1

The flashing cursor on the blank computer screen was like an accusing finger wagging at her. Come on, Jessica, do it. Write something. Anything. She sat gnawing on the cap of her ballpoint pen. Thinking about the meaning of life made her want to bite down hard on something, like a movie cowboy getting a bullet removed without anesthesia. Usually, she went for her fingernails, but she’d sworn off biting her nails last summer when a jagged edge caught on Mayhem’s halter and nearly ripped her fingernail clean off. If only she had as much willpower when it came to her dissertation. Jessica’s hands hovered over the keyboard as she hoped for inspiration. As usual, she had second thoughts. With so many people hurt and hungry, who cared about philosophy? What good did this scholarly crap do anyone?

Maybe her mom was right and she should move back home and get a “real job.” Thinking of her mom stuck in the crummy Alpine Vista trailer park on the backside of nowhere strengthened her resolve. She was going to write this damn dissertation, get her degree, and get a teaching job far away from the boonies of Montana. She tapped her computer awake. At this rate, it could take another decade to finish her dissertation . . . she’d be in her thirties by then. An old lady. She only had one more chapter to write. Why is it so hard to finish this damned thing?

Jessica couldn’t take the intimidating blank screen and the cursor’s shaming flash for another minute, so she shifted her gazed to the colorful bakery case, where vegetable-laden muffins and cakes tempted her to take a break from writing . . . or not writing. One advantage of writing (or not writing) in the café was there was always food and drink, unlike her efficiency apartment, with its pint-size refrigerator filled with moldy cheese and taking up half her closet. And the air-conditioning worked at the café, which wasn’t always true for her apartment. The hottest September on record, and her third-floor walk-up was like a toaster oven. Here, the cool breeze coming from the vent overhead helped keep her awake, despite German philosophy’s best attempts to lull her to sleep.

She thought of Jack, rotting in prison and her heart sank. Poor Jack. He was only trying to free the animals. Sigh. She tapped her pen on the table and tried to concentrate.

From her regular corner table at the Blind Faith Café, the chatter of other customers created a soothing soundtrack for her meditations on philosophy. The smell of carrot juice and tofu was reassuring, and the dimly lit booth was her own little cocoon. The bustling café helped ward off the loneliness of scholarly life.

She took a sip of her Witch’s Brew tea, which her friend Amber insisted would “detox her liver chi and diffuse brain fog.” Nope. Not today. She needed something stronger than roasted dandelion to part the clouds in her cranium. But four in the afternoon was probably too early for a Jack & Coke. Sigh. She thought of her mother sitting on the porch in her ratty recliner, drinking alone in the middle of the day. No way. She wasn’t going to end up like her mom, living below the poverty line with only Vodka Collins and a litter box–challenged cat for company. Jessica would stick to tea, at least for now.

She focused her attention back on the screen. Her dissertation was on the influence of Nietzsche’s philosophy on the Blue Rider artists, a forerunner to Expressionism founded by Russian emigrants and German artists in 1911. If she played her cards right, she could qualify for a job in either philosophy or art history. All she wanted was to be a teacher. Why did she have to write a book to get a job teaching? She slammed her computer shut and put her head in her hands.

She closed her eyes and plugged her ears, which only intensified the smell of burnt coffee and freshly baked bread. Banana nut pancakes, that’s what she needed. She’d read on Facebook that bananas were brain food. She glanced around the café, looking for her waitress. Was her waitress the one with the blonde dreads and angel wings tattooed on her arms, or the one with the bleached buzz cut wearing a studded dog collar? The latter was two tables over, delivering a slice of carrot cake the size of Jessica’s cowboy hat. She waved, but the waitress didn’t see her. Instead, a dark-haired man waved back.

Crapulence! What is he doing here? For the last two years, she’d managed to avoid Nick Schilling, aka Professor Nicholas Charis . . . except for that one awkward departmental party where she’d spilled whiskey on his designer trousers and then tried to wipe it off. He hadn’t wanted to rely on his father’s prominence to get ahead in his field, so, years ago, he’d chosen to use his mother’s maiden name professionally. His double life as wealthy art collector Nick Schilling and art history professor Nicholas Charis scared Jessica.

Two years ago, they’d had a really passionate—and really brief—relationship. She’d fallen in love with Nick Schilling and then discovered she needed Professor Nicholas Charis on her dissertation committee. Professor/student romance was a no-no. If the relationship continued, Nick’s job wouldn’t. She couldn’t let him make that choice and ruin his career, so she’d made it for him and walked away. It was one of the hardest things she’d ever done.

Casually chic, as usual, Nick was wearing jeans, a black T-shirt, and a tailored designer jacket that suited his lean frame. But Nick Schilling’s intense eyes belied his easy manner. There was a hard ambition lurking just under the surface of his effortless smile.

Her cheeks burned. Why does he have to be so beautiful? She opened her laptop, tapped it awake, and lowered her head until her nose almost touched the keyboard. Maybe he’d get the hint and go away.

No such luck.

“Dolce, I was hoping to run into you here.” Nick’s smile lit up his tan face. It belonged in a toothpaste commercial.

She cringed at the nickname. It had stuck to her like the Starbucks Cinnamon Dolce Frappuccino she’d ended up wearing the night she first met Nick at a poker game two years ago.

“I’m a regular.” She glanced up from the keyboard and winced when he gazed down at her with those eyes as blue as the Montana sky. “How well you know me.”

“I know there’s nothing regular about you.” He tilted his head to one side.

“Quit flirting. I need my degree more than I need you.” A burning sensation in her chest told her that wasn’t true. Choosing between dating Nick and spending the next decade chained to her computer, writing a boring dissertation on German philosophy, was a no-brainer—which is why her strategy when it came to him was avoidance. Otherwise, like a fresh batch of chocolate chip cookies, he was impossible to resist. But it wasn’t cool to sleep with a member of your dissertation committee. So, Nick and her PhD were an either/or proposition.

“I’m not flirting, just stating facts.” He had a mischievous glint in his eyes. “You are extraordinary, Jessica James.”

Her mouth said, “Knock it off,” but her heart said, more, more, more.

“How’s your dissertation coming along? Are you ready to rock the world with your interpretation of the Blue Riders?” He pulled out a chair and sat across from her.

“It’s going well,” she lied.

“I have a proposal for you.” His voice was as smooth as aged whiskey.

“Oh, yeah.” Her stomach did a backflip. Proposal or proposition? She sat on her hands. Before she’d discovered his double life, she would have jumped at either.

“You’ve probably heard about the new Center for Russian Art and Culture we’re opening downtown.” He took off his jacket and slipped it over the back of the chair. “It’s a museum loosely associated with the university.”

Not a proposition or a proposal. Dang. She tightened her lips and tried not to look at his enticing forearms.

“My father donated the money,” he said. She knew Nick’s father was super rich, collected Russian art, and had come by his money through suspicious means. Nick had never wanted to talk about his father.

Nick pointed at the chair and she nodded. He sat down next to her. “He’s trying to buy my love, as usual.” When Nick tried to peek around her computer screen, she slammed it shut. “But that’s none of your concern.”

He gazed straight into her face, and she cursed those irritatingly perfect lips and adorable dimples.

“Dolce, I want you to be the assistant director. You’ll be in on the ground floor, helping shape the museum.”

She sat there, mouth open, gaping like a cut-throat trout pulled out of Whitefish Creek. Was he offering her a real job? Which Nick was making the offer? The playboy art collector or the hotshot art professor? Even after their intense, if brief, affair, and two years of watching him at a distance, he was still a mystery.

“But my dissertation—"

“I promise it won’t interfere with your dissertation. In fact, you can use the Center to pursue your interest in Russian art.” He steepled his fingers. “What better place to write about Kandinsky than in front of one of his masterpieces? We also have a Marianne von Werefkin self-portrait. You’ve got to come and see it.”

Jessica squirmed in her chair. She’d love to see a Werefkin, one of the only women in the Blue Riders.

“And it will be great experience when you go on the job market next year. It’s a real salary, not a graduate stipend.” He was tapping his steepled forefingers together as if he was plotting something.

Her fellowship barely covered rent and one square a day. She really could use the money. “What’s the job description? Would I be working for you?”

“You’d be working with me.” His eyes lit up.

“Doing whatever you want me to do?” She reined in her imagination.

“Doing whatever you want. You would help with exhibits, education, outreach, everything. With your expertise, I know you’d contribute a lot to the Center. Who else in Chicago knows as much about Russian art as you?”

Flattery would get him everywhere. His citrus-and-juniper scent made her skin tingle. And the way he ran his fingers through his thick, wavy hair was deadly. She averted her eyes. Too late, the heat in her face betrayed her. “Can I think about it?” She tightened her lips to keep from smiling. She felt as if Nick could see inside her no matter how hard she tried to hide her feelings from him.

“Here are the terms.” Nick pulled an envelope from his inside jacket pocket. He really had been looking for her. “Take your time. Think it over.” His cheeks flushed. “If you like working at the Center, you could make a career of it.”

Nick Schilling was always full of surprises. She thought of the time she’d worn his jacket to keep warm and had found a small handgun in the pocket.

The refrain from Beyoncé’s “Daddy Lessons” chimed from across the table. “Excuse me,” Nick said. “My father.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and flashed her an apologetic smile. “Hello,” he said into the phone. The color drained from his face as if he’d been punched in the gut. “What? Who is this?” he demanded.

From across the table, Jessica watched the expressions on his face change as fast as thunderstorms moving across Lake Michigan. What in the heck is going on? Nick was usually as fresh as lettuce, but he was visibly upset by this call.

“My father.” He dropped his phone onto the table and put his head in his hands. “He’s dead.” His chestnut hair fell over his fingers in waves of grief.

“I’m so sorry.” Jessica scooted her chair next to his and put her hand on his arm.

When he twisted around and put his head on her shoulder, she had no choice but to put her arms around him. The warmth of his body made her shiver. She laid her head on top of his and thought of the day her own dad died. She was only ten. A blizzard had sent her home early from school. She was in the barn when she heard her mom wailing from the kitchen. The horrible sound had sent her into a panic and she hid. In some ways, she’d been hiding ever since.

Nick broke the hold and then pulled a pressed handkerchief from his breast pocket and blew his nose. “Will you come with me to his hotel?” he asked, red eyes pleading. “I can’t face it alone.”

What could she say? “Of course.” She stuffed her computer into her book bag, drained the dregs of her tea, and dropped a five-dollar bill on the table. “Let’s go.” Pancakes would have to wait. She’d lost her appetite anyway.

Stomach growling from too much detox tea and not enough food, Jessica followed Nick into the lobby of the Parker Hotel, a Chicago institution and one of the fanciest hotels downtown. The cavernous lobby was magnificent with its marble pillars and ornately carved wood-paneled ceiling. Towering ferns grew in gold pots, and a chandelier the size of a compact car hung above the registration desk. The lobby smelled of aged leather and high rollers. Legend had it that Al Capone wined and dined his ladies here in the famous High Mark restaurant. Nick had offered to take her there for dinner after the visit to his father’s suite. She hugged herself to quiet her stomach. She could use some wining and dining, but the price of a free meal might be too high. Contrary to her mom’s advice, she needed a career, not a sugar daddy.

A uniformed policeman met them at the registration desk and escorted them up to the suite. As soon as Jessica walked into the room, she smelled it: the sweet and sickening smell of Amber’s homemade chamomile-lavender tea mixed with the hippie hacker’s signature patchouli perfume. Weird. Am I hallucinating? No way her friend would be in this fancy hotel room with Nick’s rich—dead—dad. Amber was one of Jessica’s two closest friends: a Northwestern undergrad, a hobby hacker, an intern in the university’s fundraising office, and a lover of all things New Age.

Jessica surveyed the suite, which was really more like an apartment with a wood-paneled study, a marble-floored foyer, and a posh living room. The elegant contemporary furniture was at odds with the rest of the baroque hotel. Her gaze homed in on a table in the dining room, upon which sat a silver room service tray with tea service for three. Nick’s dad had entertained guests before he died, so where were those guests now? And why were there so many police officers in this hotel suite? They must suspect Nick’s father didn’t die of natural causes.

A slim woman officer waiting by the bedroom door gestured Nick inside. He glanced back at Jessica. She knew he wanted her to accompany him into the bedroom, but she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. In her twenty-three years on the planet, she’d already seen two dead bodies and wasn’t keen on seeing another. She shook her head. “I’ll wait out here.”

Nick took a deep breath and disappeared into the bedroom.

A paunchy policeman nodded to the woman officer. “Don’t worry, Sergeant. I’ll watch the girl.”

They must suspect murder. Why else would I need watching? A cautious person might sit quietly on the couch, hands folded in their lap, demonstrating they were innocent as a baby. No watching necessary. Jessica wasn’t that person. The paunchy policeman followed on Jessica’s heels as she circled the dining room, focusing on the tea tray. No use trying to shake the cop. He was stuck on her like a deer tick. Trying to be inconspicuous, she glanced down at the teacups. One had purple lipstick on the rim, and all three held soggy, shriveled linen tea bags.

Those were Amber’s homemade tea bags, alright. But why would Amber, of all people, be having tea with Mr. Schilling? Maybe it was part of her new job at the Development Office? Was she courting rich donors for the University now? Not likely, with her wild hair, buxom paisley dresses, and liberal use of the herbal calming tincture “Rescue Remedy.”

Jessica slid the cell phone out of her fringe jacket pocket and snapped a picture to text Amber. She shielded the phone with her body so the cop couldn’t see what she was doing.

“Who was here for tea?” Jessica asked the cop, trying to be nonchalant.

“That’s what we’re trying to find out.” He grabbed her by the elbow and moved her a couple of feet away from the table—and the scene of the crime. “We think it was two women.”

She rolled her eyes. “Unless Mr. Schilling wears—wore—purple lipstick.” And patchouli perfume, she thought to herself. She could smell the pungent aroma lingering on a chair near the tea table. Amber. Definitely the hippie hacker’s favorite scent.

“How’d he die?” Jessica asked in her sweetest voice, batting her eyelashes and smiling up at the policeman.

The policeman leaned closer and whispered, “Look, honey, the old duffer had a heart attack, so quit playing Sherlock Holmes.” His breath smelled of garlic and spearmint.

She pulled out of his grip. “Heart attack?”

“Bad heart. Took medicine for it. Case closed.” The cop seemed smug. “You his daughter-in-law?”

Her chest tightened. “No. Just a friend.”

“Why don’t you think it’s a heart attack?” A woman’s voice came from the bedroom. Was that the medical examiner? “I’ll know more after the autopsy.”

A familiar baritone boomed, “Gut instinct.” She knew that voice. Detective Harvey Cormier. He’d been the lead detective on two other murder cases Jessica had somehow been mixed up in. He’d even saved her life once.

She knew it. The no-nonsense detective suspected foul play. Amber might have been the last one to see Mr. Schilling alive . . . and therefore was the prime suspect. Detective Cormier’s gut was usually right. He was a gem of a cop—one who genuinely cared about people and wanted to make the world a better place.

When the uniformed cop turned around to greet his boss, Jessica scooted over to the table, snatched one soggy tea bag, and sunk it into her jacket pocket. She glanced around. The officer was standing at attention, blocking the detective’s view. She quickly pulled a tissue from her other pocket, wiped the handle of the cup with the lipstick on it, and then smeared the lipstick until it disappeared. Now at least it would take the cops a bit longer to link Amber to the crime . . . time she needed to find out who really killed Nick’s dad. She stepped away from the table and tried to look innocent.

Jessica couldn’t believe she was getting involved with another murder investigation. She had her dissertation to write, and she didn’t need the distraction—no matter how much she may have wanted one an hour ago. But Amber was one of her best friends, and she knew even good detectives like Harvey Cormier sometimes let misleading evidence take them down the wrong trail. She couldn’t let that happen to Amber.

“But, if you’ll approve an autopsy, we’ll know for sure.” Cormier’s bass voice was getting closer.

Jessica swung around.

Detective Cormier raised his eyebrows when he saw her. “Miss James.” The deep buzzing of his voice reminded her of an electric razor. No way Chicago’s chief homicide detective would be at the scene unless it was murder.

In spite of her wool socks and cowboy boots, Jessica’s feet broke out in a cold sweat. She buttoned her jacket against the blasting air-conditioning. Either Nick’s father ran hot or the police were keeping the hotel suite extra cold to preserve the dead body. Chills raced up her spine just thinking about the corpse in the next room.

She took another look around the suite, trying to memorize every detail. The lights of Chicago’s skyline glowed through the closed sheer curtains. The morning paper sat unread on an end table, next to an ashtray streaked with ashes but no butts. On the coffee table, a basket of fruit wrapped in cellophane suggested Mr. Schilling had checked in recently—either that or he didn’t eat fruit. Maybe he was on one of those low-sugar diets. Jessica glanced back at the table and tea service. A half-eaten cookie shot down her diet theory. Unless the perp had taken a bite before poisoning her victim . . . Jessica inhaled, imprinting the smell of chamomile-lavender on her brain for future reference.

“Collect those cups and dishes. I’ll have them checked for chemicals,” Detective Cormier pointed at the tea tray. A uniformed officer wearing blue latex gloves sealed the dishes in bags and arranged them in a cardboard box.

“Was Mr. Schilling murdered?” Jessica asked the detective. Given the three cops in the suite, creating a diversion and stealing more evidence wasn’t an option.

“At this point, we’re investigating every angle.” Detective Cormier gestured toward the sitting area. “It looks like natural causes, but something’s just not right.” The detective turned to Nick, who had just walked out of the bedroom, still shaken, his face pale, his gait unsteady. “Do you have a minute?” It was more of a statement than a question. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Nick nodded and took a seat on the sofa. The red capillaries surrounding his irises made the blue of his eyes even more intense, and the black stubble on his chin stood out against his wan complexion. Poor guy looked awful. She wanted to stroke his stubbly cheek. He glanced over at Jessica and patted the cushion next to him. She obliged.

“When was the last time you saw your father?” the detective asked. “Alive,” he added.

“Last year in New York. To get me to attend his wedding, he lured me there with promises of funding the new Center for Russian Art.” Nick stared down at his hands, which were folded in his lap.

“You haven’t seen your father in a year?” The detective sounded surprised.

“Not every family is close, Detective Cormier.” Nick fiddled with a crested gold ring on his pinky finger.

Tell me about it, Jessica thought. And not every father is what he seems. She knew that from her own experience, although she knew she could be jumping to conclusions about Nick’s dad.

“Dad wrote to me a few days ago. He said he had a surprise for me. He hinted it was rubies and diamonds or something.” Nick sighed.

“You have no idea what he wanted?”

Nick shook his head.

“Can you confirm your father’s full name is Richard Weinhaus Schilling?”

“Yes.”

“And his home address is Westchester County, New York.”

“Yes.”

“Why was your father in Chicago?” Cormier asked. The way his crisp linen shirt hugged his muscular torso, along with his flawless skin, angled jaw, and close-cropped dark hair made him look more like a Caribbean crooner than a homicide detective.

“For the grand opening of the Center.” Nick twisted his ring.

“Tell me about this center.”

“The new Center for Russian Art and Culture.” Nick glanced over at Jessica. “My father put up the funds to build it. It is connected with the university but run separately.”

“I see.” Detective Cormier raised his eyebrows. “Did your father leave a will?”

“I assume he did.” Nick glanced up from troubling his ring.

“Do you have any siblings?”

“No.”

“So, you’re the primary beneficiary?” Detective Cormier aimed his penetrating gaze at Nick’s face.

“I wouldn’t make that assumption,” Nick said without blinking.

The detective scribbled something on his notepad.

“Did your father have any health issues? Was he depressed?”

“Depressed? No. My father was the kind of seventy-year-old who gets younger with age. Just over a year ago, he returned from a Bali honeymoon with his twenty-eight-year-old bride, Chrissy, a Victoria’s Secret model. I’m pretty sure he didn’t kill himself.”

“You think this new wife might have murdered him for his money?” Jessica asked. “In murder mysteries, it’s always the wife.”

“Knowing my father, he made her sign a prenup like he did his last three wives. No one was getting their hands on his fortune.” Nick rubbed his face. For the first time, Jessica noticed the purple bags beneath his eyes.

“But a prenup isn’t the same as a will—”

“We’ll follow up with the wife,” the detective interrupted her. “Now, about his heart—he was taking digitalis?”

“Yes. I believe so.” Nick stared down at his hands.

“Could he have taken an overdose?”

“One pill too many,” Jessica whispered.

“I don’t know.” Nick glanced up at the detective.

Detective Cormier pulled latex gloves from his pocket and snapped them on. “Sergeant, bring me the envelope.” He pointed to the box of evidence the other cops had been collecting.

The police woman handed Cormier a large white envelope sealed in a giant baggie. He carefully opened the plastic bag and removed the envelope. “Have you seen this before?” The detective held it out so Nick could see it. “Please don’t touch it.”

Jessica leaned forward to look at it. “It’s from the University.”

The detective nodded. “Something called the Development Office, which must be in charge of fundraising.”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s the paperwork related to my father’s donation?” Nick went to take the envelope, but Cormier pulled it back.

The detective slipped the envelope back into the baggie. “It contains signed documents leaving his entire Russian art collection to the Center for Russian Art and Culture, along with another two million dollars, which, if I read the fine print correctly, is earmarked for Russian refugees living in Chicago.”

Nick’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Are you planning to expand your Center to serve refugees?”

“No. I don’t know anything about this.” Nick shook his head. “Frankly, I’m completely baffled.”

Jessica stifled a gasp. Amber! She volunteered at a refugee services center. And she worked at the Development Office. And her weird herbal tea bags were in the room service cups. Jessica had to get to her friend before the cops did.