33

Jane wiped brick dust off her face as she returned to her office at the theater. She’d spent the last hour and a half going over the two crime scenes in the basement. Only one more to go. As she’d expected, the police had done a good job of sifting through what material there was, which meant she’d found nothing.

Dropping down heavily on her desk chair, she popped the top on a cold Red Bull and took a long sip.

“What’s that in your hair?” came Cordelia’s voice.

Jane looked up to find her friend standing in the doorway.

“Brick dust. I’m covered in it.”

“Lovely.” Cordelia was wearing what looked like a 1950s prom gown—a frothy, strapless coral concoction with a full skirt and an attached netted wrap. “I spoke to Daniel Woodson. He’ll be here around three.”

“I can’t believe you actually got hold of him.”

“It is axiomatic that when people see the name Cordelia Thorn pop up on their cell phones, they take the call.”

“If I haven’t mentioned this before, I’m glad you know everyone in town.”

“Not everyone,” she replied, with fake modesty. “But almost.”

“Lovely dress.”

“Oh, do you like it?” She twirled into the room. “I was feeling exuberantly femme this morning. I love the fabric. Not so sure about the color. I think it makes my skin look a little green. And,” she added, lowering her voice, “as we all know, it’s not easy being green.”

“Funny. Not to change the subject, but do you hear water running? It’s like someone turned on a faucet and forgot to turn it off.”

“Ah, Gilbert and Hilda are playing tricks on you today. I’m usually their target of choice.”

Jane refused to believe ghosts were the cause of the noise. “I think you may have a plumbing problem.”

“I do, dearheart. It’s called Gilbert and Hilda King.”

“Since you’re here, why don’t you sit for a minute. I have a question.”

“And I likely have the answer.” She sat down on the folding chair facing Jane.

“It’s about Avi.”

“Of course it is. What is it this time?”

“Are you suggesting that Avi constantly presents me with problems?”

“Yes.”

“Well, this one is a whopper.”

“I shall brace myself.”

“She wants to have a baby.”

Cordelia shrieked, then hooted.

Jane waited for more. “That’s all you’ve got to say?”

“I thought my response was quite eloquent.”

“You think it’s a bad idea.”

“Duh.”

“Why?”

“Why? How does she intend to support this child? Oh, I see. That’s your job.”

“No, she thinks she’ll make good money as a writer. She’ll hire a nanny.”

Another shriek. “Does that woman live on the same planet that we do? Okay. Let’s take this slowly, one question at a time. Are you on board with this? I mean, are you even considering signing on with Avi and child?”

Jane shook her head. “But what worries me is that, whether or not I’m part of the equation, she’s still full steam ahead. She believes firmly that a child will fill a void in her life that nothing else can.”

“I’m not going to argue how much the love of a child can bring to your life, but it’s not for the faint of heart, for heavy drinkers, or for starving artists—not if your primary goal is the happiness and safety of the kid. If you start out thinking that the kid is there to do something for you … you’re already ass backwards. Feel free to quote me.”

“So give me some advice. If it were you, what would you say to her?”

“One little phrase: ‘Good-bye and good luck.’” Looking as if she wasn’t completely sure that Jane was convinced, she added, “Listen to Auntie Cordelia. It is not your responsibility in life to make everyone happy.”

“I know that.”

“Do you? Earth to Jane? If you want to be nice, tell her it’s her dream, not yours, and you want no part of it. And then run. Fast. Now.” She rose regally from the chair. “I must attend to other matters. As a parting comment, let me just say this: Refuse to darken the door of any sperm bank and tell Avi to do the same.”

Jane muttered to herself as she finished her Red Bull, nursing it, not really wanting to brave the third crime scene, but knowing she couldn’t leave loose ends. She also needed to get back to her office in time to clean herself up a little before Woodson arrived. Slinging a messenger bag over her shoulder, she took the elevator up to the third floor. As she came through the theater on her way backstage, she saw that the new curtain was about to be installed.

Cordelia and Octavia had argued, of course, about the color. Octavia wanted a bright red-orange. Cordelia insisted on a wine red or, failing that, a rich royal blue. Since they were at an impasse, and Jane was the third person on the board—the tiebreaker—she chose the color she liked best, the blue. She was glad to see that it went so beautifully with the gilded ceiling, the chandeliers, and the lovely pastel colors on the plaster carvings around the stage.

Pushing through a curtain, she ducked backstage and walked briskly to the dressing room along the rear wall. Once inside, she took out a flashlight and slipped sideways through the opening in the bookcase, making her way carefully down the wooden stairs to the murder room. Washing the flashlight beam over the interior, she saw that the trunk had been removed. She set her bag down, slipped on a pair of latex gloves, and began her search. The walls came first. She felt ridiculously Sherlock Holmesian when she used a magnifying glass, but it remained a good tool, even if it was low tech.

Once again, she understood that it was unlikely she’d find anything. After examining all four walls, she was about to get down on her hands and knees to inspect the floor when she heard the sound of footsteps. Backing up, she hit the wall as the beam of a flashlight hit her square in the eyes, blinding her.

Twisting her head away, she demanded, “Who’s there?”

“It’s just me,” came a familiar voice. Red turned the flashlight on his face, which helped her identify him, but also made him look like a ghoul. “What are you doing in here?” he asked mildly.

“Building an intercontinental ballistic missile,” said Jane, trying to dislodge her heart from her throat. “You scared me.” Didn’t this guy have anything else to do but prowl around?

“You need a hand with anything?”

“No. Thanks.”

“Okay. If you change your mind, you know where to find me.” With that, he walked off. Moments later, she heard a door close. And then the unmistakable sound of a running faucet started up again. Why couldn’t Cordelia have bought herself a nice, new, unhaunted theater somewhere in the boring burbs?

Easing down on all fours, Jane began running her flashlight beam across the cracks in the floorboards. She was almost done when she found something odd. Scooting over to her messenger bag, she removed a pair of tweezers, then moved back and carefully eased a folded piece of paper out of the crack. Holding the flashlight in her mouth, she opened it. When she saw what it was, she felt a pure adrenaline rush.

It took a few more seconds for the dread to set in.

*   *   *

“That’s … quite a costume,” said Daniel Woodson, smiling at Cordelia. “You always seem to find the most … unusual … clothing. Makes me feel like I’m at my senior prom. I think my palms are even sweating.” He’d taken a seat on the uncomfortable Savonarola chair in Cordelia’s office. “You know, this feels good. I don’t think I’ve even cracked a smile all week.”

Jane, who was half sitting, half leaning against a red lacquered trunk, thanked Woodson for coming. In person, he looked years younger than he had on TV. She asked him what he did for a living—what the “Dr.” in front of his name meant.

“I’m a cardiothoracic surgeon,” he said.

“You’re a heart doctor,” said Cordelia. “One of the premier heart doctors in the great state of Minnesota.”

“At the moment, I’m hiding out,” he added. “After that press conference this morning, the phone at my office has been ringing off the hook. Same with my cell. I can’t go home because my house is surrounded by camera crews and reporters. I keep thinking this is all a dream and that I’m going to wake up.”

Jane gave him a few seconds. “Are you okay with answering a few questions?”

“Sure, that’s why I’m here. If you’re trying to figure out what’s going on, I want to help.”

“Where did you meet Jordan?” asked Jane.

“At a party. Since we both love golf, we got to talking. A few days later, he called and we played nine holes. And then we had dinner. I guess you could say that our relationship took off from there.”

“Cookies?” said Cordelia brightly, waving her hand over the plate of Russian tea cakes on her desk.

“Um, no thanks,” said Woodson. “I don’t have much of an appetite.”

“This may not be a cookie kind of conversation,” said Jane.

“Really?” murmured Cordelia, fingering the glass beads at her throat as she glanced longingly at the plate.

“Did Jordan ever talk about his family?” asked Jane.

“Oh, sure, constantly. For want of a better term, he called them his ‘circle,’ since they weren’t all, strictly speaking, related.”

When Cordelia thought nobody was looking, she inched the cookie plate closer and tapped one off into her lap. Palming it, she lifted it to her lips and took a nibble, smiling innocently until she saw Jane watching her.

“From what you said this morning,” continued Jane, “it seemed to me that you believe one of them is responsible for his murder.”

“I do.”

“Who’s at the top of the list?”

“Well, at first, I assumed it had to be Tommy Prior. He’s been so sullen, so angry with Jordan, and so erratic because of the drinking. I thought he’d finally snapped. I figured that he knew Jordan was seeing someone and that it was serious, so he bought himself a gun and made his plans.”

“But you’ve changed your mind?” asked Cordelia, wiping a telltale crumb off the side of her mouth.

He drew in a breath. “As I said before, I’m not a fan of DePetro, but in this instance, it seems to me that Kit did have the most compelling motive.”

“The divorce,” said Jane.

“Not just the divorce, but everything that came along with it.”

“Such as?”

“Jordan’s need to be honest with his fans about who he was, which meant Kit’s willingness to participate in Jordan’s sham life would’ve come out. And then, tangentially, her sex life would be out there on the table, fodder for tabloids. Think about it. All the fraudulent interviews. The fake husband-and-wife photographs. I don’t care how she tries to shape-shift it, those would be huge admissions for a woman who’s been out there peddling the ‘Deere family values’ for years.”

“You know, I think this is a cookie kind of conversation,” said Cordelia, snatching another Russian tea cake, this time openly, and taking a defiant bite.

“Tell me,” said Jane. “Other than Kit, is there anyone else in the family you think could be responsible?”

“Beverly Elliot,” he said without hesitation. “Jordan made it clear that Beverly never liked him. I don’t honestly think it was Jordan she disliked as much as it was the fact that Kit would never even consider her as a possible lover and life partner. Believe me, I understand those feelings. I was in love with my best friend in high school. I knew he was completely oblivious to how I felt, and it hurt like hell. Whoever Kit’s husband was would have been a target of Beverly’s hostility.”

“You think she hated him enough to murder him?”

“Let me clarify: I don’t think she would have committed murder simply because she hated Jordan, but more specifically because of what he was about to do to Kit. From what I understand, she’s always been fiercely loyal to Kit, and I also believe, deeply in love with her. Apparently Kit has amazing charisma, or charm, or whatever you want to call it. At heart, I believe she’s shown herself to be a good, generous, warmhearted woman. But she can also be selfish and imperious.”

“Nothing wrong with imperious,” mumbled Cordelia.

“I think Beverly, if she is guilty,” continued Woodson, “might have been trying to prevent what she considered a greater tragedy than Jordan’s death.”

“Last Saturday night,” said Jane. “The night Jordan left his house and didn’t return. Can I assume he stayed with you?”

“Yes, he did.”

“You picked him up from the Heidelberg marina?”

“That’s right. I live near there.”

“Your car is black? An Audi?”

“A black Lexus. Boy, you’ve done your homework.”

“Can I also assume that Jordan kept some clothes at your house? That’s why he had on different clothing on Sunday morning.”

He nodded.

“So, how did that work? Did he take your car to Bayview Park?”

“No, I dropped him off. He said to give him an hour, that he’d meet me back in the parking lot. I drove into town, did some errands. By the time I got back, the lot was filled with police cars and medical vans. They weren’t letting anyone in or out. I asked one of the officers what was going on, but he didn’t have any information. I couldn’t find Jordan anywhere and I started to get this sick feeling in my stomach. I waited around until the police began directing traffic away from the site, so I was forced to leave. I called his cell over and over, but never got him. I assumed he’d left the park and somehow made his way back to his house, that he’d been swallowed up by his family problems and couldn’t find a moment to get away to call me. It wasn’t like him, but it was the only explanation I could come up with. That evening, when I was listening to the local TV news, I found out what happened.”

“How awful for you,” said Cordelia.

Woodson swallowed hard.

“Are you up for one final question?” asked Jane.

“Sure.”

“Before Jordan’s death, did he receive any notes, possibly on typing paper, with the letters of his name—or part of his name—printed in the center?”

“How could you possibly know that?” he asked, looking stunned. “Yes, he did. Every few days. And with each note he received, one more letter was missing. There was always a little black crow drawn at the bottom. Jordan hated crows. Or, more accurately, I think he was terrified of them.”

“Why?” asked Cordelia.

“He told me that when he was a kid, he was outside playing one afternoon when several crows started dive-bombing him. They flew at him and flew at him, pecking and cawing and flapping. He has a scar, right next to his eye, where one of the beaks connected with his face. Later in life, he said he assumed that a crow baby was probably on the ground and that they were trying to protect it, trying to chase him off. But that attack made a big impression on a small boy.”

“Heavens,” said Cordelia. “A true Alfred Hitchcock moment.”

“Do you remember when Jordan received the last note?” asked Jane.

“Saturday afternoon. He had it with him and showed it to me on Saturday night. In fact, he’d brought the entire folder of notes with him. He’d saved every one.”

“Did you ever show them to the police?”

“Sure did. DePetro looked them over, didn’t say much. I got the impression he thought someone was having a little fun with Jordan.”

“What did the last note say?”

“Just the letter ‘J.’”

“And the next day Jordan died.”

“You think it’s connected? Because, I have to tell you, it was really starting to bother him. Jordan was superstitious—especially about the crows. He said it felt like it was some sort of hex.”

“Excuse me,” said Red.

Everyone turned to look.

Rubbing his hands down the sides of his overalls, he said, “Cordelia? I’m leaving in a few minutes. I wanted to tell you that I’ve found two guys I want to hire as maintenance staff. Do you want to see their résumés?”

“Just hire them,” said Cordelia. “Make sure they stop off at the business office and fill out the necessary forms.”

“Will do. Hi, Jane,” said Red, smiling a bit sheepishly. And then he nodded to Woodson.

“You look so familiar,” said Woodson. “Mr.—”

“Red,” he said. “Call me Red.”

“Have we met?”

“Not that I recall. Well, I’m off. Sorry about the interruption.”

“Huh,” said Woodson, shaking his head as Red shuffled away. “That guy is so familiar. Drives me crazy when I can’t place a face.”

Jane found herself staring at the spot where Red had been standing. Staring and … wondering.