HE STOPPED OUTSIDE the door and stared at the opaque windows. From the voices and music inside, he knew the bar was still open. Half disappointed, half now having to prepare himself. Maybe he really should go back to the house. But he needed to know more about her. But this way? He didn’t have a lot of acting experience, midsize parts in a couple of mid-level plays, and the commedia stuff—he could hardly come into Thor’s as Arlechino, servant, trickster, clown. Had to find a better way. Susanna was remarkable. How did she feel about him? Even if the situation was crazy. Kidnapping. No getting around that. And going into Thor’s now, asking questions about Susanna—no, talking to her friends, learning about them to get a better sense of her.
He could just talk to Susanna in the morning. He’d ask her . . . He suddenly discovered he was afraid. Of Susanna? No, of Susanna and him. How deeply she electrified him. He’d had his share of fuck-buddies and three of them had been serious affairs; they wanted him in the forever way. He’d had the good sense to back off—he didn’t want any of them outside the sex. And he’d heard sex, no matter how good at the start, deteriorated after a few hundred times with the same woman. Deteriorated. What a notion. It disgusted him.
But this with Susanna, whom he barely knew, this felt different. One kiss and he knew. By giving her that dress, he’d shot their—whatever it was, relationship?—way out of the stratosphere. He had to know more about her, and not just from her. Where she fit into the world. If he knew what surrounded her normally, he’d have a better sense of this woman he—admit it, Fredric—was falling in love with. Maybe going to jail for kidnapping. Which could not be undone. If he just released her, went with her to the Sheriff, explained? He’d have to talk to her first. He’d have to give up Raoul. Their years of real camaraderie, dumped.
Okay, go into this place or go home. But home was a rented house chosen only because it had a basement room that could be locked up. Bit of construction work and they’d created a cell in the cellar. Raoul’s joke, shit. He pushed open the door to Thor’s.
A warm feel to the place. Lights low. At the back of the room, the bar with some stools. One occupied by a woman in jeans talking to the bartender. A dozen tables, some for two, some for a group. Candles on each. Only one table in use, a bunch of noisy drinkers sitting around, four candles. Fredric walked to the bar and sat on a stool two away from the woman. Late twenties, Fredric guessed. The bartender said to the woman, “Excuse me,” and sidled over to Fredric. “What’ll it be, sir?”
“Stoli on the rocks, please. You got peppercorns?”
The bartender smiled. “Only for the cognoscenti.”
“Can you put six out? I’ll choose the four I want.”
“At last someone comes in who knows how to drink vodka.”
The woman looked over. “’At shounds good, make me ’un too.”
“Janey, you’ve had it for tonight. I’ll call you a cab.”
“Aw, c’mon, Thor, ownee wun.”
Thor’s hands were working, ice in glass, vodka over. A little plate, a jar of peppercorns, a spoon, eight corns on the plate which he slid to Fredric. “A larger choice for a true gentleman.”
“Hey, t’ue gennemun, buy me a vodka.”
Fredric smiled at her, then selected the four—make it the five—largest peppercorns and dropped them into his glass. Lots of laughter from the table behind him. He watched Thor press a coded number on his cell and a moment later say, “One, a lady, ready to go.”
“Aw, Thor—”
Thor watched Fredric sip his vodka. “Where’d you learn about peppercorns?”
Fredric remembered. Raoul. “A friend. Who picked up the taste for it from a woman who’d lived in Vladivostock.” He raised his glass. “Dasvedanya, Thor.”
Thor glanced at his watch and said to Fredric, “I guess it’s late enough.” He reached for another glass, more ice, the Stolichnaya bottle, poured a healthy double, dumped a dozen peppercorns into his palm, chose eight, into the glass, the other corns back into the jar. “Dasvedanya. What’s your name?” He sipped. “Good.”
Janey said, “Be good guy, a teensy ’un f’me.”
Must’ve been a really good joke back there, from the roar. “Name’s Frank.”
“Welcome, Frank.” And to Janey, “Look, kiddo, here’s your cab.” He came around from behind the bar, took the woman’s arm, led her to the door, opened it.
The woman cabbie was already up the steps to help her away. Fredric heard her say, “Easy does it, Janey—” The door closed. Thor locked it. He came and sat on a stool beside Fredric. “You new here? Haven’t seen you before.”
“Just arrived.”
“What brings you to Friday Harbor?”
“A month to myself. I’ll be painting.” Fredric had known he’d be getting questions like this. “Maybe some salmon fishing too.”
“Come to the right place, Frank.”
“Recommend a skipper who’d take me out?”
“Sure, couple of guys are real good. I’ve got their cards behind the bar.”
“Great.” Fredric raised his glass, touched it to Thor’s. “Wonder if there’s somebody you might know; my cousin’s friend told me to look her up. Susanna Rossini.”
“Susanna.”
“Yeah. Trent told me she comes in here sometimes.”
“That’s right. She does.”
“Was she in tonight?”
“Nope. Haven’t seen her in a while. But she’s a regular.”
“Well, I’ll try some other time. Know where she lives?”
Thor’s face twisted, one eye squinting, as if in explorative thought. He shook his head. “Can’t say I do.”
But Fredric had seen—and done—enough bad acting to recognize a lie. Better stop pushing. He sipped again.
A man in his late twenties got up from the raucous table and stood across from Thor. “You looking for Susanna Rossini?”
“Yeah. Know where I could find her?”
“Who’re you?”
“Name’s Frank Leger. Who’re you?”
“Jordan Beck. You know Susanna?”
“Nope. Know her cousin’s friend Trent. He went to the same school she did, told me if I got to San Juan Island, I should look her up. I’m here, and I’m looking.”
“Hey, if you know her cousin, then you’re practically a member of Thor’s family. Come have a drink with us. We’re celebrating.”
Thor shook his head. “I’m closing up, Jordan.”
“Hey, it’s not every day that I find out I got my master’s degree. Come on man, have a drink with us.”
Thor scowled, as fake a grimace as Fredric’s sense of his head twisting moments earlier. All good natured but so transparent. “Okay, guys, but it’s the last round.” He headed for the bar.
“Two pitchers!” called Jordan. “On my tab!”
Thor turned. “Another Stoli?”
Fredric nodded, and followed Jordan to the table. Beck introduced Frank Leger to Tom, a tall man about Fredric’s age with lank blond hair, his arm around a beauty with long brown hair, in a halter top, Sara. “Good to meetcha, Frank, yer cute.” Then Spider Jester, “Really my name, man, no jokes, and this is Raina; anything you need in town, she can find it for you. She’s with the Chamber and knows this place better’n anybody.” Raina’s short black hair glowed in the steady candlelight. Jordan said, “Frank’s been asking about Susanna, because he’s a friend of Susanna’s cousin Trent, and Trent was at Reed with Susanna.”
“Hey, Frank,” said Spider, “welcome to the party. Jordan’s just passed his last hurdle, gonna be a real writer.”
“Congrats, Jordan.” He raised his near-empty glass and sipped. Jordan pulled a chair up to the table between Sara and Raina. They made room for it.
Fredric sat. “Actually, I’m a friend of Susanna’s cousin’s friend, Trent. All of you know Susanna?”
“Yep,” said Tom, “except Sara.”
“Hey, I met her.”
“Did you?”
“Bit too snooty f’me,” said Sara.
“C’mon,” said Spider, “Susanna’s great. Bee-yu-ti-full, and real smart, and funny.”
“What he says,” said Tom, his arm pulling Sara tighter to him.
Thor arrived with two pitchers of beer, another Stoli, twelve peppercorns, and set the lot on the table.
Jordan grabbed another chair. “Thor, join us, you gotta!”
Thor sighed as if in mental anguish and said, “Yeah, okay. But we’re closed.”
Raina gave a little squeal. “A private party!” They all laughed.
Is this what I wanted to learn, thought Fredric.
Jordan started telling “Frank” the story of having come across his thesis director, Peter Langley, here at the bar about an hour ago.
“Third time around?” asked Tom, and Raina said, “I’ve heard this one,” and from Sara, “Could tell it m’self,” and the women went to the washroom.
Jordan continued to Frank, “So it was only this evening that I learned I’d passed and with high honors. And it was your friend Trent’s cousin Susanna who helped me, did a lot of critiquing and got me onto the right path. She’s really smart.”
Fredric believed Jordan. Yet she hangs out with these people. Except she’d called them boring, said she was going to stop spending time with them. He sipped his vodka and glanced around the table. Actually they didn’t seem too bad—just too much beer all around. Except for the beauty, Sara. She seemed severely powder-brained.
Jordan was still speaking about Susanna: “. . . knows a lot about a lot. She reads all the time, makes notes, remembers. She’s really wonderful.”
Fredric watched Jordan’s lips curve up in a private smile. He sipped his vodka.
“I like her a lot,” said Jordan. “Too bad.”
“What’s too bad?” His vodka was draining. Time to go.
“She’s a little young for me.”
And what did he mean by that? But before he could ask, he realized Raina was back beside him. “Don’t I know you from somewhere, Frank?”
Think, think! He made his face look like he was thinking: lips squeezed together, brow furling. Ah! “You’re at the Chamber of Commerce, right?”
“Right.”
“I was in a few days ago. To get some brochures. You gave me a bunch of stuff about the island. The American Camp. The English Camp.”
Raina nodded slowly. “That must have been it.”
Just what she handed out to everybody, Fredric figured. He finished his vodka. Where could she know him from? Probably didn’t. Just making conversation, trying to save him from Jordan’s puffery. He turned to Thor and started to stand. “Gotta go, Thor. Want to settle up.”
Jordan grabbed “Frank” by the elbow. “Never mind. Thor, put it on my tab.”
Fredric stood fully and turned so Jordan’s hand would fall from his arm. “Nope, this is your party. I just wanted to toast your success.”
Jordan shrugged. “I just wanted to buy Susanna’s cousin’s friend a drink.”
Fredric touched Jordan’s shoulder. “It’s the intention that counts. Congratulations.” He followed Thor to the bar, paid, said good night.
Thor handed him a couple of business cards. “Two good salmon charters.”
“Thanks.” Fredric took them and headed for the door. Nearly there, he turned to the table. “G’night, everybody.”
“Noel!” Kyra, pajama-clad and barefooted, rushed down the stairs, S&W revolver in hand. “What’s happening?!”
“I don’t know. Asleep in the kitchen, huge noise—”
“In your room?”
“Open, or close the smoke in there—?”
“Quick. Water, whatever buckets, the dishpan—”
They ran to the kitchen, found three mixing bowls, the compost bucket, dishpan. Turned on the water. So slow. So slow.
Noel to the bathroom, remembering a metal wastebasket, yes! Set it in the bathtub, turned both faucets, more water, faster—come on! He grabbed a towel and soaked it, wastebasket full; he grabbed it, fumbled off the faucets, pushed the bedroom door open, towel over his face. Smoke roiled out, he leapt aside, then into the bedroom!
Curtains and bedding, burning. Large patches of smoke. He tossed his load of water at the flaming bed and instantly noted it was raining from the ceiling. Kyra now behind him with a mixing bowl in each hand, water onto the curtains. Noel back to the bathroom, wiping his face with the towel and draping it over his shoulders, refilling the waste basket and Kyra’s compost bucket. Now the mixing bowls, back and forth. Fill, throw, everything dripping. His container spilled puddles as he ran down the hall, Kyra lunging toward him, back to the bedroom. She had swung open a window and the smoke was thinning as it got sucked out into the night. And the rain continued—a sprinkler system! He poured water onto a smoldering stuffed chair and looked around. More water into his open suitcase, his extra T-shirt, socks and jockey shorts charred. Little local flame centers and he poured water on half of them, beat at the others with his wet towel till they were out.
He stepped back and surveyed the damage, water still sprinkling from the ceiling. Whatever genius had installed the ceiling sprinklers saved the house—however the fire had started, it hadn’t gotten hot enough to spread to the wood or the walls. The mattress and bedding were gone, and the curtains.
Kyra came back with more water and glanced about. “How the hell did this start?”
“Dunno—I was asleep in the kitchen—”
“Good thing or you might’ve got burned—”
“But how? Spontaneous combustion?”
“Ha ha.” She walked over to the window. “I remember I saw this.”
“What?”
“When I shoved open the window, I thought there was a hole in it. Yep,” she touched a shard of glass, “someone must have thrown in whatever started the fire.”
“The noise I heard. Not an empty threat, then.” He stared at her. “I can’t believe it. Somebody attacking us—?”
“Looks that way.”
He sighed. “Call the fire department, the Sheriff.” He stared into his sodden suitcase. “Guess I need some new underwear.” A thought occurred to him and he stepped quickly over to the closet, opened it, and let out a sigh of relief. On hangers, an extra pair of slacks and a shirt, his jacket, runners. “Good thing I’m so neat.” He sniffed at them. “They’ll air out.” He opened his suitcase. “Oh, damn!” He pulled out the sodden underwear. Beneath it, his cell phone. He turned it on, waited. Yes, a signal. More relief. “You have the Sheriff’s business card?”
“Slow down. You’re bouncing all over the place.”
“I am?” He shrugged his shoulders in small exaggerated lurches. “Yeah, maybe. I could’ve been in the room, you know.” More shrugging. “I think maybe that vodka-tonic saved my life. If I hadn’t fallen asleep out there . . .” He shoved the phone into his pocket.
“I’ll go find that card.” Kyra went up to her room.
Noel evaluated the bedroom again. Probably he should just get out of here, not contaminate the crime scene. Except all that water had done it already. Well, leave it to the Sheriff. Back to the kitchen. On the table, incongruously, Kyra’s pistol. He picked up his tipped glass, then tore off some paper towels to dry the spilled drink.
Kyra back down the stairs, changed from pajamas to jeans and a blouse, was already talking on her phone. “Okay,” she said, and closed it up. “He’ll be here soon. We should stay out of your bedroom.”
“Right.” He sat at the table behind his still-open computer and tapped the space bar. What had he been reading about? Didn’t matter. Now the important issue was, what would they tell Coltrane about the phone threat? Probably the truth. And about the case they’d finished working on? That’d bring in Peter, and Jordan Beck. Or tell him nothing about their work? Which would create the same difficulties for Coltrane as Larry had, tying the hands of the investigators. Or the same as Peter had for them. He said this to Kyra.
“A quandary.” She clicked her tongue.
But Noel had already decided. “No, we better tell him. Especially since we concluded that Beck didn’t plagiarize.”
“Fine by me.” She thought about it and let out a giggle. “I’m just trying to imagine the Sheriff’s reaction. It does sound absurd, a threat and a firebomb to drive us away from a case of academic plagiarism.”
“Oh god, Kyra!” Noel stood up quickly. “We have to tell Peter about this; he’s responsible for the house.” He called, glanced at the time. 12:35. Peter answered. “Hi, it’s Noel and I know it’s late and . . . Oh, glad you weren’t asleep. Listen, there’s been a fire here . . .” He explained it all. Peter would be right over. He closed his phone and then his computer. No need to tell the world about the complex materials he’d been reading.
Sheriff Coltrane arrived first, followed minutes later by the Undersheriff, Charlie Taunton, nearly bald, short, bushy eyebrows, handlebar mustache, solid shoulders, wearing a black T-shirt, white jeans and sandals without socks. A fireplug of a man. “Charlie, you better take a look at the bedroom.”
“You want me to hear out these two first?”
“I’ll do that. Just get a good sense of the room and the fire. Look carefully for any piece of an incendiary device.”
“Gotcha.” Taunton headed off for the bedroom. To Noel, his Gotcha sounded like, Don’t teach your grandmother to suck eggs.
Coltrane said to Noel and Kyra, “What can you tell me?”
Noel explained: he’d been asleep at the kitchen table, the explosion—
Sheriff Coltrane said, “Hold on, step back a minute. Now, before you fell asleep, did anything seem strange or different to you?”
Sure, a Dream Visualizer. “Like what?”
“You hear or see anything unusual?”
Noel thought. “No.”
“Any sense of how long you were asleep at the table?”
He’d looked at his watch: quarter to twelve. He’d called Peter at 12:35. Maybe fifteen minutes to get the fire out? “Maybe half an hour.”
“You, Kyra? Anything strange?”
She shook her head. “I was out five minutes after I went upstairs, around 10:30.”
“Okay.” Turning back to Noel: “So you woke up and heard the explosion?”
“No. I think the explosion woke me.” He elaborated his and Kyra’s actions.
A loud knock on the door, then it swung inward and Peter Langley stepped through. He strode toward them. “Noel—thank god you’re okay.”
“We’re fine, Peter.”
“I should’ve taken you more seriously. It’s maybe my fault that this happened.”
Sheriff Coltrane said, “Who are you and what’s your fault?”
“Oh, sorry. Peter Langley—I teach at Morsely. I’m responsible for Noel’s and Kyra’s presence; I hired them for an investigation, and I—”
“Wait a minute. You hired these two?”
“Yes, and then they were threatened with harm if they didn’t stop poking around.”
Coltrane shifted his gaze from Noel to Kyra. “You were threatened? You get lots of threats?”
Noel caught Kyra’s eye. “No,” she said, “we don’t get threats.”
“So wasn’t getting a threat in fact strange or different?”
“You were talking about just before the explosion,” Noel said.
“Who threatened you?”
“A voice on the telephone.”
“Saying what?”
“To get off the case. Leave the island or someone I care for gets hurt.”
“The case Professor Langley hired you to look into?”
“Yes,” said Kyra.
“What’s the case about?”
Noel looked at Peter, who said to Coltrane, “Can this remain confidential?”
“Depends what this is.”
“A sensitive case in the English Department. Which is now no longer an issue.”
“I suppose if it’s not an issue, there’s no reason to broadcast it.”
Peter described his concern that a student had plagiarized a thesis. “But Noel and Kyra convinced me he likely hadn’t, and I’ve just talked to him this evening, and now I’m certain he didn’t. And—Oh, damn!”
“What?” Kyra and Coltrane simultaneously.
“Maybe someone started the fire because they thought you were still on the case because of my conversation with—the student. Noel, I’m sorry—”
“Hang on.” The Sheriff held up both hands, palms toward Peter. “Let’s take things one at a time. Noel, when did the threatening call come in?”
“Mid afternoon, maybe 3:00 or 3:30.”
“And Professor Langley, when did you speak to the student?”
“Around midnight. We met accidentally at Thor’s.”
“How long you talk for?”
“Ten or fifteen minutes.”
“So the student was with you at the time of the fire. And unless you saw him tell someone right then to attack Mr. Franklin—”
“You’re right. Thank you.”
The Undersheriff stuck his head out of the burned bedroom. “Marc, you wanna take a look at this.”
The Sheriff stood up. “Don’t go way, I’ll be right back.” He headed for the bedroom.
“So,” Noel said to Peter, “what made you so convinced Beck didn’t plagiarize?”
Peter explained about the woman friend who’d served as editor. “And here’s a small world for you—she’s Larry Rossini’s daughter.”
“Ah,” said Noel, and Kyra, “Oh.” They both noted the Undersheriff head out the front door.
“Actually, Beck’s worried about her. He’d been in regular touch with her for the last few months, till about three weeks ago. Hasn’t been able to contact her, doesn’t know where she’s gone to. I said I’d go with him tomorrow to speak with Larry.”
Three quick thoughts in Kyra’s mind: inevitable that someone would find Susanna’s absence strange; Beck should be kept out of this; use this concern about Susanna to convince Rossini to let Kyra and Noel investigate more openly.
A quick major thought came to Noel: connect the dots! Only an investigation into a crime as large as kidnapping was worth making threats about and throwing a firebomb into a house. But that had happened before they took on the case. It made no sense.
Kyra said, “Listen, Peter. If you want to help assuage Beck’s disquiet about Susanna, keep him out of it. Go talk to Larry by yourself. No, we’ll go with you.”
Peter wrinkled his brow. “Well, uhm, sure. But why not bring Jordan?”
“Might upset Larry.”
“By doing what?”
“Peter,” Noel came in, “you’ll have to trust us on this.”
“But I don’t understand—”
The Sheriff returned. “What don’t you understand?”
Peter shook his head. “Not important.”
Coltrane looked at them, then shrugged. “We’re going to cordon off that bedroom.”
“I need my clothes,” said Noel.
“Charlie’ll bring you everything that’s in there, soon as he’s finished checking outside. You can’t stay in the house; it’s off-limits now. We’ll get some tape around the outside window. Stay away from there too. We’ll get to it in the morning, when there’s light. Professor Langley, I’ll copy my report to the university. I presume you’ll do the same to me.”
Noel said, “There’re two perfectly good bedrooms upstairs.”
“Danger of contaminating the scene. You should be able to get a room somewhere in Friday Harbor. I can call around for you.”
“Okay,” said Kyra. “I’ll go pack.” She headed for the stairs.
Peter said, “The department can probably pay for a room.”
Kyra turned. “We’ll need two.”
Charlie came back. “All taped off, Marc.”
“You wanna bring out Mr. Franklin’s belongings, Charlie.”
“Yeah. Sure.” Which sounded to Noel as if Charlie had said, What am I, the valet? He opened the door and entered the soaking room.
Noel said, “I need plastic garbage bags.” He headed for the kitchen. His suitcase would be useless. He’d have to tell Kyra quickly about his new sense of the threat.
Peter followed. “They’re in this cupboard.” He pointed.
“Two for clean clothes, another for the wet, ruined stuff. A washer and dryer might save some of it.”
“I’ve got both.”
Coltrane pressed a preselected number into his phone. He talked. He broke the connection. Another number. Same response. A third. “Good. Thanks.” He headed for the kitchen. “I’ve found you one room. Queen bed. Would that work?”
Noel shook his head. “No.”
“Just for what’s left of the night. Should be more available tomorrow.”
Peter said, “Kyra can stay there. Noel, I’ve got a guest room you can use.”
“I don’t want to impose—”
Kyra arrived with her suitcase. “Sounds like a plan.”
“Thank you, Peter,” said the Sheriff. “If you take Noel with you, I can drop Kyra. It’s at Friday Harbor House.”
“I’ve got my car,” said Noel.
Peter said, “Let Kyra use it. In the morning, I can get you where she’ll be staying.”
Kyra said, “Thanks, Peter.”
The door to Noel’s onetime bedroom opened and Charlie appeared, pushing the sodden suitcase. “There’s more stuff in the closet.”
Noel handed him two green bags. “Put it in here, please.”
Charlie went back into the bedroom. Noel shifted the wet clothes from suitcase to bag. Peter examined the suitcase. “I think this can be saved.”
“It’s a goner. I don’t want to put any clothing in there again.”
The Undersheriff returned and handed Noel the bags. “That’s all of it.”
The Sheriff eased the group to the front door, and out. “Follow me and I’ll guide you to the inn, introduce you.”
Noel gave Kyra the keys to the Honda. “Drive carefully and call me when you’re in your room.”
“I’ll be fine, don’t worry.”
He put his hand on her forearm, squeezed, said, “Call me.”
“Okay.” She closed the door, started the engine, watched the Sheriff’s unmarked Ford’s lights come on. It moved forward; she followed.
Toni deBourg lay on her back, staring at the dark ceiling. She and Larry had made love a third time, she’d drifted into sleep, then for some dream reason out of sleep again. If Larry’s Visualizer could see her dreams, what surprises it would show him. She shifted her right side closer, touching him gently. Knowing she would actually see the Visualizer tomorrow was like the excitement of a young girl, having met her first love, waiting and waiting till the love could be consummated. She knew almost everything about it; Larry had laid out its possibilities at the pre-conference, and he’d explained parts of the process to her privately. But he’d always kept the hardware and the algorithms well concealed. Now she’d broken his refusal to let her see it in action.
She sensed him stir, his hand crossed her stomach. He didn’t wake. She and Larry Rossini, what would become of them? In the near future? Likely not a distant future.
Small but well appointed, Kyra’s room—a sensible brown armchair, a solid calming mattress, bedside tables on both sides with lamps, a chest of drawers, a tiny bathroom, curtains over the windows; she’d pulled them apart when she first came in, saw the nighttime harbor dimly lit. More romantic than threatening. Yes, Noel was worried about her. As she was about him. The threat had been phrased strangely, against someone he cared for. Then the threatener had attacked Noel himself. Had whoever had thrown the firebomb known whose bedroom lay behind that particular window? Or did he or she have a sense of the guesthouse layout? Known it before or been inside while she and Noel were out? It would’ve been harder to toss the bomb through a second-storey window. She saw no logic to any of this, not the form of the threat, nor even why a threat should be made against their dealing with Langley’s case.
Maybe the threat wasn’t because of the Langley case. But what else could it be? Because they’d made themselves obnoxious around Friday Harbor? Outsiders poking in. But into what? They’d barely started to think about Susanna Rossini being kidnapped, so not that. What else? What else?
Time to call Noel. Yes, she was comfortable, two good locks on her door.
“Listen,” Noel blurted, “I had this idea. Maybe the threat and the firebomb have nothing to do with Beck. Maybe we’ve pissed somebody off with something else we did.”
“Yeah, I’ve been thinking the same thing. But what else have we done?”
“Well, lied to a few people about the Beck case.”
“But we’ve already said nobody throws a firebomb in a plagiarism investigation.”
“I know, I know.”
“And it can’t have to do with Rossini, because we haven’t done anything about his daughter.”
“Listen, Kyra. It’s getting late. I want to figure our tactics for meeting Rossini tomorrow. With Peter present.”
“We shouldn’t let him come with us,” she said, forgetting it was her idea.
“It’s more like our going with him. He wants information about Susanna for Jordan Beck.”
“So why not let him go alone?”
“Because we can use the pressure his visit will provide. Convince Larry to let us ask people directly about Susanna, we’ll be way ahead.”
Kyra thought about this. “Good. I push, you comfort Rossini.”
“Yeah,” he said, “our usual roles.”
“You want to reverse?”
“No, we do it well this way. G’night.”
“See you tomorrow.”
At 1:40 she turned off the lights. If the threat was really against Noel, would he be safe at Peter’s? Whoever had thrown the bomb, would that person know Noel had moved? Had he been watching the house when Peter and Noel drove away? Or had someone followed the Sheriff and the Honda here and was planning violence against her? The questions whirled in her brain. Sleep wasn’t coming. She had to relax.
She turned the bedside light back on, got out of bed and reopened her suitcase. She took out the leather case holding her juggling balls. Maybe they’d help her unwind now. Sometimes she’d juggle specific factors, give each ball a value or a name, see which would be the first to drop, like in college when she’d been dating four guys at the same time. Most often she’d keep the balls more abstract, their patterns of movement in the air perhaps creating trails of associations she couldn’t otherwise see or feel. She opened the case and poured the balls onto the bedsheet, six of them, each a dull red. Changed her mind, returned two. First up, quickly the second. Noel safe, Noel in danger. A third, Peter Langley, making Noel safer, imperiling him, making no difference. A fourth, Sheriff Marc, a factor, not a factor. She kept all four in the air for almost two minutes. Not bad. Good to feel her body moving. She caught two in her right hand, two in her left. What had she learned? That she could still juggle. In the old days, when she was trying to quit smoking, juggling had been a great friend. You can’t juggle and light up at the same time. What else had she learned? Damn it, not much.
She got back into bed. She decided to believe that Noel was safe, at least while he stayed at Peter’s.
Thor pushed away from the table. “Okay, that’s it. Time to go.”
“Need your beauty sleep?” asked Spider.
Thor grinned. “You could use some yourself. Pay up and get out.”
Jordan stood and realized his legs weren’t as steady as he liked them to be. He took out his wallet and handed Thor a bank card. “Remember, you said if we went over a hundred you’d give us the wholesale price.” He chuckled.
Sara called, “Hey Thor, whazza rush, not e’en two ’clock yet.”
Raina stared into the middle distance, seeing nothing in the room. She was searching for a location, needed to fit a man to a place . . .
“C’mon, Thor,” Tom said, “thought you opened Thor’s to make money, can’t make money when you’re closed. What kind of a capitalist are you, anyway?”
At the bar, Thor found his card reader, stuck Jordan’s card in and returned to the table. “Here you go.”
Jordan took it, okayed the amount. Nearly three hundred, damn. But worth every penny. Best evening in a long time. He entered his code, repeated the okay, waited, removed the card and handed the reader back to Thor. A few more sips of beer would make his walk to his apartment a whole lot steadier. He sat again, now next to Raina. Sara and Tom were up, looking as if they’d made brand-new plans for the rest of the night. Spider had followed Thor back to the bar and was deep in conversation with him. Jordan turned to Raina, who seemed to be nodding to herself.
She ran her fingers through her hair, swung her head to face Jordan, and grinned. “I know where I’ve seen Frank.”
“At the Chamber, you said.”
“No. He said. He may have seen me there, but I don’t remember. No, ’bout half a mile from my place. The Odlum place.”
Sara and Tom called good night to the room, thanks and congrats to Jordan, and left.
“Mount Dallas Road?”
“Yeah, a two-storey, green I think, just by the big curve where it gets steep.”
“All parts of that road curve and are hilly.”
“Whatever. But that’s where I saw him. Day after I came back from San Francisco. I was surprised ’cause they’re away, musta rented it out.”
“Sure it was him? Frank?”
“Pretty sure. All that curly hair. He was carryin’ a bunch of market bags. Real full, it looked like.”
“So you’re neighbors.”
“Not really.”
“Good lookin’ guy, Frank.”
“Stop it, Jordan. Spider’s my man.”
“Nothin’s forever, Raina.”
“Look, he’s been there a couple of weeks anyway, and I don’t even slow the car when I drive by.”
“Could now, since you’ve been introduced.”
“You’re an anarchist, Jordan.”
“Why’s he an anarchist?” Spider, returning.
“He thinks now that he’s mastered creative writing, he can create stories all over the place.”
Jordan giggled. “Raina, that’s pretty good.”
Thor reached the table. “Come on, kiddies, time for bed. Out you go.”
Jordan finished the last of his beer and stood. “I know when I’m not wanted.”
“Come back any time.” Thor walked Jordan to the door. “Bring your bank card.”
Spider and Raina followed. “Great night, Jordan, thanks. And big huge congratulations.” Spider gave Jordan a small hug.
Raina gave him a larger one. “I may consider your advice.”
Noel felt better after Kyra’s call. A door locked from the inside, a second-floor window without balcony, curtains over. She’d be fine.
Peter, with Noel’s help, had made up the bed in the study, then took all the wet clothes and threw them into the washing machine. He’d found hangers for Noel’s shirt, slacks and jacket, and hung them under cover on the patio. He left the sneakers outside as well. Back in the kitchen, he asked Noel, “A nightcap? It’s been a heavy evening.”
“Good. Something strong but not much of it.”
“A small snifter of cognac.” Peter headed for the living room.
Noel sat at the kitchen table. He felt good about his reaction to the fire. He’d been on top of it, hadn’t panicked. He did feel bad about the damage. Oh well, there’d be insurance; this was a university.
Someone he cared for . . . Surely no one would suspect Peter of being that person. First, he didn’t know if he did care for Peter. Much. And second, if he did, this soon, who would know? But if someone did suspect Peter, had he, Noel, put Peter in danger by agreeing to spend the night?
“Remy Martin. VSOP.” He handed Noel a large snifter with two ounces of deep brown liquid at the bottom.
“Great.” Noel cupped it, stem between middle and ring finger. He swirled the liquid for a few seconds, raised it. “Your health, Peter.”
“And yours.” Peter sat at the table sideways, facing him. “May it remain good.”
They both sipped. Peter clapped his arm on Noel’s shoulder. “Curious how circumstance can create unexpected futures. All I needed was someone to help resolve a small academic situation. You show up and do that. And you’re still here.” He grinned and patted Noel’s other shoulder. “I’m lucky.”
Noel met Peter’s eyes. “I’m lucky too. Lucky not to have been in that room when the firebomb went through the window. Lucky that Kyra was upstairs. Lucky that we’re on another case so quickly. And it’s been very good meeting you, Peter.” Saying too much too quickly?
They sat silently, inspecting each other’s faces. Peter smiled, hugged Noel’s shoulder and took his arm away. Both switched glasses to their other hands. Peter looked away. “So what do we do with our luck?”
“Wait and see, I guess.” But not tonight. His attraction to Peter had to be considered—literally—in the light of day.
It’d taken a couple of weeks, half a dozen dates, before he’d known enough about Brendan to know he wanted to have sex with him. And when decision time came, he felt right about his judgment. Even after several good nights in Brendan’s bed or his, he didn’t feel certain about their living together. That took another six months. Well, this evening wasn’t about his and Peter’s moving in together. But it could be the first step toward complicated circumstances. His smile went sad, “I think we should sleep on that question.”
“Together?”
Too far too fast. His body was telling him one truth, his brain another. He sighed. “Peter, I’m as responsible as you are for letting us get this far. There’s too much to think about here. And right now I’m beat, not much good for anything but sleep. It’s been a long day.”
Peter leaned over and touched his lips to Noel’s. “I understand.” He sipped his cognac. “It’s a beautiful liquid, isn’t it?”
Noel finished his last sip. “Lovely.” He stood. “Thank you for all this, Peter. I’m grateful and happy we met.” He set the snifter on the table. “This has been lovely. Please excuse me before I fall over.”
Peter placed his snifter beside Noel’s, touching. He opened his arms, stepped toward Noel and held him close. “Get some sleep.”
Noel embraced Peter, let his hands drop. “Not even enough energy for a decent hug. Good night.”