She’d just got off the phone with a police detective. Seems the cops found a wallet and a ring in the debris under the skeleton. Belonged to the dead guy. His name was Chapman. William Edward Chapman. Disappeared in the summer of 1980.”

“Chapman. Hmm. If they’ve got the dates correct, then it couldn’t be connected.”

“Cordelia mentioned that the cold case unit was able to track down the dead guy’s sister. She told them that the family had never believed for a minute that he’d run off. They figured something terrible had happened to him.”

“How incredibly sad,” said Archibald. “And all that time, he’s been buried behind that wall. Makes you wonder about human beings, doesn’t it? Killing comes so easily to some of us.”

“Not sure it’s always easy,” said Red. “But come it does.”

As they sat in silence, Archibald began to feel as if he were at a real bar, that the guy next to him was the average sort of stranger he’d meet and talk to, the kind of man he might have a surprisingly intimate conversation with, thanks mostly to the alcoholic lubrication, but also to the anonymity—once they got up and left the bar, they’d never see each other again. “I wish I understood what makes people do what they do,” he said, thinking about the last few days. “I don’t mean just other people. I’m talking about myself, too. I try to plumb the depths, to understand my motivation, but then it occurs to me that my reasoning is much too facile. By ‘facile,’ I mean—”

“I’m familiar with the word,” said Red, folding his hands, the edges of his lips curling into a smile.

“We all tell ourselves stories about how the world works. I think we lie to ourselves more than we care to admit. For instance, I’ve always prided myself on my ability to analyze data. But sometimes I wonder if, when it comes to my own life, my thoughts don’t simply bang between two poles—cleverness and stupidity.” Struck by how professorial he sounded, he stopped himself. “Listen, Red. I am curious about something. Why were you sitting in here in the dark before I came in?”

“I like quiet places. Don’t much like crowds. It’s why I always stayed away from the stage upstairs.”

Archibald nodded. “Not a theater person.”

“No, I love the plays, the actors—if I can slip in after the lights have been dimmed, when everyone is seated and quiet. I guess maybe it’s a certain type of agoraphobia.”

Glancing at the hole, Archibald pointed and said, “Don’t you wonder what really happened there?”

“Not always smart to get too philosophical,” he said, tracing a deep gouge in the bar top with his finger, “but what we’ve been talking about—it reminds me of one of Aesop’s fables. The one about the scorpion and the frog.”

Archibald had read the entire canon when he was a boy. “I don’t recall that one.”

“It’s about this real nice, helpful frog. Lived on a riverbank. He gave rides on his back so that other critters could get across the river without drowning. Lots of bad currents running through it. One day this scorpion comes up to him and says, ‘Hey there, Kermit, will you take me across?’ Now the frog, he wasn’t born yesterday. He says to the scorpion, ‘I’d like to, man, but how do I know you won’t sting me?’ The scorpion says, ‘I’m not suicidal. If I sting you, we’ll both die.’ So the frog let’s the scorpion climb onto his back and get comfortable. Halfway across, the scorpion stings him. As they’re sinking out of sight, the frog has just enough time to ask the scorpion why. Know what the scorpion says?”

“Don’t remember,” said Archibald.

“He says, ‘It is my nature.’” Red let the words hang in the air as he removed a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Yup,” he said, tapping one out. “Figure that story just about says it all.”